Chapter Two: The Hale House

When Stiles and Scott walked to school the next day, Stiles couldn't stop talking about the Stephen King marathon. Scott listened in rapt interest as Stiles eloquently described each film in elaborate detail. Scott could imagine the scenes perfectly, as though he had actually watched them with his friend. "And you know what today is don't you?" Stiles finished by saying.

"Friday?"

"The 13th!"

"So...?"

"'So?'" Stiles was using his duh-voice – which meant Scott was in for an earful. "So, Friday the 13th is the spookiest day of the year – and this one lands in October. That makes it even creepier and jinxed. Tonight's the night all the crazies come out!" Scott was used to his friend's unorthodox, and sometimes downright bizarre, way of thinking, and he didn't like where this conversation was going. "It's the unluckiest day of the year! Beware black cats, walking under ladders, breaking mirrors, and passing through grave yards!"

"And...?" Scott didn't understand how this concerned him.

"I think we should celebrate it!"

"What? Why?"

"Duh, because it'll be fun. I have a theory I want to test out. I know this great haunted house-"

"No." Scott drew the line at haunted houses.

"You didn't let me finish," Stiles complained.

"Fine. What were you saying?"

"I know this great haunted house in the woods. A few years ago there was a huge fire and the whole family died." By finishing his sentence, Stiles had only made the entire idea sound even worse to Scott. He could do without entire families horribly burnt to crisps. What if their ashes still littered the remains of the old house? Ew. "With that many unnatural deaths, there has to be at least one ghost lurking around, right? I say we hold a seance and see if-"

Scott hadn't believed Stiles' plan could get any worse. Apparently it could. Scott shook his head vigorously and held up his hands. If haunted houses were just south of the cut-off line of things he would do, seances were so far down the line was practically microscopic. "No. No, no, no, no."

"It'll be fun," Stiles promised in a singsong voice. Somehow Scott doubted that. Did Stiles even know him? Summoning the restless spirits of a family who had died grisly, agonizing deaths wasn't Scott's idea of a fun Friday night. It sounded more like the beginning of a gory B-horror film: two unsuspecting boys enter a haunted house and are never seen again, leaving behind nothing more than a bloody sneaker and a red hoodie. Scott shivered. He wanted to live to see manhood, thank you very much. "Don't be such a baby."

Scott ignored Stiles' provocation. He knew Stiles was attempting to trick him into agreeing by playing on his ego. It wasn't going to work, no matter how he egged him on. Stiles could call him whatever he wanted – a chicken, a wuss, a crybaby, a scaredy-cat, a mama's boy, a coward – he was not giving in. "No." Not happening.

Stiles tried a different tactic. "I've seen the house from the outside. It hardly looks burned at all. Most of it is still standing. I guess the fire started in the basement or something. No one has lived there since the Hales died. I bet the inside is really cool. Dad says the Hales were a secretive family, strange. Kind of like a mystery. They mostly kept to themselves, and they lived in the woods. Like right in the woods. Imagine how awesome it would be explore that house. I bet none of the other kids in town have been there. They probably don't even know it exists. We'd be the first ones. It would be our thing, our discovery. Like Christopher Columbus or something!" Scott crooked an eyebrow. "You know what I mean. This town is boring. It'd be an adventure! All the girls would find us so cool." Stiles pitched his voice to mimic a girl's: "'Oh, Scott. You're so brave and cute. Will you be my boyfriend?'"

"What girls? Who would say that?" Scott couldn't help asking, but he added suspiciously, "You just want to impress Lydia Martin!"

"Well, duh, Lydia would find me awesome. But all her friends would be impressed too. Like that cute blond girl who never plays at recess. The one you have a crush on. What's her name?"

"Erica?"

"Yeah, Erica. I bet she'd think you were super brave! We'd be the kings of sixth grade!"

