Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The air around the mansion was thick—suffocating, as if it had been waiting for them.

Every breath felt like it took more effort, a pressure that settled in Tommy’s chest, stealing the energy from his limbs.

He glanced at Tubbo, who was fidgeting with his jacket zipper, his usual bright grin replaced by something more brittle. Even Tubbo's practiced cheerfulness couldn't quite mask the nervous energy radiating off him in waves.

Beside them, Ranboo was a bundle of nerves, practically vibrating with anxiety.

His tall frame seemed too big for the space as he chewed nervously on his lip, eyes darting, searching for something—anything—that might jump out from the darkness. Tommy understood the impulse. There was something wrong about this place, something that made his skin crawl and his instincts scream to run.

He ignored it. He'd been in worse situations before. Like that time Tubbo convinced him to break into the zoo at night to "liberate" the bees.

Safe to say that hadn’t exactly gone as planned.

Purpled stood slightly apart from them, affecting an air of casual disinterest that might have been convincing if not for the pocketknife he kept twirling between his fingers. The blade caught the dying light as it spun, and Tommy wondered, not for the first time, where exactly Purpled acquired his seemingly endless supply of weapons. Some questions, he'd learned, were better left unasked.

He almost seemed relaxed—if it weren’t for the slight narrowing of his eyes, his posture stiffening for just a moment, the only sign that even he felt the weight of the place pressing on him.

The mansion loomed before them like a sentinel from another time, its weathered facade a monument to forgotten history.

Its windows were hollow, dark, and empty, but Tommy couldn’t shake the feeling that something was watching them through those very windows. The twisted metal vines, like skeletal fingers, crawled up the posts of the gate, almost as if the mansion itself was trying to hold them in place.

The town had whispered about this mansion for decades. It stood at the edge of the forest, decaying but ever-present.

Tommy couldn’t remember a time when anyone ever lived there—not that anyone who'd gone inside ever lived to tell the tale, if the town's superstitions were to be believed. Which they weren't, obviously. He was a big man.

And yet, no matter how many years passed, the mansion's doors remained slightly ajar, just enough to beckon whoever was foolish – or desperate – enough to approach.

If anyone had asked Tommy three hours ago if he would ever step foot in that place, he would have laughed in their face.

He would have said “FUCK no,” because while he might be a big man, he wasn’t stupid enough to walk into what was obviously a death trap.

But that was before Punz had appeared, materializing from the shadows like he always did, leaning against a chain-link fence with that knowing smirk that made Tommy's blood boil. His eyes had held something darker than usual as he'd tossed down his challenge:

"One night," he'd said, throwing a flashlight at Tommy with lazy precision. "Make it till sunrise, and the money's yours. Scout's honor."

It was stupid. Probably suicidal. Exactly the kind of thing they couldn't resist.

The promise of cash was tempting enough, but the chance to wipe that smug look off Punz's face? That was priceless. Besides, the bet seemed simple enough: stay inside until dawn. No tricks, no running, just survive the night.

Tommy couldn't shake the feeling that they were missing something crucial.

He scowled, his gaze locked on the building before them.

The twisted vines that snaked up the gateposts were thick with decay, and the mansion itself stood like a giant shadow, a dark shell of its former grandeur, its windows staring down at them like empty eyes.

Tommy wasn’t sure if it was the mansion or the forest around them that felt wrong, but every part of him screamed to run.

"This is definitely a bad idea," Ranboo muttered, his voice low and shaky as he adjusted his mask. His eyes kept darting to the mansion's windows as if expecting something to reach out of the darkness. "Monumentally bad. Like, on a scale of one to terrible life choices, we're reaching new heights here."

“What, afraid of some dust and cobwebs?” Tommy snorted, pushing the creaky gate open with an agonized screech that made them all wince. "We stay the night, we get the cash, and then we never have to hear about this place again."

"That's what they all say before they die horribly in the movies," Tubbo pointed out, his eyes fixed on one of the upper windows. For a moment, Tommy could have sworn he saw movement behind the glass—a shifting of shadows that shouldn't have been possible. "Though I suppose if we're going to die, at least we'll do it together!”

"That's... not as comforting as you think it is," Ranboo mumbled, fingers twisting in the fabric of his sleeve.

Purpled's knife stilled for a moment as he gave them an assessing look. "If you're that worried, we shouldn't go in." His voice was steady, but Tommy caught the slight shift in his stance, the way his fingers tightened around the knife's handle.

Tommy wasn't going to let it slide.

He stepped toward the door with more confidence than he felt, pushing it open with a creak that echoed down the empty hallway inside.

The sound felt like it shattered the silence that had been hanging over them, probably waking up every ghost, ghoul, and whatever the fuck else lived in haunted mansions.

"I’m going in," Tommy said firmly, his voice taking on a defiant edge. "You coming, or not?"

Silence followed, thick and heavy, and for a moment, no one moved.

Then, reluctantly, Ranboo and Tubbo followed, their footsteps seeming unnaturally loud in the oppressive quiet.

Purpled rolled his eyes before stepping in last, glancing around with a raised brow. Tommy knew the only reason he'd agreed to join their "suicide squad" was because Ranboo had slipped him fifty bucks beforehand, promising another fifty when they made it through the night. Still, Tommy caught how Purpled's eyes darted to the shadows gathering in the corners, tracking their movement with barely concealed wariness.

Inside, the air was thick with the scent of decay and something older, something rancid. Dust coated every surface, and the furniture was draped in tattered sheets that billowed ever so slightly despite the lack of a breeze.

The door slammed shut behind them, causing Ranboo to yelp.

"Nope. Nope, nope, nope," Ranboo backed up towards the door immediately. "We’re leaving. Right now."

Tommy grinned. "You scared, big man?"

"Yes!"

"Relax." Purpled ran a hand over the banister, then immediately regretted it as something sticky coated his fingers. He tried to subtly wipe it off on Tommy's shirt. "It's just old. Creaky. That’s all."

But there was something in his voice, a hint of uncertainty that made Tommy's stomach twist. Purpled didn't do uncertainty. He did bored, annoyed, and occasionally murderous, but never uncertain.

“Besides,” Tubbo grinned, “We only have to stay the night. Then we’ll be set for life!"

“More like set for a week,” Ranboo groaned, carefully stepping around a dark red stain of— he’s going to go with ketchup. Because ketchup would definitely be the most likely suspicious red substance in a supposedly haunted house.

As they moved deeper into the house, the air grew colder, and Tommy’s breath came out in visible puffs.

The hallway stretched out before them, narrow and shadowed, lined with portraits that seemed strangely clean despite the house's decrepit state.

Tommy found himself studying the faces as they passed—a man in an almost comically green hat, another wearing a yellow sweater and red beanie, his expression caught between amusement and something darker. But it was the portrait of a man with long pink hair that made Tommy pause, his eyes drawn to the crown of bones the figure held with casual indifference.

"What do you think happened to all these people?" Tommy asked, gesturing at the portraits. "Think they all got murdered horribly?"

"Tommy!" Ranboo squeaked, shoving a hand over his mouth as if the portraits were listening.

Tommy batted his hand away indignantly. "What? It's a valid question! Look at this one, he's literally wearing a crown made of bones! That's suspicious as fuck."

"Can we please not discuss horrible murders while we're in the actual murder house?" Ranboo groaned, burying his face in his hands.

"Bet he was compensating for something," Tommy went on, pointing at the crown. "Look at him, probably went around telling everyone he was the Blood God or some shit."

"Tommy," Tubbo said patiently, though his eyes kept darting to the shadows gathering at the edges of their flashlight beams, "Maybe don't insult the dead man in a potentially haunted ghost house?"

"What's he gonna do? He's dead.” Tommy snickered, then immediately yelped as the floorboard beneath him creaked ominously. He scrambled back, nearly bowling over Ranboo in his haste. "Did not mean that Mr. Ghost sir, very cool crown, definitely not compensating-"

Purpled rolled his eyes, still flicking that stupid knife. Tommy was starting to suspect it was just an elaborate fidget toy. "You're all being ridiculous. It's just an old house."

"Says the guy who hasn't let go of his knife since we got here," Tubbo pointed out.

Tommy absent-mindedly skimmed more of the portraits, taking note of the various faces.

He paused at one that reminded him strangely of Punz, right down to the gold chain. Something about the similarity made his skin crawl. He moved on quickly.

The floorboards protested beneath their weight, and Tommy had to resist the urge to stomp through one, if only to break the suffocating tension. He wondered how long it would take of that for the floor to cave in.

“What do you think is here?” Tubbo asked, fingers running over the strange patterns revealed beneath the peeling wallpaper.

Purpled, who had been silently leading the way, didn’t break his stride. “Nothing,” he said flatly, his voice as disinterested as ever, though his hand was now gripping the knife a little tighter.

Tommy copied Tubbo's actions, fingers gliding over the odd markings.

It looked as though something had been etched into the plaster long ago. They were almost like scratches, marring the walls in some areas. His heart skipped a beat when his light caught a particularly deep gouge in the wood, running from floor to ceiling.

“Weird,” He noted, stepping back, but not before running a finger along one of the marks again. It felt cold. Too cold.

"Stop messing with stuff!" Ranboo snapped, his voice rising in alarm. "What if it—what if it’s cursed or something?"

Tommy snickered, "Don't worry big man, it’s just old.”

Even so, something about the mark threw him off. It looked deliberate. Purposeful.

“Besides,” He continued after a beat, “If anyone was to get possessed it’d be Tubbo. He’s got that look about him."

"Hey!" Tubbo protested, though his indignation was somewhat undermined by the fact that he was currently holding what appeared to be very old bones he definitely shouldn't be touching.

“Right,” Purpled drawled, his voice maintaining its calm despite the tension in the air “Let’s get this over with. We’ve got a bet to win.”

"A thousand dollars," Tubbo chirped, his usual enthusiasm feeling forced. Though if Tommy looked closely, he could almost see dollar signs reflected in his friend's eyes.

Tubbo was the first to walk into the main living area, his footsteps ringing out in the silence as he moved past an ancient grand piano that looked like it hadn’t been touched in years. He placed a hand on the dusty keys, and a note sounded, echoing eerily through the house. His grin faltered for a second, but he pushed on.

Before Tommy could make a comment, they heard it—a faint scratching sound.

It was soft at first, so quiet that they almost thought it was just the wind.

Then it came again, a repetitive scraping against the walls or the floor, slow and deliberate.

Ranboo froze, eyes wide. “Did anyone else hear that?”

"Yep." Tubbo replied, his expression cycling rapidly through several emotions as his gaze swept the room. 

Tommy's own eyes darted around wildly as his heart rate spiked, thoughts scrambling for any rational explanation.

That was undoubtedly something alive.

“I told you this was a bad idea,” Ranboo murmured, his hand clutched tightly around the strap of his backpack.

Purpled stood, slipping his knife back into his pocket with a sharp click. “Calm down. It’s probably just animals or something,” he sighed.

Tommy was for once thankful for the boy’s dry voice, using it to drag himself back from the edge of panic. He was a big man. He did not have panic attacks over creepy noises in the dark.

"That was definitely a rat," Tubbo reaffirmed after a moment of tense silence. "A normal, non-possessed rat."

"Right," Tommy nodded vigorously. "Just a rat. With really big claws. And probably rabies."

Another sharp scratching sound echoed through the hallway in reply to their words.

"Okay, enough of this," Tommy scowled, ignoring the way his voice rose to an octave he’d later deny. He forced himself to move, heading toward what looked like a larger room beyond the hallway. "Let's find a place to wait this out."

The others followed, though each of them felt the urge to look over their shoulders, half-expecting to see something – or someone – standing just beyond the reach of their flashlights.

They never noticed how the shadows seemed to move independently of the light, or how the figure in the bone crown portrait watched them climb the stairs, his painted lips curling into the slightest of smiles.

Tommy led the way up a grand staircase, the once-polished wood now warped with age, each step groaning under their weight. Their footsteps echoed in the hollow space, swallowed up by the mansion’s eerie silence. Dust swirled in the dim glow of their flashlights, catching in the beams like tiny ghosts dancing through the air.

"This is a mistake," Ranboo muttered again, hugging his arms around himself. "We're literally walking into the murder zone. First rule of horror movies—don’t go upstairs."

"Good thing this isn't a horror movie, then," Tommy shot back, though his grip on the flashlight tightened. "Besides, staying downstairs is worse. You wanna be closer to whatever the fucks creeping around down there?"

Ranboo hesitated, glancing back at the darkened hallway stretching behind them. Shadows clung to the corners, thick, heavy, and human-like. Okay, fair point. He hurried to keep pace with the others.

The second floor was even worse. The air was stale, thick with dust and something pungent, like rotting wood—or flesh. The hallway stretched long and impossibly dark, doors lining each side, their frames warped as if something had tried to claw its way out.

"This one," Purpled announced, shoving open a door near the middle of the hall with more force than necessary. It creaked open with a long, pained groan, revealing a bedroom frozen in time. An ornate bedframe sat in the center, its mattress decayed, stuffing spilling from tears in the fabric. The walls were faded with peeling floral wallpaper, and a heavy wooden wardrobe loomed in the corner. A thick layer of dust coated everything.

"Looks… safe enough," Tubbo offered, brushing a cobweb from his shoulder.

Tommy collapsed onto what was left of an armchair, exhaling sharply. "Alright, ground rules. We stick together, we keep the lights on, and no one, and I mean no one, goes wandering off like a dumbass, got it?"

Ranboo raised a shaky hand. "Define 'wandering off.'"

"You leave this room, you're dead to me."

"Noted."

Tommy absentmindedly picked at the remains of the armchair as he spoke, “No reading cursed writing. No trying to make deals with demons-"

"That was ONE time-" Tubbo protested.

"And no summoning anything!" Tommy finished firmly. "We just need to survive until morning. Got it?”

Purpled didn't say anything, just tossed his bag onto the floor and pulled out yet another knife. He idly flipped it open and shut, seemingly deciding to ignore them.

Tubbo tested the bed, and the second he sat down, the wood let out a tortured creak. "Nope," he declared, immediately hopping off. He settled on the floor instead, crossing his legs. "So, what now? We just sit here until morning?"

"Pretty much." Tommy smirked. "Scared, big man?"

Tubbo rolled his eyes, giving him a dry look. "Of this place? No. Of whatever’s gonna get us first? Maybe."

Ranboo shook his head, muttering under his breath. “You guys are the worst.”

There was a calm moment of relaxed silence before something creaked in the hallway.

All four of them froze.

Purpled's knife stopped flipping. Tommy's grin faltered. Ranboo's breath hitched, and Tubbo immediately reached for the closest heavy object—a dust-coated lamp.

"This is fine," Tubbo muttered, clutching the lamp like a lifeline. "This is completely fine. We're just in a haunted house, probably being hunted by ghost serial killers, and our only weapons are Purpled's tiny knife and my emotional support murder lamp."

"Hey!" Tommy protested. "I've got my fists!"

"Yes, because punching ghosts always works out great."

"Well what's your lamp gonna do?"

"Ghosts hate lamps, Tommy. Everyone knows this."

Silence.

Then—

Another creak.

A step.

A slow, deliberate step.

Something was moving outside the door.

Tommy shot a glance at the others, pressing a finger to his lips.

They exchanged silent, wide-eyed glances. The sound came again, closer this time, just beyond the thin wooden door separating them from whatever was out there.

A shadow shifted beneath the crack.

Someone—no, something—was standing just outside.

And then—

A soft, deliberate knock.

Three slow, rhythmic knocks.

Tommy’s blood ran cold.

No one moved.

No one breathed.

The door handle rattled.

Purpled tightened his grip on the knife. Ranboo, pale as death, shook his head wildly, mouthing 'do not open that door.'

The knocking came again.

This time, louder.

More forceful.

Aggressive.

The door trembled.

Tommy’s heart pounded against his chest.

Then—

Silence.

A long, suffocating silence.

All four of them exchanged confused, weary glances.

Tommy almost heaved a sigh of relief before he caught a slight movement at the door’s handle. He felt his heart drop further with every slow turn of the knob.

Chapter Text

The door handle turned with agonizing slowness, each click of the mechanism echoing in Tommy's ears.

His mind raced through every horror movie he'd ever seen (which, admittedly, wasn't many—he'd always claimed they were boring, definitely not because they scared him). None of them ended well for the idiots who decided to spend the night in a haunted house.

"If that's Punz, I'm going to murder him," Purpled muttered, though his voice lacked its usual detachment. His knuckles were white around the knife handle.

The door creaked open, painfully slow, revealing—

Nothing.

Just darkness.

Empty, endless darkness.

"Oh, that's so much worse," Ranboo whispered, voice cracking.

Tommy felt his heart hammering against his ribs as he stared into the void beyond the doorway. The darkness seemed to pulse, to breathe, like it was alive. Like it was watching them.

A low, guttural sound echoed through the doorway. Not quite a growl, not quite a laugh, but something in between that made Tommy's skin crawl.

"Nope!" Ranboo squeaked, backing up until he hit the wall. "Nope, nope, absolutely not!"

The temperature in the room plummeted. Tommy could see his breath now, coming in short, panicked puffs. The darkness in the doorway seemed to writhe, to reach toward them with tendrils of shadow.

"Fuck this," Purpled declared, and in one fluid motion, he hurled his knife straight through the doorway.

The blade passed through empty air, clattering against the far wall with a metallic ring that seemed to hang in the air too long. The sound morphed, twisting into something that might have been laughter.

The whisper slithered through the darkness, curling around them like smoke from the wardrobe to their left at the same time the door slammed shut again.

"Run."

But where? Tommy pulled frantically at the door. It refused to budge, the windows were sealed, and now the only light came from their flashlights, flickering and weak as if the mansion itself was draining them dry.

Tubbo scrambled backward, gasping, his hands shaking as he frantically clicked his flashlight on and off. "What the fuck was that?!"

"NOPE!" Ranboo yelped, pressing himself against the farthest wall like he could somehow phase through it. "Nope, nope, nope! I'm out—I'm so out—except I can't GET OUT—"

Tommy clenched his jaw, spinning around, trying to locate whatever was there. His flashlight beam danced across the room, bouncing off peeling wallpaper and shattered furniture—nothing. But the air felt different, charged, like the house had noticed them now.

Purpled stood rigid, his second knife raised defensively. "We need to get out of this room. Now."

Tommy grit his teeth. "Oh wow, genius idea, Purpled, except for the part where THE DOOR ISN’T OPENING!"

Tubbo whipped around, fumbling for the handle, twisting it so hard it should’ve snapped off. Nothing.

Then—

A laugh.

Soft. Almost amused.

From inside the room.

The sound crawled under their skin, cold and unnatural. It wasn’t coming from one place. It was everywhere.

Ranboo made a strangled noise, nearly dropping his flashlight. "WHAT WAS THAT?!"

Purpled moved fast. He kicked the old nightstand across the room, sending it crashing into the wardrobe, the echo deafening. "I swear to God if one of you is screwing with us—"

The laughter stopped.

Dead silence.

Then—

BANG.

The door burst open so violently that Tommy barely had time to react before the force sent him stumbling backward. The air in the hallway beyond was even thicker than before, pressing against his chest like hands gripping his ribs.

No one spoke.

No one moved.

Then Tubbo, because of course it was Tubbo, cleared his throat. "Sooo… we running or…?"

Purpled was already out the door.

Tommy grabbed Ranboo by the hoodie and yanked him forward before his panic could fully paralyze him. "GO. GO NOW!"

They bolted into the hallway, flashlights bouncing wildly, their footsteps too loud—too small—against the vast emptiness of the house.

Something moved behind them.

A wet, dragging sound.

A whisper, closer this time.

"Run faster."

Ranboo screamed.

Tommy didn’t dare look back.

They tore down the hall, past doors that seemed to shift and warp as they ran.

"The stairs!" Purpled barked.

Tubbo nearly tripped, catching himself on the railing as they skidded into the stairwell. The mansion groaned around them, as if it were reacting to their movements.

Tommy risked a glance back—

A shadow stood at the end of the hall.

Not just a shadow.

Something tall. Twisted. Its face—or lack of one—was obscured by darkness, but its limbs stretched impossibly long, fingers dragging along the walls as it took a single step forward.

Not fast.

Not rushing.

It didn’t have to.

The shadow's form flickered, and for a brief moment, Tommy saw something else. Pink hair. A crown of bones. A bored expression glinting with something darker.

The air seemed to scream as every door in the hallway slammed shut in unison.

Tommy choked back a curse. "FUCKING MOVE!"

They stumbled down the stairs, nearly tripping over each other. The moment they hit the first floor, the temperature dropped.

Their breath came out in thick, visible puffs.

The front door was still there.

Still open.

Punz's flashlight lay just beyond the threshold, its beam flickering against the overgrown grass outside.

They weren’t going to make it.

The realization settled like ice in Tommy’s gut as it closed with tauntingly slow movement.

But they ran anyway.

Tubbo hit the door first, slamming into it so hard he bounced off with a grunt. Tommy grabbed the handle, yanking—it wouldn’t move.

Suddenly, a loud bang echoed from the back of the room, followed by the unmistakable sound of dragging footsteps.

“Did you hear that?” Tubbo whispered, his voice shaking.

Purpled’s eyes flickered toward the noise, knife still gripped tight in his hand, his usually calm expression twisted in disbelief.

The dragging sound came again, closer now, the floorboards groaning under its weight. Whatever it was, it was moving toward them.

Without a word, Tommy pushed forward, grabbing Tubbo’s arm. “We’re running.”

“What about the cash?” Tubbo hissed, eyes wide.

Tommy didn’t answer. He wasn’t thinking about money anymore. The only thing that mattered was getting out.

He yanked Ranboo and Tubbo toward the window. It was too small, too narrow, but he didn’t care. He smashed his fist against the glass. It cracked but didn’t break.

Purpled was already pulling at the bottom of it, gritting his teeth. “Help me.”

The three of them rushed to pry the window open, heart racing. The sound of dragging footsteps was closer now, the air growing colder, heavier. Tommy could almost feel whatever it was drawing closer, could almost hear its breath—if it even breathed.

“Come on!” Tommy screamed, desperation rising in his throat.

Finally, with one last, desperate push, the window gave way. The night air rushed in, sharp and cool.

But just as Tommy was about to climb through—

The door behind them exploded open with a deafening crack.

