"Do you, now?" The cigar smoke rose in the dimly illuminated study, rolling over the ornate green wallpaper and caressing the emerald face of the gigantic grandfather clock in the corner. Aside from the occupants, the empty candy bowl on the flawlessly polished coffee table was the only object daring to break the uniform impression of being surrounded by a deep green sea of luxurious felt.

"Well, yes." A spectral hand reached off of the lounge chair to push a pale disc of marble diagonally into a nearby square. The board of the checkers set was equal parts obsidian and emerald, an unusual design choice given that all of the pieces were the exact same flawless shade of white. "I've had thus agenda going on for quite some time, you see."

"Somehow I doubt that." The man in the green suspenders steepled his fingers, considering whether he would ever consider considering his next move. Omniscience tended to lend itself to such self-fulfilling ruminations.

The taller, slightly less impeccably well-dressed figment on the lounge chair smirked, his typical electric smile altering its voltage for a split second. "Well, obviously not to you, Doctor. But even from my astral perspective, bringing eternal darkness back into the world of men has been quite a taxing hobby, even for the fee I've been taking. I'm sure you understand."

"I certainly do. In fact, there is little I do not." The thick ceramic fingers of Skaiia's only omnipotent scrapbook-maker closed around a featureless game piece and slid it to intercept the enemy, hopping it over the visually identical enemy piece with a ponderous laziness that suggested the mover had all the time in the world to rethink his action. Which, in fact, he did.

"I'm sure you also know that I came to you for advice."

"On what to do about the girl?"

"The girl is her own problem now. She's autonomous and perfectly capable of fulfilling her role without any further. . . education." The perilous grin never moved as he spoke, although it seemed to pulse and ebb as he hesitated. "However, there have been complications. I currently have an unwanted visitor, who could easily skew the entire corruptive curve into exponential dimensions. But removing him could cause an equally destructive collapse of all I've carefully worked to build. . . Tell me, Scratch. How do you regularly deal with an uninvited guest?"

The man with the expressionless sphere for a face leaned back in his chair. "I have no uninvited guests."

The visitor scoffed. "Obviously. But consider it as a hypothetical situation."

"Hmm. Well." As his opponent kinged a piece on the right-hand flank, the radioactive godling scratched the area that might be designated as his chin by an open-minded observer. The new king piece was anticipated, as was every single move his acquaintance had made, but it was still mildly entertaining to watch everything play out according to the stopwatch tick of sequential events. "I'd start by offering them candy. Then I'd most likely acquire the nearest blunt object or any sufficiently hefty personal belonging they might carry, and beat them viciously until they bled to death."

A lengthy silence ensured, during which the visitor's cigar dropped ashes on the floor, unbeknownst to him. "That's. . . rather unlike you," he said finally into the quiet.

"Of course. It was a joke." As an afterthought: "Ha. Ha."

The chalk-hued checker player shifted awkwardly in his chair, an action uncharacteristic of him. "You make . . . jokes?" Few things in the spiritual multiverse could in any way unnerve him. The Scratch Doctor was one of them. "Well then. That's new."

"No. Only an expression of one of my many reflections." Bored with the storied advance of time, the Doctor idly jumped the king piece, and then the rest of Chalk's pieces, in a single turn. "There. Now tell me what's really troubling you. I do care, but I haven't the time to simulate the emotions. Thankfully, you will now see the futility of beating around the bush with me and express the true nature of your problem, which I will then teach you how to correct."

The spirit in the immaculate suit bristled. "Very well then, my friend. I am concerned for the future of my world. My aims are not exactly constructive, one might say, but this newcomer brings his own destruction. The wrong breed. If the minds and souls of man are to be driven into oblivion, it is to be my hand on the rudder, and mine alone. Not this cancerous intruder from a forgotten magazine."

"Destruction. Always an admirable motive." The man with a cue ball for a head stood, the checker pieces vanishing as he willed them to. "Although to be frank, deceiving yourself is quite deplorable. You've always been in it for the fun, Chalk. To pretend otherwise is both arrogant and deluded, aspects which you are not scheduled to possess for another several astral cycles."

Mr. Chalk flickered with eldritch light as he stood, his grin turning to a crackling grimace for the first time in centuries. "I'm sure I shouldn't be questioning your omniscient wisdom. Yet somehow I am."

"Goodness, look at the time," Doctor Scratch intoned with no interest, glancing at the grandfather clock. "I'm afraid your millisecond is up. Your solution is this, my meddling friend: Do nothing."

Cocking his head, the lithe soul-eater began to fade as he departed, albeit unwillingly. "Nothing? That's your advice?"

