The House of the Setting Sun, 1/?
In spite of how dark this story probably sounds, it retains a lot of Monkee humor, which I'm proud of. And I promise the chapter isn't anywhere as long as what I tested out by posting before. That story has been broken into more parts than planned and is linked on my website.
Title: The House of the Setting Sun, chapter one
Author: insaneladybug/Lucky_Ladybug
Rating: PG-13
Summary: The Monkees stumble across an ominous house filled with lost souls, including the spirit of someone from their past. But exactly why he's dead is a twisted and dark mystery that no one is keen on explaining to the Monkees, except for one thing: If they don't leave the house, they will become entrapped in the same events and suffer the same fate. And unfortunately, leaving doesn't seem to be an option.
Warnings: "Off-screen" character death (from before the story opened), gangsters, violence, supernatural ghostly/poltergeist goings-on
Genre: Supernatural, Mystery, Suspense, Drama, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Friendship
Pairing: None
OR if there is NO pairing:
Main Character(s): Micky, Peter, Mike, Davy, Baby Face Morales, Tony Ferano, Vince Ruckyzer, "Harry" (the canonically unnamed member of the gang)
The Monkees
The House of the Setting Sun
By Lucky_Ladybug
Notes: The characters are not mine and the story is! It was inspired by several accounts in the book Ghost Stories of the Old West by Dan Asfar. It takes place after my other recent, multi-chapter Monkees stories, in which our heroes have several odd encounters with Baby Face Morales and his gang, but I don’t think they need to be read first. All that really needs to be understood is that the Monkees here are based on their first season counterparts, as I consider the first season to be the ideal vision of the show.
Chapter One
The house looked foreboding from the start.
Out of all the homes on the deserted block, it was the only one that appeared halfway livable at all. But the badly damaged and falling shingles, the dirty and broken windows and half-hanging shutters, and the rotting wood were quickly making Mike believe that even “halfway livable” was too kind.
“Micky, are you sure this is right?” he frowned as he pulled the Monkeemobile to a halt in front of the rattrap. “I don’t recognize a thing on this street.”
Micky stared at the map, the compass, and the house. “Uh . . . I think we took a wrong turn somewhere back there,” he confessed as he removed the pencil from between his teeth.
“Uh huh. That’s what I thought.” Mike gave a firm nod. He leaned on the steering wheel, turning to give Micky his full attention. “So how far off-course are we this time?”
“Maybe he’ll miscalculate how far off-course we are,” Peter said in all innocence.
Micky waved a hand at him in a dismissive manner. “Laugh, will they?” he muttered. “Mock, will they?” He traced their course with the tip of the pencil. “We’re uh . . .” He brushed the straight brown hair out of his eyes. “I think we’re on the other side of town.” He gave a weak grin.
“Oh wonderful,” Mike sighed. “And look at that; it’s starting to rain.” Quickly he pressed the button that activated the canvas roof, but he was not fast enough. The rain split from the clouds in heavy torrents, pounding on the car and over the hapless occupants before the roof was altogether in place. The Monkees hastened to pull the top over the rest of the way.
“What are we going to do now?” Davy exclaimed, leaning back in his seat when the task was done. “We can’t drive in that!”
“You’re tellin’ me,” Mike said. He turned on the windshield wipers. Even as the rain was being brushed off, more was taking its place. “Man, I can’t see a thing!”
“We can just sit here and wait out the storm,” Peter said. “Maybe it won’t last too long.”
Mike sighed. “Well . . . at least we’re coming back from a gig and not going to one,” he said, “or we’d probably be out of luck. As it is, I guess being a little sidetracked won’t hurt anything.”
“That’s it, Mike,” Davy said. “Look on the bright side.”
A blood-curdling shriek from the direction of the house caused Micky to send all of the items leaping out of his hands. “What was that?!” he exclaimed. He stared through the pelting rain at the once-beautiful mansion, his eyes wide.
“Man, I don’t know,” Mike frowned. “It sounds like somebody’s in trouble.”
“We can’t just sit here then!” Peter cried, undoing his seatbelt. “We have to go in there and help them!”
“Hey, wait a minute!” Davy grabbed Peter’s arm. “Doesn’t it strike you as funny that someone would be screaming in that old place? Who could live in it?”
“Maybe they went in to get out of the storm,” Peter said.
“Yeah,” Mike agreed, taking off his seatbelt as well. “They could’ve stepped on a loose floorboard or something and plunged through and really need our help.”
“Whoever it was did sound pretty scared,” Micky said.
Davy sighed. “I suppose you fellas are right,” he said. “Alright, let’s go.”