Scott paused for a moment. He seemed to deliberate the possibility. They were on the cusp of middle school and the first inklings of tween hormones. How they established themselves during this awkward transitional period could define their later identities. Impressing the ladies now could be pivotal to acquiring dates in the future. They could cement their names in the minds of their peers. For years the other kids would say, "Hey, do you remember that time Scott and Stiles..." If all it took was one night in a spooky house... "No." Scott shook his head. His voice had lost some of its energy but none of its conviction. Why couldn't Stiles take 'no' for an answer? "It's dangerous – and I'm not talking about any stupid ghosts. If there was a fire, the house isn't safe. We could get hurt."

Scott was being practical. Stiles hated when Scott was practical. "If you're too scared, I guess I'll just have to go by myself. And if I get hurt, no one will be there to help me."

Scott frowned and stopped walking. He grabbed Stiles' bicep and held him back, so the other boy stopped too. Scott searched Stiles' face, but he already knew his friend was serious. "Sty, that's a bad idea."

Stiles shrugged off Scott's hand. "I'm going whether you come or not. I just thought my best friend would want to come with me on an adventure."

"I am your best friend." The pair resumed walking in silence. Stiles was being stubborn, reckless, pigheaded, and just plain old dumb. Scott didn't appreciate the implication in his friend's words, and he didn't appreciate being coerced in this manner. Why should he feel guilty for refusing to do something he really didn't want to do? But he knew Stiles would go to this house either way, and if it was dangerous, he couldn't let Stiles go alone. He might get hurt; Scott couldn't let that happen. He'd never forgive himself, even if he had warned Stiles of possible bodily injury. Scott sighed. "Fine."

Stiles smirked but tried to hide it. "Sorry, what was that?"

Scott groaned, and reiterated louder, "Fine, I'll come with you."

"Yes!" Stiles pumped his fist and grinned. He threw an arm around his friend's shoulders. He was too excited and good-natured to gloat over his triumph, though it had been sorely won. "This is going to be awesome! We'll meet at my place after school, get what we need, and then we'll bike out to the Hale House."

TEENWOLF

Stiles used the Internet to research how to conduct a seance. He didn't learn anything he couldn't have learned from watching a movie. Basically you needed just needed to hold hands in a circle and try to channel spirits; asking simple questions was best; a medium was preferred, but he didn't know any. He scrolled through the tips and warnings without reading any of it. He watched a few Youtube videos to prepare, but was disappointed to see nothing happened. Where were all the flickering lights and eerie voices and floating objects?

Stiles loaded candles, big and small, and salt (for spiritual protection) in his backpack, along with a flashlight, a couple bottles of Gatorade, a few cans of Pringles, and several bags of candy, in case he got hungry. Snacks, in his opinion, were the most necessary equipment when it came to ghost-hunting. Stiles dialed Scot's number on the cordless phone while he packed. Melissa McCall picked up on the third ring. "Hey, Mrs. M, is Scott home yet?"

"He just walked in the door – not five minutes ago."

"Did he ask you if he could sleep over at my place tonight? Dad left me some money to order pizza, and I have some movies we can watch."

"It's alright with me. But, Stiles, no scary movies, okay? I don't want Scott watching them, and I know your dad doesn't like them either. No more Stephen King. I don't want Scott having nightmares."

"No scary movies, I promise." A promise Stiles would keep, though he couldn't promise no scares in general. Who needed a movie when you could experience the real thing?

Melissa laid out a few more ground rules, and Stiles agreed with each of them. She didn't forbid haunted houses, seances, or being out after dark; it was a technicality – should she really have to tell him to avoid such things? - but Stiles thrived on such technicalities. Loop holes were his specialty.

Melissa bid Stiles goodbye and handed the phone to her son. Scott had just finished packing an overnight bag with the usual sleepover items – change of clothes, toothbrush, pillow – along with any items he thought they might need for their adventure, if they actually went through with Stiles' idiotic plan: a heavy-duty flashlight with extra batteries, a First Aid kit, a compass, duct tape, a pocket knife, and a warm sweater. He even sneaked into his parents' bedroom and found the flare gun his father kept hidden in the closet. "Are you almost ready?" Stiles asked.

