In the Spook House

Throughout the grand state of Michigan there are many sights to be had, all of them interesting in their own unique way. There are many, many lakes, both Great and small, and rivers from which to fish and swim. There are mountains and hills and even swamps to explore at one’s leisure or discretion. There’re parks aplenty, national or otherwise, and engaging trails that line the great state's most beaten paths.

Of course, all great adventurers know that it’s the unbeaten path that holds the greatest secrets…

Should nature not hold your interest, there are just as many things to do in the city! One can hardly think of Michigan without mentioning Detroit and all its world-famous art exhibits (you have to buy tickets to see them) and its equally world-famous propensity for violent street crime (you can watch that for free)! There’s also Grand Rapids, east of Lake Michigan and renowned for its sculpture gardens, art museums, and, of course, the higher than average amount of breweries scattered around its various districts. Of course, if such colorful locales are not your speed there’s always Saginaw, Lansing, Kalamazoo, Muskegon and about a hundred other such cities dotting the state, each of them offering a veritable plethora of distractions, amenities, entertainment, and diversions with which to waste your time and money on.

You weren’t here for any of them.

Yes, the wide, beautiful state of Michigan offers many things, but above all one sight outshines the rest.

In the sleepy little suburban town of Royal Woods, there lies a secret. It isn’t an especially well-kept secret, for there isn’t a soul in Royal Woods that does not know it, but for all those not native to the immediate area the whole town might as well not exist. Not that they complained, the people that lived here thought little of the outside world and those who did not meet their severe standards for suburban living; outsiders were to be distrusted, and those who threatened the sanctimony of peaceful suburban living were to be shunned.

Harsh, yes, but not entirely unwarranted. For even within such a town there were those who did not meet the mold, those who themselves shunned and reviled the norm, those whose means and methods spat in the collective faces of all those who claimed to know better, those who were just a mite bit… creepy.

In the middle of Royal Woods, on an unassuming street named Franklin Avenue (number 1216 to be precise) there sits a house.

Well… perhaps house is not entirely correct.

Standing tall and proud and at least two stories higher than all the others in the whole neighborhood the Loud House, as it was reverently known throughout the community, was a veritable mansion in all but prestige. It was oddly shaped, taller on one side than the other, with the center a good story taller than the rest. Its sides dotted by the odd gargoyle or two and great windows that glowed with ill portent. Its ragged spires clawed into the dark clouds that swirled ominously far above, even on the fairest of days, and it wasn’t uncommon to see rain fall on the house and it alone. It was largely grey in color, with black shingles and a red chimney.

The Loud House was the only one of its kind, sticking out loud and proud amidst the backdrop of American suburbia like a proverbial black mark. Now, that’s not to say Royal Woods was entirely uniform, for one thing they were the Fusion Cuisine capital of the world (and thank God for that!) but surely there has to be a limit the people cried; surely, we mustn’t abandon decency.

For that’s what the Loud House represented to the locals, a lack of common decency. It was nothing short of a shock, an outrage even, and everybody had their own opinions on it. To the well-to-do it was an embarrassment, never to be discussed in polite conversation. For the average Joe and Jane it was odd, a regular eye-sore, not to be acknowledged. To the local outcast population, the quintessential goths, emos, punks, geeks, freaks, and other such sub-types of rebellious youth it was just about the coolest thing any of them had ever seen.

For the children of Royal Woods, it was a central fixture in all their lives, the centerpiece of many a nightmare, the subject of rumor and ghost story alike. Every Halloween, children would dare each other to approach, to knock on the door, to ring the bell, and every kid knew a friend of some guy or other that had walked past those oaken doors to never come out again…

To the people of Royal Woods, the Loud House was a stain on the community, the open secret they never discussed in the open, the black cloud that hung over their community, the place pearl-clutchers and fundies all but fainted upon hearing its name.

For the children though, the Loud House went by a different name. A name the adults and even the teens were too afraid to say aloud, a name that kept even the bravest up at night, a name that well and truly encapsulated the true nature of that house and what it really represented to the community as it resided in the hearts and minds of all its members.

To the children of Royal Woods, it was simply… The Spook House!

And it is the tales of the Spook House that have brought you here today.
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You walk up the sidewalk with a spring in your step and a smile on your face, excitement bubbling in your chest as you draw nearer to your goal.

The wrought iron spiked gate that encircles the property seems to open for you of its own accord and you walk on down the driveway appreciatively. You take a look around, noting the old hearse (poor girls’ taken a beating over the years looks like) half-parked in the garage, then turn your feet towards the yard.

The gate closes behind you, its rusty hinges giving out just the right amount of ccccrrrreeeeaaaakkkk until it snaps shut.
Walking down the stone path through the front yard you glance about, taking in the dark black but somehow still very much alive and decidedly untrimmed grass, the old leaf-less and knotted up oak tree that loomed forlornly in the corner of the yard, a tire-swing tied to its branches with a noose-knot. There are toys scattered about; limbless and headless dolls, stuffed animals disemboweled of their stuffing, miniature guillotines and bear traps and other such torture implements discarded in the wild abandon of playtime.

Taking a glance to the right you spy an old man staring at you from the window of his own modest two-story house. Even from here you can spy his tired, haunted eyes, the worry-lines and creases in his face, the way he shivered and trembled at he stared first at you then at the house. He closed the blinds and you turned away, this time to left where you spied another neighbor going about his daily chores. He was a portly, dark-skinned fellow with a shiny brown toupee, and though he watered his neatly trimmed shrubbery with a wide smile his eyes were empty, and his smile was forced.

