A Haunt Of A Jaunt: Part 4 (TK)

The true master of the manor draws near! What will the party do?

This chapter isn't quite as tickle-heavy as the previous ones, sadly - Turindal doesn't even get tickled at all here, I know! - because I had such a good plot going with this commission and wanted to make sure it was solid on its own, but don't worry! I can assure you that the final chapter is going to make up for it and then some. I've also slipped in a little surprise at the very end of this entire story that's already been written a bit in advance, so look forward to that and the rest of the finale tomorrow evening as soon as I'm online!

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A Haunt of a Jaunt

by Skaea

Contains: */M+, M/M, and *M/M tickling and a lot of sexual foreplay and other naughty things. NSFW.

Word count for this chapter: 5,069

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PART 4: DENOUEMENT

 

The Ballroom

The party was now on an upper balcony overlooking the grand, once-elegant ballroom, one of the mansion’s centerpieces. The tiling that had adorned the floor was faded but still mostly intact, but the same couldn’t be said of the wall decor, with almost all the wallpaper having peeled off to leave exposed wood. A great chandelier illuminated the room, suspended from the ceiling, glowing crystals in place of candles; the gems notably had only a dim glow as opposed to the brilliant radiance they would have had during the manor’s prime. On the other side of the room was a wooden stage for a full orchestra, now decrepit with just a few tarnished instruments lying around at random.

The corridor the boys had just exited had been the only way out of this room from the balcony. But now it was blocked by the twisted creature before them, its noodly body curling and twisting this way and that as it shuffled towards them with a murderous look on its face.

D̴̢̰̲̈̈́̈́͋̈́Ŗ̸͉̘̼̽́̈́R̶̺͖̱̗̕…̵̡̟̅ͅ ̶̻̳͖̀̍́̅D̷̢̓̈̀͠R̸͉̺̠͉͊̉R̵̡͚̳̹͓̈́̿…̸̤̞̑͛̅ ̴͓̻̗͒Ď̷̡̳͖̥̦̇̈Ŗ̷͉͚͍͖̋̆R̶̢̰̗͙̃…̷̨̡̒̅͂̀ ̸̗̇

The droning sound was now almost deafening, and now all three adventurers could almost feel their skulls rattling from its timbre.

Mewling in fear like a newborn kitten, Turindal slid behind his shorter dwarven compatriot, hunkering down and trying not to be noticed.

“Oh shit,” said Fanindra, his voice rising in pitch by the second. “Thirteen… 21, 34… SHIT! It’s a rank 55 bogeyman rogue! We’re fucked, we’re so fucking fucked!”

Morp shrank back slightly, the very word bogeyman making him considerably more apprehensive. “Dudes, what about running, grinding outside, come back?!”

“No time! We can’t escape the house until we deal with this thing! Turindal, what do we—”

“S-save meeee!” the elf whined in pure terror, cowering behind Fanindra who could only glare at him indignantly.

Turning his attention back to the spiral-armed bogeyman, Fanindra tried to analyze their foe for any potential weaknesses, only to glance first at its unkempt but familiar-looking hair and then at the large furry feet on the ends of its legs. Then he noticed the outfit it was still wearing, or what was left of it anyway. “W-wait a second,” he said, a sudden realization leaving him momentarily stupefied. “Is that Pinkerton?”

“Yeah, he stretched out like rubber right in front of me!” Turindal replied in a small voice. “M-my bad, guys — I might have told him that we were trying to save Ravaxidor. Seems like our creepy friend here’s not too fond of him!”

The gang continued backing up towards the door leading to the ballroom. “H-halfings turn to bogeymen? H-how?!” Morp asked in shock and confusion.

“Bogeymen are a specific variety of halfling,” Fanindra stammered, desperately trying to think of a suitable spell to repel the advancing monstrosity. “If halflings tell enough scary stories about a particular creepy character, like the kind made up to scare kids into obedience, that character becomes real like they do — and if these stories are about how a halfling from their cast who went away changed into something scary, guess what happens to that halfling?!”

