“This is a big fucking house,” Fred whispered from Jean's right, standing way too close.

“I did say it was mansion.” Jean walked forward, looking at the whole outside as they headed for the front door, their only source of light being the streetlights that were always on.

“You joking, ba? This is like a fucking castle here.”

June looked up from the front of the old, tall building and he guessed he could see it. The Gothic structure did give the impression of a haunted castle for a dark lord involved with black magic and the occult.

I can use that for a character in one of my ideas. Dammit. Forgot my journal.

From the overgrown grass to the trees with leaves and the fountain in the middle of the driveway, covered in green moss with no water gushing out of the mermaid statue’s vase, from the broken windows to the vines crawling up the old building like black veins, The Winston Mansion looked like a haunted house worthy of a movie setting through and through.

And I finally get to meet the ghosts! Best week of my life!

“So why exactly did we have to do this today?” Fred asked.

Jean turned to look at him as they slowly walked through the field of tall grass.

“Because today, at exactly 5am, in ten minutes, is the twenty year anniversary of the Winston massacre,” Jean answered, getting his phone out of his pocket to check the time.

“So what? And what's the Winston massacre? Is that some 90s rock band?”

Jean rolled his eyes, stepping up the creaky front stairs with the comedic werewolf in tow.

“No,” he said with a sigh, going on his knees in front of the old locked door. “It's the unsolved case of the Winston family’s death. They were celebrating their daughter’s eighteenth birthday and the guests had just filed in to find the grandfather, grandmother, mother, father, the fifteen-year-old twins, the twenty year old brother, all dead and in a circle with the birthday girl kneeling in the middle in her pink dress. Sone think she, birthday girl, did some occult practice or the other, others think it was someone targeting the family’s wealth like the father's brother who didn't even have his name on the will. I think it might have been the girl. Or maybe not. What do you think?”

As Jean began to pick the lock of the antique door, he waited for Fred to ask or say something else, maybe even answer his question. When he didn't, Jean turned around to see the werewolf heading back to the gate.

“W-wait!” he exclaimed, getting off and running after, Fred.

Jean slipped on the damp grass and fell face first on the floor, nose burning with pain.

Running on cold, slippery grass. You genius, Jean thought as he whined, sitting up in the grass.

“Jesus Christ in Miami,” Jean said in a breathy tone when he saw Fred just looming over him. The red in the werewolf's eyes were brighter at night.

“Creative,” Fred said.

Jean frowned as he got up and wiped his ass, his face feeling hot. That had been an embarrassing fall, one he hoped Fred would have forgotten by daylight, but he shook it off, and stepped forward.

“Where were you going?” Jean asked, trying to keep his voice down as Fred stared at the house behind him.

“Ghosts of tragic deaths aren't a good idea, fam. They're a very, very, stupid and bad idea,” Fred said, his expression showing how uneasy he was about the whole thing.

Jean hopped on the spot, needing to go in there. He finally had a way to know what had happened to the wealthiest family in town and to contact the dead. His need to know was outweighing his instinct to run for safety, like it had done with Fred.

“Jean.” He closed his mouth shut at the serious tone coming from Fred, blinking up at the eyebrows furrowed together and pink lips down in a frown.

“I'm not kidding. Ghosts that died from tragic deaths are dangerous. Some don't know they're dead and are harmless but most are vengeful and ready to kill anyone that breathes. The rest can just be like bored pranksters but there's no guarantee here. It's not something I can just let you walk into, let alone me. Come on. Let's go before it hits five or they'd definitely be up and get us,” Fred said, gently grabbing Jean's wrist and leading him towards the gate.

He understood what Fred meant and could see his point after he explained it.

There was only one problem with all that, and Jean wasn't sure if he should've brought it up as he looked down at his phone.

“Fred?”

The werewolf sighed, truly sounding tired. “What is it, sweetheart?”

“It's 5:04.”

Fred stopped, as did Jean who remained standing behind his tense, muscular back.

The wind picked up and Jean felt a sudden drop in temperature that he couldn't escape even with a thick snow jacket covering his slim frame.

Fred’s hold on Jean's hand got tighter as a sudden bang from behind them was heard, making Jean turned around to see the previously locked front door wide open. He was unable to tell what was inside for all he saw was pitch black.

This probably wasn't a good idea.

“Shit.”

That was the last thing Jean heard Fred say before a force like no other made the both of them fly back in the air and thrown across the circular driveway until they laid flat on the brick floor, right in front of the door.

Jean groaned in pain, his back feeling like it had been hit several times by a belt.

“Hold my hand and don't fucking let go!” he heard Fred yell through the pain, feeling his hand grab Jean's smaller one.

And then, they were both dragged into the house, both screaming. Jean looked up while in the air and feeling a hard, painful grasp of his fingers, and saw the old, deteriorating water fountain just before the door slammed closed and plunged them into darkness.