I wrote this back in August 2019 but since it doesn't use Loud House characters at all, I wasn't going to post it. I found it the other day, read it over, and laughed. I figured at least a few people would get a kick out of it so here it is.

"Is this guy ever show up?" Daggy Golberg asked.

A tall, wispy man with brown hair in tight ringlets and a face the color of cigarette ash, Daggy looked like the kind of guy who'd get a paper cut and bleed to death.

He stood in the middle of the furnace room with his hands on his hips and a glower pinching his brow. A chilly draft swept the perfect black and brought with it the smell of earth, mildew, and ass. Seriously, last winter the pipes froze then split wide open, flooding the basement with 20,000 gallons of sludgy, fifty year old shit water. Okay, maybe it wasn't 20,000 gallons, but it was a lot.

Billy "Blades" Richmond sat with his back against the slime coated wall flanking the stairs to the first floor, his legs out in front of him and crossed at the ankles. Short and muscular, he wore motorcycle boots, jeans with the cuffs rolled up, and a black leather jacket over a white T-shirt. A toothpick jutted from between his thin lips and a curl of black hair tickled his forehead. He tossed it out of his way and looked at his friend. "Will you relax? He's gonna be here."

"Yeah?" Daggy demanded, "when? He was supposed to be here at 10:00. It's 10:08."

Water dripped from the maze of pipes overhead. A drop landed on Blade's leg but didn't stain. "Oh, wow, eight minutes late," he said sarcastically.

Blades and Daggy had been haunting the abandoned factory since 1958. They came out here to smoke a little grass and shoot the shit, and next thing you know, some big asshole in a hockey mask was hacking them to bits with a machete. You know what the movies and all those TV shows never tell you? Being a ghost is a real drag. There's not shit to do but walk around and wish you died somewhere more interesting. All that ghostly moaning you hear? It's less oooh, I'm a spooky ghost and more God, I'm so fucking bored. The factory was perched on the banks of a river fifteen miles outside of Elk Park and surrounded by dense woods. The only way to get there was overland or by way of a narrow dirt road that was probably overgrown by now. Blades didn't know if it was or not...since he couldn't fucking walk outside. Literally, every time he tried to go out the door, he bounced off an unseen force field or some shit and got amnesia.

Sighing, Daggy started to pace back and forth, his boots splashing in brown muck. In life, he was the cautious, high strung sort. Oh, I gotta be home real early or my old man's gonna be mad, boo hoo hoo. In death he was...pretty much the same, come to think of it. A real stick in the mud. You know, he coulda been killed with Lori Loud, but noooo, he had to get it with Daggy. If it was Lori, they could neck, and, man, Blades sure missed necking. He missed cigarettes too. He had a full pack of Marlboros rolled up in his sleeve, but every time he tried to smoke one, it went right through him...like his mom's chili. He missed that too.

Anyway, since this stupid factory was so far out of the way, people rarely ever came. You got rats, bats, and small mammals, but no humans. Hippies used to come out here and blaze up in the sixties, but stopped after hockey face killed a couple dozen. Funniest thing, none of them stuck around, why did he and Daggy?

You know what being a ghost is like? You ever see a fly trapped between window panes? That...only after a while the fly gets to die.

Lucky bastard.

Daggy went back and forth, back and forth, and it was starting to get on Blades' nerves. Getting to his feet, he stretched and started up the stairs. "Where are you going?" Daggy asked.

"For a walk."

"Really? Dude, you have to be when -"

Blades prodded the inside of his bottom lip with his tongue. "I'm a ghost," he said, "I can walk up to this guy and show him my prick, he's not gonna see me. When he gets here, I'll come back, alright?"

Without waiting for a reply, he climbed the stairs, the treads creaking under his feet. At the top, a long hall lead to a wide, vaulted chamber. A bank of broken windows looked out over a strip of forest between the factory and the river, and as he passed, something moved in the brush. He stopped, squinted, and glared. "Hey, Daggy!"

"What?" Daggy's voice drifted forth.

"C'mere."

"What?" Impatient now.

