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The Pasley Brothers in: The Curse of the Cringy Crypt

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If you ever took a trip to the town of Wynthrope, South Dakota, you'd see a lot of Halloween decorations lying around no matter the time of year. Any road you come in through will be decorated with cheap plastic pumpkins, fake cobwebs (now with less asbestos), and one of those 12ft skeletons you can buy at Home Depot. His name is Bonesly, in case you were wondering.

You might think it's like Disney's Halloweentown on a Dollar Tree budget -- and you'd be right -- but ask any of the residents, and they would say it's like living at Disney World. Everything is on theme, from the restaurants to the dog parks. Costumes are always encouraged, so there's no shortage of corgis in little white sheets. And as you reach the town center, you'll find a large wood-carved sign that reads:

"Welcome to Wynthrope!! Home of The Cranky Crypt!!! Enter if you dare!!!!!!"

Yes, the sign has that exact amount of exclamation points. Like the rest of the town, The Crypt is an Instagram tourist trap, but it's beloved nonetheless. Unless, of course, you were a Pasley...

The Pasley Brothers hated Halloween. And therefore, they hated Wynthrope.

So it would surprise any Wycanthrope -- as the residents were called, exclusively by themselves -- to find the brothers, Max and Clarke, walking through the backwoods in the middle of the night, headed straight for The Cranky Crypt.

"More like Cringy Crypt," Clarke chortled quietly at his truly brilliant play on words. He flipped open the map-brochure in his hand and let his flashlight illuminate the page. There it was, plain as day -- this evening's entertainment.

Of all the cheap attractions scattered about town, The Crypt was the most well-known and therefore the most profitable. It was Wynthrope's best attempt at a local haunted house, a reputation solidified when The Crypt was featured in "Ghost Grabbers: The Series." Legend says that a murder happened within its walls, but neither victim nor assailant was ever found. Only a dull knife was left in the cellar door, scratches carved into the wooden frame. Talk about spooky! And definitely not planted!

Unfortunately, any real specters who may have live in the house were likely scared off by the tacky string lights and skull-filled wallpaper that now lined the halls. The Crypt had been milked for all its worth, as the legitimately off-putting emptiness was filled with cheap, gimmicky scares. With only two floors of frights -- one of which was the gift shop -- it was a few stories short of a real haunted mansion. But again, it was beloved.

Save for Clarke, who was carefully examining the map in his hands as he finalized their game plan. Their devious game plan! Their brilliantly devious prankster plan, orchestrated by Clarke Pasley, the brilliant deviant prankster! Suck it, Wynthrope! Unfortunately, his concentration was soured by a grunt of pain behind him.

His head whipped around. "Max, shut it!"

The younger-by-a-year brother pushed away some branches away with his equally wooden bat. "Sorry, a twig scrapped my arm." He rubbed at his bare shoulder to check for a scratch. The last thing they needed was to leave a trail behind for the bloodhounds. The bloodhounds in little white sheets.

The older-and-far-more-clever brother gave him the usual over-the-shoulder side-eye. "I said to wear something with sleeves. We're not going to the lake, you know?" This rhetorical probe was a clear dig at his sibling's overall fashion sense, not simply this evening's attire.

As if he was born seaside, Max Pasley was a blonde-brunette that was apparently allergic to sleeves and closed-toe shoes. Even to sneak through the woods, he'd chosen a teal tank-top and matching board shorts. At least it wasn't that hot salmon pair he yanked off a stand yesterday at the flea market. The color would've stood out starkly in the dark, as well as made Clarke incredibly nauseas when looking at it.

The substantially more mature and cunning sibling had dressed for the occasion with a dark grey sweater and jeans to hide in the low light. Clarke's raven hair moved swiftly through the night like, well, a raven. Also carefully selected, his sneakers were firmly closed-toe and practical like all his footwear. Of course when Max had asked to borrow some darker clothes, the request was promptly shot down. How else would he learn personal responsibility? Next time, steal some black pants! Furthermore, Clarke didn't want to wash out the boy's stank after they were done. He cringed at the thought alone and quickened his pace towards the one-eighth of a mansion. As always, he expected Max to follow in tight order. Max always did.

When the Pasleys reached the edge of the forest, the moonlight was quickly replaced by a seizure-inducing sea of orange and purple and red and gold and witchy green. Before them stood The Cranky Crypt in all its fluorescent glory.

"And you're sure nobody's here tonight?" Max looked up at the gaudy home beyond the tree line. It'd be easier to sneak in if the lights weren't so intolerably bright and bat-shaped.

In response, Clarke shoved the paper in his face. The hand was quickly swatted away. "Read the brochure. On Sundays, it's closed."

"But it's also Halloween?"

"Halloween Eve Eve," he emphasized. "No one's coming till morning." Clarke stepped out of the bushes and surveyed the grounds, if only to ease his brother's paranoia, before continuing onward. "Don't get cold feet, Mr. Flip-Flops!"

Max grumbled to himself as he pushed through the foliage. "Don't get caught, ass..."

Clarke's strategic and not-at-all-overconfident bravado carried them to the front door of The Crypt. Indeed, no one was around to greet or eject them, save for the small sign that read, "Enter if you dare!!!!!"

The brothers did, in fact, dare.

Their brilliantly devious plan was in full swing, and when Clarke gestured to the silver knob, Max picked the lock without missing a beat. He'd develop this skill over years of petty theft since Wynthrope wasn't known for its advanced home security--although, Clarke at least expected a few more precautionary measures from the town's golden goose. Maybe they blew all their money on that giant spider on the front lawn -- the spider that was missing three legs.

Age before beauty, Max held the door open for his senior then quietly locked it behind them. The second to last thing they needed was that decrepit maid to walk in mid-debauchery. He could swear she looked as old as when they first visited in their childhood, but honestly once you reach a certain age, there are only so many new wrinkles you can fit on your face.

Though they were eager to begin the house tour, the delinquent duo took just a moment to absorb the mess laid before them. The chandeliers made of "bones," the plastic-wrapped furniture, the out-of-place product placement on the shelves. It all felt so fabricated. The Crypt was cringy inside and out.

"Yikes," said Max, breaking the silence. "Wynthrope wouldn't know real horror if it was standing in front of them."

"Ready to eat their faces off."

"Or crawl down their throats and lay eggs!"

Clarke thought for a moment. "Why not both?" He unfolded the map again and compared the floor plan to the real thing, though that was hardly necessary given the signs posted around the exhibit. You'd have to be a fool to get lost in a two-story house filled with directional arrows, and Clarke was definitely not a fool. Although, he couldn't always say the same for his brother.

For instance, Max's lack of thought became apparent when he asked, "You're sure we can't burn this all down?"

What an odd question given his previous concerns over their plan's stealthiness! Clearly, this was the same train of thought that led to his evening attire. Clarke rolled his eyes at the question and pointed to the ceiling. "They have sprinklers. And fire alarms. And we don't time to disable them all."

