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halloween special

stanxreader, 12k words NSFW 18+ there's smut in here! ao3 link in case you prefer to read there

fem!reader, vaginal fingering, there's a creature and it's kinda scary. takes place a year or two before the twins come to town.

+++

Stupid dog. Stupid dog. Stupid fucking dog.

The words run like a marquee in your head, under your breath as you jump over a log, ears straining to track the sound of paws hitting the dirt. You don’t hate dogs. And you don’t hate this one, not really. But you’re never offering to dogsit for your neighbors ever again after it bolted out the door right as you went to toss a trash bag outside.

You’ve been running after him for far too long. Your chest is burning, breathing increasingly ragged, and all you want to do is drop to your knees and rest. But it’s late dusk, the sky a deep blue as the sun sets below the horizon, and he ran straight to the outskirts of town into the woods, where bears or wolves or coyotes or any other predator could harm him. So you keep gulping down air, ignoring your screaming lungs to get that little shit out of the woods and back in your apartment as soon as possible. You had your whole Saturday night planned, after all.

You run and you run and you run, dodging branches and crushing pinecones until finally, you see a break in the trees, and a little furry silhouette dart into the clearing beyond. You power through, fueled by the hope your chase is almost over. You burst through the trees, into the clearing, and find yourself at the Mystery Shack. You also find your boss in the yard, leaning over slightly, holding something in his hand. The dog is headed in his direction.

“S-stan! Grab that dog!”

Stan looks up just in time to see the dog zoom right by his legs towards the back of the Shack. You can’t even muster a sound of frustration. You slow your pace as you reach Stan, finally ready to admit defeat, when you see the dog come around the other side of the Shack. You worry it’s going to pass you again, potentially run circles around the Shack forever, never to be caught. Instead, it screeches to a halt at Stan’s feet and flops over onto its back, happily wiggling back and forth on the grass.

And also next to some sort of white substance on the grass.

You reach Stan and the dog on heavy, wobbly legs. You open your mouth to say something and immediately slump over, hands on your knees, desperately gulping in more and more air to try to stabilize your pounding heart.

“What the hell are you doin’ here?” Stan asks. Even between your gasps you notice that Stan sounds even more agitated than usual.

“Dog…. sitting….. ran……out on…. me…..”

“Great, and I got him for you. Now get outta here and go home.”

You take a stabilizing breath and straighten.

“Stan I ran here.” Another gulp of air. “You have any idea how long it’s been since I ran? Why don’t you give us a ride home so I don’t collapse on the side of the road?”

His brow furrows with frustration. Your mind clears enough to finally realize what he’s holding in his hand.

“What’s with the salt?”

“It’s, uh, for an exhibit I got planned for next week. Yeah, the Salt Man. Gonna be a real hit.” He shifts slightly. “Fine, I’ll give you an’ your mutt a ride back. But we gotta go right now-”

You hear rustling in the trees. A common noise barely worth noting when you live at the edge of a forest, but you see Stan’s eyes dart to the source, shoulders tense. You scour his face for a clue. You’ve studied his face more than you’d ever care to admit over the last few months of working for him, and it’s obvious- he’s on edge.

More rustling. His eyes narrow.

“Change of plans,” he says shortly, eyes not leaving the trees, “how ‘bout you take that mutt inside and get yourself a drink. I’ll be right in.”

You balk at the hospitality. The only time Stan’s ever offered you a drink is from the vending machine. At your expense. You want to question it, but the mention of a drink makes you realize how dry your throat is. You can question it later; hydration takes priority.

You go to the dog now sitting and happily panting next to Stan, hook two fingers under its collar and gently tug in the direction of the Shack. Thankfully, he offers no resistance, letting you guide him willingly.

You know your way around this place by now. Or the lower half of it, at least. There have been plenty of times Stan has asked you to grab something from another room for him, and his laziness has given you ample opportunity to venture and become familiar with the more domestic areas of the Shack. You haven’t yet had a chance to snoop around the higher floors, though. You’ve often wondered what his bedroom looks like.