"C'mere."

A few seconds later, Daggy appeared silently at the top of the stairs (no footfalls because, y'know, ghost) and walked over, jaw clenched in annoyance. "What?"

Blades grinned and nodded to the window. "There's your best friend."

Daggy leaned over and cupped his hands to the window. "Aw, Jesus, this dickhead."

Hockey Mask, seven feet tall and as broad as a really big fucking ship, slunk through the autumn foilage with his trusty machete. Tattered, blood stained overalls hung from his rotting frame, and even here, a hundred feet away, Blades could smell the sickly-sweet odor of decomposing bitch.

"Look at him," Daggy said sourly, "walking around...all alive. Pisses me off."

"Go say something to him," Blades said and clapped his friend's back.

Daggy opened his mouth, then closed it again. "I would, but he might do something."

Okay, that gave Blades pause. "What do you mean, do something? We're ghosts. What the hell's he gonna do to us?"

"He's an undead serial killer, the laws of logic don't apply to him. He might be able to kill us again or something."

Blades pursed his lips in thought. He guessed that made sense. Who knows? The supernatural doesn't exactly come with an instruction manual. "We should lure him in here and haunt his ass," he said and glanced at Daggy. "Pay him back for chopping our heads off."

"Nah, leave him alone."

Outside, Hockey Mask disappeared into the forest, off to whatever shit hole he called home. For some reason, every time Blades tried to imagine where he lived, he saw a cozy little cottage with stonework and warm light in the windows. Wouldn't that be a kicker? You expect him to live in a dump, but he's got a nice place with TV and everything. Probably hangs his mask up next to one of those HOME SWEET HOME plaques and sips tea in front of the fire. If so, Blades hoped he left the oven on or something and burned himself down. He wouldn't say to Daggy, but he hated that guy. Real bad. Mr. I Can Come and Go As I Please. Screw him. Hope he burns his tongue on that Earl Grey and gets an infection. Teach him to run around hacking people up.

He started to turn away from the window then stopped when a metallic clang echoed through the building. His heart leapt and Daggy's eyes widened. "He's here," Daggy hissed.

In their excitement, they pushed and shoved to get down the stairs, Blades stumbling, Daggy catching a slap to the face. At the bottom, they crouched next to the stairs and listened, both suddenly giddy with anticipation.

Two months ago, a land surveyor made his way into the factory, and like they did with everyone, Blades and Daggy started messing with him, you know, making noises, poking him, things like that. Guy shit himself, ran out, and sped away in his truck spraying gravel and crying for his mother like a little diaper baby. A couple days later, he came back with reinforcements: Five pencil necks in orange vests and white hard hats. Blades and Daggy trailed them as he led them through the building, blabbering his story in a stammering rush. At one point, Blades knocked one's hat off, and Daggy kicked it across the floor.

You should have seen their faces; Blades had never seen grown men cry before, but he did that day...and it was actually a little disturbing.

Even more disturbing: Daggy picked up a dry turd that had slid out of one of the pipes and chucked it at their fleeing backs. It hit one and exploded like brown confetti.

Anyway, they came back with even more guys, and as they went through the building from top to bottom with flash lights (like you're really gonna find us), one talked into a little hand held walkie talkie thing to some slob named Danny the Gypsie. Apparently, he was some kind of ghost hunter or something and they were bringing him in to...Blades didn't know. Tell them to leave? Scold them for scaring people? Validate their parking? Hey, look, buddy, if I could blow this popsicle stand, I'd have done it sixty years ago.

Having people out here was like Christmas morning, and Blades and Daggy had been looking forward to Danny's visit for weeks. Now, the big day was at hand, and...are those approaching voices I hear?

Yes they are!

Another door clanged open, and the voices drew closer, three of them from the sounds of it. Blades held his breath and next to him, Daggy peeled his lips back from his teeth in the leering smile of a kiddie fiddler checking out his local playground. Oh yeah, swing it, little mama. A bright white flashlight beam touched the far wall, and Blade's heart leapt.