Morp connected the dots in an instant. “So Pinky missing long enough to go ghost?! What did Kitty Bro’s big boss do?!” he asked in horror.

“Oh, I dunno, abandoned him to this mansion or something?” Turindal replied in anger and fear. “Spread ugly rumors afterward? Fuck, what did Pinkerton ever do to him, anyhow?!”

The bogeyman let out a wordless howl of outrage, and every floor, wall, and ceiling in the mansion rattled dangerously. Pinkerton’s speed picked up, barreling through the hallway towards the group, and Turindal screamed like a little girl and ran for his life.

Fanindra was about to yell at him for abandoning the group like a coward when Pinkerton’s arms both lashed out like living whipcord, delivering two swift, focused jabs at the other two with enough force to send them flying. They sailed into the space above the ballroom floor, the dwarf screaming as he plummeted towards his doom, the orc instinctively swinging his legs towards the chandelier and catching his feet on two of its arms so he was now hanging upside-down from the elaborate metal decoration.

The dwarf was fully prepared to be shattered to bits on the floor until something seized him by the legs, stopping him with his face a mere inch from the faded tiling. He twisted his head up and screamed — for Pinkerton had somehow appeared in the ballroom just in time to grab his ankles and hold him suspended.

“Sycophant of the Blood Drake!” the bogeyman snarled in his terrible double-timbre, glaring down at him and revealing that his left eye was now blazing, bulging, and surrounded by a spiraling black marking that took up a third of his face. “You dare sully these grounds with the presence of one who blindly follows the heartless one’s orders? It is the fault of your kin that we have been trapped here! Let’s see how YOU like it!”

Before the panicking dwarf could respond, Pinkerton had started dragging him across the floor, his back scraping against the tile, and then with one swing of his arms he flung him onto the stage, his glasses flying off of him as he sailed through the air again. Fanindra landed hard on the wood, which gave way due the dwarf being made of carved stone, resulting in him being stuck with his upper body below the floorboards and his waist and legs protruding.

Fanindra struggled to free himself, but he couldn’t find anything to push against in the space below the stage. And there was worse to come…

Morp dangled for his life from the chandelier, struggling to free himself. Mercifully, the enchantments that had led to his body parts becoming detached had been reversed after his bath, but despite being whole again, he was now vulnerable. His feet especially were upturned and helpless, and curling his toes could mean a nasty fall. As he tried to disengage from the chandelier in away that allowed him to turn himself over in mid-air and land on his feet, he felt a chill shoot through his spine as the sound of silk being stretched reached his ears. He couldn’t see them, but dozens of hand-spiders, emerging from cracks in the ceiling, had begun rappelling their way down towards the chandelier.

The instruments lying on the stage began to glow with a ghostly aura, rising into the air. As Fanindra struggled to get away, he heard them starting to play a spooky tune, emitting ethereal notes made of magical energy. He kicked as hard as he could, only for a pair of hands to wrap around his ankles, holding him fast.

“Going somewhere~?” Pinkerton teased cruelly. Fanindra screamed as he felt his legs being pulled upwards and spread wide apart, his belly and sides exposed as the notes closed in. Next thing he knew, lines of ethereal energy like sheet music began to encircle his torso and legs, the notes beginning to flow across them as they aimed their pointed ends inwards. It was like a series of spinning rings of feathers had begun stroking across his sides, ribs, and stomach, and within seconds, the living sculpture was screaming in panicked laughter. “EEEEEEE! NOHOHOHOHOHO! M-MAKE IT STAHAHHAHAHAHAP!”

Morp twisted his head this way and that, trying to scope out the situation, but then a single bone-hand-spider touched down on the ball of his foot and all was lost. “AAARRRRGH! WAHAHAHHAAHAH GET OFFFF!! EHEHEHEHEH NOT TOHOHOHOES! OHOHOHO NONONONONNOOOOHOHOHOHO! HEHEHEHELP!”

Just when he thought things couldn’t get any worse, Pinkerton appeared right in front of him — and at the same time, he also appeared behind him as well. The two bogeyman clones got to work, the one in the front grabbing onto his wrists and holding them so his arms were pointed straight down, allowing the one coming from behind to wiggle his rubbery, tentacle-like fingers into his pits and sides.

