The Unhallowed

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Author’s Note

JDNunyer here. I started this account because I was working on (yet another) retelling of my long-running series set in the Homelands and I didn’t want people getting confused by there being so many versions posted under the same account. That is still the plan, but I have to admit that progress has been very, very slow, for a variety of reasons.

I initially had no intention of sharing this piece, which has no connection to the Homelands, having worked it mostly as a palate-cleanser and to prove to myself that I was still capable of seeing a project through to completion, but what the heck.

This story contains infidelity, group sex, and a clear signs of my political leanings. The pace is relatively slow, the word count is close to 30k, and some will find the ending disturbing. It does not contain graphic violence, despite the erotic horror tag, and all sexual encounters are entirely consensual and involve individuals who are of legal age.

I hope some of you enjoy it.

*********

There was no one at the registration desk; I’d have waited a minute before ringing the bell, as would Cass or our dad. Wasn’t up to any of us, though.

Our mom’s name isn’t Karen, but it might as well be.

Don’t get me wrong, I love her truly. More than I should, according to the couple girls I’ve dated. Because apparently it’s okay for a woman in her twenties to call her mom on the phone two or three times a day, but if a man of the same age does so more than once a week, it’s a red flag. All I’m saying is that, whether I qualify as mama’s boy or not, I wouldn’t want to deal with the woman if I worked in retail. Or food service. Or hospitality.

“Welcome to The Unhallowed,” someone called from the small office. When he emerged, my sister let out a little yelp, on account of the tattered robes, black as night, and tall scythe. The blade of which was clearly plastic. “How may I help you?”

“Scaredy-cat,” I whispered to Cass, earning an elbow in the ribs.

Our mom shot us both a look before clearing her throat, placing her purse atop the granite desktop, and proceeding to make a show of producing credit card and driver’s license. Dare ye not question her preparedness or organizational acumen. “Checking in.”

“Do you have a reservation?” the grim reaper asked.

She nodded. “Last name Addams.”

“This here is Wednesday,” I said, jerking a thumb at my sister, who would need to drop twenty pounds and braid her hair before anyone would honestly mistake her for Christina Ricci in her most famous role but smiled about as often.

A flat look from Cass. “Makes you Pugsley.”

“Touche.”

Our mom rolled her eyes. “Please, ignore my children.”

“They’re brother and sister?” the clerk asked.

Wasn’t that hard to see the resemblance. We both had our mom’s black hair, brown eyes, and fair complexion. Back before either of us had hit puberty, people used to think we were twins, never mind that there was a three-year age gap. The part that gave most people pause was the lanky man with the blond hair and blue eyes being our dad. I guess no one remembers dominant and recessive genes from high school.

“I see here you’ve booked two rooms.” Our friendly neighborhood personification of death still sounded confused. He looked from me to Cass then back, expression neutral.

“One queen,” our mom said, “two twins.”

Cass huffed. “I’m picking my husband up from the airport in a little while.”

“With your rates, couldn’t really afford a third room,” our dad explained. He comes from the “a penny saved is a penny earned” school of masculinity, the “turn the lights off if you’re not in the room” school, not the “never let anyone question the size of your bank account or your manhood” school. While that sometimes made him seem forty-eight going on eighty-four, it was still one of my favorite things about him.

“Will you be needing a rollaway bed?” the clerk asked.

“Not if you’ve booked us a room with two twin beds,” my mom answered. “Like I said over the phone.” Then, looking at Cass, she added, “You and Jake do plan on sharing one?”

“Yes, mom,” Cass said, with all the exasperation in the world. Or at least the eastern seaboard. “He’s in the Navy,” she told a rather uninterested man in a rather uninspired Halloween costume. “We haven’t saved enough to buy our own place yet.” Eyes back to our mom. “Someone refuses to let a day go by without reminding me how unusual it is for a married woman to sleep in the same bed she’s slept in the for the past twenty-two years.”

Two small envelopes slid toward us. “Here are your keys. Cocktail hour begins at seven. The men’s changing room is to the right of the ballroom, women’s the left. Draw a token from the bag when you first enter and the attendant will help you with your costume.”

“We brought our own—” our mom began to say, eyes darting toward luggage bags that would have been somewhat lighter if she’d read the fine print.

“Costumes are provided,” the clerk said in a tone that said they were also required.

Our dad let out a nervous chuckle, the way he always did when things got tense. Strangely enough, that didn’t seem to irritate our mom the way it always did when he was the source of that tension. “Okay, I gotta ask; is this place really haunted?”

“Only ghosts we’re gonna see are probably this guy’s kids,” I said. “No offense. I’m sure your children are lovely. And most talented when it comes to spooky moans.”

“It’s just,” our dad said, never one to withhold unnecessary information, “I wanted to go one of those one places where they chase you around with chainsaws, you know? Whereas if this one had her druthers, Halloween would be stricken from the calendar.” A bit unfair; she might not be into horror movies or jump scares, but she loved a good ghost story. Especially if it was a romance in disguise. “So we settled on this place.”

“I’m sure it will be fine,” our mom said, hand on his arm. Didn’t want to make a scene, did he? That was her job. “You saw the reviews.”