You walk up the stairs, stand on the porch all decorated with grinning and snarling jack-o’-lanterns and bleach-white kudzu leaning over the drainpipes like a wedding veil canopy, and ring the doorbell.

At once a horrible screaming fills the air, and from the corner of your eye you spy the portly fellow with pencil-thin legs flinch and drop his hose as he spins on his heels and sprints towards his house, leaping in from an open window that just as quickly shuts the second he enters.

When the piercing keen finally dies down the front door slowly opens, making nary a sound as it offers bare its insides. You step through, offer the metal suit of armor that stands by the door your coat, and glance around, taking in the skull and crossbones wallpaper, the black-wax candelabras, the statues of eldritch design, and other such interesting memorabilia and curios, each one more fascinating, more titillating, than the last!

The door closes behind you with a gentle click.
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Scaling the stairway towards the second floor is no easy affair, for the steps are narrow and steep and the carpet is slick below the feet and oft seems to move of its own accord.

Glancing down the hallway at the top reveals a plethora of portraits hanging on the walls of either side, all of them depicting dour and gruesome figures of great aunts, uncles, cousins, and other such distant relations, each one of them ghoulish in countenance and attire.

In addition to the portraits what else becomes quickly apparent is the number of rooms, of doors bearing claw marks, pentagrams, and the occasional KEEP OUT sign hanging by a nail. Each of these doors is closed, barring entry and insight alike from prying eyes.

All, that is, but one…

At the end of the hall a door lies cracked, offering only a brief sliver of darkness and the bountiful promises of eternity. The door gives way easily to the slightest push, and the interior is laid bare before the weak trespass of the hallway light.

The occupants are very much the standard fair in some respects: boy band posters adorning the wall, an armoire sporting a cracked mirror, and a closet practically big enough to live in; but then there were also other things… altogether much stranger things…

Plaques written in hieroglyphics scattered about the floor, a signed photograph of Bela Lugosi nailed above the mirror, hand-drawn pictures of Egyptians gods in crayon stuck up on the wall next to an ankh, and let’s not even get into the bat-and-pumpkin-themed wallpaper.

And then there was the coffin…

It was a beautiful coffin, all things considered. All shiny black with silver hinges, its edges sharp and gleaming. It sat there in the furthest corner of the room, dour in its design and portent, exquisite and yet unflinchingly somber, a stark reminder of mortality and the unyielding embrace of death.

In the immediate corner closest to the door stood a golden sarcophagus, propped up against the wall in a half-standing half-leaning position. It was ornate, gorgeous, decorated with the finest lapis lazuli and engraved with depictions of the afterlife and underworld. A golden face stylized after a young woman’s stares down impassively through gemstone eyes, cold and aloof.

In the corner of the room the coffin shakes.

The shadows along the wall lengthen as red-waxed candles spring to life, igniting themselves to cast a red glow throughout the bedroom. An unnatural chill fills the air, enough to crystalize one’s breath and send in cascading downwards to shatter on the floor like ice.

The hinges of the coffin give only the faintest of squeaks as the lid is turned upwards and out, and slowly a sense of dread fills the soul.

Pallid fingers, long and talon-tipped, grip the edges of the coffin and a dark shape, the barest of outlines, slowly slithers out of the coffin.

“Get…”

A raspy wheeze rings out as the shape crawls further out. From within the growing darkness there is light, two light, glowing red.

And below those burning lights something pale gleams in the candlelight, something long and sharp and pale.

“…out…”

The glowing red eyes narrow into slits, blazing with sudden intensity and open malice. The gleaming fangs glisten as the shape moves closer, its form becoming more definable, recognizable.

More human.

And yet… not at all.

“…of…”

A young woman stands before you, her eyes like neon lights and her teeth like snake’s fangs. Her hair has a golden hue and her dress is red as blood and her cape as black as night. Pallid fingers reach out and claws are poised, teeth are barred and eyes glow red. A smoky intensity fills the air and the room itself seems to shimmer under the intensity of the Vampire’s wrath!

“…MY…”

In one step she clears the room, bathing your face in her red light and filling your vision with gleaming fangs and promises of pain. Scratching nails, biting jaws, blood-red wrath and the eternal thirst, and all that is left is the looming pressure of the night and the promise of a cold plot of earth, the yearning of the grave.

“…ROOM!”

You fall backwards and out, the light of the hallway washing over you and revealing the young woman’s form in full. Fingers clutched around her door frame she leans out and over you, her lip curled up and brow furrowed, like she was looking at something particularly foul and loathsome.

Finally, she retracts, and her hand grabs the door and slams it shut. From behind and beyond you can hear the telltale click of a deadbolt lock being set in place.

“And stay out, jerk!”
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The ladder creaks with every step, withholding no promises of its continual service in the near future. With each step your ascent becomes clearer, and soon the air takes on a stale, dusty taste as the darkness swallows you up.

The attic is, as far as attics go, par the course. Cobwebs stretched the width of the room, connecting boxes of miscellaneous junk and discarded antique furniture nobody really wanted. What was more interesting was the mossy green fog that flowed across the floor, gently rolling and swirling and obscuring everything below knee height as it cast a healthy green glow about the place.

That’s when you hear it, a humming, a whispering, a chanting…

At the far back of the attic, below a great window all boarded up with planks and nails, sat a cauldron. Green light was cast from its center and over the rim the green fog flowed and seeped onto the floor in waves of emerald brilliance. From within that great iron pot a foul broth boiled and popped, sending a wafting rank fragrance up into the air in thick smoky plumes.

And at the side of the cauldron stood a little girl, diligently stirring its contents with a great wooden spoon as long as she was.