Even as they hurried out of the car and up to the porch, the scream came again. In spite of themselves, they cringed at the sound.
“It makes my hair stand on end!” Davy declared. “See, look at this. Look!” He turned around, indicating his shoulder-length locks.
“Oh Davy, your hair’s fine,” Micky said. A creaking noise sent him a mile high. “What was that?!” he yelped.
Mike let out a big sigh. “It was just the porch,” he said. “I stepped on a squeaky board or something. Now come on, guys.”
He moved closer to the door, reaching for the knob. As he touched it the door swung open, revealing a startling sight. The other three Monkees crowded around in disbelief.
“Man, it looks great in there!” Micky exclaimed.
“A house fit for royalty!” Davy added.
“Gee, I wonder why the rain hasn’t wrecked everything,” Peter said. “I guess the roof couldn’t be leaking.”
Beyond them was a spacious entryway and parlor, accented in hues of white and red. The upholstered furniture, various knickknacks, and fancy paintings looked as new as the day they were bought. Only the walls gave the slightest indication that the house was old. Several small cracks were visible near the ceiling.
“I don’t mind telling you that this is making me nervous,” Davy said. “How can it look so entirely different on the inside?!”
“How indeed,” Micky frowned. “Man, the outside looks like a dump!”
“And in here it doesn’t look old at all,” Peter said.
“It is pretty unsettling,” Mike said. “It just doesn’t match up.” He took a deep breath. “But we’ve gotta go in.”
He stepped inside first. “Hello?” he called. “Hello?”
“Hey, where are you?” Micky joined in as he, Peter, and Davy passed over the threshold.
“We heard you screaming!” Peter said. “We came to help!”
A cold breeze swept past them, shutting the door with a bang as it went. The Monkees shivered, staring at each other in confusion.
“What could’ve done that?!” Micky cried.
“Well,” Mike said, sticking his thumbs through his belt loops, “the obvious answer is the wind. However, the wind wouldn’t be blowing through the house and shutting the door. If you take a look outside, you’ll see that the wind is moving in just the opposite direction. The door should’ve been banging against the wall.”
Davy grabbed the knob and rattled it in his hand. “Instead it’s stuck!” he announced. He turned to face the others, his hands on his hips. “I’m telling you, fellas, there’s something wrong about this place.”
“Don’t think we don’t agree with you, Davy,” Micky said, gazing at the ceiling as he moved further into the room. “I mean, where’s the person who screamed? And where did that breeze come from? I don’t feel anything now.”
Peter swallowed hard. “Uh . . . guys?” he quavered.
The others turned to look at him. “What is it, Peter?” Davy asked.
Peter looked and felt sick. “Did you ever hear that if a cold breeze goes by you and there’s no wind, it has to be a ghost?”
Micky, Mike, and Davy stared at him in varying states of alarm and disbelief. “G-Ghost?!” Micky echoed.
Mike shook his head. “Oh, that’s ridiculous, Peter,” he said.
“Yeah,” Davy chimed in. “There’s no such things as ghosts.”
“I wouldn’t be too sure,” Micky said, crossing his arms. “Remember the ghost at Mr. Cunningham’s place? The one that said it was the Ghost of Christmas Past?”
Peter gave an emphatic nod. “And we’ve met mad scientists and monsters they’ve created and . . .” He took a step back. “Why couldn’t there really be ghosts?”
Mike sighed. “This really isn’t the time or place for a spirit debate,” he said. “But if you want my opinion, Peter, there’s just a lot of things about ghosts that don’t add up.”
“Like what?” Peter countered.
Mike began to pace the floor. “Like, a whole lot of times when they’re seen they do the exact same things over and over,” he explained. “They . . . walk across a room or pop out of their graves or something. Then they’re just gone. Now, don’t you think that if people were trying to communicate with us from the other side, they’d do something more constructive?”
“It sounds reasonable,” Peter said slowly. “But what if for some reason they can’t do more than that? Maybe they’re stuck in a rut or something, like when an old phonograph record breaks and it plays the same part over and over!”
Micky blinked in surprise. “Hey, that’s an interesting idea, Pete,” he said. “Creepy, but interesting.” The house groaned and he yelped, grabbing his blond friend. “But . . . Mike’s right,” he gasped. “Let’s . . . not talk about it right now.” He cast a furtive glance around. “It’s going to give us . . . ideas.”
“And we’ve got plenty of those already,” Mike said. “Come on, let’s look around and see if we can find out who screamed.”
“Maybe it was a pretty girl who needs saving,” Davy said, a hopeful gleam in his eye.
“You wish, Shotgun,” Mike sighed.