“Gitchy gitchy gooooo~” the terrible creatures cooed in a mocking sing-song tone. “You should’ve known better than to search this manor for someone who isn’t even here. Now tell me, who led you to do this?”

Morp screamed and squirmed, the bulge in his pants forming a mighty tent with pre staining the front. “NOT MOHOHORP’S IDEHEHEHEHAAHAHAHA! KITTY BROHOHHOHOHO TALKED BROS INTO THIHIHISSS!”

“Oh? And where is he now?”

“MORP DON’T KNOOOHOHOHOHOWWW!”

Fanindra’s predicament was no better. As he struggled in place while the ghastly symphony continued torturing him, he wanted at first to slip free fall into the space below the stage. But then he saw a series of terrible black tentacles, lined with suckers as big as his palm, reaching out of the darkness towards him and instantly changed his mind. All he could do was scream as they wrapped around his arms and started tugging, with more of them starting to poke and suction at all the sensitive blue marble protruding from the hole in the wooden ceiling.

“MAKE IT STOP, MAKE IT STOHOHOHOOOOOP!” Fainindra shrieked, a crescendo of rapid little magic notes now tormenting his crotch and the smooth, sculpted balls and cock. As he continued pleading and screaming, the bogeymen restraining him wrapped one of their arms around each of his lower legs, and looped it back to hold his toes back while tickling them. Their free hands were probing at his heels, and their long tongues and nibbling, pointed teeth were teasing the gleaming, hyper-ticklish runes on the balls of his feet. “MORP, G-GIVE IT UP! HE’S DIHIHIHITCHED USSSS!”

The Pinkerton grabbing his left foot let out a terrible cackle. “Ah, so he has… Just like him to abandon his so-called friends in their darkest hour. That’s what the followers of Ravaxidor do. I would know!”

“Where were any of the people who followed him when he lured me into this mansion after I told him his prejudiced rule was risking the safety of Titillandum’s citizens?” the one manhandling his right hissed viciously. “Did anyone care about his mistreatment of the halfling population? Did anyone care about his ambition to cast anyone who wasn’t an elf out of Titillandum? Did anyone care about my disappearance? Did no one think to look for me after I’d gone?!”

“MORP DIDN’T KNOHOHOHOW!” The orc boy howled as he felt several spiders clambering down his legs. “BIG DRAGON DUDE SAID LIL’ DUDE SACKED! SCHEMED TO TAKE DRAGON DUDE’S COUNCIL SEEHEHEHEHEEAT!!”

The two Pinkertons tickling his upper body gaped at him. “And you actually bought into that ridiculous excuse?!” the one behind him yelled.

“On second thought, you clearly would. Everyone told stories about my terrible fate within the mansion, and that was made a reality!” the one at his front added angrily. “No doubt Ravaxidor spread more lies about me to keep anyone from getting suspicious!”

“Some adventurers you are, being this fucking spineless and gullible!” the clone handling Fanindra’s left leg snarled, as the one holding his right nodded in outraged agreement.

“NOT HELPING, MOHOHORP!” Fanindra cried. “YAHAHAHAHAHAH NOT THE FEHEHEHEHEET!! OHHHH GET OUT OF MY PITTTS AHHAHAHAHAH! SHIHIHIHIAHAHHAHAH!”

“MORP SORREHEHEHEEE!” Morp howled. “MORP DIDN’T KNOHOHOW! JUST FOLLOWING ORDEHEHERS—AAAIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEE!!!” The bone-spiders had slipped into his pants nad found the back of his balls, and were scuttling and teasing all over them viciously. One small one began crawling up the underside of his cock, its many legs poking and stroking with deadly precision.

“Of fucking course you two would follow Ravaxidor’s orders. You’re sooooo desperate for his approval that you’ll do anything to get it. Even if it means kissing up to that stinky bastard man. That naughty boy. That brat cat.” The Pinkerton holding Morp’s arms down leaned in to flick his tongue upon the orc’s left antler, driving him mad. “So tell me, where is he now? I would love to have a nice little chat with him about his PROBLEMS!”

