Chapter Text
Chapter 2: Echoes in Dust and Decay
The heavy front door clicked shut behind Luigi, the sound absorbed instantly by the waiting silence. He stood for a moment in the foyer, the weight of the Poltergust 3000 a monstrous, pulsing burden on his back. The air hadn't changed; still thick with the scent of mildew and that underlying, sickly sweet rot, still unnervingly still. E. Gadd's brief, harsh training felt like a lifetime ago, the memory already hazy, overshadowed by the sheer, looming presence of the mansion itself. He was back where he started, yet fundamentally changed. Armed, yes, but also burdened, implicated.
His flashlight beam, stronger now than the pathetic penlight he'd first carried, cut a more confident swathe through the gloom, illuminating dust motes hanging suspended like tiny galaxies in the void. He swept the light across the foyer, half-expecting the key to reappear, or the silent ghost from the hallway to phase through the wall. Nothing. Only the oppressive quiet and the feeling of being intensely watched by the house itself.
Then, a sound. Soft, rhythmic, almost lost in the vastness of the space. A faint whimpering, accompanied by a gentle rocking noise. Luigi traced the sound with his light, directing the beam towards the base of the grand staircase on the right.
There, huddled against the dark wood panelling, was a small figure. A Toad. But not the cheerful, bustling figures Luigi knew from the Mushroom Kingdom. This Toad was… broken. He was curled into a tight ball, arms wrapped around his knees, rocking back and forth almost imperceptibly. His large, usually bright eyes were squeezed shut, and quiet, choked sobs escaped him rhythmically. The iconic mushroom cap, usually a vibrant red with white spots, seemed dull, dusty, almost grey in the gloom.
"Hey!" Luigi called out softly, taking a step closer. "Are you… okay?"
The Toad didn't react immediately. He just kept rocking, muttering something under his breath, too low to decipher at first. Luigi knelt cautiously beside him, the Poltergust humming faintly against his back. "Hello? Can you hear me?"
The Toad flinched at the closeness, opening his eyes a fraction. They were vacant, unfocused, staring through Luigi rather than at him. "…went in," the Toad whispered, his voice cracked and hoarse. "He went in. Said he’d be right back. So brave… but he didn’t come out." The rocking intensified slightly. "Didn't come out…"
"Who?" Luigi asked gently. "Who went in? Was it… was it my brother? Mario?"
The mention of the name seemed to trigger something. The Toad stopped rocking abruptly and looked up, his eyes focusing on Luigi with a flicker of strained recognition, though it felt distant, like recalling a dream. "Luigi…?" he murmured. Then, as if snapping into a pre-programmed routine, his posture changed slightly. He sat up a little straighter, though the haunted look didn't leave his eyes.
"You're here," the Toad stated, his voice gaining a strange, flat formality. "You came inside." He gestured vaguely at the mansion. "Princess Peach… she sent me. To find Mario. He won this place… or so the letter said. He came ahead." The Toad shuddered, his gaze drifting back towards the darkness. "He went in. Didn't come out."
"I know," Luigi said, his own fear resonating with the Toad's palpable terror. "I'm here to find him too."
The Toad nodded slowly, mechanically. "It's… good to see a friendly face. Even here." He rubbed his eyes, smearing dust across his cheek. "This place… it twists things. Makes you forget. Makes you… confused." He looked directly at Luigi again, a desperate plea surfacing through the brokenness. "You need to… check in. Stay grounded. Don't let it take you."
"Check in?" Luigi asked, confused.
"Yes," the Toad insisted, leaning forward slightly. "Tell me. Say it. Who are you?"
Luigi hesitated. It felt strange, almost patronizing. But the desperate sincerity in the Toad's fractured gaze compelled him. "I'm… I'm Luigi."
"Luigi," the Toad repeated, nodding slowly, as if committing it to memory. "And why are you here, Luigi?"
"To find my brother, Mario," Luigi replied, the simple statement feeling heavy, loaded with dread.
"Find Mario," the Toad echoed. "In the mansion." He looked around the foyer, his eyes darting nervously. "Okay. Okay, Luigi. You remember that. You hold onto that." He seemed to deflate slightly, the strange intensity fading, replaced by the earlier exhaustion. "If you… if you need to remember again… find me. Or… another like me. We can… help you check in." He gestured vaguely. "You can… save… yourself for a moment. Right here."