He looked at the area. “Let’s split up,” he decided. “Micky, you and Peter take the back. Me and Davy’ll check the front. We’ll meet at the staircase and go upstairs together, unless we find something first. If any of us find who screamed, we’ll call real loud for the others.”
Micky nodded, gesturing for Peter to come with him. “Come on,” he said.
Peter hurried after Micky, glancing back to Mike and Davy as they ventured to the right. “Gee, I hope they’ll be okay,” he said. “Maybe we should all stay together.”
“We’ll cover more ground this way,” Micky said. “Don’t worry; what could go wrong?”
He sounded much more confident than he felt. The truth was that the house was positively frightening him. But he was going to put on a show of bravado for as long as he could.
“There’s a lot of things that could go wrong,” Peter said, sobered. “I wish I could be as brave as you, Micky.”
“Then you’d be in trouble,” Micky muttered under his breath.
“What?” Peter tilted his head, regarding the other boy in confusion.
“Nothing,” Micky said.
Reaching a door in the hall, he grabbed hold of the knob and tugged. “It’s stuck!” he cried.
“Which way is it supposed to open?” Peter wondered. “Maybe we could push it in!”
“Unfortunately for us, it opens outward,” Micky grimaced. He pulled harder. “Hey!” he called. “Is someone in there or something? Come on, we’re friends! Let us in!”
Without warning the door popped free, sending Micky crashing backwards into Peter. Peter flailed for only a moment before toppling to the floor with the brunet on top of him.
Micky sat up, his hair a wild mess. “Well, at least I got the door open,” he said.
Peter looked into the newly revealed room. “It’s a library,” he said. “But I don’t see anyone inside.”
Micky got to his feet, wandering to the doorway. “Hello?” He frowned as his voice echoed ominously around the room.
A book flew right at his face. “Peter, duck!” he yelped, diving to the floor.
Peter, who had not yet stood up, gasped and leaned forward, shielding the back of his neck. “What’s going on?!” he cried. “Who threw that?!” The book thumped to the floor next to him.
“I don’t know, but there’s more where that came from!” Micky wailed. What looked like half the library’s contents were soaring to the open doorway. He jumped up, slamming the door shut and pressing himself against it. But despite bracing himself for the impact, none ever came. After a moment he cautiously opened an eye. “What happened?”
“I think we should just check the next room and not try to find out,” Peter said, his eyes wide.
Micky glanced at the sole volume on the floor. The worn title, spelled in gold lettering, leaped out at him. Poltergeist.
“Y-Yeah!” he said, pushing himself away from the door. “Let’s do that! But first, give me that chair.”
“This chair?” Peter held up a nearby, carved oak chair, upholstered in red.
“That chair,” Micky confirmed. He grabbed it, propping it under the doorknob. “Hopefully that’ll keep the books in the room and away from us.”
“Good thinking!” Peter congratulated as they continued down the hall. “I wonder if Mike and Davy are having any better luck.”
“Babe, what could be worse than what’s happening to us?” Micky retorted.
****
Mike and Davy were discovering the answer to that very question. They were entering a large, country kitchen filled with cupboards, counter space, and hanging pots and pans.
“Well, this is cozy,” remarked Davy. He moseyed to the edge of the long, L-shaped counter in the middle of the floor and leaned on it. “Wouldn’t it be nice to have a kitchen like this?”
“I don’t know what we’d do with the space,” Mike said. “Most of our cupboards are empty as it is.”
“Oh. You’ve got a point there, Mike.” Davy pushed himself away from the counter. “Tell me, do you have the feeling we’re being watched?” The sensation had been coming over him with increasing intensity the longer they stayed in the house. Now that they were in the kitchen the feeling was with him so strongly that he could not deny it.
From Mike’s worried eyes, he felt it too. “I don’t know what I’m feeling, man,” he said, “only that we need to get out of here. Something isn’t right.”
As if on cue the pots and pans began clanging into each other, making an eerie sort of music. Mike and Davy whirled to look in alarm.
“There’s no wind in here!” Davy burst out.
“You’re telling me!” Mike said. “Come on, Davy, let’s meet up with Micky and Peter right now!” He grabbed the short boy, trying to steer him to the door.
Before either of them could move, a drawer by the sink flew open. Knives and forks catapulted themselves right at the two horrified Monkees.
“Mike!” Davy screamed. “The silverware is mad at us!”
A fork snatched Mike’s wool hat, pinning it to the wall by the pom-pom. It slipped through the prongs, right into Mike’s waiting hands.
“And I’m not staying to find out why!” Mike said. “Something’s clearly trying to tell us we’re not welcome here, and I’ll be perfectly happy to make it happy and leave!” Clumsily he adjusted the hat on his head and shoved Davy ahead of him and into the front hall. As he immediately followed, the knives stabbed into the swinging door.
