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Chapter 13 - Got Good at Creepy

It was just Clare, Zuma, and I when we drove back to the airport.

When Zuma lived in Germany, he was never really able to visit the states for longer than a week or two. Driving him to the airport became a mildly traumatizing activity, and it got to the point where a simple DoorDash delivery in the direction of an airport made my paws sweat a little. This time was worse. There was an argument waiting, lurking somewhere in the day’s itinerary, hiding by the sole merit of Clare riding in the car with us. I felt a tightness in my throat. I couldn’t help but talk about the weather, in order to stave off awkward silence. The skies were overcast, yet adamant on withholding any rain. My tail had reattached itself overnight, but a dull pain continued to throb as I sat on it.

“I need to pee. Thanks for the drive, Forseti.” Clare could sense the tension, and excused himself to the bathroom. Zuma and I kept our voices down; we were in a public place after all, regardless of how few animals were flying out of Marquette.

The puma spoke first. “So, why did you lie about the potion?”

I took a terse breath, collected my thoughts, and started, “Part of it was because I didn’t want Clare to bring me to New England and abandon Florence. Part of it was because Touchstone really wanted to not rat out- y’know, his friend. And part of it was-” I gulped, “Because you’re right, I hate confrontation, and I wanted to push this whole situation to the future and just not deal with it.”

“You are aware that the Teleraine Academy might have excommunicated me for this? And that I’d have to go back to Germany, right?”

“I did, but I didn’t think it would be a problem before we could figure it out.”

“You need to think about these things, I just-” He sighed, as if emotional pressure was released by a valve, “I’m glad that you let me know when I asked, at least. If Clare- Or, the Adacaius found out first, or if I didn’t have the sachet for Xianne’s Ward on me, this would have gone entirely different.”

My memory flashed back to yesterday. Touchstone apparently gave my manuscript to the puma to read, and when he saw that it was the two of us behind the potion-brewing, he came to confront me. It was sheer bad luck that Clare’s temper tantrum ended at that moment, but a faint, glimmering hope was kindled by the fact that I decided to come clean mere seconds before, Touchstone be damned.

“I saw in your book- You brewed the potion!” grumbled the Puma with the intensity of an earthquake. I cut him off as soon as I heard Clare shouting at himself outside the greenhouse.

“Puma, please, just one sec’. Touchstone is an idiot. I’ll explain everything as soon as possible. Clare can’t know right now. I need you to trust me.” I knew I couldn’t trust Clare. I saw in the Record that he wasn’t himself. He was possessed. The desperation in my voice was far from a demonstration of mummery. Zuma inhaled sharply through his nose, but ultimately ended up convinced.

“I trust you.” He then grasped at his pocket, brought the cloth sack to his forehead, and whispered, “Pi-weiye Yiushiou.” Zuma had planned on needing to resist psychic influences for this trip.

But it wouldn’t work out. The pine marten had heard too much. “Clare doesn’t need to know what, exactly” shouted the pine marten, with earthquake aftershocks that dwarfed the puma’s intensity. He had eavesdropped at the worst possible moment.

“Fuck, Fuck. Zuma, you have to fake the Imbound.” I pleaded in a whisper.

“Sure thing, hun.”

Everything played out alright, but it shouldn’t have. I was a complete fool for not confiding in my husband sooner, and even despite all of that, I felt the urge to bring up the blackbird once more in an attempt to explain myself.

“Touchstone didn’t think you would keep it secret.”

“Well, Touchstone was wrong. Don’t try to convince me it was all his fault. You had just as much agency here.”

He was totally right. “Yeah, I know.”

The cat sighed, “I don’t want to be mad at you- You know, before I fly out and leave for many months- But I’m not- I know that this is all a shitty situation for you too, in terms of bad luck, and I know that the Teleraine Academy would want to question you, but they’re not fascists. They’d at least have let you bring Florence with you, it’s not like we don’t have Fangdyne Tystwoles in New England.”

I nodded. “If Clare tells the Deans about us after all, we’ll go ASAP. And I’ll bring Florence-”

“Don’t try to fix the problem. It’s already fixed.”

I reached towards the puma’s paw. “Then I’ll make sure it never happens again, I promise.”

Zuma went in for a hug. “I love you a lot, fox.”

“I love you a bunch too, kitty.”

“You’re such an idiot.” Zuma meant that lovingly. He let go of the hug, “But I can understand why you’re stressed out lately. The Archlitch is probably the most horrifying thing you’ve ever gone up against, if not the- Y’know, Oigd’y- I’m not going to try and pronounce it.” a blade enters the chest easier when there’s a blade in your back.