She was a tiny thing, no more than eight, all dolled up in a black dress, with black-and-white stripped stockings and a large, conical hat sitting crooked on her head. Her face was obscured by her long, black bangs, but the flesh of her arms could be seen, and they glowed a pale green in the unnatural light of her cauldron.

The little witch hummed a ditty to herself as she stirred:

“Double, double toil and trouble; fire burn and cauldron bubble. Fillet of a fancy steak, in the cauldron boil and bake; drool of dog and slime of frog, makes the soup thick as a bog. With hair of cat and tail of rat, and the pins inside my hat, with bat’s black wing and hornet’s sting, show me now the secret thing!”

For a moment the cauldron sits, but slowly it does begin to stir, and stir mightily at that! Bubbling and sputtering the broth broiled and bubbles, spilling over the sides and onto the heating blanket being used to heat of the cauldron. Green forks of lightning flash out of the pot to crack and splint against the wood, leaving scorch marks on the walls to dance with the writhing shadows.

Suddenly the broth begins to swirl like a whirlpool, and the witch leans in close, her little mouth hanging open as her eyes, unseen and hidden by her mop of hair, stare down into the noxious brew.

And from the center of the whirlpool, a vision! A vision of… a young man dressed as a vampire?

“And we hope you all enjoyed tonight’s new episode of Vampires of Melancholia, tune in next week folks!” a voice calls out from the soup, and at once the witch leans back, her face contorted with outrage.

“No,” she cries out (though somehow still in an entirely monotone fashion) and cracks her spoon against the cauldron. “I just missed it!? Are you kidding me!”

“Tune in next for a new episode of Werewolves: Beauty is the Beast!”

The witch stands there for a bit, her temper slowly cooling as she dips her spoon back into the broth to continue stirring.

“Well,” she mutters, a red tinge to her green cheeks, “I suppose it’s not a total loss…”

Suddenly the witch stands up straight, sniffing the air. Her little frown slowly turns up at the corners and she lets out a little hum.

“By the pricking of my thumb, something nosy this way comes…”

Turning to look up at you the witch smiles and gestures towards the cauldron. “Come to see the witch, have you? Perhaps you’d like to know your fortune? I have many spells, many trinkets. I can grant wishes… for a fee of course! Sorry, them’s the breaks.”

She notices your expression and cocks her head, her smile slowly fading.

“Are you sure? I’ve got all sorts of neat spells I’ve been wanting to try out.”

Banging the side of the cauldron with her spoon she begins to chant again.

“Double, double toil and trouble; fire burn and cauldron bubble. With wolf tooth’s bite and leg of mite, bequeath to me the hidden sight; with tongue of snake and pee of lake, show me now this weird dude’s fate!”

Once again, the cauldron puts on a great show, sputtering and spewing all about the place, and when its all said and done the little witch pulls out her spoon and offers you the glowing neon liquid with a small smile.

“Here you go,” she offers.

You take a step back and the smile falters.

“What? Is it the lake pee? It’s no big deal, all water is just recycled pee anyway. Trust me, my little sister goes swimming in the sewage plant all the time, she told me all about it.”

You take another step back and she leans forward, holding out the spoon.

“Are you sure? You’ll know the exact time, place, and means of your death!”

The ladder protests mightily under your body weight as you clamber down out of the attic. The witch watches you go with a small frown, then shrugs her shoulders and turns back to her broth.

“His loss,” she mumbles, staring down at the hunky werewolf with a heart of gold trying to balance his human side with his animal nature all the while protecting his beloved girlfriend from his bestial urges. “Sigh, you’re such a romantic Sigismund. Stephanie doesn’t deserve your lumberjack charms…”

Noticing her spoon the witch takes a quick swig of the soup, swirling it around her mouth and gargling before swallowing it.

She smacks her lips once, twice, then frowns.

“Eh, needs more salt.”
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Making your way back down the stairs you turn left past the open doorway…

And are immediately greeted by a pie to the face.

At once a loud and raucous laughter fills the air, both here and yet somehow far away, a unique and distortive echoing quality to it that makes it all but indiscernible to pinpoint its exact location. Certainly, you are alone, there is no one here, the kitchen is empty.

And what a kitchen it is! Great iron stoves big enough to stuff a man into line the back, and nearby you can see a great many utensils used for a wide variety of cutlery and culinary purposes. Stacks of unwashed dishes piled high to the ceiling sit in the basin-like sink, and in the freezer you can clearly make out what look to be hunks of meat hanging from hooks.

Something smacks you in the back of your head and you whirl around, ready to let this little practical joker have it.

There’s no one there. The only thing you can make out is the steak that had been thrown at your head. There’s a sticky note stuck to it, on it you can read, ‘Don’t have a cow!’ complete with a little doodle of a stick-figure man with a cow’s head. There is a helpful, ‘You’ written above it with a sign pointing from the words to the drawing.

You grab up the steak and open up the freezer, ready to throw it in. At least, that was the plan before you could feel your pants being pulled out and a nice handful of cold freezer slush was dumped right into the seat of your drawers.

Dancing around the kitchen you try and dislodge the freezing muck from your pant legs, and as you do so you can distinctly recognize the distinctive tune of Yakety Sax playing in the background. As the last of it is shaken clear you lean against the fridge door, taking a breather from all that helter-skelter nonsense. You glance at the fridge, look away, but just a quickly look back. Something has been spelled out with the fridge’s alphabet magnets…

‘Talk about a chilly reception!’

With a growl you swipe at the magnets with your hand, mussing them up and rearranging them.

‘Tough crowd tonight folks!’

…Wait, what?

