After Expenses

By Andrew E. Moczulski

Collecting stories 1-5 of the 'Prices Negotiable' series, Plus, a bonus never-before-published piece written specially for this anthology! See charmingly mercenary and occasionally (reluctantly) heroic Eric Margrave, professional hunter of monsters, as he and his erstwhile partner/nursemaid/victim Lydia fight their way through the annals of horror, facing werewolves, demons, witches, and worse.

For a reasonable fee, of course. Slaying evil, well, it doesn't come cheap. But prices are negotiable, of course... after all, they're here to help.

Usually.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Andrew E. Moczulski
• Release date: Feb 8, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310335198

Andrew E. Moczulski

Long-time writer, short-time trying to sell it! See some of my above links for examples of non-professional fanwork; they aren't to the same standards of professional quality as what I will post for sale, but they give a decent idea of my style. I hope to be around for a long time, so please, I hope you enjoy my stories as much as I enjoyed writing them.

Book preview

After Expenses

A Slayer of Evil (Prices Negotiable) Anthology

By

Andrew E. Moczulski

Copyright 2014, Andrew E. Moczulski

Smashwords Edition

***

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This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.

Eviction Notice

*

The first story, in terms of publishing, though probably not what you'd call the beginning.

Looking back personally, I would consider Eviction Notice to be a solid start, if not exactly the center of amazing through the universe. Our hero, Eric Margrave, was not fully developed in my head yet, and I was still kind of finding the voice I wanted for the series. As a result, things don't always flow as smoothly as they could have, and here are definitely some odd spots in the characterization as compared to future stories. Still, I think it served its purpose admirably: it introduced the most important of the cast members, and it got the ball rolling.

And hey, for a first effort, it isn't half bad, I hope.

*

She was like the personification of good cheer; a sharply pressed and professionally cut sky-blue suit, the absolutely brightest green eyes I had ever seen, soft white skin with a dusting of childlike freckles, and a smile so bright it could melt copper. The best part was the hair, though. A bright, frizzy mass of red curls that bounced around seemingly of their own accord and appeared constantly on the verge of absorbing her head. It was almost hypnotic. Under different circumstances, I'd have been asking if I could buy her a drink.

Under the current ones, it was starting to get hard to listen to her talk.

"And if you'll turn your attention to the ceiling, you'll notice the simply exquisite molding normally only to be found in homes built in the pre-classical era but which was included in this particular home at the express request of Mr. Harcourt Stanfield, the wealthy financier who first ordered construction as long ago as eighteen-seventy-five," she said. I had been talking to her for nearly three hours now as we toured the house in question, and I still couldn't work out exactly how she chose which words deserved emphasis. It clearly wasn't any sort of human intelligence. Maybe her voice just did it automatically, or possibly she had some kind of device hidden in her hair.

"That is very wonderful Ms. O'Conner, and I thank you so much for telling all of it to me despite my repeated claims I will not be increasing my offer no matter what, I said with forced cheer. I chose to emulate her own speech patterns, in the hope she would perhaps understand me better this way I will give your employer ten thousand dollars for this house. And that is all."

The smile didn't quite fade, but the wattage might have decreased by about five percent. "Yes, I have... noticed, Mr. Fitzpatrick. And while I understand your unique position, I had hoped for a tour of the manor and grounds to make this clear, I must specify that the dwelling you wish to purchase is in fact worth... well..."

Roughly one-hundred times my offering price? I said cheerfully. In contrast to her, I wasn't terribly striking. My eyes were a nice blue, I guess, but beyond that I was pretty average. Brown hair. Medium height, in shape but not hugely muscled. T-shirt. Jeans. Big baggy jacket that looked about thirty years old but comfortable and had tons of pockets.

The lovely Ms. O'Conner and I did have one thing in common, though. Both of our images were carefully crafted lies. She was designed from the ground up to make customers feel comfortable, make them trust her clearly adorable Good Ol' Irish Lass self, and (let's face it) to make the sort of customers who noticed her skirt tugged around her thighs very interestingly think with their hormones instead of their wallets.

My image was carefully crafted to inform her that I didn't care.

Well, yes, she said. I think she wasn't used to people being this cheerful in her presence. I strongly suspected that by halfway through her presentation of a home, most people just watched her in a kind of mesmerized daze. "Given the age of the home, the extensive size of both the manor itself and the grounds, the prime location here in the lovely rural countryside of upstate New York, the-"

Ten-thousand dollars. My one and only offer. I interrupted quite happily. "The house is in disrepair, the grounds are unkempt, and the location is an hour's drive from the nearest town, which is barely a town. Frankly, I think that ten grand is generous!"

