Meanwhile, Ronette was locked in a desperate game of don't die with the spider. If you ignored the part where the spider clearly wanted to devour him whole, the scene almost looked… sweet. Like a chaotic game of tag between a boy and his deeply misunderstood eight-legged pet. It was weirdly heartwarming. And also completely horrifying.
Ronette let out a shriek and grabbed a nearby chair. With the strength of sheer, adrenaline-fueled terror, he hurled it like a gladiator in a furniture-themed arena.
It bounced off the spider like a marshmallow.
Undeterred, Ronette grabbed whatever he could get his trembling hands on—a candlestick, a fruit bowl, an actual encyclopedia volume titled Arachnids of the Eastern Hemisphere—and flung them one by one. Each object met the same fate: a dull thunk, followed by the spider blinking slowly, unimpressed.
"Help!" he shrieked, scrambling up a pillar like a squirrel on espresso. "Louis!"
"You're doing amazing!" I called out encouragingly, narrowly ducking a flying teacup hurled with suspicious elegance by Mr. Woo.
In the midst of cheering while being very enthusiastically hunted, I failed to notice Mr. Woo accelerating behind me like a judgmental bullet.
A shadow loomed. I turned.
Too late.
He raised his cane like a battle standard and brought it down.
THWACK.
"Achachachachacha!" I yelped, clutching my wounded head. "Ow! Hey! A cane is supposed to smack hands, not heads!"
But Mr. Woo—clearly a graduate of the School of Merciless Discipline—ignored my protests and chased me down like a headhunter, repeatedly whacking me on the crown with mechanical precision.
"If I turn dumb from this, I'm blaming you, Mr. Woo!" I shouted, zigzagging desperately to avoid another brain-jolting whack.
Maria stood frozen in the center of the room, clutching a butterknife like it was forged in holy fire. "I don't know who to stab first!"
"Try the fog!" I shouted. "It's probably responsible for everything!"
And then—the Whisper Man moved.
Silence fell like a guillotine. Even Mr. Woo froze mid-menace.
The figure glided forward, shadow clinging to him like a second skin. He bent low, his face forever obscured, and whispered in a voice that made my spine try to escape my body:
"Let's play… forever."
My entire spine attempted to resign.
"I—I'd like to humbly decline," I whispered.
A long, tense beat passed.
Then Ronette—blessed, panicked Ronette—snatched a croissant from a nearby tray and hurled it straight at the creature.
It passed through harmlessly, dissolving into the mist.
"Okay," he wheezed, backing up. "Just checking."
Without waiting, I grabbed Maria's hand. "Plan B!"
"What's Plan B?" she gasped, stumbling beside me.
"Running and screaming!"
And we did—quite spectacularly. If I may say so.
We tried everything.
Ducking under tables like clumsy burglars. Tiptoeing behind candelabras with all the stealth of a herd of elephants. I even pretended to inspect the wallpaper once, like that might convince the spirits I belonged to the décor.
Ronette, ever the desperate genius, took it a step further. He puffed out his cheeks, held his breath, and flopped onto the floor like a Victorian corpse in a school play—arms crossed, face pale, tongue slightly out for effect.
For a second, I almost applauded.
Maybe the spider ghost will think he's expired. Maybe it respects the dead. Maybe it has arachnid honor.
Then the ghost-spider hybrid twitched, lifted one grotesque leg, and stalked toward him.
'Oh no. Nope. That's a sniff. That's a sniff-sniff.'
Ronette cracked open one eye. I could see the exact moment hope left his body.
The creature reared up like a nightmare on stilts.
"Abort plan 'play dead'!" I whisper-screamed, diving out from behind an overturned chair.
Ronette bolted upright like a puppet yanked on a string. "IT DIDN'T WORK!"
"No kidding!"
We ran like chickens that had just read the menu.
Ronette screeched and tripped over a rug that had absolutely no business being that dramatic. He rolled once, twice, then popped back up with a flourish like he meant to do it. "Parkour!" he declared. No one was impressed. Not even the rug.
Behind us, Mr. Woo was speed-walking like a mall granny with something to prove, cane swinging wildly as he yelled in teacher-voice: "No running in the halls!"
"I'M NOT IN SCHOOL!" I screamed back, ducking a ghostly slap that smelled faintly of chalk and disappointment.
Meanwhile, the spider skittered across the walls like it had eight energy drinks for breakfast. It hissed and pounced at Ronette, who yelped and threw the only weapon he had—a decorative pillow.
It bounced off the spider's face with a faint poof.
"That was your big move?" I shouted.
"It worked on my cat once!"