“FORGET IT!” Fanindra yelled, anger making his runes glow brighter than ever. “IF WE GET OUT OF THIS, I’M LEHEHEHEAVIIIING! I HAHAHAHATE HIHIHIMMMM!”

“MORP TOOHOHOHOHOO!!!” the orc cried. “KITTY DUDE STUPID! BIG DRAGON DUDE HAVE HIM WRAHAHAHAPPED AROUND THUHUHUMB! LED MORP AND ROCK BRO INTO TRAHAHAHAP! STUPID STUPID STUPIHIHIHIIIIDDD!”

“Not as stupid as you for following his lead without questioning him,” Pinkerton laughed evilly. “Perhaps further punishment is in order for your blind obedience — oh, wait…”

As the bone-spiders continued to tickle Morp’s lower body, some of them had begun building a web ball right on top of his navel. Secured to his stomach, it was easily the size of a man’s fist, and so covered in smaller spiders that its constant twitching was visible! Pinkerton reached up with his nose and pressed it lightly against the web ball for a brief moment, and as if by command, the little bony spiderlings began crawling all over his victim’s navel, each one just the right size to slip inside his belly-button and wreak havoc within. Morp screamed at the top of his lungs as the colony began taking turns to tickle his suffering innie.

And the number of spiderlings covering his privates was at an all-time high, some of them poking their legs into the now constantly dribbling slit. More of them slipped into his ass-crack before infiltrating his asshole to tease the most sensitive part of his body, and with an ungodly howl, the orc ruined his shorts with a blast of cum that ended up being sprayed onto Pinkerton’s face.

“Mmmm, delicious~” he teased. “I must have more!”

“NOOOOOOHOHHOHOHOHOO!” Morp yelled, the bogeyman’s neck extending as he prepared to bite into the rim of his shorts to pull his pants off…

While all this was happening, a figure watched from the upstairs balcony. Turindal had been hiding in the corner, alternating between hyperventilating and listening to every word that had come from the others. Now, his sweat was mixed with tears. He knew how right everyone was about him, because he had been the one who’d told the party about the mission statement and convinced them to go, not once realizing the truth. It was indeed a mistake — and now his soon-to-be-former friends were paying the price for it! There was no rebuttal, no defense. Anything he said now would only make everything worse.

Almost anything.

In an instant, he knew what to say. Next thing he knew, his legs had almost acted on their own volition, bringing him to his feet and carrying him over to the hole in the railing.

“I’M SORRY,” he said, hoping his voice was loud enough to be heard over the din and the laughter of the others.

It was as though someone had set off a time-stopping spell. Everything froze, from the duplicated bogeymen to their helpless victims to the tentacles and spiders. He would swear he’d even heard a noise like a needle being pulled across one of those fancy newfangled etched musical recording sheets as the phantasmic orchestra stopped in its tracks.

“I’m so sorry, everyone.” Tears began welling up in the corners of Turindal’s hazel eyes as he looked down at the sorry scene before him. “You were all correct — this is my fault. All of it. Not only my leading you right into the danger that was this manor, but for kissing up to Lord Ravaxidor so much that I never suspected anything about what happened to Pinkerton, or anyone else he thought had turned against him. All I wanted was recognition, but the moment I saw that he’d already left this manor, I knew he didn’t care for us. All he wanted was for us to be stuck here, and he was counting on my blind desire to make him proud of me. I never cared for you three or anyone else besides him, and now look where it’s gotten you…”

Upon hearing Turindal’s honest feelings, his grief and regret, Fanindra’s and Morp’s feelings of contempt evaporated. They had been so focused on blaming him that they hadn’t realized that Ravaxidor had no doubt been stringing him along, too. Perhaps they’d overreacted—

“SILENCE!” all four Pinkertons roared in unison. “That doesn’t change the fact that you were doing as the Blood Drake commanded! If you admit your guilt, then be prepared to face the consequences!”