The shadows in the room surged forward, a tide of blackness, and Tommy knew, knew—if they didn’t move now, they wouldn’t make it.

With a final glance at the darkened room, Tommy scrambled through the window, his heart thumping so loud he could barely hear the screams of his friends behind him.

He didn’t wait to see if they were following.

They had to run.

Through the broken glass, past the overgrown hedges, across the shitty dirt path leading back to the edge of the forest. He didn’t stop until the mansion was a distant, crumbling silhouette against the dark sky.

Finally, they all came to a halt.

Panting.

Shaking.

Tubbo dropped to his knees, his breath coming in shallow gasps. "What the hell was that?!"

Ranboo couldn’t stop looking over his shoulder, as if expecting something to leap out of the shadows and grab him. “I—I don’t know, but I never want to go back in there.”

Purpled stared back at the mansion, the ghost of a smirk still tugging at his lips. "Couldn’t even make it a full night. Pathetic."

Tubbo turned to him with a raised brow. "I don't think that's our most pressing issue at the moment."

Purpled shrugged.

Tommy’s chest heaved, and for the first time, he felt truly terrified. That house had... something in it. Something they couldn’t explain, something that wasn’t human. The air itself had felt wrong. He swore he recognized the shadowy figure from somewhere.

He didn’t want to think about it anymore.

But the questions still lingered, gnawing at him.

What the hell had been in that room?

And why had it let them go?

Tommy’s mind raced, but every time he tried to focus, his thoughts scattered. The pounding in his chest hadn’t slowed since they ran, his legs still shaky from the adrenaline, but it wasn’t just the escape that kept him on edge. It was the thing in that room. The thing that had followed them—or maybe it had never stopped following them.

"We're not safe," Tommy muttered under his breath, his voice cracking as he rubbed his face with his hands. "We're not—"

"Tommy!" Ranboo’s voice snapped him out of his spiraling thoughts. "Tommy, we need to talk."

Tommy turned to face him, still winded. Ranboo’s face was pale, his eyes wide and haunted. "What the hell happened back there? I— I don’t even— I can’t... It was like something was trying to pull us in. Whatever was in there didn't want us to leave."

"I—I don’t know," Tommy answered, his voice coming out in harsh pants. "Whatever it was, I think it knew we were there from the start. It wanted us there."

Purpled, standing a few feet away, had stopped looking at the mansion entirely, but his gaze was fixed somewhere distant. His knife was still clutched in his hand, though now it seemed more like a comforting weight than a weapon. He fidgeted with it as he turned to face them. "Something’s off," he stated flatly. "That place... it didn’t feel like a house. More like a... trap."

Tubbo shook his head rapidly, as if to shake off the memory of whatever he’d seen, attempting his usual grin shakily. "Or like one of those escape rooms gone wrong."

Purpled snorted dryly, "5 stars for immersion."

"We’re done with that place, right? I’m not going back. Not ever. Nope. We should never have gone in the first place!"

Tubbo stressed, gesturing wildly towards where the mansion still loomed in the distance.

"We won’t," Tommy said firmly, though the pit in his stomach twisted with unease. "But Punz—he’s gonna want his money back. You know he’s gonna ask about it."

Ranboo shot Tommy a look that was more fear than frustration. "Are you really thinking about going back? For money?"

"No. I’m thinking about how we got played." Tommy ran a hand through his messy blonde hair, frustration mounting. "I think that place was more than just a stupid bet. Punz knew. He knew something. He was waiting for us to go in there."

Tubbo frowned. "What are you saying?"

"That mansion wasn’t random," Tommy said, his eyes narrowing. "It was a setup. Punz set it up to lure us in. Maybe he knew what would happen."

Purpled’s knife stopped flicking. He looked up, expression unreadable. "So you’re saying Punz has something to do with... whatever the hell that was?"

"I’m saying I don’t trust him," Tommy said, his voice low and dangerous. "And I think it’s time we find out just what the hell’s going on."

There was a tense silence as the wind rustled the trees around them, the only sound in the night air. They all knew the weight of what Tommy was suggesting. If they went back, it wouldn’t be to finish a bet. It would be to finish something else.

Ranboo shifted nervously, glancing at the distant lights of the town. "And what, you want to confront Punz about this? After that? You think he’s gonna tell us anything? Because my communication skills are pretty shit when I'm not being chased by otherworldly entities, and they're not exactly better now."

Tommy met his eyes with grim determination. "I don’t think he has a choice."

Chapter Text

The walk back to town felt longer than it should have.

Every shadow made them jump, every rustle of leaves had them spinning around, expecting to see that twisted figure following them. But nothing came. The night was almost mockingly peaceful now, as if the horror they'd just experienced had been nothing more than a shared nightmare.

Tommy's mind raced as they made their way down the empty streets. The few streetlights that worked cast sickly yellow pools on the sidewalk, and even those seemed to flicker more than usual. Or maybe he was just paranoid now.

"Right then," Tommy exhaled, breaking the tense silence and dragging a hand through his messy hair, "Time to go murder Punz."

"Tommy.” Ranboo groaned, dropping his face into his hands, "We can't just murder someone."

"Watch me, big man." Tommy snapped as he cracked his knuckles, then immediately winced because, ow, that actually hurt. "He sent us into a death trap! A whole horror show!"

"And your solution is... more murder?" Tubbo asked reasonably, still clutching his "emotional support murder lamp" like it was the only thing keeping him sane. Maybe it was. The thing hadn't left his hands since the mansion, and Tommy was starting to worry it was becoming unhealthily attached.

"It's a very good solution, actually," Tommy defended. "Can't send us into any more haunted houses if he's dead."

"Pretty sure that's not how that works," Purpled replied, eying him with mild annoyance.

Tommy turned to him slowly.

"Pretty sure you're a bitch."

Purpled's eye twitched.

"So what's the actual plan?" Tubbo asked before Purpled could reach for his knife. "Besides Tommy's completely reasonable suggestion of murder?"

Tommy squared his shoulders. "We find Punz. Make him talk."

"And how exactly do we do that?" Ranboo's voice cracked slightly. "Just walk up and say 'Hey, remember that haunted house you sent us to? Yeah, turns out it's actually haunted, who knew? Mind explaining why you tried to get us killed?'"

"Sounds good to me," Tommy replied with a shrug. "I'm very persuasive."

"You couldn't even persuade a ghost to stop chasing us," Tubbo pointed out helpfully.

"Well excuse me for not being fluent in ghost language! Next time I'll make sure to practice my supernatural negotiation skills while we're getting attacked!"

Purpled had been quieter than normal since they left the mansion, and that was saying something. His face was unreadable, but there was tension in his jaw that hadn't been there before. "I know where he'll be," he said finally, interrupting Tommy's indignant rant.

The others turned to look at him.

"The abandoned warehouse by the train tracks," Purpled continued, his voice carefully neutral. "He goes there sometimes. Late at night. To meet... people."

Tommy raised an eyebrow. "What kind of people?"

"The kind you don't want to know about." Purpled's expression darkened. "But if you want answers, that's where we'll find them."

"Oh god," Ranboo buried his face in his hands. "We're all going to die."

---

The warehouse ahead of them was hulking mass of corrugated metal and broken windows. The sound of distant trains echoed through the night, making the whole structure seem to vibrate. Graffiti covered the walls, but something about the symbols looked wrong—too angular, too purposeful to be random tags.

"This is stupid," Ranboo muttered, wringing his hands. "We should be running as far away as possible, not—not confronting the guy who sent us into that death trap!"

"What's he gonna do, sick another ghost on us?" Tommy shot back. "I'm sure Shroud has our backs."

"Please stop naming inanimate objects," Purpled sighed.

"Shroud takes offense to that," Tubbo said solemnly, petting the lamp. "He's been very supportive through this traumatic experience."

"It's a lamp, Tubbo."

"A very brave lamp," Tubbo corrected. "Did you see how it scared away that shadow thing?"

"I saw you swing it like a madman while screaming," Purpled deadpanned.

"Exactly. Very brave."

Purpled heaved a tired sigh in response.

"Okay," Tommy started after a moment, his voice hardening. "We find Punz, and we make him tell us what the hell that was about."

Purpled's laugh was hollow. "Right. Because he's just going to spill everything the moment we ask."

"He better," Tommy growled. "Or I'll make him."

"Tommy," Ranboo started, his voice shaking slightly. "Maybe we should think about this. That thing back there... it wasn't normal. What if Punz is involved with something... something we really don't want to mess with?"

"Bit late for that, isn't it?" Tubbo replied bitterly. "Pretty sure we're already messed with it. Might as well go all in."

"That's... not how anything works," Ranboo protested.

"When has that ever stopped us before?" Tommy grinned, but it didn't reach his eyes.

Tommy stopped walking, turning to face his friends. In the dim streetlight, their faces looked ghostly, haunted. They'd all seen something in that mansion, something that had shaken them to their core. But Tommy couldn't let it go. Not now.

"Look," he said, trying to keep his voice steady. "That place... it knew us. It was waiting for us. And those portraits on the wall? One of them looked exactly like Punz. Exactly like him. That's not a coincidence."

Tubbo's eyes widened. "You think... you think he's actually connected to that place somehow?"

"I think he's more than connected," Tommy said. "I think he's part of it. And I think it's time we found out why."

They found Punz exactly where Purpled said he’d be—lounging outside the creepy ass old warehouse. He had that same smug smile on his face as he scrolled through his phone. As if he hadn't just sent them into a death trap. As if he hadn't known exactly what would happen.

He looked up as they approached, and something flickered across his face – satisfaction? Disappointment? Tommy couldn't tell.

"Well, well," Punz drawled, pocketing his phone. "Back so soon? It's not even midnight yet."

"Yeah, well, turns out your house has a pest problem," Tommy shot back. "A really big pest."

"Cut the shit," Purpled snapped, stepping forward and poking a finger into Punz's chest. His knife was nowhere in sight, but his hands were clenched into fists. Tommy almost missed the stupid flicking noise. Almost. "You knew what was in there."

Punz's smile didn't waver, but something flickered in his eyes. "Did I?"

"Don't play dumb," Tommy glared. "Though I guess it comes naturally to you."

"Watch it," Punz warned, but Tommy was beyond caring.

"Or what?" Tommy challenged. "You'll send another ghost after us? Because let me tell you, after tonight, you're not nearly as scary as you think you are."

"Tommy," Tubbo warned, but Tommy was on a roll.

"What's wrong, Punz? Scared we'll tell everyone about your little haunted house? About how you're probably in some weird cult that—"

Punz moved faster than Tommy could track. One moment he was leaning against the wall, the next he had Tommy by the collar, lifting him slightly off the ground. His eyes... there was something wrong with his eyes.

"You have no idea what you're dealing with," Punz hissed, and his voice had changed too – there was an echo to it, something dark and unnatural.

Tommy glared at him harshly, despite the fear crawling up his spine. "What the hell was that place?"

Punz dropped him as if he was useless trash, stepping back to lean back against the wall.

His casual shrug would have fooled anyone if it wasn’t for the slight tensing in his shoulders. "Just an old house. Why? Couldn't handle a few cobwebs?"

"You know exactly what was in there," Purpled said, his voice dangerously quiet. Even he had dropped his usual detached attitude. "That thing... it wasn't natural."

"Thing?" Punz raised an eyebrow. "What thing?"

"The shadow!" Ranboo burst out, his voice cracking. "The... the whatever it was that chased us! The one that looked like—" He cut himself off, but Tommy knew what he was going to say.

He recognized where he had seen it now.

Somehow, for the briefest moment, it wasn't just a creature. He was sure it was the same man they had mocked in the portrait. The one crowned in bones. Maybe Tommy really should stop shit talking creepy figures.

Punz's smile finally dropped, replaced by something more genuine. "Ah. So you met one of them."

A chill ran down Tommy's spine. "Them?"

Punz gave a hum of confirmation.

"The shadows, specters, ghosts, whatever you want to call them," Punz said, as if he was discussing the weather. "I’m guessing you met the ‘Blade.’ Though that's not his real name, of course. He has many names. Many faces. But he's particularly fond of that one. He likes to ‘greet’ the guests”

Tommy absentmindedly noted that he was right. Of course the man with the stupid ass crown would have the stupid ass name.

Tubbo clutched his lamp tighter. "What are you talking about?"

Punz pushed himself off the wall, and suddenly he seemed taller, more imposing.

The streetlight above them flickered, and for a moment – just a moment – Tommy swore he saw something shift in Punz's shadow.

Something with too many limbs.

"You really want to know?" Punz asked, his voice taking on an edge that made Tommy's blood run cold. "Are you sure? Because once you know, there's no going back."

He asked it as if there was any chance of them going back in the first place.

Tommy swallowed hard, standing his ground. "Explain."

Punz's smile returned, but it wasn't his usual smirk. This was something ancient.

Something hungry.

"Very well," he said, and the shadows around them seemed to lengthen, to reach.

"I've been waiting a while for someone brave enough – or stupid enough – to walk through those doors again."

"Is there a difference?" Tubbo muttered.

"With Tommy? Not really," Purpled replied under his breath.

The streetlight went out completely, plunging them into darkness. And as Punz began to speak, Tommy realized with growing horror that maybe some questions were better left unanswered.

The darkness around them felt alive, pulsing with an energy that made Tommy's skin crawl.

Punz's voice cut through the night air like a blade, each word heavy with meaning.

"The mansion wasn't always what it is now," Punz began, his eyes reflecting something ancient and cold. "Once, it was home to a family. They had... special interests. Special abilities."

"Tax evasion?" Tubbo offered, a shiver running down his spine.

"Worse," Punz's smile grew sharper. "The kind that normal people aren't supposed to have. The kind that comes with a price."

The lamp in Tubbo's hands flickered despite not being plugged in, casting strange shadows across their faces. Nobody mentioned it.

"The portraits you saw?" Punz continued. "Those weren't just decorations. Each one was a member of the 'family.'"

Tommy felt his breath catch. "So you're..."

"Connected? Yes. But not in the way you think." Punz pushed himself off the wall, beginning to pace in a slow circle around them. "See, the family made deals. Lots of deals. With things that shouldn't exist. Things that promised them power, immortality, everything they could ever want. And for a while, it worked."

The temperature seemed to drop with each word. Ranboo huddled closer to the group, his eyes darting between the shadows that seemed to stretch toward them.

"But deals like that always have consequences," Punz's voice grew darker. "The mansion became a gateway over time. A building of decay permanently stuck somewhere between life and death. And the family eventually became something else too. Something not quite human anymore."

"What happened to them?" Purpled demanded, his gaze shooting around, catching on every eery shadow around them.

Punz laughed, but the sound was hollow. "What do you think? They got exactly what they wanted. Immortality. Power. But not in the way they expected. They became part of the mansion. Part of whatever lies beyond it. And now they wait."

"Wait for what?" Tommy asked, though part of him didn't want to know the answer.

"For people like you," Punz said simply. "Young. Brave. Stupid.”

Purpled stepped forward, and for the first time, Tommy saw real anger in his eyes, a hint of betrayal. "You sent us in there to die."

"No," Punz corrected calmly, expression softening slightly as he looked at him. "I sent you in there to survive. And you did. Better than most, actually. Most people don't make it past the first hour."

The confirmation hit Tommy like a punch to the gut. "You set us up. You wanted us to go in there."

"I opened the door," Punz corrected. "What happens next is up to you."

"Up to us?" Ranboo's voice cracked. "That thing tried to kill us!"

"Did he?" Punz raised an eyebrow. "Think carefully. If he wanted you dead, you wouldn't be standing here. No, what you saw was an invitation. A taste of what could be yours."

Tommy felt sick. "We don't want anything to do with your crazy family cult."

"Don't you?" Punz's eyes seemed to glow in the darkness. "Power? Immortality? Protection? Tell me you've never wanted more than this boring, normal life."

"Not like that," Tubbo said firmly, but there was a tremor in his voice.

“I wouldn’t want to be fucking dead for it!” Tommy exploded in response, appalled by the sheer audacity.

"Dead?" Punz laughed, and the sound echoed strangely in the night air. "Oh, Tommy. We're not dead. We're so much more than dead."

As if to prove his point, his shadow began to move, stretching and twisting until it no longer resembled anything human. The darkness seemed to peel away from him like layers of old paint, revealing something underneath that made Tommy's eyes hurt to look at.

"What the actual fuck," Tommy breathed, stumbling backward. Tubbo's lamp flickered wildly, casting erratic shadows that only made everything more disorienting.

"You see?" Punz's voice had changed, becoming layered with other sounds – whispers, screams, the creaking of old wood. "This is what true power looks like. What you could become."

"I think I prefer being normal, thanks," Ranboo squeaked, his face pale.

"Too late for that," Punz said, his form slowly returning to something more human-like. "You caught their attention, and they don't let go easily."

"Well too bad," Tubbo declared, though his knuckles were white around the lamp. "Because we're not joining your creepy shadow cult."

"The choice isn't yours anymore," Punz said softly. "The mansion has chosen you. The family has chosen you. You can either embrace it, learn to control it, or..."

"Or what?" Tommy demanded.

"Or it will consume you anyway. Slowly. Piece by piece. Until there's nothing left but shadow."

The wind picked up, carrying with it the sound of distant laughter – that same twisted, hollow sound they'd heard in the mansion.

"You're lying," Tommy said, but uncertainty crept into his voice. "You're just trying to scare us."

"Am I?" Punz asked. "Haven't you felt it already? The cold spot in your chest that won't go away? The shadows that move when you're not looking? The whispers just at the edge of hearing?"

Tommy's blood ran cold. Because he had felt it. They all had.

"This is insane," Purpled whispered.

"Maybe," Punz agreed. "But it's real. All of it. And you have a choice to make."

"What choice?" Tommy spat. "Join your cult or die? Some choice."

"Not die," Punz corrected. "Transform. Evolve. Become something greater than human. The family sees potential in all of you. They're offering you a place among them."

"And all it costs is our souls?" Tubbo asked sarcastically.

"Souls are overrated," Punz shrugged. "We prefer to deal in shadows."

A train whistle cut through the night, making them all jump. When Tommy looked back at Punz, his shadow had grown impossibly large, stretching across the entire wall of the warehouse.

"Think about it," Punz said, his voice returning to normal. "You have until the next full moon to decide. After that..." He smiled, and for a moment, his teeth looked too sharp, too numerous. "Well, let's just say the family isn't known for their patience."

"And if we refuse?" Ranboo asked quietly.

"Then pray you learn to run faster than shadows," Punz said simply.

Then he stepped backward, and the darkness swallowed him whole, leaving nothing but echoing laughter and the faint smell of decay.

They stood there in stunned silence, the weight of what had just happened pressing down on them like a physical thing.

Finally, Tommy spoke, his voice dry: "We are so fucked."

"Language," Tubbo said automatically, then laughed hysterically. "Oh god, we really are, aren't we?"

The lamp flickered again as if to confirm their inner turmoil.

"We should have never gone in there," Ranboo muttered, after a moment of tense silence. "I knew something felt wrong the moment we stepped inside."

"Yeah, well, hindsight's a bitch," Tommy replied, trying to keep his voice steady. "Could've used that observation before we went in, big man."

"I did say something!" Ranboo protested. "I specifically remember saying 'guys, this seems like a really bad idea' and you said—"

"'Don't be such a pussy, Ranboo,'" Tubbo mimicked Tommy's voice, copying his exagerrated movements.

The lamp in his hands flickered once more, twice, then steadied, casting a warm glow that somehow made the surrounding darkness seem even deeper.

"So what do we do now?" Ranboo asked, his voice shaking as he wrung his hands anxiously.

"Salt," Tubbo said quickly. "We need salt. Lots of it. That works on ghosts, right?"

"Pretty sure that's demons," Purpled muttered.

"Well, what works on ghost-demon-whatever-the-hell-that-thing-was?" Tommy demanded.

Nobody had an answer for that.

Tommy looked back in the direction of the mansion, barely visible against the night sky. A shadow seemed to linger at the edge of his vision, one with a stupid hat and wings that seemed larger than life. Its form seemed to flicker between human and something else entirely as it stood watching. Waiting.

Tommy turned away, steeling his nerves.

"Whatever," he said finally, squaring his shoulders. "We'll find a way to fight back. We'll find a way to end this."

"And if we can't?" Purpled asked, his gaze fixated on the ground as he furrowed his brows, absently kicking at the dirt under his shoes.

"Then..." Tommy swallowed hard. "Then we make sure we go down swinging."

"Always the optimist," Tubbo sighed, but he stood straighter, holding his lamp like a weapon.

"Better than being the pessimist," Tommy shot back. "At least my way we get to punch a ghost."

"Pretty sure you can't punch ghosts," Ranboo pointed out.

"Watch me try."

They started walking home, huddled close together, jumping at every shadow. But something had changed. The terror was still there, but now it was mixed with something else. Determination. Anger.

The mansion had marked them, yes. But maybe, just maybe, they could mark it back.

---

A figure watched them from the warehouse roof, its crown of bones gleaming in the moonlight. Next to it, another shadow materialized, this one wrapped in wings of darkness.

"Well?" the Blade asked.

The winged figure smiled, and it was a terrible thing to behold.

"You were right," it said, its voice like steel on stone. "They'll do very nicely."

The night swallowed their laughter, and somewhere in the distance, the mansion waited, its windows like hungry eyes in the darkness.

The game had begun.

Chapter Text

Tommy couldn't sleep. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw that twisted figure from the mansion, its limbs stretching impossibly long, crowned in bones that seemed to gleam even in darkness. The memory of cold shadows wrapping around him like smoke made his skin crawl.

His room felt wrong somehow. The shadows in the corners seemed deeper than usual, and he could swear they moved when he wasn't looking directly at them. The streetlight outside his window flickered intermittently, each flash making the darkness pulse like a living thing.

His phone buzzed.

Tubbo: anyone else's lights acting weird?

Ranboo: Please don't.

Tubbo: just saying

Tubbo: shroud keeps turning on by himself

Tubbo: very supportive but also slightly concerning

Tommy stared at his phone, trying to ignore how the shadows seemed to stretch toward him every time he looked away from them.

Tommy: stop naming the fucking lamp

Tubbo: HE HAS FEELINGS TOMMY

Purpled: I hate all of you.

Ranboo: Guys can we focus on the actual problem

Ranboo: Like the fact that we're apparently being hunted by shadow demons??