It was not generous. It was stupidly, ridiculously dirt cheap. But half the joy of being a customer is that you get to be indignant about stupid things, right? That's the American Dream, right there. The right to be proud of things you shouldn't be proud of and be offended by things that shouldn't offend any reasonable human being.

"While some might argue that this exquisite antique home built by one of New York's finest captains of industry might, perhaps, be a bit of a fixer-upper, I personally feel that-"

I waved a hand, cutting her off before she could start describing the molding again. Or god forbid, the buttresses. But more than that? More than the fact this place is, quite frankly, an inconveniently-located dump that should have been condemned ages ago? I strongly suspect that you, Ms. O'Conner, were instructed to try your very best to wring as much money out of me as possible, but in the end, to take whatever price I offered.

She didn't reply. But the smile definitely faded this time. It made me a little sad, actually. She had such a pretty smile, even if it was totally fake.

Possibly, I said, almost idly, because nobody has made any offers on this house in the last oh, forty years, have they?

"Not... not as such, no."

Because of the location? Noooo, there's always someone who wants a nice rural summer home, get back to nature, commune with the... elk, or something. I said. Given how often work took me out into the wild and how messy that tended to get, I personally didn't like nature very much and would never go there for fun. I really have no clue what people go out there to commune with. Shrubs, maybe? Lots of people like shrubs, and they don't move around as much as elk so it's probably easier to commune with them. Regardless, I kept speaking, deciding elk sounded good enough and going back to change it to shrubs now would just make me look indecisive. "Because of the disrepair? Nooooo, that's like a challenge to the right sort of buyer, especially with how popular all that house-flipping nonsense was for awhile, right? So now, I wonder why it's been so long since anyone has made any offers on this fine home with its amazing mold?"

Molding, actually. She muttered.

Could it be because of the, y'know, horrible murders? I asked, my eyes wide with feigned shock. The ones you so carefully didn't tell me about as you were describing the exquisite craftsmanship of the windows? See, I did my research too, and funny story: the history of this house is really less about the fantastic architecture, and really more about the fact that everyone who has ever lived in this house except for the original owner himself, has died under mysterious circumstances! Most of them very much on the horribly violent side, and the vast majority within three weeks of moving in, no less! How terribly odd, wouldn't you say?

A bit odd, she murmured. She was not smiling much at all, anymore. I really was starting to feel bad now; her smile had been nice. It made me feel chipper, I admitted it, and the more it faded the less happy I was. Maybe I should get a clown nose or something, for the next time I met her. After I finished destroying her business position, of course.

"Why, it got to the point that people began to say that the ghost of Mr. Stanfield... that would be Harcourt Stanfield, I believe? Wealthy industrialist and entrepreneur whom you yourself so thoughtfully mentioned before? Whose charming family of cutthroat, money-obsessed robber barons and occasionally just plain robbers was well-known for treating their workers like slaves and their slaves like cattle? Why, people started to claim that he was still haunting the house, and would wreak horrible vengeance on anyone who lived here. I said. But of course, that's crazy, because everyone knows ghosts do not exist."

... Yes.

"Even though in every single one of the deaths, there was never any sign of forced entry, and it is completely impossible for them to have been suicide in the majority of the cases. Unless that strapping young man in 1957, the most recent owner, I believe, who lived here alone and which all evidence suggests was alone at the time of his death, somehow managed to throw his own head onto the chandelier in the main hall? Which, I grant you, would have been pretty impressive if he had pulled it off, don't you th-"

Yes, that will be quite enough, thank you! Ms. O'Conner said. Her skin had gone so pale the freckles were starting to look creepily dark.

I just feel that would be a somewhat difficult trick to perform. But that may be just me. I said. "Not that it's really relevant to our situation right now. What is relevant is that I am going to give you a very small sum of money for this house. And you're going to accept it. Because your employer? He desperately wants to be rid of it. It costs him in taxes year after year after year. Nobody will buy it, and nobody is brave enough to tear it down. So you will take my ten thousand dollars for this place, because I am the only person who is ever going to pay you anything at all for it. And really? You knew that going in."

I... shall consult with my superiors, but I believe your offer to be... I believe it will be accepted. I... I feel, that... She squeaked. She looked like she might cry.