"Then maybe we can rig them to go haywire? Flood this place off the map!"

"It did flood like seven years ago, but they just tore up the carpet and called it a day." Clarke headed past the ticket table and into the main hallway, knocking over the CLOSED sign along the way. On purpose, of course. "Stick to the plan, Max."

Though his brother was out of sight, the younger sibling nodded in agreement and followed. He wasn't one to doubt Clarke when he was at his best, or ever really. No reason to start now.

Passing through the Hall of Recently Murdered Celebrity Heads, which is as tacky as it sounds, they continued up to the 2nd floor where the main exhibits were held. From the Hairy Sorcerer's Secret Death Chamber to the Cr[_]ssword K[_]ller's C[_]ve, Max and Clarke snorted at the awful displays and walked till they reached Wynthrope's pride and joy:

Movie Monster Madness!

Perhaps the only objectively interesting part of The Cranky Crypt was the group of life-sized monsters used for a movie shoot some twenty-odd years ago. Legend says a local artist was commissioned to sculpt them, but one night the beasts came to life and devoured him! How terrifying! At least that's what the film execs were told so they wouldn't try to put the monsters in storage. Or worse, make a bad sequel.

Whatever the origin story, the quality of the statues was as impressive as the variety of characters. Of course there was the Werewolf, the Wendigo, and even a whitewashed, public-domain version of El Chupacabra. More esoterically, there were creatures such as the Shrimptopus, the Badsquatch, and the French Werefrog Smoking a Cigarette, none of which was quite as terrifying as the main cast.

Max gazed upon the dozen or so statues with a look of confusion and cringe. "What movie did they film here again? After the ghost show, I mean."

"I Was a Teenage Teenager. Where all the monsters change into humans and freak out. It bombed."

"Oh God, that's right. How did you sit through that?"

"Drunk. Apparently, a werewolf's greatest fear isn't mauling someone, it's planning a 401K." Tired of seeing these poorly used props suffer, he gestured to Max's bat. "You get first pick."

"Y'know," said the eager young man as he spun the bat up to his shoulder like a pitcher about to score. "I almost feel bad for wrecking these."

Ever the skeptic, Clarke cocked a brow.

The slugger's grip tightened. "Hey, I said almost!"

In his first act of deviancy, Max swung hard at the head of the French Werefrog, which really just resembled a giant frog and was honestly the most culturally offensive. The side of the bat collided with the left eyeball, which flew across the room at top speed. His one year of little league finally paid off!

"Home run!" Max cheered as his arms flung excitedly, nearly smacking his sibling with the bat.

"Watch it!" Clarke grabbed the weapon before he lost an eye as well. Max smiled awkwardly, silently apologizing for his usual brashness. Oh, brother.

Ready to score a kill of his own, the older Pasley set his sights on the classic, cursed canine himself. This pitch black bipedal beast was almost menacing as it towered over him by roughly a foot, frozen in mid-pounce position. Its golden eyes almost seemed to twitch in the low light. This would be the perfect time for a staring contest. However, not one to break a sweat, Clarke raised the bat and in one sharp swing took out the Werewolf's knees, which sent the beast crashing down onto the floor rug. Clarke thought he looked pretty cool doing that.

Thus began the symphony of the night. Truly no one was in The Crypt that evening, or they would have come running at the sound of smashing statues, shattering wood, and deep holes being left in the walls. It was amazing what two young men could do with a baseball bat and some unbridled rage.

Off went the Moose Man's head, antlers and all! The Human Bat was sent flying across the room! It was chaotic and cathartic for the boys, who'd spent most of their youth surrounded by this faux-frightening garbage. For a moment, they even used the Wendigo's head as an impromptu soccer ball. Clarke scored first, as expected, since Max had tripped over his own sandals.

When the dirt and fur settled, this once proud exhibit was reduced to mountains of cracked plaques and severed limbs. Like the spider on the lawn, the Werewolf was far less intimidating when it was missing three legs. Huffing and puffing, the two-man demolition crew stopped to admire their handiwork. Another brilliant Pasley plan executed. Tonight would be a touchstone in their family history.

Clarke dusted off his hands and sighed. "Dad would be proud."

Max smiled at the idea as he wiped the sweat from his neck. "He would've done worse!" Setting the bat aside, he victoriously approached a pile of monster limbs and picked up what was once the hand of the French Werefrog.

"I know it's dumb," he thought out loud. "But I almost wished we found his body in one of these. Like someone killed him and stuffed his body into one of the statues?"

"You play too many horror games. If anything, he was buried in the basement and got washed away with the flood. Besides, these things are surprisingly solid." Clarke kicked the stiff chest of the Not-Chupacabra. It seemed to be made of solid wax or plaster, something quite resilient. There were barely any dents left in the body parts, just some scratches and visibly snapped joints. Guess that's the quality a movie budget will buy you.

Max tossed the amphibian's arm back onto the pile and spit on it for good measure. "I just hope he took the bastard down with him."

"Oh, for sure he did!" Clarke shouted with a rare flash of excitement. "You remember how he pulled the truck out of the lake with his bare hands? With us in it? Dad was a monster."

"Maybe it really was a moose that killed him. Or a dire wolf? Whatever the rumor was. No human could take him down!"

"Screw the rumors." Clarke's demeanor darkened once again. "Wynthrope buried the truth beneath this Goddamn house and tossed pumpkin lights on the grave stone. They deserve worse than this." With one more hearty kick to the Moose Man's antlerless head, he made his way to the exit. He was already tired of this plastic mausoleum.

Max nodded habitually before catching up. "Still wish we could burn it."

Satisfied that they had, in some way, ruined Halloween for Wynthrope, the vandals headed for the doorway marked "Gift Shop Downstairs!!" Like any half-decent tourist attraction, The Crypt strategically placed its exit there in order to hock merchandise on the way out. Wycanthropes were nothing if not crafty.

However, as the two town rebels left the room, they were struck by a sudden sense of disorientation. What stood before them was a wall. To their left and right, more walls. It was like they just walked into a broom closet. A dead end.

"The hell?" exclaimed Max. "Is this some kind of secret switch exit?"

"Seems a little too high budget for them," Clarke deadpanned. "The maid probably moved the sign posts and didn't put them back. She's got dementia or...something. Let's just go back through the front."

The other boy sighed excessively. "Aw, no gift shop? Shame."

With little choice in the matter, they turned back into the decimated monster room...but now there was no sign of decimation. No broken figures or tarnished wallpaper. In fact, the walls were bare wood. The floors had suddenly been swept clean -- even the rug was gone! Was this a different room? Or did that dementia-ridden maid move at Sonic levels of fast?