Tommy's fingers hovered over the keyboard. What could he even say? 'Sorry guys, looks like we're all going to either join a cult or get eaten by shadows, but hey, at least we'll go through it together'?

Tommy: we need to figure out what we're dealing with

Tommy: i can't keep staring at my ceiling wondering if the shadows are gonna eat me

Tubbo: google how to fight shadow people

Ranboo: Pretty sure Google isn't going to help with this one

Purpled: The library might.

Tommy: the what now

Purpled: The library. You know, that building with books in it?

Tommy: i know what a library is bitch

Purpled: Could've fooled me.

Tommy: some of us have better things to do than read

Purpled: Oh yeah. That’s really working out great for you.

Ranboo: Guys, please

Ranboo: Can we not fight for like five minutes?

Purpled: But the old section has records going back to when the town was founded.

Purpled: If we want to know more about the mansion and this "family," that's where we start.

Tommy sat up straighter. For once, Purpled had a point. If they were going to fight this thing, they needed to understand what they were up against.

Tommy: meet at the library tomorrow. 9am

Ranboo: That's... surprisingly responsible of you

Tommy: shut up

Tubbo: can i bring shroud

Tommy: NO

---

The local library wasn't exactly where Tommy had pictured himself spending his Saturday morning, but desperate times called for desperate measures. Besides, it wasn't like they had many other options for researching potentially murderous shadow-dwelling mansion cults.

Tommy arrived first, bouncing on his heels as he waited for the others. Purpled showed up next, looking like he hadn't slept at all.

"You look like shit," Tommy greeted him.

"Thanks. You look worse."

Ranboo arrived third, hunched over like he was trying to make himself smaller. Which, given that he was already the tallest of them, wasn't working very well.

"Has anyone seen Tubbo?" Ranboo asked, glancing nervously at the shadows around them.

As if on cue, Tubbo came rushing up the library steps, lamp clutched in his arms.

"Did you really have to bring the lamp?" Tommy groaned as Tubbo carefully adjusted his lamp.

"He gets anxiety when left alone," Tubbo replied seriously. "Besides, he's good luck."

"He's a hazard is what he is," Purpled muttered, already looking done with the day. "And would you please stop referring to it as 'he'?"

"Don't listen to them, Shroud," Tubbo patted the lamp's base. "They're just jealous of our bond."

“I'm genuinely concerned for your mental health,” Ranboo said eyeing him worriedly.

Inside, the library was eerily quiet. Their footsteps echoed on the old wooden floors as they made their way to the local history section. The elderly librarian watched them suspiciously as they passed, probably wondering why four teenagers were in a library on a Saturday morning.

"Stop looking so suspicious," Tommy hissed at Ranboo.

"I'm not trying to look suspicious!"

"You're literally sweating."

"Because you keep telling me I look suspicious!"

It was exactly as dusty and boring as Tommy expected. Ancient shelves towered over them, packed with yellowing books and faded newspapers. The whole place smelled like old paper and forgotten memories.

"Remind me why we're here again?" Tommy whispered, though it came out more like a stage whisper that earned him a glare from the elderly librarian.

"Because," Purpled replied, already pulling books from the local history section, "if we're going to fight whatever's in that mansion, we need to know what we're dealing with."

"Fight it?" Ranboo squeaked. "Who said anything about fighting it? I vote we just move. Like, to another country."

"Good luck outrunning shadows," Tubbo muttered, setting his lamp—because of course he refused to leave it—on one of the reading tables. "Besides, Punz said we're already marked or whatever."

"Okay," Tommy said, trying to sound more confident than he felt. "Let's think about this. What do we actually know?"

"The mansion is haunted," Ranboo started, counting on his fingers. "Not just haunted—it's like... a gateway or something. And the 'family' inside it isn't just dead, they're also... changed."

"And Punz is one of them," Purpled added, his voice tight. "Has been this whole time, probably."

"And they want us to join them," Tubbo finished. "Or they'll... what was it? Consume us anyway?"

A chill ran through the room at his words. The lights flickered once, briefly, and they all held their breath until they steadied again.

"Right," Tommy nodded, pushing down his fear. "So we have options. We can try to fight back, try to run, or..." He swallowed hard. "Or we can join them."

"That's not an option," Purpled snapped immediately.

"Then what do we do?" Ranboo's voice cracked. "Because I don't know if you noticed, but we couldn't even handle one of them. And there's a whole family of these things."

Tommy grinned at him sharply, "We're gonna learn as much as we can about them. About how to face them. Last time we weren't ready. This time we will be."

"Is anyone else concerned that Tommy's actually suggesting we study?" Tubbo asked.

"The world really is ending," Purpled muttered.

Tommy stuck his middle finger up at them before grabbing a stack of old newspapers, trying not to think about the way the shadows under the shelves seemed to writhe when he looked at them too long. "Right then. Let's find out who these creepy bastards were."

They spread out across the table, poring over dusty tomes and crumbling newspapers. Hours passed as they dug through the town's history, looking for any mention of the mansion or its mysterious inhabitants.

"My eyes are going crossed," Tommy complained, rubbing his face. "Who knew research could be so boring?"

"Would you prefer to be back at the mansion?" Ranboo asked dryly.

Tommy shuddered. "Point taken."

"Found anything?" he asked instead, peering over Tubbo's shoulder at the stack of local history books spread across the table.

"Nothing helpful," Tubbo sighed, flipping through yellowed pages. "Just the usual stuff about the mansion being abandoned in the 1920s after the original family mysteriously disappeared. No mention of shadow monsters or bone crowns."

"Shocking," Purpled drawled from his position by the window, where he'd been keeping watch. Old habits die hard, Tommy supposed. "Almost like people don't typically document their dealings with eldritch horrors."

"Actually," Ranboo piped up from behind a particularly dusty tome, "I might have found something."

They all turned to look at him. Even Purpled abandoned his post by the window, though Tommy noticed he positioned himself so he could still see outside.

"There's this old newspaper article," Ranboo continued, spreading the book open on the table. "From 1923. It talks about strange disappearances around the mansion. People going missing, only to turn up weeks later with no memory of where they'd been. But here's the weird part - witnesses reported seeing shadows moving on their own, and hearing laughter in empty rooms."

Tommy leaned in to study the faded text. "That sounds familiar."

"It gets better," Ranboo said, flipping to another page. "The original family weren't just rich. They were involved in some kind of secret society. The article calls it 'The Syndicate.'"

"Original name," Purpled muttered.

"Says here they were known for collecting 'unusual artifacts' and conducting 'experiments of an occult nature,'" Ranboo continued, ignoring him. "But get this - one of the last known members was described as wearing 'a crown fashioned from bone.'"

Tommy felt his blood run cold. "The portrait."

"Exactly," Ranboo nodded. "And look at this photo."

They crowded around the book. The image was grainy, aged by time, but Tommy could make out a group of people standing in front of the mansion. In the center, a tall figure wore what was unmistakably the same crown they'd seen in the portrait - and on the shadow that had chased them.

But what really caught Tommy's attention was the person standing next to him. Though the photo was black and white, he could've sworn the man was wearing a familiar gold chain.

"Is that-" Tubbo started.

"Punz," Tommy finished. "Or someone who looks exactly like him."

"That's impossible," Purpled said, but his voice lacked conviction. "This photo's a hundred years old."

"After everything we've seen, you're really gonna argue about what's impossible? Did you forget about his portrait?" Tommy shot back.

Purpled didn't bother responding; he just grabbed the photo, staring down at it with an unreadable expression.

"Here!" Tubbo suddenly exclaimed, earning another sharp look from the librarian. He lowered his voice, pointing to a yellowed newspaper article also dated to 1923. "Look at this."

Tommy leaned over, squinting at the faded text. The headline read: "MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCES CONTINUE AS WATSON FAMILY INFLUENCE GROWS."

"The Watsons," Purpled murmured, something dark crossing his face. "That was their name."

The article detailed a series of strange events surrounding the wealthy Watson family. People going missing near their property. Strange lights in the windows at night. Whispers of deals made in darkness.

"Hold on," Ranboo said, pulling out another book. "I found something else. A diary from someone who worked there."

The diary entry was dated 1924:

"Something is wrong in this house. The shadows move when they shouldn't. I hear voices in empty rooms. And the family... they're changing. Master Phil's eyes have gone strange—all black, like holes in his face. And... I saw his shadow yesterday. It had wings.

I've seen things in the mirrors too. Reflections that don't match. And the portraits... I swear they watch us. Especially that one of Master Technoblade with his crown. Sometimes I hear his footsteps late at night, but he's been dead for months.

I'm leaving tonight. Whatever power they've found, whatever deals they've made... it's not natural. God help anyone who gets too close to them."

Tommy felt a chill run down his spine. "Phil... that must've been the one with the wings we saw."

"And Technoblade," Tubbo added. "The one with the crown of bones."

"But that was a hundred years ago," Ranboo said, his voice shaking. "How are they still...?"

"Because they're not human anymore," Purpled replied grimly. "Whatever deals they made, whatever they became... they're something else now."

He sighed, twirling his knife as he continued under his breath, “Because of course the dead just can’t stay fucking dead here.”

Tommy flipped through more papers, his heart racing as patterns emerged. Every few decades, the same story would repeat. People would go missing near the mansion. Strange sightings would increase. And always, always, there were whispers of the Watson family, though no one ever seemed to age or truly die.

"Here's another one," Tubbo said, pointing to a more recent article from just twenty years ago. "A boy named Fundy went missing after breaking into the mansion. He was found three days later with no memory of what happened, but..." He swallowed hard. "His shadow was wrong. It moved wrong. And within a month, he disappeared and was never seen again."

"So that's what happens if we refuse," Tommy muttered. "We either join them willingly or..."

"Or they take us anyway," Ranboo finished, his face pale.

The lamp on the table flickered, casting strange shadows across their faces. None of them mentioned how those shadows seemed to linger too long, move too deliberately.

"But look at this," Purpled said, pulling out another book. "It's not just the family. They have... servants. Or helpers. People they've marked who help them find new sacrifices."

"Like Punz," Tommy growled.

"Exactly." Purpled's eyes narrowed. "He's not part of the family, but he works with them. Brings them what they want."

"Fresh meat," Tubbo said bitterly.

Tommy slammed his hand on the table, earning yet another glare from the librarian. "Well, they're not getting us. We're going to find a way to fight back."

"How?" Ranboo asked. "How do you fight shadows?"

Before Tommy could answer, the lamp went out.

All the lamps went out.

The library plunged into darkness for a moment before the emergency lights kicked on, bathing everything in blood-red light.

And there it stood - a figure in a beanie and yellow sweater that flickered like candlelight, its shadow spreading across the floor like spilled ink.

But this time, they didn't run.

This time, they stood together, backs to each other, facing the darkness that had haunted them.

"Interesting reading material," it said, voice echoing strangely in the confined space. "Though you're missing the best parts."

"You know," Tommy said, his voice steady despite his racing heart, "for someone who's supposed to be all-powerful, you sure spend a lot of time stalking teenagers.”

The figure's laugh was like breaking glass.

"Oh, Tommy. You really have no idea what you're dealing with, do you?"

"Actually," Purpled said, holding up one of the books they'd found, "I think we're starting to figure it out."

The temperature dropped even further, frost crackling across the bookshelves.

"Knowledge is dangerous," the figure said softly. "Are you sure you want to know more? There are some doors that, once opened..."

“Can't be closed?" Tubbo finished. "Yeah, we got that part. But here's the thing - you already opened those doors for us. So either kill us or get out of our way, because we've got research to do."

For a moment, there was absolute silence.

Then the figure threw back his head and laughed - a real laugh this time, almost human.

"Oh, I see why Phil and Techno like you all," he said, his beanie gleaming in the red light. "Very well. Study your books. Learn your histories. It won't change what's coming."

He stepped back into the shadows, his form dissolving like smoke.

But his voice lingered: "One month, children. One month until the choice is made. Choose wisely."

And then he was gone, leaving only frost on the windows and the lingering scent of old books and ancient power.

Tubbo broke the silence first: "So... I'm thinking maybe we should check out some of these books?"

Tommy let out a snort, trying to calm his racing heart. "Yeah. Yeah, let's do that. And Tubbo?"

“Yeah?”

“Keep Shroud close. I think we're going to need all the light we can get."

Shroud seemed to glow a little brighter at that.

"Ok, let’s get out of here," Ranboo said, clutching one of the dusty, old newspapers close as the lights turned back on like nothing had happened. "Now."

He tried to ignore the way the old librarian eyed them suspiciously. As if it was their fault a creepy shadow creature had invaded their space.

Ranboo subtly pushed Tommy’s hand back down before he could flash her the middle finger.

They gathered their things quickly, trying not to look at the way the shadows between the shelves seemed to reach for them, trying to ignore the soft laughter that echoed through the stacks.

But as they hurried out into the sunlight, Tommy couldn't shake the feeling that they'd found exactly what they were looking for. And somehow, that was worse than not knowing at all.

Because now they knew what they were up against. Now they knew what waited for them in that mansion. And they had less than a month to figure out how to fight it.

Chapter Text

The walk home from the library was tense.

It felt like crossing a minefield. Every shadow made them jump, every flicker of movement had them spinning around, half-expecting to see that figure in the beanie again.

The sun was high in the sky, but somehow the shadows still seemed too dark, too deep.

"So," Tubbo said, clutching Shroud like a lifeline, "we've got a family of shadow demons who want to either recruit us or eat us, they've given us a month to decide, and our only lead is a bunch of hundred-year-old newspapers."

“Well when you put it like that, it sounds bad," Tommy huffed, trying to inject some levity into the situation.

"Oh, I'm sorry, is there a way to make it sound good?" Ranboo's voice cracked slightly. "Because I'd love to hear it!"

"We could be dead," Purpled offered flatly.

"Always the optimist, aren't you?" Tommy rolled his eyes.

"Someone has to balance out your endless stupidity."

They'd split the books and papers between them, though Tommy noticed how Purpled had quietly claimed the one with the old photograph. He kept glancing at it when he thought no one was looking, his expression unreadable.

"At least we know more than we did yesterday," Tommy said, trying to sound optimistic. "We know who they are now. The Watsons. And we know what happened to them."

"Yeah, they made deals with things that shouldn't exist and turned into shadow monsters," Tubbo replied. "Really helpful information there. I'm sure that'll come in handy when they try to eat our souls."

Tommy shot him a glare. “I will throw Shroud off a balcony.”

“You wouldn’t dare.” Tubbo gasped, hugging his lamp protectively.

“Try me bitch.”

Ranboo sighed at them in exasperation.

"So," The tall teen started after a moment, "Not to be that guy but... what now?"

They all paused, glancing around. None of them wanted to split up, but they couldn't exactly all stay together forever. The thought of going home alone, of facing those writhing shadows without backup, made Tommy's stomach churn.

"My parents are..." Purpled paused, seeming to think before continuing, "Away for the weekend. We could... I mean, if you guys want..."

"Sleepover!" Tubbo brightened immediately. "Yes! Safety in numbers!"

"It's not a sleepover," Purpled snapped, as if the very word hurt his soul. Or maybe just his reputation. "It's a strategic gathering for survival planning."

"Right, right," Tommy nodded seriously. "A strategic gathering. With pillow fights?"

"No."

"Ghost stories?"

"We're literally living one, Tommy."

"Truth or dare?"

"I dare you to shut up."

"See? You're already playing! Will we have snacks at least?" Tommy asked hopefully.

"Yes, Tommy." Purpled looked like he regretted every life decision that led him here. "There's food."

"I knew you loved us!" Tommy cheered, slinging an arm over Purpled's shoulder and ruffling his hair. "You're just a big softie under all that rough, unlovable edge—"

He got an elbow to the gut for his trouble.

“Touch my hair again and I’ll stab your eyes out,” Purpled warned.

Ranboo glanced uneasily at the lengthening shadows stretching across the sidewalk. "As touching as Tommy getting stabbed would be, maybe we should..."

Tommy sobered instantly. “Right. We need supplies. But we go together. No splitting up. That’s how people die in horror movies.”

"Actually," Tubbo chimed in, "statistically speaking, people in horror movies die most often when-"

"Nobody wants your horror movie statistics, Tubbo."

They hit Tommy's house first. His father wasn't home - he rarely was - which made it easier to grab what they needed without awkward questions. Tommy stuffed his backpack with clothes, his laptop, and, after a moment's hesitation, the baseball bat from under his bed.

"Really?" Ranboo asked skeptically, "You think a bat's going to help against shadow monsters?"

"Better than nothing," Tommy shrugged, but his knuckles were white around the bat's handle.

Tubbo's house was next. His parents were home, but they were used to him spending weekends with his friends. Still, his mom's smiling face as she watched them leave made Tommy's stomach twist. Would they ever see their parents again after this was over?

"Tommy," Tubbo whispered as they left, his voice barely audible over the sound of their hurried footsteps. "my room... the shadows..."

Tommy’s stomach twisted. He followed Tubbo’s gaze to the second-story window. The curtains were drawn, but shadows writhed behind them like living things, pressing against the glass.

"Don't look," Tommy said, pulling his friend away. "Just don't look."

"They're in my room, Tommy," Tubbo's voice cracked. "How the hell am I supposed to sleep there again?"

"Bold of you to assume any of us are sleeping ever again," Purpled muttered.

"Not helping," Ranboo hissed.

Ranboo's apartment was next. He lived alone - another fact that suddenly seemed more significant given what they'd learned. Had the family been watching him because he was vulnerable? Isolated?

"Guys?" Ranboo called from his bedroom. "You might want to see this."

They crowded into the doorway. Ranboo's walls were covered in photographs - he was into photography, had been for years, capturing moments, memories, little pieces of life.

But now, those moments had changed.

The shadows in every single photo were wrong.

They stretched at unnatural angles. They flickered in places where no light should have cast them. Some were moving—not in a blur of motion, but shifting, bending like they had a will of their own.

And in each photo, barely visible unless you knew to look for it, was a crown of bones.

“They’ve been watching us,” Ranboo whispered. His hands trembled as he reached for a picture, only to stop himself at the last second, like touching it might make things worse. “All this time. They’ve been right there in my photos.”

"Bit stalkerish, isn't it?" Tommy tried to joke, but it fell flat.

"How did we not notice?" Tubbo whispered.

"Because we weren't meant to," Purpled said grimly. "Not until they wanted us to."

Tommy started pulling photos off the walls. "Pack what you need. We're not coming back here."

"But my darkroom—" Ranboo started to protest.

"Will still be here later," Tommy cut him off. "If we survive."

"You really need to work on your pep talks," Tubbo muttered.

Ranboo exhaled shakily and grabbed his camera bag. His fingers fumbled over the strap. "They're in all my recent photos. Every single one."

Tommy reached for one of the scattered pictures. It was from a summer a few years back—the group of them at the park, laughing about something now long forgotten. A perfect moment.

Except it wasn’t.

Because in the background, just barely visible in the shadows of the trees, was Punz.

They all leaned in, their breath collectively hitching. He wasn’t posing. He wasn’t laughing with them. He was watching.

And his eyes—God, his eyes. The camera flash had caught them at just the right angle to make them glint, too bright, too sharp, too much like a predator’s.

“The date,” Purpled pointed to the timestamp, his voice tight. “This was three years ago.” He swallowed hard. “Two months before I even met him.”

Tommy glanced at him. "So you guys aren't related?"

"What the fuck? No." Purpled scoffed. "He was nothing to me but an income source."

Tommy chose not to comment on the way his voice wavered at the words.

“He’s been watching us that long?” Tubbo asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Probably longer,” Tommy muttered, gripping the photo so tightly the edges curled. “We just didn’t have proof until now.”

Ranboo’s hands were shaking so badly that his camera bag slipped from his grasp, crashing onto the floor.

The sound sent them all jolting.

"Hey," Tommy grabbed his friend's shoulders, forcing him to meet his gaze. "Look at me. We're going to figure this out. All of us. Together."

"But what if we can't?" Ranboo whispered. "What if we end up like Punz? Or worse?"

"Then we end up like Punz," Tommy said firmly. "But we do it together. No one gets left behind."

"No one gets left behind," Tubbo repeated, placing his hand on top of Tommy's.

Ranboo hesitated only a moment before adding his hand to the pile. "No one gets left behind."

They all looked at Purpled.

For a moment, he just stared at their joined hands, his expression unreadable.

"Come on, edgelord," Tommy nudged. "You know you want to."

"This is so stupid," Purpled muttered, but slowly placed his hand on top of theirs. 

"Now was that so hard?" Tommy grinned.

"I hate all of you."

"No you don't."

The moment was broken by a sharp knock at the door.

They froze.

"Ranboo?" a familiar voice called. "You in there, kid?"

The room went still.

No one moved. No one breathed.

Tommy’s pulse pounded in his ears as he exchanged glances with the others. Ranboo looked like he was about to throw up. Tubbo was gripping Shroud so tightly his knuckles had gone white. Purpled’s expression had gone blank—too blank.

The doorknob rattled.

"Speak of the devil," Tommy muttered.

"Come on, open up." Punz’s voice was calm, almost amused. "We need to talk."

The shadows in the room stirred.

Like something was waking up.

Like something was listening.

Tommy didn’t wait. He jabbed a finger toward the fire escape.

"Go," Tommy mouthed, pointing to the window.

Tubbo scrambled for the window first, nearly dropping Shroud in the process, earning a collective heart attack from everyone.

"If we die because you wouldn't let go of that lamp—" Purpled hissed, shoving a chair in front of the door.

"He's our good luck charm!" Tubbo whispered back defensively.

He was quickly followed by Ranboo out the window. Tommy climbed out after them, then turned back to help Purpled through.

The knock at the door turned into a slow, deliberate pounding.

“Don’t make this harder than it needs to be.”

Punz’s voice wasn’t casual anymore. It was calm. Measured. Dangerous.

The door gave a sickening creak, the hinges groaning under the pressure.

Purpled hesitated for half a second before vaulting through the window. Tommy grabbed him by the wrist and yanked him onto the landing.

Behind them, the door finally gave way.

They heard it splinter.

Heard footsteps cross the threshold.

Felt the air shift.

Tommy didn’t look back. Didn’t dare.

“Down.” He hissed. “Now.”

They clattered down the fire escape as quietly as they could, which wasn't very quiet at all, barely holding back panicked curses. The metal groaned under their weight, but they didn’t dare slow down. 