Turindal looked down at the angry bogeymen, then at something interesting about the floor tiling of the ballroom, and finally at the old, dusty book that had been knocked out of Fanindra’s arms when he’d been knocked over the railing. At that moment, he knew what to do. “I am indeed prepared. Come with me to the master bedroom, and we’ll settle this once and for all. Just you and me.”

“NO! W-what Kitty Bro doin’?!” Morp cried out, still dangling upside-down from the chandelier.

“Biding you some time,” Turindal replied. “I’ll catch up with you soon, I promise!”

“I’m assuming you have a condition to go with this, right?” Pinkerton asked.

Turindal winced a bit. He was right, of course, but there was no turning back now. “Release Fanindra and Morp. Stop torturing them like this, because they don’t deserve what you’ve got planned. The anger you have should be reserved for me alone, since I was Ravaxidor’s greatest admirer.”

“Was? So you finally admit that he’s not the pure, perfect idol you saw in him for so long?”

Turindal hung his head and nodded. “Nobody I admire would ever have done this to you. I’m sorry I let myself think of him the way I did. But I can tell that you’re hurt. Let me take you to the master bedroom and heal your wounds, and then we’ll talk about what you want from me.”

The Pinkerton in front of Morp thought about it for a moment, and then smiled, before putting his hands together, the act of which caused all the copies to disappear with a simultaneous poof of thick black smoke. “Very well then. I accept. I’ll give you a five-minute head start, just because I’m feeling nice tonight. But if I catch you outside of the bedroom, or if you’re lying to me about putting this shit right again, then all three of you will be trapped in here with me… FOREVER!”

Still stuck in the floor of the stage, Fanindra started struggling again. “TURINDAL! Don’t do this! I’m sorry I said—”

Turindal sighed softly and sadly. “No, you had every right to be angry with me. I got you all into this mess — so it’s time I got you out of it.”

With that, he nudged the book with his big toe so it slid off the edge of the balcony, tumbling onto the floor below. Then he turned and ran back into the corridor leading away from the second-floor balcony, the map of the manor formed from the tile mosaic on the ballroom floor disappearing behind him.

**********

The Master Bedroom

Stepping through the elaborate doorway into the very heart of the manor, the room where its owner would have slept, Turindal fully expected such fun things as the walls being covered in substances of a horrific nature, or perhaps nonsensical sentences written everywhere — at least one broken piece of furniture would’ve nicely completed the effect. So it was quite the surprise to see that it was every bit as clean, stately, and perfect as it had presumably been during the mansion’s heyday, its bed flawlessly made with a frame polished to an almost mirror-like shine surrounding covers and pillows that looked soft as silk and clean as new. The tables and chairs were all arranged as neatly as though the room hadn’t even been inhabited yet, and even its elegant pale blue wallpaper was still in pristine condition.

He wasn’t sure yet, but the room seemed a bit too perfect — there was a good chance that any piece of furniture was a mimic just waiting for someone to use it, and after his untoward scrape with that damn Snuggarug earlier, he wasn’t taking any chances. Still, Pinkerton could corner him at any second, and the window was closing fast. It was now or never.

He thought about extending a claw and using it to carve what he wanted into the floor, but thought better of it. Then he remembered the glove still in his pocket…

Taking the glove out, Turindal looked into it, and realized that there was a lot of dry, caked dirt on it. It was in fact quite filthy from being in the courtyard for a while, and who knew what it’d picked up while stuck in that tree?

Wiping the sweat off his brow, he put a moist fingertip to the stain on the glove, and sure enough, some of the dirt had formed a dark stain on his fingertip. It wasn’t as good as ink, but anything would do for what he was planning.

As he made his rounds on the floor of the bedroom, he kept an ear trained on his surroundings, fully expecting something to spring out of a drawer or from under the bed. However, the disturbances were mercifully nonexistent by the time he got the last marking in place. Setting the glove in front of the door, he stepped into the circular symbol and knelt in it to begin his prayer, just in time for a striped tentacle to slip under the doorway and probe at the glove.

