Newhaven Promenade 6

They say the houses on ol' Maple street have each have a history, with many over a century old, and thus, having bared witness to both miracles and tragedies during the long years of their standing.
But all of that is just moth-fart in a gale compared to the ramshackle lot up on Newhaven promenade - the inflamed appendix of the neighborhood.
Originally a public works' project set up as part of the New Deal (though, it was first drawn up as part of the previous Roosevelt's "Fair Deal", according to some), the construction of the scenic, pedestrian-only extension, which grew out of the 90° "bend" of Maple street, was first halted, then abandoned during the World War.
Construction restarted during the '50s, allowing some houses to be built, though, never fully completed - bar one - along the existent portion of the promenade.
The project halted again in the early '60s - by then, the rest of the neighborhood had undergone gentrification, so the completion this one, short street, shooting out diagonally from the corner of another, was deemed unnecessary.
Then, the area stagnated throughout the '70s and '80s, with the '90s causing local crime - mostly petty crime, like break-ins and vandalism, thankfully - to skyrocket.
The sagging houses of Newhaven became a squatter's paradise - the only fully completed one seemingly abandoned along the rest.

That's when the rumors started...

6, Newhaven promenade, was haunted.

As the area became overgrown, and the tiny pines that once fenced the properties spread inward, coating the whole place in shadows, Number 6 stood out starkly against the other buildings.

Being only 1 of ten, plus two uncompleted ones (one just walls, the other the bare framework, with the basement of a third already dug out at the "end" of the prom), you'd think this shouldn't be difficult.
Which is why one could come to the conclusion that Number 6 was actually making an effort to stick out like a sore thumb.

The rumors began, in earnest, around 1997 - around the time when the events surrounding Helltown, Ohio, entered into the public mind why whispers and the odd news broadcast.

Up until then, the locals have just accepted that the failed Newhaven promenade - the symbols of the neighborhood's abandonment by the local gov - was the "walkway of Wastrels", a place were bums, washed-up hippies and other drug addicts came to spend the winter.
And they were fine with that - the junkies kept to themselves, stayed quiet, and when appearing the public, behaved like good little outcasts, and stayed as far away from crowds as possible.
A few of them even found temporary employment, doing menial jobs around town, such as cutting grass, or collecting roadside trash - there were no kids there, the neighborhood was well and truly stagnant and decaying.

This went on, until one, dry autumn night.

No-one knows how, and where the fire started, but before long, the pines of Newhaven were a roaring, widespread crown fire, that, by the time the firefighters have arrived, it had gone out, leaving behind charred trunks and ash-covered buildings.
All except one.

Number 6 remained pristine - well, as pristine as a house from the '50s could be -, but it's yard was decimated.
Grass burnt into dust, rocks appeared melted, and the pines that grew to surround it were only charred husks split down the middle, or apparently blown apart, as if struck by lightning.
It was soon discovered that the fire expanded from one, distinct point - Number 6 itself.

The police failed to come up with a method that would've allowed this event to take place the way it did.
Nor did they found the culprit.

Many suspected that the sudden police presence had caused the junkies to flee, but when the cops didn't even found evidence that anyone had been living in the near-complete buildings, well... That's when the events turned from serious to sinister.

The area never recovered from the fire - only the charred trunks remained.
2000 came and went, and Newhaven promenade continued to decay.
The roadway - only a shoddy strip of asphalt to begin with - cracked and slowly eroded, heavy rains creating a miniature creek that washed the debris into the empty hole near the end of the road.
Shrubbery and tall grass began to sprout out in the gardens, growing as tall as a man, and allowing only the houses and the charred trunks to be seen.

Well, except for Number 6.

It's garden remained devoid of grass, and soon devolved into a muddy, miniature marsh.
What remained of it's decimated trees quickly collapsed in on itself from rot.

Black-, and Hones Locusts replaced the pines. These never blossomed, and seemed to grow in odd ways, becoming twisted and gnarled, with an unnaturally large number of spines, even for such trees.
They quickly died, leaving behind rust-colored trunks that lead many of the locals to suspect that there may be something radioactive on the property.

However, the locals, being a suspicious bunch, did little to find answers, even with the prospect of radiation spreading just up the street from them. Doing nothing and hoping that the problem will go away if you learn to "live with it" was one of the reasons the area was picked up the local gov. for re-gentrification at the beginning of the New Tens, which was when you moved into town.

And now, there you were - standing in front of the triple-decker under Number 6, the spiky, red deathtraps towering over you on either side, as you gazed up on the architectural monstrosity before you.

Unlike the promenade's other houses, all of which were either ranch-style single-deckers or split-levels, all made of wood, the tri-level, off-white, all-stone building looked like someone tried their best to follow the example of the Irish art deco movement, creating an outrageously unsightly mess.

With an oversized staircase leading to a gaping doorway arc on the raised ground floor (leaving only tiny, slit-like windows on either side), and the mid level sporting a pair of protruding, extravagant bay windows (that looked like they were more recent additions, their style clashing with the more streamlined details of the rest of the building), which were topped by a round, bulbous balcony, that had to be propped up by and undulating under-structure that left little space between it and the top of the bay windows, and which featured a wide central glass double-door and two Amityville-esque quarter-crescent windows on either side of it.

Despite the overgrowth that plagued the promenade, the path to the door was clear, if a bit muddy.

However, that was no issue. You're a man on a mission... Sort of.

Really, it was more your stubborn curiosity and flagrant disbelief in the supernatural that led you to try and investigate a crumbling, hazardous building, rather than any justifiable reason.

The gossip of this sleepy neighborhood always seemed to revolve around Newhaven, and, regardless of how distant it's topic was, always found itself returning to the same house on the hill.

Mud squelches underneath your feet, as you march up to the front door - a rather large and old-fashioned piece, made up of long, vertically placed planks, with a crude peephole cut in the center.

Slightly hesitant to continue - and still catching your breath from nearly tumbling down the expansive staircase -, you take a cautionary look around.
You've brought a brick, in case of hobos, but you doubt that'll do any good against ghosts or demons - which totally don't exist, of course, but still.
You are, however, much more taken aback by the massive hornets' nest you notice on the inside of the doorway's arch, in one of the corners.
Now considerably more on edge, you fiddle with the ancient door handle, praying that it's open.

After jiggling the handle for a while (with increasing alarm - you swear you could hear buzzing coming from the corner), there's a faint, delayed click, and what sounds like a soft sigh (although, that could be you), as the door recedes past the wall, and, with ear-splitting squeak that sounds like the death-throes of a thousand hinges, opens into...

Pure darkness.

The kind you see between the stars.

Or the night sky, when there are no stars about.

However, the faintest noise from behind (up, slightly to your right) causes you to seize up, abandon your philosophical contemplation, and egress.

Darting in, you spin around to slam the door behind you - no sign of wasps, but you're NOT gonna risk it.
As the door slams shut, you find yourself in darkness.

With your heart persisting on drumming in your ears, it takes time for you to adjust (and stop pushing against the door - they're just bugs, they can't open it, you idiot!), but eventually, you manage to make out your surroundings.

...wut?

You're in sparsely lit, but clean, and more shockingly, DECORATED main hallway. Sure, the decoration is ancient, but you're surprised that its even here in the first place!
And that's when the cleanliness really hits you...

You didn't expect this place to have any internal decor, despite being Newhaven promenade's only inhabited building, but the fact that it's so clean - and not in an orderly way, either, it feels LIVED-IN, as if someone is still using this place.

As the fear of breaking and entering begins to well up in you, and the adrenaline - which hadn't really stopped pumping since you yourself stopped on the cracked sidewalk in front of Number 6, and had only gotten kicked up a notch when you noticed the hornets' nest -, is starting to make you dizzy.

After a few stuttering breaths, you call out...

"Hello?" ... "Is anyone home?"

No reply.

With eyes fully adjusted, and body still on edge, you advance forth, into the semidarkness.

There's a constant, coarse noise in the air - they must've left the TV on.
Your '90s instincts kick in, and you make your move - you gotta turn off the damn thing, otherwise, it'll drive you crazy.

As you make your way towards what you suspect to be the living room, you take account of what little you can actually see of the decorations.
Its very...
'50s.

But something's... Off... About it...

And its not just the excellent condition you found it in.

Entering the living room, you find it bathed in the flickering glow of the telly's "snow-screen". The furniture... Looks normal, as far as you can tell. Well, other than it's apparent temporal displacement.

You go toward the light.


It's an old, fat television. Wood paneling, two large knobs beneath the round-edged screen, and the slightly bent bunny-ear antenna on top.

Well...

Its more than just slight bent, its... Well, they're pretty much metal zigzags. Its almost cartoonish, like an insect's antennae.

Drawing closer, you realize, that something's wrong.

As you approach the glowing screen, the TV seems to.... Warp with each step you take.
The wood frame crinkles and creases, before veritable bumps and rolls begin to form, causing the entire thing to appear more bulbous and... Well, fat.
The wooden legs began to bulge, akin to the thighs of a woman... An obese woman, to be exact - the stick growing into a ham-shape, before the "calves" catch up.
The buttons are pushed further aside, as the panel that they're on - wedged between the fattened legs, and underneath the screen - softens, causing the dials to sink in.

The more you look at it, the more it seems to resemble...

NO! Get your mind out of the gutter!

Still, you walk forward, as if possessed, as the set before you bloats up into a fat-laden parody of itself.
You stop before this impromptu commentary on consumerism, and give it the once-over, now that you're up close.

Upon closer inspection, it becomes clear that the "wood frame" are just thick wood-pattern stickers that have been glued onto an otherwise plastic outer housing, that somehow managed to keep up with the build-up of "adipose".
The fattened box's creases and folds are very life-like - thunder thighs propping up the saggy, frame, which has numerous rolls resting atop them.
Looking behind it from where you stand, you can just about make out the back rolls on the rear of the machine, including the very large one at the bottom, giving it a distinctive ass-like hind quarter.

Now that your eyes have grown accustomed to the flickering light of the static, you can even make out the slight rolls and creases on the screen itself, the glass having developed a divot in it's lower center.
Despite this warped appearance, the glass itself didn't appear to be melted, or even molded this way.
If anything, it was almost like watching a body of water, suspended in mid-air.
A body of water, murky with light.

You realize you've been staring, and shaking off your stupor, reach down to turn the set off.

You have to pause for a second.
A smell hits your nose - acrid and humid.

Sweat and burning dust.

As your eyes continue to adjust, you notice the spots.
Wet spots, appearing in and around the creases and folds of the machine's wood-sticker coated plastic flesh.

It's sweating like a pig.

Ever smelt that new TV smell? The smell of freshly unpacked plastic?

It's like the smell of a new book.

This is the opposite of that. This is BO.

Burning dust, the faint smell of ozone, and that humid, meaty smell you'd experience on an overpacked subway during the summer.
The smell of caked-on grease, left behind by grubby fingers, slowly being heated up by the old, inefficient circuitry.

It's rank.

But you proceed.
It's hard to decipher which button it which, now - the panel has gone soft and supple, your fingers sink into it.
You can hear the screen let out a whine, like old TVs do when they power up.
Except this is much more audible.

Finally, you manage to locate what you think may be the on-off switch,

You try to flip it.


CRACK!


"FUCK! Son of a...!"


You draw your hand back, more in alarm than in pain - the static sting delivered by the metal button briefly numbs your fingers.

The loud noise - sounded like a static crackle, but drawn out, like a fart - came from behind the TV.

Shaking the numbness from your hand, you draw a deep breath to sigh, only to start coughing.
Your eyes water.

It's rank!

The waft of thin smoke that filled the air surrounding the Telly smells of burnt plastic and burnt ass. The smell of ozone is far stronger - its beginning to sting!

You stumble back a step, only to notice that screen has changed - the static is gone.

The black and white head and shoulders - naked shoulders! - of a woman in her later '20s or early '30s had appeared on the apparently black and white screen.

Her face is... Well, hard to describe. She resembles every female TV reporter you've ever seen - white, black, Asian, Arabic, Pacifics Islander, skinny, fat, and in between -, but resembles no-one distinctly.

She's very pretty, but in an almost ethereal way - like someone took a picture of all those reporters, and overlaid all of them on each other, creating what seems like the gross average of their faces.

Her hair... Has no style. It's blown back from her face, in a big, bushy mane behind her.

The image suddenly flickers...

And you realize that, despite the bent screen, you still saw her perfectly, without any distortion!

A new face stares back at you - AT you, not just into the camera.

It takes some time for you to recognize who she is.
After all, most people haven't seen her since, well...
Since 1962.

Or whenever her movies were finally dropped form circulation.

"Hello there, darling."


You swallow. Hard.

The sultry voice has left your breath caught in your throat.
She gives a knowing, small smile, and giggles.


Hello, the '50s called. They want their idol back!


"So good that you've finally shown up!" she says.

"Were you... Expecting me?"

She gives a breathy reply:

"Why... Of course, silly!"


Apparently, you had a date with Marilyn Monroe.

Wait, no. You didn't. It's just a TV.
A weird, sweating, clearly rigged-up TV.

Nah, you don't buy it. Definitely not.

You take a step back.


""Ẁ̧̧̧A͢I͟T̷̕̕͡͞!̶͘͟͞"


Oh sweet baby Jesus.

It sounded like a million women just cried out after you, desperate to the point of screaming.