Davy turned to stare. The points of the cutlery were sticking out the other side of the door. “I wonder how Micky and Peter are doing right now?!” he all but wailed.
“I don’t know, man, but they couldn’t be having worse luck than this,” Mike said.
****
It was the utter stillness of the grand hall that was more frightening than any normally inanimate object that could have been launched at Micky and Peter. The moment they stepped into the room, the sensation of silence washed over them both. Peter grabbed Micky’s hand, terrified.
“Do you feel it too?” he whispered. They could not raise their voices in here. They could not even simply keep them at an average volume. Somehow he knew-if they spoke louder than a whisper, it would come after them. Whatever it was.
“Yeah, man,” Micky replied, his voice hushed. “There’s some seriously messed-up vibes in this place.” He looked towards a spacious balcony that ran the length of the back of the room. The feeling was strongest over there.
“I wonder what happened,” Peter said as they advanced.
“I don’t think I even want to know,” Micky quietly moaned.
Something brushed past him, sending his straight brown hair flying. He stiffened, slowly turning to look over his shoulder. Nothing was there.
“Dolenz.”
His mouth opened in a wordless, soundless scream. “It knows my name!” he hissed. “It knows my name! How could it know my name?!”
Peter looked at him, perplexed. “What do you mean, Micky? It probably just overheard us talking. We’ve been calling each other by our names the whole time.”
“Yeah, by our first names!” Micky said. “This thing knows my last name!”
Now Peter’s mouth dropped open. “No,” he gasped. “How . . . how could it?!”
“I don’t know, and I am not sticking around to find out!” Micky grabbed Peter, pulling him to the nearest exit. “We’re finding Mike and Davy and getting out of here this minute!”
“But what about the screams?!” Peter demanded.
“It was probably the spooks!” Micky said. “And it’ll be us in a few minutes if we’re not gone!”
They collided with Mike and Davy the moment they tore into the hall. Free of the binding over their voices, they fulfilled Micky’s prophecy and shrieked. So did Mike and Davy. Without waiting for an explanation of any kind, the foursome processed that they were reunited and ran with one mind at the front door.
Just as they reached it and were ready to break it down if need be, it swung open, forcing all of them to a screeching halt. The lightning flashed outside, illuminating the three figures on the porch. The Monkees stared in shock.
“It . . . it can’t be!” Mike exclaimed. “What are you guys doing here?”
“Yeah!” Micky added. “We haven’t seen you in months!”
Tony Ferano stepped into the entryway, his eyes narrowed as he looked at the gang’s sometimes-necessary allies. “Nevermind that,” he said. “You guys shouldn’t be in here.”
Vince Ruckyzer gave a firm nod. “You oughtta leave right now.” He followed his friend inside. Harry trailed after him, leaving the door open for the Monkees to make their escape.
“Now wait . . . now wait just a minute!” Mike planted his feet, frowning at the criminals. “We want some answers. We can’t leave; we came in here because we heard somebody screaming. And you wouldn’t believe what’s been happening to us since then.” He frowned more. “Or would you? This wouldn’t all be some kind of set-up, would it? To keep people away from your new hideout?”
Davy’s eyes glittered in understanding. “Of course!” he said. “Was it all a booby-trap? The pots and pans and the silverware? Look, there’s knives stuck in the kitchen door!” He gestured towards the dark brown door. “You could kill someone with those!”
Tony did not look impressed. “That’s only the beginning,” he said. “It’s not our doing. Look, how many times do I have to say it? Get out of here.”
“It’s not your doing?!” Micky cried. “Then whose was it?! Peter and I were back there, in this big room with a balcony.” He indicated the back corridor. “And something was in that room with us! It walked past me and said my name. Not my first name, either. Somehow it knew my last name!”
“Baby Face,” Vince breathed. Tony froze, shooting the heavyset man a dark look.
Mike stared. “Baby Face?!” he repeated. “That’s right, he’s not here with you, is he. So he’s hiding somewhere scaring the living daylights out of Micky. Aha!” He crossed his arms. “You just have ol’ Baby Face come out here so Micky can see there’s nothing to be afraid of.”
“He won’t come out unless he feels like it,” Tony said. His voice was cold and hard, moreso than any of the Monkees had ever heard it. That only added to the foreboding that they felt. It was one more strange element in this twisted puzzle.
“And why not?” Micky demanded.
“Yeah, why not?” Peter echoed.
“Because he’s dead.” Tony walked past the gobsmacked Monkees without batting an eye. “He was killed in the grand hall when he was shot and fell over the balcony.” He stopped walking, but did not turn around. “And I’m the one who pulled the trigger.”
