Chapter 3 How I dealt with the Bartolinis
It’s funny how things can utterly change from one day to the next. Not so long ago I had little cause for distress. I was a happy and quite terrifying, without any attempt on my part to blow my own horn, so to speak, haunted house like so many others of my kind. Of course, it wasn’t always an easy attempt to frighten out of their wits all those nitwits who came to me with the sole purpose of getting on my nerves, However, I had so many mischievous devilish tricks hidden up my clever attic and in every single one of my dark little corners that even the bravest of the lot didn’t have a single chance to resist me.
‘Don’t you ever get tired of scaring people? I mean the whole fun of the blasted thing must whare off at some point ’ Crowed one day Alberto, the black raven that frequently came to get some well-deserved rest on the devilishly twisted, resembling menacing claws stretching out to grab someone, utterly deprived of leaves, branches of the dead, almost skeletal trees outside my window.
‘Definitely not,’ I replied with pride, ‘and, I’d have you know, that a good scare requires skill and effort; it’s not something any old Jack in the box can perform with ease.’
As a matter of fact, I was more than adequately equipped to do my job: I had living skeletons in almost every single one of my closets each having a set of appropriately creaky hinges able to make anyone tremble and shiver under his blanket when laying in bed. As if that wasn’t enough when combined with those terrifying howls of those menacing wolves of the nearby hills it could turn to a whimpering toddler Hercules and all the rich pantheon of tough bulky heroes of Greek mythology and all the thick-bearded ugly dwarves of the Norse mythology as well. I possessed howling specters in my dark basement, which I was proud to have properly covered by huge veils of spiderwebs weaved and asembled throughout the years. I accomodated troubled spirits that could make your hair stand on end with their screams and slimy hands with bloody falcon claws crawling from inside the bathtub, when some unsuspecting victim was taking a bubble bath, and, what’s more important, I had plenty of imagination and received a great pleasure, whenever I found a new way to frighten a not so clever tenant.
Mrs. Flora Giacometti, the real estate agent, was getting desperate. She barely had managed to secure a new naive and gullible tenant for me and, before he could settle in for good, he was taken away in a straightjacket. It may seem like such a bad thing to do and today I think very differently and I wouldn’t find that sort of thing amusing, but not so long ago I had loads of fun scaring and frightening in hundreds of different innovative and imaginative ways anyone unlucky enough to cross my muddy threshold. I still remember one of the families who came with ill-deserved confidence to settle in me, back when I was freshly haunted: the Bartolinis.
Mr. Giacomo Bartolini, the head of the family, was an upstanding businessman and consequently considerably well off. He was the renowned manufacturer providing the whole of Italy with the famous Bartolini pegs for hanging clothes. But, no matter how much money he made, his wife, Signora Lucia Bartolini, never grew in any way tired or bored spending it.
They had only one child, Luigi, a brutish boy who bore a great resemblance to a well-fed porker and loved more than anything else to chew gum and pick his nose.
Perhaps you are wondering why they had decided to leave that great big mansion they had in the city and move to a rundown old country house like me. The main reason was that Signora Lucia complained at the time all the more often about her tired nerves, for which supposedly city life was to blame, and Mr. Bartolini was getting equally tired of listening to her constant nagging.
So, without tarry, he had asked Mrs. Giacometti to find them a comfortable country house for a much-needed break from the hectic city life and a breath of fresh air right from the ever welcoming chest of Mother Nature. And guess which house she picked. That’s right! Little old haunted Me!
From the very moment I set my eyes on them and gazed at the blank stare of that dimwitted nose-picking little boy, I knew I was going to make them regret coming and disturbing my peace.
A few minutes later, after those invaders had parked their ghastly big car in front of my garden gate without asking permission, the front car door opened and Mr. Bartolini, made his appearance with a partly smoked, revoltingly smelly cigarette in his mouth.
Believe it or not, the first thing that awful man did after he had crossed the rusty front gate, was to put out that disgusting cigarette on the grass. My garden, mind you, like that of any haunted house with a trace of self-respect, was purposefully neglected, full of dead trees, poisoned blood-red mushrooms, and yellow leaves, but the last thing it needed was a smelly cigarette butt dispelling its eerie mystery and otherworldly atmosphere.