"Ok...someone installed a wall of mirrors in that closet. And we got turned around somehow," Clarke explained as confidently as he could in the moment. He pulled out the map and tried to triangulate their current location. As far as he knew, there were no empty rooms in the house. Everything should've been filled with the usual spooky décor, or at least some wobbly tables from IKEA.

Max, though silent, had very loud doubts. They were lost! How did they even get lost? Clarke never made mistakes like this! Someone had to have misled them on purpose, switching the signs or creating illusions with the stupid bat-shaped lanterns. That would be so on brand for this shitty, little, wish-there-were-ghosts town. Also on brand, the Wycanthropes would finally kill them if they were caught in here!

"Clarke, what do we do? I can't go back to juvie!"

"Well, you're a little old for that now, so I'd prepare for prison...which is what I'd say if I didn't know the way out." Clarke showed him the house's layout and traced a path with his finger. His brows portrayed the know-it-all confidence Max was accustomed to. Of course Clarke knew the way out. He had a plan for everything in that big brain of his! Unless, well, he was lying. Clarke was also pretty good at lying.

Either way, Max trusted his brother. His nerves were simply getting the best of him. Rarely was he ever as collected and strategic as Clarke, but stressing out would only make this worse for both of them. Instead of panicking more, he took a deep breath -- something his sibling often suggested -- and wiped the sweat off his palms, which was also often suggested. Then he wiped his eyes. Then his brow. Then his neck. Then his shoulders? God, he never got this sweaty, even when shooting hoops or running from the Evil Clown Police!

(It's exactly what it sounds like.)

The increasingly anxiously young man pulled at the collar of his tank top, residual moisture lingering on his chest and back. His skin was suddenly drenched in perspiration, like he'd just walked under a waterfall, and yet his mouth felt dry and dehydrated. Hopefully, he wasn't having a heat stroke. They should have stolen some water bottles on the way here.

Clarke must have noticed his distress, as well as his perspiration. "Dude, you better not leave any snail trails behind. They can forensics that stuff." His warning was only half-serious. A dollop of concern weighed on his words.

"Sorry, I'm just...really stressed out," Max said, fanning himself. "But how are you not sweating at all? We're lost, there's no A/C, and we just broke a bunch of shit. I think?" Their thrash fest was enough to make an MLB star retire, so obviously he was hot and fatigued and sweaty and kind of sticky. That made sense. After all, there's no way they imagined that slew of violence, right?

"Uh, I'm as dry as your ex, so suck it!" Clarke retorted, unnecessarily proud of his sick burn. Although he was feeling a bit warm, maybe even heated, he was totally dry. It was actually surprising how non-moist his chest and armpits were, since those were his usual hot spots. Clearly, he was keeping the cooler head of the two.

Unfortunately, that cool head wouldn't last long. As Max and Clarke passed through the next doorway, into the hall, and entered what should have been the previous exhibit -- "The Offices of Frank N. Stein, Attorney at Law" -- they were once again stupefied. This room was barren too. Mr. Stein was nowhere to be found. Did they just walk in a circle?

"Holy shit! Where the hell are we?" Max shouted, quickly giving up on the whole "containing your panic" thing. This didn't make sense! He peered back into the hallway and could see, clear as day, the empty room they'd just came from. What the hell! When did this turn into a corn maze? Thoughts racing, he frantically paced the floor while more sweat droplets rolled down his arms and legs. Wet slaps filled the room as his flip-flops snapped uncomfortably against his heels.

"Would you stand still for a second? I can't concentrate!" Clarke stared daggers into the map like he could pierce it with his gaze. "This thing must be outdated. Maybe they did renovations. Or made a labyrinth exhibit. Or maybe...I just..." He couldn't bring himself to say it. Like most of their schemes, this was Clarke's machination. It was his brilliantly devious plan that he'd not-so-brilliantly executed. The weight of their folly was on his shoulders.

"Oh, sure! Just 'facts and logic' your way out of this one, Clarke!" Max rolled his eyes aggressively, and Clarke responded in kind. They rarely ever fought, but this potentially life-or-death scenario was growing more terrifying by the second. One might say it even boarded on spooky. At last, the younger sibling's trotting came to a halt when he stumbled over his feet and sent his flip-flop sailing across the room. Another home run! Fortunately, the doorway was in reach and saved Max from totally eating shit.

"Goddamnit!" He cursed, his palm smacking hard against the wooden archway.

"Wow. Learn to walk, bro." His brother laughed, killing the tension.

"Shut up! My foot got caught on the carpet."

Clarke glanced over with an amused expression. "What carpet?"

"Shut up." Max hurried over to his flip-flop and slid it back onto his foot. Except now...it felt weird...like it didn't quite fit anymore. Confused, he took a knee and tried to wedge it on with his hand. This too was a monumental failure.

Clarke approached, impatiently tapping a finger on his forearm. "Let's keep moving, jailbird."

"Just give me a -"

Max cut himself off when he pulled his foot out of the sandal strap. What the hell? There was something stuck to his toes. Was it dirt, or a wood chip from the forest? No. This was too bright, too tan, too fleshy. It looked like...a little flap of skin...connecting his big toe to his second. That couldn't be right. That wasn't there before!

"Dude, what the hell is on my foot?"

"I don't know. Just flick it off and let's go." Clarke's pushiness only frustrated him more, as Max grew increasingly worried about this weird thing jammed between his toes. He poked at the flap, pinched it, and even tried pulling it right off! That last attempt was a mistake. It felt like he was tearing at his own skin. Maybe he was.

Before Max could obsess over this flesh tag any further, a sudden pinching struck his other foot. He quickly pulled his leg out from behind him, shook off the loose flip-flop, and stared hard at the rest of his toes. There, connecting his first and second digits, was the same flap of skin. Now it was on both feet! What the hell? He didn't want to believe it, even when he felt the skin between his other toes pinch and saw, clear as moonlight, the new skin grow until it reached the tips. Speaking of the tips, they were starting to swell, as though they were stubbed all at once and began inflating like in old cartoons.

Clarke looked down at his brother in confusion, not yet noticing the bizarre development on his feet. If he had, he'd likely chalk it up to delusions or dehydration, if not both. However, even he couldn't ignore a sharp crack in the air and the resulting yelp that escaped Max's mouth. His skeptical eyes practically bulged in his skull.

Max's big toes had snapped outward, the shock of pain sending him back onto his ass. Both digits looked completely dislocated, like some ghostly hand had pulled on them too hard and angled them towards each other. It'd be difficult to blame that on his natural clumsiness.

"C-Clarke," he whined, jaw tight from the burning in his bones. "Something's...wrong with me." Another grizzly snap came from his feet, forcing his largest toes out even farther. Then another. And another. There was a crackling in the air that just wouldn't stop.

"Shit! Shit! My toes!" Max could feel the bones within growing, aching as each joint swelled visibly beneath the skin. They bent and curled erratically, far beyond his control. It was like something from a horror film! An actually good horror film!