You guide the dog to the kitchen, hesitantly take your fingers from the collar. Remarkably he does not move, just sits, panting, looking up at you with an earnest interest in what’s next. Your frustration at him melts away. You grab a bowl and fill it with water for him to drink before getting your own. You chug the water sloppily, water spilling past your lips and onto your shirt, but you don’t care. You feel like a dried out sponge after your mini marathon.

You’re going in for a third glass when you hear the door shut. You also hear the unmistakable sound of a deadbolt locking.

Stan enters the kitchen, a sour look on his face.

“You should stick to runnin’ registers. You know you’re not supposed to let ‘em run into the woods at night, right?”

You roll your eyes. “No, I thought dogs were supposed to be free range. It’s not my fault, okay? He snuck by me when I had the door open for just a second!”

“Yeah, I’m sure that woulda sounded real convincing if Sparky here got eaten by a bear.”

“But he didn’t, because I ran my ass off, and now everything’s fine. You’re being even more of a dick than normal. What’s your problem?”

“My problem is now I gotta play dogsitter. And babysitter. You better be ready to give me a cut of whatever they’re payin’ you.”

You furrow your brow. “What? Why?”

“Cus you can’t leave. You gotta stay here for the night.”

You pause, searching his face for any hint of a joke. You find none.

“Is this like a test? Because I have big plans tonight, so whatever it is you’re testing me for can wait.”

“No, I ain’t testin’ you.” He rubs his forehead in frustration. “You gotta stay the night.”

He looks genuinely bothered, like this isn’t something he wants to do, but feels he has to. This gives you pause. Still, this isn’t something you necessarily want to do either. You’d certainly love the spend the night with Stan, but preferably under more ideal circumstances.

“Uh. No. I won’t be doing that.”

He remains still where he stands and fixes you with a stare, obviously mulling something internally.

“Alright, fine. Go step outside and you tell me if you think I should drive you home.”

Again, you search for a joke. Again, you find none. Your eyebrows knit in frustration at this strange and obtuse request, but you’re too tired to argue.

“Fine.”

You pass him in a huff on your way out of the kitchen and up to the front door. You turn the deadbolt, pull the door and step out onto the porch, expecting nothing. Immediately, something is… off. It’s markedly colder now than it was just a few minutes ago. The breeze that had been running lazily through the trees has vanished, and the air feels thick, stagnant. An unidentifiable musky scent wafts by you. It smells of wet fur, old mud, and mothballs. Your body tenses reflexively at the harsh change in atmosphere. Suddenly alert, you scan the yard and the trees beyond, looking for something, though you don’t know what. Until you do.

You see slight movement between the pines directly ahead, a little to the left, just by where you and the dog had emerged a minute ago. Subtle, but once you detect it, your eyes snap, hyperalert. You squint, straining to make out anything more than an ambiguous black shape next to a tree trunk in the darkness. After a moment the shape moves forward enough that you can finally discern a proper silhouette, and you exhale.

It’s just a deer.

Of course it is. What else would it have been? You admonish yourself- you’ve let Stan’s stupid talltales effect you too much if you’re this on edge at seeing a deer in the woods. You don’t know what he was trying to trick you into thinking, and right now it doesn’t really matter. You’re about to turn around to reenter the Shack and demand Stan drive you and the dog back to your apartment when the deer steps forward, a limb breaking through the tree line.

Its leg is too long.

Slowly, almost exploratory, the hoofed leg places itself on the grass three feet in front of the tree line. It has too many joints. The leg is bending in multiple places, sharp angles and multiple segments reminiscent of a spider’s. A head follows the leg on a too-long neck. It’s swaying lazily like a charmed snake, weaving around branches as it breaches the trees. The features of the face are not yet discernible in the darkness, just the shape and its movements.