"Indeed. You, sir, are living in a damaged timeline. Whatever was 'supposed' to be, whatever that girl was supposed to become, will never come to pass. A new pen is on the page, and it is incredibly, unspeakably inept. Your machinations will come to ruin simply because they have succeeded, and unpredictable variables will enter your equation from every possible angle, at the expense of good pacing and plot progression. Clever people will crawl out of the woodwork into your house of cards. They will do things they shouldn't dare, and they will do it in incredible numbers. In short, as one of my young interlocutresses' friends would say. . . I warned you about dares. I warned you. Dog."

Chalk's howl of soul-searing rage would have been impressive, had he not been shunted cosmically to the left in a very rapid and undignified fashion. As it was, even had he been present, the host's lack of a soul to speak of would have rendered the scheming being's fury impotent anyway. He shrugged his suitcoat back on, tweaking the lapels compulsively as he had done since the dawn of time.

"And so ends a villain's path," muttered the omnipresent freak, flickering with green energy as he sighed. "Pity, too. The story was just starting to get good. I wish you luck, my friends. You're in new hands now, and they're even less reliable than the last."

To whom he might be speaking, we can only guess. But to whomever it might be, we can presume that, as he has been since time immemorial, the Doctor is (as usual) quite correct.

PART ONE

Jack's first impression of the thing that had inhabited him was of a shapely human female without any skin. Bare, blood-filled muscle and sinew stood out, laced in between greasy pockets of adipose tissue. Its general outline was still flawlessly female, and to Jack, unsettlingly arousing. As he rose from the couch, clutching a bandage to the scar in his chest, he hugged Crystal to him and got gingerly into a sitting position. Sam took one look at the thing and slugged back a mouthful of beer, grimacing.

"Hello, kiddies," cooed the creature. It lacked eyes, its sockets filled instead with a crawling darkness that oozed up its bare red skull and around its neck. Its hands were collections of razor-sharp bone shards and what appeared to be scalpels inserted directly into the bare flesh.

Jack bowed to tradition as he watched it test the magic circle he'd captured in. "Damn. You are one ugly mother."

The creature hissed and flipped up to the ceiling, scratching and scraping against the cylindrical magical barrier. "A binding spell? No. Nonono. Let us out, let us out! Dirty little wizardfuck, do you know how long we have waited? Let us OUT!"

Jack shook his head. Crystal winced as the thing threw itself at her, then rebounded off the circle's power with a shower of sparks. The ashes of Crystal's belongings still smoked on the floor, the smoke wafting through the spell and filling the house with its bitter scent.

Wally, weary but still protective, crouched outside the barrier, growling at the thing. "What did you do to Jack? Where's Sandra? Who was that asshole in the coat?"

"Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition," muttered Sam gamely.

The thing didn't respond. "Tomie said you knew its name," Crystal said, handing Jack the ancient book. "I may have. . . peeked inside your head to get it. I'm sorry." Jack smiled and shook his head.

"Nothing to apologize for. This thing was eating me for breakfast. I'm glad to get it removed, whatever the cost." He brushed at the flecks of congealed blood on his plaid robes. "It's a nasty piece of work. The congealed malice and hate of pretty much everyone on Earth, I think."

"All who were. All who are." The thing's voice sounded like it came from some kind of huge, grinding machine. "Every rape. Every severed artery. Every sweet old man who ever gave a little girl a lollipop and invited her inside. . . And now we are free. Manifested. Ready to hunt."

Jack frowned. "Take care. It's still got bite. Oh, and it's probably going to lie about pretty much everything. So don't listen to a word it says."

"You think we speak only lies?" cackled the blood-fiend, cavorting erotically in its prison "Oh, we can do better than that. Let's talk about the dreams you had of little Crystal, Jack. Lovely little dreams. Bit messy, though. Shame about the sheets."

"Malfictum," Jack muttered, and a spasm of electricity shot through the magic circle, blasting the thing. "I'm not going to take this. I forbid you to speak unless spoken to. Now tell me, how much of you is left in this Nny person?"

Sam grunted. "It doesn't look very susceptible to interrogation, Jack."

"I can't afford to skip the questions. I need to know what we're dealing with here."

Meanwhile, Wally's growl died off as he digested what the thing had said. Jack seemed set on interrogating it, but Wally decided they were going to have a word later. Several words, in fact.

"How much? Just all of us." The twisted monstrosity pirouetted and scraped its claws over the barrier. "He can never get away from it. It's his story. No one can escape their story. Just like it's your story to be a pathetic little horn-dog, Jack. How many times did you jerk it to Sandra before she finally ran off?"