“Gods, yeah, Archlitch feels more personal.”

“You’re telling Florence about it when you get home, right?”

“One-hundred percent, yes.”

“You better. I’m honestly still more mad at you that you haven’t told her than I was about the potion.” He rubbed my shoulder gently. “And you’re going to look into the Oigd- That thing, like Sappha said?”

“Fuck Sappha, but yeah, I’ll do that.”

“You better.” I spied Clare, lingering in the hallway to the men’s restroom, eyeing us with the uncertain look of a man watching someone throwing up in public. I waved my arms, signaling that he could join us once more. Zuma kept talking, “I wish there was, like, a McDonald’s or something here.”

“They got the Northern Michigan University sponsored concession stand.” I pointed awkwardly.

“Is that supposed to mean something- I don’t get your bits-”

“No, it’s like- No, it’s weird because I don’t know why a university would sponsor an airport concession stand.”

“I could go for a coffee,” piped up the pine marten.

“I’m sure you would,” mocked Zuma.

The next day, I finally got good at Creepy.

I’d been working on the spell for half of a year, and just after lunch, I finally cracked it. Creepy is a tricky spell to classify, but it is favored among illusionists more than other sorts of witches. Zuma never learned Creepy, but his skill at illusions inspired me to actually finally get good at it myself. Not that I knew any other illusion spells or anything.

The spell is cast silently. It requires no reagents. It allows you to take on the sort of presence one might associate with a ghost. Animals are unable to focus on your shape, let alone make out any details of your appearance. You don’t become invisible, but you almost look blurry. Some see you as transparent. Animals don’t see you walking. They see you floating across the floor instead. The space you occupy takes on a sudden chill. Electronic equipment starts to get on the fritz. A creeping, unnameable sense of dread hangs over everyone like a fog.

It’s not a particularly useful spell, unless you wanted to prank a bunch of people.

Considering the fact that she was actively being pursued by a ghost-like entity, I decided to not choose Florence as my first victim. The temptation stuck into me like an errant fishhook, especially considering that the vixen had slept until two in the afternoon, but I instead decided to cast it quietly alone and watch the lamps flicker and lit candles blow out on their own. Touchstone had watched me practice all morning, so he was out of the question too.

The three of us sat upon my musty, old couch, eating another hastily put-together stir fry and watching a YouTube video at Florence’s request, where some comedicaly savvy husky was critiquing a TikTok trend where animals were putting flavored syrup in water and convincing themselves it was a health fad. “I think I want to try it out on Hawthorn first, keep it within the friend circle.”

“Bit of a dick move,” crooned Touchstone, “He saved our lives yesterday.”

“I think we’ve all collectively saved each other’s lives enough to lose prank immunity.”

“I really- I truly hate that I’m the animal that asks for context every other minute,” started Florence, “Why would you learn that spell over… well, any other spell?”

“It’s for the bit.” I do most things for the bit.

Florence persisted, flattening her pointed ears. “But, I mean… You could learn the sort of magic that puts an animal to sleep, or, I don’t know if it exists, but transmute stone into gold or something.” She then slurped up some noodles, and persisted once more, “You said that you spent half a year practicing this one?”

Instead of offering a counter-argument, I whined. “Florence, Creepy is so cool, don’t be a hater.”

“There are probably a dozen spells that would have been useful against that massive thing from yesterday.”

“Touchstone,” who was sitting in between the other fox and I, “Hit Florence’s shoulder, she’s being a hater.”

The blackbird very obviously ignored my request, but nonetheless came to my defense verbally, “Fighting isn’t all that there is to magic, Florence. Forseti’s seeing to his own pleasure.”

“OK,” the vixen started scratching at the fur on her chin, “So, Forseti, activate the spell, or- You know, whatever the verb is.”

“Sure thing,” I responded. I closed my eyes, and focused on the Creepy. A chill noticeably crept down my spine, and I felt my body surrender to the nature of the spell. The mystery of the power’s origin lingered at the back of my mind, and I ignored it. The lamp flickered once more, a wintery nip kissed the air of the living room, and the YouTube video started to buffer a little. A few seconds later, I released the spell, opened my eyes, and all was normal once more.

“See?” started Florence. “That doesn’t accomplish anything. Who came up with that spell?”

“Nah, Florence, what if you need to use the bathroom and you wanna pause the video but you can’t find the remote?”