Your mind is spinning its wheels desperately trying to gain purchase on thoughts like “chronic wasting disease” and “running-based oxygen deprivation” as you watch it slowly pull itself out of the forest. You hear an impossibly deep rumbling, barely organic, sounding more like large rocks being ground against each other. You don’t want to see any more. But you can’t move.

The head continues swaying its way forward until finally, it breaks through the trees and the porch light illuminates the face. It’s… almost a deer. You see wolf-like lips curl over a row- no, multiple rows- of jagged teeth, placed and pointed chaotically, as if they grew at random. A long tongue unfurls over those teeth, saliva steadily dripping from its end. Antlers atop its head are similarly discordant, no symmetry, just a bramble of sharp points branching from its skull.

You’re so overwhelmed you almost miss the eyes until the porchlight catches them, causing a brief eyeshine, drawing you to them. You’re expecting large dark eyes with a dull stare, like the hundreds of other deer you’ve seen throughout your life. Instead you find eyes that are bright. Blue. And they’re looking right at you.

Every muscle in your body is so tense it feels as if you’re burning. You’re not afraid. Fear takes cogency. You have nothing resembling thought in your mind, just a high screeching tone conveying to you that something is more wrong than anything’s ever been. Your gaze is affixed on the thing’s still-swaying head, its still-looking eyes, and you have the dull sense that your chest might crack open at any second with how hard your heart is beating.

A sharp bark cuts through the screeching of your mind.

The dog wandered after you. It’s standing just inside the doorway now, barking like crazy at the thing beyond the yard. The bright blue eyes that were locked on you shift to the dog behind you. You manage to achieve enough thought to jerk your locked body backwards, clumsily sending you through the door. Your heel catches the slightly raised floorboards of the doorway and you fall on your ass, hitting the wooden floor with a grand thump. You barely register it. You frantically scramble backwards on your hands and heels into the Shack, kick the ajar front door with all your might to slam it shut. The last thing you see is the deer, unwavering, its single too-long too-jointed leg still on the grass, its head still swaying.

You scramble onto your hands and knees, hoist yourself up and run back to the kitchen. You’ve regained the ability to feel fear, and it’s crashing over you in thick waves now. You almost trip over yourself in your haste to get back to the kitchen, back to Stan, back to someone who can help make sense of all this. You turn the corner. Stan is waiting for you with an expectant look on his face, and a beer in each hand.

“Suh-saw… th-there’s some… I duh-don’t… something….”

You blather hastily, unable to communicate the earth-shattering experience with something unexplainable by your standard worldview or the immense danger it seemed to present. Stan does not interrupt, letting you choke out half-words and sharp gasps. Instead he slowly extends his left hand out to you, offering you the beer it holds.

“C-creature….” you falter as you realize what he’s doing. You stare at the beer in his hand, mouth opening and closing in a voiceless babble. Your eyes dart up to his. He looks unshakeable, completely unbothered and with a knowing glint in his eye, something that under different circumstances could just piss you off, but grounds you here and now.

You step forward and take the can from his hand hastily, fingers grazing his rough knuckles. You crack it open, put it to your lips, and sip. Then, you gulp. Then, you chug. And chug. And keep chugging. The carbonation tearing through your throat brings tears to your eyes but you keep going, the harsh physical sensation grounding you further to reality. Your grip on the can hardens, aluminum creaking under your fingers. You keep going. And then the beer is gone.

For the second time tonight you open your mouth to say something, then slump over, hands on your knees, gasping for air. After a few pants you straighten, letting out a large belch as you reach your full height again. When you finally remake eye contact with Stan, you find he’s looking at your approvingly.

“Want another?”

“Yes,” you answer, quickly and plainly.

He hands you the other can. You take just a sip this time, followed by as deep a breath as you can manage. He grabs another from the fridge for himself, cracks it open, and turns back to you.

“So?”

You take another breath. You just saw something truly beyond comprehension. Something that should not be real, should not exist, something you cannot explain using the framework of the normal life you’ve lived up to this point. You’re scared, more scared than you’ve ever been in your life, of both the physical creature you witnessed and what this aberration in reality means from a wider perspective. Despite this, part of you is still clinging to some vestige of pride. You don’t want to have an existential breakdown in front of Stan. So you clear your throat and steel yourself to produce a clear, steady sentence.