"...I sense a male presence," a light, airy voice said from the top of the stairs, "it's very angry. I'm actually a little frightened."

Daggy giggled and Blades rolled his eyes. Us? Angry? What's this guy talking about, we're not angry. Oh, and hey, wait, a male presence? There's two of us, genius. Unless you're not counting Daggy, in which case I agree, he's a pansy.

Footsteps slowly descended the stairs, and the beam grew bigger. Something beeped and whined like one of those radiation detecting doohickies, and the steps paused. "My indicators are off the charts. There's a little girl here too. She's afraid of the male."

Blades and Daggy exchanged a puzzled glance. Little girl? They both looked around as though a kid would magically appear (hahaha, took you long enough, now you hide), but the dank, cave-like basement stood empty.

In a flash, Blades understood. "This guy's full of shit," he whispered.

The footsteps started again, and three men appeared at the bottom, one holding a camera on his shoulder, another pointing a mic, and the third bent over a thingamabob in his hand. He was tall and thin with his brown hair pulled back in a bun and his feet clad in sandals...with socks.

"There are many spirits here. I sense them all around me. Let's try the EVP."

He shoved the detector into his pocket and pulled out a tiny something or other that looked like a transistor radio. He turned it on and tuned it, the soft crinkle of static breaking the quiet. Blades swatted Daggy's chest and nodded toward the guy, then walked over. He and Daggy stood on either side of him, craning over his shoulder to get a look at his so called spirit box. "That thing don't work, dipshit," Blades said, "congratulations, you spent two hundred dollars on a paperweight."

Daggy snickered. "Nice man bun, asshole."

He flicked it, and Danny jumped, eyes as big around as dinner plates. "Guys," he said in a tone of breathless terror, "something just touched my hair."

Blades and Daggy giggled. "Is that a vape pen in your pocket," Blades said, "or are you just happy to see us?"

"I sense a male presence," Daggy mocked, "he's real scary, guys, you gotta believe me."

"Honest," Blades added, "I really can talk to ghosts."

Danny walked around the room in a wide, stricken circle like a hipster whose PBR had just been carried off by a tornado. The cameraman followed and the other guy looked nervously around. Blades lifted his hand and wiggled his fingers in a taunting gesture.

Of course, mic guy didn't see him.

Being a ghost didn't come with instructions, but you eventually fumble ass backwards into knowledge if you keep trying. They could reveal themselves to people with a little grunting and straining. They couldn't see or hear them until they, Blades and Daggy, were ready. It's like how a .45 doesn't go off unless you pull the trigger (no matter what gun hating Democrats say). Blades brushed past the guy in a draft of cold air, and the guy shivered like a goose had just walked across his grave. Daggy followed with quick, mincing steps, his arms pumping back and forth like a hammy vaudevillian (Mam-mahhhhh!).

They caught up to Danny by the furnace. The man held the spirit box up and looked around. "If there are any spirits here who would like to talk, my name is Danny and I want to help you."

Stooping, Daggy picked up a fallen chunk of concrete and chucked it off into the gloom. It landed with a clatter, and Danny jolted, the spirit box shaking in his hand. Look at this schlub. How are you gonna go hunting ghosts then get all edgy when you find one? Blades had half a mind to slap the stupid out of him, but instead, he leaned in, looked at Daggy, and grinned. Cupping his hands to his mouth, he summoned all his energy, and in a rattling, ominous voice, said, "Get out."

Danny's face went white and Daggy doubled over in laughter, waving at Blades as if to stop him before he peed himself. "Did you guys hear that?" Danny asked.

The cameraman and the mic guy both looked at each other, terror written across their faces. Daggy stood up straight, wiped a tear from his face, and flashed a devious grin. Blades didn't know what his friend had up his sleeve, but he bet it was going to be good.

Bending forward like an actor taking a bow at curtain call, Daggy plucked the spirit box from Danny's hand. "Nice radio," he said, and from the look on Danny's face, he could hear him, "does it get WKBBL?"