Without further explanation he resumed his pace and walked into the parlor.
Title: The House of the Setting Sun, chapter one
Author: insaneladybug/Lucky_Ladybug
Rating: PG-13
Summary: The Monkees stumble across an ominous house filled with lost souls, including the spirit of someone from their past. But exactly why he's dead is a twisted and dark mystery that no one is keen on explaining to the Monkees, except for one thing: If they don't leave the house, they will become entrapped in the same events and suffer the same fate. And unfortunately, leaving doesn't seem to be an option.
Warnings: "Off-screen" character death (from before the story opened), gangsters, violence, supernatural ghostly/poltergeist goings-on
Genre: Supernatural, Mystery, Suspense, Drama, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Friendship
Pairing: None
OR if there is NO pairing:
Main Character(s): Micky, Peter, Mike, Davy, Baby Face Morales, Tony Ferano, Vince Ruckyzer, "Harry" (the canonically unnamed member of the gang)
The Monkees
The House of the Setting Sun
By Lucky_Ladybug
Notes: The characters are not mine and the story is! It was inspired by several accounts in the book Ghost Stories of the Old West by Dan Asfar. It takes place after my other recent, multi-chapter Monkees stories, in which our heroes have several odd encounters with Baby Face Morales and his gang, but I don’t think they need to be read first. All that really needs to be understood is that the Monkees here are based on their first season counterparts, as I consider the first season to be the ideal vision of the show.
Chapter One
The house looked foreboding from the start.
Out of all the homes on the deserted block, it was the only one that appeared halfway livable at all. But the badly damaged and falling shingles, the dirty and broken windows and half-hanging shutters, and the rotting wood were quickly making Mike believe that even “halfway livable” was too kind.
“Micky, are you sure this is right?” he frowned as he pulled the Monkeemobile to a halt in front of the rattrap. “I don’t recognize a thing on this street.”
Micky stared at the map, the compass, and the house. “Uh . . . I think we took a wrong turn somewhere back there,” he confessed as he removed the pencil from between his teeth.
“Uh huh. That’s what I thought.” Mike gave a firm nod. He leaned on the steering wheel, turning to give Micky his full attention. “So how far off-course are we this time?”
“Maybe he’ll miscalculate how far off-course we are,” Peter said in all innocence.
Micky waved a hand at him in a dismissive manner. “Laugh, will they?” he muttered. “Mock, will they?” He traced their course with the tip of the pencil. “We’re uh . . .” He brushed the straight brown hair out of his eyes. “I think we’re on the other side of town.” He gave a weak grin.
“Oh wonderful,” Mike sighed. “And look at that; it’s starting to rain.” Quickly he pressed the button that activated the canvas roof, but he was not fast enough. The rain split from the clouds in heavy torrents, pounding on the car and over the hapless occupants before the roof was altogether in place. The Monkees hastened to pull the top over the rest of the way.
“What are we going to do now?” Davy exclaimed, leaning back in his seat when the task was done. “We can’t drive in that!”
“You’re tellin’ me,” Mike said. He turned on the windshield wipers. Even as the rain was being brushed off, more was taking its place. “Man, I can’t see a thing!”
“We can just sit here and wait out the storm,” Peter said. “Maybe it won’t last too long.”
Mike sighed. “Well . . . at least we’re coming back from a gig and not going to one,” he said, “or we’d probably be out of luck. As it is, I guess being a little sidetracked won’t hurt anything.”
“That’s it, Mike,” Davy said. “Look on the bright side.”
A blood-curdling shriek from the direction of the house caused Micky to send all of the items leaping out of his hands. “What was that?!” he exclaimed. He stared through the pelting rain at the once-beautiful mansion, his eyes wide.
“Man, I don’t know,” Mike frowned. “It sounds like somebody’s in trouble.”
“We can’t just sit here then!” Peter cried, undoing his seatbelt. “We have to go in there and help them!”
“Hey, wait a minute!” Davy grabbed Peter’s arm. “Doesn’t it strike you as funny that someone would be screaming in that old place? Who could live in it?”
“Maybe they went in to get out of the storm,” Peter said.
“Yeah,” Mike agreed, taking off his seatbelt as well. “They could’ve stepped on a loose floorboard or something and plunged through and really need our help.”
“Whoever it was did sound pretty scared,” Micky said.
Davy sighed. “I suppose you fellas are right,” he said. “Alright, let’s go.”
Even as they hurried out of the car and up to the porch, the scream came again. In spite of themselves, they cringed at the sound.
“It makes my hair stand on end!” Davy declared. “See, look at this. Look!” He turned around, indicating his shoulder-length locks.