With a huff you grab the fridge door’s handles. All this activity has left you rather parched, perhaps a nice bottled water would do you some good. You open the door and the first thing you see is a teenage girl’s severed head lying on a plate, her eyes closed and her tongue sticking out as her drool drips off the edge of the plate onto the cucumbers.

You slam the fridge door shut and book it, screaming at the top of your lungs. Your flight is followed by a deranged spectral giggling from inside the fridge, and suddenly the girl’s head sticks out of the still closed fridge door, smiling like a loon.

The head is soon followed by the rest of the body, and the ghostly lass lets out a loud guffaw as she emerges out of the fridge and into the air, her lower body trailing off into a wispy tail as she floats about.

“What’sa matta?” she calls out after you, cupping a hand in front of her mouth, “afraid of a girl with some spirit!?”

She twirls in the air, cackling like a hyena at her own joke, and all the cupboards and drawers slam open and shut in time to her snorts and chuckles. Finally, she ascends to and then through the ceiling, leaving behind a silent kitchen in her wake
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All is quiet in the library, as it should be! It is generally held in polite society that of all place libraries should be held with a certain level of decorum and respect. After all they are places of learning, there are forces of higher education at work here, and to disrupt such a magical practice as improving one’s capacity for understanding is not a venture that should be taken lightly or tolerated for that matter.

These and other such truths you held evident, so it should be mentioned that when you threw open the doors to the library with such wild abandon only to turn around and slam them shut with a resounding BANG, you only did so out of nothing short of earnest blind terror.

Proper debasement assured, you press an ear to the oaken doors and concentrate, trying to make out the tiniest of sounds.

“Ahem!”

Success! Only… hang on… that didn’t come from the other side of the door…

Slowly turning around you come face to face with empty air.

“Down here.”

Oh, well that explains things. Looking down you spy what looks to be a toddler of sorts. If she was a toddler then she was certainly in a bad way, all covered with stitches, yellow skinned, and with the odd nut or bolt jutting out from her joints. One such bolt, easily as large as her entire torso, stuck out from her left temple. The occasional spark came from it, which sent the toddler into a brief spasm, but for the most part she didn’t seem concerned.

“Do not be – zzzrt – alarmed by my presence human, I mean – zzzrt – you no harm, though my appearance may seem – zzzrt – ghastly.”

At once you were intrigued, for as she introduced herself to you what became immediately evident through her eloquent mannerisms and sophisticated linguistic abilities (disabilities not withstanding) that you were speaking to someone of remarkable intellect, in spite of her young age.

“Indeed,” she chortled, “though I may be – zzzrt – only a mere four years of age my abilities far exceed those of – zrrrt – my peers or contemporaries in the fields of science, be they biology, engineering, or – zrrrt – mathematics!”

Impressive, and you say as much. She blushes and waves you off, but all the same grabs your hand and leads you towards the table she had been studying at. As she takes point you take a moment to gather yourself and take in all this great library has to offer you, a veritable plethora of knowledge and entertainment to be gleaned from the great tomes on display.

Lisa, as the young Frankenstein introduces herself as, titters at your excitement.

“Finally, someone of – zrrrt – intellect! I’ve long suffered for stimulating conversation, something that’s – zrrrt – in regrettably short supply here. But no matter, now that you’re here we – zrrrt – can begin the experiments in earnest!”

…experiments?

“Oh yes,” she replies, “surely someone of your – zrrrt – scholarly nature wouldn’t object? No need to – zrrrt – fear, they won’t be too… invasive.”

Letting go of your hand Lisa reaches out and grabs a book at knee level, pulling it half out. Immediately there comes a sound of gears being turned and squeaky hinges as the bookshelf swivels inward to reveal a laboratory; all boiling beakers and tesla coils and beeping machines and, in the center of it all, a metal table with various surgical equipment placed nearby.

The Frankenlass claps her hands and dances in place. “This is so invigorating! Finally, actual – zrrrt – work can be done. Come then assistant, I’m quite eager to see whether or – zrrrt – not one’s consciousness can survive the removal of the entire brain itself – zrrrt – for science of course!”

Reaching into her lab coat she pulled out thick yellow rubber gloves and slapped ‘em on, clenching her fingers as her grin took a decidedly sadistic scrawl.

“Ready to begin?”

Silence answered her, and when she turned around, she was shocked to see an empty library and an open door were all that greeted her.

For a moment she stood there, slack-jawed and dumb. Then she glowered, huffed, and began to turn the bolt on her head until it clicked and sparked. Turning on her heels Lisa made her way towards her lab and, once safely inside, pushed the book into place, sending the bookshelf swinging back outwards.

“Ingrates,” the tot muttered just before the bookshelf slammed shut.
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Having decided to seek refuge in the basement was perhaps not your brightest decision, but then it wasn’t your dumbest either, so it all balances out.

For one it was surprisingly clean down here. While the rest of the house had been coated in a healthy layer of dust and cobwebs the basement seemed remarkably immaculate. Good for your allergies, though it did beg the question of why it was, or rather who willed it so…

Making your way down the steps you are immediately greeted with the sight of mannequins of all shapes and sizes, ranging from men to women to children and all of them dressed in very fashionable clothing. There were no brands on them, leading you to believe they were handcrafted, but surely that couldn’t be the case. Such masterful work, such impeccable craftsmanship, who could be responsible for such beautiful clothing?

Your answer came by way of a sewing machine, its distinctive whirring and clanking reverberated through the walls and into your skull, rattling your brain with its cacophonous rattling. Making your way into the basement proper you shoulder through the crowd of voguish dummies until you come across an odd sight.