“You’re absolutely baffling, Forseti.” She had given up on arguing.

“I have fun. I relish life.”

“Here’s to that,” cheered Touchstone in his dulcet, soothing tones. He then took a hit of the blunt cradled between the digits of his wing-paws. For being a beak-bearing bird, he had no difficulty smoking if he rolled the blunt with paper.

The first victim was Hawthorn.

The one-eyed wolf, like me, lived far from Marquette’s downtown district. Unlike me, he actually lived in a log cabin, whereas I live in a normal ranch-style house and call it a cabin because it’s in the woods. While it was kept very clean, and decorated with a noticeable, flannel, deer-print lumberjack flare, it was a small little building. He smashed the concept of a bedroom and a living room together, and used his twin-sized bed as a couch whenever watching television. A dresser basically commandeered the back wall entirely. The other half of the cabin fit a quaint little kitchenette and a small little dining table next to one of the cabin’s only windows. One half of the tiny table was technically the wolf’s office, considering the fact that his laptop took up half the space while also holding the entirety of the Mracksiogne’s writings. The wolf actually, literally had his bathroom in another building outside, though it wasn’t a mere, 19th-century outhouse. It was an actual bathroom with a shower and sink and everything. I even think there was a sauna. The whole thing was abysmal to walk from with wet fur during winter, either way.

Hawthorn would hear my car coming from a mile away. So I parked a mile away, and made the moonlit trek along the side of a pitiful dirt road. I was actually uncertain as to the legality of driving on the road, it held the certain je ne sais quoi of a standard hiking trail. The air was humid while also remaining quite chilly, and I felt the fungal presence within me yearn to sprout fruiting mushrooms in order to complete the reproductive cycle. I definitely shivered, though I was wearing my lighter jacket that evening. I justified the poor choice of clothing due to the fact that the jacket was pitch black, and easy to sneak around in, unlike my heavier polyester winter coat. I knew I was going to need to mask my scent, though, so as soon as I found a spot on the road where dirt turned into mud, I rolled around in it for a while. It was a tip I picked up from my Earth Magic friend.

As soon as I caught a glimpse of the light of Hawthorn’s cabin, I closed my eyes and began to cast Creepy. It brings on a different effect when cast outdoors, though not entirely dissimilar. It’s hard to feel a cold chill when you’re already walking through the cold night, but the harrowing feeling that something is watching you from the dark of a forest is not too far from the feeling you get when you suspect you might not be home alone.

Slowly, patiently, and methodically, I crept along the treeline, just outside of the front window’s frame, until I made it behind the cabin successfully. I could look into the cabin’s back window and see Hawthorn typing away at his computer. He was wearing nothing but a white tank top and an eyepatch. I had my mark.

I snuck closer to the building, and the lights started to flicker. I waited patiently at the edge of the shadow to see if I could muster any response from the wolf. It took about ten seconds for Hawthorn to notice, cock his head to the side in the quizzical manner usually associated with dogs, and strided over to his kitchenette to pull a brand new lightbulb. Even after he replaced it, the lights continued to dim sporadically, but Hawthorn shrugged, sitting back at his computer and deciding that the issue wasn’t worth focusing on.

I had to kick things up a notch. I plastered a wide and distorted smile across my muzzle and opened my eyes wide. I was a mere hindpaw away from the window, when I quickened my pace, shoving my face against the glass.

Hawthorn didn’t look at me. He picked up his laptop, seemingly checking to see if it was overheating, for oxymoronically, it had started to freeze up. “Oh no,” spoke the wolf in the muted tones of someone on the other end of a wall. I continued to press my face into the glass, desperate for the lupine to pry his attention away from the technical difficulties, but he was adamant about finding the root of the malfunction. I waited for an entire minute, watching, waiting, and then, finally, Hawthorn turned to look at me.

“Oh, hi, Foresti,” said Hawthorn, without an ounce of fear. “What’s up? Or, um, come on in.”

“Hi, Hawthorn,” I spoke in a flat tone, trying to hide my disappointment. “What’s up?”

“You should, um, you should- It’s kind of weird talking to you through a window. It’s hard to hear you.”

“For sure,” I slowly marched towards the front door, unsummoning the effects of Creepy along the way. My paws tread with the heavy weight of someone who failed at executing a prank.

“Oh, good! My laptop works again,” I heard the Mracksionge cheer right after he opened his door. “Gods, I almost lost- Well, somewhere around three hours of writing, I was about to not be happy.”