Awwwwww, poor thing, I might have been a little hard on her. You seem a bit ill, miss. Perhaps you should get some fresh air. I'll show myself out. After all, barring a few papers to sign and a few checks clearing, this is my house now, right? Why don't you go outside, take a walk? In fact, take the rest of the day off, you've earned it. I'll see you in your office tomorrow to finalize things.

Yes, yes, thank you... she muttered, practically sprinting out the door. I listened to her footsteps, heard the door open, and heard it slam shut with way too much force. Yeah, I was too hard on the poor thing. I'll work on that for the future.

Regardless, I tried really hard not to grin. Crying real-estate agent aside, that had gone perfectly. "And now it's just you and me, isn't it chief?" I said to the empty house.

Right on cue, a cold wind howled through the house, despite all the windows being firmly shut. A creaking could be heard in the attic, which I had personally seen was empty during the tour.

I smiled. Nothing pisses them off like smiling when they're trying to be intimidating. "Heh, so even that little bit of nervousness on the cute redhead's part was enough to wake you up? You are a nasty one, Harry, to be up and moving so fast. I admit: Never seen one get up to no good with that much pep. You are a darn impressive spook.

But tell me, do I feel scared? At all? I asked. "Or do I feel like I'm gonna go get some very nice salt and some assorted powders and liquids and such from my car, do a little chanting, light some candles, and exorcise your ass? You tell me. Oh, wait, you can't, you're not powerful enough to speak actual words yet, because I am not afraid of you at all and you can't feed on my emotions. Haha, my mistake. Well, you just wait here, and maybe try to get some chains rattling. That always adds to the ambiance for when I throw your type out like yesterday's trash. I'll be back in a few minutes to kick you out of my house."

I should probably give you an explanation, huh? You look confused.

For starters, Mr. Colin Fitzpatrick is not my name. My name is Eric Margrave, but that doesn't sound Irish, and when you're buying a house from a real-estate company owned by an Irish-American and staffed mainly by Irish-American workers (like the lovely Ms. O'Conner), it pays to sound like you might be a little bit Irish yourself, and a good fake ID goes a long way. Also, I can't use my real name for most things, on account of the possibility that certain law enforcement agencies have me on certain watch-lists, even though I swear to God that all of the people who died in those cases were either not my fault, or some kinda shape-shifting monstrosity that just coincidentally happened to look human or turn back into a human when it died. Or both.

Oh, and the house? Totally was haunted.

A lot of them are, really. Most ghosts are pretty benign. But Harcourt 'Harry' Stanfield (One of New York's finest old businessmen, as Ms. O'Conner had put it.) had been a bastard in life, a genuine robber-baron whose death toll from unsafe factories and unsavory business practices had probably been in the hundreds. It made sense, then, that he would still be a bastard in death, and the unsavory fate of anyone who moved into his old house showed nicely that was indeed the case.

Luckily, he was also a ghost, and limited by a ghost's rules. Ghosts are just bundles of emotion and left-over life energy from when a particularly strong-willed person dies, and as such they have little power to affect the physical world unless we allow them to. They feed on our emotions, see? The more we feel about them, most especially the more we fear them, the closer they can get to the real, physical universe. Hollywood actually has a decent grasp on your common murderous spectre: they start very small, tiny things, a gust of wind, a creaking floorboard. Building up the fear. Then as the people in the house get more and more scared, the ghost gets stronger, and stronger, and the manifestations get darker, and darker, until boom! Amityville.

Stay more than a week or two in a house with a hostile ghost, and you'd have wasps swarming in your mattress and blood running from the faucets before you knew it. Try to stay after that, and the house was very probably gonna end up with a new ghost.

And the ghost here was very, very hostile indeed. Any poor schmuck who bought this place hoping for a nice summer getaway in the countryside would most likely have been tortured to horrible death by the spirit of Mr. Stanfield, who absolutely, totally would kill a commoner for setting foot on his property, and was in fact rumored to have done so several times even before he was dead. After? Well, that story I told about the head on the chandelier wasn't exaggeration.

If you knew how to deal with ghosts, though, then this was a darn fine place to put a safe house. Plenty of room for storage, no nosy neighbors wondering why I was bringing in heavy weapons or cartons of silver bullets or bulk spices, some nice forested terrain for laying booby-traps, and a convenient and widely-believed ghost story to keep away tourists. And so cheap! It would take some fixing up, sure, but I wasn't going to actually live here more than a few days at a time, so I wouldn't have to put much money into fixing it up. And it was still a damn sight better than living out of a hotel every time I was up in New York tracking a Wendigo (Which pop up more than you'd think; more people get into cannibalism than I like to ponder.).