“W-what was thaaAt?” Your voice comes out with a whine and a crack.

Stan lets out a loud laugh at your expense, and you find you don’t actually mind it. The corners of your mouth flicker upwards.

“Well, ‘thaAAAT’ was some spooky, paranormal somethin or other,” he says, mocking your pathetic attempt at a confident statement. Your lips upturn again.

“I don’t know what it’s called, or what it’s whole situation is. What I do know is that it comes out every other new moon, and I also know that it hates salt. So every other new moon I just pour a buncha salt around the Shack and it’s fine. Not even a big deal.”

“You have to deal with that thing every other month?”

“Well, not every other month. Sometimes it doesn’t show up. Who knows what other shenanigans it gets up to. But y’know, I always do it no matter what just in case.” He sips his can. “And it knows I mean business, too.”

“It does? How?”

“Had somethin’ to do with the couple dozen times I took pot shots at it,” he says with a wry smile, almost fondly reminiscing. “Pissed it off pretty bad.”

You’re silent, still reeling. Stan’s nonchalance does help, but you’re nowhere close to letting your guard down. Your hand is slightly shaking the can it’s holding. Stan is watching you closely.

“Hey, listen…” he starts, sounding a little hesitant, something you don’t often hear in his voice. He falters, still watching you, again mulling something over internally. After a few seconds he clears his throat.

“You wanna do what I did when I first found out about all this paranormal mumbo jumbo?”

You cock your head slightly. “What’s that?”

“Get really drunk.”

Your lips finally spread into a full smile.

“That sounds like a great coping mechanism.”

+++

“Y’see, the thing you gotta remember is it’s not all ‘terrifying hell deer’ out there. There’s stuff that’s less scary and more annoying, too.”

Your still-shaking hands clutch your beer, the cold liquid inside sloshing slightly as you fidget in your seat. You and Stan have moved to the living room. You’re sitting on the skull that sits next to his armchair, the dog laying down in the doorway that connects it to the main room. Stan’s sitting in his chair, looking and acting as if he was telling you another one of his silly tall tales, serving to soften the existential blow. A bright and grating infomercial plays on the television.

“Sure, finding out that monsters are real will throw ya into a deep pit of existential panic. And yeah, maybe learning that ghosts are real will make you question the nature of death itself and make you have to rethink everything you thought you knew about the world-”

“Ghosts are real?” you ask in a small voice. He pays no mind.

“-but once you realize that all that shit isn’t much different than the raccoons you keep outta the attic using electrified tennis rackets, it becomes a lot easier to swallow.”

You stare at the abrasive infomercial, mind swirling. He was right. You are going to have to rethink everything you thought you knew about the world.

Stan finally notices your encroaching crisis.

“But hey, uh, don’t think of any of this like a bad thing! You’ve got insider knowledge now! Ain’t it better to be able to peek behind the curtain and know the truth? Know what’s really going on around here?”

That perspective actually helps drag your train of thought back on the tracks.

“Well. It does make things make a little more sense,” you start thinking aloud. “I… I remember when I first moved here a couple years ago. My socks kept going missing. And then they’d show up in the weirdest places.” You take a quick gulp of beer. “In my medicine cabinet. In the dishwasher. One time I even found one in my mailbox.” You let out a small laugh and smile to yourself as you recount the memory. “At the time I thought I must have been sleep walking. But now…”

You turn to Stan. “Is there like a sock goblin?”

“Ahh, you mean the Sockobolds.” You let out a small bark of a laugh before you realize he’s being serious.

You take another gulp, finishing the can in hand. You’re feeling warm, the speed at which you’ve consumed this alcohol catching up to you quickly. You reach down and pull another can out of the twelve pack resting on the ground between you two.