I gulped, “Oh, damn, uh- Yeah, glad that didn’t happen.” I called upon my training at college to not act bashful, despite a sense of guilt clenching my throat.

“What’s up, Forseti? Is something up? Clare and Zuma are back at the Academy, right?”

“Yeah, yeah, they got home safe last night. No Adacai tonight, promise. I was, um, just stopping by.”

“Want me to put on some coffee?”

“Actually, yes, I would love that.” I am physically unable to resist a cup of coffee whenever anyone asked me about one, regardless of the time of day.

Hawthorn put the laptop on his chair and filled a plain, silver kettle with water. “Oh, hey, you got a, um, glow-in-the-dark mushroom growing through the fur on your neck.” I then saw him pull a large glass filled with instant coffee crystals, and cursed my fate as someone who was going to have to drink instant coffee.

I sort of lingered in the doorway awkwardly, “Oh yeah, that must have grown in on the walk over, it’s the ideal weather for it.”

“You walked over?” I shocked the wolf enough to pause his activity a little.

“Well, not- Not from my house, but from- No, I didn’t walk, like, a bunch of miles today, I promise.”

“Just a midnight stroll, then?”

I decided to rip through the thin veneer of awkwardness, “Hawthorn, I was trying to prank you. I was casting Creepy.”

Without any sense of surprise, disappointment, or emotional catharsis whatsoever, Hawthorn nodded and said, “Oh, that makes sense. I was having computer issues. You got me.” It did not feel like I got him.

Feeling foolish, I slowly eased into my next sentence, “Yeah… um, yeah, no, I got good at Creepy.”

“The illusion spell, right?”

“Yep.”

“That’s cool, yeah. It works really well. I didn’t even see you for a bit.”

I scratched Hawthorn from the list of beasts it would be fun to prank.

“Yeah, thank you, I mean, Zuma was in town, and showing me illusion stuff, and I decided to take a crack at Creepy again. I hadn’t practiced in a while.”

With a sudden onslaught of panic, Hawthorn fumbled with a metal camping mug, nearly dropping it, and then using it to cover his sheath and balls. He then shouted, “Oh, my goodness, Forseti, I am so sorry, I completely forgot to put on pants!”

I couldn’t suppress a little chortle. “Hawthorn, it’s fine, we’ve hooked up before.” The wolf was not only a very close friend, but also a friend with benefits, quite comfortable with Zuma and I’s openness. Not that the wolf and I had gotten together sexually for a few months, our schedules didn’t line up.

“Well, yeah, but it’s- It’s not courteous. You’re a guest.”

“Hawthorn, I snuck up on you for a prank.” The wolf tripped on his way over to the dresser, before frantically digging out a wide pair of green-and-blue plaid pajama pants.

“Still, you’re a guest.”

“You don’t have to put on- It’s fine.” The wolf dressed himself. I wasn’t going to insist he stay naked just for the sake of feeling comfortable in nudity.

“So, um, did you try it with Touch or Florence yet?”

“Nah, Touch kind of watched me practice all morning, and Florence sort of sleeps in, like, way too much.” I didn’t feel like bringing up the Archlitch.

“Do you have anyone else in mind?”

“Well, as a matter of fact…”

The second victim was Lavitia.

It was perfect. Esu’s kind of dons this Roaring Twenties vibe that’s absolutely begging to be haunted by some rumrunner or bootlegger. I’d have a bit of an audience, too; not just one animal with whom I’d have to awkwardly handle the post-prank fallout with. I could even park in the parking lot and not draw any unwanted attention.

I also showered at Hawthorn’s in order to get the mud off of me before appearing in public, I promise. My fur was wet during the walk to my car, and it was very unpleasant.

I got out of my car and paced towards the treeline, making certain that no animal spotted me sneaking around. The barn that held Esu’s had a backdoor, leading to the store room and behind-the-bar area. I would cast Creepy as soon as I opened the door.

I closed my eyes, allowed the strange magic to take a hold of me, and turned the doorknob. It dawned on me that Lavitia may have kept the back door locked sometimes, but I was lucky to find it unlocked on this night.

The comforting smell of wooden furniture and delicious drinks fell upon my palate, and the jovial drone of a well-attended bar breached my vulpine ears. The old, wooden door creaked as I opened it, but it wasn’t loud enough to hear over the sounds of the bar. I was in the clear.