You briefly saw her image freeze up, mouth wide open, with the image stretching to the bottom of the screen, giving her a cavernous mouth, the image made worse by the now truly black and white picture, giving her black, amorphous sockets with glowing white dots for eyes, and no nose.

The image fizzed back into normalcy. Sort of. Monroe was gone, replaced by the more ethereal combined woman from before.


""I̧t's bee͘n͘ sooo ̀l͠ooong!"


Oh God. She sounded like exactly the amount of women who were required to make up her visage.
All of them doing either a sultry Monroe voice, purring, or whispering throatily.

You took another step back.

"S̵̢ơó̢o̸ ̀ló̷͘o̢͞͡on̛g̴̕ ̕s̕i̡͠͞n̕c̴̕e ͘I̴'ve ̷hà̸͠d͠ a ̷̴v̨͟i̸̛e͝w̧͠er̴͟!͞"


The voice was getting worse, and her facial expressions wilder.
You took yet another step back.

The TV took one forward.


It took every ounce of your self-control to not scream like a little girl.

The TV jiggled, it's fattened form jostling to and fro.
There was another, loud, static crackle, however, this time, the sound of a long, drawn-out belch could clearly be heard.
You were suddenly hit with a foul-smelling cloud - the ever-present stink of ozone, burnt plastic and dust mingling with the smell of all sorts of food, all in the process of digestion.

You don't exactly known what a normal family dinner from the '50s smelt like, especially during digestion, but, if you'd have to guess, it was something like this.

The picture on the TV froze again, this time, akin to a stuck film reel, and you briefly saw the woman's open mouth blacked and expand - similar to how film would darken and melt in the scorching light of a projector.

With small buzz, the image returned to normal.

"Ś͢o̵̶͝͡o̶̸̸̢o̧̨̕͟ ̧̨̨͘͠ļ̸̶͘͢o̵̢̡͞͡n̶̷g͢ ̶̧͢s͘̕͠i̴̶̕n̵̷͝c̀́è̷͟͡ ͘I̴͜͡'̵̷͞v̛͜͝e̷̴͞ ̢͡f̶̷̡͡é̢͝͡l̸͢͡͝͞t̨̀͠͝͡ ̨͜t̨͡h̴̀͟͡͠e̴͡ ͜͢͝e͘͜͠y͞è͘̕͜͜ś̛̛ ̛͠o̴̷̢̕͢f̢͘ ͘͢a̸̢͠͠ ̷͢m̶̴̨̧͝ó͞r͠͞t́͢͜à͜l̨̨̕̕͘ ̵̡̀͢c̸̨͡a̴̡r̴̴̨̧͢e̢̨͡ś̢s̛͢͠͞ ̶̸̧͘m̷͞͠e̷̷!̶͠"

She tilted her head back, huskily moaning each word with the all the harmony of Babylon. Then, she noticed you staring at her, wide eyed. Her own eyes dilated, as she realized what she just said.

"O͢h. Díd ̢I̛ sa͘ỳ ̷"m̶oŗtal̶"?" she blinked, a bit startled. But soon, her sultry smile returned.

"I̷͞͞ m̴ȩ͘a̢̡̕n̨t̴̢̛ "̨̨͘m̶͠a̵͝n̴̛."

Nodding in mock agreement, you continued to reverse.
And the TV continued to advance, jiggling with each step.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

You heard the sound before you noticed the liquid itself.
A white, viscous fluid dripping from a tiny port at the low center of the dial panel.
It almost looked like...

Oh no.

You swallowed hard, mouth suddenly dry.


"Dờ̴n̶̴̡'̕t̴̢́ ͢͝le̴a͘v͝e̵ ̡m̀e̴͝͝ ̡w̶̛a̶̛n̛t͘͞i̸̢n͟͞'̶,̵͘ ͢d͝͡͝a͠r̕ĺ̨́ín͢.́'̵" she said, in a sing-song voice, which then turned into a salacious, breathy moan...

"D͢o̸n̨͡'t̴̷ ̴̀l̸̛͜ea̧͠v͜e͜ ̴̷̨ḿe ́͝͡S̢Ţ͡A͞Ŕ̸V̛I͠N͘͝'̸͠."


Starving?

Oh.
Oooooh.

Right!

...


Wait, that's only marginally better!

Or marginally worse?

Ah, get your mind out of the gutter, man!


You were just about ready to nope the fuck outta there, when the woman in the TV decided to speak up again.

"G̷͠i̶v̸̕e ̛̀m̧̀e̶ ͝͝y̨͘ơ̧͜u̸̵r ̸e̷y̶̵͢es͞.̨ ̛I͞'̛͝m̡͜ ̢͘h͢ung͡ŗ̴͜y ̛f͠ò͠͝r͜ att̵́͜e͡n̴t͜iò̸n͞.͡͝..̸"

Oh?

"Be͜s̕i̶d̛́ę̢͢ś̕.̷̀.͡."

Her eyes looked past you, slightly to the left... And, for the first time, you saw her smile turn sinister. Contours boldening, the image turned truly black and white again, smirk stretching into a jagged, wide smile.

"V̀i̡ę̡wer̕ş͜hip̴̶ ͢h̡̧a͜s̶̶ ̢s̛ų̷c͜͝h̶ a͜ ḩi̕g̸h͞ t̀ųr̸̀̕n̡ó̵̧v̛er̸ ̴̀͝r͟͞a̸t͜è ̛͡t̷̸h̛e͘͘s̵̛ȩ̶ ̶̧d͘a͞ys̢..͢.͢"

You follow her gaze.


The illusion was dispelled the moment you noticed the skeletons.

It suddenly dawned upon you that you're standing in a run-down living room, the furniture of which hadn't been updated since the late '50s - all worn down and broken.
The floor carpet was matted, thorn and filled with spots and splatterings of unknown origin... The curtains were thorn, barely hanging onto the skewed rack, and the windows were covered with dirty newspaper pages, glued onto the glass by what looked like - you had to gag a little - excrement.
The ceiling light was just a dirty, bare bulb, which appeared melted, or rather, bloated, hanging low like the business end of a flail.

But what caught your attention - and liberated you from whatever trance was put upon you - were the skeletons.

Four, to be exact, two adults and two children - a literal nuclear family, by the look of things.

They rested (eternally) in and around the couch, heads tilted back, jaws opened - screaming, laughing, maybe snoring?

One of them was lying on the floor, hands underneath the skull.

They must've had their head propped up by their arms, watching the TV, you surmised. The other small skeleton was situated between the two bigger ones.

But then, you noticed something odd, well, odder than the bare-bone cadavers before you.

All of the seemed to be situated... Relatively far away from each other. More distant than what the members of a loving, archetypal family would look like.
The three that sat on the couch had HUGE creases surrounding them, as if something put enormous dents on the couch, and they sat in those, like they were pre-marked seats.
Looking down, you saw the distinctive double-circle creases.
Butt prints.
Enormous ones.

And, by the looks of things, they could've only been made by one people - the very same who's earthly remains now resided in the flattened sofa.

Taking another glance at the one on the carpet, you noticed how... Flattened the material was, in a wide area surrounding the skeleton. What's more, said area was marked by some sort of black residue, and a quick glance confirmed that the same muck could be found underneath the others as well.

You shudder, as a dark thought passes through your head.

The splodges of black reminded you of the pictures and documentaries you saw, the ones about Hiroshima.
The blast shadows, the last remains of people caught in the immediate blast of the bomb, forever burned onto the walls and the ground - that's what these looked like, only...

These were enormous. The people who made them had to be morbidly obese, and in the case of the adults, you doubted that they were even mobile.

However, much like Hiroshima's blast shadows hinted at the direction where the blast had come from, these splodges, slightly offset from the flat spots on the couch and carpet, hinted at the origin of the force that created them.
Which promptly turned your attention back to the...

OH GOD!

Somehow, during the brief moments your mind processed the macabre scene surrounding you, the TV had drawn closer, and was practically upon you...
Sort of...

It only came up to your crotch, so...

However, the image it showed was far more compelling.

Once again, the contours of the picture were through the roof. The woman's head could hardly be differentiated from the white background without her hair - now black and messy, pointing in all directions, and undulating as if it was floating underwater.

Her soft facial features disappeared, leaving behind the same, terrifying visage of two blackened sockets - the shadows cast by her brows - with tiny, glowing points of white within them.
Her previous sinister smirk was replaced by hideous Glasgow smile, the jagged gap spreading from (invisible) ear to (likewise unseen) ear.

And that voice...

Dear Lord, that voice...!


I̷͕͉͍̥͓̤̻͇͔͖̳̪̞̺̺͔͔̔͐ͤ͋̊́͆ͩ̎ͣ͂ͬ̍̚͘͡ͅ'̴̶̞̘̯͎̆̔̎̍͛ͮ̓͋ͪͦ̏̓ͣ̓́̆́̚͢V̵͔̣̗͚͓̻͖̗̩̫ͩ͗ͧ͢͢e̸̜̗͓͓̙̪̪̣̫̬̮̪̦̦̠̿ͧ͋ͫ̉̍̏̈́ͧ͗̓̈ͧ̀͟͡ ̶̗̭̱̞͖̩̺̣̗͖͕͎̳̜́͐̑͗͒͒ͣ͊̔̀͞A̛̩̫̟͍͚̦̰̙̫̘̹̣͓̥̿ͧ͛̃ͯ͛ͦ̓͗̈́͒͐̓͊̄̏̚l͎̰̦̦͇̙̮̩͐ͯ̈́͌̔́ͮ͟͠͡W̷͚̞͔͓̽͛̾͐͑̊ͫ̈́ͬ̿͊̊̂̚͝â̛̱̙̜̥͔̣̗̙̖̥̓̽ͭ͢͡͡Y̴͇̦̼̏̀ͪ̊̏͐̓ͪ̍̈͛ͪ̓̃̿̈̇ͯ̆́ş͖̭̹͎̺̗̬͍̹ͯ̊̿̔̔̓̓̆͢͠ ̢͍̻̝̘͕̥̫͓͔̹̠̑ͨ̈́ͨͫͧͪͨ̇̐̔́͞Ḻ̵̝̰͙̳̘̪̳̀̿̓ͫ̓ͧͣ͜o̵̶̶̶͓̤̯̟͇̤ͣ́̍ͧ̿̾̊̄̓̇N̬̮͖̘̟̬̞̜̺̗͇̦̠̿̊̒̓̇̎̓̚͘͜͝͝g̸̵̨͖̼͖̜͔͙̾ͭ͗̑̉ͮ̇́͂̃ͫ̋ͫͮ͊ͤ́̚Ę̧̼̼̹̈͆ͪ̋͑d̸̶͍̫̩̹͙͔̻̝̯̙̝̞́̓̌ͧͪ̽ͫ̑ͩ͗ͫ́̀ ̶͚̱̫̯̮̥̱͕́ͤ̐̄͒́F̷̢̨̗̙͈̦͉̼̪̘̙͙̙̖͕̭͌ͬͭ̃ͩ̒͂ͩ̋ͩ̇͌̍͂̔ͤͦ̑̀ͅo̷̴͉̦̤̱̼̻̰̭͓̠̿ͭ̍̂̓̓̿̒̏̃͛̈́̚R̴̨̯͎̞̗̬̰̤̪̠̗͔̳̙̪̯͈̜̩̩͛͆̏͊̿ͩͩ̑̏͐̀ ̴̺͕̤̠̬͔͉̟̪̠̖̜̽ͦ̎ͬ́ͯ̾͌̍̉̇̃͗́ͤ̚͢͠͡a͔͔̝ͮ̇ͯͤ͌͋̑͞͝ ͕͈̖̰̣̘̫̩̾ͯ̇ͪ͜Ç͔̤̘̳̝̳͚̮̰̯͇͎̤͓̌́͗ͭ̍̽̓͗̈̌̒͗̉̓ͪ́͘ă̴̻̰̩͙̯͕̜̥̟͔͚̔̈͗ͫͪ̃͠P̹͙̦̂͌ͮͮͣ͛̆̐́ͧ̀̀t̸̷̢̥͉̭̮̘͓̬̩̣̼̺͍̦͚̘̾̑̊͌ͫ̎̃̔ͩͪ͌͛ͅͅI̳̝̯̪͙̯̯͉̠̜͓̰̙̜̘̜̽͒ͤͧͭ͂̎͛̓ͪ̓̆̽̚͢͠ͅv͈͕̤̝̠͍͎̤̪̣̞͕̠̠̹̫̱͐̑̃͐͋͗͛ͯ̌͑̉̌̃̉͆̚͝͡ͅḚ̬̯͕̑͑̍̀̍̄̉́͟͝ ̨̨͓̜̤̙̞̪̞̙̰͍̖̜̎ͧ̋̑̐͒͗̽ͤ̈̏ͅạ̢̱̜͕͈̹̠̫̻̩͆ͩ̏̾̿̆̋̓ͬ͆ͦͧ͢U̶̬̪̹͌̉̈́̚̕͢͡ͅd̴̻͚̼̝̟̺̬̣̤̫͖̙͎̳͈̗̯͗̒̍̋̂̑̄͆̀͘͝ͅḬ̡̨̱̼͚͓͛͋̑͆͊ͪ̆̄̏̐͂͒̽͢e̳͙̳̤͙̠̭̪̫̟̔͗̏̐͜N̢̯͇͓̄̉̈ͦ͛͟ͅc̴̯̼̭̺̥̦̟̠̘̖̻̯̟̫͕̦͖̩ͣ̉͂̍͋͘͢E̾͊̚!