Save? Luigi glanced at the Game Boy Horror E. Gadd had given him. It flickered slightly, displaying a prompt: Record Current State? Y/N. It felt less like saving progress in a game and more like… documenting his existence before the mansion could erase it. A psychological crutch, just as the Toad seemed to need one. With a deep sense of unease, feeling the mansion's silent observation, Luigi selected 'Y'. The device emitted a soft chime, and the Toad gave a weak, trembling smile that didn't reach his eyes.
"Be careful, Luigi," the Toad whispered, already seeming to retreat back into his shell. "The walls listen. And they remember." He started rocking gently again, his eyes glazing over.
Leaving the profoundly unsettling Toad behind, Luigi felt a fragile sense of clarity, a temporary reinforcement of his identity and purpose. But it was thin, brittle, like ice over deep water. He turned towards the first door E. Gadd had indicated on the rudimentary map downloaded to the Game Boy Horror – the Parlor. The key he’d found earlier slid into the lock with unnerving ease. He pushed the door open.
The Parlor wasn't welcoming. It was a large room, dominated by a long, dust-covered table surrounded by high-backed chairs draped in white sheets. A cold fireplace stood at one end, choked with ashes. The air was frigid, colder than the foyer, and carried the faint scent of burnt wax and something else… something metallic, like old blood. Six thick, white candles stood in ornate holders on the central table, inexplicably lit, their flames burning with a strange, unwavering intensity, casting long, dancing shadows that seemed deeper and more animated than they should be.
Luigi swept his flashlight around. Coins glinted faintly on a mantelpiece, and a small, locked chest sat in one corner. According to E. Gadd’s brief notes, clearing the room of spectral energy should reveal the way forward. He approached the table, the Poltergust humming its anxious rhythm against his back. He aimed the nozzle at the first candle.
With a targeted burst of air, the flame snuffed out. The effect was immediate and profound. The shadows in that corner of the room didn't just darken; they shifted. They deepened, pooled, seemed to writhe, as if the candlelight had been actively holding something back, pinning the darkness in place. A low moan echoed through the room, seeming to come from the very walls.
He moved to the next candle, then the next. Each extinguished flame caused the shadows to grow bolder, more invasive. The temperature dropped further. The air grew heavy, charged with static electricity that made the fine hairs on Luigi's arms stand on end. By the time he extinguished the fifth candle, the room was almost pitch black, save for the final, flickering flame and the weak beam of his flashlight. The shadows coiled like living things.
He aimed the Poltergust at the last candle. As the flame died, plunging the room into absolute darkness save for his flashlight, the silence shattered. Not with a bang, but with a slow, tearing sound, like wet fabric ripping.
From the wall opposite the fireplace, a form began to seep through the plaster. Not bursting out, but phasing slowly, translucently, into the room. It solidified into a vaguely humanoid shape, shimmering with a sickly golden light – a Gold Ghost, E. Gadd had called them. But this wasn't a sudden appearance; it felt like an awakening. Simultaneously, from the ceiling directly above the table, another figure phased downwards, upside-down, its indistinct features coalescing as it descended, its movements languid, like someone stirring from a centuries-long sleep. A third began to emerge from the floorboards near the cold hearth, rising like mist.
They didn't attack immediately. They hovered, turning their blank faces towards Luigi, drawn to the light, perhaps, or the disruption. He reacted on instinct, E. Gadd's training kicking in despite the terror freezing his limbs. Flashlight strobe!
The bright flash illuminated the room for a split second, stunning the emerging ghosts. Their forms solidified momentarily, faint red hearts appearing on their chests. Luigi slammed the Poltergust's suction trigger.
The roar of the vacuum was deafening in the confined space. The nearest ghost, the one from the wall, was caught first. It shrieked – a high-pitched, tearing sound filled with static and something else… fragments of words? Memories? Luigi felt a jolt, not just physical resistance, but a wave of desperate energy pouring from the ghost as it fought against the pull. He leaned back, wrestling with the Poltergust, the nozzle bucking in his hands. The energy counter on his Game Boy Horror ticked down rapidly.