The cameraman was the first to flee. He threw down his rig and bolted up the stairs, a miserable moan trailing behind him. The mic dick was next; he jumped, spun on his feet, and pounded after with a screech like a cat being rutted by a chainsaw. Danny was last, weeping and blubbering.

Blades grinned and held up his hand for a high five, but a strange gurgling noise stopped him. He turned just as the cameraman's body flew past him and crashed into the wall. It landed in a heap, and Blades blinked in surprise. His head had been cleaved in two and chunky brain mattered plopped wetly onto the floor. The mic guy screamed bloody murder, and Blades jerked his gaze to the stairs. Old Big, Dumb, and Bloodthirsty stood at the top, shoulders rising and falling in his savage bloodlust. The mic guy knelt before him, hands beseechingly up. Hockey Mask lifted the machete above his head, then brought it down, all but separating dude's skull. Blades winced and Daggy's face wrinkled in sympathy.

Jesus, it was '58 all over again. Blades went back to the feeling of cold, rusted metal sinking deep into his head meat, and a shiver raced down his spine.

Mic toppled to one side, and Hockey Mask kicked his old, quivering carcass out of the way. Danny let out a yelp, turned, and jumped off the steps, landing with a stumble. He ran toward the furnace, but it was a dead end. Hockey Mask advanced in the slow, leisurely way of a man out for a Sunday stroll. Danny, backed into a corner, fell to his knees and held his hands up. He cried, he begged, and he pleaded, but Hockey Mask was not swayed, no, not even in the slightest. He brought the machete up then dropped it as hard as he could. Danny's head fell off and rolled away like a grotesque football. It stopped at Blades' feet, mouth open, eyes wide, features contorted in horror.

Something happened then.

Blades got mad.

In 1958, this son of a bitch killed him and his best friend, and ever since, they'd been imprisoned in this fucking warehouse. They were both eighteen when it happened, their whole lives ahead of them - wives, kids, being drafted to fight in Vietnam and getting shot, voting for Ronald Reagan. Blades wanted to marry one day and have a kid or two, but noooo, this big, dead, dumb piece of shit killed him.

Rage came over him, and he kicked Danny's head away. He stalked over, balled his fist, and smashed it into Hockey Mask's chest. Hockey Mask froze and turned to him, head cocking quizzically to one side. "You can't see me, huh?" Blades asked. Hockey Mask went on staring. No, he couldn't.

Good.

Fisting his hand once more, he drew back his arm and let fly, hitting the killer in the chin. Hockey Mask staggered back, then reflexively brought the machete up and slashed at thin air. Daggy, hitherto watching apprehensively, came over and looked between the two. Throwing caution to the wind, he reared his leg back and kicked Hockey Mask in the shin.

The undead madman jerked left and right, his confusion palpable. He sliced the air, his blade whistling, but he struck nothing. Blades punched him in the guts, and Daggy kicked him in the prick. "How's it feel, you cocksucker?" Blades asked. "Huh? HUH?"

Hockey Mask turned 360 degrees, blindly cutting the air, and Daggy dropped to his hands and knees behind him. Blades shot out his arms and shoved the killer back; he stumbled, hit Daggy, and tripped, landing hard on his ass.

In an instant, they were on top of him, battering him with a flurry of kicks and punches, all of the anger and resentmnt they'd been holding in since their murder coming out in a torrent. Hockey Mask struggled to his feet and shambled away, panting fearfully. Blades and Daggy followed him all the way to the front door, throwing things at him, kicking him in the ass, and calling him names that no decent person would ever repeat outside of 4chan.

When he was gone, they caught their breaths; both were flush, panting, and crackling with energy. "You see that shit?" Blades asked and tossed the curl of hair from his face, "he's big and big until you fight back."

"Just like a bully."

Blades sighed. "Well, now…"

Something sounded behind them, and they turned.

Danny and his friends stood there, dazed and confused. "What happened?" Danny asked.

Blades and Daggy looked at each other, then to their new neighbors.

Having three extra people around made things more interesting, alright, but Blades couldn't help wishing one was a dame.

He really, really, really missed necking.