"...FUCK THAT!"

Your screech, while instinctive and far from manly, causes her to pause, the effect then compounded by you firmly planting your shoe's sole on the screen, and kicking forward as hard as you can.

"G?U?HH!?" the TV blurted out, in a singular voice you're fairly certain you haven't heard before.
The sudden motion caused it to stumble backwards, fattened hide rippling - rolls jiggling, legfat jittering.

There's another, sudden and long crackle - undeniably sounding like a fart this time around - that's accompanied by a flash of light from behind the set, along with a loud pop, and a puff of smoke.
You see a pane of plastic - a backpanel, perhaps? - fly off from the back, accompanied by tiny pieces of electronics.

The TV stumbles, antennae flailing wildly, and, after a few moments of hanging in the air, stumbles onto the ground unceremoniously.
The face from the screen had disappeared into another bout of plastic, and, judging by the blow-out parts, it won't be coming back.

The screen shudders - rippling like skin -, and then suddenly...!

FLUBB!

It flops out forward, into a large, three-fold gut, with a cavernous divot in the center.

Another belch fills the air, whit just a smidgen of static this time around, followed by a nauseous moan, and a deep, bubbling gurgle.

As you continue to backpedal towards the door, you can hear a faint splutter from behind the telly. Drops of black liquid splatter out onto the wall and floor behind it, as it let's out another, now embarrassed, moan.

However, that little humiliation doesn't seem to faze it all to much, as its quickly getting back on it's feet, jiggling wildly with each small move.

Realizing you've wasted enough time basking in the results of your self-defense move, you follow up on your earlier desires, and hightail it out of the living room.

Dashing across the - now dilapidated - hallway, you find yourself in the kitchen. However, since by now, panic had well and truly set in, you keep running, glancing back over your shoulders to see if the idiot box had followed you, when--!

*BLUMP!*

You manage to slam into something big, cold, and off-white. Its soft and squishy, like jello, but the softness quickly gives way to a hard, flat inner structure, causing you to bounce back, and fall flat on your ass.

Looking up, you realize that you managed to run, practically face first, into the fridge.

Only...

Well, the damn thing is tall. Taller than the average refridgerator, for reasons that immediately become apparent as you look towards it's bottom.

The entire thing seems to be standing on what looks to be the top of two ENORMOUS thunder thighs. Smooth and spotless, the two bulbous spheres cause the rest of the cooler's abundant flesh to crease into several rolls, which shrink in size as they ascend along the sides.
Because yeah, the fridge is fat, too.
What's more, even from the front, you could see that added adipose has congealed into a truly MASSIVE ass, that forces icebox - a typical wallflower - to stand considerably further from peeling paint than it usually would.

Another thing you take note of is the door.
Fattened, like the rest of it, it stands out, the layer of metallic "flesh" (feels like gelatin wrapped perfectly in tinfoil) bulging forth from the front, and features creases far different from the rolls on the sides.
If anything, the door is, perhaps, the least overweight part of the machine, perhaps, because of it's manufactured thinness. The layer of flab that coats it is shallow, barely folding into three rolls around a crease on the lower middle.

As your eyes wander lower, they widen, once again, and you feel the blood drain from your head - its rushing somewhere else. You inhale sharply.

Hanging betwixt the heaping mounds is the milky white, bloated triangle of an upper pubic area, at the bottom of which hang a pair of plump, juicy, incredibly noticeable pair of pussy lips.
Swallowing saliva, you force yourself to look up, eyes wandering over the flab-coated "abs" of the fridge, before arriving at the top.

The freezer's door is even thinner than the main one - only forming two, shallow bumps at the bottom, which you quickly recognize as cheeks.
Mainly from the almost incandescent blushing.

Feeling rather hot under the collar yourself, you stand back up, still eyeing the fridge for any sign of hostility.

As it's blush never ceases, you find yourself curious again. And hungry,

Because of it's... Thighs, the handle has been elevated above your head. Still within arm's reach, but you're forced stand far closer to the machine than you usually do.
Now, normally, this wouldn't be a problem.
But here, you find yourself wedged between the...tights, if only for a brief moment.
Thankfully, the nether lips are lower than your crotch, but you can still feel the heat of it's blush grow stronger, the cheeks giving off a perceptible heat - much like how incandescent lamps do -, and you hear typical humm that fridges make as they power up.
Only this time, it's rather loud, and quick, causing the entire machine to shudder as your hand wraps around the handle.

You step back to open it.

And become very glad you did that.

From within the fridge, a large, red, plastic sack comes flopping forth, coming to a jiggling stop within an inch from your face.

Backing up, you take in the sigh of a bulging, smoothly sagging tri-fold belly, the kind so heavily affected by gravity that it could cover up it's owner's crotch - which it does, by the way -, topped off by a pair of monochrome torpedo tits the size of your head, that have yet to stop jittering.
You have to swallow again, as you reach forth.

The sacks yield to the touch, but the feeling is hard to describe. Its denser than jello gelatin, and has a notable weight to it. If anything, its more flexible than soft.

As you ran a finger across the surface of the tummy, it quivers, and soon enough, you have to take another step back, as the entire thing begins to wobble.

Slowly, but surely, the large "stomach" dislodges itself from the fridge, dropping down into an elongated pile of three fused, oblong shapes.

They kinda look like...

Weenies!
That's it! It's like those old, plastic-skinned wieners that you had to peel before you could cook them.
You always wondered why some manufacturers would individually wrap them...

You're roused from your pondering by a noise.
It's a high-pitched sound, vaguely resembling speech. The kind of speech Snoopy had in some of the Charlie Brown movies.

Giving the large meatsack a once-over, you notice that it's anthropomorphization had eluded your awareness.
As you were busy observing it's front, the back of it molded itself - or was it always like that - into a humanoid shape, with two bloated "thighs" and upper arms, and tiny, weiner-like protrusions extending from them, with the "thighs" being notably larger.
The tiny figurine also has (gained?) an enormous ass - relative to it's size -, and a head, where your preconceptions are confirmed: the being's head features the typical tie-off knot you find at the end of sausages.

While it has no mouth (or eyes. Or nose. Or ears), it can still quite clearly speak, albeit in a muffled, muttering sort of way.
It shakes it's tiny, nubby arms at you, as if asking for a hug, it's long, protruding stomach jiggling as it does so.

Giving a wry smile, you pet it on the head, the beanbag-sized fleshling cooing delightedly, it's tiny arms clasped together in delight.

The fridge itself, now void of a stomach, or rather, having void FOR a stomach, continues to blush, it's "breasts" still hanging in the breeze, but claiming no autonomy, regardless of how much you molest them.
A peek inside the now empty lower portion reveals that the fat folds had made their way into the confines of the storage space as well, albeit in a shallow fashion - the layer of adipose is thin, even when compared to that on the outside of the door, which, by the way, is perfectly flat on the inside - no bottle holders or shelves at all.
It truly is an old fridge.

Loud crackling, and the sound of a static-affected, sonorous burp causes you to whip your head around...!


You have to make a conscious effort not to laugh.


Running towards the kitchen on all, jiggling fours, the Telly has to tilt it's frame backwards to lessen the amount of belly slappage it gets, the movement causing the aforementioned organ to flop and flail all over the place, which is apparently upsetting to the living machine's innards, as it is accompanied by the sound of constant, fart-like static popping.

It skids to a halt in the kitchen doorway, nearly falling on it's bulbous screen, antennae pedaling in the air pathetically.
However, this little extra movement seems to work, as, with a great big stomp, the TV settles back down on it's hind legs, it's entire frame quivering, now coated with a thin sheet of machine-grease-like sweat.

"Y̧ou̧͘..̸͝.͢͟ " *̸Hu̷f͞f!* "Ć̡́a͢͝͡-̸̡̧C̡̛a͜n̵͢͞nò̧͜ţ͝.͢.̨̀͞.̶ " *H́nǹn!* "H̷̕į͡iid̀͜e̕͡ ̢fr̶̡om̢͞.̕.̸͠. ͘͜F̸ro̴̢m.̵̨.̸̴.̢̛͡" "*URRP!* "Fr̨̡o͢m̶ ̸͢͠m͘e̛͡!̶̧"

Well, clearly, you can't.
Giving another headpat to the little meatbag on the floor, you turn around, and began making your way towards the Telly, your wide steps increasing in speed.

Apparently confused, the TV did nothing, and continued to do so as you leisurely vaulted yourself over it, the antenna briefly brushing against your pants.

Feeling both smart and confident by this power move, you proceeded to jog up the stairs, as the TV's frustrated screech reached your ears...

...And the fact you've only gotten further from the only exit you know reached your consciousness.

"Fuck."


You find yourself on the second floor.
It's about as dilapidated as the first one was, but now, with more dust!

Trying to catch your breath, you wander into one of the rooms - it seems like both this, and the previous floor had four different rooms extending out from the hallway. You wonder if this trend continues on the third floor.

It appears the room you've entered was some sort of smoking room - if the standing ashtray is anything to go by.

The room was barren, save from a run-down commode, green floor carpet, the aforementioned ashtray, and an inconspicuous door on the far side of the room. In the middle stood a well-padded armchair,

Without giving it much thought, you plodded over to it, and, after giving it a good, hard stare (to see if it'll flinch underneath your gaze), you turned around, and allowed your body to collapse into it.

You were immediately blown away by how comfortable it felt. It was as soft as foam, yet with enough flexibility to prop up your back, allowing you to sink into it slightly, and wiggle yourself deeper, into a comfortable position.

It was really comfy.
Your eyelids began to feel heavy, as your body sank deeper into the mattress.

Finally, you were allowed a breather.
This night was turning into quite the wild ride! While you still weren't quite sure what perfectly logical and totally not supernatural explanation you could offer to the events that have transpired, you were certain that you'd find one by tomorrow.
But right now, you were feeling a bit tired.

You've arrived late in the afternoon, around 5 o'clock-ish, so just on the cusp of the evening. You've been up all day, since 8 o'clock in the mornffpfffHAHAHAHAA! Yeah, right.

No, no.

You woke up at 11 o'clock in the... Morning? You guess?

You wouldn't exactly call it that. Morning is the period that begins with dawn and ends with... Noon, maybe?

Your eyelids were growing heavier and heavier. Fidgeting around a bit, you got into a more upright position.

But then, the rest of the day after noon is split into three segments: afternoon (duh!), evening and night.
Shouldn't there be more in the first half as well? At least, one other segment?

You yawned. The chair felt super soft, and the puffy armrests held you forearms at juuust the right angle.

In other countries - well, in one other country you know of - there's a word for a period of time between morning and noon.
It's a pretty simple word, a compound word like afternoon is in both languages. Its on the tip of your tongue, but you just... Can't...

You yawn again, eyes closing. You... No longer feel like sitting in an upright position. As in, you literally no longer feel to be in that position. The tiredness is doing things to your sense of balance, you presume.

Forenoon! That's it, that's the word! Forenoon.
Now, if afternoon lasts from noon 'till sunset - around 6 o'clock-ish - what time does morning end and forenoon begin?
The ending time is pretty obvious.

Deeper and deeper. Further and further back. It feels like you're resting on a cloud.

Well, let's think about this.
The morning officially begins at sunrise - around 4 o'clock. You've never heard anyone say 3 in the morning before... But then again, neither have you heard anyone say 3 at night, either. People just say 3 a.m..
You suppose one could say 3 at dawn, as dawn follows closely after three o'clock.
So, morning starts at 4. How long does it last?

You are currently lying in the world's comfiest couch.
Yup, nothing wrong with that sentence.
You felt your head sink between the two mounds of the backrest, and a pleased moan rose from your closed lips. You are smiling.

So, from midnight 'till 2 o'clock it was still night, 3 o'clock marked the beginning of dawn, and the sun began emerging from behind the horizon around 4, where the morning officially began. Then what?
Hmmm...

A large, circular pillow propped up your back. It reached all the way down to your butt, where the two wide bumps of the seat took over, your legs closing as they slipped between them. Your hand slipped off the armrests.

From 4 'till 6, it was definitely morning. 7 o'clock, too, along with 8, but at that point, you're not so sure anymore.
You've heard people say "9 in the morning" before, hell even 10 and 11, but those were exceedingly rare.
9 it shall be, then!
From 9 a.m. 'till noon was forenoon! And from noon 'till 6 p.m. was afternoon. But then...
What about the evening?

You're feeling really drowsy, now. The wide, thickly stuffed armrests seem to be curving around your body. Hugging you close.
You sigh.
So comfy.

From 6 p.m. 'till midnight - all of six hours - you had to fit in two periods. When did night began?
You had figured out that it lasted until 3 a.m, but when did it began? When did the evening end?
It couldn't be at midnight! That's the middle of the night!

Soooo... Comfyyyy...

You've heard people say 10, and even 11 in the evening, but it was really rare - kind of similar to how people talked about hours in the morning, actually.
"9 in the evening" was frequent, however... And, it would mean that midnight truly occurred during the middle of the night, sooo...

Soooooo... *yawn* Comfyyyyyy...

Its settled, then!
The night lasts from 9 'till 3, dawn at 3, morning from 4 'till 9, forenoon from 9 'till 12, afternoon from 12 'till 6, evening from '6 till 9, and repeat.
In other words, your sleep cycle is shit!

As your thoughts grew increasingly incoherent, and you fell into a half-asleep state, you vaguely became aware of a few things. Things scraping the very peripheries of your comprehension in your current, sleep-deprivation-addled state of mind.