“Oh Davy, your hair’s fine,” Micky said. A creaking noise sent him a mile high. “What was that?!” he yelped.
Mike let out a big sigh. “It was just the porch,” he said. “I stepped on a squeaky board or something. Now come on, guys.”
He moved closer to the door, reaching for the knob. As he touched it the door swung open, revealing a startling sight. The other three Monkees crowded around in disbelief.
“Man, it looks great in there!” Micky exclaimed.
“A house fit for royalty!” Davy added.
“Gee, I wonder why the rain hasn’t wrecked everything,” Peter said. “I guess the roof couldn’t be leaking.”
Beyond them was a spacious entryway and parlor, accented in hues of white and red. The upholstered furniture, various knickknacks, and fancy paintings looked as new as the day they were bought. Only the walls gave the slightest indication that the house was old. Several small cracks were visible near the ceiling.
“I don’t mind telling you that this is making me nervous,” Davy said. “How can it look so entirely different on the inside?!”
“How indeed,” Micky frowned. “Man, the outside looks like a dump!”
“And in here it doesn’t look old at all,” Peter said.
“It is pretty unsettling,” Mike said. “It just doesn’t match up.” He took a deep breath. “But we’ve gotta go in.”
He stepped inside first. “Hello?” he called. “Hello?”
“Hey, where are you?” Micky joined in as he, Peter, and Davy passed over the threshold.
“We heard you screaming!” Peter said. “We came to help!”
A cold breeze swept past them, shutting the door with a bang as it went. The Monkees shivered, staring at each other in confusion.
“What could’ve done that?!” Micky cried.
“Well,” Mike said, sticking his thumbs through his belt loops, “the obvious answer is the wind. However, the wind wouldn’t be blowing through the house and shutting the door. If you take a look outside, you’ll see that the wind is moving in just the opposite direction. The door should’ve been banging against the wall.”
Davy grabbed the knob and rattled it in his hand. “Instead it’s stuck!” he announced. He turned to face the others, his hands on his hips. “I’m telling you, fellas, there’s something wrong about this place.”
“Don’t think we don’t agree with you, Davy,” Micky said, gazing at the ceiling as he moved further into the room. “I mean, where’s the person who screamed? And where did that breeze come from? I don’t feel anything now.”
Peter swallowed hard. “Uh . . . guys?” he quavered.
The others turned to look at him. “What is it, Peter?” Davy asked.
Peter looked and felt sick. “Did you ever hear that if a cold breeze goes by you and there’s no wind, it has to be a ghost?”
Micky, Mike, and Davy stared at him in varying states of alarm and disbelief. “G-Ghost?!” Micky echoed.
Mike shook his head. “Oh, that’s ridiculous, Peter,” he said.
“Yeah,” Davy chimed in. “There’s no such things as ghosts.”
“I wouldn’t be too sure,” Micky said, crossing his arms. “Remember the ghost at Mr. Cunningham’s place? The one that said it was the Ghost of Christmas Past?”
Peter gave an emphatic nod. “And we’ve met mad scientists and monsters they’ve created and . . .” He took a step back. “Why couldn’t there really be ghosts?”
Mike sighed. “This really isn’t the time or place for a spirit debate,” he said. “But if you want my opinion, Peter, there’s just a lot of things about ghosts that don’t add up.”
“Like what?” Peter countered.
Mike began to pace the floor. “Like, a whole lot of times when they’re seen they do the exact same things over and over,” he explained. “They . . . walk across a room or pop out of their graves or something. Then they’re just gone. Now, don’t you think that if people were trying to communicate with us from the other side, they’d do something more constructive?”
“It sounds reasonable,” Peter said slowly. “But what if for some reason they can’t do more than that? Maybe they’re stuck in a rut or something, like when an old phonograph record breaks and it plays the same part over and over!”
Micky blinked in surprise. “Hey, that’s an interesting idea, Pete,” he said. “Creepy, but interesting.” The house groaned and he yelped, grabbing his blond friend. “But . . . Mike’s right,” he gasped. “Let’s . . . not talk about it right now.” He cast a furtive glance around. “It’s going to give us . . . ideas.”
“And we’ve got plenty of those already,” Mike said. “Come on, let’s look around and see if we can find out who screamed.”
“Maybe it was a pretty girl who needs saving,” Davy said, a hopeful gleam in his eye.
“You wish, Shotgun,” Mike sighed.
He looked at the area. “Let’s split up,” he decided. “Micky, you and Peter take the back. Me and Davy’ll check the front. We’ll meet at the staircase and go upstairs together, unless we find something first. If any of us find who screamed, we’ll call real loud for the others.”