Clarke stood awestruck at the scene before him. It was difficult to ignore his brother's cries, though he had little idea of what to do at the moment. What he witnessed defied all logic. Therefore, it must be a hallucination. Obviously. Probably from a gas leak, or mold under the floor boards, or something equally as toxic. Even so, Max seemed to be in pain, and it hurt to watch him writhing in agony. While uncertainty plagued his mind, the de facto adult in the room dropped to his knees and held Max's feet to the floor, in hopes that this would somehow stabilize him. And while Clarke's intervention did jack shit to help, it did buy him a front row seat to the young man's impossible changes.

With the joints popped out of place, each toe was growing longer by the second with the middle ones outpacing the rest. Another snap of bone. Another groan from Max. Soon all ten toes were fanning out, pulling their new webbing tight across the divides. Clarke could almost see through the flaps of skin. As he wrangled Max's feet, he also noticed how they grew longer in the arches, stretching and stretching, their distended toes creeping along the floor like spiders. Two tortured spiders missing three legs.

When the thunderstorm of bone mellowed, Max lay exhausted from screaming and thrashing about. Rivulets of sweat ran off his skin, desperate to escape the heat of his warping body. However, some thicker strands clung to his feet and slowly crawled down his heels. The chill of the air made Max shudder and twitch his toes, but following that barrage upon his body, the cold was almost welcomed. After a short respite, he propped himself up on his elbows and looked to his brother. Both of their brows scrunched with concern.

"What's happening to me?" Max whimpered, voice half cracking under duress.

Clarke had no response for his cliché, maybe rhetorical question and could only stare down in astonishment at his mutated legs. The sight was disturbing, but morbid curiosity prevented him from looking away. These "feet" certainly did not belong on his brother, or any human. He refused to acknowledge this as reality, even as his thumbs pressed against Max's clammy skin. Skin didn't feel like that...so smooth and slick. The hammer didn't drop until he pulled his hand away, and a thick string of slime trailed from his palm back to the boy's foot.

"Oh God, your feet are...so slimy, dude. That's nasty!" Clarke whipped his hand away and sent the slime back onto Max, who flinched with equal levels of disdain.

"I can't help it! Look at them! Why are you poking at me anyway?"

"I wanted to make sure you were ok!" Clarke shot back. "And that I was hallucinating. Jury's still out."

Max sat up and pulled his feet in, trying not to look directly at them. "Oh it's real, Clarke. That freakin' hurt!" He gestured to his toes, wiggling them for emphasis and cringing when he felt their new webbing move in tandem. What were they even supposed to be? Fins or something? And the tops of his feet glistened with sticky sweat. Was it sweat? He ran a finger across his skin, disgusted by how thick and slimy the secretions felt. This shit was coming out of his pores!

"I'm still betting on mushroom spores. We just need to find the door and get some air." Confidence, though waning, came through in his voice now that Max was doing okay. Well, okay enough. Clarke moved to stand, but stumbled when feet started to cramp. Hard. Then, they started to burn. Hot. Flames lapped at his soles like he was guest of honor at a witch trial. When a sharp cry pierced the room, Max practically jumped off the floor. He didn't think his brother could scream like that.

"Clarke!" He yelled in concern. "It's happening to you too, isn't it? Take off your shoes!"

"My f-feet...damn it..." Clarke needed no further instructions as he raced to untie his footwear. He tried to rapidly rationalize what was happening to him. Perhaps a bee flew into his shoe and was having a fit! He was being stung all over, surely. That at least seemed possible, even plausible, when he pulled off his sneaker and found his foot grotesquely swollen within his sock.

Though still reeling from his own changes, Max crawled over to help remove the other sneaker. The last thing he wanted was for Clarke to die from overly constrictive footwear. Maybe if his brother had dressed more comfortably for the evening, this wouldn't be a concern, but whatever. As he undid the laces and pulled off both socks, Max couldn't stop his brow from skyrocketing.

For sure, Clarke's feet looked swollen and generally not ok. However, his toes weren't totally joined by webbing like Max's were. There might have been some extra skin connecting them, but it was hard to tell at the moment. No, what was truly alarming were the bulges of skin swelling on the bottom of Clarke's toes and the ball of his foot. Every second the skin grew darker and puffier, resembling well-worn calluses. And his brother never walked around barefoot, so this was clearly unnatural. Max winced at the sight and the sudden epiphany that sparked in his mind. Though his own changes confused him, he recognized the pattern and immediately understood what was forming on his brother's soles.

Pads. Clarke was growing paw pads.

Irritated and in agony, he sneered at Max's expression. "What, dude? What is happening? Goddamnit, my feet are on fire!" Clarke pulled one foot into his hand and glared at the bottom. He gasped reflexively despite his best attempts at restraint. What the hell was wrong with his foot? It was like a sudden allergic reaction was sprouting up in the strangest, most specific places. No bee could do this!

The developing pads were disturbing enough, but the real problem arose when Clarke's largest toes snapped upward, the delicate bones crunching as his brother's had. He let out a roar of shock and agony, kicking forward and accidentally slamming a foot into Max's chest. The younger Pasley rolled back onto his rear, wind suddenly knocked from his lungs. Together, the boys struggled for breath.

Clarke squirmed about as every little bone in his feet snapped into foreign positions. Legs flailed and arches flattened as they stretched forward, crackling like they'd been worked by an overly aggressive masseuse. His largest toes had separated from the knuckle joints and were slowly climbing up towards his ankles. In the meantime, his other digits took advantage of the free real estate and shifted over till they dominated the front of his foot. They looked oddly bulbous with their new padding, though still not as rounded as Max's. Why were they experiencing different changes? Why were they changing at all? Despite his analytical skills, the young man couldn't comprehend what his body was doing at the moment. It should have been impossible! And Clarke not comprehending something? Another impossibility!

This cognitive dissonance was almost as crippling as the physical pain.

Whatever the catalyst was, the mutations stopped short of Clarke's heels, his shrunken big toes resting just shy of the ankle bone. Clearly more was to come as his legs lingered in a freakish, half-animal state, but for now, the boys took a well-needed breather from their feet being mutilated. Once recovered, they sat up and locked eyes, their sibling senses conveying more than words could at the moment. Fear. Uncertainty. Disgust. Other bad vibes. Their gaze fell to each other's legs, then to their own. Plenty of disgust to go around. Of course, Clarke was the first to shake off the stupor.

"Screw this place," he growled. Literally.

Stumbling to his feet too quickly, he nearly lost his balance as he headed for the next doorway. The swollen feeling in his soles left him unsteady, but regardless he pressed on. Without another word, Max followed his lead, though wincing as he placed his feet on the ground and felt the nasty mucus squish beneath his bare heels. Escape from The Crypt meant trudging through a mire of his own making.