I crept down the hallway, keeping my paws on a long, red carpet in order to keep my steps quiet. Even in the hallway behind the bar, Lavitia decorated the space with antique, brass kerosene lanterns refitted to hold an electrical current, though to be fair, there was also a bathroom down this hallway. The antique lamps flickered as I floated beside them. The air took on a noticeable chill.

And then, the impala bartender stepped right at the threshold to the bar and noticed me immediately. She was wearing a tight, deep purple business jacket over bell-bottom jeans, and stood in a wide stance, as if to block the entrance to the bar. “Forseti, what the hell are you doing casting Creepy in my bar?”

I was stopped in my tracks. “Wait, how did-”

“How did I know? I’m literally an exorcist, fox. I am intimately familiar with how Creepy works.”

That made complete sense. “OK, so I didn’t think this through-”

“You don’t think, period.” Old Man Willoughby materialized right next to me in his spectral, Mennonite-looking garb and actively got me to yelp in surprise. Lavitia started cackling.

“H-Hi, Willoughby,” I stammered, not really expecting a response. The bear ghost wasn’t one to chat. He just floated there and stared at me, grimacing. It may have been rude to impersonate a ghost in front of an actual ghost, and I didn’t think about that until just then.

“Wait, let me get this straight- You were trying to prank me- an exorcist, mind you- By pretending to be a ghost, and got startled by an actual ghost within five seconds of trying to prank me?” The impala actually fell to the floor mid-laugh. A rat Awngaimene by the name of Alabaster; character traits include that he works second shift at a textile plant and enjoys drawing manga-style comics. approached from behind and also started making fun of me. “Oh hey, everyone, Forseti’s trying to prank us!”

“I literally just got good at this today, I didn’t think through the details of the prank-”

Alabaster continued to make fun of me. “Oh, no, look! It’s the G’hialgiange!” A roar of laughter erupted from the main room.

“I promise I know what the G’hialgiange looks like!” I grumbled, making my way to the bar.

“You want a drink, fox?” asked Lavitia as I made my way to her.

“Nah, I drove here.”

“Want a pop or- Why do you smell like weed if you drove?”

“Touchstone was smoking near me. I didn’t have any. I would take a ginger ale though.”

“OK, that’s good.” Business at Esu’s was very solid that evening. There were a dozen Awngaimene about, enjoying their evening. I think Mulgywai Fons and Mulgywai Entwinner were enjoying a few beers, but nobody else who had any lines of dialogue in this book so far was in attendance. Fons and Entwinner did, indeed, wave at me.

I sat at the bar. I took Alabaster’s seat, though it was at no real inconvenience; he was mostly waiting for Lavitia to finish crafting a few beverages for his buddies at another table, before carrying them over on a platter himself. It was just the bovine bartender and I at the bar, despite the pub’s hefty business that evening.

Lavitia gracefully filled a glass to the rim with ice and ginger ale, and continued her interrogation. “At least tell me that I wasn’t the first mark for your prank.”

“Nah, I went after Hawthorn first, but it didn’t work because- I don’t know, I can’t really describe it well. It’s hard to get a rise out of him.”

“That’s a relief, either way. Helps me retain at least a little respect for you.”

“I appreciate it, Lavitia.” I sipped my soda cooly, and then started coughing, because ginger ale makes me cough. “Excuse me.” I cleared my throat. “Actually, you know what?”

“What?” spoke the impala flatly. She spoke without looking up from her activity, which was wiping down glasses with a rag.

“I think you always have an association with ghosts in my head, and that’s why I decided to come here. In hindsight, it was stupid-”

“Hindsight, foresight, sight…”

I ignored her. “But yeah, you’re the ghost girl.”

That got a bit of a laugh out of Lavitia. “I s’pose I am the ghost girl. It’s been a while since I’d gotten involved with anything particularly haunted in Marquette; y’know, outside of Willoughby and Foulgydan Grace.”

Grace the Deathless was another one of Marqutte’s Foulgydan, a necromancer who achieved quote-unquote “immortality” by ripping her soul from her body and spending eternity as a non-demented ghost, forever bound to her mansion. Her body actually became a person unto herself, because Grace’s brain was intact, and now both Foulgydans live together in a mansion.

“I was gonna ask, did you ever come across, like, Archlitch rumors or anything?”

“Nah, as far as I can remember, that was always just some…” She waved her arms around, glass-in-paw, searching for the right word, “-cataclysmic ghost story. No exorcist ever took that legend seriously.” She stopped drying the dishes and stared into space pensively. “It makes me nervous that we were wrong.”

“Yeah, I’m kind of not particularly happy about it.”

