He laid a finger on one of the turntables—just one finger—and the crowd lost their minds. It was ridiculous. Ghouls screamed like he'd summoned the ghost of Beethoven himself, while mansters elbowed each other, nodding like they understood the technical mastery of Holt's single finger hover. It was the ultimate display of musical bravado, a silent promise that the drop was coming, and when it did, it would be seismic.
Frankie bit her lip to keep from laughing, her stitches tensing with the effort. She knew Holt was a showman, but this was reaching critical levels of camp. Next to her, Cleo de Nile rolled her eyes so hard her golden eyeliner smudged against her brow bone.
"Ugh, please," Cleo huffed, fanning herself with a bejeweled hand. "I've seen mummies in the crypt of Nefer-Ti move more than that, and they've been dead for three millennia. If he doesn't drop the beat in the next five seconds, I'm calling my royal guards to escort him off the stage."
But Holt knew his audience. He lived for the tension, the way the air in the cemetery felt thick with static electricity.
"Behold, mansters and ghouls!" Holt declared, flipping his yellow orange flame hair out of his face with a practiced, rhythmic jerk of his head—another stolen Hyde family gesture, according to Jackson's extensive, albeit frantic, research into their shared lineage.
The original Hyde didn't need a potion to wreck a party, and neither did he.
He punctuated the thought about line by kicking a massive bass speaker hard enough to send sparks skittering across the tombstone-littered ground. The impact resonated through the soil, vibrating the very bones of the audience. The zombies groaned appreciatively, though whether it was from Holt's sonic mastery or the fact that Heath Burns had accidentally spilled molten marshmallow on one's rotting foot was debatable.
Holt grinned—all teeth, no restraint—and cranked the volume higher. The mausoleum doors rattled in their frames as the bass surged, a physical force that turned the party from a gathering into a riot of neon and noise.
Perfect.
------
The party was more than a success; it was legendary. It was the kind of night that would be whispered about in the hallways of Monster High for weeks, or at least until the next Blood Moon. But as the clock struck 4:00 AM, the atmosphere began to shift for Holt.
He really should be going soon.
The curse of the Hyde lineage was many things—loud, colorful, and prone to spontaneous combustion—but above all, it was punctual. If it was sunrise, Jackson would automatically come out. Much like how Holt automatically manifested at sundown, the transition was a biological certainty, as inevitable as the tide. And while Holt loved a good sunrise set, he knew the "Fuzzy Feeling" was imminent.
"Look, ghoulie, I'm lovin' this convo, I really am, but I gotta get going now," Holt excused himself awkwardly from a ghoul. If he was being honest, he didn't actually know her name. He'd been calling her "Spooky" all night since she had various skeletal remains sticking out of her outfit like a disorganized reject from an anatomy class. She didn't seem to mind; in fact, she seemed charmed by his frantic energy.
The sky was starting to slowly lighten, transitioning from a deep, velvety pitch black to a bruised purple. Holt could already feel that weird, static filled fuzziness creeping into the back of his skull. It was like a radio station losing its signal, the crisp clarity of his thoughts beginning to blur into Jackson's methodical, quiet hum. Jackson's internal alarm clock was ringing loud and clear in their shared brain space, a polite but insistent ding-ding-ding that signaled the end of Holt's shift.
"Wait, Holt! You didn't finish the last extended remix!" Spooky called out, but Holt was already moving.
He tripped over a zombie's outstretched leg—seriously, did they have to nap in the middle of the dance floor? It was a health hazard, or at least a tripping hazard for the vertically integrated. He stumbled, arms flailing, before catching himself on Heath's shoulder.
"Holtster bro!" Heath grinned, his own hair flickering with orange flames that matched the rising heat of the party. "You leavin' already? The sun ain't even up, man! We were gonna do the fire breathing contest!"
"Later, lava breath," Holt joked, his voice sounding a little more strained than he liked. "I got things to do in the morning and my parents will make me a ghost if I'm late."
"We're both fire elementals! Being a ghost would be a step down!" Heath shouted after him, missing the metaphor entirely. It was another tragically bad line—one that Holt had definitely used first during his freshman year.
By the time Holt reached the outskirts of the cemetery, the sky was blushing a faint, dusty pink. He could feel Jackson "clawing" at the edges of his consciousness. It wasn't violent, but it was persistent—like a Victorian gentleman politely but firmly losing his mind while waiting for a delayed train.
Holt stumbled behind a crumbling, vine choked mausoleum. It wasn't the most glamorous place for a transformation, but it offered some shade from the encroaching light.
"Oh c'mon, Jackie," he muttered to the empty air, flexing his right hand. His fingers started flickering, the solid blue hue turning slightly translucent, like a hologram with a weak battery. "Couldn't give me five more minutes? The party was just peaking!"
But they already knew the rules.
And neither could help that.