Micky nodded, gesturing for Peter to come with him. “Come on,” he said.
Peter hurried after Micky, glancing back to Mike and Davy as they ventured to the right. “Gee, I hope they’ll be okay,” he said. “Maybe we should all stay together.”
“We’ll cover more ground this way,” Micky said. “Don’t worry; what could go wrong?”
He sounded much more confident than he felt. The truth was that the house was positively frightening him. But he was going to put on a show of bravado for as long as he could.
“There’s a lot of things that could go wrong,” Peter said, sobered. “I wish I could be as brave as you, Micky.”
“Then you’d be in trouble,” Micky muttered under his breath.
“What?” Peter tilted his head, regarding the other boy in confusion.
“Nothing,” Micky said.
Reaching a door in the hall, he grabbed hold of the knob and tugged. “It’s stuck!” he cried.
“Which way is it supposed to open?” Peter wondered. “Maybe we could push it in!”
“Unfortunately for us, it opens outward,” Micky grimaced. He pulled harder. “Hey!” he called. “Is someone in there or something? Come on, we’re friends! Let us in!”
Without warning the door popped free, sending Micky crashing backwards into Peter. Peter flailed for only a moment before toppling to the floor with the brunet on top of him.
Micky sat up, his hair a wild mess. “Well, at least I got the door open,” he said.
Peter looked into the newly revealed room. “It’s a library,” he said. “But I don’t see anyone inside.”
Micky got to his feet, wandering to the doorway. “Hello?” He frowned as his voice echoed ominously around the room.
A book flew right at his face. “Peter, duck!” he yelped, diving to the floor.
Peter, who had not yet stood up, gasped and leaned forward, shielding the back of his neck. “What’s going on?!” he cried. “Who threw that?!” The book thumped to the floor next to him.
“I don’t know, but there’s more where that came from!” Micky wailed. What looked like half the library’s contents were soaring to the open doorway. He jumped up, slamming the door shut and pressing himself against it. But despite bracing himself for the impact, none ever came. After a moment he cautiously opened an eye. “What happened?”
“I think we should just check the next room and not try to find out,” Peter said, his eyes wide.
Micky glanced at the sole volume on the floor. The worn title, spelled in gold lettering, leaped out at him. Poltergeist.
“Y-Yeah!” he said, pushing himself away from the door. “Let’s do that! But first, give me that chair.”
“This chair?” Peter held up a nearby, carved oak chair, upholstered in red.
“That chair,” Micky confirmed. He grabbed it, propping it under the doorknob. “Hopefully that’ll keep the books in the room and away from us.”
“Good thinking!” Peter congratulated as they continued down the hall. “I wonder if Mike and Davy are having any better luck.”
“Babe, what could be worse than what’s happening to us?” Micky retorted.
****
Mike and Davy were discovering the answer to that very question. They were entering a large, country kitchen filled with cupboards, counter space, and hanging pots and pans.
“Well, this is cozy,” remarked Davy. He moseyed to the edge of the long, L-shaped counter in the middle of the floor and leaned on it. “Wouldn’t it be nice to have a kitchen like this?”
“I don’t know what we’d do with the space,” Mike said. “Most of our cupboards are empty as it is.”
“Oh. You’ve got a point there, Mike.” Davy pushed himself away from the counter. “Tell me, do you have the feeling we’re being watched?” The sensation had been coming over him with increasing intensity the longer they stayed in the house. Now that they were in the kitchen the feeling was with him so strongly that he could not deny it.
From Mike’s worried eyes, he felt it too. “I don’t know what I’m feeling, man,” he said, “only that we need to get out of here. Something isn’t right.”
As if on cue the pots and pans began clanging into each other, making an eerie sort of music. Mike and Davy whirled to look in alarm.
“There’s no wind in here!” Davy burst out.
“You’re telling me!” Mike said. “Come on, Davy, let’s meet up with Micky and Peter right now!” He grabbed the short boy, trying to steer him to the door.
Before either of them could move, a drawer by the sink flew open. Knives and forks catapulted themselves right at the two horrified Monkees.
“Mike!” Davy screamed. “The silverware is mad at us!”
A fork snatched Mike’s wool hat, pinning it to the wall by the pom-pom. It slipped through the prongs, right into Mike’s waiting hands.
“And I’m not staying to find out why!” Mike said. “Something’s clearly trying to tell us we’re not welcome here, and I’ll be perfectly happy to make it happy and leave!” Clumsily he adjusted the hat on his head and shoved Davy ahead of him and into the front hall. As he immediately followed, the knives stabbed into the swinging door.