“Just make sure you keep me a couple miles away if it starts chasing after you again. This place isn’t exactly insured.”

I chuckled a little, “I don’t know, Lavitia, I kind of wanna get drunk for the next encounter.”

“You have booze at home.”

“You think you’d have the ability to exorcise something like the Archlitch?”

This comment summoned a full-bodied chuckle from the Awngaimene bartender, despite the question being earnest. It wasn’t as if I was familiar with any of the entity’s lore, despite having come face-to-face with it. “If it’s anything like the legends, no, I’d be dead in seconds.”

“You’re, like, the coolest exorcist I know. That makes me nervous.”

I failed to notice Old Man Willoughby materialize on the velvet barstool to my left, but this time, I didn’t yelp like a feral fox upon noticing him. “Oh, hey, Willoughby. You have any ghostly advice?”

A noticeable chill ran down my spine; the effects of a ghost simply existing in a space. I ignored it. The spectral ursine figure simply stared at me for a few moments, existing in a manner that made it difficult to focus on any specific details on his face. Then, after a few seconds, he spoke, in a low, rumbling growl. “No.”

I nodded deeply, then barreled through the conversational topics to ask an unrelated question, “Did I scare you earlier?”

Another long pause, followed by another rumbling answer, “No.”

“Dammit.”

Lavitia started chuckling again, “You got another target in mind this evening?”

“Well, as a matter of fact…”

The third victim was Marianne. It was actually my worst idea so far.

I finished my drink, paid my tab, felt the full derision of Lavitia’s mockery upon letting her know that the Sphynx was next on my list, and drove home. I did poke my head in the living room a little. A visible cloud of weed smoke floated lazily out the front door as soon as I opened it. It looked as though Touchstone and Florence were enjoying themselves. The two animals were huddled under an old quilt, watching the same YouTube channel as earlier. But through their debilitated mental state, I had to confirm a few things with the vixen. “Hey gang, how’s it going?”

The arctic fox was the first to answer, “Like, TikTok is so weird.”

“Yeah, TikTok’s so weird. Marianne’s home right now, right?”

Florence squinted at me, as though I were an actual Sphinx, asking an ancient riddle, then registered the question. “Oh, yeah, certainly. I think that Chicago trip was the only time I ever saw her leave the house. And I’m definitely her apprentice.”

“Good, and she’s not expecting anyone?”

This time, the avian thief answered, “I’m supposed to come over in a few days, so Alicent can finish the treatment.”

I nodded, accepting that I was talking to high people, “For sure, but she’s not expecting anyone tonight?”

Florence rubbed at her chin like a philosopher, and then declared, “No.”

“Perfect, I’ll be right back.” And with an absurd amount of confidence, I strode towards the mostly-unused closet near my room that served as the vessel for the teleporting Temporal Key. I took a deep breath, twisted the door handle, and opened it. The humid, muggy air of the Bayou flooded into the chillier hallway of an Upper Peninsula home. I was curious as to why Touchstone and Florence didn’t turn the heat on, but I imagined it had to do with a sense of not wanting to leave the couch. As quiet as I possibly could, I tip-toed into the hallway of Marianne’s home, and gently pushed the door shut so as to prevent it from squeaking. Before the door shut, I could hear Touchstone critique me, “Forseti, I can hear you from here-” The door was closed I could hear any more of his expert opinion.

I closed my eyes, and silently cast Creepy.

It didn’t help that the hallway in which I stepped into was completely unlit. The feline Foulgydan did not have a habit of turning the lights on at night, even if she was actively in the room, so I used this to my advantage. I also had the benefit of being a fox, and could see better in darkness than most animals. It didn’t take me long to realize that I was in the barren back hallway on the first floor. The rooms connected to these doors were knocked down in order to build the Sphynx’s magical lab, but she kept up both of the doors in order to use her Temporal Keys; if one were to open the door without a key, it would just lead to a brick wall. The hallway had a long, green antique rug, but completely lacked any other form of decoration. I crept along the wall, heading left, and rounded the corner. I knew this was the way to get to the proper door to the cat’s lab.

Though no light shined from under the doorway, I could make out voices from the other side of the wall. I knew that Marianne was working there. The hot, southern air was quickly replaced with the chilly touch of the Creepy spell, and I even managed to get the house to settle a little, leading to a few uncanny knocking noises. I pressed my vulpine ears to the wooden door and eavesdropped a bit, to see if Marianne had noticed. My heart leapt up in my breast when I realized that the spell worked a little too well.