Just before the ghost dissipated completely into the vortex, a single, clear word echoed in Luigi's mind, projected directly, not heard: “Eleanor…!” Then, silence. The ghost was gone, sucked into the Poltergust's tank.
Luigi immediately targeted the next ghost, the upside-down one. Flash. Suction. The struggle was just as intense. This time, the psychic shriek felt different – colder, filled with a sharp, biting regret. As it weakened, another fragment surfaced: “…shouldn't have waited…” Gone.
The third ghost, rising from the floor, put up less of a fight, its energy draining quickly. Its final, fading impression was one of simple, overwhelming confusion: “…where…?”
Silence fell once more, heavier than before. The Poltergust powered down its main suction, the anxious heartbeat vibration returning. Suddenly, the electric lights in the Parlor flickered on, weak and hesitant at first, then strengthening, banishing the oppressive shadows. The room looked mundane now, dusty, neglected, the previous menace stripped away by the harsh electric glow. Where the last ghost had dissipated, the small, locked chest Luigi had noticed earlier clicked open. Inside, nestled on faded velvet lining, was a tarnished silver key.
Luigi retrieved it, his hands trembling. The violence of the encounter disturbed him deeply. The Poltergust didn't just capture; it felt like it tore at them, shredded their remaining essence. And those fragments… Eleanor? Waited for what? Where? Were these echoes of their final thoughts? He shook his head, trying to push the thoughts away. He had to find Mario. That was the goal. He couldn’t afford to dwell on the tragic echoes of the mansion's other victims.
He exited the Parlor, the key feeling cold and heavy in his pocket, and consulted the Game Boy Horror's map. The next room was labelled 'Anteroom'. He found the corresponding door just ahead.
The Anteroom was small, little more than a wide hallway connecting different parts of the ground floor. Ornate, dusty furniture lined the walls. As soon as Luigi stepped inside, the door slammed shut behind him, and thick, sharp spikes shot out from the frame, sealing it tight. The door ahead did the same. Trapped.
The air grew thick again, that viscous quality returning. And then, the wrongness started. Luigi glanced back at the spiked door he’d just entered. It looked… different. The wood grain seemed coarser, the handle a slightly different shape. Had he imagined it? He turned back towards the way forward. The hallway seemed… longer. The furniture arrangement wasn't quite as he'd registered it a moment ago. A small end table now stood where he was sure there had been an empty space.
His breath hitched. Was the mansion actively changing around him? Or was his mind playing tricks?
Ghosts began to appear. More Gold Ghosts, shimmering into existence in the middle of the room. And alongside them, larger, bulkier figures – Purple Punchers, E. Gadd’s notes had called them. They materialized with a low thrumming sound, their movements more aggressive.
Luigi raised his flashlight, but one of the Gold Ghosts did something strange. It mirrored him. As Luigi lifted his light, the ghost mimicked the exact motion with its translucent arm. Luigi took a step back; the ghost drifted back in perfect sync. It felt deeply, personally violating. He hit the strobe. The flash stunned the mimicking ghost, and its movements became erratic, twitching out of sync with Luigi's, its connection broken.
He began the violent process again. Flash, suction, wrestle. The Purple Punchers were tougher, their energy draining slower, their psychic resistance feeling like raw, unfocused anger. As he fought, Luigi noticed something else. The walls. The faded, patterned wallpaper seemed to… flex. When a Puncher charged, the wall behind it subtly bulged inwards, as if the house itself were inhaling sharply. When Luigi captured a ghost, the walls seemed to exhale, settling back. The entire room felt organic, alive, reacting to the spectral conflict.
He captured the mirroring ghost last. Its final, fading echo wasn't a word, but a feeling – intense, dizzying vertigo, the sensation of losing oneself.
When the last ghost vanished into the Poltergust, the spikes retracted from the doors with a grating screech. The room fell silent, the walls still once more. But the sense of unease lingered. The furniture seemed subtly rearranged again. Luigi couldn't shake the feeling that the mansion wasn't just haunted; it was actively manipulating his perception, warping reality around him. He hurried through the now-open door, eager to leave the breathing room behind. A small, tarnished brass key lay on the floor just beyond the threshold.