The world of the supernatural was dark, twisted, and more prevalent than anyone cares to talk about. But if you know how to work it, earn the right reputation among the right people, and you don't scare easy? The money is more than decent, and there's all kinda perks. I charge $200 an hour plus expenses for extermination of the vast majority of spooky thingamabobs ($250 for Wizards, Rakshasa, Djinn, Elves and Elf-related situations, and Fairies of the Unseelie court, $300 for Any Sort of Tentacled Ichor Beast from Beyond Time. Absolutely No Demons, Dragons, Demon-Dragons, Liches, Demon-Dragon-Liches, or any kind of Sentient Bread), plus expenses. Special rates negotiable for unique jobs. And I'm rarely out of work, because when people's lives are on the line and they don't fully understand why, then ninety-nine percent of the time they will pay for someone who can make the problem go away. It's not a bad life, if you know what you're doing, and I've been doing it since I was sixteen.

Hell, it just earned me a possibly million-dollar house for ten grand, and all I had to do for it was stomp all over the face of one impotent dead businessman. Pretty good deal, if you asked me.

Another chill wind blew through the house. My smile got wider.

"Okay, I'll admit it, you're pretty neat. Formless wind and ominous creaking sounds? Classic stuff, Harry, classic stuff. I mean, if this were a horror movie, and I were an unassuming middle class family whose father had just gotten a great new job that would let him buy this house, I bet my tiny blonde daughter with the big expressive eyes and quirky habits that imply she's psychic would be totally creeped out by your antics. So bravo, sir, bravo. It's really a treat to run into someone who likes to play these things old-school, you know? You don't see that much anymore, and I always get a kick out of it. I'll tell you what: I'm gonna go get my exorcism kit, and I'm gonna banish your ass straight to Hell. But I will be sure to do it respectfully. Because I respect you." I said, starting to walk towards the front door, whistling a jaunty tune.

Things began, then, to go horribly wrong, and it was mostly due to the woman who had somehow gotten into the living room.

She was cute, in a crazy sort of way. Mid-twenties maybe, with very smooth pale skin and long, auburn hair that was piled on top of her head in an elegant coif. Nice, slender figure accentuated by an oddly formal-looking peach-colored dress that managed to be both concealing and alluring, hanging off her shoulders provocatively but covering everything below them, up to and including gloves. And very big, brown eyes. Really big brown eyes. Wide as dinner plates with stark, raving, unreasonable horror brown eyes. Very pretty girl, yes. The aura she projected of a terrified rabbit kinda took away from the appeal, but very pretty.

Oooooooh, that was not good.

Hi! I said. You really need to absolutely leave, please! Now!

I tend to overuse exclamation points when I'm in danger of having my soul eaten by a ravenous phantasmal creature. Call it a personality flaw if you want, but I feel emphasis is important in cases like that.

You... cannot... buy... this... house... she gasped out, sheer horror making the words come slow and thick.

"Ordinarily that would be true, but I got a really good deal! Well within my finances, made everything okay, may be putting a nice herb garden in the back yard! For spices! I'll make you dinner some time! Please leave now, and do not come back without invitation!" I said. The howling wind was starting to get louder. Shit.

It killed them... all of them, my whole family...

"Oh come on, the records said nobody has lived here in forty years! You're not forty. Did they lose your paperwork in the system? Oh! Oh, I know, that stupid jerkass real-estate agency, I bet they wanted to make the house seem more 'antique' or some garbage, like 'nobody has lived in it in soooooo long, what an undiscovered treasure it must be'. Cute redhead lied to me! Oh, that does it. I am officially cutting my offering price when I talk to them again. I complained. I then heard the clanking of chains from upstairs. Actually, let's solve that mystery later! Let's leave now, together! Or just you, I'm good with either one!"

My family! Everyone! And everyone else who ever lived here! The girl shrieked in my face, her nails digging into my arm with strength born from sheer, mindless horror. "This house is evil!"

I'm sure that was just your imagination! They were probably killed in a series of unfortunate and totally non-sinister accidents, and some are in fact probably alive and enjoying a nice breakfast at one of many fine local eating establishments located near this piece of prime real-estate! I said. Maybe if I complimented the ghost's taste in housing, it would go easy on me (Even though the location really wasn't that good and the closest eating establishment was at least a 30 minute drive! Take that, you spectral prick! Yeah, I mock your choice in housing, whatcha gonna do about it?). And yes, I was aware that I was still exclaiming an awful lot, but the situation warranted it: out of the corner of my eye, I could just barely see the pipe where the kitchen sink would have been if one was hooked in, and it was spurting blood.