The journey continued at an uneasy pace, and it was unclear how much time had passed since their vandalism began. The disorienting structure of the house and the bizarre lack of windows didn't give the brothers much to work with. Still, time was of the essence. They hastened through the house as fast as their deformed feet could carry them without tripping constantly. Instead, they only tripped once in a while. Left, right, straight, right. More empty rooms and halls. More dead ends. Neither sibling was sure if they were walking in circles or spiraling into insanity.

Meanwhile, smaller changes manifested along the way. Max's skin started to itch as dark green splotches sprouted on his arms and legs. To his frustration, these spots became as porous and slimy as his feet. Ew. He was going to leave a snail trail after all. His thigh and calf muscles would also spasm on occasion, causing him to stumble more than once. Even so, Clarke stopped waiting for him and would only pause at the foot of each doorway -- some illogical part of him feared that passing through alone could leave them separated forever. Plus, he needed some time to himself, and Max would always catch up anyway.

The raven-haired boy didn't want to show it, but he too was plagued by itchiness as tufts of black hair sprouted around his wrists and ankles. Whenever he stood waiting, he scratched at his arms while Max wasn't looking. Wherever he walked, his heels ached with every step, as though putting weight on them was becoming unnatural. Though footwear would be difficult to wear now, he almost wished that he'd kept his socks on hand. The feeling of the hard floor beneath his soles, plump and padded as they were, was an added discomfort.

"God, I hate having my feet out," complained Clarke, partly to break the tense silence of their trek.

"Oh, more than you hate having paw pads? Imaging having these toes! I can't freaking walk straight." Max clawed at the ground with his elongated digits. The sickly forest color was now encroaching on his ankles and the tops of his toes. In stark contrast, his webbing stood out like neon green streaks in a blonde-brunette's hair, which might actually look good on him so he'd have to steal some dye at the next flea market. Regardless, his legs seemed more fit to wade through a pond now than tread dry land.

"I just don't know how you do this all the time. I feel like I'd get sick if I didn't have...hair...growing out of me." He was of course referring the dusting of dark strands lancing out of his ankles.

"Dude, get us out of here and I'll never wear flip-flops again, alright? If I even can." Max muttered that last part, glancing down at his bulbous, spindly toes. He'd be lucky to find shoes of any sort that would fit him now. Maybe clown shoes? It wouldn't be the first time he'd stolen from the Evil Clown Police. Clarke might appreciate a pair for himself, but as much he didn't want to hear it, he'll probably have to get used to being barefoot. If Max's hunch was correct, his brother may be walking up on his toes by the end of the night. Or all fours.

They continued from room to room, hallway to hallway, ad nauseam. Worry turned to frustration as the younger of the two was ready to punch through the wall, potentially broken wrists be damned.

However, to Max's surprise, his brother had a similar idea and beat him to the punch. Literally. Clarke's fist slammed into the wall with ease, leaving a solid fist-shaped dent. Since when did Clarke have that kind of upper body strength?

Max looked at him confused. "What, are you gonna tear down the whole building?"

"At least now we'll know if we've passed through here or not. But also yes, I'm mad." It was the best landmark Clarke could think of, short of abandoning more of their clothes.

"Ok," agreed Max, glossing over his sudden outburst.

Unfortunately, this new plan of Clarke's would also backfire. They left the room, and that hole was never seen again. Even worse, the house seemed to retaliate. A wet crack whipped through the air, far different from the sound of a fist ramming into plaster. This was more like someone just broke a bone, like a tooth on a jawbreaker -- or, more precisely, a tailbone.

The increasingly furry boy coiled in on himself. A dagger of pain drove into his lower back, which ached somehow worse than both of his feet lengthening. It very much felt like something had snapped off inside of him. Oh God. Something did, didn't it?

"Shit, shit!" His hairy fists balled up, and his toes curled as much as they could with their squishy tips.

"Dude?" Max moved to comfort him, carefully rubbing his back. Without another word, a second bone-crunching burst erupted. However, this time Max was sent to the floor.

"Hah, ah, ah..." He whined as he collapsed onto his knees. Someone had reached inside his spine and pulled on it. And they weren't letting go.

Together, Max and Clarke steeled themselves as the crackling sound of Pop Rocks filled the room. More tiny fractures split around their rear ends. Compounding the pain in Clarke's spine, a growing pressure was pushing against the waist of his jeans, worsening with every crick of bone. He haphazardly pawed at the back of his pants before remembering his belt buckle. These needed to come off. Now.

Max had an easier time given his elastic shorts, a fact his sibling would never admit aloud should they survive this. Still, his back was killing him, and something bizarre was sliding down into his underwear. It felt so weird! He hastily pulled down the waistband and felt around his behind. Something had to be there. Something was there. When Max felt it in his hand, his breath hitched. For real? A thick, stubby lump hovered just above his cheeks. He could actually grab it -- he felt it being grabbed -- and it was still swelling. Afraid to be alone in this horror show, he looked to his partner-in-change, who finally managed to undo his zipper and drop his pants.

There above Clarke's rear was another protrusion unfit for a human body. His growth was much thinner, but made up for it in length. It wriggled from side to side like an angry worm digging out of his behind. Inch by inch by inch, little bones started poking up from the skin. He was actually growing more vertebrae for this thing. Gross!

"Clarke, you're growing a tail! We both are!" Max whipped around to present the thick lump glued to his own backside.

Jaw clenched, Clarke glanced over at his brother's partially exposed rear. "That's not a tail, that's a chode," he half-laughed through the pain. A red blush heated Max's cheeks...the ones on his face, that is. He could tell Clarke was kinda sorta trying to comfort him again, which was nice, but it was bad enough to be growing a tail -- he didn't want to grow an inferiority complex along with it.

Taking pity on his new butt chub, the pain left Max a bit before Clarke, whose whip of a tail needed a few minutes to shimmy into existence. It wasn't covered in hair yet, but the fleshiness frankly gave Max the creeps.

Feeling drained, the Pasleys took a moment to recuperate while the youngest repositioned his shorts to sit below his new limb.

"Jesus, we just...grew tails. How far is this gonna go?" Worry clung to Max's words. He already had freakishly webbed feet. Would he lose his hands too, maybe grow gills? He didn't know what he was becoming, but he guessed it was something that needed water. Was there even a bathroom in this place?

"It's...fine. We're leaving. This will stop once we're out the door." Once more, the older and wiser young man tried to rationalize his way out of this hell. Were they turning into animals? Yes. Would it stop once they escaped these hallways of hell? Also yes. Was that a leap in logic? Further analysis required.

"But are we gonna change back at all? I don't flippers for the rest of my life!" Max barked, lifting a foot. Clarke winced slightly, seeing more of that thick slime plop onto the floor from his sole. It was somehow even goopier than before.