"Your cat weighs ten pounds! That thing has knees!"
Then came the Whisper Man. Oh, the Whisper Man.
He didn't run. He just glided behind us ominously, arms folded, like a disappointed goth uncle. Every few seconds, he'd whisper something like, "Forever…" or "Stay and play…"
"No thanks! I already have enough creepy voices in my head!" I yelled, vaulting over a chair.
Ronette tried to follow but got caught in a curtain. The ghost-spider lunged, Mr. Woo swung his cane, and the Whisper Man leaned in for his signature whisper-death move.
It was chaos. Screaming. Thudding. More screaming.
Maria leapt out from behind a table like a vengeful ballerina, butterknife held high in the air. Her hair was wild, her eyes wild-er.
"BACK, DEMONS!" she shrieked, charging at nothing in particular.
"You're yelling at the fog again!" I cried from across the room, ducking behind a suspiciously decorative suit of armor.
"I'M COMMITTED!"
"That's not commitment, that's a fixation!" I shouted back. "You're a kid! Act like one! Go play tag or something!"
From above, Ronette's voice floated down like a ghost with back pain. He was still clinging to the pillar. "I think I sprained my soul…"
Every strategy had failed—spectacularly. Mr. Woo, the spider, and the Whisper Man closed in like grim party guests who didn't care that we'd RSVP'd no to this nightmare.
We backed against a crumbling pillar, trembling like a tower of jelly during an earthquake.
Ronette cracked first. "I'll try to be a nicer person in the next life!"
I stared at him. "You can be nicer? You'll end up a doormat!"
Then the thought hit me like a guilt-wrapped pie to the face.
'Wait… doesn't that mean I've been bullying him all along?'
A tiny thunderclap of remorse echoed through my chest. I turned and threw my arms around him.
"I'm sorry, Ronette! I promise I'll never bully you again in my next life!"
He sniffled. "Okay…"
We clung to each other and wailed—loudly, dramatically, like two kids denied dessert for all eternity.
Then Maria's voice cut through the sob-fest like a knife. "I miss Ma, Pa, and Hannah!"
We froze.
'Hannah?' I thought. 'Who's Hannah?'
But there wasn't time to ask.
The ground began to tremble beneath our feet, a deep, groaning quake that rattled our bones and shook dust from the chandeliers like powdered sugar.
I looked up and shouted to the heavens, "I really hate earthquakes! Can't you give me another natural disaster instead?! I'll take a tornado with manners!"
The ceiling groaned—a terrible, ancient sound, like some colossal creature cracking its knuckles before punching through the roof. Dust rained down in little ghostly poofs, settling in my hair, my eyelashes. I looked like a haunted cupcake.
Cracks spiderwebbed across the stone above us, like the ceiling was playing tic-tac-toe with our fate. Pebbles dropped. Then small stones. Then chunks.
"Duck!" I shouted.
"Where?!" Ronette screamed, arms flailing. "I don't see a duck!"
"Not that kind of—OH NEVER MIND!"
We dove behind the nearest pillar just as a slab of ceiling crashed down where we'd been standing, landing with the weight of our collective bad decisions.
Chaos erupted again. Mr. Woo swiped at falling stones with his cane, like he could scold gravity into submission. The spider scrambled up the wall, thoroughly peeved, like a tenant being evicted mid-nap. And the Whisper Man?
He stood motionless, arms slightly raised, head tilted toward the heavens. Calm. Almost reverent.
"Let it fall," he murmured. "Let us begin…"
"Oh, shut up, Moody McCreepypants!" I snapped.
We were out of time. Out of plans. Out of anything remotely useful. So we clung to each other behind the pillar like it was a magic shield.
My brain was fried. My muscles were jelly. Ronette's breathing sounded like a broken harmonica.
"Louis…" he whimpered. "If we survive this, I'm going to therapy."
"Same," I muttered. "Group discount?"
"Deal."
Maria crouched beside us, gripping her butterknife like it was a holy relic. "This is it, isn't it? We're gonna get squished."
"No!" I said, forcing out courage like squeezing the last drop from a ketchup packet. "We still have each other. And maybe… an emergency snack?"
I reached into my pocket, fished out a half-crushed granola bar, and broke it in three.
"Last supper?" I offered.
Ronette stared at the crumbly piece in his hand. "This has raisins."
Maria turned slowly, eyes hollow. "If I die eating raisins, I'm haunting you."
"Noted."
A final, thunderous crack split the chamber.
This was it.
Doom.
With a side of raisins.
We screamed—perfect harmony, pure panic, like the world's worst opera.
"AAAAHHHHHH!"