A young lady, in her late teens no doubt, her shining golden hair spilling across her shoulders like honeyed sunlight across Lake Michigan at sunrise. It was her body, however, that truly caught your attention, for the entirety of her form was wrapped head to toe in what appeared to be, and in fact were upon closer inspection, seafoam green bandages!

As the girl hummed and worked, she suddenly sat up straight and turned around, no doubt feeling your presence. As her eyes alit upon your frame her glowing green eyes, sunken behind her bandages and glowing the same seafoam green color the bandages themselves were, lit up at she held her hands up under her chin as she let out a squeal, practically bounding up out of her chair as she pranced towards you with barely contained glee.

“Like, hi there!” she greeted in a bubbly voice. “You must be the, like, the model, right? The one I totes sent out all those ads for? Oh, this is so exciting! My first male model… well, aside from my baby bro, but you’re a professional! Not that he does a bad job or anything but, like, oh I’m just so excited let’s start now!”

With a terrifying show of strength, the mummy girl grabs onto your arm and starts pulling you forward, ignoring your protests and assertions otherwise. A numbness seeps up through the limb as her fingers encircle your flesh with a grip as cold and hard as iron, but thankfully she doesn’t have far to drag you and lets go soon enough. As you try and work some feeling back into the limb, she opens up a wardrobe placed next to the washing machine and hums as she cycles through it, grabbing outfits on a whim.

“Now let’s see… goth? No, too scenic. Rural? No, too country. Punk? No, too mainstream. Victorian? No, too English.”

Finally, her smile brightens as she settles upon something that catches her eye and she lets out a loud, “Aha!” and pulls out what looks to be… a pile of bandages?

“I want the whole world to know my designs,” the mummy explains after seeing your expression, her own one of calm introspection as she cuddles the bandages close to her bosom. “I want them to know my passion. And I want them to know who I am, what I am.”

She suddenly looks up at you, the fires of determination raging in her eyes as she holds up a fist.

“I know I’m just a silly Michigan girl with a dream, but this is my life’s work, this is who I am! And even if it never comes true, I’ll still be able to say that at least I tried! At least I put my work, my soul, out there for everyone to see! And they’ll look at it and they’ll say, that’s Leni’s work, that’s her…”

Suddenly feeling very self-conscious Leni looks down and wrings the bandages with her hands, trying her best to avoid eye contact as she waits for your response.

And respond you do, placing your hand on her shoulder after drying the tears from your eyes you give her a look to match her passion and flash her a winning smile and a thumb’s up!

Leni smiles at that, her glowing eyes wavering as she sniffled and thanked you.

“Alright,” she says, pumping her fists, “let’s get to work!”

You ask her what you should do, and her eyes suddenly flash.

“Oh yeah!” she cries and runs back over to her sewing station. Licking a finger, she begins to thumb through the small ornately designed book sitting there, her eyes scanning the pages for a moment or two before finally widening in recognition and glee.

“Here it is! Let’s see: Mummification Ritual, so you’ve got a body you don’t know what to do with? Yadda, yadda, yadda. Blah, blah, blah… aha! First things first, insert a hook through the nose and pull out the brain. Well that shouldn’t be too bad, I never use mine anyway!”

Closing the book with a grin the mummy girl turns around and gives you a thumb’s up.

“Right, let’s get started!”

You stare at her for a solid minute before turning on your heels and sprinting back up the stairs. Leni stares at you with wide eyes as you disappear from sight, but after a few seconds her smile slowly returns, and her glowing eyes narrow into little crescent shapes.

“Oh, good idea,” she calls up the stairs, “these things take time, so you go ahead and use the bathroom!”
Setting the bandages down at the sewing station Leni stands there, perfectly straight and still smiling.

“I’ll be waiting right here until you get back!”
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Throwing open the backdoor with a slam you leap over the back porch, wade through the shoulder-deep moat that surrounds the back of the house that you didn’t in fact see before jumping and pull yourself up onto the grass.

You laid there for a moment, your face in the nice, black grass, breathing in the sweet smell of the earth as an autumn breeze flowed over you.

A sharp pain exploded through your skull as something collided with your head and bounced off. You let out a low, deep groan and look up.

A girl, or at least you think it’s a girl, stares back at you through yellow eyes.

She’s a queer looking thing, all covered with brown fur and wearing a torn and dirty #1 jersey and gym shorts frayed at the hem. Behind her a furry tail wags and she taps her clawed feet on the grass, one similarly clawed hand resting on her hips as the other was raised up, a spinning soccer ball resting on a raised claw. Her face was more muzzle than anything else, and when she grinned down at you it was through a mouthful of jagged fangs.

“What’re you doing down there coach!?” the girl barks in a decidedly gravelly though still demonstrably feminine voice, her wolfish ears twitching as her yellow eyes widen and her pupils narrow into slits. “We’re burnin’ daylight, c’mon! Up and at ‘em!”

With a monstrous strength she hauls you up to your feet and with a firm spank on the behind she sends you scarpering off, her snapping jaws harrying at your heels.

“C’mon, c’mon, I wanna see you move those legs! Gimme a hundred and ten percent! No pain no gain!”

These and other such ‘encouragements’, along with odd threat of violence or two, are sent your way as the wolf girl forces you run a marathon, barking at your heels all the while. When you’ve run the entire length of the yard no less than fifteen times at a constant run, she deems you finished and immediately sets you on your next task.

“C’mon, pump those muscles,” the pint-sized terror barks, stamping her clawed feet hard on your back as you desperately try to lift yourself off the ground. Despite only coming up to waist height she’s deceptively heavy, and she makes extra sure to put all your weight right on the small of your back just as your arms start to tremble.