Davy turned to stare. The points of the cutlery were sticking out the other side of the door. “I wonder how Micky and Peter are doing right now?!” he all but wailed.
“I don’t know, man, but they couldn’t be having worse luck than this,” Mike said.
****
It was the utter stillness of the grand hall that was more frightening than any normally inanimate object that could have been launched at Micky and Peter. The moment they stepped into the room, the sensation of silence washed over them both. Peter grabbed Micky’s hand, terrified.
“Do you feel it too?” he whispered. They could not raise their voices in here. They could not even simply keep them at an average volume. Somehow he knew-if they spoke louder than a whisper, it would come after them. Whatever it was.
“Yeah, man,” Micky replied, his voice hushed. “There’s some seriously messed-up vibes in this place.” He looked towards a spacious balcony that ran the length of the back of the room. The feeling was strongest over there.
“I wonder what happened,” Peter said as they advanced.
“I don’t think I even want to know,” Micky quietly moaned.
Something brushed past him, sending his straight brown hair flying. He stiffened, slowly turning to look over his shoulder. Nothing was there.
“Dolenz.”
His mouth opened in a wordless, soundless scream. “It knows my name!” he hissed. “It knows my name! How could it know my name?!”
Peter looked at him, perplexed. “What do you mean, Micky? It probably just overheard us talking. We’ve been calling each other by our names the whole time.”
“Yeah, by our first names!” Micky said. “This thing knows my last name!”
Now Peter’s mouth dropped open. “No,” he gasped. “How . . . how could it?!”
“I don’t know, and I am not sticking around to find out!” Micky grabbed Peter, pulling him to the nearest exit. “We’re finding Mike and Davy and getting out of here this minute!”
“But what about the screams?!” Peter demanded.
“It was probably the spooks!” Micky said. “And it’ll be us in a few minutes if we’re not gone!”
They collided with Mike and Davy the moment they tore into the hall. Free of the binding over their voices, they fulfilled Micky’s prophecy and shrieked. So did Mike and Davy. Without waiting for an explanation of any kind, the foursome processed that they were reunited and ran with one mind at the front door.
Just as they reached it and were ready to break it down if need be, it swung open, forcing all of them to a screeching halt. The lightning flashed outside, illuminating the three figures on the porch. The Monkees stared in shock.
“It . . . it can’t be!” Mike exclaimed. “What are you guys doing here?”
“Yeah!” Micky added. “We haven’t seen you in months!”
Tony Ferano stepped into the entryway, his eyes narrowed as he looked at the gang’s sometimes-necessary allies. “Nevermind that,” he said. “You guys shouldn’t be in here.”
Vince Ruckyzer gave a firm nod. “You oughtta leave right now.” He followed his friend inside. Harry trailed after him, leaving the door open for the Monkees to make their escape.
“Now wait . . . now wait just a minute!” Mike planted his feet, frowning at the criminals. “We want some answers. We can’t leave; we came in here because we heard somebody screaming. And you wouldn’t believe what’s been happening to us since then.” He frowned more. “Or would you? This wouldn’t all be some kind of set-up, would it? To keep people away from your new hideout?”
Davy’s eyes glittered in understanding. “Of course!” he said. “Was it all a booby-trap? The pots and pans and the silverware? Look, there’s knives stuck in the kitchen door!” He gestured towards the dark brown door. “You could kill someone with those!”
Tony did not look impressed. “That’s only the beginning,” he said. “It’s not our doing. Look, how many times do I have to say it? Get out of here.”
“It’s not your doing?!” Micky cried. “Then whose was it?! Peter and I were back there, in this big room with a balcony.” He indicated the back corridor. “And something was in that room with us! It walked past me and said my name. Not my first name, either. Somehow it knew my last name!”
“Baby Face,” Vince breathed. Tony froze, shooting the heavyset man a dark look.
Mike stared. “Baby Face?!” he repeated. “That’s right, he’s not here with you, is he. So he’s hiding somewhere scaring the living daylights out of Micky. Aha!” He crossed his arms. “You just have ol’ Baby Face come out here so Micky can see there’s nothing to be afraid of.”
“He won’t come out unless he feels like it,” Tony said. His voice was cold and hard, moreso than any of the Monkees had ever heard it. That only added to the foreboding that they felt. It was one more strange element in this twisted puzzle.
“And why not?” Micky demanded.
“Yeah, why not?” Peter echoed.
“Because he’s dead.” Tony walked past the gobsmacked Monkees without batting an eye. “He was killed in the grand hall when he was shot and fell over the balcony.” He stopped walking, but did not turn around. “And I’m the one who pulled the trigger.”
Without further explanation he resumed his pace and walked into the parlor.