“Do you feel that?” snapped Marianne.

Palais the gargoyle happened to also be in the room; it seemed as though the two were conversing before my intrusion. “Do you sense something wrong?”

“God-fucking-dammit, it can’t be here. That’s impossible.” I didn’t clock what she was talking about at that moment. I was only focused on her voice getting louder, indicating that she was marching towards the door. I scattered to the lounge in order to get out of sight by the time the door was flung open. The faint flickering of candlelight lit her silhouette, and Marianne cast a particularly jarring shadow that draped itself menacingly over the room. I was lucky that she merely remained in the doorway.

“What is it, my love?” asked the gargoyle, “You didn’t put the key in-”

“Of course I didn’t fucking put the key in the- in the fucking hole. But something’s in the house though, I feel it.” She was talking at full volume intentionally, so that anyone within earshot would know that the cat was onto them. “I’m not taking any chances.”

“You don’t mean-”

“Palais, stand back.”

It was a scene straight from a horror movie. Marianne’s shadow started to twist and distort. The sounds of ripping fabric was heard over the sounds of bones creaking, and the shadow’s back started to extend upward. I slunk down slowly, so that I could crawl quietly on all-fours towards the kitchen. But by the time I reached the other room, I heard the cat erupt with an ear-shattering scream. The scream started normal enough, if a scream could be called normal, but it, too, started to distort, finding itself taking on a bassier, more guttural tone.

Though I’d never seen it in person, I knew what was going on.

I took the moment to dash towards the room behind the kitchen; a sizable dining room that led to a conservatory. I scanned the space for places to hide, and cursed the feline Foulgydan for having a minimalist approach to furniture. There was only the table, a few chairs, and a few stands here and there, but then I spotted it; the pantry. I scrambled over to the closet-sized door, opened it as silently as possible, and clammored inside. Most of the food items were preserved and packaged, but I had a faint glimmer of hope that they would still cover up my scent.

Then, I waited. Heavy pawsteps were heard, causing the old wooden floorboards to creak. Something massive was prowling through the house. It started on the ground floor, and though its trajectory led further away from me at first, it started to creep louder and louder after a few minutes. I hid behind what looked to be a huge burlap sack of rice, and covered myself with an old, red tablecloth that I spotted in the corner. The treading sounds crept closer, and closer, and closer, and within seconds, I could hear that the entity was in the lounge, then the kitchen, then the dining room.

And then, it stopped moving.

No part of my rattled brain could keep track of the time. The presence may have only been there for ten or so seconds, but some aching part of my consciousness felt as though it stood there for hours. I held my breath, and had to keep it held to the point where my lungs started to burn. I gripped what felt like a loose potato in order to exert some of the tension. And then, after an eternity, the being crept away, towards the conservatory.

I wasn’t about to make my dash for the door just yet, though. I took Touchstone’s old advice about being stealthy, and wordlessly counted to sixty before even daring to stand up once more. From what I could tell, the entity kept moving further away, until the point where I couldn’t even hear it anymore. I imagined it had either started to check the yard, or the barn in which the menagerie was held. I counted to sixty, but still decided to err on the side of caution, treading lightly and carefully, so as not to create any additional noises. I also didn’t even register that I forgot to unsummon Creepy until I found myself at the pantry door, and cursed myself for losing my wits. Though perhaps my obscured presence had at that moment saved my life. I couldn’t tell.

I stepped into the dining room, and walked along the area’s perimeter walls, in order to mitigate the floor’s groaning. I stealthily crept towards the old, barren hallway. I had to make my way back to Michigan, and decided that I’d just text Marianne in a few hours, after this whole situation subsided. I even considered taking the temporal key out of my door for a few hours, just to be on the safe side.

I managed to sneak into the kitchen, and then the hallway, without having any difficulty, and within seconds, I found myself at the door once more. I twisted the knob and flung the door open, acting recklessly now that I knew I was a mere moment away from safety.

I ran face-first into a brick wall.

I found myself stunned for a few seconds, and then felt a slow, aching agony worm itself on the top of my head, where it had slammed into the bricks. It took me a few seconds before I could gather myself and realize that the temporal key was no longer in the keyhole. I could also hear steps once more, coming from upstairs. I didn’t have time to be careful anymore.