“C’mon coach, don’t quite on me now! We’ll never make it to Nationals at this rate! The President’s counting on us with this fitness test! You’ll never get a date for prom!”

Oh God it’s Middle School all over again!

With a mighty roar you focus all your strength and drive into your arms and, slowly, you push up, until… yes! A perfect pushup!

With a groan you fall back into the grass, and on your back the werewolf girl jumps up and down, howling a mighty cheer as she pumps her fists into the air.

“Now that’s what I’m talkin’ about, right there!”

Leaning down she presses her claws into your shoulder blades and barres her jagged teeth right into your ears as she whispers:

“Now gimme a hundred more!”

Your head shoots up.

With a mighty shove you push yourself up to your knees, throwing the wolf girl off with a yelp. Scrambling forward you army crawl your way to the stairs, but when you hear the werewolf growl out behind you a sudden decision to make a detour makes itself known.

Plunging into the backyard moat you resurface from the freezing water with a cough and a sputter. You turn around just in time to see the wolf girl skid to a stop right at the water’s edge, but rather than jump in after you or snarl at the banks as expected she simply smiles and snaps her fingers.

“Of course, swimming! Great idea coach, gotta stretch out all those muscles, really give the pectorals a workout! Lola! Lana! Get up here!”

Stomping her feet on the ground the werewolf lets out another howl, and immediately you can see a series of bubbles coming up from the water on both sides of you.

Something slimy brushes up against your leg and you yelp, kicking out on instinct. The same thing happens on the other leg and you react in kind. What follows is a truly grueling, skin-crawling affair as the slimy something-or-others continue their assault on your flesh brazenly, running webbed fingers over your legs or digging sharp claws into your sides.

The intent, it seems, is to get you to swim, and swim you do. Anything to get away from the awful slimy sensations crawling up your body. But even as you pick up the pace the pricking’s only grow worse in their frequency and abuse. After a particularly painful pinch sends you yelping and scrambling back up into the yard you hear a series of snickers and giggles behind you and turn around to glare at the offenders.

A pair of little girls, no older than six you’d imagine, chuckle at your misfortune, pinching their scaly, webbed, and claw-tipped fingers at you as they maliciously grin with mismatched, shark-like teeth. Only their upper bodies stick up out of the water, but you can tell even with the one-piece bathing suits that they have green, scaly skin, like a reptile’s, or a fish’s. They have no ears, but fins instead, and their necks open into gills. One of them is wearing a pirate’s bandanna and has her blonde hair done up in pigtails, while the other wears a sailor’s cap and lets hers flow long and free.

The gill-girls snicker to themselves, but whatever frivolity they possessed was soon squashed by their elder sister, who stomped over to them with hackles raised and tail puffed up.

“And what was that? We can’t train if you guys scare him out of the pool like that!”

“Oh, lighten up Lynn!” the long-blonde snaps right on back, swishing her hair and sending a spray of water of the wolf girl who shirks back with a whine.

“Yeah, lighten up!” pigtails laughs; splashing a nice wave at her sister with a smack of her hand. This spray actually manages to connect, which sends Lynn barking mad, rubbing her face into the grace as she drags herself along the ground, growling and grunting as she rummages her face into the dirt.

The twins laugh at the display, but their chuckles soon taper of when they look back at the empty spot in the grass where they had last spied you.

“Where’d he go?” the pirate asked, scratching her head as she looked to her sister. Sailor girl gave a shrug, completely unaware as the backdoor to the garage opened and closed.
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Pushing the garage door closed as quietly as you can manage you lean against the wood and let out a sigh, your aching muscles practically screaming from all the abuse they’d just suffered. But it was all over, now you could relax. So long as nothing else went wrong you could just sit for a moment a catch your—

“And a one-two-three-four!”

The noise that fills your senses is indescribable. It’s a banshee’s wail mixed with heavy machinery. It’s a woodchipper mixed with the dying scream of a wildebeest. It’s like a construction crew only all their jackhammers were powered by the souls of the damned. It was nails on a chalkboard to the backdrop of every nasally, high-pitched shrieking teenager to ever walk the face of this earth.

It was pain, pure an utter pain. It filled the mind and pushed out all thoughts, it rattled the skull and pounded like a war drum and strangled the brain and gave it a good throttling. There was no escape from it, it was everywhere, in your ears, in your mind, in your heart, in your very soul!

And then, just like that, it was over.

“Whew, now that’s what I call a workout!”

Grabbing a water bottle from up off the floor with a clawed, purple-hued hand the crisp cool contents are quickly downed into a sharp-toothed maw.

“Ahh, that’s the ticket, luv,” a raspy voice cooed, and the young woman, older than the werewolf and ghost but younger than the mummy and the vampire, lets slip a forked tongue from her lips to lap up the last drops.

Feeling refreshed she stretched her arms and flexed her bat-like wings, popping the joints and grunting appreciatively at the relief that flooded her senses.

She loved rocking out next to none, but even she knew when to call it a day after a solid eight hours of heavy-duty practice.

Unplugging her amp and making sure her equipment was all set up nice and clean-like she ran her talons through her dark-brown hair and up between her goat-like horns massaging them at the base. God that felt good, but not as good as a certain little bro’s massages. Lad had magic fingers he did, got ‘em just right every time. Maybe she could convince him to give her a bit of that TLC, and she chuckled as the thought sent her arrow tipped tail a’waggin.