Oh, shit, I thought. The plumbing is bleeding? Already? It's only been like, five minutes and we're already getting near the actually violent stuff! How is he moving so fast through the manifestations, dammit? He must be cheating, something not in the historical records. Was he a wizard, a demon-worshipper, spent a few years in high school on the Ghost Sprinting Team, what?

Out loud, I continued trying to steer my excitable new friend out the door. In fact, why don't we go join them? I will purchase you some delicious pancakes, my treat, if you only walk this way with me and leave this fine and beautifully preserved period home... with exquisite molding!... and never enter it again, ever!

I placed my hands on the girl's shoulders and began to steer her back to the front door. For some reason she tried to struggle out of my grip, despite the fact she was trying to get me to leave the damn house and now I was offering to leave the damn house with her. "You have to listen to me! Everyone who has ever lived in this place! They all died! You have to get out while you still can, before..."

"I am trying to do that, you little twit, so please stop trying to get away and walk to the door with me!" I snapped, perhaps with a bit too much snarl in my voice. In my defense, sunlight was no longer coming in through the windows. I don't mean 'clouds had gone over the sun', I mean 'the sun was still up, the house just wasn't letting it inside'. The spectral omens were piling up like... like... like a thing that piled. I don't make up good similes when my life is in danger, okay? Be more accepting of my personality flaws. It's not like you're perfect.

You believe me? The girl said, going almost totally limp. "Oh, thank God, I was so scared, I almost couldn't come in here again, but I couldn't just leave you to die like all the others! Thank God, thank God, thank... no. No, no, no, no no..."

The sudden change in tone, it should be noted, was due to the fact that we had reached the front door, opened it, and found a brick wall where the opening had been. Okay, I muttered. "High school and college on the Ghost Sprinting Team. Maybe even made it to all-state."

No... no, no, no... not again, it's happening again... She said, her voice little more than a muffled squeak.

Yes, it surely is. I said, resisting the urge to smack her upside the head. So, kid. What's your name?

It's happening again, it is always like this, we cannot escape, nobody ever escapes, She babbled. The sound of a man's laughter echoed through the halls, and I thought I heard metal rasping against stone, as if someone was sharpening a large blade. "He's coming for us! He's here!"

Name, please? I asked one more time. When she didn't respond, I slapped her across the face. Hard. "Name. And chill out, we're in enough trouble without you adding to it by giving me a headache."

L-Lydia, She said, her eyes wide with surprise rather than fear, for once. She rubbed her reddening cheek a bit tenderly. I a-am Lydia Talman. Why do you-?

Thanks, I said. "Now, Lydia. You have very possibly doomed us both, and if you want to get out of this alive, you are going to listen to every word I say, got it? And then, if we do survive, Lydia, I am going to find a good, sturdy piece of lumber, and I am going to beat you heavily about the head and neck for being a dolt, Lydia. Do you understand me, Lydia?"

She nodded a bit dully. I accepted this: I had her listening to me out of sheer numb shock, the natural herd instinct of a frightened animal. The drive to just shut down your mind and follow someone who seemed like he knew what he was doing was a powerful motivator in certain types of people. It wasn't as good as having someone watching my back who really knew what they were doing, but it was a damn sight better than having a panicky idiot running off at random, so I would accept it for the moment.

Besides, the sound of metal scraping against stone was getting closer, and blood was starting to leak out of the cracks in the walls, and my exorcism kit was currently on the other side of a spectrally-manifested barrier that I was willing to bet encircled the whole house. I wasn't exactly spoiled for options at the moment. Herd away, little sheep. Herd away.

Okay, Lydia. You used to live here, right? I need information, and you're my only source. So before things start getting really bad, and trust me, they are about to, I need to know everything you remember. Are there any rooms that the manifestations were particularly bad in? The attic, the basement? Any place that it felt like the ghost was trying especially hard to keep you away from? Or anywhere it felt like they were less horrible in, maybe, places the ghost didn't like to appear? Anything at all could help.

This felt a bit nasty, making her relieve the days that killed her family, but I was short on options. Normally when hunting active, powerful ghosts, I would have two shotguns loaded with rock-salt to temporarily de-corporealize (Is that a word? Human vocabulary really isn't made for this line of work.) them, several vials of holy water to purify the ground and prevent manifestation, and if possible some kind of improvised flamethrower (Which works on more things than you'd expect! Fire is great for multi-purpose monster extermination. Almost nothing enjoys being burned.). First rule of hunting, always bring more weapons than you think you'll need.