The map indicated this key opened the Wardrobe Room. He found the door easily, unlocked it, and stepped inside. The air here was different yet again. Stagnant, heavy with the scent of dust, mothballs, and something else… faded perfume, overlaid with the familiar sickly sweetness of decay. The room was filled with tall, freestanding wardrobes, their doors closed. Several pieces of furniture – chairs, a vanity table – were draped in white sheets, their forms disturbingly reminiscent of shrouded corpses. Luigi reached out and touched one of the sheets. It felt cold and faintly damp.
He swept his flashlight beam across the wardrobes. Most looked ordinary, if ancient and dusty. He opened one. Empty, save for a thick layer of dust and a few desiccated moth wings. He opened another. More emptiness. As he reached for the third, a faint chill permeated the air. He opened the door slowly.
Inside, hanging limply from a hook, was not a ghost, but an old, elegant silk dress, stained and torn, yet retaining a hint of its former beauty. The scent of old perfume and rot was stronger here. As Luigi stared, the dress swayed slightly, though there was no draft.
He moved to the next wardrobe, this one larger, more ornate. He hesitated, then pulled the doors open. A ghost hovered within, but it didn't attack. It was vaguely feminine in form, shimmering with a pale, almost pearlescent light. Its features were indistinct, sorrowful. It didn't lunge or shriek. It simply floated there, its head bowed, and spoke, its voice a heartbreaking whisper that filled the room.
"Where is he?" the voice pleaded, echoing with centuries of waiting. "He promised. He said he'd come back for me… Why didn't he come back?"
Luigi froze, flashlight beam fixed on the grieving specter. He felt a pang of sympathy, a reluctance to activate the violent Poltergust. But E. Gadd's weary voice echoed in his memory: Try not to end up on my wall. This ghost, trapped in its grief, was still part of the mansion's corruption. With a heavy heart, he raised the Poltergust.
The strobe seemed cruelly bright against the sorrowful figure. The heart appeared, faint and flickering. As the suction latched on, the ghost didn't resist with anger, but with a wave of overwhelming, soul-crushing loneliness. Its final whisper as it was pulled into the tank wasn't a name or a memory, but a single, desolate question: "Forgotten…?"
Luigi felt sick. He leaned against the wardrobe, taking deep breaths. This wasn't ghost hunting; it felt like grave robbing, disturbing cycles of pain that had festered for decades, centuries.
Suddenly, a flash of movement zipped across the room, accompanied by a high-pitched, chittering whisper that seemed to come from everywhere at once. A Speedy Spirit, E. Gadd had warned. Small, erratic, incredibly fast. It shot past Luigi again, a blur of white light and discordant sound, too quick to track, too chaotic to target effectively. It ricocheted off the walls, the ceiling, the furniture, its whispering growing louder, overlapping, creating a disorienting cacophony.
Luigi spun around, trying to anticipate its path, firing the strobe blindly. He missed. The spirit zipped past his ear, the whisper momentarily resolving into what sounded like mocking laughter. He tried again, sweeping the beam wildly. Flash! He caught it mid-flight. The spirit froze for a split second, its heart blazing, before resuming its frantic movement, trying to break free of the stun. Luigi hit the suction just in time, catching the tail end of its energy. It was sucked into the Poltergust with a final, frustrated squeal.
Silence returned. But something lay on the floor where the Speedy Spirit had been stunned. Not treasure, not coins or gems. It was a small, worn leather shoe. A child's shoe. Perfectly preserved, yet radiating an aura of immense sadness. Luigi picked it up numbly. Whose child? Lost? Forgotten? Another piece of the mansion's tragic puzzle, offered up like a morbid trophy. He pocketed the shoe, the worn leather feeling unnervingly soft against his fingers.
A faint glint caught his eye. High atop one of the wardrobes, almost touching the ceiling, sat another key. He used the Poltergust's suction to pull it down. This one unlocked a door at the far end of the room, leading, according to the map, to an outdoor Balcony.
Stepping out onto the Balcony felt like surfacing for air, but the relief was instantly undermined by the wrongness of the scene. The air was still, unnaturally so. No breeze stirred. Below, the Boo Woods stretched out, an indistinct sea of darkness under a sky that hadn't changed since Luigi entered the mansion hours – or was it days? – ago. The same sliver of moon hung in the same position, casting the same cold light. It felt utterly artificial, like a painted backdrop.