"Worst case, we run off and join the circus. It's not like we have a home here anyway." The problem-solving prodigy suddenly dropped his pants.

"Dude, what the f--"

"If this gets worse...I don't want to be crushed by my own pants." As the seemingly calmer boy stripped to his boxers, Max couldn't help but notice the thick patches of hair -- okay, fur -- that now ran down his thighs and calves. No one in their family had been very hairy, themselves included, so this surprise appearance spoke volumes. Max cringed.

Taking notice, Clarke quickly turned away and very very discreetly scratched at his leg. "Not a word."

The night dragged on, and Clarke's prediction proved accurate, as they previously always did. The changes indeed grew worse. Max's palms were rapidly oozing slime when that monstrous webbing took hold of them. Most of his digits became interlocked with skin, but his pinkies merged completely with the adjacent finger in what felt like a freak, vice-related accident. His hands were still shaking afterwards. With swollen tips and growing dark spots, his fingers were pretty gross to look at, but at least they weren't as gangly and clown-like as his toes.

Clarke wasn't as lucky in the hand department. Straight out of the infamous horror-comedy, "A Scandinavian Wolfman in Papua New Guinea" (unfortunately not filmed in Wynthrope), he felt his palms grow long and gnarled with a series of hot, blood-curdling crunches. Thick calluses burned onto his fingertips in order to match his toes while both thumbs snapped out of place and fled to his wrists. However, Clarke resisted the urge to fall to his knees or even to look at his hands, despite the horrific, though familiar pain. He wouldn't give this Goddamn house the satisfaction of recreating that Goddamn movie. He'd had enough horror shows for one night.

More annoyed than traumatized, Clarke barley flinched as silver knives pushed out from his nails. He didn't even stop to rest this time. Like a total badass, he simply flicked off his broken nail shards and led Max into the next hall. They tried to ignore the clicking of Clarke's new claws against the floor.

Things continued this way for some time. Start, stop, transform, repeat. The boys kept moving, halting only when a large enough bone popped out of place or their feet simply grew tired. On the occasional break, Clarke checked in on his brother and compared their changes. This helped him take control of the situation if only microscopically. Blind wandering still wasn't much of a plan. For now, it seemed they always changed at the same time, so there was little risk that one would turn feral before the other and become a threat. If they turned feral at all, that is.

Catching their breath in the next room, the increasingly weary wanderers sat back against the wall. "You're sure you're not cold, Max? Covered in goo and all?"

"No, I've actually been pretty hot since this started. I think the goo helps." Max glanced at his slimy palms, peering through the semi-see-through flesh between his fingers. Still gross. But kind of useful. He'd probably be a better swimmer now. "Remember last time we went to the lake? Like, the very last time?"

"Go on."

"And I cramped up in the water, so you had to come grab me?"

"Because you didn't listen when I said not to eat beforehand."

"Anyway, that day I was thinking maybe we could live out by the water. Build a cabin or something in the forest? We could still do that, right? And now, I don't think we need the cabin anymore." Max raised his webbed hands. Clarke looked away.

"Oh, so live in the forest like animals?"

"Dude, you have fur. And I'm definitely going to need to be by water." He looked down to his feet, slick and floppy as ever. "So, if we don't change back -"

"We're going to change back."

"Sure, but --"

"Max, I'll get us out of here, and everything will go back to normal. We should keep moving."

"You don't know that. You don't even know why this happened in the first place."

Oof. Low blow.

Before Clarke could give his expected retort, Max continued. "But I'm not expecting you to, okay? Don't feel like this is all...well, we both wanted to do this before we left, right? Maybe I should have been more careful. And found darker clothes. I don't know if that really would have helped, but I'm sorry."

They sat quiet for a while. Clarke wasn't used to this level of self-reflection from his little brother. Their age difference was as small as could be, but he always felt like the caretaker in the family. Always the grown up. Always the brilliant mastermind. Always the big brother. Did Max really think about this stuff and never say it out loud? Maybe not, but either way this was a proud older sibling moment.

Still, he didn't want Max to get a big head. "So what, does that mean you're ok with being slimy now?"

"Bro, I just want to make it out alive at this point." The slimy guy rolled his eyes. "We could literally starve in here."

Clarke shrugged casually. "Well, one of us has claws and is probably becoming carnivorous. So, actually neither of us will starve."

"Oh ha ha, ass." Max scoffed. Then, he thought for a minute. "You wouldn't, right?"

Headed for the door, the older Pasley remained silent for the purpose of teasing. Of course, he wouldn't. Obviously. Obviously...

The conversation purposely left on a cliff hanger, Max and Clarke continued on in silence. Their pace only slowed when their legs transformed further. More accurately, they came to a grinding, shriek-filled halt. Shockwaves twisted their lower muscles. It was unclear whether this would make walking easier, harder, or downright impossible.

With a flash of heat, Max's hips popped and widened, leaving him in an odd bow-legged stance. The muscles in his thighs and calves bulged beneath the skin, swelling to truly dummy thick proportions. His knees almost collapsed into a crouch, but he steadied himself despite the pain.

Even lower than his hips, Clarke's ankles decidedly made their transition to digitigrade. Bones cracked and strengthened as they finally pulled his heels off the floor and forced him onto his toes like a true animal. His shins burned as they shrank to accommodate a new stance. Though his center of gravity shifted, he resisted the urge to fall on all fours, instead settling into a crouch-like skulking. Neither boy could walk normally anymore and was reduced to an awkward, waddling gait. Needless to say, they stumbled many more times through the night.

As another maybe-hour passed, a couple of bony crunches welcomed them to the next hall. The deforming duo had grown numb to these sickening sounds, though still not the pain itself.

"Was that your neck that popped?" Guessed Clarke.

Max moaned in response. "No, my shoulders. I, uh, don't think my arms can go backwards anymore." He tried rolling his shoulders and found his upper arms to be stiff and uncooperative. The joints must have changed shape entirely.

"Shit. Maybe I'll finally win at basketball."

"No way, dude. Your dog legs are definitely not court regulation."

Clarke laughed cockily. "Oh, and frog legs are?"

"Wait, these are frog legs? I'm a freaking frog!?"

"Oh my God." His eyes rolled, a wide smile on his lips.

When they reached the end of the hall, that smile faded.

"Oh my God," echoed Max, his tone more serious than possibly ever.

Before them was a door. Not simply a doorway or another wall. This was the first door they've seen since the night began. It wasn't in itself a sign of hope, but at least it broke up the monotony. Progress. Baby steps.

Without a doubt they'd go through it, wherever it leads, but Clarke couldn't help but notice the scratch marks at the bottom and the odd gash marks in the side of the frame. The surrounding walls and floorboards were spotless. Was this really...

Yes. This was the stuff of local legends. The cellar door.