“So, wait,” you start, pulling the can’s tab, “When did you learn about the spooky bullshit out here? Did you know from the start it was like this out here?”

Stan waves his hand. “Who, me? Yeah I’ve known allll about this stuff from the beginning. I’m basically an expert.”

He doesn’t continue. You expected him to launch into a drawn out, sensationalized story about his interactions with the paranormal. Normally, you wouldn’t prod. Stan can be evasive about some things, a trait you’re no stranger to. You respect a person’s right to their secrets. But the alcohol and recent trauma are making you bold.

“Oh yeah? Well what was it like when you first discovered it?”

“Y’know, just uh. Standard ‘finding out about the paranormal for the first time and being normal about it’ stuff.”

You hold back a snort. “And what exactly is that like? I can’t say I’d consider my experience anywhere close to ‘normal’.”

He shifts a little. You put your hand on the side of the skull and lean forward on it, towards him, a audacious act you wouldn’t dream of in any other context. “C’mooooon. I like your stories. Let me hear it.”

He hesitates for a second and then smiles, a reaction you weren’t anticipating. Something rolls around in your stomach amid the alcohol.

“Well. If you wanna hear it, I suppose I could do ya the honor of regalin’ ya.”

Stan straightens up in his seat and clears his throat.

“It was the dead of winter, year nineteen-eighty-something-or-other. I had just moved out here, see, and was still gettin’, y’know, acclimated. To how dark it gets, how the house creaks, all that stuff a city slicker isn’t used to. And one night, just as I was about to get some shuteye, I hear a thunk out in the hallway. I was awake instantly. I sat up in bed, and with my sharp, keen senses, I heard scuttling. Slow and strangely wet-sounding scuttling. I was paralyzed with fear.”

Stan’s eyes go wide and his hand grips his chest to emphasize his anxiety. You can’t help but giggle.

“I heard the wet scuttles wander by my door and pass it. Despite my fear, I couldn’t hold my curiosity back- I had to know what it was. I tiptoed to my door and opened it carefully. I peeked past my door just in time to see a dark shape turn the corner. It was goin’ up to the attic. My mind raced. What could this devil want with my attic?

“So I bravely grabbed a baseball bat and bravely pursued the creature. Bravely. I crept up the stairs to the attic… I could hear it messing around with some boxes. As I stepped ever closer, I again bravely gripped my bat tight, ready to fight whatever awaited me to the death. I pushed open the ajar attic door and saw…”

He pauses to draw out the suspense. You lean in a little closer to him, a smile on your lips.

“A plaidypus!”

You laugh, and Stan watches you do so with great satisfaction. “What was a platypus doing in Oregon?”

He shakes his head. “Nah, not that. A plaid-ypus. Like the fabric. Little shit must’ve smelled my old flannel jacket from a mile away, he was munchin’ on it when I caught him.”

“Is the punny name what they’re actually called or did you just make it up for fun?”

“Yes,” he says evasively.

You laugh again. “Your first encounter sounds way better than mine.” You take another sip. You feel lighter, calmer, but the creature is still haunting your thoughts. “But seriously, how do you live knowing there’s that terrifying thing out there?”

He shrugs. “Eh, once you learn how to either kill ‘em, shoo ‘em, or block ‘em out, it’s not a big deal.”

That answer doesn’t exactly satisfy you, but you can tell it’s all you’re going to get.

“Do they ever come into town? How come I’ve never heard anyone talk about this stuff?”

He waves his hand and rolls his eyes. “The townsfolk around here are either too dumb to notice or too repressed to ever talk about it in the open. I wouldn’t try starting any conversations about it. Trust me, you’ll get nowhere.”

“So, when will that thing go away?”

“It usually gets bored of tryna get in before midnight, but it’s best to wait ‘til dawn to be safe.”

You take another gulp from your beer, finishing your third. “Well, I’m glad you’re stocked up. Nothing to soothe an existential crisis like a whole bunch of alcohol.”

“Hey now, don’t get ahead of yourself. I’m chargin’ you for those.”