D̸͕̞͓̒̽̾̾̽̕R̵̫͑͊̍̆̆̾̕R̷̞͂̿͊͘.̵̣̤̮͕̃̊̑̊̚.̵̧̨̺͔͛́͜.̵̛̘̘͍̯̻̈́̆͝ ̴͉̞̲̜͍͈̀̉͐͋̿̇̅Ḏ̸̗̝̄̈́̔̂̓͐͜͠ͅR̶̫̩̲̮̰̪̈̑͐̾̒̚͠Ȑ̶̢̾.̶͍̞͖̽̐͠.̸̟͚͈̻̼̘̀̅̋͒̂͊̚.̴̨͂̒̃̓̅̚ ̶̹̗͙͊͘͝D̷͉̺͉͇̳̝̿̉̈̋͠Ŕ̵͍̑̀̒̑͒͠Ṛ̶̛̹̮͐̐͒.̸̯̳̿͒͐̀̿.̸̝̪͕̲͋.̴͉̄́͆͒͜͝

“I know you’re in theeeeeere~” Pinkerton sing-songed, before the doors were flung open and the bogeyman thundered into the room in all his horrible glory. His fingers were so long now that his hands looked like a pair of jellyfish glued to the ends of his arms, his eyes aglow even through the hair still covering one of them. “It is time now for the GRAND FINALE!”

He loomed over the elf seemingly cowering before him, his eight hungry tendrils reaching forward — only to stop dead in his tracks. His eyes widened as he took in the specific glyphs of the ritual circle surrounding the elf, the clothes laid in a pile next to him and looking as though they’d been wrung free of all the sweat their owner had gotten on them, and the way Turindal was posed.

For the first time since he’d transformed, Pinkerton’s tone was confused, and Turindal would swear he’d heard a flicker of dread in it. “W-what are you doing?”

“What needs to be done to set things right.” Turindal looked up at the bogeyman without an ounce of fear. “This ritual is meant for the caster to switch positions with someone who is magically bound. I’ve been told it’s the only way to free certain prisoners of dark spells… but it can only be done by someone who has a strong connection to the person it’s meant for.”

Pinkerton’s expression became increasingly mortified. “...No. NO. You’re not planning to—?!”

“You said you didn’t want to be in this mansion anymore, didn’t you?” Turindal replied calmly. “This is my way of letting you be a free man. Since you’ve been the master of this manor for so long, the only way for you to escape now is for someone else to take your place. And knowing what I did to endanger everyone else, I’m the best choice for that. It’s my way of saying sorry to you for everything. All you need to do… is tickle me absolutely silly. Wreck me. Punish me. Feel such passion for me that the ritual will exchange us and damn me to this place forever. You don’t have to live with the suffering you were put through anymore. And once the deed is done, I will also free everyone else trapped in here by Ravaxidor’s actions.” He turned his gaze back down towards the glyphic mud-stains surrounding him with a sad sigh. “I won’t deny that it was wrong of you to imprison them, and I can tell you now that doing so was no better than what he did, but I don’t blame you for being angry with him for betraying you in the first place.”

“But… But I didn’t become the master of all these ghosts and ghouls for nothing!” Pinkerton protested. “It was a long and tortuous climb to the top, and you don’t seem prepared for a lifetime of—”

“If I have to suffer forever, then so be it. But I can’t allow you to hurt yourself and everyone else out of anger over the injustice you were put through. When we finish this ritual, you and everyone you wrongly imprisoned will be absolved of the fate you all were condemned to, and none of you have to associate with Ravaxidor anymore. You can all be free of pain and guilt and hate, and start telling your own stories, new chapters in your lives that are free from bad influences like him. So, what do you say, Pinkerton?”

Pinkerton stared in total shock at the elf before him. Sputtering in outrage and pity and horror, he thought back to everything he’d had to endure, all the ticklish torment and the misery and self-loathing, the way he’d let his desire for vengeance overtake him. How everyone whom the high courts had sent to the manor had been victimized by his fury, because he’d thought that they were in league with Ravaxidor and wanted to make sure that he would never get to tell his side of the story. His paranoia, his hatred, his vindictive cruelty, his belief that nobody would listen to him because the world had made him the monster he was now.

