Prompt #10 – haunted house (Family/Horror)

The horse-drawn carriage pulled to the road's side, and the last two teenagers left riding it stood up. The tall guy with the bulging backpack leapt down first and raised a hand towards the girl with him, but she had already dismounted easily, so he turned it into a nonchalant head-scratch. As the cart pulled away, they proceeded into the neighborhood, each occasionally glancing sidelong at each other.

Still, neither spoke for some distance until he cleared his throat. "So, uh, Anna… you're sure your folks don't mind us working at my place? It could be a little while, I'd hate for you to have to walk home after dark."

She poked him in the side. "I'm not the one who got shoved in a broom closet three times the first week of school."

"Hey, I broke out of there. Eventually."

"And ran right into the principal." She laughed at his flustered look. "I can handle a couple of miles, day or night."

"Well, my mom wouldn't have any problem with you staying for dinner, but I know she'd get to wondering about you after that, so maybe, I could walk you home. If it comes up."

She brushed back a strand of hair. "Thanks, Roy."

He walked a little lighter now. Only last week, he'd picked up her dropped sketch of herself as a cloaked rogue, slinking between dark buildings. At the sight of him holding it, she had almost hit him with her algebra book, and then he had handed it back and dug out his own back-of-the-notepad doodle, featuring himself wielding a greatsword and slaying a horde of ogres.

The school's honors track featured small classes with big ambitions, always about futures as all-knowing wizards or unbeatable druids. It felt nice knowing something no one else did.

"So you said your mom might be making jambalaya?"

"Oh, I hope she is, I—"

They had reached the last cul-de-sac, and before them stood a decrepit mansion, throwing long and elusive shadows from the half-clouded afternoon sun. It stood at least three stories tall, and its wooden shutters swung and creaked, smacking into the crumbling gray façade. The siding flaked with mildew and rot, its wraparound porch's columns cracked under thorny vines, and the breeze whistled plaintively through shattered windows.

Roy put a hand over his face. "Not this already…"

"Is that…"

"Yeah, this is my dad's routine. Why he started early this year, I don't know. Come on." They walked up, and Anna even snickered a little at the setup.

As soon as they stepped onto the front lawn, a chorus of aching moans and groans resounded from all directions. Flashes of light, complete with green and gray mist, flickered from the odd window. All at once, a swarm of well over a dozen ghosts and phantoms fled from every opening, milling and soaring about the sky.

"See, just like I told you. Every year, it's the—"

A small explosion made them both jump, and a geyser of soil pattered across the grass as something burst from the earth a few yards ahead. A clawed hand reached up, followed by another and a lolling head that slowly shook the soil away from its gaping, black eye-spaces.

"Is… is that a freaking raccoon?"

"Roy… Roy, you never said there would be… be zombies. Those aren't ghosts, they're… they're…" She stepped back, clutching her stomach and sweating.

More bursts of earth all around – gaunt rats, drooling dogs, one-eared cats. They snarled and gnashed their teeth, some of them crawling ever so slowly across the turf on their broken and distorted legs.

"No, no, it's fine – keep breathing, it's fine." Gods above, how could Dad forget about last year? He bent and picked up a rock. "It's all part of the illusion." He turned to pick a target.

The beasts were still some distance away, but movement from the roof approached far quicker. With at least five-foot wingspans, a flock of vultures swung lazily over the group, wheeling in wide circles. Their half-feathered wings were caked with filth, and their pitted heads weaved side to side, surveying the huddled pair with unblinking eyes. The biggest one swung lower, croaking… croaking…

"Just a stupid illusion," Roy muttered, and he threw the rock.

It smacked into the vulture's skull, whipping the head upwards. But the head – no, half the head – swung back down to look at them, and fragments of beak and meat showered down around them. The vulture half-croaked again. Urk… urk… urk…

Anna buckled and threw up, choking as the slopping contents spattered then slowly dripped across the lawn.

"Oh gods, are you—"

"Don't touch me!" She threw his hand from her shoulder, wiped her mouth and backed away. "Look, I'll… I'll see you at school, all right?" Glaring at the house, she made a gesture not found in many exorcism texts, then turned and marched away.

Roy stared after her for a while, mouth agape. Then he stomped towards the house, pausing only long enough to punt a limping squirrel out of his path and across the yard.

The front door slammed open, leading into a clean and modestly furnished hallway, and he could hear laughter coming from the lit kitchen. Entering, Roy realized why there were two voices – at one side of the table sat his bald and green-robed father, Eugene Greenhilt, and at the other was a dark-brown-haired man with a mustache, armor, and a blue cloak and holy symbol. "Oh… Hey, Uncle Myrtok."

"Hahaha… Hey there, Roy. How've you been, big guy?"

"I'm fine, I—"

His father broke in. "So? Did it work? Were you frightened to the very depths of your soul?"

"I didn't expect the zombies."

"The what? Oh, oh yeah, Myrtok thought they'd add to the scene, but how were the ghosts, boy?"

"I mean, after last summer, how could a guy not notice zombies?"

"Eh?" Myrtok wiped his eyes, his smile slipping into a bit of puzzlement. "What did you do last summer?"

Eugene waved a hand, "Oh, uh, it was, uh… just the next valley over ran into a bit of trouble. Nothing, really."

Roy swiped some fruit and dinner rolls from the counter. "Sure. By the way, your little show was a big hit with Anna. You know, from the next valley over."

Myrtok's confusion slowly sank into a faraway stare.

Roy stomped out of the kitchen and up to his room, sharply locking the door. Gods, I hate the Samhain festival.