Nothing can make that delicate sense of subtle horror you find in a haunted place disappear quicker than a dozen cigarette butts lying on the grass. THAT DID IT! Even if Mr. Bartolini was totally unaware of the fact, with that impulsive move of his, the ultimate war had been officially declared. House vs Man locked into a fearless fight till one of us admitted defeat drop dead or in my case fall in ruins. I had no intention of accepting any kind of compromise in the serious matter of the respect all uninvited guests were obliged to show towards my scary little garden.
At the same time from the car emerged Signora Bartolini and that obnoxious youngster with his finger stuck up his nose as always.
‘Oh daglin dat house is, how to zay, very run down.’
Signora Bartolini had been born and raised in Italy and, naturally, if she wanted to, she would be perfectly able to speak without that ridiculous accent, but, since she had also spent one month in Germany, she thought it was very clever to speak like that, as if she had lived there for years. Signora Lucia in all frankness was an arrogant pathetic little woman and she loved to show off to her friends and to brag even about the silliest most trivial of things.
Of her childhood friends, she was the only one lucky enough to marry a wealthy businessman like Mr. Bartolini and she never missed a chance to remind them of that fact.
‘Don’t worry, sugarcakes!’ replied Mr. Bartolini. ‘With our money, this sad little run down hovel will soon be transformed beyond all recognition. Tomorrow morning I’ll contact the constructors. They will take care of the repairs and the renovation and this dump will turn into a little palace in no time.’
‘That’s what you think,’ I said to myself. ‘I'd sooner colapse in ruins.’
‘Bliah!’ screamed the obnoxious brat. ‘Is that where we’ll live?’
‘Yes and you’d better get used to it,’ exclaimed Mr. Bartolini.
‘I don’t want to! This place is a dump! All my friends will make fun of me. It hasn’t even got a pool. Let’s go back to our old house. I miss our cook’
‘Don’t worry, my piglet!’ assured Signora Bartolini. ‘In only a few dayz time diz old dump, as you call it, will be the perfect place for a well-fed, hmm I mean a well-bred young boy like yourself to stay. Dad promised it. Isn’t dat zo, honeymuffin?’
You see Signora Lucia hadn’t spent enough time in Germany to have a truly convincing accent.
‘If I were the betting sort, I’d bet you intend to make them regret coming here,’ crowed Alberto in a conniving, scheming manner.
‘The show starts tonight, brace yourselves’ ladies and gentlemen it’s going to be one hell of a ride.’ I laughed. ‘I’ll teach them a lesson they won’t soon forget.’
‘Try not to overdo it!’ said the raven. ‘I feel a little sorry for the little dufus.’
But he was soon to change his mind. Suddenly that smelly, filthy little brat noticed Alberto and started screaming, at the top of his lungs.
‘Hey, hold on a damn second! An ugly blackbird is sitting on our tree , in our garden . Bother! If only I had my trusty old sling with me. I must scout the territory there may be more than one of those buggers. Just wait till I get my sling back. I'll show them.’
And with those ill-chosen words that obnoxious youngster grabbed a handful of stones and started throwing them at Alberto, who, needless to say, not in the best of moods, flew away to find refuge on my roof leaving behind him a bunch of black feathers flowing in the air.
‘I take it back,’ said the bird grouchily, ‘Give them hell! That’ll show them’
‘Oh, that I will, my old friend, that I will!’ I replied and at the same moment the delicate operation with the code name “Bartolini Shivers” was initiated.
‘Young man,’ said the man sternly, ‘Stop talking nonsense and let’s go in! I have to admit that judging by its exterior it must be in dire need of repair. This Giacometti woman has given me the key.’
‘That’s marrrvelous, darrrling! I’ve heard that these old manors have very interesting features.’
’He he, we’ll find out soon enough, my dear, giggled Mr. Bartolini and with that remark inserted the key in the rusty keyhole, turned it and prepared to push the door open. But, he never got around to do it, as someone else was quicker than him. To his surprise, the man saw a tall figure in a battler’s uniform and a bow tie appearing at the threshold.