And huddled near the stone railing, crying softly, was another Toad.
"Hello?" Luigi called out, approaching cautiously.
This Toad looked up, his face tear-streaked, but his reaction was different from the first one. He didn't seem broken, just scared and lost. He didn't immediately recognize Luigi. "Oh! H-hello?" he stammered. "Are you… are you here to help? I got separated… This place is so scary…"
"I'm Luigi," Luigi said, feeling a strange sense of déjà vu mixed with dissonance. This Toad seemed… less damaged, yet somehow less real than the one in the foyer. "I'm looking for my brother, Mario."
"Mario?" the Toad asked, tilting his head. "Yes… the hero! Luigi… Luigi…" He seemed to be searching his memory. "Right! You have to… tell me. To remember. Who are you?"
Here we go again, Luigi thought, a wave of weariness washing over him. "I'm Luigi."
"Luigi," the Toad repeated, nodding, but his tone was different. Less desperate, more rote. "And you're here because…?"
"To find Mario," Luigi sighed.
"Find Mario! Yes!" The Toad clapped his hands together, a flicker of his usual programmed cheerfulness showing through, which felt even more disturbing out here on this dead balcony. "Okay, Luigi! You remember that! If you need to remember again… just check in! You can… save… right here!"
Luigi accessed the Game Boy Horror again. Record Current State? Y/N. This time, hitting 'Y' felt different. Less like anchoring himself and more like… recording a confession. Documenting his presence in this impossible place, step by weary step. The chime sounded, hollow in the still air. The Toad gave him a bright, artificial smile.
"Good luck, Luigi!" he chirped, then immediately turned back to stare out at the unchanging woods, his shoulders slumping slightly, the facade dropping.
Luigi felt a profound sense of isolation creep over him. The Toads weren't anchors; they were echoes, fragments, perhaps victims themselves, caught in the mansion's loop. Their attempts at grounding him felt increasingly futile against the pervasive wrongness. He left the balcony, the artificial air clinging to him, and headed back inside, towards the main foyer and the grand staircase leading upwards.
He ascended the stairs, the wood creaking without echo. The second-floor hallway stretched before him, dimly lit by flickering sconces. Doors lined both sides. E. Gadd had warned him about fake doors, illusions meant to trap or confuse. Luigi consulted the map on the Game Boy Horror, its flickering screen seeming less reliable now.
He approached the first door on the right. It looked solid enough. He reached for the knob. As his fingers brushed the cold metal, a thick, black, ink-like substance began to ooze from around the knob's base, dripping slowly onto the floor. Luigi snatched his hand back, heart pounding. Fake.
He moved cautiously down the hall. He passed another door. As he drew level with it, the doorknob twitched violently, rattling in its socket, though no sound accompanied the movement. He hurried past.
Another door. He hesitated, then reached out, testing the air near the crack. Nothing. He pushed it open slightly. A cold, whispering voice, sounding like dry leaves skittering across pavement, hissed his name from the darkness within, followed by rapid footsteps: "Luiiiiigi..." He slammed the door shut, his breath catching in his throat.
He continued on, checking the map, checking the doors. According to E. Gadd, the first real door on the right led to the Study, where a Portrait Ghost named Neville resided. He found the door indicated on the map. It looked identical to the others. But as he approached, he felt something different. A faint draft emanated from beneath the door. Not cold, not hot, but… warm. Like breath. A steady, rhythmic warmth, as if something large and alive were sleeping just beyond the wood.
He stood before the door to the Study, the breath-warm draft caressing his hand, the Poltergust humming its low, anxious rhythm on his back. He had survived the mansion's initial greetings, its atmospheric threats, its minor spirits. Now, he faced the first of its more permanent residents, the Portrait Ghosts. Grief-locked, E. Gadd had hinted. Trapped in cycles of pain. And Luigi, armed with his soul-ripping vacuum, was here to intervene. The thought brought him no comfort, only a deepening dread. He gripped the doorknob, the breath-warmth intensifying, and pushed the door open.