With a tired smile she grabbed her ripped up shirt and gave it a good fanning, then turning around she whistled a nice little tune…

…and promptly stopped dead when her hoofed foot caught you right in the stomach. Not that you really noticed, you were much too busy seizing up on the floor to care about such paltry matters anymore.

The demon girl stared down at you for a bit, her eyes narrowed in confusion and concern, but soon enough they lit up in that special, recognizable way and she gave you a toothy grin.

“Hey dude, what’s haps?” she asked, leaning down to get a good look atcha. “Put on a good show there huh? Yeah, I know what you’re thinking, and you’re right. I am gonna be a famous Rockstar someday!”

Leaning back on her heels the demon girl wrapped her red tail around her guitar and brought it up to her hands, and she played a little ditty right then and there. The second her fingers brushed against those strings the most awful metallic screeching you’d ever heard filled the room, sending red-hot pangs of agony stabbing into your brain with every strum of those cursed cords.

When she finished, she leaned down, though her smile quickly gave way to a frown.

“Dude are your ears bleedin’?” That frown turned upside down and she beamed. “That’s killer bruv! Always wondered if I could do that, just made my day you did, cheeky blighter~”

Scooping you up in her surprisingly toned arms the demon girl spun you around and sat your tookus right on the stool she’d been using to practice on.

“Name’s Luna,” she said, jerking a thumb at her chest. “But I don’t need to tell you that, cause pretty soon my name’s gonna be big, gonna see my name all over the whole world you will, up on signs and talk shows and on all those sweet, sweet record labels. We’re talkin’ CD’s pal, vinyl records, big time name here champ! Gonna hit the rainbow and ride it all the way to the big shots luv!”

She strummed another screaming dirge that sent spasms and convulsions through your body.

“Aww, now yer jus’ makin’ me blush here dude,” she cooed, fluttering her eyelashes at you. Then she smiled, and you flinched back at the brimstone fire in her eyes and the sharpness of her teeth as she leaned in.

“Tell ya what, yer a keeper, howsabout some of the action here kid? A piece of the pie, a cut of the cake? I need names see, I got the music jus’ fine, I got the tunes see. But I need folks to know my name, I need fans. I can tell my music… nah, ‘is not jus’ music bruv, it’s me very soul, I’m layin’ it bare for you ‘ere and I can tell yer groovin’ to it, so why not join up? Bein’ a groupie doesn’t sound all that glamourous I know, but it’s a staple of the industry! ‘Sides, you’ll get all sorts of perks… so?”

Reaching into her purple skirt the demonic lass pulled out a scroll, and with a flick of her wrist she unfolded it. The words ‘Terms and Conditions’ blazed in red ink at the top, and you could tell it was going to be the fine print that was going to get you what with the fact the whole thing was written fine print.

With eyes blazing like hellfire the little devil leaned in real close and flashed a crocodile smile.

“Well? Fame, fortune, all you could ever want or wish for, and it could all be yours. It’s just one signature away…”

You consider her terms for all of two seconds before dropping on the floor, rolling past the demon girl, and leaping to your feet with such force that you broke the backdoor into splintered pieces as you raced across the lawn, jumped over the barking werewolf girl, leaped clear over the moat and the clutching talons of the fish twins, and scrambled up the steps and through the backdoor into the house, slamming it shut behind you.

For a moment the girl stood there, stunned silent, but then a grin lazily spread across her face as she leaned back on her stool and strummed her guitar.

“Eh,” she said with a shrug, “he’ll be back.”

“Hey Luna, play us a song,” the fish girls cried out, pumping their fists into the air as Lynn nodded her head and let out a howl.

Luna’s eyes flashed red and purple and her grin took on a manic energy as purple lights races from her horns all along her arms and into her fingertips.

“Well alright then! Are you ready to rock Royal Woods!?”

The noise complaints from that day would live on in infamy.
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By the time you’d managed to limp your way into the living room the television had been turned on. It was some show about ghost hunters, obviously fake with overpaid, overacting leads, cheap special effects, and cameras that had only one setting: in your face.

Falling back into the sofa with a sigh you kick your feet up, put your arms behind your head, and listlessly tune in, half-watching the screen but not really paying any attention to what was happening. How long you sat there you couldn’t say, but at least enough time had passed so that when you felt something grab your hand you didn’t feel like screaming.

You grab right on back, your fingers encircling what feels like a tiny fist, and when you lift up your arm you find what looks to be a severed child’s forearm and hand is grabbing onto you with equal conviction; it’s skin a bluish-green and smelling like formaldehyde and a bone sticking out just behind the elbow.

Something taps you on the knee and you look down to see a tiny tot, no more than a wee baby, smiling up at you with crooked teeth and listless eye… she only had one, must’ve misplaced the other.

“Poo-poo,” the baby zombie babbled, and pointed up at the arm you were holding. You hand it back to her and she jams it into the empty shoulder, twisting it around until it sticks at which point she toddles on past you to the other side of the sofa where she babbles and giggles and suddenly another voice joins in, older and decidedly male though still containing that telltale lilt of youth and quintessential boyhood.

You look off to the side and see a boy, all pale skin and even paler hair with bright blue eyes and chipped buck teeth, pick up the tiny terror, chuckling as the zombie gave a high-pitched squeal of delight at being cuddled, nestling into his chest as he repositioned himself.

With baby in one hand and comic in the other the lad leaned back against the armrest and he turns to look up at you. Your eyes lock and you can see compassion and understanding in his tired gaze, in his soft smile.

“Rough day huh?” he asks, gesturing to your… everything really.

You chuckle and nod, throwing your head back and letting out a tired sigh. He chuckles right on back and smiles.

“I hear you brother. Trust me, I have to deal with this every day.”