Like, how uneven the stuffing of the chair was. Or the faint funk of BO, that was, for some reason, not bothering you. Smelt almost, kind of, familiar.
The fact that the chair wasn't actually plush, but rather, a worn leather one, which had a natural warmth to it - and a buildup of moisture in it's creases.
Or the fact that, now that your hands were softly pinned besides your legs, as the armrests curved around your body, drawing you further into the increasingly hot embrace of the chair, you could clearly feel the dimples of cellulite on the seat...

So, you know, no biggie...

A shrill sound, loud and painful, woke you up from your stupor. Your mind still hazy, you tilt your head up.
You get an upside down view of the door on the other side of the room, as it slowly opens inward...

Whatever dreams may cloud your vision had now turned into a nightmares, as what emerges from the clearing darkness is nothing short of horrifying.

Another skeleton, standing upright, and filthy with the same black muck you've seen downstairs, stumbles forth from what you now believe is a walk-in closet. It's face flashes before your eyes - empty eye sockets and rictus mortis forever burned into your memory -, as it lands on the ground beneath you with a sickening crunch.

You inhale sharply, almost gagging, and suddenly find yourself jolted into an upright, sitting position.
From behind you, you can hear the sound of further clacking, crunching and splintering, as an indescribable fetor began to permeate the room.
The chair underneath you shuddered, it's bloated, saggy hide quivering and flinching with each awful noise - underneath your hands, you could feel goosebumps tightening the worn skin, now slick with terrified perspiration.

Ignoring the blatant stench of DEATH, you turn around, mind choosing knowledge over flight.

The sight shocks you... But then, that shock doesn't go away. It lays down, and simmers, giving way to a rising dread.

There's at least 20 skeletons in there - all in a pile, having fallen out from the tiny closet. They were packed in there like sardines, and, judging from the piles of black sludge from within, as well the smears that seem to reach up to the tiny room's ceiling, you can tell that these weren't exactly thin ones when they were alive, either.

There's a whining squeak of leather, which - unsurprisingly, at this point - sounds more like a fart. The foul, musty smell of old chips, beer, and matted pillow stuffing rises to your nose, distracting you from the all-encompassing miasma of decay.
You look down, and notice that your hands had been gripping the leather so hard that your nails - which you keep really short - managed to dig into the material.
The entire chair seems to be clenching, it's supple, old hide pulled taut.

You get up - eliciting another, fart-like squeak from the chair -, and make a beeline for the door, only to hear slightly different creak from behind.
You stop in the doorway, glancing back over your shoulder.

The far side of the room had turned into a blackened hole, the pile of skeletons slowly spreading further outwards. A black mold had began to spread from within the closet, and you can faintly make out the wafts of the miasma in the dying embers of sunlight that gleam through the window.

Before you, the chair quivers, as the cadavers inch closer, one clatter at a time.

Please, don't leave me here, don't leave me to rot, don't let thEM TOUCH ME!!!

That last thought shrieks into your head, and you actually need to shake your head to regain your bearings.
With a deep sigh, you step away from the doorway.

It took some time, dragging the armchair out from a room with a ruined floor carpet. There was no way in Hell you'd be pushing the damn thing, not with the skele-bois having the world's worst orgy behind it.

The door frame proves to be difficult, but, with a few fresh skidmarks, and a splintering crack, you manage to pull the fat thing through it.
You don't stop there, though. After closing the door behind you - the lock of which immediately breaks, jamming the door shut -, you continue to drag the heavy chair down the hallway, until, at last, you push it against the wall at the end of it. Strangely, the hall doesn't seem to have any windows, however, the two doors on either side open to the rooms with the large bay windows looking towards the front, so you presume they just kept them open all the time.
Or its just shitty floor-planning.

Giving the now calmed chair a reassuring pat, you step into the door on the left.
You find yourself in the house's mini library - the far wall is windowless, with long bookshelf placed in front of it, stretching from corner to corner.
Most of the books have been thrown off from it, had their pages thorn off, soaked in water, or scribbled over with what looked like charcoal. Opposite to the bookshelves, beside the door, was a desk, with a few, intact books on it.

A cursory read suggested that the last owner was quite... Committed to the Dark Arts, particularly demonology and summoning. A notebook reveals a near all-encompassing research regarding Beelzebub, with additional notes relating to Mammon, Moloch, and Lucifer himself.
Turning the pages, you notice how the neat, tilting, elegant handwriting degenerates into chicken scratches, before becoming near undecipherable by the end.
It mentions something about a ritual.
Another book serves as an atlas for the country's Indian burial grounds.
One of them is right underneath the house - the one where the local tribes buried their maniacs, gluttons, and cannibals.

Nice.


Exiting the library, you walk over to the other door, but then, you're suddenly struck with a sense of impeding doom.
You're not the only one, though, as the armchair beside it begins to shudder again.

Suddenly, the door handle begins to jiggle. You retract your arm as fast as you could. It feels like you've just stuck a fork in the socket. The chair clenches again, letting out another squeak.
By now, the entire door is shuddering - someone, someTHING is trying to tear it open. It repeatedly slams against it's frame, the sound echoing in the sudden, chilly quiet.

Then, just as suddenly as it began, it stops.

The silence is deafening.

From the corner of your eye, you watch the chair unclench it's pillows.
Without a second thought, you grab hold of it, and drag it into the library.

After positioning it to face the bay window, you give it one, last reassuring pat - the material purring underneath your hand as you swipe your hand across it -, and leave, staying well away from the other door across the hall.

No place to go but up.


As you walk towards the staircase, the sound of gurgling and water splashing reaches your ears. You look to the side.

The BAFF.

You knock on the door, politely.
Your only reply is the sound of someone violently retching, followed by a splash of water, and a nauseous gurgle and moan.
So, there are two voices.

Taking a deep breath, you ready yourself, and...!

Gently open the bathroom door to peek inside.

Wow, its really fucking dark in here.

Instinctively, your hand reaches out for the light switch... And you quickly find it,
You really shouldn't expect there to be any power left here, but there is.
The lights flicker on - fluorescent tubes, this time around.

The pale white light reveals... Quite the sight. (hey, that rhymed!)

The center of the room is occupied by the washing machine. Like many other household electronics (and furniture), this one seems to be suffering from the onset of obesity.
Though, it wasn't as severe as with the others - on it's backplate, two large, boxy vent extended backwards like a pair of buttocks, and the sides of the machine had a few rolls on the bottom.
Evidently, this wasn't the result of a better diet - it was constantly vomiting into a bloated-looking toilet, which is were the sick gurgles were coming from.

You just bared witness to one such expulsion - the drum revving up, only to blow out a mess of dishwasher-drainage-like fluid through it's open door (which seemed to be holding onto the sides of toilet's bowl), which was then swallowed up (with great difficulty) by the toilet.

It briefly turned towards you, demonstrating it's cartoonish flexibility, and revealing a worn front, with notable, sagging folds surrounding two large, eye-like dials.

You could only offer it a wry smile and a raised fist, as if to say "Persevere!", to which it nodded slightly.
Looking past the pair, you could see the sink and the bath tub at the back, Stitched-together curtains covered the window behind them.

The sink was odd. It's pipe extended high up, while it's handles were down low, and it was casually ejecting a brownish-yellow liquid into the tub.
It paused for a moment, the dirty mirror above the sink turning towards you for a brief moment, before it turned back, and resumed it's liquidation.

The tub itself was nearly filled to the brim, and occupied.
A skeleton, wearing flippers, diving goggles, and a snorkel, laid in the bath, with arms propped up on the side of the bath, jaw open, allowing the murky liquid of the sink to pass between it's teeth.

"Well, they died doing what they like." you surmise, before turning off the lamp and closing the door.

And now, yon staircase.


Arriving upstairs, you're met with something you've expected: the house wasn't finished, after all.
All of the internal walls of the third floor are missing. Wooden beams  prop up the  bare tiles of the roof. Glass fiber insulation carpets cover most of the bare concrete, albeit there's a path left in the middle, leading to the large, arched double doors, fenced by the "Amityville Horror" windows.
The place is barren, save for the a few, smaller pieces of junk, and the insulation - although the far side of the room appeared to have been stripped of it.

With nothing else to do (but ponder), you march your way across, eyes on the prize: the balcony!

It's really getting dark by now. The sun has already set, leaving behind a fading strip of orange, which bleeds into the red, purple, then blue of the evening sky.
You try the door - but, of course, its locked.
Well, its not like you could actually get out of here that way - unless you could fly... Or...

Aah, but you're not that desperate. Yet.

You suppose there's nothing left but to ruminate on the events that have transpired. No doubt the woman in the TV had set up a trap for you at the ground floor, meaning that escape would be risky at best...
Thankfully, by now, the wasps are asleep, so you wouldn't have any problem leaving through the front door. Its getting to that's the problem.

With a sigh, you turn around.

And your voice gets caught in your throat...


How did you not notice this?


The summoning circle was massive. It easily covered the emptied-out area in front of glass door. Rather than the usual pentagram or hexagram, this one resembled a seal.
A very specific seal.

"Baal" you muttered, reading out the four letters spread out around the edges.
Bending down to observe the nearest portion, you ran your finger across the black line.

It was soot. But you were it wasn't that originally.

Slowly, the pieces of the puzzle began to fall into place. Or so you thought.

As you deliberated your options, you noticed something from the corner of your eye.
Snapping your head to the side, you felt the color drain from your face.

There, along left-side wall, were a row of black shapes burnt onto the surface - the same "blast shadows" you saw in the living room.
They came in all shapes and sizes, and, as you managed to make out the individual parts of each, you came to the harrowing conclusion that their demise, though fast, was still torturous - what, with the amount of upturned head contours screaming towards the heavens.
Underneath the shadows, at the bottom of the wall was a larger, continuous lump of the same muck you've seen before.
Instinctively checking the other wall, you were relieved (and more than a bit bemused) to find only a single shadow scorched upon it, albeit, an incredibly fat one.

There were no remains or black sludge to be found, but, judging from the shape of the shadow, it's originator had to have been a woman of truly massive proportions - with thunder thighs that would make the fridge downstairs green with envy, fatty rolls on either side, giant hambones for arms, and beanbag-sized breasts that you suspect could've challenged Norma Stitz's Guinness record.

While there was something darkly humorous about seeing such a large permanent shadow (kind of like seeing the clear spots on the wall, where a fire-breathing dragon's last victims stood), you found yourself hung up on a single detail, that left you worried:
The woman's head, or rather, her air, in particular.
It was the same, windswept, underwater-current-blown mane that you've seen on the woman from the Telly.

However, as the room got darker with the passage of time, you came to your senses, and began taking billy big steps towards the stairs.

This was no longer a matter of empirical deduction versus superstition.

You had a ghost to catch.


While you have always been warned not to run down (or up) the stairs, you couldn't help yourself. Arriving to the last corner, you jumped over the final flight, nailing a three-point landing, for the first time in your life.

It hurt, but not as bad as you were worried about it.

"DEMON!" you called out "SHOW YOURSELF!"

You were surprised by the echo.

But before long, you could hear the distinctive, arrhythmic thuds, accompanied by drawn out crackles of static, and the occasional, feedback-afflicted belch.
The TV set plodded forth from the living room - walking unsteadily on all fours, it's thunder thighs jittering with each step. It's frame wobbled, having lost much of the fake wood plastered onto it, revealing the dimpled, flabby plastic underneath.
It moved awkwardly, having to tilt it's body backwards slightly, so as to avoid having it's bulbous, multi-roll belly of a screen slap against it's legs.

It skidded to a stop in front of you, another static-y blast from behind it filling the air with the smell of ass and ozone.
Antennae flailed about, still whipping back and forth from the inertia.

"Finally̵, ̶m̵y be̢l̨ơv͝e̴d̛ ̶v̡i̕e̷we̴r ͝re͝tu͢r͞ns͡!̷" it croaked, speaking in a thousand voices (all female).
The machine seemed to quiver, and you watched, with slight wonderment, as it's screen-stomach began to bounce up and down, entering a jiggling frenzy, that only seemed to further upset it, judging from the constant belches and farts.

You suddenly realize what it's trying to do - and you can barely contain your laughter.
The poor thing was trying to suck it's belly in, so that the picture may appear without any distortions.

But, after a particularly wet-sounding static pop, it gave up, and decided to display it's face in all of it's bulbous glory - once again, the distortion was far lesser than what you've expect from screen that melted into a tummy.

"T͝iréd o̶f͠ ̧pla̶yin͜g ͞c͠oy?̢"

The face, while still in it's intimidating, black-and-white, glowing-eyed and Glasgow-grinned form, was hard to take seriously.
The bloated screen displayed it, surprisingly, but not unfittingly, not from a triple-fish-eye-view (which the three rolls of the glass would've been expected to produce), but rather, normally, albeit with a not inconsiderable amount of extra weight.

While it's creepy smile and faux-sultry voice was less effective with hamster-like cheeks and jowls, you nevertheless remained steadfast, and serious.

"Demon! Enough of these games!" you snapped "Show your true self!"

For a brief moment, you could've sworn you saw the woman's face light up with delight.
The next second, the face disappeared.

With a loud whine, the Telly's sagging rolls jittered, then slowly receded.
But it wasn't because it was slimming down, oh no, you were quick to observe the contrary.
Rather than being beset by grease and dust gathering folds, the machine had literally began to blow up, bloating in all directions.