But the problem here was, I hadn't been expecting a real, nasty ghost. I'd been expecting Casper the Impotent Ghost, and I didn't want to risk a real-estate agent questioning why I had enough firepower to outfit a small army. As such all I had on me by way of weapons was a pair of knives hidden under my coat, and a six-shot Beretta .22 in an ankle holster. They were decent; the knives are special-ordered, with as high as silver content as you could get without making them too soft to use, and of course I buy silver bullets in bulk; not the best ordinance for a ghost, but better than nothing. Silver had a decent symbolic purity to it, and it will at least annoy most malevolent entities.

And, in my defense, it was more weaponry than I had thought I would need. Not in my worst nightmares could I have pictured this day going so very off-kilter. Next time? Screw planning, I bring the arsenal. I'll tell the house lady I'm a hunting enthusiast, it's only a semi-lie.

Now, it's important to state, this was not the worst situation I've ever been in. Remind me to tell you about the time I killed a troll with an exacto-knife and a broom; far and away the worst vacation I've ever taken. Now, though, I was not confident in my ability to defend myself if things went violent.

The walls were bleeding. A lot. I heard a scratching inside them too, as of something with claws skittering around. Upstairs, something that sounded like a wasp the size of a bus began buzzing furiously.

Things were gonna go violent. I really needed info.

I... I... she stammered. "It was so long ago, I don't... I've tried so hard to forget..."

I know it's hard, but I need you to think, please. Footsteps. Getting closer. Damn, damn, dammity damn. And hurry, if you don't mind. I slipped a hand into my coat and put a knife in my hand. At least if something started like, flying at me, I could maybe swat it away.

It didn't like you being anywhere. It wanted to hurt you no matter what. But most of the time it moved slowly. Made tiny cuts. So you wouldn't die quickly, so it could keep playing. Yes, yes it likes to play. But it stopped playing when you tried to go into the room past the kitchen. The small pantry, where we kept the spices and dried goods. I don't know why, I just know that my husband tried to run that way, after the fear finally took him and he panicked, fled from my daughter and I. I saw him go, and... She stopped, a sob wracking her body. ... so many knives. So, so many knives.

I nodded. Kitchen. Got it. Dammit all, we had just been there, and I'd tried to drag Lydia out the front door! Now it was three, four rooms away, which might as well have been five miles if we had an angry ghost on our case the whole time. But still, I thought we probably had some time. We needed to get to the kitchen, and see what Harry didn't want us to see, and since he hadn't yet started trying to actively kill us we probably had at least a few minutes.

Sometimes it hurts my faith in a fair and just universe that I am so often so very wrong when I try to be optimistic.

A boot, sopping wet with blood, slammed down in a nearby doorway. The man wearing it did not step through fully. After all, he wasn't here to be seen. He was here to imply, to build fear, to let our imaginations see just enough to make them run away in a blind panic. Something else rounded the corner, at roughly the height to imply whoever was holding it was at least eight feet tall; a long, rusted sickle that scraped idly across the wooden door frame, making a sound like a cat being tortured.

Shit. He'd manifested. Already. Ten minutes from Lydia arriving to the ghost being powerful enough to take physical form? Forget all-state, this guy had been in the frickin' Ghost Olympics. I had never heard of one that could build power so quickly, even with a source of emotional energy as freely available as Lyd, here.

Well, this is gonna suck. I said.

"Trespassers," said a deep, guttural masculine voice that did not appear to be emanating from the figure still partially hidden in the next room. It rebounded off the walls, full of righteous fury and sounding a bit like the speaker was gargling with gravel. "Hoodlums, vandals, common thieves! Come onto my land, will you? Come into my home? You'll pay. You'll pay. You'll pay. You'll pay!"

The hook and boot simply vanished, and the world went totally silent for several long seconds.

I don't suppose he just wanted to chat, and he isn't coming back? I asked nobody in particular. Maybe stopped for lunch. Lots of people like lunch.

Lydia, through her blind terror, turned to look at me. Are... are you quite sane? She asked.

"Well, that was rude of you. It's possible he just left." I said, my feelings just a tiny bit hurt. Really, that had been uncalled for, I hadn't done anything really crazy yet.

And then things got a bit weird.

