Around Halloween, Cunningham decorates its oldest building, the Cunningham Manor, for the holiday as a haunted mansion. There are century long rumors of it already haunted by Old Man Cunningham. Chao himself thought the decorations were tacky amongst the glamor of the manor. He shivered in the cold crisp air, waiting for his stupid brother who insisted on coming here. "Asshole could have went with his hubby. This is exactly something Huston would love," he thought bitterly. He mentally kicked himself for not bringing a jacket. Ma scolded him way too times as a kid for not wearing one.
Chao was currently wearing a sultry black flapper dress with sparkling sequins all over. The black kitten heels he wore were a little too small for his feet. He could practically feel any future blisters and aches. His hair was its usual and bleached recently. Chao and Sunny decided to go as Roxie and Amos Hart from Chicago. A month before this, they were roughhousing over who was going to be Roxie. He bet that Sunny was still bitter over not being Roxie.
James stood before the manor, his breath catching as his eyes swept over the eerie transformation it had undergone for the holiday season.
He shifted on his feet, his ranger's uniform feeling oddly out of place here. Haunted houses weren't his thing. As a man of the wilderness, he found solace in the quiet embrace of the forest and the predictable rustle of leaves underfoot, not in these artificial, staged scares. Yet here he was, standing at the grand entrance, compelled by an unspoken force to experience his first haunted house—perhaps just to see what all the fuss was about.
The wrought-iron gates creaked open as he approached, and a gust of wind sent a chill up his spine. The decorations were impressive, he had to admit, and whoever had designed this display knew exactly how to create a haunted house. The towering columns, usually symbols of order and authority, seemed to waver under the pressure of the dim lighting, casting long, spindly shadows across the cracked pavement leading to the front door.
Taking a deep breath, he hesitated for a moment longer. His natural instincts, honed by years of training, were urging him to turn back. The dark unknown had never bothered him before, but this was different. This was... manufactured fear. Still, something about the night drew him in, maybe curiosity, or perhaps the need to prove to himself that he could handle whatever lay inside. After all, how scary could it be?
He shifted on his feet, his ranger's uniform feeling oddly out of place here. Haunted houses weren't his thing. As a man of the wilderness, he found solace in the quiet embrace of the forest and the predictable rustle of leaves underfoot, not in these artificial, staged scares. Yet here he was, standing at the grand entrance, compelled by an unspoken force to experience his first haunted house—perhaps just to see what all the fuss was about.
The wrought-iron gates creaked open as he approached, and a gust of wind sent a chill up his spine. The decorations were impressive, he had to admit, and whoever had designed this display knew exactly how to create a haunted house. The towering columns, usually symbols of order and authority, seemed to waver under the pressure of the dim lighting, casting long, spindly shadows across the cracked pavement leading to the front door.
Taking a deep breath, he hesitated for a moment longer. His natural instincts, honed by years of training, were urging him to turn back. The dark unknown had never bothered him before, but this was different. This was... manufactured fear. Still, something about the night drew him in, maybe curiosity, or perhaps the need to prove to himself that he could handle whatever lay inside. After all, how scary could it be?
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