You give him a look at that, and he smiles and spreads his hands out. You let out an impressed whistle and shake your head, giving the boy a onceover. At first glance he was nothing more than a boy, but upon closer inspection… no, no he was still just a boy. A bit on the pale side, probably an albino if you had to guess based on those snowy locks of his, but by all accounts, perfectly normal.

“Oh, believe me, it’s no joke,” he continues, then looks down at the baby, giggling to herself and chewing on her own severed foot, and gives her a fond smile before leaning down to kiss her head. “But it’s got its own rewards.”

He looks back up at you and grins.

“My name’s Lincoln. Lincoln Loud. Welcome to the Loud House.”

He throws his head back and laughs at that, and the baby joins in with her own incoherent babbling.

“Then again, most people don’t call this place the Loud House, do they?” he asks, giving you a knowing smile.

You sheepishly look away and twiddle your fingers, but Lincoln clicks his tongue, shakes his head, and after placing the baby on the sofa stands up and stretches his legs.

“That’s Lily,” he adds, pointing at the baby, and she looks over and waves at you. You wave right back and that seems to provoke another round of giggles from the smelly tyke.

“Probably seems weird to you, huh?” Lincoln asks, turning to you with a smile. “One boy, ten girls? And don’t get me wrong, when you live in a family as big as mine every day feels like a fight for survival…”

Slowly you stand up yourself and you place a hand on the boy’s shoulders. He looks up at you, a wide toothy grin and eyes sparkling as he says:

“…but there’s nothing in the whole world like knowing there’s ten other people out there who love you more than anything. Nothing like knowing there’s ten other people out there that have your back, that’ll see you through thick and thin. Sure, we get on each other’s nerves almost every day, sure we even fight every now and then, but if there’s one thing I know it’s that family’s forever, and there’s nothing that can change that.”

As he wipes a stray tear away with the back of his hand you smile and pat his shoulder reassuringly. He gives you an appreciative smile and nods his head before continuing.

“So yeah, we might be big, and we might be a bit creepy too, mysterious and spooky, and maybe a little kooky, and I guess altogether ooky… but I know I wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world.”

And as Lincoln came to the end of his little spiel a man entered the room from the kitchen. He was an average looking fellow, perhaps a bit portly, perhaps a bit bald, and maybe his nose was a just bit big, but all things considered he was well put together, and moreover fit in just fine.

Lynn Loud Sr. looked over to his boy, eyes brimming with paternal affection and pride for his only son, a soft smile on his face even as he coughed into a clenched fist to grab the boy’s attention.

“Dinner will be ready soon, son,” the man said, and Lincoln turned to him and grinned.

“Okay dad I’ll be right there. I just have to say goodbye first!”

Confusion flashes across the man’s face for a second as his eyes flash between you and his son.

“You, uh…” the man begins then awkwardly pauses, his eyes still flickering as his smile starts to strain ever-so-slightly, “…you talking to yourself again sport?”

Lincoln huffs and crosses his arms, giving his father an almost pleading look as he whines, “I told you Dad, I’m not talking to myself! I’m talking to my friends, The Invisible Watchers from Beyond the Screen! The girls can see them too!”

The man chuckles good naturedly and lightly shakes his head, giving his boy the kind of tender look only a father can give.

“Sure you are sport,” he says with a small but no less sincere smile as he leans over to ruffle his son’s white hair. “Well, tell you what, why not ask your friend if they want to stay for dinner? I’m making my world famous Ghoulash!”

With that said the man ducks back into the kitchen, leaving you and Lincoln and a now napping Lily alone.

Lincoln jerks a thumb over at the kitchen and ruefully shakes his head, but you merely grin and shrug your shoulders. You’re used to it by this point.

Suddenly his face brightens up and he smiles up at you.

“Hey, would you like to stay for dinner?” he asks, and from the way he stresses his syllables you can tell what he hopes your answer will be. Alas, his sunny face soon falls into a small frown when he sees you hold up your arm and tap at the watch on your wrist.

“Aww, do you really have to leave already?” he whines, clearly disappointed, and you are too but you really must be moving on. True to form the lad takes it in stride, merely snapping his fingers in an, ‘oh well,’ manner before escorting you to the front door, pausing only briefly as you grabbed your coat before walking out onto the porch.

“Well it was nice seeing you anyway. Come over a little earlier next time so we can play some!”

You promise to do so, and his grin makes it all worth it.

And not just his either.

From the shadows they came. From every nook and cranny they crawled out of. From under beds, and inside closets, and hidden right in plain sight they stepped forward to say goodbye.

Every Loud, from boy to girl, stood there at the doorway, giving you fond looks of joy and forlorn in equal measure, sad to see you go but happy you came all the same.

You were too.

As you turn down the walkway, waving over your shoulder at the kids, they all call out their goodbyes, their see-ya-soon’s and their see-ya-later’s, their well wishes and their come-back-whenever’s.

“And remember,” Lincoln calls out to you just as you reach the threshold of the iron gate, “You’re always welcome here at The Spook House!”

The kids all laugh at that, and so do you, throwing your head back as you let out what feels like the best, most honest laugh you’ve had in years.

As the door closes behind you with a gentle click, and the wrought iron gate squeaks shut with just the right amount of creak, you smile, and you find yourself walking with a spring in your step, passing by children dressed as monsters with bags of candy in their little hands, all of them smiling and happy and ready for a night of scares and thrills and sweets.

And then came a thought, unbidden and free in your heart, the chiefest of promises to be upheld and the one proclamation you held true to yourself above all others…

You couldn’t wait to come back next Halloween!

{The End}