The blood pouring from the walls had been a trickle; it now suddenly and without much warning (which I felt was rude) a flood; cold, sticky, nauseating liquid up to our ankles and rising rapidly. The thick, coppery scent of it assaulted my nostrils; I'm used to the smell of blood, but not usually to this extreme, so thick it was almost more smothering than the liquid. This alone would have been bad, though also, I had to admit, still pretty cool. I had to give Harry credit, he had a flair for old-school drama. Blood and moans and rusty hooks. Classic stuff! But my admiration was tempered by the fact that the rising liquid also featured a disturbing number of rippling contrails beginning to move toward us. So not only was there blood up to my fucking shins, something I couldn't clearly see was swimming in it. Lots and lots of little somethings.

Okay, so the ghost had in fact not gone to get lunch. But I maintain that the possibility had, at the time, existed. We didn't know for sure, and someone had to venture a theory. Science is important!

Lydia? I said, grabbing her hand. Run.

This was easier said than done. The liquid around our legs was knee-high before we'd made it five feet, and it wasn't like running in water; nasty, viscous stuff, somewhere between tar and molasses in consistency. And then the pain started, of course... each time a ripple of something tiny and fast and sharp reached me through the red pool, there was a bite, like being prodded by a razor. Each painful, sloshing step brought on half-a-dozen tiny bites.

Not bad. Just barely breaking my skin through the jeans. Lydia had been right, Harry did like to play; this wasn't a trap to kill anyone. This was designed to hold them still and hurt them. Sap strength, destroy will to fight back, and just inflict a million tiny, pointless little agonies for no reason other than sick amusement. Good. Gives me time to think, time to plan, time to run. Every step brings me closer to a plan, focus on that. I just need to keep moving and hope that- ouch! I thought, my mind kind of side-tracked by the sudden stabbing pain. Again. Douchebag, I will seriously hit you in the ghost-face for this. My pants are ruined, and I like these pants!

Every step brings me closer to new pants. Focus on that.

Everyone needs to have their priorities.

The blood, disturbingly enough, vanished almost literally as soon as we finally managed to slog out of the room. It still clung to me, of course, making every movement cold and sticky and nasty, which didn't help the fact that I already had to drag a hundred-thirty (Heyyyyyy, she was in pretty good shape if I was judging her weight right!) pounds of mindlessly terrified dead weight in a deeply impractical dress behind me.

Huh. I said. Well, that sucked, but it wasn't the worst thing ever. Looks like he isn't planning to drown us, good, never been a fan of drowning. Still, wonder why the whole pool just vanished? That doesn't make a whole lot of sense.

The floorboards shattered, and what appeared to be a rotting, blood-covered hand burst from beneath them to clamp onto my ankle.

Oooooooooh, so it's like, every room has something different in it. I said, using my powers of logic. Well, I guess the variety stops us getting bored? And it's kinda cool, like a game show, only with death.

Lydia screamed. This was... I dunno, maybe she thought it was helpful. I can't speak for her. She just seemed kinda skittish in general.

Oh, well. The hand clamped around my ankle felt solid enough, what with the grip like a fucking vise and the nails that I was pretty sure would be drawing blood if I didn't follow the basic and essential monster-hunting strategy of Wear thick boots. And, it just so happened that I had a knife! When in doubt, try stabbing. Works well on a surprising number of things. I let go of Lydia's hand, bent down to hack away at my new ankle accessory (I was thinking of naming him Roger), and was treated to the sight of several more seemingly disembodied, very much rotting limbs bursting from the floor around the room.

I rolled my eyes as I stabbed the arm around my ankle a few times until it let go. This was probably more scary to someone who had never dealt with whole zombies before. Just the arms didn't have the same impact, y'know? Plus, unless this house was built on a burial ground, they weren't even real zombie arms, just some kind of ectoplasmic manifestation. I would have had to cut off the whole wrist to make a real zombie let go, while this sissy imitation gave up after a few jabs with a silver-plated dagger. Tenacious bugger, your basic zombie, very keen on brains.

Granted, there were a lot of these things, so I guess I could forgive a lack of tenacity.

Um. I said. There really doesn't seem to be a path. Do you remember how you got through this last time, Lyd?

I turned back. She whimpered.

"Oh, goody. Well, screw that, I am not changing my plans just because some spooky hands say so. I said. Okay! Count of three, we run through it."

"What?"

Did I stutter? We are totally going to run through that bunch of zombie arms.

"Are you quite sane, sir?"

I am super sane! This will work, I'm seriously like 65% sure.