"I'm heading over now."

"Ride your bike. The house is too far out for us to walk."

"Okay." He was already regretting this little 'adventure.'

"I'm bringing all the candles I could find, but if you could bring more, that would be great. Every website I checked said candles were important for a seance."

"Stiles," Scott lowered his voice, so his mother wouldn't hear him. She was in the kitchen washing dishes, his conversation lost over the din of plates clanking and water running. "I'm not sure about this."

Stiles dragged a chair from the dining table to the counter. He stood tiptoe on the seat and searched the back of the cupboard for full cans of salt. He pressed the phone to his ear with his shoulder, reaching a free hand far into the back. He gathered a few cans into his arms. He groaned. "C'mon Scott. Not this again. We agreed this is going to be awesome. Don't be a sissy."

"I'm not a sissy. I'm going with you, but I don't think this is a good idea." He wanted to make that apparent beforehand. A prefatory 'I told you so.' "And I don't like lying to my mom either."

"First, you're not lying to your mom. You're just leaving out a piece of the truth. Second, this is going to be fun. How many times do I gotta say that? Just come over so we can get going. I want to be able to set everything up before it gets dark."

Scott sighed. "Okay. I'm coming."

"By the way, you don't happen to have a Ouija board, do you?"

Scott rolled his eyes before hanging up. "Bye, Stiles."

TEENWOLF

After meeting at the Stilinski house and taking inventory of their supplies, the two boys mounted their bikes and cycled out of town to the woods. The trip took them half an hour, past the elementary school and the Chuck E Cheese, the veterinary clinic and the Beacon Hills Preserve. Stiles didn't want to chance being spotted by his dad, so they took an indirect route to avoid the Sheriff's Station.

The bag on Scott's back was heavy. He panted from the effort of biking with the additional weight. "How much farther?" he complained, wheezing with a touch of childhood asthma. There was an unpaved road at the opening of the forest. Stiles turned right onto a partially overgrown dirt path, leading them further into the foliage. At certain points, they had to push their bikes over uneven ground where it was too difficult to bike.

Stiles pulled a map from his pocket. He had taken it from the sheriff's study. He tried to remember the route he had taken with his father almost a year ago – the only time he had ever been to the house. Scott handed him the compass from his pack, smiling smugly at his own preparedness. After another forty-five minutes, they arrived, winded and exhausted. Stiles' eyes gleamed with excitement; Scott cringed with anxiety.

The Hale house was a large, three-storey edifice. Even in the light of the late afternoon sun, it was dark and sinister. Aside from being strange and mysterious, the house was nothing like Stiles had described. It mostly certainly did appear burned, and only half of it was standing. From the front, the charred house, with its stone porch and tall decrepit chimney, looked deceptively whole. A mask for the decaying skeleton within. Several of the wide windows peered into the back yard – like dead, gaping eyes; the ones that didn't were black and sooty, peering into scorched rooms and harboring malevolent secrets. Scott eyed the crumbling remains of the house skeptically. He couldn't imagine how any of the rooms could still be intact. This place should be torn down; there was too much structural damage to even label it a "house" anymore. What Stiles had found was little more than a "haunted" health hazard.

Stiles hopped off his bike and abandoned it in the yard. He stared up in wonder at the old house. Scott leaned his bike against a nearby tree, checked his Hot Wheels wrist watch in trepidation, and followed his friend up the steps. His lungs tightened, but he said nothing. Stiles would never listen to his reasoning. Stiles turned the door knob. Ash fluttered down from the lintel and sprinkled in Stiles' hair. The door squealed on its hinges. The sound echoed like the dying screams of tormented ghosts in Scott's ears. Goose pimples prickled over his flesh. He put a hand on his best friend's shoulder. Stiles threw him an eager smirk, and disappeared inside.