You smile and roll your eyes. “Oh no you’re not! These beers are my pain and suffering money! This happened at your place of business, after all. You’re the liable one here.”

“Yeah, and you’re off the clock!” He leans on the elbow on the armrest by your thigh. It slides forward, pressing his forearm against your leg, and a bolt of excitement runs through you. This always happens when he touches you. Condescending pats on the back, joking elbow nudges, a accidental grazes, all these fleeting contacts set fire to your nerves. And they’d been happening more frequently lately, too. Just the other day he briefly sprawled his large hand against the small of your back to move you out of his way. When Wendy asked why your face was so red a few minutes later all you could stutter out was something about needing to see a guy about a jackalope. Yes, you’ve been crushing on him since the day he hired you. It’s something you’ve nursed in secret, absolutely certain there was no chance of reciprocation. And you’ve coped with that lack of reciprocation using sound reasoning- it’s probably for the best. He is your boss, after all. One of the immutable rules of life is to never get in bed with your coworker, let alone your boss.

Still. That doesn’t mean you can’t milk this situation for all it’s worth.

You lean forward and poke a finger into his chest, a challenging smile on your face.

“Well it’s still your property. I could sue the pants off you for endangerment!”

“Oh, now you want my pants? Well just for that I could sue you for sexual harassment!”

He’s wearing the same cocky grin he always does when the two of you verbally spar, engaging in toothless arguments neither of you really mean but still enjoy playing out. You stifle a laugh, but your smile widens as you retort.

“I’ll take any compensation I can get at this point. This whole thing ruined my big plans for the night, after all. I need some sort of consolation prize!” He raises an eyebrow.

“Big plans huh? What were you gonna do, watch that Cash Wheel marathon that’s on tonight? Cus, uh. I wasn’t.”

You open your mouth to retort. You’re interrupted by two steady knocks at the door.

You jump in your seat, grabbing Stan’s forearm to keep yourself from falling into his lap. All the work Stan had done to calm you down is thrown out the window- your heart immediately starts racing and dread fills your stomach.

“Hey, calm down there,” Stan says, and there’s unmistakable, genuine concern in his voice. “There’s no way that thing can get through the salt, remember? It’s probably some bum lookin’ for a ride. Happens more than ya’d think. I’ll go tell ‘em to buzz off and then we can get back to our lawsuits.”

He doesn’t hear you follow him to the door. You need to see for yourself that there’s no danger. Your heart is thumping hard, wishing you could will Stan to just turn around and keep the door closed. The prospect of opening up the safe, warm home feels deeply wrong.

Stan starts talking before he’s even opened the door.

“I don’t have a phone, I don’t have cash, and I don’t give free rides-” he says authoritatively, swinging the door open on his last word. Your breath hitches, dread curdling in your stomach.

Illuminated by the single light bulb on the porch is… a guy. Not much older than you, shaggy, agitated. The dread dissipates and you sigh a breath of relief.

“Listen man,” he starts in a Californian drawl you know is not going to help his case with Stan, “I just need a couple bucks for the bus, okay?”

Stan squares his shoulders. “I don’t do handouts either, kid. You better check the next house.”

That gives you pause. You know Stan’s a jerk, but is he really going to push this guy back out there, potentially into the hooves of that monster? You don’t want to invite this guy in- you were starting to look forward to a night alone with Stan, and this dude doesn’t seem like great company- but you can’t just push him back out there.

“Stan, what about-” you start, unsure how to broach the subject in front of the stranger. Stan turns slightly in his spot to meet your eyes, away from the door. You can see the stranger shift in his spot to try to catch a glimpse of you as well.

Something large and brown sweeps the stranger in the torso, throwing him off the porch. You hear him let out a yell as he’s tossed aside, a dull thump as he hits the ground, and frantic footsteps running away. The large brown thing sways, then stabilizes after its use of force. Finally, you can see your monster in all its glory.