"You can't run forever," Punz's voice drifted down, dark and amused. "The shadows are everywhere."

"Watch us," Tommy muttered under his breath, not looking back.

The fire escape lurched.

Ranboo nearly lost his balance, catching himself against the railing at the last second. Tubbo screamed.

Tommy threw himself off the last rung of the ladder, hitting the pavement hard. The second he landed, he spun, arms out, grabbing Tubbo before he could collapse.

Purpled was next. Then Ranboo.

No one looked up.

No one looked back.

Tommy grabbed Ranboo’s sleeve. “Move.”

And they ran.

---

The city blurred around them.

They didn’t stop. Didn’t slow. Not even when their lungs burned and their legs screamed and the streetlights above them flickered just a little too much.

Finally, they reached Purpled's house. He fumbled with his keys, cursing under his breath as shadows crawled up the walls around them.

"Why do you have so many keys?" Ranboo demanded, voice high-pitched with panic.

"Because unlike some people, I believe in security—" Purpled started, still fumbling with his keys.

"Is that why you have a key that says 'definitely not a secret bunker'?" Tubbo asked, peering over his shoulder.

Purpled snatched the keys away. "That's— that's for my bike lock."

"You don't have a bike." 

"I could get one!"

"Now is not the time for a lecture on home safety!" Tommy interrupted. "Or Purpled's secret doomsday prepping—"

"It's not doomsday prepping, it's being prepared—"

"You have canned beans under your bed!"

"GUYS!" Ranboo hissed. "Shadow monsters? Remember?"

The door finally swung open. They tumbled inside, slamming it behind them and throwing every lock.

For a moment, they just stood there, gasping for breath in the darkened entryway.

Then Tubbo started laughing. It was a slightly hysterical sound.

"What?" Tommy demanded. "What's funny about any of this?"

"I just..." Tubbo wheezed, gripping Shroud like it was the only thing keeping him sane. "I just realized. We left all our research at Ranboo's place."

They stared at him.

Silence.

Then—

Laughter.

Because it was either laugh or start screaming.

"We're so screwed," Ranboo hiccupped, sliding down the wall.

"Maybe not," Purpled said suddenly, pulling his phone out. "I took photos of the most important things before we left. And I grabbed some of the books we hadn't looked through yet."

"Purpled," Tommy grinned. "You beautiful, paranoid bastard"

“Don’t get too excited,” Purpled muttered. “It’s not much. But…” He swiped through his camera roll, then froze.

His expression shifted.

“That’s weird.”

“What?”

“My photos...” His voice dropped. “They’re... corrupted or something.”

Tubbo and Tommy crowded around his phone. The research photos were there, but they were... wrong. Distorted. And in each one, overlaid on the text like a watermark, was that familiar crown of bones.

"Well," Tommy said after a long moment. "I guess they really don't want us learning their secrets."

Purpled stared down at his phone, his expression murderous. "I'm going to kill them all."

Tommy patted his back sympathetically. "Yeah, well, get in line."

"Guys," Ranboo called from where he'd already started looking through the books Purpled had grabbed, "I found something interesting about the shadow people in this one. Apparently, they're attracted to negative emotions and—"

"Great," Tommy interrupted dryly. "So we just need to be really, really happy while we're being hunted by immortal shadow creatures. Simple."

"I mean, it's worth a shot?" Tubbo offered optimistically. "We could try singing?"

"I am not singing to ghost cultists."

"Your loss," Tubbo shrugged, examining Ranboo's book with interest. "Says here some cultures believed music could ward off evil spirits."

Purpled, who had started silently flipping through an ancient-looking tome, suddenly sat up straighter. "Look at this."

They gathered around him, peering down with interest. The book was old, its spine cracked and pages brittle, but the illustrations were clear enough – intricate symbols and diagrams that made Tommy's eyes hurt to look at.

"Protection symbols," Purpled explained, tracing one with his finger. "Used to ward off supernatural entities. And look—" he flipped to another page, "these match the ones we saw in the mansion. The markings under the wallpaper."

Tommy leaned closer, squinting at the symbols. They did look familiar – the same angular shapes, the same unsettling patterns. "So what, someone tried to protect themselves?"

"Or contain something," Ranboo suggested, then immediately regretted it when they all turned to stare at him. "What? It makes sense! If the mansion really is some kind of... gateway, maybe someone tried to seal it."

"Fat lot of good that did," Tommy snorted, but he couldn't shake the feeling Ranboo might be onto something. "Still, protection symbols are better than nothing. We could try—"

A sharp crack cut him off.

They all flinched, whirling toward the sound.

One of Purpled's photos had fallen from the wall. The glass was cracked, creating a web-like pattern across the image. As they watched, shadows began seeping from the cracks, pooling on the floor like spilled ink.

"Oh, that's not good," Tubbo whispered.

A shadow fell across their table.

"I'm afraid those won't help you much," a voice murmured from behind them.

They spun around to find a young man standing behind them, maybe a year or two older than them. His black cap was pulled low over unruly orange hair, and his eyes darted around the room nervously, scanning the corners, the ceiling, the walls. As if he was waiting for something.

Tommy's blood ran cold – he recognized him from one of the portraits in the mansion.

"You're one of them," Tommy spat, his voice rising. His body tensed as he stood up, the chair clattering to the ground behind him.

The stranger tilted his head, his mouth curving into a wry, hollow smile. He raised two fingers in an absent salute. “Fundy,” he introduced himself, his voice smooth but laced with something sharper, something unspoken. “And yeah, I guess you could say that.”

"Fundy?" Tubbo asked, clutching Shroud protectively. "Like the boy from the newspapers? From twenty years ago?"

"Exactly," Fundy replied, his tone light, though his expression wavered. “The very same.”

"Why are you here?" Ranboo asked, subtly inching away.

Fundy didn't answer right away. Instead, he pulled up a chair and sat down, despite the obvious discomfort of the group. He rested his forearms on the table, his fingers tapping absently against the worn wood. "Let’s just say I don't exactly agree with their... recruitment methods."

"So you're what, here to help?" Tommy asked skeptically.

Fundy exhaled a quiet, humorless laugh, glancing at the open tomes scattered across the table. His lips twitched in amusement.

“In a way,” he said. “Though I should warn you—most of these?” He tapped the brittle pages. “They’re nonsense. The truth about the mansion... you won’t find it in any library.”

Purpled’s jaw tightened. “Then tell us.” His voice was sharp, unyielding. “Tell us how to fight them.”

Fundy’s smile slipped. His expression darkened, his fingers curling against the tabletop.

“You can’t.”

The words hit like a physical blow.

"Not directly. My family..." He paused, his gaze distant as though he could see something just beyond the walls of the room. "They’re beyond physical now. Beyond most forms of magic, protection... even time itself. Those symbols?" He nodded at the book. "They might slow them down, but they won’t stop them."

"Then what are we supposed to do?" Ranboo asked, his voice cracking. "Just... let them take us? Become like—" He cut himself off, but his eyes flickered to Fundy's inhuman shadow.

"No," Fundy said firmly. "You fight smart. You learn their rules, their limitations. Every power has a price, every transformation has its weaknesses. Even immortality comes with chains."

Tommy leaned forward, his heart racing. "What kind of limitations?"

Fundy glanced around the room, as if checking for eavesdroppers.

He shifted in his seat, and his shadow—the strange, shifting fox shape that didn’t quite move like a shadow should—twisted unnervingly behind him.

"They can’t control everything," he whispered, as if speaking the words aloud might give them power. "The mansion is their anchor, their source of power. The further you get from it, the weaker their hold becomes. And there are places they can’t go—holy ground, places of light, positive energy. They can't enter them."

Tommy absorbed this quickly, his mind racing. "Light," he repeated, the connection to the lamp flickering in his brain. "Like Shroud..."

Tubbo stared at Shroud with newfound respect.

"Exactly," Fundy said. "Light is uncomfortable for them. Not harmful, but it makes it harder for them to maintain their form, their hold on you. And they can't physically harm you unless you let them in."

"Let them in?" Ranboo asked.

"Fear," Fundy explained. "Doubt. Despair. The more you give in to negative emotions, the more power they have over you."

Tommy thought back to the mansion, to the crushing weight of terror he'd felt. "So what, we just... don't be scared?"

"Oh great," Tubbo mumbled. "We're being hunted by emo shadow monsters."

"Maybe they'll make us listen to My Chemical Romance next," Purpled replied in a dry tone, dropping his head onto the table.

Fundy's fox shadow seemed to bristle indignantly.

"Actually," he said, completely straight-faced, "they're more into classical. Something about the dramatics of Wagner really speaks to the eternal darkness of their souls."

Everyone stared at him.

"That... that was a joke, right?" Tubbo asked uncertainly.

Fundy's lips twitched. "Mostly. Wilbur's more of a Beatles fan."

"The immortal shadow demon... likes the Beatles," Ranboo said slowly.

Fundy shrugged.

"Eternal life is long. You develop hobbies."

His eyes shifted around the room before he continued, "But no. Fear is natural. Healthy, even. Just don't let it consume you. Don't let it be the only thing you feel."

There was a long silence as the group processed this. For the first time, Tubbo's grip on Shroud loosened just a little, as though a tiny shred of understanding had come through the fog of fear.

"That's... actually kind of helpful," Tubbo admitted. "But why are you telling us all this? Won’t the others be—I don’t know—furious?”

A flicker of something darker crossed Fundy's face. He twisted his hands uneasily, shadows dancing across his palms, distorting his features as though his own shadow could no longer decide if it was a reflection of him or something else.

"They will be," he agreed, "But I couldn't let what happened to me happen to you. I faced it alone. You don’t have to, and that might just be what saves you."

The others exchanged wary glances.

“They’re my family now,” Fundy admitted. “But...” He trailed off, his expression softening as he looked at each of them. “You deserve a choice. A real one, not the false ultimatum they gave you.”

"Can you tell us what happened to you?" Ranboo asked hopefully. "It might help us understand things better."

Fundy hesitated, glancing out the window toward the quickly darkening sky.

“Okay,” he agreed eventually, expression wavering. His voice was quiet, resigned. “But we don’t have much time before they realize I’m gone.”

They leaned in, the air taut with anticipation.

And Fundy began to speak.

Chapter Text

"It started a little over twenty years ago," Fundy began, his fingers tracing absent patterns on the table's surface. Shadows followed his movements, creating intricate designs that seemed to glow faintly in the dim light. "I was younger than you, around thirteen when I first caught their attention."

He smiled, but it was a hollow thing, like a mask that didn't quite fit.

"I was... different back then. Curious. Too curious. The kind of kid who always had to know how things worked, why things were the way they were. The mansion was just another puzzle to solve."

The room seemed to darken as he spoke, the shadows in the corners growing deeper, more attentive. As if they too were listening to his tale.

---

Twenty Years Ago

The mansion loomed before him, a darker shape against the darkening sky. Fundy adjusted his backpack, double-checking that he had everything he needed: flashlight, camera, notebook. He'd spent months planning this, watching the place, learning its rhythms.

No one had lived there for decades, people said. But Fundy knew better.

He had seen the flickering lights in the windows, heard the distant, echoing strains of music with no source. Watched shadows move against the walls when no one should be there.

And now he was going to prove it.

The lock on the back door was old, practically ancient. It took him less than a minute to pick it.

"Amateur hour," he muttered to himself, pushing the door open. It didn't even creak – suspicious for a supposedly abandoned house.

The interior was... wrong. Not dusty or decrepit like it should have been, but not quite lived-in either. It existed in some strange in-between state, like a stage set waiting for its actors to arrive. The air was cool but not cold, with a strange electrical quality that made the hairs on Fundy's arms stand up.

Fundy pulled out his camera, already taking pictures. The furniture was covered in white sheets that seemed to glow in the beam of his flashlight. The wallpaper was peeling in places, revealing strange symbols underneath.

"Okay, creepy cult symbols," he muttered, snapping another photo. "That's fine. Totally normal."

He made his way deeper into the house, careful to document everything. The grand staircase that seemed to stretch up into darkness. The mirrors that reflected things that weren't quite there. The portraits on the walls that...

Fundy froze.

The portraits were watching him.

Not in the usual "eyes following you" way that old paintings sometimes did. These eyes actually moved, tracking his movements with an intelligence that made his skin crawl.

One in particular caught his attention – a man with a yellow sweater and a beanie, strumming a guitar. There was something almost familiar about him, as if Fundy had seen him somewhere before. As Fundy stared, the figure actually smiled, fingers stilling on the painted guitar strings.

Because Fundy was an idiot, he waved at it.

"Well," a voice said from behind him. "Isn't this interesting?"

Fundy spun around, his flashlight beam cutting through the darkness to reveal... nothing.

But the voice continued, seeming to come from everywhere and nowhere at once.

"You know," it mused, "most people run when they see the portraits move. But you... you took pictures. Most people definitely do not wave at them."

A figure stepped out of the shadows. Tall, with dark wings that seemed to be made of living shadow. His smile was kind, but his eyes... his eyes were endless pits of darkness.

Fundy's hands trembled as he held the camera, his eyes darting between shadows like a cornered animal. Even then, his curiosity won out over his terror.

"I-I have evidence," he stammered, backing toward the wall. "The pictures—the movement patterns of the shadows, the temperature variations—it's all documented."

The winged figure's smile widened. "Oh, I like this one," he called out, seemingly to no one. "He's got spirit."

More figures emerged from the darkness. A man in a beanie whose shadow writhed like smoke, the same man from the portrait he'd just waved to. Another with a crown of bones, exactly like the portrait, his red cloak flowing as if caught in a wind Fundy couldn't feel.

He tried to ignore the way their forms were shifting and changing in ways that hurt his eyes to look at – sometimes solid, sometimes transparent, sometimes something in between.

"I'm Wilbur," the man with the beanie said pleasantly, his voice musical and warm. "And you're trespassing."

"I'm Fundy," He replied, holding his hand out for a polite shake the way he'd always been taught, his survival instincts completely failing him. "And you're correct."

Wilbur gave him an amused smile, shadow lengthening behind him into something with too many limbs and too many eyes.

"Welcome to the family home," the winged one said with a laugh, as if this was a normal house showing. "I'm Phil, and one with the crown is Techno. Though I suppose you already know all that, given how long you've been watching us."

Fundy's mouth went dry. "You knew?"

Phil laughed. "Of course we knew. We've been watching you too. Your curiosity, your determination... they're quite remarkable. Most people sense something wrong about this place and stay away. But not you."

"Like a fox," Wilbur added, his smile sharp. "Clever and quick. Adaptable. Always finding a way in where others see no entrance."

"And alone," Techno observed, his voice surprisingly gentle despite his intimidating appearance. "No one to miss you if you disappeared. No one looking for you right now."

Fundy scrunched his face up at that. Wow, rude. But also... true. His parents wouldn't notice he was gone until morning, if then.

He should have been terrified. Should have run. But...

"How do you do it?" he asked instead, gesturing at their impossible forms. "The shadows, the portraits, all of it? The physics don't make sense. The energy requirements alone would be—"

"Oh, we're definitely keeping this one," Wilbur laughed, clapping his hands together. "He's perfect."

"The choice is his," Phil reminded him, turning back to Fundy. His wings folded behind him, but their shadows remained spread across the walls. "We can show you how it all works. Every secret, every mystery you've been trying to solve. But there's a price."

"What kind of price?" Fundy asked, curiosity overriding caution.

Phil's smile was gentle, understanding. Almost fatherly. Something in Fundy ached at that expression – how long had it been since someone had looked at him that way?

"Everything has a shadow," he explained. "Everything casts darkness. We simply... embraced ours. Let it become something more. Something greater."

"And you're offering the same to me?"

"Smart boy," Techno rumbled approvingly. "Quick on the uptake. Not screaming either, which is a refreshing change of pace."

Fundy looked at them – really looked at them. At the impossible things they were, at the power they wielded so casually.

All his life, he'd wanted to understand how things worked. To solve the unsolvable.

"Will it hurt?" he asked, his voice small.

"Yes," Phil answered honestly. "But then nothing will ever hurt you again."

Fundy took a breath. Outside, thunder rumbled as the storm grew closer.

Wilbur extended his hand, grinning. His shadow stretched between them, already reaching for Fundy's.

Fundy reached out, fingers closing over his. The touch was ice-cold and burning hot all at once.

His camera hit the floor.

The shadows took him.

---

"It was a lie, of course," Fundy said, his voice bitter, pulling himself back to the present. "Things still hurt. Just... differently."

The group sat in stunned silence, processing his story. Outside, the rain that had begun during his tale fell harder, drumming against the windows.

"So you just... joined them?" Tommy asked incredulously, leaning forward. "Just like that?"

"I was young," Fundy shrugged, but there was tension in the movement, a tightness around his eyes that spoke of deeper emotions. "Stupid. And so, so curious. By the time I realized what I'd really agreed to..." He gestured at his shifting shadow, which no longer looked entirely human, fox-like ears pricking up from its outline. "It was too late."

"Hold up," Tommy interrupted, squinting at Fundy's shadow. "Of all the cool shadow forms you could've gotten - dragon wings, tentacles, extra hands for gaming - you went with fox ears?"

Fundy sighed heavily. "I didn't exactly get a choice in the matter. The shadows... they reflect something innate about you."

"So deep down," Purpled started, eyebrows furrowing. “you're a furry?"

Fundy dropped his head into his hands. 

Ranboo glanced nervously at his own shadow, which remained perfectly ordinary. "And there's no way to reverse it?"

"I don't know," Fundy admitted, running a hand through his hair. "I've never tried. Part of me... doesn't want to."

"How can you not want to?" Tommy demanded, sudden anger flaring. "They tricked you! They turned you into—into—"

"A monster?" Fundy finished quietly. "Yeah, they did. But they also gave me a place to belong. A family. Immortality." His expression darkened. "There's a price, of course. There always is. But sometimes... sometimes the price seems worth it. Especially when the alternative was eating microwave dinners alone at night.”

The room fell silent, the implications hanging heavy in the air. Rain streaked down the windows, casting wavering shadows across their faces.

Finally, Tubbo broke the silence, his voice hesitant. "Is it... is it nice? Being part of their family?"

The question seemed to catch Fundy off guard. He blinked, as if no one had ever asked him that before.

He hesitated. "Sometimes."

His voice softened as he continued, gaze distant with memory. "They didn't make me stay at first. I was too young. But they never left me alone, either. Wilbur especially took an interest. He used to visit. Same bench, same yellow sweater, playing Beatles songs in the park. 'Here Comes the Sun' was his favorite. Ironic, really."

Tommy exchanged glances with the others. The image of a shadow demon busking in the park was... certainly something.

"I'd just sit there and listen. Ask him questions. My parents were… busy. Always busy. And Wilbur noticed. He'd show up every time they left. Started teaching me guitar. Called me his 'little champion.'" Fundy gave a half-hearted shrug, but his shadow betrayed him, forming the silhouette of a young boy with a guitar too large for his hands.

"The family, they'd be brighter some nights. Almost normal. Phil would make tea - he's weirdly obsessed with proper brewing temperatures." Fundy's mouth quirked up at the memory. "Techno would tell awful puns - and I mean awful. Once he spent three hours making shadow puppets just to set up a 'hands of time' joke. It felt… real."

His expression clouded. "When I turned eighteen, they decided I was ready to join them. Forever." His voice turned bitter.

"There's a freedom in it—in not being human anymore, in not having to pretend. And they do care, in their way.." Fundy hesitated. 

"But?" Purpled prompted, hearing the unspoken qualification.

"But they're not human," Fundy said simply. "Not anymore. Their love is... possessive. Consuming. They'll protect you from everything but themselves."

Silence fell over the room, broken only by the soft hum of Shroud's light.

"That's fucked up." Tommy said finally.

Fundy barked out a surprised laugh, genuine amusement breaking through his melancholy. "Yeah. Yeah, it really is."

Tubbo glanced around. "So... does this mean we can't play 'Here Comes the Sun' anymore? Because that was like, my favorite Beatles song."

"Tubbo," Tommy groaned. "Read the room."

"I did! It's significantly less dark now that the lights are back on."

Purpled smacked him over the head.

"But you're helping us," Ranboo pointed out, tapping his foot anxiously as he leaned forward to study Fundy's face. "Even though they're your family now. Why… risk that?"

"They are my family," Fundy agreed, his expression complicated. "In their own twisted way, they do love me. But..." He glanced at the window, where night was falling fast, shadows deepening around the edges of the room. "Love shouldn't come with a cage. And what they have planned for this town... for all of you..." He shook his head. "Some prices are too high, even for family."

"Very poetic," Purpled muttered. "Doesn't help us not get eaten by shadows."

"Actually," Tubbo piped up, holding Shroud higher so its light pushed back the encroaching darkness, "it kind of does! They can't physically hurt us unless we let them in, right? And they want us to join willingly. So as long as we stick together and don't, you know, accept their offer..."

"We might have a chance," Tommy finished, a grin spreading across his face.

"Just to be clear," Purpled interjected, "Our plan to fend off ancient shadow demons is with... the power of friendship?" He made jazz hands mockingly.

"That worked in Ghostbusters," Tubbo pointed out.

"Those were actual ghosts, not our dead shadow creatures," Ranboo corrected, wringing his hands nervously.

"Same difference! Supernatural entities that are defeated by—"

"Science and technology," Purpled finished flatly.

"I was going to say 'staying positive,' but yeah, that too."

Fundy smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Just remember—they’re patient. They’ve had decades to perfect their game. They’ll try to isolate you, wear you down. Offer you everything you’ve ever wanted.”

“Like a family?” Purpled asked, raising a brow as he idly picked at his fingernails with a knife.

Fundy's expression softened. "Like a family. Like belonging. Like power. Like never being alone again."

"Well jokes on them," Tommy declared, throwing an arm around Purpled's shoulders despite the other boy's scowl. "We've already got a family. A weird, dysfunctional family with a sentient lamp, but still."

"Get off me," Purpled growled, but he didn't actually move away.

"See? He loves us," Tommy stage-whispered to Fundy. "He's just emotionally constipated."

"I will end you."

"With love!"

"With a knife."

Fundy watched their bickering with an oddly wistful expression, something like envy flickering in his eyes. "Keep that," he said suddenly, his voice intense. "That bond. That light. It's more important than you know."

Lightning flashed outside, illuminating the room in stark relief.