I ripped my phone from my pocket and turned on the flashlight, probing the wooden floors for the key that I imagined was knocked to the floor. I frantically searched on my paws and knees, and found no success as the steps started descending the staircase. And then, I spotted it. The key wasn’t on the floor. It was tied to a piece of string, and hung from a nail in the wall. I ripped the key from its spot, jammed it into the keyhole, and flung the door wide, thankful to find more than a mere wall beyond the doorway.

But I didn’t end up in my hallway. I wasn’t in my own home. I was in a dark, cold room that smelled of rot. Of spoiled food and spoiled corpses. The room was so quiet that I almost went into shock. But I wasn’t in some old haunted house, I was in a modern home. Though I couldn’t even hear the dull hum of an electrical current, I could hear cars driving down the block, not too far from the building. In my disorientation, I couldn’t register that something was wrong.

Until I started to see a shape stand up from what looked like a couch, and start moving towards me. It wasn’t a large shape, and in fact, I would hazard to say that it was almost exactly my height and weight, but then my eyes adjusted. It was the shape of a fox. And unlike me, it had lighter, almost white-colored fur.

And then it hit me. I was staring at Mary Johannson’s body.

In my daze, I didn’t even shut the door behind me, which turned out to be an incredible boon, because the Archlitch telekinetically slammed the door into my shoulder painfully. It would have shut if I wasn’t standing in the doorway, dumbfounded. I darted back into Marianne’s home, slammed the door myself, and thrust the temporal key from its keyhole.

I was a panting, terrified mess of a fox, and didn’t even notice Palais standing at my side. “Forseti, what are you doing here?”

“Palais, what was that-”

“There’s no time. Madame has shifted. You have to get home.”

“Why did Marianne-”

“Forseti, there’s no time.”

The gargoyle ushered me to another door to the right of the door that led to Chicago. It was, indeed, the door that I first came through, and I failed to remember which door was correct as I made my mistake. Thankfully, the teleporting key remained in this door’s keyhole, and Palais flung the door open before pushing me inside. I found myself once more in the comfort of my own home, but Palais stayed behind. “Palais, please explain-”

“All will be explained tomorrow, Forseti. Madame Marianne was planning on meeting up with you anyway, regarding the Fungal Entity. But for now, please, take the key out of your own door, and let me coax her back to her more mundane state, please.”

Though his words hinted at desperation, the grotesque spoke in a calm, authoritative manner. I didn’t feel as though he wanted to withhold information from me maliciously, and that he genuinely wanted to ease this situation back to normality, so I trusted him.

If I didn’t know Marianne better, no part of me would trust the fact that she was apparently hiding direct access to the Archlitch.

“OK, Palais, I trust you.”

But Palais wasn’t looking to apologize. He was looking for an apology. The gargoyle shot me a dirty look of disappointment, which didn’t really register on his objectively ugly, chimeric face, but was easier to pick up on with the tone of his voice. “Don’t sneak around here ever again, Forseti. Until we meet tomorrow.”

And with that, he shut the door gently.

I took the temporal key out of the keyhole and placed it in my pocket.

“So, how did it go?” asked Florence from the other room, innocently.

Considering the fact that the two animals were smoking weed, discussing the events of the past few minutes in detail seemed like a horrible idea. So I buried the truth a little, “Uh, Marianne’s a little mad at me, but I didn’t die!”

“There’s no way you scared her, right?” asked the vixen through a light-hearted giggle.

“I think, um, I think she’s a little scared, yeah, ‘cause why else would she be mad at me?”

Touchstone then chimed in as I made my way to the living room, “That is a very, very dubious claim, my friend.” I sat down on the couch next to the black-feathered songbird and pointed to the blunt that was still smoldering in the ashtray. “May I?”

“By all means.” I took a hit and let sweet euphoria ease my frayed, tattered nerves, but Touchstone went on, “Wait, didn’t you say you were considering pranking Sappha? Wouldn’t you need to drive for that?”

I stared blankly at the ceiling and mentally fished for an excuse. “I don’t know, man, it’s, like, two in the morning. She’s probably asleep. That’d be too much of a dick move, even for Sappha.” I stared at my TV, and saw that we were now watching Bluey, the feel-good Australian canine family sitcom from the nineties.

“Wait,” persisted the bird, “You’re giving up on pranking animals tonight?”

“Yeah, I guess I’m giving up tonight.” I let the couch swallow me whole.

“Shame that you spent half a year on this for it to lead to naught.”

Florence gently slapped the blackbird on his shoulder, shouting loudly, “That’s what I’ve been saying, complete waste of time.”

“Oh my God,” I grumbled, “Let me have just this one thing.”