"Yes, yes, I'm a horrible person," Jack said wearily. "Just tell me whether you're infectious or not. What's your plan? What is the rest of you going to do? I command you to tell me. I command you by your true name. . . Raw-Meat-and-Bloodybones." The beast howled and thrashed. "Yeah. That's what I thought. Not so tough outside my head, are you?"

"Jack," said Crystal, "there's someone outside."

They all stopped and stared at the door. Jack ran to the window where Crystal was peering. Out on the street under the too-dim streetlight was that guy-what was his name? Mickey or something. "Dammit," Jack breathed "we don't have time for him right now. Wally, put on some clothes and make him go away."

"Usual routine, then?" said Sam with resignation. "I'll go hide in the attic."

"I'm not your butler," snapped Wally as he reverted back into human form and hauled on his sweatshirt, striding to the door. "Stop telling me what to do."

Jack raised an eyebrow. "What the hell got into him?"

"Oh, what could it be?" interjected the sinew-thing, tapping its bloody chin reflectively. "Maybe he's tired of being your lapdog. Or maybe he-"

Jack sighed. "You have broken your ban. Be punished." More lightning inside the circle as the magic struck out.

"Leave him alone, you horrible thing," whispered Crystal. "Can't you see he's been through enough?"

"Crystal, don't speak to it."

"No, don't trust us," it hissed. "Trust your brother. All he ever did to you was abandon you when you needed him. Shut you out of his life."

"Shut up," murmured Crystal.

The beast turned to the door as Wally opened it. Its mouth opened, and Jack flung a silencing spell at it to keep it quiet. "That's enough. Give it a rest, we've got company."

THE FRONT DOOR

"Hey."

"Hey."

"Do I know you?"

"You shouldn't."

"You're that blonde guy with dichromatism. The one Jen was following around."

"Am not."

"Yes you are."

Silence.

"Aren't you gonna let me in?"

"Probably not."

"Why not?"

"Not your house."

"It's not yours either," Mike said crossly. "I saw you bumming around this town for a week before they took you in here. You were a transient."

Wally bared his teeth. "And you're a nosy good-for-nothing. Get lost."

Crystal came to stand beside him. "Boys. Is something wrong? Can I help you, uh. . ."

"Mike. It's Mike."

Wally scowled. "We don't do visitors."

"Yeah, I know, you guys have a serious case of Ebola in there or something. I've heard the rumors. Look," Mike said, rubbing his forehead, "I don't care if your house is haunted, alright? The entire town is pretty much full of haunted right now. And I don't have time for your smokescreen, because I'm looking for someone. A friend of mine, a very unusual friend, who's in trouble. And I'm ninety-nine percent sure you know her."

"What makes you think that?" Wally said.

Mike stared at him. "Dude. Your teeth just acquired points and you've grown mutton chops while talking to me. Who do you think you're kidding?"

Crystal shoved Wally aside gently. "He's not looking for trouble, Wally. Come on in, Mike. It's about time we had someone new in here."

INSIDE

The house was not perfectly maintained. In fact, it had the feel of a crypt, a forgotten tomb where ghosts skulked. Dust encroached in every corner and forgotten knick-knacks faded and rusted in corners. The phone sat silent, untouched for weeks. All in all, it was a pretty spooky place.

But it felt achingly familiar to Mike. That brooding, painful presence lurked in every shadow, although it had long since lost its strength. Mike touched a foot-long trio of strange scars in the wallpaper. "She's been here."

"What did you come here for?" Wally growled as Crystal led Mike into the kitchen.

Mike ignored him. "You guys have been stuck in here a while, huh?"

Crystal looked at the floor. "We're not stuck here. This is our home." Mike didn't look convinced. In the living room, Jack waited, tense, with fingers steepled. Maintaining the magic circle was easy. Ignoring the lewd positions Rawmeat-and-Bloodybones gyrated into was not.

He considered opening up a telepathic link with the creature in order to interrogate it further, but decided against it. Opening his mind up again to the beast was a horrific idea. He'd spent a short eternity inside the thing, wandering the maze of hallway-organs that comprised its essence and fighting to keep his sanity against the horrors it showered him with.

And in truth, his strength was failing. His magic was a finite power source, and being eaten away at by something like this Rawmeat spirit was not good for your health. That was, in fact, how serial killers were often created. Or so magical theory went on the Paranet. A sufficiently horrible spirit ate away at someone until they didn't see the difference between right and wrong. Love and hate. Blood and orange juice. Things like that.