It's frame went from flabby, through plush, to taut, legs going from hambones to cylinders.

The sagging, flickering glass of the screen began to lift up, and fill, like a balloon.

You were honestly expecting the damn thing to just start floating, but in the very next second, a hand print emerged from the static, pushing against the screen.

"This is some Videodrome-tier shit." you thought to yourself, as the hand was joined by another, both pushing the screen further and further out, akin to the surface of, well, a balloon.

Soon, the shape of a head and torso began to emerge from the glass - clearly feminine, as the two hanging, pendulous breasts caused it no small amount of trouble getting through the edges of the screen.

However, with the first obstacle overtaken, she whipped her head up to stare you in the eye.

Her Glasgow smile was replaced by a Jack-o-Lantern's jagged grin, which lasted all of two seconds, before she realized that she was stuck again - halted by her stomach and hips, this time around.

The glass woman's cheeks puffed up with frustration, before she took a deep breath - or, at least, pretended to do so -, and began to grimace, her body visibly tensing up.

Before you could ask just what the hell she was doing, you heard a loud gurgle emanating from the Telly's speakers.
Then, it all happened at once - the TV's frame rounded out, the sound of an almighty fart began blasting out of it's speakers, and sparks began flying from it's back.
Then, with a mighty BANG! it was all over.

You ducked, instinctively, but there was no need.
Lowering your arms, you saw the shards of glass fall down around, all missing, while further before you, the burnt-out, busted-up set laid on it's back, it's legs broken and it's insides still burning slightly, electric crackle soon falling silent.


You looked up, eyes dilating at the sight in front of you.


Floating above the mess of black sludge, wood scrap and corroded electronics was a pale figure - a woman with black hair, wearing nothing, but a featureless, simple white dress - the form-hugging nature of the attire told you as much.

She was enormous.
The fridge downstairs was the best comparison that came to your mind.
A wide-set body, pushing even wider, child-bearing hips, that clearly led into a pair of flabby Thunder Thighs... Well, upper thighs, at least, what with her being a ghost an' all.
Even from this angle, you could see the majestic swell of her ass - the enormous hills protruded behind her like a pair of prized pumpkins.
Counterbalancing them were the biggest pair of tits you've ever seen. In person, at least. Not as big as Ms. Stitz, or the blast shadow in the attic.
They were pert and perky, yet still pulled down by gravity, nips poking through the fabric.
In her middle, a pendulous, tri-fold stomach bulged forwards, providing a folding shelf for her chest.
Her chunky arms, tipped with plump hands and sausage-like fingers (claw-like nails apparently fused with her blanche skin) floated idly beside her, the ripped arms of the dress not even reaching her elbows.
This was all topped off by a plump, almost cherubic face - round shape, puffy cheeks, plump lips, tiny nose, deep-set, white eyes (with huge eyelashes), and a mess of black hair that seemed to be both hanging down and floating in the air around her, fencing her face.

Your typical ghost girl, XXXL size.

"What is it that you desire, spirit?" you ask, getting straight to business.

"Ooooooh..." she coos, her voice akin to a long moan "Forward, are we? Knew ya'd like ma gurls..."
And she began to jiggle her money makers with her hands, the mounds quivering and flopping about - nipples hardening considerably.

You swallowed hard, but remained steadfast and strong.
Bemused, he turned around, eliciting a gasp from you - her ass was truly GINORMOUS! Giving it slap, she winked at you over her padded shoulders, her ass jittering wildly.

"Guess ya like ma humps betta', doncha, sweetie?"

Regaining your bearings, your face remained stoic, albeit with a noticeable dew of sweat on your brow.

She smirked, knowingly, before a gurgle made her face freeze. Slowly, her arms slipped away from her hips and ass, underneath her stomach. Idly floating, she turned around, face scrunched up in pain, as she groaned alongside her stomach.

"Ooooooooooooohhh...!"

Her stomach kept gurgling, before visibly cutting into jig - whatever was causing it to bubble had made it boil, as it swelled up, slightly.
She kept moaning and mewling, before suddenly, with a gasp, she threw her head back, leaning forward, legs spreading.
A loud, brassy fart erupted from her quaking behind, causing her dress to rise up and ripple in the foul wind. A dark. brownish-greenish miasma began to fill the room, and you had to cover your nose - it reeked of death and burnt ass.
Her head, though facing forward, soon tilted further back, eyes rolling (as far as you could tell - she had no pupils), and tongue (surprisingly red, and slightly longer than normal, almost cartoonish in a way) lolled out.
A truly western take on the Ahegao.
With her skin now wet from sweat (though, no spots appeared on her dress), and warbling stomach sinking back to its original (gargantuan) size, the fart began to die down, and the swampy mist that filled the room quickly dissipated.

Finally, the back of her dress fluttered down, as she gave a deep sigh, a goofy smile spread on her face, before she squinted slightly, pushing out a small toot, which rippled her dress once more.

"Haaaahhh... That was good one." she said softly, her voice more cute than sultry, as she idly rubbed her stomach.

Turning her head towards you again, her eyes widened - apparently, she had completely forgotten about you in her outburst.
They exchanged stares - your calm, her mortified -, before she looked away with a luminescent blush, hair casting a shadow over her eyes. She muttered something of an apology, twiddling her thumbs, her arms squishing her breasts together...

You gave your own sigh - which you immediately regretted. The air was still rank from her gas.
After you finished coughing, you stepped forward, catching her attention.

"What brought you here?" you ask "Why did you choose to haunt this place, spirit?"

She gave you a sideways glance.

"Trying to be romantic, ey?" she murmured. You realized just how husky her voice sounded. Then again, it seemed to change every time she opened her mouth.

"Alright, I'll tell you..."


"We came here a loooong time ago..." she began "Not too long, though. Roanoke was, but a distant memory, a ghost story told around the campfire. Fitting, though, as we were making way into injun territory. I had a burly young hubby, no children, a negro handyman that my husband's father raised as his second son during his travels around Africa, and turned into a proper Englishman, and his wife, who was a boyhood sweetheart of his, from the same tribe.
We were making good time - there was an advanced garrison, only fifty miles ahead. One night, we decided to celebrate our peaceful journey. Bit of a mistake in hindsight.
Me and Jones - 'twas the negro's name - decided to see how much we could drink in one sitting. Poor devil was never allowed to drink, and preferred tea to grog, anyway, but that night, well, he decided to show me what he got.
Fell asleep in his sitting after only four swigs, an' I decided that it was time for a guard change - so I stumbled my way towards Jones' tent, to ask his wife to take my place.
I peaked in... Only to find my whoreson of man rutting the needy wench."

You gave her a sympathetic look, but she just stared into the air, largely disinterested.

"Took my bottle from the fire, and, taking swigs every fifth step, walked right outta that camp. I wondered across the cold desert, tryin'a cool my head, with only my drink keeping me warm. So warm, in fact, that I began to throw it off. By the time I arrived at the camp, I was down to my birthday suit, 'cept for the shoes."

She chuckled here.

"Sure gave those injuns a fright."

You looked at her quizzically, and she continued:

"In my drunken stupor, I managed to make my way into the camp of a nearby tribe. 'Twas no camp I've ever seen before, no injun camp, anyway. They had no tents, just these simple mud and straw huts, long benches and tables made of wood, a large, stone fireplace in the center. In the distance, I even saw some fields that looked freshly plowed..."

"Wait!" you interjected "Plowed? But the natives were hunter-gatherer nomads, weren't they?"

"Most were..." she agreed "But, as you may have sussed already, this was no ordinary tribe."

She then went on...

"So I stood there, having recently dropped my bottle, staring at the redskins, naked as the day I was born, but with boots, my hair a mess, filled with leaves 'n' twigs 'n' cactus spikes from the few times I fell over, with a big flower stuck to to my head.
Soon, they were shoutin' an' a murmurin' among themselves, and a couple of muscly, warrior-looking fellas led me to their chief.
Now this lug, he was the biggest, fattest injun I have ever seen, with a big sack of a stomach, big arms taut with muscles, and big hands the size of my head. He was tall too, as big as a boulder, and had big, hawk-beak nose. Like the rest of the tribe, he wore nothin' but a loincloth and leather sandals, but he also had big, feathery hat and face paint that the others couldn't even dream of.
He had his arms crossed, as if he was in a huff, and gave me this stern stare as he looked me all over. Didn't want to deal with a grouch, so I stepped up to him, and planted a big, fat kiss on his lips. Did tongue too. All the others gasped around us, some womenfolk squawking something in their tongue. As I withdrew, he looked flabbergasted, so much so that I had to laugh.
He then gave me the widest, and most whitest smile I've ever seen on a man, and said something to the tribe with his everdeep, bear-like voice."

She gave a happy sigh, before her mouth formed a cheeky grin.

"Next couple of months were the best of my life. I spent the days lazing in the camp, or helping out some of the women, who would stumble over their feet just so they could enjoy my presence, took care of their children, who all looked at me in awe, and then spent the night with whichever injun man I wanted. I couldn't make heads or tails of their language, but with a smile, they were all mine."


Her expression shifted, darkening significantly.

"Half 'a year into this, it all changed. One night, they put together this huge feast - all sorts of meat, vegetables and nuts. Everyone in the tribe was there, and I was at the center of the table, opposite to the chief. Next to him was this scrawny, wrinkly old geezer, whom I sussed to be the tribe's shaman or witchdoctor or whatnot. He and the chief kept smiling at me, and they would whisper something to each other.
However, I barely noticed that. I was too busy stuffing my face. Every bite only seemed to make me hungrier, and even as my belly rounded out into a ball, and came to rest in my lap, I just kept eating.
Finally, my arms grew tired, my jaw was sore, and I was bloated beyond belief - my belly propped up by tits and head, as I sat there, trying not to pop. Then, I farted - I couldn't help myself! They kept putting more and more food on my plate, and it was always meat, baked beans, corn, and some type of cheese they made, and I had to wash it down with the thickest milk I've ever had. So, I sat there in the end, my front covered in foot stains, groaning and gasping for air, when my derriere decided to put a brass band to shame. It came out really wet, too!
Everyone laughed, and the chief just smirked, and clapped. Four of their strongest men picked me up, and dragged me away from the desk..."

She sniffed, and continued:

"I was put a throne of some sort, carved out of wood, my seat softened with moss. It had a large hole toward my rear. So every time I farted, or... Worse, it came out freely at the back. I later learned that they were using my... Droppings as fertilizer, and my pee to water their plants..."

She shuddered, delicately, though, you couldn't discern whether it was from discomfort or arousal.

"The following months were the worst of my life." she went on "They kept me stuffed to gills with the fattest meals they could produce - never in my life had I've seen so much meat! I was being stuffed like a goose, and fattened like a pig. Thank the Lord they let me off that seat every once in a while, so I wouldn't get a rash. As winter approached, I was being stuffed silly practically every day. They eventually took me out of the throne, had hand me laid out on a stone slab of sorts, with a wedge cut into it, so I had to spread my legs so they wouldn't fall off!"

She started speaking quicker and quicker, working herself up into a frenzy, which caused her hair to flail and dress to flutter in an unseen wind - and her body to jiggle uncontrollably. You gave her a pitying look, but she was too lost in her memories now.

"That was the worst!" she exclaimed, once again, her voice having an indeterminable edge between pain and pleasure "With my legs spread like a hussy, all the injun men could walk up to me and have their way with me, whenever they felt like it! They were never rough, thank Lord, but what difference does that make?! And I was fed. Constantly! When it wasn't meat, it was maize or some sort of horribly sweet carrot!"

"Sugar beet." you thought.

"Mothers would feed their babies with one breast, and me with other! Or they would just drag a Bison cow above me, and had me drinking directly from its udders!
Finally, as winter rolled around, they lifted me off the slab (somehow), gave me a wash in the nearby creek, and then left me in the Chief's tent. There, the redskin showed me his "prized secret": the bottle of grog I dropped, months ago, outside the camp. He knew that I wasn't a goddess. If they found out they've been fattening a white devil, they'd kill me on the spot. And him as well, he "told" me as such, pointing outside at his men, then dragging a finger across his neck, and then pointing at me, then at himself. This was "our" secret."


"Loincloths, mudhuts... This doesn't make sense..." you murmured "All of these are more in common with the African or South American tribes, not the North American natives."

"I suppose." she mused, calming down briefly "They didn't even have a totem pole."
"Not all of them had one." you murmured.
"Instead, they had this weird wooden block with womanlike figure on it - it was all fat, wide hips, big behind, huge belly and breasts... And it had no face!"

"Sounds like the 'Venus' statues of the stone-age tribes." you mused "What happened afterwards?"
She sighed.

"I spent the winter being fed, fucked, and rolled 'round in the tent by chief."

"Rolled around?"

"Yeah, helped me get rid of some gas. But when I had to go, he just rolled me to his doorway, with my ass out in the freezing cold, and had me defecate into these clay basked and buckets they had. Dunno what they were using them for, but the camp stank to high Hell every night..."

She pondered for a moment.

"I think they may have been burning it."

"To ward of predators, possibly." you guessed "So, come spring?"