"They'll find us eventually," Ranboo said quietly, pulling his knees to his chest. "Won't they?"

"Yes," Fundy admitted. "But maybe by then you'll be ready. Maybe—"

He cut off suddenly, his head snapping toward the window, ears – actual pointed ears that hadn't been there a moment ago – pricking up in alarm. Outside, the streetlights were flickering, one by one, going dark in a pattern that moved steadily toward their hideout.

"They know I'm here," Fundy said urgently, rising to his feet. His form seemed less solid now, edges blurring. "I have to go. If they find me with you, it won’t end well for any of us."

"Wait!" Tommy called, jumping up. "How do we fight them?"

Fundy paused at the window, his form already beginning to fade into shadow, melting into the darkness like ink in water. "Stay together. Stay in the light. And whatever you do, don't let them separate you." His eyes gleamed, pupils vertical slits now.

His eyes shifted towards them once more, a flash of mischief lighting them. "Oh, and Tommy?"

"Yeah?"

"That baseball bat won't help against shadows. But iron?" He grinned, fox-like in the darkness, teeth too sharp to be human. "They hate iron."

And then he was gone, leaving only the lingering scent of ozone and the soft echo of laughter.

"Well," Tommy said after a long moment. "That was..."

"Informative?" Ranboo offered, shifting uncomfortably.

"Terrifying?" Tubbo suggested, petting Shroud's base soothingly.

"Fucking weird," Purpled concluded, his knife now spinning between his fingers.

They all nodded in agreement.

Thunder rumbled outside, and the rain intensified, beating against the windows like fingers trying to get in. Shadows lengthened across the floor despite Shroud's steady glow.

"So," Tubbo said brightly, holding up Shroud. "Who wants to help me bedazzle my shadow demon-repelling lamp? I'm thinking rhinestones shaped like little suns. For irony."

"Absolutely not." Purpled said immediately.

"But think how pretty—"

"No."

"Just a few rhinestones—"

"I will throw you out that window."

"You know," Ranboo mused, "if shadow demons are repelled by light, and vampires are repelled by garlic, do you think a shadow vampire would be repelled by garlic-shaped lights?"

Everyone stared at him.

"What?" he defended. "It's a legitimate question!"

"Sometimes I worry about what goes on in your head." Tommy said, shaking his head.

"Not as much as I do," Ranboo muttered.

"Shroud wouldn't let you throw me out," Tubbo continued, returning to his argument with Purpled. "Right, buddy?" Tubbo patted the lamp, which flickered in what might have been agreement. Or a power surge.

He elbowed Ranboo.

"Oh uh yeah. Shroud is a valued member of this team," Ranboo included half-heartedly. "Show some respect to our... appliance ally."

"Wait, guys," Tommy said suddenly, sitting up straighter, eyes lighting up with the kind of idea that usually got them all in trouble. "Fundy said they hate light, right? And iron?"

The others looked at him.

He looked at the lamp.

They followed his gaze.

"Tommy," Ranboo said slowly, "are you suggesting we make weapons out of lamps?"

"That's exactly what I'm suggesting."

"That," Purpled declared, "is the stupidest idea I've ever heard." 

"We're so going to die," Ranboo whispered, but he was already pulling out his phone to look up DIY lamp tutorials.

"Look on the bright side," Tubbo grinned. "At least we'll look cool doing it."

"I'm going to throw Shroud at your head."

"You wouldn't dare! He's our secret weapon!"

"Our secret weapon is a desk lamp." Purpled said flatly. "We're so fucked."

"Don't underestimate him," Tubbo said defensively, stroking the lamp's base. "He has... hidden depths."

"It's a lamp." 

"A lamp with FEELINGS."

Purpled groaned. "Oh god, we're going to die fighting shadow demons with an emotionally sensitive lamp. My obituary is going to be so embarrassing."

"At least we'll be memorable," Tommy pointed out. "How many people can say they fought shadow demons with weaponized interior decoration?"

"Technically," Ranboo said thoughtfully, "lamps are more functional than decorative, so—"

"Not the point, Ranboo!"

But as they gathered around the table, already arguing about lamp designs and battle strategies, Tommy couldn't help but smile.

Maybe Fundy was right.

Maybe together, they actually had a chance.

("What about taser-lamps?" Tubbo suggested excitedly, sketching something that looked more like an angry octopus than a weapon. "Like, super bright lights that also shock?"

"That's just going to electrocute us," Purpled pointed out.

"Only if we touch the wrong end!"

"Which you absolutely would."

"I think I'd be great with a taser-lamp," Tubbo insisted. "I have excellent hand-eye coordination."

"Last week you walked into a door because you were waving at your own reflection," Tommy reminded him.

"That was... tactical. I was testing the door's structural integrity."

"With your face?"

"It's my most expendable body part!"

"I thought that was your brain," Purpled muttered.)

The shadows could try to take them.

But they'd have to get through their army of weaponized lamps first.

Outside, the shadows lengthened, and somewhere in the darkness, a fox laughed.

---

Wilbur was waiting when Fundy returned to the mansion, perched on the grand staircase with his guitar in his lap, fingers idly plucking a melody that seemed to echo through the halls like ghostly footsteps.

"Enjoy your little outing?" Wilbur asked, his voice light, casual, though his eyes remained fixed on his instrument.

Fundy froze in the doorway, rain dripping from his clothes onto the wood floor as his form flickered. "Just needed some air," he replied carefully.

Wilbur's fingers stilled on the strings.

The sudden silence was deafening.

"Air," he echoed, finally looking up. His smile was pleasant, almost warm, but his eyes... his eyes were endless pits of shadow. "And how are our young friends doing?"

Fundy's heart sank. Of course Wilbur knew. They always knew. "Scared," he answered truthfully. "Confused."

"As they should be." Wilbur set his guitar aside and stood, his movements fluid, graceful—too graceful to be entirely human. "Fear is a natural part of transformation. They remind me of you, once upon a time."

Fundy tensed, but didn't back away. "I suppose they do."

Wilbur approached slowly, each step deliberate. His shadow stretched behind him, impossibly long, branching like tree roots across the floor. "Did you think we wouldn't notice?" he asked softly. "Your little act of rebellion?"

"I wasn't—"

"Don't lie to me," Wilbur cut him off, his voice dropping an octave, resonating with something ancient and cold. "We've been patient with you, Fundy. Given you time to adjust, to accept your place among us. But patience has its limits."

"Wilbur, I—"

"Silence." The word wasn't spoken loudly, but it hit Fundy like a physical blow, stealing the breath from his lungs, the words from his throat.

"You're not ready," Wilbur continued, reaching out to ruffle his hair. His touch was ice-cold, sending shivers down Fundy's spine. "Not committed enough. Still clinging to your humanity, to your memories of what was rather than embracing what could be."

His smile widened, showing too many teeth. "But that's alright. We'll help you remember where your loyalties lie."

Behind Wilbur, shadows gathered, coalescing into the tall, imposing figure of Technoblade, crown of bones gleaming in the dim light.

"The boy has been unruly," Techno observed, his voice a rumbling baritone that seemed to vibrate in Fundy's bones.

"Just confused," Wilbur replied, never taking his eyes off Fundy. "Aren't you, Fundy? Just a little confused about where you belong?"

Fundy wanted to speak, to defend himself, but his voice remained frozen in his throat. All he could do was stare into Wilbur's eyes, those bottomless pits that seemed to swallow all light.

"Perhaps he needs a reminder," Phil's voice drifted from the shadows, wings unfurling as he stepped into view. "Of what it means to be family."

"Precisely what I was thinking," Wilbur agreed, his grip on Fundy's hair tightening. "A little family bonding."

Shadow began to pool at their feet, rising like living smoke, wrapping around Fundy's legs, his torso, his throat. He couldn't move, couldn't speak, could only watch in mounting terror as they surrounded him.

"Don't worry," Wilbur whispered, bringing his face close to Fundy's. "This won't hurt. Much."

The shadows surged, enveloping Fundy completely. The last thing he saw before darkness took him was Wilbur's smile—sad, almost apologetic, but resolute.

"Family is forever, Fundy," Wilbur's voice echoed through the darkness. "And you're one of us now. Whether you like it or not."

And then there was nothing but shadow and cold and the distant strains of "Here Comes the Sun" played on a guitar that might have been comforting, once, in a softer world.

Chapter Text

The sunset painted Purpled's living room in hues of amber and deep purple, the shadows lengthening as day surrendered to dusk.

Tommy paced the room restlessly, the floor creaking beneath his worn sneakers.

"If we're going to fight shadow demons," he announced abruptly, stopping mid-stride, "we need to look cool doing it."

He lifted his foot, demonstrating that he'd somehow managed to attach glowsticks to his shoelaces. Each step left faint trails of neon green light in his wake.

Purpled pinched the bridge of his nose. "I'm pretty sure survival takes priority over aesthetics."

"Wrong! If I'm getting eaten by shadows, I want to at least look badass in my final moments."

Fifteen minutes later, they found themselves attempting to create "badass shadow-fighting outfits" from their limited wardrobes and various items scavenged from Purpled's house.

Tubbo emerged from the bathroom with an elaborate contraption strapped to his body. Three different flashlights had been strategically mounted to his head, arms, and chest, while reflective safety tape crisscrossed his clothes in a pattern that would make a traffic safety engineer weep with joy.

"Ta-da!" he announced, spreading his arms. The movement sent light beams careening wildly across the walls. "I call this 'Human Lighthouse.' The shadows won't know what hit them!"

"You look like a deranged traffic cone," Purpled observed.

"A stylish deranged traffic cone," Tubbo corrected, striking a pose that sent light beams dancing across the walls like a disco ball having a seizure.

Ranboo had taken a different approach, draping himself in white sheets that billowed around his tall frame. "Ghosts are the opposite of shadows, right?" he explained, his voice muffled beneath the sheets. "So maybe they'll be scared of me? Or at least confused?" The effect might have been more intimidating if he hadn't kept tripping over the trailing fabric.

"Or they'll think you're wearing a surrender flag," Tommy pointed out, hopping on one foot as he attached another glow stick to his ankle.

Tommy's own outfit consisted of his regular clothes with approximately thirty glow sticks attached at strategic intervals. The overall effect was somewhere between "radioactive hedgehog" and "walking fire hazard."

"I'm calling this 'Rave Warrior,'" he announced, striking a pose that dislodged three glow sticks immediately.

"You'll alert every shadow in a five-mile radius," Purpled said, unimpressed.

"And your outfit is better?" Tommy challenged, gesturing at Purpled with a glow stick that threatened to detach at any moment.

Purpled, who had simply put on a black hoodie and jeans, shrugged. "Tactical stealth wear."

"That's just your regular clothes!"

"Exactly. Why change what works? Also, I can actually move in this, unlike Human Glow Stick over there."

Tommy tried to demonstrate his mobility by doing a high kick, only to have three glow sticks fly off and hit Ranboo in the face.

"Ow!" Ranboo rubbed his head, his ghost sheets tangling around his legs. "See, even your clothes are attacking us!"

"It's called psychological warfare," Tommy defended, as more glow sticks fell from his sleeves.

Tubbo, meanwhile, had turned on all his flashlights and was making shadow puppets on the wall. "Look, I'm battling the shadows with... more shadows! It's like fighting fire with fire!"

"I don't think that's how it works," Ranboo muttered, but he was already joining in, making a surprisingly detailed rabbit shadow with his hands.

Purpled watched them with exasperation. "We're definitely going to die."

———

A loud crash echoed through Purpled’s living room.

"Alright, let's test our first prototype," Tommy announced proudly, holding up his shadow-fighting contraption. 

Ranboo, who sat hunched in the corner with his lanky frame folded like origami, eyed it skeptically. "That's... just Shroud taped to your bat."

"No, it's a multi-functional shadow-repelling tactical assault weapon," Tommy corrected, spinning it around dangerously. The lightbulb flickered in what might have been silent protest.

"Stop spinning Shroud!" Tubbo cried, lunging for the contraption. "You'll make him dizzy!"

"Lamps don't get dizzy," Purpled said from his position against the wall, arms crossed and expression somewhere between dissapointment and exhaustion.

"You don't know that," Tubbo protested. "Have you ever asked one?"

Purpled opened his mouth, closed it, then just shook his head, his violet eyes calculating whether this particular battle was worth the energy expenditure. The verdict: absolutely not.

Tommy raised the lamp-bat triumphantly. "Watch and be amazed!" He swung it dramatically at the nearest shadow, only for the duct tape to give way. Shroud went sailing across the room, crashing into a pile of cushions that Ranboo, thankfully, had the foresight to place there.

"SHROUD!" Tubbo wailed, diving after the lamp.

"That went well," Purpled deadpanned.

Tommy lowered his now lamp-less bat. "Minor setback. We just need stronger tape."

"Or," Ranboo suggested gently, "maybe we don't throw our only reliable light source at the enemy?"

"You're just jealous you didn't think of it first," Tommy sniffed.

Tubbo returned, cradling Shroud protectively. "He's traumatized. Look, he's blinking."

"That's... the power button you're pressing," Purpled pointed out.

"Shhh, he'll hear you!"

———

As dusk deepened into evening, they gathered around Purpled's kitchen table, which had been transformed into what Tommy grandly termed their "Tactical Operations Center." In reality, it was a mess of half-dismantled electronics, battery packs, and various light sources, all spread across a hand-drawn map of the Watson mansion that Ranboo had recreated from memory.

Tubbo held up a tangled string of Christmas lights shaped like cartoon characters, their cheerful primary colors a jarring contrast to the gravity of their situation. "What about these? Shadow entities versus SpongeBob lights!"

"That's ridiculous," Purpled scoffed, pausing in his meticulous reinforcement of a flashlight handle with iron wire. "There's no way—"

"Actually," Ranboo started slowly, his eyes lighting up with a particular gleam, "imagine being an ancient shadow entity and getting defeated by SpongeBob's gap-toothed grin. That's next-level shame."

Purpled turned to him, frowning in disappointment. "Great. You’re starting to sound like them now." He hissed the word in disgust, gesturing to where Tommy and Tubbo were discussing the details.

"The ultimate disrespect," Tommy nodded sagely in response to Ranboo's words, tugging at a loose thread on his bandana. "Like getting taken out by a Happy Meal toy."

"Plus," he added, a mischievous grin spreading across his face as he warmed to the idea, "if they're into all that emo classical music and Beatles crap that was playing at the mansion, imagine how they'll feel about the SpongeBob theme song. We could hook up speakers to the lights!"

"F-sharp minor, the key of existential dread, versus 'WHO LIVES IN A PINEAPPLE UNDER THE SEA?'" Tubbo sang the last part at top volume, causing them all to wince.

Purpled closed his eyes briefly, as if seeking patience from some higher power. "I'm going to regret this," he muttered, but he was already reaching for the wire cutters.

———

The DIY weaponized lamp laboratory (otherwise known as Purpled's kitchen table) was a disaster zone.

"I think we're officially banned from every hardware store within a five-mile radius," Ranboo sighed, carefully attaching a small LED flashlight to what had once been a perfectly innocent desk lamp. Now it looked like something out of a sci-fi movie gone horribly wrong. "The cashier at Home Depot asked if we were preparing for the apocalypse."

"Worth it," Tommy declared, examining his creation with undisguised pride. He'd taken an old floor lamp, removed the shade, and attached multiple high-intensity flashlights around the bulb in a circular pattern. The handle was wrapped in iron wire, with a makeshift grip fashioned from an old baseball bat. It looked ridiculous and dangerous in equal measure. "I'm calling her Big Bessie."

"You cannot name a lamp Big Bessie," Purpled said, methodically wrapping iron nails around the base of his own creation – a sleek, minimalist design that somehow managed to look both functional and deadly. Unlike Tommy's chaotic approach, Purpled had clearly thought about weight distribution and maneuverability.

"Already did," Tommy grinned, swinging Big Bessie experimentally and nearly taking out Ranboo's eye in the process. "What'd you name yours?"

"Names are unnecessary," Purpled muttered, though his ears turned slightly pink. "It's a tactical light weapon, not a pet."

"He's naming it Dogchamp,” Tubbo stage-whispered to Tommy. "I caught him whispering to it when he thought no one was looking."

"It's NOT named Dogchamp—“

"Of course not," Tommy nodded solemnly, an unholy glee spreading across his face. “Dogchamp is a terrible name for a lamp. Now, Destroyer of Darkness—"

"It doesn't have a name!" Purpled hissed, though his grip on the lamp tightened protectively.

"I can't believe we're putting our lives in the hands of IKEA's clearance section," Ranboo mumbled.

Tubbo, meanwhile, had taken an entirely different approach with Shroud.

Rather than modifying the lamp itself, he'd created what could only be described as lamp armor – a casing of thin iron strips that allowed light to shine through while offering protection. Little reflective crystals were strategically placed to multiply Shroud's light output. It was bizarre, impractical, and somehow perfect.

"How's yours coming along, Ranboo?" Tommy asked, peering over at the tall teen's workstation.

Ranboo held up his creation – a headlamp reinforced with iron filings mixed into the plastic, with additional lights attached to what appeared to be modified gardening gloves. "Hands-free lighting," he explained,  triple-checking the straps for the fifth time. "I figured someone should maintain mobility. You know, in case we need to run. Which we probably will. A lot."

"Smart," Purpled nodded approvingly. "Though I'm questioning the structural integrity of those gloves."

"They're reinforced," Ranboo defended. "And besides, I'm not planning on punching any shadow demons."

"You guys realize how insane we sound, right?" Tubbo asked suddenly, pausing in his work. "Like, a week ago we were just normal teenagers, and now we're making anti-demon light weapons in Purpled's kitchen."

A heavy silence fell over the group as the reality of their situation sank in.

"Yeah, well," Tommy shrugged, trying to keep his voice light even as his knuckles whitened around Big Bessie's handle. "Normal is overrated anyway."

"And temporary," Purpled added. "Normal was never going to last for long."

The others looked at him curiously.

"What do you mean?" Ranboo asked.

Purpled seemed to regret speaking, but after a moment, he continued, his eyes fixed on the lamp before him. "People like us... we don't get normal. We never did."

"What, you mean traumatized teenagers?" Tommy attempted to joke, but it fell flat.

"Alone," Purpled clarified, still not looking up. "People who are alone tend to find... other things. Other places to belong."

The weight of his words settled over them, heavy with unspoken understanding.

"Well, we're not alone now," Tubbo declared firmly, holding Shroud aloft. The lamp's light seemed to pulse in agreement, casting their shadows – still mercifully normal – against the wall. "We've got each other. And fancy light-up weaponry."

"And twenty-six days until our deadline," Ranboo reminded them, glancing around nervously as if just saying the words would speed time up. "Assuming they keep their word about the whole month thing."

"Do shadow demons honor verbal contracts?" Tommy wondered aloud. "Is there like, a supernatural small claims court?"

Purpled snorted despite himself. "I think we're in uncharted legal territory here."

Tommy tapped Big Bessie against the floor thoughtfully, the solid sound grounding in its normalcy. "We need more information. Fundy gave us the basics, but there's got to be more. Something specific about the Watsons, about the mansion, about why they've fixated on us."

"We also need sleep," Purpled pointed out, glancing at the microwave clock that read 2:47 AM. "Even shadow-fighting badasses need rest."

"Aww, you called us badasses," Tubbo grinned.

"I immediately regret it."

The question of sleeping arrangements was solved with minimal argument. 

Purpled's house had two spare bedrooms – one for Tubbo and Tommy, the other for Ranboo. No one mentioned that the distribution meant Purpled would be alone in his room, but they all knew it wasn't coincidental that the others had paired up.

"We take shifts," Tommy insisted as they prepared for bed. "Two hours each. Someone stays awake at all times with a light source. Never complete darkness."

No one argued.

———

Tommy's dreams were strange, fractured things.

He stood in the mansion's grand ballroom, but it was transformed. Shadows danced across the walls, forming shapes that were almost human but not quite. Music drifted through the air, something classical that he couldn't name but felt he should know, each note carrying the weight of forgotten memories.

"Your form is terrible," a voice commented, the words carrying a slight echo.

Tommy spun around, instinctively reaching for Big Bessie, but his hands closed on empty air. Standing before him was the one with the bone crown – Technoblade – watching him with amused eyes. Despite his intimidating appearance – the crown of bone and sinew, the red cloak that moved with no breeze, the eyes that shifted between human and not – his expression was almost gentle.

"What?" Tommy managed, his voice steadier than he felt, pride keeping his spine straight even as fear coiled in his stomach.

"Your stance," Techno clarified, gesturing to Tommy's feet. "If you're going to fight, you need proper balance. Like this." He demonstrated, his movements fluid and precise despite the heavy crown and flowing cloak.

It was such a bizarrely normal interaction that Tommy found himself copying the stance without thinking, muscle memory from years of schoolyard scraps taking over.

"Better," Techno nodded approvingly. "You're a quick learner. That'll serve you well."

"Why are you helping me?" Tommy asked suspiciously, his blue eyes narrowing. Around them, the shadows on the wall seemed to lean closer, listening.

Techno tilted his head, the bone crown catching the light in ways that made Tommy's eyes hurt. "Who says I'm helping you? Maybe I just hate seeing terrible form. It's painful to watch."

"Are you... training me to fight you better?" The question escaped before Tommy could stop it, genuine confusion overriding caution.

"Would that be so strange? The best opponents make each other stronger."

Before Tommy could process that bewildering statement, the scene melted like wax in a furnace, colors running together until they reformed into something new.

He was in a kitchen now – not Purpled's modern one, but an older space with a large wooden table and hanging copper pots. A man with dark wings – Phil, he remembered – was making tea, humming softly to himself.

"Sit," Phil said without turning around. "The water's almost ready."

Tommy found himself sitting before he'd consciously decided to.

"You children," Phil sighed, setting a steaming mug before Tommy. It smelled like honey and something wilder, something that reminded Tommy of forests after rain. "Always rushing in without thinking. Without understanding."

"We understand enough," Tommy said defiantly, though he made no move to touch the tea.

Phil's smile spoke of wisdom beyond the years he looked to hold. "No, you don't. But that's not your fault." He sat across from Tommy, his own mug cradled between hands that shifted between solid and shadow. "History is supposed to be written by the victors, as they say. And in this town, that's been us for a very long time."

"So tell me your side," Tommy challenged, even as part of him screamed to run.