"I met a girl a long time back," Mike was saying in the kitchen. "She was. . . a little weird. At first I thought she was just shy. And I thought I could bring her out, you know. Out of her shell, maybe. Into the light."

"But you couldn't," Crystal said.

"No," Mike said. "And I'm sorry I didn't come to see you guys sooner, because a while ago, she. . ."

"Disappeared."

Mike nodded. "Just like Jen. But I don't see Jen's face every time I turn off the lights."

Wally grunted. "Wait. You knew Sandra? Before she. . . before she left?"

"Yes." Mike stared at the floor. "I could've helped her."

"What was she like?"

Mike reflected. "Shy. Uncharismatic. Unpredictable. Alien. But deep down, she had this. . . aura about her. I can't quite describe it. Like she was just something incredible waiting to happen." He winced. "That sounded stupid, I know."

"Love usually does," Crystal said sadly, her chin in her hand.

Wally blinked. "Wait. This guy. . . and Sandra. . . and. . . Wait, what?"

Crystal threw up her hands. "Isn't it obvious? This is the guy she was talking to, that one night at the party! This is the guy she was blogging about on her website?"

Now it was Mike's turn to blink. "She had a website?"

Wally scratched his head. "What's a blog?"

UNDERNEATH THE TOWN

"Okay, so when I burst out of the manhole, I grab the guy by the ankles, right?"

"No, no! You bite him in the shins! Then skin off the flesh from his femur!"

"What? That wasn't the plan. You changed the plan!"

"Did not. Your brain is just broken. Obviously."

Sandra massaged her third eye with a knuckle. "This is impossible. You're crazier than I am. That's not even. . . How can you be crazier than me? I've worked on this crazy. This crazy is refined."

Nny rolled his eyes. "C'mon! Random acts of violence should not be difficult for you! You're Satan's spawn, right? The fruit of his flybitten loins! Now let's do this!"

Loaded down with knives, cleavers, guns and anything from Broadshoulders's cabin that had a pointy end, Nny looked like something out of a 90's comic book. Sandra, on the other hand, had little more than the clothes on her back-and those were barely scraps by now.

"No! This is not how I operate. Everything has to be planned out! We can't just pop out and start killing people!"

"Why NOT?" the murderer spluttered, gesticulating with a sharpened corkscrew. "How can you be an unholy terror if you can't just RIP PEOPLE IN HALF at the drop of a hat?"

Sandra gritted her teeth. "Look. I want to, okay? But that wouldn't satisfy me. I've thrown a man into Hell to relive his sins for eternity, and that was barely satisfying. I need more. . ."

"Foreplay?" Nny offered, grinning.

Sandra looked nauseous. "N-no. I. . . Oh, fuck you." She shoved the manhole out of the way and slithered up through the gap. Moments later, horrified screams echoed down into the cramped tunnel. Reverend Meat giggled drunkenly as Nny cupped a hand to his ear, listening.

"Music," he sighed happily. "Sweet, sweet music."

THE POINTED HOUSE - ATTIC

Sam fished a couple beer bottle caps out of his pocket and spin them on the floor, watching the dust swirl. He tried to feel like he was being useful. Staying out of sight. Usually he didn't care about being seen, but the stakes were getting higher. Sandra was getting worse. Days and days of being captive in her hell-house hadn't improved his pessimism or his fatalism.

What was worst, though, was how useful he felt. Granted, he'd never been a heavy hitter in the house's line-up. Consider the following: Demon, werewolf, wizard, cartoon rabbit. Now, which one WOULDN'T you back in a fight? Sam knew the answer. He had all along. He was, it turned out, a burden to them. A friend, but a burden.

"Ah, quit your whining, Sprinkles," he growled, picking at a hole in his glove. "It's not like they're going to toss you out on the street. Not after she got you last time. It's not as if you're defenseless." He considered this for a moment. "Crap. I AM defenseless, aren't I?"

He regarded his reflection in an old black-and-white TV the siblings had stashed up here years and years ago. Fur falling out in places, eyes sunken. He couldn't possibly have been further from the Sam Sprinkles of legend, the fluffy friend to children everywhere. Living portrait of the "can-do" attitude. Childhood icon.

"Childhood sap, is more like it," he grumbled, fiddling with the knobs. He was not drunk enough to be unsurprised when the screen flickered on.

"What the. . .?" He checked the power cord. "Not plugged into a damn thing." The static on the screen entranced him. Enveloped him. In the nostalgic glow of gray he wondered if there might, just maybe, be a chance for him to help his friends after all.