How to Rescue a Dead Princess

with this?”

“I'll do no such thing!”

“Fine.” His true self raised his arms high, then continued the scratching procedure with his teeth.

“Have you no dignity?” Sir William cried.

“I'm not using my tongue, am I?”

“Stop it!” Sir William pleaded. “You're not me! I would never do something like that!”

“Oh, really?” The duplicate gave him a leering smile. “Is your name Sir William of Mosiman, or are you still ... Billy the Bug-Eater?”

“That was a long time ago!”

“Bug-eater! Bug-eater!”

“I was only a child!”

“Sucked down any caterpillars lately, Billy?”

“Shut up!”

“Remember how all the kids used to laugh at you when you ate the bugs, Billy? Remember how nobody would play with you because you were such a vile little child?”

“That's not me any more,” Sir William sobbed. “Not me. I don't eat bugs. No bugs. None.”

The duplicate took out a long, slimy worm. “Mmmmmmm. Feeling hungry, Billy?”

Sir William let out a battle cry, then lunged forward.

* * * *

RANDALL FELT a tinge of excitement as he looked around at the mirrors. I'm going to see my true self!

Then the shadow transformed completely, revealing a gorgeous, scantily-clad woman.

Randall shrieked.

OH MY GOSH OH MY GOSH OH MY GOSH!!! he thought.

He shrieked again just to be sure.

OH MY GOSH OH MY GOSH OH MY GOSH!!! And that shriek—it sounded feminine! OH MY GOSH OH MY GOSH OH MY—

The woman looked at herself, then looked at Randall. “Whoops, this can't be right.”

She took a step toward him. Randall rushed back and pressed himself against one of the mirrors. “Leave me alone! Don't touch me! Back, androgyne!”

“I think this was a mistake,” the woman said. “I'm the true self of a Karen Soukup. These things get mixed up every once in a while. You should've seen the king of Arnzen's face when the poodle appeared.”

“Just get away from me ... please...” Randall begged.

“Fine,” said the woman, sticking a finger up her nose as she vanished. One of the mirrors fell away, and Randall scurried through the exit it created.

* * * *

HE EMERGED in another hallway. At the end was a door with a “To the Cemetery” sign hanging from the knob. Sir William stood there, looking pale.

“I just beat the crap out of my true self,” he whimpered. “This is going to cause me some psychological damage, isn't it?”

Chapter 7

Or Was It Chapter Eight...?

THE MIST hung heavy over the cemetery, thick with the souls of those long dead and buried. The air was cold, sending a chill through all visitors, a chill that went bone-deep, a chill that froze the marrow. But the roving undead, they cared not about freezer burn, and their hunger ran rampant. Their stomachs growled like a nightmarish chorus of spirits gargling ectoplasm in the moonlight. They wandered, seeking their human prey, yearning for the sweet flavor of flesh, with a pinch of paprika. There was no peace for the grotesque figures who lurked in this final resting place, not with the unholy snoring of the witch Grysh during hours of daylight. Their lives, or lack thereof, were unbearable. Filled with eternal misery. Fraught with agony. Very yucky.

Which is why they were known as the Griping Dead.

They complained incessantly. “How's it going, Charlie?” “How do you think? It sucks!”

“Same here.”

They picketed Grysh's mausoleum. They organized protests. They signed petitions. They scrawled nasty phrases on Grysh's front door ('Grysh is a big dumb-head').

None of it worked. They remained her prisoners.

So they were a little irritable when Randall and Sir William stepped outside the Realm of Mystery into the graveyard.

They began to lumber forward, arms outstretched, moaning. Randall and Sir William watched them for a moment, then exchanged a glance.

“Slow, aren't they?” Randall remarked.

“Very.”

“How come we didn't notice them when we were peering through the gates before?”

“Well, this is a magical place. Perhaps there's an illusionary enchantment covering the entire location, preventing us from noticing its prowling re-animated corpse guards?”

“Maybe we need to be a little more perceptive.”

The zombies continued to move closer.

Sir William sighed. “We've only got a few minutes before they reach us. If we were to trip on some protruding dirt molecules and break an ankle or something, there's a slight chance they could get here before one of us could carry the other to the mausoleum. We shouldn't waste any more time.”

“Good idea.”

They began walking toward the mausoleum, weaving their way around a couple of the nearest zombies, making sure they allowed for a good three inches of leeway to prevent giving the creatures a chance to grab them.

Randall noted some interesting tombstones:

“Well, it's about time!”

“Here lies Grandpa. He'll be dead any minute now.”

“Poor Sam Trotter,

kissed my daughter,

set himself up,

for a slaughter.”

“You toucha my bones, I breaka your face.”

“Here lies a leper named Shaun,

Took last place in the king's marathon,

He started the race,

And fell flat on his face,

When he found both his feet to be gone.”

They continued to casually move through the graveyard.

“They're getting away!” said one of the zombies.

“Let's circulate another petition,” said a second one.

Randall and Sir William reached the entrance to the mausoleum, ducking underneath the outstretched arms of one of the flesh-eaters. “Should we knock?” Randall asked.

“That might alert her to our presence,” said Sir William. “I think we should just burst in. Prepare yourself. I'll kick the door open on the count of ... uh, one.”

“Oh, great,” muttered Randall. “This bag's been leaking.” He pointed to a trail of ashes that led through the graveyard over to the Realm of Mystery. “You think those are important parts?”

“We haven't got time to sweep it up,” said Sir William. “Let's just burst in, and worry about that later. Ready? ONE!”

He kicked the door open. Had he known that the door swung out rather than in, the pain would have been significantly reduced. Both of them leapt into the mausoleum, then cringed at the ghastly sight that burned its way