The kitchen felt too real – he could smell the tea, feel the grain of the wooden table under his fingertips.

Phil's eyes – ancient and kind and terrible - met his. "Would you believe it?"

Tommy hesitated.

"That's what I thought," Phil nodded, not unkindly. "Some truths have to be seen to be believed. Felt to be understood."

The scene wavered again, the kitchen dissolving like mist, and Tommy found himself walking along a shadowed corridor. The wallpaper here was peeling in places, revealing older patterns beneath – layers of history visible like tree rings.

At the end stood a figure wearing a yellow sweater, strumming a guitar. The music echoed oddly, each note leaving visible ripples in the air.

"Hello, Tommy," Wilbur greeted him, his voice melodic and warm, but with an undercurrent of something sharper. "I've been waiting for you."

"This is just a dream," Tommy told himself firmly, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. "You're not really here. None of this is real."

"Dreams," Wilbur mused, still strumming delicate arpeggios that seemed to make the shadows dance, "are just another kind of reality. A place where boundaries are... flexible." He played a chord that seemed to vibrate through Tommy's very bones, making his teeth ache. "Do you play?"

"No," Tommy replied, glaring harshly.

"Pity. Music is one of the few things that bridges worlds." Wilbur's eyes – dark, endless – met Tommy's. "We're not so different, you know. You and I. Both willful. Both protective of those we love."

"I'm nothing like you," Tommy spat, the words tasting of metal and defiance.

Wilbur's smile was knowing, almost fond. "I used to say the same thing, once upon a time." He strummed another chord, and shadows danced around his fingers like loving pets. "Tell me, Tommy, what would you do to protect them? Your friends? How far would you go?"

The question hit like a physical blow, because Tommy knew the answer immediately, instinctively: anything. He would do anything. The realization scared him more than the shadows ever could.

Wilbur nodded, as if hearing the thought. "That's what I thought. That's what makes you perfect." He held out the guitar, its wood gleaming with an inner light that seemed to pulse in time with Tommy's heartbeat. "Would you like to learn? I'm an excellent teacher. Just ask Fundy."

"Stay away from them," Tommy found himself saying instead, surprising even himself with the vehemence in his voice. "Stay away from my friends."

Wilbur said nothing, but the slight tilt up of his lips said enough.

"This is just a dream," Tommy repeated, more desperately this time. "You can't hurt me here."

"Hurt you?" Wilbur looked genuinely surprised, even hurt by the accusation. His fingers stilled on the guitar strings, leaving an unresolved chord hanging between them. "Tommy, I don't want to hurt you. I want to help you. To show you what you could become."

He gestured, and suddenly the corridor was lined with mirrors. In each one, Tommy saw himself – but different. Older, stronger, shadows coiling around him like faithful pets. His eyes gleamed with power, with confidence, with belonging. In one mirror, he stood beside Tubbo, both of them wreathed in shadows that danced to unheard music. In another, he led the way through darkness, Purpled and Ranboo following, their eyes shining with trust and something else, something older.

"This is what I'm offering," Wilbur said softly. "Not pain. Not loss. Freedom. Family. Forever."

Tommy tore his gaze away from the mirrors, focusing instead on Wilbur's face. "And the price?"

Wilbur's smile was almost proud. "Smart boy. There's always a price, isn't there?" He plucked a string, the note hanging in the air between them. "But that's for another conversation. For now... wake up, Tommy. Your friends need you."

———

Tommy jerked awake, gasping for breath. The room was dark – too dark. 

The lamp they'd left on had gone out.

"Tubbo?" he whispered, reaching for his friend.

The bed beside him was empty.

Panic seized Tommy's chest as he fumbled for Big Bessie, which he'd left propped against the nightstand. His fingers closed around the handle, and he switched it on, the powerful LEDs cutting through the darkness.

"Tubbo?" he called again, louder this time.

No answer.

The room was empty, the blankets on Tubbo's side thrown back hastily, as if he'd left in a hurry. Shroud was gone too.

Tommy scrambled to his feet, heart pounding.

The dream clung to him like cobwebs, Wilbur's words echoing in his mind: Wake up, Tommy. Your friends need you.

"No, no, no," he muttered, rushing to the door. "Not happening."

He burst into the hallway, swinging Big Bessie wildly, its light carving paths through the shadows. The house was too quiet, the silence pressing against his ears like a physical presence.

"Tubbo!" he shouted, no longer caring about being quiet. "Ranboo! Purpled!"

A muffled thump from downstairs made him freeze. 

Then—blessed sound—Purpled's irritated voice:

"Will you shut up? You'll wake the entire neighborhood."

Tommy nearly collapsed with relief, rushing down the stairs to find Purpled in the kitchen, looking tired but very much alive and shadow-free. He was making coffee, because of course he was.

He looked like he hadn't slept at all, dark circles under his eyes, hair sticking up at odd angles.

"Morning, sunshine," Tommy called, attempting cheerfulness.

"Die," Purpled responded flatly, taking a sip from his mug.

"Where's Tubbo?" Tommy asked, trying to keep panic from his voice as he scanned the room, still gripping Big Bessie with white knuckles.

Purpled raised an eyebrow. "Bathroom, I think? He was awake when I came down. Said something about Shroud needing a 'morning constitution,' whatever that means." His eyes narrowed, taking in Tommy's disheveled appearance and wild eyes. "You look like shit warmed over."

"And Ranboo?"

"Still asleep, last I checked." Purpled's gaze sharpened. "Seriously, you okay? You look like you've seen a ghost. Or, well, more ghosts."

Tommy opened his mouth to respond when the bathroom door opened down the hall and Tubbo emerged, Shroud clutched in his arms. The lamp's light seemed dimmer somehow, more subdued.

"Tommy!" Tubbo grinned. "You're up early."

"Thought you'd been kidnapped by shadow demons," Tommy admitted, his relief making him honest.

"Not yet," Tubbo replied cheerfully, though there was an edge to his voice. "Though Shroud's been acting weird. His light keeps flickering, and I swear I heard him... humming? Can lamps hum?"

They all looked at Shroud, who chose that moment to flicker twice, as if acknowledging the attention.

"Great," Purpled sighed, setting his coffee mug down with more force than necessary. "Now the lamp is possessed too. Just what we needed."

"He's not possessed," Tubbo said defensively. "He's just... sensitive. Atmospheric."

"Tubbo," Tommy said carefully for what felt like the hundreth time, "it's a lamp."

"A lamp that's helped keep us alive," Tubbo pointed out. "Show some respect, Big Bessie."

"Don't bring Bessie into this, she's innocent."

Purpled looked skyward, as if praying for patience. "If you two are done anthropomorphizing household appliances, we should wake Ranboo and figure out our next move."

Tommy hesitated, the fragments of his dream still swirling in his mind. Should he tell them? It was just a dream, wasn't it? But it had felt so real, so specific...

"I had a dream," he said abruptly. "About them. The Watsons."

Tubbo and Purpled turned to him, their expressions immediately serious.

"Tell us everything," Purpled said, his gaze intense.

Tommy did, recounting each conversation in as much detail as he could remember. By the time he finished, Ranboo had joined them, rubbing sleep from his eyes but listening intently.

"They're dream walking," Ranboo concluded, his voice cracking in barely concealed panic as he resorted to pacing around restlessly, hands pulling at his hair. "This is bad. This is really, really bad. Fundy didn't warn us about that. What else didn't he tell us? What if they can read our thoughts too? What if they're listening right now?"

"Maybe he didn't know," Tubbo suggested reasonably. "Or maybe it's new. They might be escalating because of what Fundy revealed."

"Or maybe," a new voice suggested from the doorway, "he didn't tell you because he's still one of them."

They whirled around, weapons raised, to find a figure leaning against the doorframe. For a heart-stopping moment, Tommy thought it was one of the Watsons – but then the figure stepped forward into the light.

Maybe he would've preferred the Watsons.

"Bad timing?" Punz asked, his expression amused. Despite the early hour, he looked perfectly put together, his blonde hair peeking out from beneath his familiar white hood. His blue eyes were clear, alert. As if he'd been awake for hours—or hadn't slept at all.

"You know," Tommy said, trying to keep his voice steady, "the whole appearing-out-of-nowhere thing is getting really old."

"How did you get in here?" Purpled demanded, his lamp raised defensively.

Punz raised an eyebrow. "You gave me a key, remember? For emergencies?" His gaze swept over their makeshift weapons, lingering on Shroud's bizarre armor. "And this certainly looks like an emergency. Nice... lamps?"

The tension in the room was thick enough to cut with a knife.

Punz was standing before them, completely casual, as if he hadn't been chasing them through the city just hours ago, as if his shadow wasn't still wrong, too deep, with edges that moved when he didn't. But Tommy saw it now—the faint darkness that clung to Punz like a second skin, barely perceptible in the kitchen light.

"Cut the shit," Tommy snapped, shifting Big Bessie into a more threatening position. "We know what you are. What they are. What Fundy told us."

Something flickered in Punz's eyes – surprise, maybe, or concern. Then his expression smoothed over again, unreadable as a frozen lake.

"And what did Fundy tell you, exactly?" he asked, his voice carefully neutral. He remained in the doorway, not fully entering the kitchen, one foot still in the hallway's deeper shadows.

"Everything," Tubbo said firmly, though they all knew it wasn't true. "About the Watsons. About the shadows."

"About the deals," Ranboo added nervously, stepping slightly behind Tubbo as if the shorter teen could hide him. It didn’t work very well.

Punz was silent for a moment, his gaze moving from one teen to another. Then, to their surprise, he sighed and pulled out a chair, sitting down at the kitchen table. The movement was graceful, fluid—too fluid, as if gravity affected him just slightly differently.

"Fundy," he said, with the weary tone of someone who'd had this conversation too many times, "has a complicated relationship with the truth." He ran a hand through his blonde hair, pushing back his hood.

"He seemed pretty straightforward to me," Tommy retorted. "You're all part of some shadow cult trying to recruit us."

"It’s not a cult," Punz said, sounding genuinely offended. His shadow rippled slightly beneath him, stretching toward Tommy before retreating. "It’s a family."

"A family that turns people into shadow monsters," Purpled pointed out flatly.

Punz's eyes – blue, but with shadows moving in their depths – flicked to Purpled. "You of all people should understand that family isn't always about blood." His voice softened, becoming almost gentle. "Sometimes it's about who's there when everyone else has left."

Purpled stiffened. "Don't."

The single word carried years of untold history.

"What would you have done," Punz asked, leaning forward, "if I hadn't found you that day? If I hadn't given you a place to stay, money for food, protection, numerous jobs?" His shadow stretched slightly as he spoke, reaching toward Purpled before retracting, as if unconsciously seeking connection.

Tommy glanced at Purpled, whose face had gone completely blank. His eyes were flat, emotionless, yet Tommy could see the muscle jumping in his jaw.

"That's different," Purpled said tightly.

"Is it?" Punz shook his head. "I saved you, Purpled. Took care of you when no one else would. All I'm trying to do now is offer the same opportunity to your friends."

"By turning us into monsters?" Tommy demanded, shifting slightly to place himself between Punz and the others.

"By giving you power," Punz corrected. His shadow stretched behind him, growing larger, more defined, almost architectural in its impossible angles. "By making sure you never have to be afraid again." His eyes flicked meaningfully to the lamps they clutched, to the fear etched in their postures. "Never have to feel hunted. Alone."

Tubbo stepped forward, Shroud held protectively before him. "Fundy said your 'family' manipulates people. Isolates them. Tricks them."

Something dark flashed across Punz's face, there and gone in an instant. "Is that what he said? After everything they've done for him?" He shook his head, a gesture too smooth, too controlled. "Fundy was alone when they found him. Lost. They gave him a home, an eternity of belonging. Just like they did for me."

"And what did you have to give up in return?" Ranboo asked quietly.

Punz's smile was sharp, almost predatory. "Nothing I wasn't willing to part with."

The shadows in the room seemed to deepen, to listen.

Tommy tightened his grip on Big Bessie, the metal of the handle biting into his palm. Morning sunlight struggled to penetrate the kitchen windows as if some unseen force was dimming it.

"We're not interested," Tommy said firmly. "None of us are. So you can take your shadow family and fuck right off."

Punz's expression softened, almost sympathetic. "Tommy, Tommy," he sighed. "Always so quick to choose the hard way." He looked around at their determined faces, their ridiculous lamp weapons, and something like genuine affection crossed his features. "I admire your loyalty, I really do. But you don't understand what you're up against."

"Then enlighten us," Purpled challenged, his voice steadier now. "If Fundy's lying, tell us the truth. What exactly are the Watsons offering?"

Punz considered them for a long moment. The early morning light streaming through the windows seemed to bend around him, shadows clinging to his form like old friends.

"They're offering the only thing that matters in this world," he said finally. "Belonging. Real, eternal belonging." His eyes met each of theirs in turn. "No more abandonment. No more being left behind. No more watching the people you love grow old and forget you. Just family, forever."

The words hung in the air between them, tempting in their simplicity, their promise.

"And the catch?" Tommy asked, though part of him already knew the answer.

Punz smiled, and for a moment – just a moment – his face seemed to shift, to blur at the edges, becoming less human, more shadow. "You have to want it. Really want it. Want it enough to leave your humanity behind."

"That's a pretty big catch," Tubbo observed, stroking Shroud absently.

"Smaller than you might think," Punz shrugged. "Humanity is overrated. Temporary. Fragile." He tilted his head, shadows dancing across his face. "Haven't you ever wanted more? To be more?"

None of them answered, and Tommy knew it was because the question hit too close to home. They all had, in their own ways. That was what made the offer so dangerous, so tempting.

"Think about it," Punz suggested, rising to his feet. "That's all I'm asking. Just... think. Talk to Fundy again, if you want. Ask him if he'd go back to being alone, to being forgotten, if he could."

He moved toward the door, casual, unhurried. "The offer stands for twenty-five more days. After that..." He shrugged, the movement almost apologetic. "Things get complicated."

"Is that a threat?" Tommy demanded, stepping forward.

Punz gave him an amused look. "No, Tommy. It's physics. The mansion exists in a..." he seemed to search for the right word, "liminal space. A place between places. On the solstice, that space... shifts. Changes. After that, the transitions become more difficult. More painful." His expression softened. "We're not trying to hurt you. We're trying to help you make the transition as easy as possible."

He reached for the door handle, then paused, looking back at them over his shoulder. "Oh, and Tommy? Next time you see Wilbur in your dreams, ask him about the music box. He'll know what you mean."

And then he was gone, the door closing with barely a whisper.

For a long moment, none of them moved or spoke. The early morning light filtered through the windows, casting perfectly normal shadows across the kitchen floor. In the distance, a dog barked, the sound jarringly ordinary.

"Well," Tubbo said finally, his voice breaking the heavy silence. "That was... cryptic."

"And manipulative," Ranboo added, running both hands through his hair repeatedly until it stood on end. His breathing had quickened, and he paced three steps in one direction before turning and pacing back. "Did you notice how he specifically targeted each of us? Family for Purpled, belonging for all of us... They've been watching us. For years. Studying us. Learning exactly how to get to us." His voice rose in pitch with each sentence. "What else do they know? What else have they seen?"

"They know our weaknesses," Tommy said grimly. "They know exactly what buttons to push."

Purpled was silent, his expression unreadable as he stared at the door where Punz had been.

"Purpled?" Tommy asked cautiously. "You good?"

"Did you know?" Purpled asked abruptly, his voice tight. "About Punz? About him taking me in?"

Tommy exchanged glances with the others. "We... suspected something," he admitted. "You never talked about it, but one day you just... stopped being hungry all the time. Started wearing new clothes. Always were going somewhere after school."

"We figured someone was helping you," Tubbo added. "We just didn't know who."

Purpled's laugh was hollow. "Yeah, well, turns out my ‘guardian angel' is a shadow monster who almost got us all killed."

"Hey," Tommy said firmly, moving to stand beside his friend. "That doesn't changes anything. Not between us."

"Doesn't it?" Purpled's voice was bitter. "He's been watching us for years. Reporting back to them. Using me to get to all of you."

"Or," Ranboo suggested quietly, "he actually cared about you, and that's why he's trying so hard to bring you into their... whatever it is. Family. Cult. Shadow demon country club."

"That might be worse," Purpled muttered.

Tommy clapped a hand on his shoulder. "Look, we can debate Punz's motivations later. Right now, we need to focus on what he told us. Specifically, that bit about the mansion being in a 'liminal space' and the solstice."

"And the music box," Tubbo added. "What do you think that means?"

Tommy frowned, trying to recall his dream more clearly. "Wilbur was playing guitar. Said music bridges worlds. Maybe it's related?"

"Or it could be a trap," Ranboo pointed out, fidgeting with his lamp. "Getting you to ask about it might be exactly what they want."

"Only one way to find out," Tommy said, determination hardening in his chest.

They all looked at each other.

"We're going back to the mansion, aren't we?" Tubbo sighed.

"Yep."

"To the place full of shadow demons."

"Yep."

"The ones that want to either recruit us or reshape our very existence."

"That's the plan."

Tubbo clutched Shroud tighter. "Just checking."

"Look at it this way," Tommy said, trying to sound optimistic. "At least we know what we're dealing with now."

"Have you lost your mind?" Purpled demanded. "That's exactly what they want! It's their territory, their power center. We'd be walking right into their trap."

"Not necessarily," Tommy argued. "Think about it. Fundy said they're weaker away from the mansion, right? But that also means the mansion is where we might find answers. Real answers, not just what they want us to know."

"Tommy might be right," Tubbo said thoughtfully, holding Shroud up to his ear as if listening to the lamp. "Shroud thinks we should investigate too."

"The lamp does not have opinions," Purpled snapped.

"Shroud is now offended."

"This is ridiculous."

"Uhm... Guys," Ranboo interrupted, his tall form suddenly tense. "I hate to interrupt this riveting debate about lamp sentience, but..." His voice faltered as he pointed toward the window nervously. "Look outside."

They turned toward the windows.

Outside, the early morning sun was shining brightly. Birds were singing. A couple jogged by with their dog.

And directly across the street stood Technoblade, his bone crown gleaming in the sunlight, his red cloak perfectly still despite the morning breeze.

He wasn't trying to hide. Wasn't trying to blend in. He was just... watching.

As they stared, he raised a hand in what might have been a greeting or a warning.

Tubbo slowly shut the blinds.

"Well," Tommy said, forcing confidence into his voice despite the fear coiling in his gut, "I guess that decides it. They're watching us anyway. Might as well take the fight to them."

"This is a terrible idea," Purpled muttered, but he was already reaching for his lamp.

Ranboo made a strangled noise somewhere between a laugh and a whimper.

"We're actually going toward the shadow monsters?" he asked, voice pitched higher than normal. “Voluntarily? Into their lair?”

He began checking and rechecking his headlamp compulsively, muttering under his breath. “This is fine. Everything's fine. We're just walking into certain doom with glorified flashlights. Totally normal teenage activities.”

"Completely normal teenage activities that are absolutely going to get us killed," Tubbo nodded cheerfully, giving Shroud an encouraging pat. "But at least we'll go out in style, right?"

Purpled groaned when Ranboo let out another noise of terror.

Tommy grinned, Big Bessie's weight comforting in his hand. "That's the spirit. Now, who's ready to break into a haunted mansion and steal a magical music box?"

Outside, Technoblade's shadow stretched toward the house, impossibly long in the morning light. But as it reached the threshold of Purpled's home, it stopped abruptly, as if hitting an invisible barrier.

The shadows couldn't touch them. Not yet.

They still had time.

Twenty-five days to figure out how to defeat the Watsons.

Or twenty-five days until they joined them.

Chapter Text

Rain came down lightly against the windows of Purpled's house as they finalized their plan. Outside, the clouds seemed to hang low and heavy over the city like a warning.

"Are we sure about this?" Ranboo asked for the third time in an hour, anxiety evident in the way he kept adjusting his headlamp. He'd added extra straps to ensure it wouldn't fall off during what Tommy had enthusiastically dubbed "Operation Music Box Heist."

"No," Purpled replied flatly, meticulously checking the batteries in his lamp. He'd named it after all—not that he would admit it to the others—whispering "Dogchamp" when he thought no one was listening. The name was weirdly fitting. "We're not sure about anything."

Lightning flashed, briefly illuminating the living room where they had gathered. In that split second, their shadows on the wall looked oddly misshapen—stretched and twisted in ways that didn't match their postures.

No one mentioned it.

"We stick to the plan," Tommy said, gripping Big Bessie with determination. "Get in, find the music box, get out. No splitting up, no heroics, no talking to shadow demons."

"And if we see the Watsons?" Tubbo asked, cradling Shroud protectively. The lamp had been acting increasingly strange, its light pulsing in patterns that almost resembled Morse code—though none of them knew Morse code well enough to decipher it.

"We run," Tommy said firmly. "Unless they corner us, then we fight. But the goal is to avoid them."

"Twenty minutes," Purpled reminded them, checking his watch. "We're in and out in twenty minutes, no matter what we find."

"And we stay together," Ranboo added, his voice steadier than it had been all morning. "No matter what we hear, what we see, what they offer us—we stay together."

They all nodded, a silent pact forming between them. Something had shifted since Punz's visit, a new determination replacing their earlier panic. If the Watsons wanted them, they wouldn't go down without a fight.

"Alright," Tommy said, looking to each of them with a grin. "Let's go ghost hunting."

Their determination seemed to shift something in the atmosphere itself, the rain slowing to a complete stop as a weak sun broke through the clouds, casting the world in a pale, uncertain light.

———

Tommy kept expecting shadows to leap from every alley, every doorway, but the morning sun cast everything in stark relief, making the city feel almost mockingly normal. People hurried past on their way to work, cars honked in traffic, and nowhere did anyone seem concerned about the four teenagers carrying modified lamps through the streets.

"I feel ridiculous," Purpled muttered, trying to keep his weapon partially concealed beneath his hoodie. It wasn't working very well.

"You look ridiculous," Tommy confirmed cheerfully, making no attempt to hide Big Bessie. "We all do. Embrace it."

"Says the guy who looks like a walking rave."

"Tactical illumination," Tommy corrected with dignity. "And at least I didn't name my lamp Dogchamp."

"For the last time, it's not—"

"Guys," Ranboo interrupted, his voice tight. "We're here."