"Come spring, I was rolled out of the redskin's den." she muttered "I was as big as the chief was tall, and couldn't stand up anymore. I guess he even knocked me up, because, by then, my breasts were leaking milk everywhere. Or, it could've been the stuff the shaman or wizard or whatever kept feeding me, cause I wasn't sick every morning. With the spring melt, their fields had thawed out, and I was needed to fertilize them. So they began stuffing me again, and once the last of the frost was gone, began to force milk and honey down my throat. I tell you, it felt nothing like the Promised Land! In fact, it felt like a sweet Hell! I've had the trots, non-stop, and they would put me into some sort of litter, but with no walls or roof, just a seat tilted back. Musta' shat over a thousand acres that spring..."

"Fascinating..." you said, bemused "But how did you... Die?"


She gave you a knowing smile.

"Wanna get to the fun part, huh?" she snickered, before breaking into a hearty, dark chuckle upon your flustered spluttering. With a deep sigh, she continued.

"One day, there was a big commotion. Wasn't sure what was going on, but I was dragged to one of the larger huts I knew they used to store food.
"Oh God." I thought "They're going to feed me more."
And wouldn't ya know it? That's exactly what happened! I think they may have put away too much meat for the winter, and were now afraid that it'll spoil on them. Heck, by the smell of the lot, part of it had already began! So - upon the chief's advice, I reckon - they decided to feed me with the still-edible-but-not-quite-fresh-anymore bits, while they buried the rotting ones. 'Twas the worst meal of my life, and it just went on and on and ON! Finally, after what felt like forever, it was gone.
But then came trouble! All that raw - and the salty old cheese they kept feeding me beside it, probably to break up the monotony, or whatever -, had plugged me up good. I felt sick, could barely breathe, and couldn't produce any... Fertilizer. Hell, I pissed myself trying to push out anything, but I couldn't even toot my horn anymore.
So, the chief and the shaman got into a row, and then, the old geezer walked off into his hut, chanting and tinkering with clay pots and whatnot. It was midday by the time he came out, waddling towards us at the center of the camp.
I had been laid onto my stomach, which obviously, wasn't helping my condition, and, for the first time, I was tied down by my hands and ankles - not that I could move, anyway. So I saw the shaman waddle up to us, his legs spread like he had saddle rash. And then he just walked up behind me. I heard some whet slopping sound, the kind you hear when you smear cream onto something.
And next thing I knew, the old fart shoves his bullcock up my ass!"


You gave her a stare.

"It's true!" she insisted, fists clenched and arms folded by her sides, her entire body jiggling as she shook them "Mad injun wizard made some devilish potion to turn his withered pecker into a bullcock! And then he shoved it up my ass, up to the hilt! While we were in public! All I could do is bury my face in my own fat boobs - which were still leaking, by the way, they even had little wooden cups underneath them to collect the milk -, as he had his way with me!"

Once again, you couldn't decide if she regarded the memory with painful sorrow or wistful arousal.

"He kept rocking me back and forth, stirring up my insides, until finally, he came, filling me up to the brim. I felt something inside me stir and break. The plug was gone, and the only thing holding back the flood was my sore asshole. They musta noticed how I was quivering, so they quickly rolled me back onto my throne... And then spent the rest of the day digging a trench so that everything they stuffed inside of me wouldn't overflow the camp and create a lake of shi--"

"Yeah, I get the point!" you snapped. You've heard enough for a lifetime "Your death, s'il vou plait..."

"Right... So, that night, they decided to hold YET ANOTHER feast, possibly, to celebrate their first ever sewage canal. Of course, I was the guest of honor, as usual. Fortunately, the chief decided to have mercy on my soul, and told them not to bring me any meat. Unfortunately, they decided to feed me nothing, but baked beans instead. By the end of the night, I was nothing more, but a slobby, greasy, sweat-covered hog, passing gas every second. But through the stink, I smelled something I never did before. Something... Delicious.
They had a huge fire roaring in the center, right in front of me - which was exactly why I was sweating like a pig. Above that fire, on a spitroast, was the carcass of a bird I've never seen before. It was like a hen, but larger, more meatier. And I wanted it. Badly."

"Mustering all my strength - and blowing enough gas that would've launched me into the Heavens, had I still weighed as much as I did when I shoved up at that accursed camp -, began to lean forward, eyes on the prize. Because of that, I didn't... Quite realize just how far the damn thing actually was."

She shrugged.

"Long story short, I fell into the fire pit."

"You burned alive?!" you exclaimed, horrified.

"What? Nooo..." she muttered, sounding rather annoyed "Suppose it would've been better that way. No, instead, all the fat and sweat I was covered with had crushed the pyre in front of me. Still hurt like Hell, especially when a piece of still burning log dropped between my legs, lit end towards my anus. However, my little spill had further upset my long-suffering stomach, and, being distracted by the burning pain I felt all over my front, I decided to just let it out."

Her eyes widened, as he reminisced.

"For a moment, I felt the flame reach down into my ass, down to my very core.
"Uh oh." I thought, and then..."

"...Explosion?"


She was silent for some time.

"When I woke up, it was all gone. Pyre, turkey, injun camp, everything. Only wrecks and the dead remained. Everything was coated in black, greasy slurry that smelled like burnt shit and fat. Some had drowned in it, others were boiled in it."

She paused, and, for the first time, you could hear genuine horror and regret in her voice.

"They were all dead."

You kept respectfully silent, allowing her to ruminate. Finally, she continued:

"It was all hazy for some time. Other injun tribes came, found the wooden statue in the muck - the only damn thing that remained of the tribe. MY tribe! Declared the place a blighted land, and had the statue burned."

She paused again.

"Strangely, I felt... Liberated, when that damn thing was chopped up into firewood. As if part of my soul had been released."

Thinking for a moment, she continued:

"From then on, the only time I saw other humans was when the injun came to bury their most despised in the land. Among them was a mad shaman who claimed to be a descendant of the Thunderbird, or whatever. He spotted me, and claimed to see the spirit of a white devil. He begged the warriors not to kill him..."

"Wait... You understood them?"

"Yes, and for the first time in a long while, I realized that I... I existed! I wasn't just a fleeting glance haunting the land, I was a person! Or, at least, the soul of one."

"Try spirit." you said, cheekily, and she gave you an annoyed smile.

"The other tribesmen didn't see me." she went on "But they did smell "a waft of foul air". Anyways, they did the deed, and left, leaving the old shaman to slowly die, begging for his life.
I'm not... Good at consoling people, and, after what happened, I didn't felt like being charitable towards a redskin, but... The poor old man was just so desperate, I felt pity for him. So, being a... Spirit and all, I did my best to prepare him for the afterlife... Which may or may not have involved me giving him head."

"Oh, God damn it." it was your turn to frown.

"Anyways, once he was dead, and his soul began to ascend, he thanked me, and blessed me with the power of his great ancestor."

"The Thunderbird?"

"The Thunderbird, yeah." she nodded "After that, time flied. The injuns were chased off from the land, which was then brought by a railroad baron. He built the tracks just by the old campsite - which at this point, had shed the "blight", and had begun to bloom again -, and then built a branchline towards a nearby saltpeter mine. They built a signal box next to the switch, which had a latrine - dug right atop the old fireplace where I died!"

"That musta been... Undignifying." you mused. She was fuming! Cheeks puffed up, hands clenched, arms (and torso) quivering to and fro.

"You betcha it was!" she hissed. She was well and truly on it, now.

"That drunkard of a signalman had a wife, a real prissy, would-be blue-blood tramp. Now, I was no noblewoman, but I've never had to compensate THIS much in my life to make up for the "deficit". As purty as she was, she was driving both me, and that poor sod up the wall with all her whining. So, I decided to pay her out."

"...How?" you asked. You were starting to get worried.

"As it turned out..." she explained "The mad shaman DID gave me his ancestor's powers. Sort of. With it, I could put a hex on the signalman's newfangled telegraph. After a bit of mucking about, I began to redirect a few freight trains, here and there. Soon enough, I had arranged for a single extra car to be added to every mine train that would have to pass through the junction - all making a regular delivery of fancy foodstuffs for the missus."

She snickered darkly, as you grew more and more uncomfortable.

"Soon enough, she wasn't whining anymore, too busy stuffing her face to get rid of her boredom. Hell, I even possessed her a couple of times, so I could have my fill, for old times' sake."

She tried to coax out a sympathetic look from you. It wasn't working, so, with a bemused face, she continued.

"'Course, all those fancy meals had an effect on the harlot, and the equipment, oddly enough. The telegraph, the signal, and even the furniture in the signal box began to sort of... Plump up. You know, you've seen th' sort!"

Indeed you did. All over the place.

"'Course, the signalman swore of alcohol when it became obvious that something was up - namely, when he began to struggle to switch tracks, because the semaphore had grown so fat that it single-handedly managed to hold down the entire system."

"How? That isn't how a semaphore works!" you exclaimed.

"Bugger if I know." she shrugged "All I know is that the drunkard did nothing in the end. His wife, on the other hand, heheh... Wheeewie, quite the show!"

You were anxious to hear where this would go... And not in a good way.

"All them meats and sweets and cheese did a number on her stomach - her poor patootie kept trumpeting on, day in, day out. One day she would be practically sewn to the latrine, blasting out gunk the same speed she shoveled in the tarts the other end - she even soiled herself a couple o' times, right in her favorite dress, which was getting smaller and smaller on her as the days passed - not to mention more and more stained.
On other days, she would come back, time and time again, trying to push out a solid rock of a turd. It was one of these days that finally did her in."

"Oh?"

"Yep. Fat cow stuffed her face with moldy cheese the day prior, and spend the night drinking ale and scarfing down cakes. Naturally, by the morning, she was just about ready to go - and so she went, to the outhouse, and stayed there for the day. Nothing would pass through her, and the jiggling lump of lard passed out from exhaustion."

"If she hadn't gotten a stroke first." you thought to yourself.

"So, she slept there, propped up by her own, hardened guts, in the blazing summer sun, in the desert, with only a black-roofed latrine to shield her."

"Oh dear..."

"Yup. An' all o' that ale and sugar began to ferment in her stomach, filling her with gas, which strained to leave through one end, and was completely blocked by the other.
Now, just after high noon, IT happened!"

"Explosion?" you've asked. This was uncanny.

"Yeah. Sent the shack flying sky-high, and left behind nothing, but a smoldering crater, filled with black slurry."

"That sounds... Familiar."

"I guess..." she shrugged again "The signalman was arrested for illegal blasting, attempted sabotage, murder, and embezzlement. They never got to carry out the sentence, though - poor sap hanged himself from the signal pole, itself a fattened tube with what looked like a plank of lard attached at the top, the light barely visible from it's squint."

"What happened afterwards?"

"The years kept flying. They hired a new signalman, and replaced the "weather worn" equipment - by that point, even the signal box was starting to grow folds, and the windows were increasingly harder to see through, due to all the sweat that built up on them. The latrine was filled in, and I was left with nothing to do. Well, 'cept having some sneaky fun with the signalmen every now and then. Place had the highest turnover rate for some time, with all of them retiring due to exhaustion..."

She then added, with a smirk:

"And dehydration."

"Oh, God damn it, again?!" you were beginning to wonder if she was taking the mickey out of you.

She chortled, then continued.

"Eventually, they closed the mine, and ripped up the tracks to it. The signal box was demolished, and, eventually, the line that went pass here was thorn up as well. By that time, a village had grown around it, which had grown too big to be abandoned - it was a veritable city in its own right. 'Course, back then, cities were much smaller. 'Twas around this time that I began to hear... Beeping."

"Beeping?"

"Yeah. It was coming from those new things, those electronic telegraphs. You listen in on them for a long enough time - which I had to, because there was nothing else to listen to, 'cept the coyotes - and it'll start to make sense. I began to learn through this grapewine, about how the world had changed.
And as the city grew, and drew closer and closer to the old trackbed, I began to hear other sounds as well. Private conversations, music, news. Started seeing images, too, when the nearest houses became visible in the night. Had I not been a ghost, I would've thought I was losing my mind."

"Telephone, radio, and television signals." you surmised "That shaman was right. You were able to tap into our electric and electronic telecommunication systems, since we, in effect, had tamed electricity, in other words, thunder and lightning!"

"Smart bean, are ya?" she smirked "Yeah, I figured out meself that this was the Thunderbird's doing.
So, as I was saying, the city was eventually right a'top o' me, and they drew up the schemes for a new street that would be laid right across the old site of the camp. With this house built right atop the center, where the fireplace was. Hell, I think the furnace downstairs is right on top of it!"

"I suppose you had something to do with Newhaven's failure?" you asked. The conversation was beginning to wear you out.

"Sorta." she admitted, sheepishly "I wasn't used to all this ruckus. So, once this house was built above me, I began to... "Visit the neighbors." Soon enough, delays began to occur, and rumors spread of a..."

"A fat lady haunting the construction site." You finished "They thought you were the ghost of a circus performer."

"Hah! Well, I couldn't blame them!" she chuckled "Anyways, I guess the world decided to set itself on fire, twice in a row, because construction was being halted - without me, mind you! - time and time again. In the mean time, an old geezer had moved into the house. MY house. I put up with him, for some time - he thought I was the ghost of his long-dead wife, whom he had apparently fed to death, or whatever."

"Seems to be a common theme around you." you mused. She made a face, and went on.

"So, he was a dear, but grew too paranoid fer my taste, eventually. He died, leaving the property for a nephew of his, who moved in with his family - wife, kids an' all."

Your blood ran cold. You took a side glance at the living room's door.

"Thing is..." she said, an awful grin audible in her voice "That new contraption they bought, that television? Probably my most powerful asset to date."

It took all your willpower not to shudder. The thought of that family just... Wasting away, in front of the screen...

