<strong>Malcolm Wade -- Fine Dining from Hell</strong><br/><br/>As the others split up, Mal wandered through the front rooms, looking for anything that seemed unusual or unnatural. He trusted Cathy to do the same, and watched her evaporating and reintegrating from place to place. Every now and then, Malcolm felt a brief but sharp patch of cold circulating around him; if he didn't know any better, he'd have thought the house was checking him out, somehow. Then he realized that he actually<em>didn't</em>know better, and that might have been exactly what was happening. A chill ran down his back, and not just from the temperature.<br/><br/>None of the doors were locked. In its own way, that was either reassuring, or very, very unnerving; on the bright side, it meant that getting to the bottom of Harrowgate's mysteries would be that much easier. On the other hand, it meant whatever this thing was, it had its pick of rooms that could turn into deathtraps at a moment's notice. A cursory scan of each room from the doorway was all Malcolm was presently willing to risk, and Cathy seemed to agree. The two stuck close to each other as they wandered the halls.<br/><br/>Mal's flashlight swept over the walls and carpet, clean and lush in some areas, molded and rotted in other patches. The renovations crews hadn't been able to finish more than two thirds of their work, and the result was an eerie mesh of decrepit contemporary. There were no pictures, no paintings, standing or hanging anywhere in sight, but a few spots on the walls were a lighter, less faded color than the rest. Mal wondered idly where the pictures had gone, or if they'd been destroyed by the original mob.<br/><br/>Perhaps halfway into the house, Mal turned a red, crystal doorknob and pushed open a heavy mahogany door into an elaborate, deceptively large dining room. The flashlight played over several ornate wooden chairs on either side of an equally lavish, carved dining table; from the size it could have sat at least thirty diners, easily. A thin, lacy, blood-red table cloth hung from the table's edges, flapping in a nonexistent breeze. Malcolm watched, fascinated, as tiny flames lit the ends of several tall white candlesticks, two surrounding each table setting.<br/><br/>His attention diverted, Mal failed to notice the form of a young boy manifesting behind him. The child's head hung low, eyes glaring darkly from beneath his brow, and water dripped from his arms and hair. Mal walked forward a few paces, oblivious to the boy's presence until he saw Cathy motioning to him frantically, her voice much higher than usual.<br/><br/><em>turnaroundbossturnaroundquicktheressomething--</em><br/><br/>In a flash, Mal spun around and saw...nothing. He shined the Mag-Lite on the door he'd entered through, then turned back to Cathy with a silent 'What the hell?' gesture. As he turned back toward the dining table, the boy reappeared in front of him, floating four feet off the ground and flying right at him, his expression murderous, mouth locked in a silent scream.<br/><br/>"Holy fuck!" Mal screamed, wheeling backward and losing his footing. The investigator went down hard onto his back as the apparition roared overhead and vanished back into the ether. For a moment, Mal lay still and tried to stop his heart before it exploded out of his chest, with Cathy hovering over him with her usual blend of amusement and concern. When he was certain he could stand again without fainting, he rolled over and picked himself up from the floor, brushed off the dust from his coat, and reached for his flashlight. Its illuminating beam seemed to scatter strangely across the floor, the light almost appearing to undulate back and forth, as if the floor was...<br/><br/>Moving.<br/><br/>Upon closer inspection, Mal realized the floor of the dining room was covered with ants, millions of them writhing and teeming in a living carpet that most definitely was not there when he first fell. With a scream that didn't sound at all like a little girl's, he leaped backward and started to climb up onto the dining table, scrabbling backward like a frightened crab. After getting his legs back beneath him, Mal rose to a kneeling position and swept the flashlight back and forth over the floor.<br/><br/>No ants.<br/><br/>But now, the chairs weren't empty. A strong, merry voice startled him from behind, and he looked around to see dozens of grotesque, rotting corpses in varying stages of decay, with a bare skeleton standing at the head of the table. "My, my, we really should give our compliments to the chef! Tonight's meal looks absolutely<em>delicious</em>!" It said, its eternal grin clattering as it spoke. The corpses laughed, a hearty, horrifying chorus, as Mal jumped back to the floor. He raced toward the dining room door and jerked it open before risking a glance back. The dining room was empty, and dark; not even the candles still burned. He wasn't about to take chances, however; he rushed back into the hall and slammed the door shut, then leaned against the heavy wood to catch his breath.<br/><br/><em>'Alright, then. Whatever the hell you are...round one goes to you,'</em>Mal thought wryly.<br/>