‘Signor and Signora Bartolini, I presume,’ he said in the dignified, polite manner that servants always adopt when talking to their employers. ‘All the staff has been expecting you since this morning with great anticipation, Sir.’
‘Servants,’ repeated Mr. Bartolini at a loss. Why was I not informed of this earlier?
‘Honeycakes,’ exclaimed Signora Bartolini absolutely thrilled, ‘you wanted to surprise me! That's so sweet of you. ’
‘But, tell me, how many people serve in this house?’ asked Mr. Bartolini.
‘Oh, quite a few, I assure you, Sir,’ laughed the butler. ‘At least as many as required in order to cover every need of an aristocratic, classy family like yours.’
‘And a few more,’ he added in a low voice.
‘And I thought you were a stingy, old miser, Darrrling,’ cried out obviously pleased Signora Lucia. ‘We should invite my friends over for dinner one of these days. They’ll just die. I know it.’
Now, if I wasn’t just a house and I had human hands, I’d probably rub them with glee filled with anticipation. Those arrogant, snotty rich people had fallen right into my trap and I wasn’t about to let them off easily.
The secret, when you want to scare more than one person, is isolation. You have to discover their individual weaknesses and take them on one by one separately. I had decided to start with the weakest link of the family, Signora Lucia. That crude Bartolini man and that idiotic, rude son of his would have to wait for a while.
Perhaps you suspect that the butler they had met wasn't a real servant at all and you''d be right. He was in fact, Bony, the leader of the living skeletons in my basement. I had told him in detail what he needed to do and had transformed him temporarily into a human with skin and flesh to perform my ingenious prank. I had also recruited many more monsters and transformed them into servants.
My power to create such illusions was one of the most useful weapons in my war tactic as a haunted mansion. Draculeta, for example, was a vampire from a Transylvanian castle. She moved into me after the local mob had tried to lynch her and she accepted willingly to play the part of the housekeeper, while Slimetooth, the boogeyman who nested in the cupboard under the stairs, had no objection to assuming the role of the fat cook and prepare the surprise dinner I had planned for my distinguished guests.
Happily enough there was no shortage of ghosts and other monsters to complete the large staff of servants needed to dazzle those rich buffoons.
Clotilde, the maid, was, in fact, Rot the Abomination, a truly revolting monster, one of the least appealing and most obnoxious one could come across, who frequented my attic and gobbled down greedily the overgrown bugs she found there.
At the head servant’s request, Rot led Signora Bartolini to her room because, as she herself had said, she needed to freshen up before dinner, something not particularly strange after the car drive she had shared with her crude husband and her disgusting son.
The choice of the room was no accident either since there you could find my special mirror the miraculous attributes of which I will describe in much detail later. The maid offered to help Signora Lucia to undress yet since she was rich but had no knowledge whatsoever of the savoir faire of the Italian aristocracy, she politely replied that Rot could find something more useful to do, like take a long walk off a short pier.
That was exactly what Rot wanted. My plan was going wonderfully well.
‘My lady, if you require anything else, I’ll be waiting outside,’ said Clotilde with fake politeness. ‘You know the bells in these old houses never work properly.’
And with that, she disappeared.
‘Alone at last!’ sighed Signora Bartolini.
She got undressed and sat in front of the mirror to undo her braid and comb her long hair of which, she was particularly proud. That was also the time to bring up to date the long list of assets and qualities that made her feel so superior to her less well-off friends.
That is not a joke. Signora Bartolini really had such a list that she kept up to date with much care, when she discovered something new in her life she could boast about:
1. Rich, charming husband.
2. Big, comfortable house in the city.
3. Well bred, intelligent son.
4. A poodle named Lulu.
5. A rich wardrobe with haute couture garments.
6. More than a hundred pairs of shoes.
And finally (here is the addition)
7. Big, impressive country house with many servants.
Note to self: Must not forget to tell it to Penny, who cannot afford even a proper housecleane. That’ll kill her!
‘Oh,’ she thought to herself, ‘pity mother isn’t alive to see me now. That bitter, penny pinching old hag who said that looks alone wouldn’t get me anywhere. Well, look at me now, mom! Just by being gorgeous I’found a rich man, I’m happy and there’s not a thing in the world you can do to change that. How do you like that?’