"Now, as the years went on." she continued "My influence spread throughout the brick and mortar. I think you've seen the effects."

You swallowed hard, and nodded. Indeed, you did.
You've never been more scared, and aroused, in your entire life.

"...W-What about the others?"

"The others?" she asked, puzzled.

"Yeah. The guy in the bathtub, the... The corpses in the closet, the people upstairs..."

"Oh. Oh! That lot! Yeah..." she scratched the back of her head "Yeah, total wackos. I'm not sure about the guy in the bathtub, but after the family... Perished, and the project fell through again, a buncha hobos moved into town. They set up shop here, and one of them, a whispy woman calling herself Pyrexia, started a convent."

"...Wicca hippies?" you guessed.

"Something along those lines..." she replied, scratching her chin "Definitely occult, and got more and more so, as time went on. It went from worshiping a nature goddess to worshiping Beelzebub real fast. They began to hold these... Feasts, Lord knows where they've gotten the means and resources for it. All of them ended in damn orgies, yet, none of the women got pregnant. Pyrexia herself had all the men under her increasingly greasy thumb, and hadn't a single mewling moppet hanging from her oversized udders."

"She gained weight?" you asked. It seemed to be a recurring theme.

"Like no there was no tomorrow!" she exclaimed "She went from elven to ogreish in no time at all, as did the rest of her convent and concubines. Then one day, they held a ritual..."

"I think I know what you're talking about." you muttered.
There was a sense of impending doom over the two of you, weighing down heavily on your nerves.

"Yeah... Not sure what the fuck they managed to conjure, but it wrecked havoc on their little D'n'D gathering. Everyone upstairs died in an instant, though, guessing from the sounds, that "instant" wasn't damn near soon enough."

"...Joy." you groaned.

"The rest - mostly men - hid in the closet. Fat lot o' good that did for them, in the end. And whatever the devil they managed to drag out from the depths of Hades had been confined into the room on the second floor. where it'll stay, until someone can find a way to send it back or destroy it."

"Is that why you're still here?" you asked "Trying to find a way to deal with the beast?"

"Hm? Oh, no-no-no!" she replied "I've chosen to stay here. It's homely! Don't laugh. I've spent the last three or so centuries rooted to this place! I've made into a home of my own, and I don't want to leave!"

"But... Don't you want to... Move on?" you pried "Only bad memories connect you to this place!"

"So?! It's all I've known my entire life!" she cried out "I don't know what awaits me on the other side! Could be Hell for all I know! So, I'm not leaving, and that's final!"

She attempted to stomp on the ground, only to realize that she has no feet. Blushing angrily, she crossed her arms in a huff, squishing her breast against her flabby chin and belly, and only lessening the pressure when her stomach began to whine and bubble again.


You weighed your options... Did you even have any options here? It seemed like a closed case. Ghost were real. Poltergeists, at least. Apparently, in America, vengeful natives provided the spiritual battery for all the paranormal shenanigans. It made sense, in a way. Still, there had to be a way to free her... And get rid of that damn thing in the upstairs room.
However, you weren't sure. Based on her life story, her fears of ending up in Hell may be justified...

As you pondered, you failed to notice her giving you a sideways glance, once she stopped sulking. The sultry look returned, with vengeance.

"Look, here..." she murmured, catching you by surprise "Why not rest your head a bit? I know ya like me..."

"I'm not so sure about that..." you said, trying and failing to sound polite.

"Oh, but I'm sure ya like... All o' this..." she breathed, motioning across her body with her hand, before running it up her curves "All o' this... Plush. Plump. Greasy. Sweaty. Fat-laden. De-ca-dent. MEAT."

She whispered the last few words, but you've never heard her speak so loud.
Truth to be told, you were... Tempted. But...

"Oh, I think I can solve THAT little "issue"..." she smirked, as the invisible wind picked up her hair and clothes again.


...Oh shit oh fuck she can read your thoughts she cAn ReAd YoUR THOUGHTS OH GOD OH FUCK GET OUT OF MY HEAD GET OUT GET OUT GETOUTGETOUTGETOUTGETOUTGETOOOOUUUUUUUT!!!

"Oh, relax, would ya?" she sneered "Lemme show you somethin' REAL hot!"

And with that, she began to glow. Real bright.

Soon enough, you began to feel a force, pushing you away from her, her brightness almost blinding you. Looking to the side, you saw object - mostly trash - being picked up, and beginning to orbit around her.
In the same time, two vortexes began to form beneath and above her, and sucking in things from their bottom and top, respectively.

In essence, she had become a white hole, a hypothetical counterpart of a black hole, that pushes things away, rather than draw them in - well, apart from the vortexes at its poles, which serve as the counterparts of a black hole's jets of radiation.

For some reason, you weren't being drawn into these, and you soon figured out why.
Something, perhaps your guardian angel (who may or may not have been banging their heads against a wall for the past couple of hours), urged you to duck, and you did so, just in time: a flesh colored, ungainly strip of cloth whipped past you, sucked in by the lower vortex.
Confused, your eyes widened as the sound of fart-like squeaks and ripping fabric reached your ears.

Taking a second glance at the cloth, you noticed how... Flesh-like it was. Dimpled, greasy. Riddled with cellulite... However, on the other side, it seemed to be covered in...

Oh no.

Moldy, musky furniture padding.

And it was coming from upstairs.

Another noise then hit you, this time, coming from the kitchen.
You took a glance... It almost broke your heart.

The beanbag-sized wiener-puppet was holding onto its dear life, nubby arms wrapped around the fridge's handle, which, in turn, was arching backwards, trying to pull the fleshling from the force tugging on it.
But just as it seemed that it would be able to stuff its meatbag back into itself, another force began to tug at its wiener-tit, slapping and twisting them as it tugged. The fridge gave out a metallic groan, as with a wet pop, the faux breasts were pulled out from it.
Flopping in the invisible wind, they flew past you, drawn in by the top vortex.

The screaming, crying fleshling followed suit, with you failing to grab onto its nubby appendage.
The crackling of electricity woke you from your brief grief. Whipping your head back, you saw the fridge, its freezer door now open, and with electricity "leaving" from it, while its entire body shook and contorted, falling on its side and breaking a few floor tiles as the last of the arcs dissipated, now becoming nothing more, than a dented '50s fridge.

Then came the sound of twisting metal, breaking glass and porcelain, pipes being thorn from walls, and bodies of water moving. From behind you, two types of murky water were sucked into the two vortexes... Followed by black sludge.

You realized, to your shock and horror, just what the greasy slurry was, as it seemed to be coming from all directions at once, snaking its way into the light, and containing an alarming number of human bones.

Actually, any number of human bones not inside of their fleshy armor was alarming, now that you thought about it.

Then came the ash. From topsides, you wagered. as it came hot on the tail of a snake of sludge.
More cloth tearing ensued, as you saw the sofa's stained textile fly by, with chunks of mattress padding floating alongside it.

The more the vortexes consumed, the brighter the light became, until it blocked out everything. Faintly, you saw dark shapes - pieces of electronics from the destroyed TV - rise up from the ground, sparkling with electricity.

There was a quiet POP!

And everything fizzled out...


It took some time for your eyes to adjust to the now darker lighting - the house was finally pitch black, all supernatural light drawn from its walls.
All the light that remained came from the orifices of the newly formed creature before you.

Once again, you found yourself standing in awe at the sight before you.


While her height was difficult to decipher, before, due to her lack of legs and floating, she now very clearly towered over you, head nary an inch from touching the ceiling.

While her previous form already left you feel hot and bothered, this one you felt no shame in actively lusting for.
It had been reshaped for that exact reason, after all.
Breast and buttocks, now the size of beanbag chairs, hang pert, barely affected by gravity. Underneath, a plush, plump belly hung, shadowing the widest fupa you've ever seen, and ending in a pair lips, betwixt which the same, blinding light shimmered. Pillar-like legs held up thunder thighs, muscular, chunky arms fencing the wide-set torso, and at the top, a bald, round head, with literally glowing eyes and mouth... Plump lips...

Painted with black sludge, with jack-o'-lantern worthy tears running across the face on either side, eyelashes made out of spiky growths, likewise formed from the same, greasy substance.

And that was were the illusion broke down.

Truth to be told, she still rocked a bod worthy of a fertility goddess.
But more in a traditional sense...
And through the lenses of Christianity.

The Venusian body before you now seemed more accurate, and yet, a cruel mockery of its previous, stacked form. A large stomach bulged underneath the now sagging torpedo tits, muscular arms narrowing into waif-like hands, legs likewise turned conical and unbalanced, almost spike-like. Asscheeks covered cellulite, likewise saggy, almost melting on to her thighs.
With her ethereal light dimming as your eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, you began to make out more... Unsightly details as well...

Since her skin could only use recycled material, the golem's flesh was rather obviously patchwork, and missing a lot of necessary stitching that its creation tore off. Thus, more light seemed to "leak" out from where the materials weren't quite fitted well together.

More disconcerting were the "splodges" - the stains of ash, grease, slime and death left behind by the many unfortunate inhabitants of the house.
However, as her new form seemed to settle, it began to fix itself up - the splodges seemingly sucked into the slits of the fabric, or creating a seal where stitching was amiss - such was the case with the wide tear on either side of her lips, where you saw both strings and black tendrils pull the jagged cloth together, and seal it tight. Speaking of tendrils, the long, gaudy, almost bug-antennae-like eyelashes retracted, forming a more conservative mascara around the glowing eyes, the "rouge" on her lips following suit.
As the slits sealed and the stitches straightened, some firmness returned into her body - her stomach and breasts no longer sagging so much, no longer resembling patched-up sacks. Rather, her stomach now had a familiar tri-fold and a cavernous navel, while her breasts, while no longer overshadowing her stomach, were now capped off by delectable-looking nipples... Which you soon realized where made out of weiner-skin.
They also seemed to be faintly let through some of her now trapped internal light, causing them to glow purple.
Her ass regained its definition - still dimpled, however, it now jutted as much as it did prior her transformation (making it visible from the angle you were watching it from), albeit adjusted to its new mass and size.
Finally, her hands and feet also regained their shape - she regained her calves, yet, her feet and lower legs remained comically small compared to her thighs and wide-set hips. Her arms and hands, likewise more functional in appearance (even more so than her feet) remained out of proportion, with upper arms so chunky that, from certain angles, their flab folded over the lower arms like the arms of a T-shirt...

With her form now fixed, the glow returned in earnest, providing only a meager source of light, but drawing all attention to her - more specifically, her eyes, mouth, nips, navel (oddly enough), and, judging from the intense light shining from underneath her stomach folds, her vagina.

"Well...?" she asked "What do you think?"

Her voice had gained a certain hum, with a sound somewhere between that of static and a tuning fork.

"Hot enough for ya, darlin'?" she asked, lifting her arms behind her head to get into a pose. However, with thighs as wide as hers, she had to spread then order to avoid toppling over.
Turns out, even the slightest motion was enough to send her body into a jiggling frenzy... As well as make her perspire.

As she tried one pose after another, her body became drenched is a viscous, see-through liquid that bared a greater resemblance to drool than anything else.
However, this only added to the sheen of the fake leather and worn, grease-coated fabric that served as her skin.
Finally, she settled down, quite out of breath from the posing.
She huffed and puffed, sensually, tracing a bead of sweat down the now perfect stitching on the outer topside on her left breast, gingerly touching her glowing areola (and moaning deeply in the process), before continuing down to the folds of her stomach.


You exhaled deeply.

"...Very much so."

Still huffing, she gave a sly smirk.

"Well... *Huff!* Then!" she panted "How about I... *wheeze* Show ya around?"

"Well, I haven't seen the basement yet..." you admitted, noting the shadow of a smile - an evil smile - that ran across her face.

"Exactly my thoughts." she exhaled, before giving a deep sigh.

"Follow me."

And she trotted forward, hips swaying sensually - and nearly bumping you onto the ground as she walked past you.

You wouldn't know what awaited you down there, but in your mind, a plan had already began to take shape.

However, a problem presented itself, almost immediately.

"Hmmm... Well, this is problematic." she murmured, staring down the staircase. Being as tall as she was, there was no way she could fit down the damn thing. Walking past you, she attempted to crouch down - flashing you with a veritable searchlight.

Her anus - a rather large, puffy ring of cavernous depths, slickened by her "sweat" - proved to be the main source of her underbody lightshow. The glow was intense, almost as blinding as it was she was in the middle of her transformation...

However, you couldn't stand to stare mesmerized by hear rear end, as a sudden gurgle for her stomach caused both of you to freeze.

The sudden blast of flatulence nearly knocked you off your feet. It stunk, and burned, but not in the way you expected.
It smelled more like ozone than shit, for once, albeit you could definitely detect a musky, sewagy afterburn.
And second, rather than being incredibly hot, bitingly acrid or comically producing a jet of flame, it released a miniature electric arc, similar to that of a circuit breaker's. Though it didn't reach you, the acute heat still singed your eyebrows - it was like having a surgical laser shoot millimeters away from your skin.

"Ooogh. Sorry, darlin'." she murmured "Still getting used to this new bod."

She stood back up.

"Perhaps, a bit'a change is in order!"

And then, accompanied by the sound of a balloon releasing air, she shrunk - or rather, compressed - down into a size equal to your height.
However, this came with certain amounts of... Displacement.

