A mournful howl pierced the air. Rattling chains were immediately followed by ghastly moans. Far in the distance, thunder crashed. As they approached the looming, dilapidated structure, George whispered to Mitchell, "You realize this is ridiculous."
Mitchell turned to look at him in surprise. "I realize nothing of the kind."
"Oh come on, Mitchell. A werewolf and a vampire walk into a haunted house? It's like a bloody joke!" George's voice squeaked a little on the word joke.
"Well, when we've gone through it, you can tell me the punch line," Mitchell returned easily, stepping forward to close a gap in the queue.
When George instead planted his feet where he stood - arms crossed, expression full of trepidation - Mitchell rolled his eyes and tugged him along. "Oh, don't be like that. You're the one who wanted to, and I quote, 'have a nice, normal day for a change.'
"Going to the fair, eating terrible food, feeling like a tosser for getting frightened by underpaid carnival workers in unconvincing masks? This is what normal people do, Georgy boy! Or have you forgotten already?"
"Only a truly abnormal person would enjoy something this perverse," George insisted. "My mum dragged me to one when I was six, and I didn't sleep for a week afterward. I was convinced the mummy was going to jump out of my closet and drag me off to live in a sarcophagus."
Mitchell briefly considered pointing out the utter absurdity in a real werewolf being so afraid of a bunch of fake monsters, but the sincere fear on George's face made him reject this approach. "Here," he said, pointedly placing George's hand in his, "I tell you what. You get scared, you just grab onto me. I promise not to scream or flinch or anything. Deal?"
George looked at him dubiously for a moment before nodding a little. "Yeah...yeah, okay."
As they inched closer to the front of the line, Mitchell felt George's grip on his hand grow incrementally tighter, to the point of becoming actually painful. "I know I don't have circulation, mate, but I am going to need this for some things later."
"Sorry!" George exclaimed, dropping Mitchell's hand as if it had scalded him.
"Hey, it's fine." Mitchell reached for George's hand again, albeit a little more carefully this time. It was only then that he noticed the bored teenager motioning them forward. "You ready?"
George scooted a little closer to Mitchell. "Bring it on." Mitchell had never heard those words uttered more unconvincingly.
The instant they entered the first dimly lit room, George's hands abandoned their iron grip on his hand for an equally firm one on his shoulders. Mitchell had just finished giving one of the aforementioned hands a reassuring pat when several rubber bats swooping down from the ceiling - resulting in George pressing himself against Mitchell's back, his hands now clamped together around his waist.
"You doing all right there, mate?" Mitchell asked, trying not to laugh.
"Uh-huh." George's voice was pitched comfortably in the first soprano range. "Don't mind me. Won't even notice I'm here."
They'd barely made it three steps in their new configuration when a man wrapped in bandages lunged at them from behind a corner. When George shrieked and proceeded to add his leg to the list of appendages currently wrapped around Mitchell, well, he couldn't say he hadn't been warned.
By the time they'd encountered two masked killers, a zombie priestess, and three ghosts of varying degrees of scariness before spilling into the sunlight on the other side, Mitchell had seriously begun to wonder if there was any inch of him George hadn't gotten his hands on - well, almost any inch.
"George!" Mitchell and George pivoted in tandem in the direction of the voice. "George! Fancy seeing you here!"
"Oh, Nina, hi!" Mitchell could have sworn George looked more frightened now than at any point in the haunted house. "How's, um, how's it going?"
Nina rolled her eyes and gave him a light smack on the arm. "You needn't look like that, silly. I'm not here to harangue you. You and me, all the drama? That's yesterday! Come on, I want you to meet someone."
She proceeded to drag him bodily in the direction of a tall, smiling man waiting a few steps behind. "George, this is Peter French. Peter, George Sands."
The two men exchanged a handshake and mumbled, amiable salutations. "Peter and I were just about to give the haunted house a try."
"Well, Nina wants to," Peter cut in with a laugh. "I'm not so sure. I hate jump scares!"
"Oh, you should talk to George." Nina slipped a hand into Peter's. "Shouldn't he, George?"
"Should he?" George's voice jumped into the register he used when he was nervous. On a hunch, Mitchell took the opportunity to join them. "Can't think why."
"Oh, don't be so thick, George!" Nina laughed and hit him again. "George here apparently used to be frightened to death by haunted houses."
"Sorry, used to be?" Mitchell interjected, never taking his eyes the hand George kept running over the back of his neck.
"Before the therapy," Nina clarified, looking between them in confusion. "Took him a couple of years, but by the time we started going out, he was absolutely haunt-proof. Out pops a monster, and George here just laughs in its face."
"You don't say." Mitchell whipped his head round and flashed Nina a predatory smile. "Nina, will you and Peter excuse us, please?"
"Sure, sure." Nina laughed nervously and pulled Peter away in the opposite direction. "Come on, Peter, let's go and fetch some candy floss."
"Nina, wait-" George called out, but she'd already disappeared into the crowd. He swallowed audibly before turning back toward Mitchell with a strange little laugh. "It's a funny story, you see..."
"Is it?" Mitchell began stalking toward George, who shuffled incrementally backward in response. "Good thing it's not a scary story, wouldn't want to frighten you unduly."
"Look, I can explain! I know what you're thinking -" George quickened his pace, only to find himself backed against the battered siding of the haunted house.
"Yeah," Mitchell growled, lunging forward to press George against the wall. Inches from George's ear, he whispered, "I'm thinking if you wanted to get your hands all over me, all you had to do...was ask."
George began to stammer out some sort of reply, but Mitchell quickly crashed their lips together. He let his hands roam freely over George's person, clawing at his back, tugging his hair, running them down his thighs.
When he finally let up some minutes later, leaving George looking rather like he'd survived some sort of natural disaster, it was with a self-satisfied grin that he pronounced, "There. I'd say that makes us even."