"That is not very suEEEEEEK!" She said, as I started running without actually counting to three and grabbed her hand while I did.

Spoiler Alert: Sometimes I am a huge, huge jerk. But I swear, I always do it for a good reason. Almost always. Usually. Sometimes.

Secondary spoiler alert: Sometimes the 'good reason' is that I find it funny.

Tertiary spoiler alert: That is almost always the 'good reason'.

But hey! This was probably going to work. You saw the percentage, right? That's more than a one-in-two chance of success! That's pretty good, right. Good solid plan, running.

Lydia is going to get dragged to the ground and pulled to death by zombie ghosts, and you're probably gonna join her. This is really, really stupid. Said the part of my brain that exists solely to depress me. I threw a rude thought in its direction and kept running, cold, jagged talons tearing at my poor pants. They were good, solid pants that had done nothing to deserve being shredded by blood-dwelling spirit beasts, or to be rent by spectral hands.

Also? This hurt. Quite a bit. The first hand had clamped onto my boot, and further on the boot that was laced up over my quite thick and well-secured ankle holster. The rest of them weren't getting near as firm a grip, but many of them were also impacting on denim. They had really, really sharp nails, and they were very cold and strong as Hell. It was a bad experience. I had to give props to Harry, he ran a solid ghost-house. Maybe a tad bit more old-fashioned than I would have pulled, blood and disembodied limbs and ghastly voices, but it did its job. If I had been a normal, inexperienced sort who had never run into this kind of situation before, I would have been a useless, gibbering wreck by now.

Like Lydia. Who seriously would not stop shrieking. Something is wrong when you are surrounded by the wails of a damned soul, and yet the most annoying sound is coming from the person you're supposed to be saving. Still, and I'll give her this; girl could run. She was clinging on to my hand just as tightly as ever, and she was making the same sprint I was, through the same obstacles. In a dress! Even if she did have raw terror propelling her along, that was a Hell of a feat. She was a screamer, and yeah, it was all her fault I was in this situation, but at least when presented with something terrible, she had the presence of mind to run away from it, and latch onto someone who knew what he was doing.

… well, at least I looked like I knew what I was doing.

The point was, she might have been in a blind panic, but she was doing the smartest thing she could have in this situation despite her obvious terror. Girl wasn't an idiot, whatever you might say about her. And she'd come out to this house despite being clearly horrified of stepping through the door, all to help a complete stranger. Wasn't her fault she'd gotten the opposite effect.

Well, mostly not her fault.

Totally her fault.

She was a smart, tough girl, and I respected her quite a lot after seeing even this much of her. And if we both survived this, I really was going to beat her face in. She had it coming! Just, y'know, in a respectful way. Shut up, it's logic.

I stomped down onto a particularly persistent hand which I was pretty sure had been following me across the room based on a ring it was wearing (Eeesh, were these the limbs of the people the ghost had killed while he haunted the house? Yuck.). Okay, on my word, we dive and roll!

I do not believe I can do that, actu- She said.

Oh, silly girl, she thought I was asking!

"And dive!" I said, yanking her forward, throwing an arm around her waist, and springing off the Doom Hand to give our leap some extra 'oomph'.

We flew. We hit. We rolled... well, I rolled, and Lydia kinda tumbled, while still shrieking. She never stopped. She was like a well-dressed noisemaker.

"Hee, hee, hee, you see that, Lyd? God, we rock! We are the Grand High Lords of Awesome! Two rooms down, and we are kicking some ghostly ass, baby! He hasn't even come close to inflicting mortal terror on u- I began as we came to a stop in the next room over. I stopped short when I saw that Lydia was whiter than a sheet, and maybe telling her how scared she wasn't was a bit of a misnomer. Well, okay, one of us is scared, but you're still doing really well! And... oddly clean! Is this dress soaked in scotch-guard or something, because it is weirdly stain resistant. I'm sure that fabric does not work that way."

I... I... cannot... this is... She whimpered, her eyes filling with tears. It's exactly like the last time! They all died, and all I could do was run, and run, and never escape!

"Hey! Hey! I snapped, shaking her. You got out alive once, and you will again. You have me here, and I am oddly good at living through things. And you've lived through this once before, and come on, if you can live through a thing once you can do it twice! It's easy-squeezy!"

I... I... I... She sniffled, her eyes wide with panic and red with something that might have been shame and might have been pain.

Good. Good person. I said, patting her on the head. That's a good girl.

I am not a dog, sir.