You can see its antlers, though they look more like branches, stark white, dozens of twisted prongs branching off haphazardly and winding. They look like they’ve erupted painfully from the skull, the skin inflamed where they meet the head. You can see its nose, like a dog’s, moving wildly as it takes in the various scents of the Shack. You can see its legs, all six of them, just as wrong and bent as the one you saw before. If you were capable of comprehensive thought, you’d wonder to yourself how such a large deer is able to sit upon such spindly, spider-like legs. You can see its mess of jagged teeth, its dangling slick tongue, its terrible blue eyes.

The eyes are so much worse up close.

They’re almost human. Such a pale blue, with a small circular pupil, steady and sharp compared to the rest of the swaying, twitching beast. You can see a light behind them, but it’s not focused, not cogent. It’s just wild.

For an incredibly brief moment, the three of you stand still, each taking in the sudden change. You can’t think. Your brain is rejecting the reality in front of you. There’s nothing that looks like this. Nothing should look like this. This can’t be real, and you aren’t here. Adrenaline makes your blood thrum in your ears, your head so full of pressure no thought can penetrate it.

Stan slams the door shut.

He runs to you, grabs you by the crook of your elbow and pulls. You follow thoughtlessly, too wracked with fear to have any independence. He leads you up the stairs, through the second floor hallway before stopping suddenly. He pats the wall a few times before finding a button under the wallpaper and pressing it. The wall opens. Or rather, a hidden door is revealed. He pushes you inside and closes the door as he swiftly enters behind you, just as you hear the creature bang against the door downstairs.

You step forward and immediately meet with a wall. Stan’s inertia carries him into you, squashing you against it. His hands find the wall on either side of you and brace against it to keep himself from completely flattening you. His large torso is pressed firmly against your back, his hips flush against your backside.

He quickly pulls back, but there’s not much room in here for personal space. The most he’s able to manage is a few inches. You both hear the beast slam against the front door a few more times before it gives way, crashing open entirely. Multiple heavy hoofsteps tap against the hardwood floor of the Shack, almost echoing. They’re slow, meandering, almost clumsy as they explore the main floor. Each one elicits a twitch from your frayed nerves. Stan remains steady behind you.

Then it vocalizes.

euh-euh-euh-euh-euh

Deep, scratchy, rumbling staccato. You let out an involuntary small noise in your throat. Stan’s right hand leaves the wall it’s pressed against and travels to your right shoulder, then squeezes slightly. It elicits a different twitch, followed by the tiniest wave of comfort. Not enough to drag your brain back from the brink of insanity, but enough to keep you from falling over the edge.

A dog barks. You have your first fully-formed thought: My neighbors are going to be so mad I killed their dog. It barks again, and again, and again, and again, each time getting further away. The dog has left the building. The beast must not have been interested in it.

euh-euh-weuh-weuh-uh-uh-uh ?

It sounds like a question.

weuhrruhhhhhyyouu?

Bright, sharp nausea hits your gut and you grit your teeth, a sharp exhale escaping your nose. Stan’s large, warm hand squeezes your shoulder again. Your hands pressed against the wooden wall ball into fists as you feel your knees lock.

The meandering steps are moving away from the stairs, into the other room. You hear it attempt to mimic the dog’s bark in twisted, warbling yelps. You let out another whimper. You feel Stan lean closer to you, closing the mere inches-wide gap between you.

“Hey,” Stan whispers by your ear, and he feels your whole body twitch. “Stay with me. It’ll be fine.”

All you can do is let out a small noise of concern in your throat in response. Your jaw is clenched so tight you don’t think you could speak even if your life depended on it. You hear the creature wander even further away, fully into the other room.

“See? it ain’t comin’ up here.”

Stan reaches up and pulls a string that lights a dull, orange bulb. It doesn’t do much in the way of illumination, but it’s better than the pure dark you were in before. Your eyes adjust, bringing the dusty hardwood panels of this strange little room into focus. You hear the beast bump into something and a noise shoots through the thick silence of the Shack. Harsh, jarring, electronic.