Extremely satisfied with herself, Signora Bartolini continued to comb her hair and to admire her graceful, harmonious features: her tiny french nose, her deep black eyes, her long brown hair, the white swanlike neck, and her ample cleavage.
At that precise moment, my wonderful mirror sprang into action. Luckily for me, when a house gets haunted, so do the pieces of furniture inside it, thus acquiring some miraculous attributes that make them wonderful toys and tools for a mind made for frights and scares like mine.
Suddenly, in front of that stupid woman’s eyes, an amazing transformation took place. The reflection in the mirror started getting distorted and becoming really monstrous. Her mouth took the form of an evil smile revealing, instead of her white row of pearly teeth, many razor-sharp black teeth resembling that of a shark. Her eyes started glowing like hot embers, her ears became pointy like a goblin’s and her face slightly greenish as a rotting cadaver's .
Do you want to know what happened next? Something absolutely amazing! Signora Bartolini at first became pale as death, then bit her lips with so much strength they bled and finally, she shrieked so loudly that surely the echo of her screams would have travelled to the neigboring village easily if my walls where less thick and didn't drown it .
Panicked and nauseated from the horrible sight, with the horror of it all freezing the blood in her veins, she rushed into the corridor where the maid was waiting with her back turned.
‘Clotilde, oh, dear Clotilde,’ she screamed, ‘there’s a revolting monster in my room! We have to do something. Call someone!’
And with that phrase, she shook Rot so hard that her rotten, slimy head fell off her short, fat neck on the floor and after rolling for a while stopped and looked at her with an evil grin.
I admit I hadn’t planned this. It was one of those unexpected yer fortunate, little accidents that make a fright even more successful than one could possibly hope for.
‘Right away, Madam, Always happy to oblige ’ replied the bodiless head with a great smile and Rot, thinking that the whole thing was so funny, started laughing hysterically. I don’t have to tell you that this was the final blow for that dispicable little woman.
‘Giacomo,’ she screamed completely out of her mind, ‘GIACOMO!’
While that fun incident lasted – I mean turning Signora Bartolini into a nervous wreck – Bony my skeleton had taken it upon himself to keep her annoying husband occupied and to show him my rooms that I had subtly transformed so that they might look cozy and inviting. Signor Bartolini had nestled down already in a soft, comfortable armchair, smoking his smelly American cigarette and enjoying the deceptive, homely atmosphere of my haunted living room.
I wish you were there to see the dour look he gave his wife when she burst in, reminding a regular crazy shrew, all the while mumbling about monsters, mirrors, and talking heads.
‘Giacomo,’ she screamed, ‘we have to leave at once. Don’t talk to anyone! This house is evil, it is demonic, hellish, I tell you!’
‘Leave?’ he asked. ‘You have to be joking, darling. I’m quite comfortable where I am. Thank you very much. I think this house is ideal, exactly what we have been looking for. Have you gone completely bonkers?’
At this point Signor Bartolini realizing that his tone wasn’t the right one for this situation he did what most husbalds do when they are in trouble: he put on the insincere mask of kindness and said tenderly:
‘Darling, your nerves must really be exhausted. The country air will do wonders for you, you’ll see.’
Needless to say, that silently in his mind, he was cursing and swearing, but he would never do so out loud of course. ‘Typical,’ he was thinking, ‘that silly hen has chosen the right moment to go mad. Just when things were working so well for me, when I need a presentable wife to sit by my side at the dinner table with the investors and shareholders and the business parties where all my associates expect me to be in my best form she goes nuts. How can I find another wife now? A wife is like a good racing horse. You have to train her to do what she’s supposed to do, the way you want her to do it.’
‘Don't stare at me that way, Giacomo,’ cried Signora Bartolini, ‘I’m not mad. I’m telling you the truth. Something horrible is happening here, something unnatural!’
Now, as she was saying that, Rot, having put her head back into place, entered the living room.
‘Is Madam feeling all right?’ she asked pretending to be genuinely concerned “She looks a bit distraught.’