Before tonight's events, Clarke would have contemplated heavily on how they'd made it here from the second floor, since they've yet to reach a stairwell, but now he was trying hard not to think about it. Clarke had to try very, very hard. Whatever history this door had, the Pasleys would not be uncovering its mysteries tonight. They were no detectives, even with Clarke's sharp mind, which had honestly taken a beating over the past few...hours? He knew of the "legend," one of many floating around town. He knew they were connected to the door somehow. But now wasn't the time to investigate. They needed to leave.

Clarke reached for the handle without hesitation, but when he made contact with the metal, a harsh realization struck him. He no longer had hands. No fingers or thumbs. Just paws and pads. How could he forget that? How could he forget his own uselessness?

Without a word, he stepped back and cocked his head towards the door, silently instructing his brother to proceed. Max was about to crack a joke about being the more useful one around here, but when saw how Clarke's hands -- no, paws -- shook at his sides, almost clawing at his legs, he decided against it. As instructed, the frog-like boy grabbed at knob repeatedly, but his own fingers weren't as flexible as they used to be, and the mucus on his palms made the metal even more slippery. This was far more difficult than any lock picking. This was maddening.

He too felt like a failure. Maybe this is what his brother had experienced all night. "Clarke, I don't think --"

Max was taken back when two furry paws rested atop his fumbling fingers. He looked up to his brother, suddenly realizing how tall he'd become. When he tried to pull away from the knob, as though he was being replaced, Clarke shook his head and remained focused on the door. Their sibling sense resynchronized. Max understood now. What a brilliant plan. And though he would never say it out loud, lest he be clawed to death, Clarke's pads were surprisingly soft to the touch. It was kind of nice.

Reassured, Max wrapped his slimy fingers around the doorknob as best he could, while Clarke pressed down to strengthen their grip. Together they wrenched open the door.

But there was no cellar behind that door. There were no stairs. There was only white light pouring into the hall. Max and Clarke squinted as their eyes readjusted from the low incandesce they'd grown accustomed to. Confused, but still trying really hard not to think about it, Clarke forced his way into the light with Max in tow.

By some Halloween miracle, the boys literally stumbled into a room they'd never seen before. And yet it was all too familiar:

"Beware The Gift Shop!!!!!"

The sign hung over them like a guillotine. In a rare stroke of luck, they'd finally reached the first floor without ever descending a flight of steps. How, you might ask? Who's to say? Clarke already had a migraine from these mental gymnastics, and Max stopped asking questions about forty rooms ago. All that mattered was that they both made it here. This was it. The final mile in their nightmarish marathon -- their night-marathon, if you will.

The gift shop was truly a sight to behold. Behind several shelves of itchy T-shirts and spooky snow globes was the legally required EXIT sign. The brothers sighed audibly as relief overwhelmed them and loosened the tension ever so slightly. Passing through the doorway, they nodded to each other in confirmation. It was GO TIME. However, with that shared look, they couldn't help but notice each other's bodies...

(Jeeze, not like that, okay?)

The only traces of humanity could be seen on their chests and heads. Both Pasleys had abandoned their shirts and underwear in a long forgotten room. For Clarke, the plumes of fur growing on his back had proved too hot to contain. He didn't want to pant any more than necessary, and indeed he'd started panting. Meanwhile, Max's tank top was simply soaked with his body mucus and had clung annoyingly to his verdant skin. Their lack of undergarments was, well, self-explanatory.

Clothing would've been a hindrance anyway. Reluctantly used to their animal anatomy, the half-humans bolted for the back door. Clarke almost wanted to run on four legs, but still he resisted the temptation. He had some dignity left in his changing bones. Max, however, was literally hopping off the ground, landing with a series of wet splats as he catapulted to freedom.

Neither boy got very far.

Hot bubbling boiled in their stomachs, grounding Max on all fours and sending Clarke face first into a plushy display. The furrier of the two writhed atop a mountain of soft Werewolves, which Clarke now clearly resembled. His front paws pushed hard into his gut, a fruitless attempt to keep his organs from rearranging into a canine paradigm. Across the room, Max struggled to do the same, but from the confused look on his face, he seemed to have a harder time as he transitioned from mammal to pond scum.

His intestines grown and settled, Clarke gathered himself before turning back to the door. But before he could even lift a paw, his brother's pained gasps made him turn one-eighty. It sounded like Max was drowning.

The shifting of his internal organs left Max struggling for breath as though his diaphragm was rendered useless. Heat shot up from his stomach to his throat, where the skin was turning bright green in lieu of a suffocating blue. His devolved hands gripped desperately at his neck.

"Oh G-God, it's in...my throat. It's in my thrrrrrroat." Max's choked words became guttural when the muscles around his larynx thickened and tightened. Sharp, strangled wheezes broke past his lips, and a terrible pressure was jammed up in his chest. He was desperate for air, more frightened by these changes than any that came before. The stiffness that had taken over his shoulders was spreading to his neck, both of which were melting together. Beneath the wet creaks of bone and tissue, his voice was raspy and strained. "Clarrrrrke, p-pleassse!"

The lupine Pasley rushed to his side. He could see Max's torso throb and pulsate, his Adam's apple sinking deep into his flesh till it reached oblivion. Clarke took a knee and held tight onto his brother, terrified that he'd have to perform an emergency tracheotomy with one of his new claws.

"ClaRRRRRRibbit!" Max's throat spontaneously inflated like a yoga ball, skin pulling tight beneath his jaw as some much needed air shot down into his lungs. The soon-to-be wolf jumped back, nearly flying off his paws. The last thing either of them wanted to see was a giant skin bubble swell out of Max's neck. Although, him suffocating to death would have sucked too.

His throat balloon reflexively shrank down, leaving Max coughing and gasping on the floor. He'd never felt so much air push into his chest before. His torso felt bloated, like he would be soon crushed under his own weight. Clarke staggered back over, eyes wet with worry for his brother.

Max met his gaze and forced a smile, partly to comfort him and partly to relive the new ache in his jaw muscles. "C-Clarrrrke...I lied...I don't want to be a frrrrog."

The older-yet-more-worthless sibling wanted to alleviate his suffering, but there was nothing he could do besides lead them to freedom. That's what he was good at...telling Max what to do. Was that all he was good for? Part of him wanted to run for the door and let his sibling follow as he always had. Clarke carried their flag. He was their guide post. But now there was a growing concern that Max wouldn't be human if left behind. Or, he'd suffocate.

Clarke couldn't leave his only remaining family to die or be otherwise trapped in a giant frog's body. What kind of fate would that be? What kind of brother would that make him? A shitty one, in both cases. Instead, he helped Max to his feet and wrapped a furry arm around his shoulder. Side by side, they trudged their way towards the shop door, a big jack-o'-lantern sticker laughing at them as it half-clung to the glass. The house was mocking them now.