While her illusion's assets were impressive, now, she was well and truly humongous! Instead of height, width (and girth) became the main obstacle.
Thankfully, the staircase was just wide enough for her no sofa-sized breasts and asscheeks to fit, to mention nothing of her God-birthing hips.
No more sashaying, though, as her first sensual swing knocked out a piece of the balustrade.

With her steps alone cracking the stairs, you couldn't even begin to imagine what would happen if she truly started to swing her weight around.
Not that you really needed to - her ponderous steps downwards had already resulted in several cracks forming on the steps, and the building, or, at least, the staircase, shook under her weight.
Such mass concentrated into such a tightly packed space had began to have a detrimental effect on the world surrounding her.

For example, the light of your eyes was inescapably drawn to her enormous behind - made easier by the fact that she was walking right in front of you.

Now pulled tauter than ever, the textile material that made up her rear made itself plainly obvious. It was like staring down the world's largest pair of pillows.

Pillows that occasionally emitted a shower of sparks from underneath, gurgled and sloshed around in a rather unstable manner, and groaned mournfully with every other step.

While your eyes were preoccupied by the golem's glutes, your mind kept racing. Your plan was coming together, bit by bit, you just needed to hold out for long enough.

So deeply engrossed were you in your thoughts, that you didn't notice that she came to a full stop. Well, not until she came to a full stop, and you just lurched forward, bumping into her, and wedging yourself betwixt dem cheeks.
The ghost-cum-golem moaned.

"Ooooohhh..." she coed, reminding you of her earlier ectoplasmic repertoire "Eager, aren't we?"

"It was an accident!" you replied, pretending to be flustered. You had lull her into a false sense of confidence.

Opening the gate (but not after pretending you were pushing her up against it, and moaning accordingly), the two of you wandered into the darkness.


After a bit of rummaging around, you arrived at what you presumed to be the center of the basement. It was occupied by a large furnace.

"Well, here we are!" she announced motioning towards the ancient heater.

"Here... Where, exactly?" you asked.

"At the furnace, silly!" she explained, with a giggle "Truth to be told, I've been looking for a handyman for a while."

"Were you?" you asked.

"Mmm-hmmm..." she hummed "Y'see, my heater broke down some time ago, and the nights have been just getting colder an' colder an' colder..."

She gave a dramatic sigh.

"I wish someone could clean out my pipes..." she murmured, before taking a one-eyed glance at you.

"Will you be my handyman?"

You hesitated...

"Well I.... I'm not qualified, but... I can take a look."


You stood before the gaping maw. It was night, and you stood in a pitch black cellar in front of massive fireplace, with ghost grinning behind you.

Yeah, you know a trap when you're in one. You had to think quickly, to get the whole Hansel and Gretel trick on the roll.

"Well, here's thing..." you began "I'm fairly certain that one of the blowers is kaput."

The golem's eyes widened. It hadn't occurred to her that the furnace may actually be broken.

"However..." you went on "I can't see shit in this darkness. Between the two of us, you're the only one why has an in-built light source..." you went on, pointing at her eyes "And we couldn't both fit there, why don't you take a look? I'll tell you what needs tweaking."

She nodded in agreement, and while you stood aside, lumbered over to the furnace's door.

Leaning in as far as she can, she glanced around, while you felt around in the darkness outside.

"What does it look like?" she asked.

"Uh, kinda like a cone-shaped thing, but very shallow. Uhhh, you can't miss it!" you explained. With her leaning further inward, the beacon of her asshole revealed itself, basking the cellar (and you) in its glory.

While she felt around inside, the spotlight danced around, with you eagerly following its path, until it finally landed on what you were looking for: the gas main, and the release valve.

"I can't seem to find it!" she called out, her voice muffled.

"It's no good." you replied "You're too wide like this!"

This was true. Her breasts prevented her from leaning dangerously inside. This, however, would soon change.

With an loud FWOOMB! she quickly regained her size, while her assets shrunk. However, this meant that even more of her body was leaning into the fireplace.

The massive construction groaned as her weight was redistributed. Now sizing up her as, you realized it just might fit in.
You glanced around. There wasn't enough space to get a running start, so you'll had to resort to... Alternative methods.

Standing behind her, you kept your eyes on the prize: the glistening, round anus, blinding you with its ethereal (and occasionally electric, a fact which you'd tragically forgotten about) light.
Slowly, you put your hands together, elbows bent.
One after the other, you locked your fingers together.

Who knew Papa Franku's teachings would come in handy, even here.

She noticed that she had leaned even further inward, ass pass the edges of the door.

You inhaled deeply. Now was your time to strike!


"H-hey, I still can't find that blower thingy that you were talking about... Are you sure that--?

"Kan-CHO!" you cried, thrusting forward.

"AIIEEEEE!"

CRACK!



***



When you finally came to, you were lying on the floor, head and chest burning, and hands numb.
You figured that giving a naked golem with an asshole the size of you palm a full double-fisted Japanese anal invasion wasn't such a good idea...

Especially since said golem's ass produced electricity.

You figured that, with both of your arms in, you'd be grounded from it. But nope, you just provided two channels for the current the reach your heart, before it continued towards the ground.

How the fuck where you still alive again?


"YOU SON OF A BITCH!"


Oh. Right. Her.

After a few attempts, you managed to get up. The air was heavy with the smell of ozone, burnt plastic, and ass.

The sudden thrust into her most sensitive orifice had forced her to instinctively retreat into her more compact form. She also jumped forward, ass fully clearing the edge of the door.
Now, bother her holes shone bright, her anus still gaping from the pain, as her body wobbled about, trying to free herself.

Gathering your bearings (after about five or so minutes of watching her jitter about like jello), you marched over to the valve and began to crank it open.
Soon enough, a peculiar hiss could be heard, growing louder and louder.

All the while, she kept on squawking.

"YOU MISERABLE LITTLE SHIT! WHY I AUGHTA'! WHEN I GET MY HANDS ON YOU, I'LL WRANGLE YOUR SCRAWNY, HAIRY NECK! TWIST IT INTO A PRETZEL! JUST WHEN I WAS BEGINNING TO TRUST YOU, YOU--!!!

"You mean "just when you were about to cook me alive"?" you corrected her.

She fell silent for some time. You kept on cranking.


"...How did you...?"

"I could put it together." you replied "You're always hungry. That's how you died. Hungry and gassy. And just before you died, you were subjected to the worst humiliation that ever happened in your entire life..."

You paused, panting. That knockout had left you winded.

"...And it was all because of that raw, spoiling meat. You wanted me well done."

"...Very clever." she muttered, half heartedly.

"It only crystallized within me, when you showed me the furnace."

"Very clever." she repeated, before snapping "NOW GET ME OUT OF HERE!"

"No can do." you replied, trying to talk over the hissing of the gas "First of: you're stuck in there because of your body. Second: you weight a tonne."

You could hear her irritated huff from within the cast iron structure.

"...And third..." you went on "...You were never given a proper funeral. Not even a cremation. When you blew up, you took the fire with you. That's why... *pant!* Your soul... *pant!* Could never rest..."

You where wheezing at this point. Damn, you need to got to the hospital.

Well, that, or having the obviously leaking gas pipes on full blast was starting to take a serious toll on your already perilous oxygen supply.

You began to waddle towards the exit... Or, at least, a set of stairs that seemed to lead straight up. Your mind was beginning to go hazy again.

"You can't just leave me here!" she cried out after you "GET ME OUTTA HEEEEREEEE!"

"Watch me." you murmured, taking billy big steps up the stairs, the sound of metal squeaking filling your ears. The way she was jostling herself about she's soon going to...

*GuuUURGLE!!*

The golem's eyes widened. You froze.
Another warble broke through the hiss of gas. You began to sprint up the stairs in earnest, as the boiling, bubbling sound stretched into a long, taxed groan.

Down beneath, the golem tried her best to calm her innards - laying very still, and gently rubbing her now expanding stomach up and down.
But the pressure only seemed to mount.

"No, no, please! Don't! Not again! Not again!" she whispered, near hysteric.
Finally, just when the pressure reached its apex... It stopped.

...With a deep sigh, she relaxed, and tried to get into a better position.
However, she squeezed just ever-so-slightly hard.
Suddenly...


*Toot!*


"Oh no."


The blast blew the door of its hinges, shattered the windows on either side, blew the grass back, and threw you out into the back garden.

You've gathered your bearings sooner this time, possibly due to the extra adrenaline. Checking yourself over, you were delighted to find yourself intact, with only a bit of singing on your clothes and hair.

Looking up, you watched in awe as the inferno, originally just billowing out from the basement, began to spread to other parts of the buildings as well.

You could hear furniture toppling over, glass breaking, and metal snapping.
It was all coming down.

Getting on to your feet, you nearly keeled over from the pain in your ankle. You could only pray it wasn't broken, 'cause you couldn't stick around here.

With the fire rapidly engulfing the building, it seemed that the paranormal nature of the area was quickly dispersed.
Leaving behind only the decaying mundane.

Rotting, cankerous trees collapsed under their own weight, spiky branches breaking off and dropping inches from your feet.

You hobbled closer to the building's wall, only to retreat, wincing - it was scorching.
What's more, the walls were visibly beginning to bulge outwards.

Despite the pain, you broke into a sprint, and didn't stop until you were out on the street.


Collapsing onto your knees, you wheezed and coughed, sitting down on the ground to catch your breath.
You could still feel the heat on your back.

Turning around, you saw the end of Newhaven Promenade 6.

The entire house, much like it's furnishings and electronics, rapidly bloated into a building's approximation of morbid obesity:
Walls bulging out out on either side, folding into roll, even as they tore away from the corners. The gaping doorway at the front seemingly crushed, as the walls came in on either side, the bottom floor bulging out as it buckled under the weight of the rest of the house.
The prominent bay windows of the second floor began to sag onto the archway as well, fire.

It was then that you heard that bloodcurdling, unearthly shriek. Gazing up, you saw the fire burning with incredible intensity, almost white hot, in the closed off street-side door on the second floor.

But, thankfully, it was a dying shriek.

Whatever was inside had, at long last, returned to Hell, or died trying.


There was no holding back now - the entire building began to sag and bulge out under its own weight.
The balcony quivered, and began to collapse, putting even more weight atop the bay windows' "sponsons"...
Finally, with a deep rumble, the archway at the bottom completely gave way, causing the entire front wall to collapse in on it. This brought down the whole, rotting structure, weakened by years of neglect, and the corrosive effects of the black sludge.
Around the house, the decaying trees burned as well, filling the air with smoke.

This finally prompted you to get up, and, careful not to put pressure on your bad ankle, you left Newhaven Promenade, not even looking back as the rest of the old house came down upon itself.


You hobbled home, and fell asleep on the couch. Come next morning, the pain in your ankle had ebbed away, allowing you to take a shower, throw your clothes in a washing machine, have breakfast, and, finally, climb up the stairs towards your bedroom.

It was over.

The golem was gone, the house was gone, the ghost had given up the...!
Nevermind.
The point is, it was finished.
And so were you.


It was over.

The ghost had moved on.


"...H̴aḩa̴̶ha̸hÀ͟H̵̷A͘Ḩ̸À̀HA̸̴A̡A!̨̨͢"

Your eyes popped open.

At the foot of your bed, on the windowsill, was an old portable TV.
You originally had it over at your grandmother's house, so that you could watch cartoons while she watched the news, soaps. Then, you had it in your room, primarily for gaming, before bringing it to your dorm for the same purpose.

And now, you had it here. In your bedroom.
You even had the "bunny ears" on it, to give that classic TV look.

And now, you saw the same, indecipherable face gaze back at you from it, the Glasgow grin making your blood run cold.

"A͠hąhahaaooohơhohoơ... ͘Oh̵, ̧hon͝e̢y̸,̵ ̨that'͡s just wha̴t̛ you̶ thi͠ńk."

She gave you an eerily serene smile.

"Nơw,͡ cr̛ed͝it ̢wh͡er͢e ͠c̡re̴dit̡'̢s ̷d̵u̷e̛, yo̴u͜ did ͡fre͠e m̸e fr̨om th̶at͜ bl̢as̛ted heat͘h̕.͡" she went on "B̛u̡t͠ ̶that jùst̀ meàns ̕I'm fr̴ee to ̢roam wh̛erever Į ̡m͢a̡y̷..."

It was then that you began to notice the TV... Letting itself go, all of a sudden. Fat folds formed on its sides, its antenna bent down, and the dial pad underneath the screen puffed out.
Her smile turned vicious...

"A̸̶͝n̴̕͘͢d̡̢͝ ̶̴̨͝I̸̴͡'̸̀͝v̀e͞͞ ̶̛͝ǵ̶̡͘o̷̢͠͝ţ ̸̧̛͞a̵͝͞ ͡͞b̵̨́̀͠ò̷́ń̴̸́ȩ̵ ̸̵̕͟͞t̸̸́͠͞o̢͘ ̴̴̕p̴̧̀͢i̛͘͠c̨͜k̸͞ ̨͟͟w̵̧̛i̢̛t̸͟͡ḩ̵̢͝͝ ̸Y̵̧͜O̴͟͢Ù͠͠͠!̀͢͠"


*FLUBB!*

One second, she was still there, staring at me dumbfounded, as the screen bulged forwards, forming a beer belly. In the next, it had already screenplanted itself onto my bed, a brassy, static-like fart bursting out from the speakers, accompanied by a puff of smoke.

You took a deep sigh before the smell of plastic and ozone spread towards you, and dropped your head on the pillow.


This was going to be a long week...