That was a stroke of genius. Signora Bartolini looked at her once, screamed one last time and fainted collapsing like a string-less puppet into her husband’s flabby arms.
‘I don’t think there is cause for concern,’ said Bony without much interest, ‘the sudden change of environment and the level of oxygen must have had this effect on Madam’s nerves. In a little while, she’ll be right as rain.’
‘Yes, I certainly think so too,’ agreed Signor Giacomo.
He had not completed his phrase when that revolting little pig, Luigi, barged in.
‘What was that, dad? Why is mom screaming?’ he inquired with his finger in position to nest in its usual place, in his huge left nostril.
‘Nothing for you to worry about, boy! Your mother is just tired, that’s all. She is in need of a rest.’
‘So she’s finally ready to be put in the loony bin,’ yawned Luigi. ’She was a bomb waiting to explode. She always was a little coo-coo,
certified nutcase, that’s definitely an improvement for her. ’
‘Silence, you idiot,’ barked his father, ‘you should talk with more respect of your mother.’
‘Why are you yelling at me for? It's not my fault that she’s a complete fruitcake,’ laughed the rude boy
‘What?’ yelled his father. ‘You little punk, mind your manners or else…’
‘Yeah, right. Like I give a dam,’ replied Luigi with a stupid laugh, ‘I’m going to hunt that blackbird. When it’s time for dinner, call me!’
‘Good riddance,’ said Signor Bartolini.
And with that warm and heartfelt farewell from his father, the revolting boy disappeared.
‘Now it’s my chance,’ I thought to myself.
Of course, being a haunted house, I had plenty of monsters to assist me in my frights. There was a little devil though, particularly malicious, who answered to the name of Redpaw and loved participating in the brilliant practical jokes and pranks that I enjoyed so much.
The little devils that usually inhabit the depths of the earth and are known to humans by the name of goblins or trolls come to the surface for no other reason than to torment the unsuspecting mortals in ways that staying in their dark realm simply would not permit. A haunted house like me was the ideal refuge for him and would allow him to hatch their nasty plans undisturbed and organize their attack against the human race to their heart’s content.
Such a creature was immensely useful to me. Ghosts, boogeymen, and vampires would not dare to come out of my haunted rooms and walk around in broad daylight or at least it wasn’t usual for them to do so. Redpaw, on the other hand, had no such reservations. That little devil was ideal to scare a pampered mama’s boy like Luigi.
What made it especially hard to scare Luigi wasn’t some kind of supernatural courage on his part. He was actually a cowardly little wimp but unfortunately he possesed another trait making him, a trully tough formidable foe. By that, I mean his great, his unbelievable idiocy.
Now it may seem that something like that wouldn’t be enough to daunt a house such as myself, full of monsters and possessed furniture but in fact, such an overwhelming stupidity is an inpenetrable shield against even the darker, most evil forces in the world. It goes hand in hand with an absolute lack of even the most basic imagination.
Of course, there are many such idiots in the world that manage to pass for great minds and geniuses and you can come across them everywhere, in schools, universities and – you’ve guessed it – without a doubt in many of the world’s parliaments. Such people can push aside much more competent and intelligent individuals with a very simple method. Since they have no ideas of their own it’s simple for them to fill their minds with the ideas of others and then repeat them again and again, as if they were their own thoughts. You won’t catch people like that fighting against injustice or opposing any action of their superiors no matter how irrational that action might be.
Do not be amazed by my knowledge of such matters, Even though I must admit that I am just a lowly haunted house and I have not much experience regarding wordly matters! I owe my education mainly to Alberto, one of the wisest ravens you can come across. You see, he has traveled all over Italy and has seen the whole world from above. There are stupid nose pickers everywhere around us, capable of getting on the nerves of even the most reserved and rational thinker. It is really almost impossible for them to be moved, get scared or feel their own worthlessness, no matter what is happening around them. All the same, I was determined to fight, even if the odds were against me.
Luigi with his finger up his nose resembled an impregnable fortress and I, a humble haunted house, like a pirate ship lost in the storm, with my meager forces, my frightened pirates and my weak cannons, was determined to attack it and to be victorious. Terror against stupidity! What would prevail?