They stopped at the edge of the Watson property. The mansion loomed before them, its windows dark despite the morning light, its shadows somehow deeper than they should be.

"I can't believe we're actually doing this," Ranboo whispered, his headlamp casting nervous flickers across the fence.

"The smartest plan would be running away to Mexico," Tubbo said cheerfully, Shroud clutched protectively to his chest. The lamp's light was dimmed but still visible, pulsing faintly like a heartbeat. "But since we're not doing that, this is probably our second-best option."

"How is this our second-best option?" Purpled sighed, scanning the street with sharp violet eyes. "We're literally walking into their lair. During the day. When they know we're coming."

"Exactly!" Tommy grinned, wild and determined. "They'll never expect us to be that stupid!"

"That's... not the compelling argument you think it is."

The Watson mansion loomed against the stormy sky, its windows dark except for a single light in what they guessed was the music room. "Well, that's not ominous at all," Tubbo muttered, tightening his grip on Shroud.

Purpled studied the grounds, his violet eyes narrowed. "They know we're here."

The gates swung open at their approach, the metal silent despite its obvious age. An invitation. Or a trap.

"Dramatic bastards," Tommy muttered, clutching Big Bessie tightly as the light pushed several creeping shadows back.

Tubbo stepped closer to Tommy, their shoulders brushing in a gesture of silent support. "At least they have style," he whispered, earning a snort from his friend.

Without the normal night shadows to hide its decay, every crack and imperfection of the mansion was visible—a testament to years of neglect, or perhaps something more deliberate.

"Okay," Tommy whispered, gripping Big Bessie tightly. "Remember the plan."

"You mean the plan where we get in, find the music box, and get out before being turned into shadow puppets?" Ranboo asked, his voice cracking slightly. "Our extremely vague and probably suicidal plan?"

"That's the one!"

"I hate this plan," Purpled announced.

"You hate everything."

"I hate this plan specifically."

"Noted. Anyone else?"

They all raised their hands.

"Great!" Tommy clapped his hands together. "So we're all in agreement that this is a terrible idea that will probably get us killed or worse. But we're doing it anyway, right?"

There was a long pause.

Then, slowly, they all nodded.

Tommy grinned. "Now, who's ready to break into a haunted mansion and probably get our souls eaten?"

The garden path stretched before them, flanked by roses that seemed to reach toward them as they passed. The flowers were unnaturally vibrant, their petals deep crimson against glossy black leaves.

"Those aren't normal," Ranboo whispered, giving the plants a wide berth. "Roses don’t bloom in the winter."

"Nothing about this place is normal," Purpled reminded him.

As they approached the front door, Tommy hesitated, his hand hovering over the ornate brass knocker shaped like a raven's head.

"Do we... knock?" Tubbo wondered. "Or just break in?"

"Technically, I think we were invited," Ranboo pointed out. "Twenty-five days to decide, remember?"

Before they could decide, the door swung open silently, revealing the grand foyer they remembered from their previous visit. Except now, with their eyes opened to the truth, they could see the shadows that clung to the corners, that moved with subtle purpose across the marble floor.

They switched on their lights simultaneously, the combined brightness cutting through the gloom. The shadows retreated, slithering back into the darkest corners of the foyer.

"Stay close," Tommy murmured, stepping inside with Big Bessie held high.

The door closed behind them with a soft click. No one had touched it.

"Where would a music box be?" Tubbo wondered, his voice barely above a whisper.

"The music room," Ranboo suggested. 

They moved together toward the grand staircase, their footsteps unnaturally loud in the silence. The house felt alive around them, listening, waiting. The paintings on the walls seemed to follow their movements, figures shifting slightly when viewed from the corner of the eye.

They were halfway up the stairs when the music started—soft at first, then growing louder. A delicate melody played on what sounded like a music box, its notes crystalline and achingly beautiful.

"That's gotta be it," Tommy said, quickening his pace.

The music room door stood ajar, golden light spilling onto the hallway carpet. The melody grew more complex as they approached, layers of sound weaving together in harmonies that made the air vibrate.

Tommy pushed the door open wider, Big Bessie's light illuminating the space beyond.

The room was empty—no Wilbur, no Technoblade, no shadows. Just a grand piano in the center, its polished surface reflecting their lights, and on top of it, a small wooden box inlaid with mother-of-pearl. The lid was open, a tiny figurine spinning inside—a dancer made of shadow and silver, moving in time to the music.

"That's it," Tubbo breathed. "The music box."

They approached cautiously, forming a protective circle around the piano. The music grew louder, more insistent, the notes shifting into a melody that tugged at Tommy's memory—something from his dream, something Wilbur had played.

"Careful," Purpled warned as Tommy reached for the box. "It could be trapped."

"Or cursed," Ranboo added unhelpfully.

Tommy hesitated, then set his jaw determinedly. "Only one way to find out." He grabbed the music box, snapping the lid shut.

The music stopped abruptly, leaving a ringing silence.

"Well, that was anticlimactic," Tubbo observed, looking around nervously. "No shadow demons, no magical explosions."

"Let's get out of here before that changes," Purpled suggested, already backing toward the door.

They turned to leave—and froze.

Technoblade stood in the doorway, his imposing figure blocking their exit. The bone crown on his head gleamed in the light of their lamps, casting strange fractured shadows across his face.

"Leaving so soon?" he asked, his deep voice surprisingly gentle. "Without saying hello? That's just rude."

Tommy shifted Big Bessie into attack position, the powerful beam aimed directly at Technoblade's face. The shadow entity didn't even flinch.

"We don't want trouble," Tommy said, clutching the music box tightly. "We're just taking this and going."

Technoblade's laugh was a rumble that seemed to come from the walls themselves. "Funny. You break into our home, steal our property, and then say you don't want trouble." Despite his words, he sounded more amused than angry.

"Technically," Tubbo piped up, "your door was open. So it's not really breaking in."

"An invitation, not a break-in," Technoblade agreed, nodding. "But that doesn't change the fact that you're stealing."

"What is this?" Tommy demanded, holding up the music box. "Why did you want me to find it?"

Technoblade tilted his head, the movement too fluid to be human. "Who says I wanted you to find it?" He stepped aside, gesturing toward the hallway. "But since you have, perhaps you should ask Wilbur yourself. He's waiting in the library."

Tommy exchanged glances with the others. This was obviously a trap, and yet... They had come for answers. The music box in his hands felt unnaturally warm, almost alive.

"We're not splitting up," Ranboo stated firmly.

"No one's asking you to," Technoblade replied, his eyes—red in some lights, brown in others—regarding them with what seemed almost like respect. "Follow me, if you dare. Or leave, if you must. The choice is yours." He turned and walked away, his shadow stretching behind him impossibly.

"We should go," Purpled hissed. "We have what we came for."

"But we don't know what it does, what it means," Tommy argued, staring at the music box. Something about it called to him, a familiarity he couldn't place.

"It's a trap," Purpled insisted.

"Of course it's a trap," Tubbo agreed, but he was already moving to follow Technoblade. "But it might also be answers. And I don't know about you, but I'm tired of being in the dark." He grinned at his own pun, holding Shroud aloft. "Metaphorically speaking."

Ranboo made a sound of distress but fell into step beside Tubbo. "I can't believe we're doing this."

Tommy looked at Purpled, who remained stubbornly in place. "We stay together, remember?"

Purpled glared, then sighed in defeat. "Twenty minutes," he reminded them, checking his watch again. "We've used seven. That leaves thirteen to get answers and get out."

They followed Technoblade down the hallway, their lights creating a bubble of safety around them. The shadows seemed to part before them, retreating just beyond the edge of their illumination.

The library doors were massive, carved with images of trees whose branches seemed to move when looked at directly. Technoblade pushed them open effortlessly, revealing a cavernous space lined with bookshelves that stretched up two stories.

In the center, seated in a high-backed leather chair, was Wilbur. He looked exactly as he had in Tommy's dream—yellow sweater, dark eyes that held shadows within shadows, fingers that moved with hypnotic grace across the pages of the book in his lap.

He looked up as they entered, a smile spreading across his face. "My friends! How wonderful to see you again." His gaze fixed on the music box in Tommy's hands. "And you've brought me a gift. How thoughtful."

"It's not a gift," Tommy said firmly. "It's leverage. We want answers."

Wilbur's smile didn't falter. "And you shall have them. Please, sit." He gestured to four armchairs that Tommy could have sworn weren't there a moment ago, arranged in a semicircle before Wilbur's seat.

They remained standing.

"Suit yourselves," Wilbur shrugged, closing his book. "What would you like to know?"

"What is this?" Tommy asked, holding up the music box. "Why did you want me to ask about it?"

Wilbur's eyes gleamed. "It's a key. And a lock. And a doorway, of sorts."

"That's not an answer," Purpled said coldly.

"No? Then let me be more specific." Wilbur leaned forward. "That music box was crafted over a century ago by a man who loved music so much he wanted to capture it forever. He succeeded beyond his wildest dreams." Wilbur's voice took on a hypnotic quality, the words flowing like the music had. "It doesn't just play music—it plays with reality. Thins the veil between worlds. Between shadow and substance."

"It helps you recruit people," Tommy guessed. "Makes them more susceptible to your... offer."

"Clever boy," Wilbur nodded, approval in his tone. "Yes, it eases the transition. Makes the choice... clearer." His gaze swept over them. "You've all heard it now. You've felt its call."

Tubbo clutched Shroud tighter, the lamp's light flickering in what seemed like distress. "Is that why Shroud's been acting weird? Because of the music?"

Wilbur's attention shifted to the lamp, his expression amused. "Your little light friend is more perceptive than you know. It feels the pull between worlds, just as you do."

"Lamps don't feel things," Purpled snapped, though he sounded less certain than before.

"Don't they?" Wilbur mused. "How sure are you of what can and cannot feel in this world, Purpled? Your certainties seem rather... limited."

"Stop playing games," Tommy interrupted. "What happens on the solstice? What did Punz mean about the mansion being in a 'liminal space'?"

Wilbur's smile widened. "Ah, now that's an interesting question." He rose from his chair, moving with that same uncanny grace as Technoblade. "The mansion exists between worlds—not fully in yours, not fully in ours. But on the solstice, when light and dark are perfectly balanced..." He spread his hands, shadows dancing between his fingers. "The walls between worlds grow thin. Transition becomes possible."

"Transition to what?" Ranboo asked, his voice barely audible.

"To us," came a new voice from behind them.

They whirled around to find Phil standing there, his dark wings spreading from his shoulders like ink bleeding through paper. Unlike the others, his presence brought with it a sense of age, of wisdom, of power held in careful check.

"The solstice is when we can help you cross over," Phil explained, his voice carrying centuries of patience. "When we can welcome you properly into our family."

"By turning us into monsters," Tommy said flatly.

Phil sighed, the sound like autumn leaves rustling. "Such a limited perspective. We're not monsters, Tommy. We're simply... more than human." He stepped closer, his wings folding against his back. "We remember what it was like, you know. To be vulnerable. Alone. Afraid of the dark." His eyes—ancient, kind, terrible—met Tommy's. "We remember what it was like to be you."

"So that's the offer," Purpled said, understanding dawning in his voice. "On the solstice, we either join you or..."

"Or the opportunity passes," Phil finished. "For another year, at least."

"And what happens to us if we say no?" Tubbo asked, the question they'd all been avoiding.

Phil's expression grew serious. "Nothing. You go on with your lives. You grow up, grow old, forget about us." He looked at each of them in turn. "Forget about each other."

"What do you mean?" Tommy demanded, a cold feeling spreading in his chest.

Wilbur answered, his voice soft with what seemed like genuine sympathy. "Life will pull you apart, as it always does. New schools, new friends, new priorities. The bonds you've formed will fray, then break. It's the way of human connections—temporary, fleeting."

"Your friendship is the exception, not the rule," Phil added gently. "Most childhood friendships don't survive to adulthood. You know this, in your hearts."

The words struck with painful accuracy. They'd never discussed it, but they all felt it—the looming specter of graduation, of separate paths, of inevitable distance.

"That's what we're offering you," Wilbur said, moving to stand beside Phil. "Eternity. Together."

"At the cost of our humanity," Ranboo whispered.

"Humanity is overrated," Technoblade drawled from where he leaned against a bookshelf. "Trust me, I've been on both sides."

Purpled scoffed. “You sound like Punz.”

"Open the music box, Tommy," Wilbur suggested, his voice a gentle command. "Listen to its song. Really listen."

Tommy looked down at the box in his hands, its carved surface seeming to pulse with hidden life.

"Don't," Purpled warned. "We came for answers, not to be manipulated."

"I'm not manipulating," Wilbur protested, looking affronted by the accusation. "I'm giving you a choice. A real choice, based on understanding."

"Ten minutes," Purpled said to Tommy, tapping his watch meaningfully. "We need to go."

Tommy hesitated, his fingers tracing the intricate patterns of the music box. Something about it called to him, a familiarity that nagged at the edges of his mind.

"Where's Fundy?" he asked suddenly, looking up at the three shadow entities. "If this is all so wonderful, where is he? Why isn't he here singing your praises?"

The three exchanged glances, something unspoken passing between them.

"Fundy is... processing," Phil said carefully. "His situation is complicated."

"Complicated how?" Tommy pressed.

"He has conflicted loyalties," Technoblade explained bluntly. "Family can be messy."

"You told me to ask Wilbur about the music box," Tommy said, turning to the one in the yellow sweater. "Why specifically you?"

A shadow passed over Wilbur's face, something ancient and complex. "Because I made it," he said simply. "Or rather, the man I was before... this." He gestured to himself. "William Watson. Amateur composer, professional obsessive. I wanted to capture music that would last forever." His smile turned rueful. "I got my wish, just not in the way I expected."

"The box was my gateway," he continued, his voice taking on that hypnotic quality again. "My transition. It can be yours too."

"Or it can be your protection," Phil added, earning surprised looks from both Wilbur and Technoblade. "If you truly don't want to join us, the music box can help shield you from our influence. At least until the solstice passes."

"Phil," Wilbur hissed, looking betrayed.

"They deserve a real choice," Phil said firmly. "Not manipulation. Not half-truths." He turned back to the teens. "The music box responds to intent. Your intent. It can protect as well as transform."

"Why are you telling us this?" Tubbo asked, suspicious.

Phil's smile was gentle, almost paternal. "Because true choice requires true understanding."

"Nine minutes," Purpled warned Tommy.

"Take the box," Phil told them. "Think about what we've said. You have twenty-four days until the solstice. Until then, the choice is yours."

Tommy looked down at the music box, then back at the shadow entities who watched them with expressions ranging from Technoblade's amused interest to Wilbur's hungry anticipation to Phil's calm acceptance.

"Let's go," Tommy said to the others, backing toward the library doors with the music box clutched tightly against his chest.

They retreated slowly, their lights held before them like shields. The shadows made no move to stop them, though they seemed to pulse with restrained energy.

"Twenty-four days," Wilbur called after them. "The solstice waits for no one."

"And neither does friendship," Phil added softly. "Remember that, when you make your choice."

-------

They ran all the way back to Purpled's house, not stopping until they were safely inside with all the lights blazing. The music box sat on the kitchen table between them, innocent-looking in the fluorescent light.

"Well," Tubbo said, breaking the tense silence. "That was educational."

"And terrifying," Ranboo added, removing his headlamp to wipe sweat from his brow. "Did anyone else notice how they kept changing? One minute they looked normal, the next..." He shuddered.

"They're getting into our heads," Purpled said grimly. "Playing on our fears. Our desires." His gaze flicked to Tommy. "On our need to belong."

Tommy stared at the music box, Wilbur's words echoing in his mind. "What do we do with this?"

"We could destroy it," Purpled suggested.

"Or we could use it," Tubbo countered, Shroud glowing softly in his arms. "Phil said it could protect us."

"Phil also said a lot of stuff about how great it is to be a shadow demon," Ranboo pointed out. "Not exactly a trustworthy source."

"But why would he tell us it could be used against them?" Tommy wondered. "That doesn't make sense if they're just trying to manipulate us."

"Unless that's part of the manipulation," Purpled argued. "Make us think we have a defense so we let our guard down."

Tommy reached out, tracing the carvings on the music box's lid. "There's only one way to find out."

Before anyone could stop him, he opened the box.

The melody that spilled forth was the same one they'd heard in the mansion, but different somehow. Clearer, purer, without the hypnotic undertones. A simple, beautiful tune that filled the kitchen with delicate notes.

The tiny figurine inside—the dancer of shadow and silver—began to spin, casting prismatic patterns across the walls. As they watched, the shadows in the corners of the room retreated, as if pushed back by the music.

"It's working," Tubbo breathed, watching as Shroud's light brightened, synchronized with the melody.

The music changed, shifting into something that sounded almost like a lullaby. Familiar, though none of them could place where they'd heard it before.

"I know this song," Tommy murmured, leaning closer. "Why do I know this song?"

The figurine spun faster, the shadows retreating further until the room felt lighter, brighter, safer.

And then, as the last notes faded, the figurine stopped spinning. In the sudden silence, a small compartment opened in the base of the music box, revealing a folded piece of paper and a tiny silver key.

Tommy carefully extracted both, unfolding the paper with hands that trembled slightly.

It was a note, written in elegant script:

To whoever finds this—

If you're reading these words, then you've discovered the true purpose of the music box. It was never meant to be a gateway, but a shield. A protection against those who dwell in shadow.

My name is William Watson. By the time you read this, I will likely have joined them—not by choice, but by necessity. The shadows are persistent. Patient. And I have run out of options.

The music box was my final creation, imbued with the last of my humanity. The melody it plays is one my mother sang to me as a child—a song of light and hope and memory. It cannot stop the shadows entirely, but it can hold them at bay, remind them of what they once were.

The key enclosed opens a journal hidden in the false bottom of the grandfather clock in the east wing of the mansion. In it, you will find everything I've learned about the shadow entities—their origins, their limitations, and most importantly, how to resist them.

But be warned: knowledge comes with a price. The more you understand them, the more they will understand you. The connection goes both ways.

Trust no one who has already crossed over. No matter how human they may appear, no matter what they promise you, they are not who they once were.

And above all, remember this: The solstice is both their strongest and their weakest moment. The day when all possibilities exist simultaneously. When choices made cannot be unmade.

Choose wisely. Choose together.

—William Watson, December 1899

Tommy looked up from the note, meeting the wide eyes of his friends.

"Well," Tubbo said after a moment of stunned silence, "that complicates things."

"It changes everything," Ranboo breathed, reaching for the note with reverent fingers. "If this is true..."

"It means Wilbur lied," Purpled concluded, his violet eyes narrowed. "About the music box being a gateway."

"Or maybe Wilbur changed it," Tommy suggested, turning the small silver key over in his palm. It was tarnished with age but still intact. "If Wilbur was William Watson..."

"Then he created the music box as protection, but now he's using it as bait," Tubbo finished, the implications sinking in. "That's seriously messed up."

"The shadows change you," Ranboo murmured, reading the note again. "'They are not who they once were.' That's what William—Wilbur—was trying to tell us."

Thunder rumbled outside, a reminder of the storm that continued to rage. Shroud pulsed in Tubbo's arms, the light seeming to sync with the fading echoes of the music box's melody.

"We need to get that journal," Tommy said decisively, closing his fist around the key.

"Are you insane?" Purpled exclaimed. "We barely escaped the first two times! Now you want to test our luck again?"

"Not tonight," Tommy clarified. "We plan. We prepare. We do this right." He looked at each of his friends in turn. "This is bigger than just us now. If this note is real, if there's a way to resist them..."

"Then maybe we can help Fundy," Tubbo realized. "Maybe we can help all of them."

"Or trap them," Purpled suggested, a calculating edge to his voice. "If the music box can hold them back..."

"Twenty-four days until the solstice," Ranboo reminded them, his expression solemn. "That's not much time to figure all this out."

"It's enough," Tommy said, more confidently than he felt. He placed the music box back on the table, centering it between them like a totem. "We stick together. We trust each other. And we don't listen to their lies."

The others nodded, a renewed sense of purpose binding them together. The music box sat silently between them, its secrets partially revealed but still mysterious.

"So what's the plan?" Tubbo asked, bringing them back to more immediate concerns.

Tommy thought for a moment, then reached for his backpack, pulling out a notebook and pen. "First, we write down everything we know about the Watsons. Everything they've said, everything we've seen."

"Then we make a list of what we need to get that journal," Purpled continued, practical as always. "Equipment, timing, escape routes."

"And we keep the music box playing," Ranboo added, gesturing to the now-silent contraption. "If it really does protect us..."

"We take shifts," Tommy decided. "Wind it every four hours. No one sleeps alone until the solstice."

They worked through the night, planning and preparing, the music box playing its gentle melody every few hours when one of them would wind it again. Outside, the storm gradually subsided, giving way to a clear dawn that turned the raindrops on the windows into tiny prisms.

By morning, they had a plan. Not a perfect one, but a start.

"Two days," Tommy said, looking at their hastily drawn timeline. "We rest today, prepare tomorrow, and go back to the mansion on Tuesday night."

"Why Tuesday?" Tubbo asked, stifling a yawn.

"Because they'll expect us sooner," Purpled answered, understanding Tommy's strategy. "They know we found the note. They'll be waiting for us to make our move immediately."

"But if we wait..." Ranboo nodded slowly. "We might catch them off guard."

"Exactly," Tommy confirmed. "And in the meantime, we keep the music box playing. We don't let the shadows in." He held out his hand, palm down. "Together?"

The others placed their hands on top of his, one by one. "Together," they echoed, their faces tired but determined.

As they finalized their plans, none of them noticed the small shadow that detached itself from beneath the table—a sliver of darkness moving with purpose toward the crack under the front door, slipping out into the morning light, racing back toward the Watson mansion with news of what it had heard.

------

In the Watson mansion, Phil stood at the window of the music room, watching as the messenger shadow slithered across the garden and up the stone steps. His wings rustled restlessly against his back, folding and unfolding with barely contained energy.

"They found it, then," Wilbur said from behind him, not really a question.

"The note, the key—everything," Phil confirmed, not turning around. "Just as you predicted."

Wilbur moved to stand beside him, his reflection in the window more shadow than substance. "And now they'll come for the journal."

"Was this wise?" Phil asked, genuine concern in his ancient voice. "Giving them that much knowledge?"