Nevertheless, even as things kept changing, the brothers moved forward as they always had. Even when Clarke's ribs cracked and barreled, pushing up visibly from within his chest. Even when Max's spine snapped and forced a large, bony hump from between his shoulders. Even when they were expelled in ninth grade for not making a Halloween float. Even when the town labeled them as urchins and banned them from every public space. Even when their own father vanished within the confines of this Godforsaken Cringy Crypt -- the brothers moved forward.

But when their vision blurred, the Pasleys collapsed to the ground. The world began to spin, and the saccharine colors of the gift shop faded to gray.

"Clarrrrke?" Max groaned, head throbbing as his scalp grew bare. From his perspective, everything was bright and hazy. To the outsider, black slits were overtaking his pupils while yellow dye stained the surrounding whites. His eyes started bulging inside his skull.

Clarke stumbled to his paws and shook his mane furiously, no longer caring if he was on all fours like an animal. His ears were ringing as they pulled up into towering points. Both eyes were subsumed by a golden fog, blurring his vision. Heat welled up in his face. Afraid of what would come next, Clarke looked over to the muddy gray blob that he presumed to be his little brother.

"M-Max", he cried out as his tongue began to swell and push past his lips. "I'm sorrrrry. I'm so--" Those words were cut off by a thunderous crack in his jaw, wrenching his mouth wide open as a purely canine whine shot out from his throat. A lengthening tongue swung from his maw, and his face finally began its transition into a muzzle. He knew this was coming. He anticipated it the moment he felt a tail tear out of his spine. And yet, he was powerless to stop the shaggy fur bursting from his cheeks, or the flesh of his face pulling tightly against his growing skull.

While Clarke panted from the murderous heat in face, Max panted in tandem as his mouth simply ran out of room for a growing tongue. His tortured taster burnt and swelled like so much of his body had, twisting and tensing as if the muscle resisted its own desire to stretch. The tip rounded out till it resembled a pink, fleshy basketball, something that he would never hold again given his lost dexterity. He'd have a better chance grabbing one with his tongue since it coiled so stringently beneath his jaw.

Though disgusted by the ever-growing snake in his mouth, Max was exhausted and desperate to avoid choking off his air supply again, so he simply let the thing dangle like a clock pendulum. He tried to ignore the drool spilling onto the floor and how his slimy tongue had grown long enough to reach it. Oddly enough, the tile tasted like lemons. Lemon Pledge, to be precise.

A terrifying growl made Max flinch. Beside him, Clarke reared his head and roared like a true movie monster when his fresh wolven snout pushed out to its full length. Fur quickly rolled up to smother the muzzle with black velvet. In solidarity, Max's throat ballooned in and out at rapid speed. Low rumbling croaks escaped thru dwindling lips as his mouth grew wide like a kitchen sink. No matter how they tried, the former humans could no longer keep the animalistic noises inside them.

As the changes withered away with their humanity, the boys stood on their hands and feet -- no, their flippers and paws, respectively -- and stared sadly at the shop exit. Tears fell from Clarke's canine eyes as he looked down the barrel of his snout. He was in mourning for the first time in years. Max was no longer capable of crying, so he could only glance at his brother in a shared sense of sorrow. The Crypt had finally taken everything from them. Their family, their home, their sense of self. They had lost the race...

...

...

No.

...

...

No, as cliché -- even cringy -- as it sounded, the boys still had each other. The Pasley Brothers, human or otherwise, always stuck it out. And they wouldn't surrender to this cheap tourist trap. They wouldn't become some freakish attraction for this Goddamn town, even though they'd obviously be the coolest part of the tour. The door was right, just several feet away. They couldn't stop before the finish line. It was still GO TIME.

The Pasleys shared a look and nodded to each other as they often did -- at least, as well as Max could since he no longer had a neck. Clarke wiped the tears from his fur and rose up onto his hind legs, taking on a familiar crouched stance. A towering, bipedal beast. His slimy partner-in-crime gripped at the floor with huge, mighty toes, thighs pulled back for a rocket launch. With all their might, the monstrous Max and Clarke leaped towards the door. The latter's claws extended out before him, ready to shatter the glass if need be. Of course, that wasn't necessary.

Neither beast got very far.

The second they pounced, the young monsters were overwhelmed by a strange sense of stillness. It was unlike anything they'd felt before, unlike all the agonizing changes that had warped their bodies throughout The Crypt. This was the opposite of change. This was static.

Clarke had only one paw on the floor, and yet he wasn't falling. Max's bulbous toe tips barely touched the ground, and still, he practically hovered in midair. In defiance of gravity, the brothers were frozen stiff in charging pose, their giant jaws hanging open from pure astonishment. They couldn't feel a thing, not the A/C in the room kicking on, nor the ground beneath their feet. Still, their other senses persisted.

Their eyes met sunlight through the glass panes of the door. The laughing pumpkin sticker, half-clung to the window, finally came undone. Then the door opened, and an old hand placed the sticker back where it belonged.

A small elderly woman in a smock wheeled in an equally small trolley, fit with the typical accessories of a cleaning service. Mops, sponges, Lemon Pledge. Stretching rubber gloves onto her wrinkled hands, she grabbed a brush and spray bottle from the cart before approaching the giant figures inches from the door. She smiled at the new additions to The Crypt though sighed softly as she combed the beast's matted fur. This one needed grooming, the other a good sponging.

She loved her job, though she could definitely use a raise. It's been how many years since her last one. Maybe a hundred, but who's counting? Since then, she'd taken on far greater responsibilities than simply mopping the floor. This house was temperamental, to say the least. Her morning duties were always a crapshoot depending on how the night went, and Heaven forbid The Crypt felt "threatened" in some way! Those nights never ended well. The upstairs was probably a mess again.

Oh well, a maid's work is never done...

...

At least, that's how the legend goes! It's really just another story Wycanthropes' tell children when they start acting up, or worse, if they don't feel like Trick-or-treating that year. Just to scare them, you might enter The Cranky Crypt through the gift shop, where you'll be greeted by two towering statues, both incredibly lifelike. One with thick ebony fur and daggers for teeth, the other "oozing" slime with a mouth big enough to swallow you whole. How horrifying! And gooey!

Of course, they're both fake, just props from the Movie Monster Madness upstairs. Every few months, they're switched out with other figures such as the Moose Man or Werebear. There are even talks of a Sea Monkey Man next spring if they can find the right person for the job. Sometimes, just for fun, the two nearly identical Werewolves will be paired together with the Nationally-Ambiguous Werefrog, standing side-by-side like a "pack." Call it a family affair.

Truly these treasures are works of art that make perfect props if you're shooting a film (please call our office for rental pricing) and perfect decorations for our back door. No matter which way you enter The Crypt, you're bound to encounter one of these ferocious, photo-friendly beasts. And once you meet them, you'll never want to leave!

Never as much as they do.

*Paid for by the Wycanthrope Historical Preservation Society (WHiPS)*

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