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Salem Willows is a derelict Coney Island–type of seaside amusement park that sits on a small spit of land stretching into Beverly Harbor northeast of the city. I thought it looked sleazy and disreputable and retro charming.
“Aargh,” Josh said, spreading his arms wide. “Housed on these grounds ye have the largest collection of vintage pinball machines in all of Massachusetts. ’Tis a vast treasure that includes a 1960 Official Baseball, which, in my pirate opinion, is the finest arcade game ever made. Plus there be Skee-Ball, classic videogames, redemption games, claw crane games, electro-mechanical games, air hockey, rail shooters, as well as Dance Dance Revolution and Drummania.”
We were standing at the edge of the parking lot, taking it all in.
“What are we looking for here?” Diesel asked.
“Dr. Caligari’s Cabinet of Terrors,” Josh said. “?’Tis the wreck of a house standing in the lee of the arcade.” He tipped his nose up and sniffed the air. “I doth smell something tasty, and I be craving a bite of food.”
Diesel gave him a twenty-dollar bill. “Lizzy and I are going into the terror house, and you’re in charge of lunch. And if you don’t stop talking like a pirate I’m going to punch you in the face.”
“Okay then. Good to know,” Josh said.
A big headless guy was at the Cabinet of Terrors entrance, selling tickets. His head was sitting on the floor by his feet, and I could see his eyes through the mesh in his shirtfront.
“If you want to go in it’s three bucks a head,” the guy said to Diesel.
“Really? A head?” Diesel said.
“The irony is not lost on me,” the headless guy said.
Diesel bought three tickets and asked to see the manager.
“Who wants to know?” the headless guy asked.
“I do,” Diesel said.
The headless guy lifted a walkie-talkie to his chest. “Spencer. Somebody to see you. Business.”
A crackling voice came over the walkie-talkie. “Send them in.”
The headless guy gestured with his thumb. “He’s in there somewhere.”
Josh ran up and handed us corn dogs.
“Meat on a stick. My favorite,” Diesel said.
I took a bite. It was a little like eating fried sand until you broke through to the hot dog. Once you did that, though, it was pretty good.
“Careful where you drop the food,” the headless guy said. “We don’t want no more rat problems than we already got.”
He buzzed us in, and the front door automatically opened and closed behind us. The interior was pitch-black, and screechy old-fashioned horror-movie music blasted out at us. Lightning flashed, illuminating the room. Blood was splattered on the walls and a hooded figure stood by the sofa, where a dismembered body lay in picturesque disarray.
Diesel looked over at the man in the bloody hood. “Are you the manager?”
“No, man,” he said. “He’s in the back. He’s playing the killer clown today, ’cause the regular killer clown got food poisoning. Oh, and ‘Beware the Birthday Party.’?”
We rounded the corner and went into the dining room where a bunch of corpses sat at a table. A skeleton of a turkey was the centerpiece. A banner over the table read HAPPY THANKS-KILLING.
“What’s next?” I asked. “?‘Happy Horror-ween’? ‘Merry Christ-massacre’? ‘Happy Kill-ombus Day’?”
“?‘Happy New Year’s Evil,’?” Josh suggested.
“?‘Slash Wednesday,’?” I said.
“Are you done?” Diesel asked.
“I think so,” I said. “No, wait. ‘Happy Ground-up Hog Day’?”
We walked through the Hall of Mirrors and finally reached the children’s birthday party. Not so much scary as having a high ick factor. The balloons were bloodstained, the streamers were dotted with ants and spiders, and the birthday cake was moldy and had an animatronic rat poking his head out of it. A broken doll sat at the table. The doll’s one eye gleamed in the candlelight. A fat clown stood behind the doll. His face was white with black diamonds painted around his eyes. He had a red nose and a dirty orange fright wig, and his belly was busting out of his clown suit. He looked like a clown who should cut back on the pork chops.
“Are you the manager?” Diesel asked him.
“Yeah, I’m Spencer Rossitto. Are you the guy that wanted to talk to me?”
“I’m looking into the origin of the pirate skeleton that was sold to the Salem Pirate Museum.”
“I don’t know much about it. It was always there, hanging in the torture chamber. Been there forever. Or at least as long as I’ve been here. Which is since the 1980s, which might as well be forever.”
“Why did you sell it?”
“The Pirate Museum made me a good offer. I’m always open to a good offer. You see anything you want to buy? Make me an offer.”
“I might be in the market for a coin,” Diesel said. “Even a piece of a coin. Do you have anything like that?”