And yet, Turindal Deeparch, the person who had idolized Ravaxidor the most, was not only acknowledging that the high lord was willing to dispose of anyone he deemed useless to him, as he did to him, but was willing to make up for all the damage caused by his superior’s selfish, spiteful actions at the cost of his own life.

His eyes watered as he slumped to his knees, the weight of all of his past misguided actions in apparent retaliation coming down upon him. His mouth worked for a moment as Turindal started wondering why, despite presenting his arches right in front of the gap under the bed, there were no tentacles reaching out to give them even a single teasing poke.

“I don’t deserve to be trapped in here forever,” said Pinkerton, choking back a sob. “But… Y-you don’t d-deserve to be, either…”

Tears began sliding down his cheeks as his limbs and fingers began to grow shorter and shorter. And then, to Turindal’s further surprise, he started crying, the waterfalls of tears pouring down and washing away the part of the ritual circle directly in front of him.

There was no way the elf could perform the ritual now, but it didn’t matter. He lifted his arms in a beckoning way, and the halfling didn’t hesitate. The second he had transformed back to the form he’d had at the start of his story, he lurched forward and embraced his would-be victim, sobbing into his shoulder as Turindal wrapped his arms around him in turn, a soft buzzing coming from his throat.

It was a long while before the sobbing stopped, Pinkerton’s tears forming a puddle around them. But Turindal continued hugging him, not letting up his feline purring, until the waterworks were finally over.

The boys disengaged, Pinkerton looking up to see that Turindal was tearing up himself, though the elf was smiling now. “It’s going to be okay,” said the latter. “And that’s a promise.”

“But… but you can’t switch places with me,” Pinkerton replied, wiping the wetness from his cheek. “You wouldn’t survive! I know you want me to be free, but that’s not an option anymore.”

Turindal chuckled. “Tch, don’t worry about it. I’m sure we’ll figure something out.”

The moment was interrupted by a scream from elsewhere in the manor. The two sat bolt upright, Turindal recognizing that it was from Fanindra. “Oh no, w-where are they?!”

“The portrait hall,” Pinkerton replied, his eyes widening. “No matter what they think of you, we have to help them!”

There was no time to waste. The two of them sprang to their feet, and after Turindal slipped his pants back on and then grabbed his hopefully dry shirt and robe, they ran out of the master bedroom, Pinkerton guiding his companion towards the portrait hall. The fact that a whole host of ghostly hands was gliding above them on their way there didn’t go unnoticed by the two.

They arrived just in time to see a certain dwarf and a certain orc in the middle of the hall, surrounded by a swarm of ethereal beings of every shape and size. They looked at the new arrivals with pleading expressions, and Turindal and Pinkerton didn’t hesitate. The elf ran forward towards the other two, the halfling stretching back into his bogeyman form as he followed in his wake.

“Herded bros into gallery!” Morp cried, desperately trying to bat the wraiths away. “What are they doing?!”

Fanindra, trying to ward the ghosts off by levitating his glowing crystal ball to orbit around them, turned around to take note of the person he’d condemned. “Turindal, I’m so sorry about saying I hated you! I felt so angry and hurt when I found out—”

“Apology accepted, but we’ve got bigger problems!” Turindal replied as he and Pinkerton joined them, the four standing with their backs to one another. “Pinkerton, can you tell those things to knock it off?!”

“There’s too many of them!” Pinkerton cried out, coiling away instinctively as the phantoms drew closer and closer still. “I can’t control them all at once!”

“Maybe,” replied Fanindra, holding up a familiar book. “But we can.”

Turindal smiled as well. “Together,” he added.

“But be prepared,” finished Morp. “Lots of laughing soon!”

As the four of them stood, holding hands together, they heard the wind beginning to pick up, a flurry of mischievous cackles echoing throughout the gallery. The boys looked up just in time to see the source: an entire army of ghosts, wraiths, and spirits, bearing all kinds of tickle implements, some bearing overly long fingers or tongues. All of them had the same expression, that teasing look of someone about to unleash the most torturous tickling imaginable.

Together, they attacked.