The creature from the woods didn't follow them into town that night. Instead, it left claw marks gouged into the cobblestones, like a message: I'll be back.
The mayor decided to do what every mayor in every doomed village does—form a search party. Unfortunately for everyone, Lira got volunteered.
"Why me?!" she demanded as Finn tied her a lantern.
"You're… lucky," he said carefully. "And your hair thing might help."
"My hair thing has a seventy percent chance of knocking people unconscious!" she protested.
"Exactly."
---
They reached the old Wickham House by midnight. Nobody in Bramwell went there if they could help it—half because it was cursed, half because it smelled like wet basement.
The house loomed in the moonlight, every window like a watching eye. Black mold crept over the walls like veins. The air was so cold their breath fogged.
"Bad vibes," Finn muttered, gripping his torch. "Really bad vibes."
The front door creaked open by itself.
Whispers slithered through the hall.
The floorboards groaned as if something heavy was crawling just beneath them.
And then, dripping down the wallpaper, came thick, wet trails of blood.
Lira blinked. "Huh. Guess they forgot to clean up after spaghetti night."
Finn stared at her. "…That is not spaghetti."
The group stepped inside, and instantly the door slammed shut. Darkness pressed against them like a living thing. From somewhere upstairs, a child's laughter echoed.
Half the search party bolted.
The other half lit more torches, muttering prayers.
Lira, meanwhile, tilted her head. "You guys ever notice how in haunted houses, the ghosts never pay rent? That's why they get mad. Free loaders."
Her frill twitched as she giggled nervously.
They pressed deeper into the Wickham House. The blood trails thickened. One man brushed against the wall—when he pulled his hand back, something had bitten his skin clean off.
The man screamed. His lantern shattered. The house seemed to inhale the sound, stretching the scream out into every corridor until it became a chorus of shrieking.
Finn clutched Lira's sleeve. "We need to—"
A rotten hand shot out of the floorboards, dragging one of the villagers down to the waist. His body snapped like a doll as more skeletal arms reached up, tearing, pulling, feeding.
The others scattered, shrieking.
And Lira—Lira tripped on her own dress, fell flat on her face… and somehow landed on a loose floorboard. The plank sprang up like a seesaw, smacking one of the skeletal things in the skull. Its head popped off like a cork.
The arms shrank back, hissing.
"Wha—" Lira blinked, picking herself up. "See? Told you I'm useful. Dead guys are allergic to my clumsiness."
Finn just gawked.
---
They reached the dining room.
The long oak table was set for a feast. Rotten meat steamed on golden platters. Dozens of chairs were filled with corpses dressed in moldy finery, jaws hanging open as if still mid-conversation. Their empty eyesockets all turned toward the intruders at once.
One corpse slowly raised its hand. A bony finger pointed straight at Lira.
"Youuuu…" it rasped. "The frilled one…"
Lira blinked, frill puffing halfway. "…Uh, hi? Are you guys hiring?"
The corpses all shrieked in unison, rotten flesh tearing as they lunged across the table.
The villagers screamed.
Finn screamed.
And Lira—by sheer dumb luck—tripped again, knocking over her lantern. The fire spread across the tablecloth in an instant, igniting the corpses like candles. The monsters staggered and flailed, collapsing one after another as their brittle bodies crumbled to ash.
When the smoke cleared, Lira stood coughing in the ruins of the haunted dining hall. Her frill flapped uselessly in the smoky air.
"…Well," she said, "at least the food's cooked now."
Finn buried his face in his hands. "You are going to get us killed."
But somewhere in the ashes, something crawled, watching Lira with burning eyes.
Something that whispered, almost laughing:
"Her luck will run out."