"Knowledge is not understanding," Wilbur replied, smiling enigmatically. "They'll come here thinking they have the upper hand, thinking they know our weaknesses."

"And instead?"

Wilbur's smile widened, shadows dancing between his teeth. "Instead, they'll learn the final truth. The one William Watson could never bring himself to write down."

From the doorway, Technoblade watched them silently, his expression unreadable beneath the bone crown. "And if they choose to fight rather than join?"

Wilbur turned, that strange hunger shining in his eyes. "Then they'll discover why we've existed for centuries while so many others have faded into history." He glanced at the empty spot where the music box had been. "Besides, they've taken the bait. The connection is established."

"They aren’t like the others," Phil cautioned. "They resists more strongly than anyone I've seen in decades."

"That's what makes them perfect," Wilbur replied, the shadows around him churning with excitement. "The best additions to our family are always the ones who fight hardest against it."

Outside, the garden roses bloomed impossibly vibrant against their black leaves, drinking in the morning sun with unnatural hunger.

Twenty-four days until the solstice.

Chapter Text

The next two days passed in a blur of planning and paranoia. After discovering William Watson's note, they had taken to carrying the music box everywhere, passing it between them like a talisman. The gentle melody became the soundtrack to their increasingly elaborate plans, their last line of defense against the shadows that seemed to grow bolder with each passing hour.

"Are we sure the grandfather clock is in the east wing?" Ranboo asked for the third time that afternoon, anxiety evident in the way he kept adjusting his headlamp's straps. They had gathered at Tommy's house this time, maps and diagrams spread across his bedroom floor like battle plans.

"No," Tommy admitted, running a hand through his disheveled blond hair. Sleep had become a luxury none of them could afford. Even with the music box playing, dreams were dangerous territory. "We're not sure of anything except what the note said."

"Helpful," Purpled muttered, his violet eyes tracking movement across the street—probably just a neighbor walking their dog, but these days, who could tell? "We're risking our lives based on a hundred-year-old note left by a guy who, by his own admission, got turned into a shadow demon."

"What choice do we have?" Tubbo asked, Shroud cradled in his lap. The lamp had grown increasingly responsive over the past days, its light brightening whenever the music box played, dimming when it stopped. None of them commented on it anymore. Weird had become their new normal. "We need answers, and that journal might be the only place to find them."

"I've been thinking," Tommy said, tracing his finger along the crude floor plan they'd sketched from memory. "Wilbur said the mansion exists in a liminal space, right? Not fully in our world, not fully in theirs."

"Yeah, so?" Purpled prompted, finally turning away from the window.

"So maybe that's why the layout keeps changing. Maybe it's not just them messing with us—maybe the mansion itself is... unstable." Tommy frowned, struggling to articulate the theory forming in his mind. "Like, maybe it shifts depending on who's looking at it, or what they're looking for."

"That... actually makes a disturbing amount of sense," Ranboo nodded slowly. "It would explain why the corridors seemed longer when we were trying to escape."

“So the mansion was keeping us there," Tubbo connected, eyes widening.

"Or the Watsons were," Purpled said flatly, ever the skeptic. "Let's not start attributing sentience to buildings."

"Either way," Tommy continued, "I think we need to be specific about what we're looking for. If the mansion responds to intent—like Phil said the music box does—then maybe we need to focus on the grandfather clock, not just wandering around hoping to stumble on the east wing."

Tubbo nodded, the weight of their secret pressing down heavier by the day. "So we stick to the plan. Tuesday night. We get in, find the clock, get the journal, and get out."

"And if we run into them? Again? Because I’m not exactly itching for a repeat of last time” Ranboo asked, the question they'd all been avoiding.

Tommy reached for the music box, winding it carefully. The gentle melody filled the room, pushing back against the gathering dusk outside. "Then we use this. And these." He gestured to their modified lamps, now equipped with stronger bulbs and longer-lasting batteries. "And we run like hell."

None of them slept properly that night, or the night after. By Tuesday afternoon, they were strung out on caffeine and adrenaline, jumping at shadows and finishing each other's sentences like they'd developed some kind of collective consciousness.

"Remember," Tommy said as they gathered their equipment one final time, "no splitting up, no heroics, and no—"

"Talking to shadow demons," the others chorused, the mantra now familiar.

"Twenty minutes," Purpled added, tapping his watch meaningfully. "In and out in twenty minutes. This time actually stick to the plan.” He finished finished sharply, eyes narrowing at them. 

"And if anything goes wrong," Ranboo said, his voice steadier than it had been in days, "we meet back at Tubbo's treehouse."

They nodded, a silent pact forming between them. The music box sat on Tommy's desk, momentarily silent. Its presence had become a constant in their lives, a reminder of what they were fighting for—and against.

As dusk settled over the city, they set out toward the Watson mansion for the third time, their lamps glowing like beacons in the gathering darkness. The music box, carefully packed in Tommy's backpack, was a reassuring weight against his spine.

"Anyone else feel like we're walking into a trap?" Ranboo asked as they approached the gates, which stood ominously open as always.

"Of course it's a trap," Purpled replied, his grip tightening on Dogchamp. "The question is whether we're smart enough to spring it and still get away."

"Optimistic as ever," Tommy muttered, but there was no heat in his words. Purpled's pragmatism had kept them alive so far.

The mansion loomed against the twilight sky, its windows dark except for a single light that seemed to move from room to room, as if someone were walking through the house with a candle. Or perhaps the house itself was guiding them, one illuminated window at a time.

"East wing," Tommy reminded them, unzipping his backpack to retrieve the music box. He wound it carefully, the melody spilling forth like liquid silver in the quiet evening air. Immediately, the shadows around them retreated, pulling back toward the mansion as if summoned.

"That's new," Tubbo observed, watching the darkness recede. "I think they're... afraid of it."

"Or drawn to it," Ranboo suggested uneasily. "Like they're reporting back to something."

They approached cautiously, the combined light of their lamps and the strange radiance of the music box creating a bubble of safety around them. The front door swung open at their approach, revealing the familiar foyer with its marble floor and imposing staircase.

"Remember, we're looking for the east wing," Tommy said softly, holding the music box aloft. "Grandfather clock. Focus on it."

They moved together through the foyer, the music box's melody echoing oddly in the vast space. The shadows seemed more substantial inside, pressing against the edges of their light with palpable hunger.

"Which way is east?" Ranboo whispered, his headlamp sweeping across the various doorways that led off the main hall.

Before anyone could answer, one of the doors to their right swung open, golden light spilling into the foyer. Unlike the harsh illumination of their lamps, this light was warm, inviting—almost like firelight.

"Could be a trick," Purpled warned, but he was already moving toward it, drawn by the same curiosity that pulled at them all.

The open door revealed a familiar long corridor lined with the portraits Tommy blamed for this mess, each frame illuminated by a small sconce. At the far end, barely visible in the distance, stood a tall grandfather clock, its pendulum catching the light as it swung back and forth with hypnotic regularity.

"That was... convenient," Tubbo said suspiciously.

"Too convenient," Tommy agreed, but there was no turning back now. "Stay together, keep your lights up, and keep moving."

They entered the corridor cautiously, the music box held high. As they passed, the portraits seemed to turn, following their progress with painted eyes that blinked when not directly observed.

"Don't look at them," Ranboo murmured, his gaze fixed firmly on the clock ahead. "They're trying to distract us."

The corridor stretched impossibly long before them, the clock never seeming to get any closer despite their steady pace.

"This isn't working," Purpled hissed after what felt like minutes of walking. "We're caught in some kind of loop."

"The mansion's playing tricks again," Tommy realized, frustration building in his chest. He looked down at the music box in his hands, its melody unchanged yet somehow less effective here in the heart of the Watsons' domain. "We need to try something else."

"Like what?" Tubbo asked, Shroud pulsing nervously in his arms.

Tommy took a deep breath, closing his eyes for a moment. "Like being specific." He opened his eyes, staring directly at the distant clock. With clear, deliberate intent, he spoke to the house itself. "We seek the journal of William Watson, hidden in the grandfather clock in the east wing."

The corridor shuddered around them, the walls rippling like disturbed water. The portraits stopped their subtle movements, frozen in expressions of surprise or alarm. And the grandfather clock, impossibly, was suddenly just a few feet away.

"Holy shit," Ranboo breathed. "It worked."

“No fucking way,” Tommy gasped, before coughing into his hand. “I mean yeah i knew it would.”

Ranboo gave him a dry look.

The clock towered over them, at least eight feet tall, its dark wood polished to a mirror shine. The face was oddly blank, no numbers marking the hours, just a pair of ornate hands moving to a rhythm that had nothing to do with ordinary time.

"How do we open it?" Tubbo wondered, circling the massive timepiece cautiously.

Tommy reached into his pocket, pulling out the small silver key they'd found in the music box. "We start with this."

The clock had no obvious keyhole, just intricate carvings that seemed to shift under direct observation—trees becoming faces, faces becoming shadows, shadows resolving into musical notes.

"Look," Purpled said suddenly, pointing to a small indentation near the base of the clock. It was shaped like a music note, barely visible against the dark wood.

Tommy knelt, examining the mark more closely. The silver key in his hand seemed to vibrate slightly, resonating with the music box's melody. He pressed the key gently against the indentation, and it sank in with a soft click.

The clock's ticking stopped abruptly, the pendulum freezing mid-swing. Then, with a series of mechanical whirs and clicks, the front panel of the clock swung open, revealing not the expected weights and pendulum mechanism, but a small, wood-paneled room.

"It's... bigger on the inside," Tubbo said, echoing all their thoughts.

The space within the clock was impossible—a room perhaps six feet square, with a small desk, a chair, and walls lined with shelves of notebooks and loose papers. A single oil lamp burned on the desk, casting warm light over what was clearly William Watson's private study.

"How is this possible?" Ranboo whispered, his headlamp illuminating corners that the oil lamp couldn't reach.

"Liminal space," Tommy reminded him, stepping cautiously over the threshold. The others followed, forming a protective circle as they entered the impossible room. "The mansion exists between worlds, remember?"

On the desk lay a leather-bound journal, open to a page filled with elegant handwriting and intricate diagrams. The title at the top of the page read simply: "The Nature of Shadows."

"This is it," Tommy breathed, reaching for the journal with trembling hands. "William Watson's research."

The moment his fingers touched the leather cover, the oil lamp flickered, nearly going out. The music box's melody faltered, skipping like a scratched record before resuming at a slower tempo.

"We need to go," Purpled said urgently, checking his watch. "We've been here twelve minutes already."

Tommy nodded, carefully closing the journal and tucking it into his backpack alongside the music box. As he did, his eyes caught on something else on the desk—a framed photograph, faded with age but still clear enough to make out the subjects.

Four people stood before a younger version of the Watson mansion, their expressions solemn as was custom for photographs of the era. In the center stood a man who could only be William Watson—Wilbur's human form—his eyes haunted even then, something dark in his expression. Beside him stood an older man with a paternal expression and what looked like the shadow of wings behind him, a tall figure with long hair partially obscuring his face, and a woman whose features were strangely blurred, as if she'd moved during the exposure.

"Four of them," Tommy murmured, picking up the photograph for a closer look. "There were four Watsons originally."

"Tommy, we need to go," Ranboo urged, his headlamp flickering ominously. "Something's coming."

As if in response to his words, a chill swept through the small room, the oil lamp guttering out completely. Their electric lights remained, but seemed dimmer somehow, struggling against a darkness that was rapidly gathering substance around them.

"Take everything," Tommy decided, shoving the photograph into his backpack and grabbing several notebooks at random from the shelves. "Anything that might help us understand what we're dealing with."

They worked quickly, each taking as many papers and notebooks as they could carry. The darkness pressed closer, tendrils of shadow reaching into the room like curious fingers.

"Time's up," Purpled announced, his voice tight with tension. "Eighteen minutes. We need to move."

They exited the clock-room hastily, Tommy pausing only to retrieve the silver key from the base. The moment he did, the clock's front panel swung shut with a decisive click, the pendulum resuming its steady rhythm as if nothing had happened.

The corridor outside had changed again, shorter now but lined with doors that hadn't been there before. At the far end, instead of the foyer they expected, was a large window overlooking the garden.

"This isn't the way we came," Tubbo said, Shroud's light pulsing frantically in his arms. "They're blocking our exit."

"New plan," Tommy said, slinging his backpack over both shoulders to secure it. "We go out the window."

"From the second floor?" Ranboo squeaked. "Are you insane?"

"Unless you'd prefer to stay and chat with our hosts," Tommy replied, already moving toward the window. "The rose bushes below should break our fall."

"The man-eating rose bushes with black leaves?" Purpled clarified sarcastically. "Those rose bushes?"

"Got a better idea, bitch?" Tommy challenged, reaching the window and testing the latch. It was unlocked, swinging open easily to reveal the garden two stories below.

Before Purpled could respond, a cold voice spoke from behind them.

"Leaving so soon? Without saying goodbye? I'm hurt."

They whirled around to find Technoblade standing in the middle of the corridor, his imposing figure blocking their path back toward the foyer. The bone crown on his head gleamed in the light of their lamps, casting strange fractured shadows across the walls.

"We got what we came for," Tommy said, trying to keep his voice steady despite the fear churning in his gut. "Let us leave."

Technoblade tilted his head, the movement too fluid to be human. "I'm not stopping you," he said, the words belied by his position directly in their path. "In fact, I'm impressed. You've seen through more of Wilbur's games than most."

The music box in Tommy's backpack continued to play, its melody muffled but audible. Technoblade's gaze fixed on the sound, something like recognition flickering across his features.

"He always did love that tune," Technoblade mused, taking a step closer. "Before. When he was still..." He trailed off, his red eyes reflecting their lights like a predator's.

"Still human?" Tubbo supplied, holding Shroud protectively before him. "Like William Watson?"

A strange expression crossed Technoblade's face—almost regretful, almost nostalgic. "William Watson died a long time ago. What's left is... something else." His gaze sharpened, focusing on the bulging backpack Tommy carried. "What exactly did you take from the study?"

"None of your business," Purpled snapped, Dogchamp's beam aimed directly at Technoblade's face.

Technoblade didn't even blink against the harsh light. "Everything in this house is my business." He took another step forward, shadows gathering around him like a cloak. "Especially William's little secrets."

"Back off," Tommy warned, edging closer to the open window. The others formed a protective half-circle, their lights creating a barrier between them and the advancing shadow entity.

"You don't understand what you've found," Technoblade said, his voice dropping to a dangerous rumble. "What you've set in motion."

"Then enlighten us," Tommy challenged, buying time as the others positioned themselves closer to the window.

Technoblade smiled, the expression too wide for his face. "Some knowledge comes at too high a price. Some truths are better left buried." His form seemed to blur at the edges, darkness bleeding into the air around him. "The journal won't save you. It didn't save him."

"But it might explain you," Tommy countered, his hand finding the music box in his backpack. He pulled it out, holding it between them like a shield. "What you really are. What you want from us."

Technoblade's gaze fixed on the music box, his expression hardening. "You think that little toy protects you? It's just a signpost—a beacon showing the way." He extended a hand toward them, shadows coiling around his fingers like living things. "And you've been carrying it for days now, letting it sink into your minds, your dreams."

A chill ran down Tommy's spine at the implications. "What does that mean?"

"It means," came a new voice from behind Technoblade, "that you've already begun the transition."

Wilbur stepped out of the shadows, his yellow sweater vivid against the darkness that clung to him like a second skin. His eyes, when they met Tommy's, held a mixture of hunger and what might almost be called concern.

"The music box doesn't just keep us away," Wilbur explained, moving to stand beside Technoblade. "It changes you, prepares you. Every note, every melody—they're reshaping your perception, thinning the veil between your world and ours." His smile was gentle, almost kind. "Just as William intended."

"You're lying," Tommy said, but doubt crept into his voice. The music box felt different in his hands now, heavier somehow, its melody taking on subtle harmonies he hadn't noticed before.

"Am I?" Wilbur's gaze was knowing, almost pitying. "Check your lamps, Tommy. Really look at them."

Almost against his will, Tommy glanced at the lamps they carried—Big Bessie in his hands, Shroud in Tubbo's, Dogchamp in Purpled's, and the headlamp strapped to Ranboo's forehead. All of them were glowing with an inner light that had nothing to do with their batteries or bulbs, pulsing in perfect synchronization with the music box's melody.

"They're not just tools anymore," Wilbur said softly. "They're responding to you, to your change.”

"No," Ranboo whispered, his hand rising instinctively to touch his headlamp. "You're trying to confuse us."

“What the fuck, Shroud.” Tubbo muttered, eying his beloved lamp with a nervous energy.

"Jump," Technoblade suggested suddenly, gesturing toward the open window behind them. "If you're so certain we're lying, then leave. But take the music box with you. Keep it playing." His smile sharpened. "See what happens when the solstice comes."

"Twenty minutes," Purpled hissed at Tommy, his watch marking their deadline.

Tommy made a split-second decision. "Go!" he yelled, cranking the music box to its loudest volume and thrusting it toward the shadow entities. The melody burst forth in a wave of sound that seemed to physically push Wilbur and Technoblade back, their forms wavering like smoke in a strong wind.

Ranboo was the first through the window, his lanky form folding awkwardly as he dropped into the darkness below. There was a muffled thump, then his voice calling up: "It's clear! The roses moved away!"

Tubbo went next, Shroud clutched tightly to his chest as he disappeared over the sill. Purpled followed immediately after, pausing only to give Technoblade a final defiant glare.

Tommy waited until they were all clear, the music box held before him like a weapon. "Whatever game you're playing," he said to Wilbur, whose form was slowly solidifying again as the music's effect waned, "we're not pieces on your board."

Wilbur's smile never faltered. "Oh, Tommy," he said, almost fondly. "You've been playing our game since the moment you stepped foot in this house." His eyes flicked to the backpack still slung over Tommy's shoulders. "Take the journal. Read it. Then come back when you're ready to hear the rest of the story."

"There won't be a next time," Tommy said firmly, backing toward the window.

"Twenty-two days until the solstice," Wilbur reminded him, his form now almost fully restored. "Time enough for the truth to sink in."

With a final defiant glare, Tommy tucked the music box back into his backpack and swung himself over the window sill, dropping into the darkness below.

The rose bushes did indeed part for him, their thorny branches recoiling as if from fire. He landed in a crouch on the damp earth, the impact jarring but not damaging.

"Run!" Purpled urged, already pulling Ranboo toward the gate. Tubbo was right behind them, Shroud's light bobbing like a will-o'-the-wisp in the darkness.

Tommy spared one final glance back at the mansion. Wilbur and Technoblade stood at the window, their silhouettes framed against the golden light from within. Beside them, a third figure had appeared—Phil, his wings spread wide like a shadow given form. All three watched silently as the teens fled, making no move to pursue.

Because they didn't need to, Tommy realized with a chill. If what Wilbur had said was true, if the music box was changing them somehow...

He pushed the thought aside, focusing on the immediate need to escape. They raced through the gates and down the street, not stopping until they reached the relative safety of Tubbo's treehouse, their sanctuary in a world that made less sense with each passing day.

Only when they were safely inside, the trapdoor secured and all their lamps blazing, did they allow themselves to breathe.

"Did we get it?" Tubbo asked, looking to Tommy's backpack with hopeful eyes. "The journal?"

Tommy nodded, carefully removing the leather-bound book and placing it on the wooden floor between them. "And more. I grabbed as many papers as I could."

"So did I," Ranboo added, pulling several folded pages and a small notebook from his jacket.

"And the photograph," Tommy remembered, retrieving the framed image of the original Watson family. "Four of them. Not three."

They gathered around the journal, their earlier triumph now tempered by the unsettling revelations of their escape. The music box sat silent for once, its influence temporarily suspended as they considered Wilbur's warning.

"Do you think he was telling the truth?" Ranboo asked finally, voicing the fear they all shared. "About the music box changing us?"

"He's a manipulative shadow demon who literally feeds on fear," Purpled pointed out, though he eyed the music box warily. "I wouldn't trust anything he says."

"But our lamps," Tubbo said softly, looking down at Shroud, which continued to pulse with that strange inner light. "They are different. We all know it."

Tommy reached for the journal, his decision made. "There's only one way to find out what's really happening." He opened the leather cover, revealing the first page of William Watson's private thoughts. "We read."

The journal began simply, the handwriting neat and confident:

October 12, 1899

I have decided to document my observations of the shadow phenomena that has been occurring in the mansion for the past three months. At first, I believed it to be a product of my own imagination—stress from my compositions, perhaps, or the isolation of living in this vast house alone. But I can no longer deny the evidence before my eyes. The shadows move. They watch. They whisper.

It began in the music room, where I spend most of my days working on my compositions. The shadows there seemed deeper than they should be, lingering even when I lit more lamps. Then I noticed they moved contrary to the light sources, stretching toward the piano rather than away from it.

Last week, I saw a face in the darkness—just for a moment, but unmistakable. A man with kind eyes and ancient sorrow. He spoke to me, though his lips did not move. He called me "brother" and said they had been waiting for me.

I am not afraid, merely curious. Perhaps I should be more concerned, but the music that has come to me since these visitations began is the most beautiful I have ever written. My new composition—the one I'm calling "Echo of Shadows"—feels less like my creation and more like a transcription of something I am being allowed to hear from beyond the veil.

I have ordered more lamps from town. Just in case.

Tommy looked up from the journal, meeting the wide eyes of his friends. "This is how it started for him," he said quietly. "With shadows and music."

"Just like us," Tubbo whispered.

"Technically ours started with a bet," Ranboo chimed in helpfully, wincing at the dry looks he received.

The parallels were impossible to ignore. William Watson had begun as they had—observing shadows, hearing music, trying to make sense of phenomena that defied explanation.

"Keep reading," Purpled urged, his skepticism tinged now with reluctant fascination.

Tommy turned the page, and they dove deeper into the journal of a man who had walked their path before them—a man who had eventually become the very thing they now fought against.

Outside the treehouse, unseen by any of them, a single shadow detached itself from the trunk of the oak tree, sliding up to press against the wooden walls. It listened as Tommy read William Watson's words aloud, absorbing every revelation, every fear, every hope the teens shared.

Then, its mission complete, it raced back toward the Watson mansion, carrying news of all it had heard to the three entities who waited with infinite patience for the coming solstice—and for the four young souls who unwittingly moved closer to their embrace with each passing day.