His left hand twitched involuntarily, reaching for a non-existent pen. The horizon bled orange now, staining his vision like watered-down ink. The vibrant neon colors of the night were fading into the dull, muted tones of the morning. He could already feel Jackson's rigid, penmanship cramping his style. Literally. His muscles were tightening, his posture shifting from a confident slouch to a nervous, upright stance.
A zombie groaned mournfully from inside the nearby crypt, the sound echoing off the stone walls.
Holt rolled his eyes, even as his vision began to swim. "Yeah, yeah, 'woe is me, brains are scarce,' spare me the dramatics, Bob."
The irony wasn't lost on him. Here he was, mid-transformation, quoting Victorian tropes in his head while being the literal, modernized version of a cautionary tale about repressed desires and chemical imbalances. His ancestors—the infamous Dr. Jekyll and the original Mr. Hyde—would be so proud. Or perhaps they'd just be confused by the headphones and the shared eyebrow piercing.
By the time he reached his bedroom window—left suspiciously unlocked, thanks to his own foresight during his last stint as Jackson—his reflection in the glass was already warping. It was a terrifying, slow motion kaleidoscope of identity.
Jackson's spectacles materialized first, because of course they did. Even in the spirit realm, Jackson Jekyll was legally blind.
"Ugh, spectacles," Holt muttered, his voice dropping an octave as his vocal cords shifted. He watched his own wide, manic grin shrink into Jackson's characteristic, nervous half smile. His right hand—formerly skilled at the delicate art of turntable sabotage—clenched into a cramp.
"Real subtle, Jackie. Real subtle," he wheezed.
The last thing Holt remembered was the sunrise painting the world in a blinding, aggressive shade of orange. It hit his retinas like a physical blow, and then—blackout.
It was the classic Jekyll and Hyde family nonsense. He often thought Dr. Henry Jekyll could've at least left a manual for his descendants. Something helpful, like How To Not Suddenly Lose Consciousness Mid-Sentence Like A Victorian Dork, or perhaps A Guide to Coordinating Outfits Across Personality Splits.
While Jackson Jekyll was currently face down on his bedroom floor, wondering why his ears were ringing and why he smelled like expensive hair gel and smoke, the rest of the student body was slowly recovering.
------
Heath Burns, fueled by sheer elemental adrenaline and a lack of self awareness, decided to check in with the squad. He was currently walking home, his boots kicking up dust, feeling the sting of rejection after failing to get a single phone number at the party—despite the event being hosted by his best friend, the legendary DJ Hyde.
He pulled out his iCoffin, the screen glowing brightly in the early morning light.
"BROOOOOO" Heath texted to Deuce Gorgon at 5:03 AM. He chose Comic Sans for the font, knowing it annoyed Deuce, and the single word stretched across the screen for maximum dramatic effect.
"U home safe n shit? Also did u see how Holt dipped??? Mans straight up VANISHED???? Confusion.exe activated."
He waited, watching the little typing bubbles. Deuce was probably still wearing his shades, even in bed.
"Holt always dips man, that's just how he rolls," Deuce texted back. A pixelated snake emoji followed the message, which proceeded to hiss and snap at the edges of Heath's screen. "Unlike SOME people who stick around until their head catch the whole cemetery on fire. My snakes are still coughing up soot."
"Yeah, said that his parents were gonna make him a ghost or somethin," Heath replied, ignoring the jab about his fire-control issues. "He seemed pretty stressed about the time. Like a Cinder-fella or some junk."
The group chat notification chimed again.
This time it was Draculaura.
"Actually," she typed, the font elegant and pink, "does anyone know who Holt's parents are? Or where they live? I realized tonight I've never seen him at the parent teacher night last night. And he doesn't have a coffin bus pass."
"Nope," Clawdeen added, her message appearing with the sound of a wolf howl. "He's a total mystery. Every time I ask, he just starts talking about BPMs and bass boosters. It's like he doesn't exist outside of schools and parties."
"But maybe Jackie does?" Clawdeen added a moment later. "They're friends, right? Or dating? I can never keep the story straight."
Frankie's message popped up next, accompanied by a little lightning bolt emoji—her signature since Holt had dubbed her "Franken-Volt" during their first chemistry lab together.
"I'll text to ask him at like 10:00," Frankie suggested. "Normies are usually up by then, right? Jackson is always so punctual with his replies. He probably has a spreadsheet for his social interactions."
"Jackson is definitely a spreadsheet guy," Heath agreed, sending a flaming thumb up emoji. "Ask him where the fire guy went. I still owe him five bucks for that beat drop."
------
As the ghouls and mansters drifted off to sleep, Jackson Jekyll sat up on his rug, adjusted his glasses, and wondered why there was a glow stick tucked into his sock. He reached for his phone, seeing 47 unread messages in the group chat, and sighed. It was going to be a long morning.