Uh oh, that look said he saw that she’d sent him an email with a link to the reviews, which was not the same as having actually read them. Someone was going to get an earful later. “I’m not doubting the accommodations, the coffee, or the continental breakfast.”

For a moment, just a moment, the clerk’s skin seemed to melt, leaving a skeletal face beneath his hood. “Sir, The Unhallowed only accepts guests in the month of October. We don’t just tack a few things on for Halloween—it is our raison d’etre.”

Proper pronunciation and all, so we couldn’t doubt him.

“See?” our mom said without opening her mouth, eyebrows doing all the work.

“Men’s to the right, women’s the left?” our dad asked in a mumble as he grabbed the key cards. If he had a tail, it would have been tucked between his legs. “Cocktails at seven?”

The beginnings of a smile, no more. “Enjoy your stay.”

#

Was seven-oh-three when Jake and I knocked on the door of the room my parents were staying in. Cass still wasn’t out of the shower, and my mom’s punctuality didn’t extend to happy hours the way it did check-ins, appointments, and anything that smelled like a meeting, but it was a safe bet that my dad was ready for a drink.

Past ready. Beer in his hand when he opened the door. “Started without you.”

“Clearly,” I said. “That’s okay, we forgive you.”

“Meet you there?” he called over his shoulder to my mom, who was probably reading something steamy on her Kindle. No one was more thankful for the invention of the e-reader, and thus not having to worry about the hunk on the cover, than my mom.

“Just waiting for Cass,” she replied.

“And with that, we officially have dispensation,” my dad said, closing the door behind him. Because words like “permission” and even “authorization’ did not have enough connotation for him. Had to make sure we knew what a tyrant his wife—my mom—was.

Jake did that little hyuk-hyuk thing he always did before he told a joke. Like a cartoon dog. “Too bad we had to bring the wives along, eh, Mr. A?”

Tempted as I was to scowl—that was my mother and my sister he was talking about—I chose instead to play the ghost. Neither there nor not there. Just floating along beside them.

“Speaking of ghosts, if we don’t see any, I’m gonna be disappointed,” my dad said. “I don’t care if they’re real, as long as they try.” He shook his head while we waited for the elevator. “I swear the only reason she picked this place is because there’s a museum in town that made some stupid list on some stupid website she happened across.”

Jake shrugged. “Any place with an open bar is fine by me.”

Like my parents weren’t footing the bill for this entire weekend. My brother-in-law hadn’t even offered to pay his own way, as I always did, though I knew they’d never let me. That didn’t stop my dad from aiming a finger pistol at him, though.

Any man who was fond of alcohol was a son of his. Or something.

#

The door to the changing room swung open as we approached, seemingly of its own accord. My dad stepped through without reservation, reached into a velvet pouch, produced something small and shiny. “Jolly roger,” he announced. “Guess I’m going as a pirate.”

“Yarrr, matey,” Jake said, because there was a world in which that was funny.

I went next. “Crossbones, no skull.”

“Skeleton,” someone, perhaps the attendant we’d been told to expect, informed me. A hunchbacked and cross-eyed man stepped out from between racks of colorful clothing. “Would work better if there wasn’t so much meat on your bones, but we’ll make do.”

Was he calling me fat? Better not have been, because most of my bulk was muscle. The one time Jake had challenged me to a push-up contest, I’d kicked his ass. Then bested him by the narrowest of margins at pull-ups only to finish two minuets behind in a three mile. Would Uncle Same want me leaner before shipping my ass off to war? Sure. Were most guys with desk jobs both weaker and flabbier? Also yes.

“Is that a hydrant?” Jake asked, looking down at his own token. “Cool. My dad’s NYFD.” For some reason, he seemed to expect me to relate to that, even though mine was a lawyer. “Always wanted me to follow in his footsteps.”

Ah. That I understood. Crunching numbers for a bank did not make me a disappointment as far as I could tell, but hints had been dropped that it would have been nice to hang his own shingle. Addams and sons, never mind that he only had the one.

Could say something here about Cass not finishing college, but I won’t.

Okay, I just did. Guess I’m a shitty brother.

Better that than a shitty son.

Igor had produced a measuring tape. “You’ll need a cutlass,” he told my father, as though the breadth of his shoulders had anything to do with that. “And boots.”

“Obviously,” Jake said. “What’s a pirate without his boots?”

“And you,” the hunchback said, “need suspenders and a hardhat.” Mismatched eyes took in my brother-in-law’s physique. “No shirt, though. No shirt.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Thought this was a family-friendly establishment?”

“What gave you that impression?” Igor replied. Then he looked me over the way a bookie might a racehorse. “Underwear and body paint or head-to-toe spandex?”

“I’ll take option C.”

My dad frowned. “Play along, Will, or your mom will be mad.”

Right. My mom wanted me in a skintight costume. Or less than that.

“Have you got any girdles?” Jake asked, smacking my midsection.

So I didn’t have a six-pack abs like he did. Wasn’t like I had a beer gut. Any time he wanted a rematch of that push-up contest, I was down. As long as we skipped the run.

“We’ve got something better,” Igor informed us. “You’ll see.”

Skeptical? So was I.

Turned out he was right, though.

Don’t ask me to explain it. Between the limited number of items hanging from the racks, an awareness that one-size-fits-all is really one-size-fits-some, and several cryptic comments from the hotel staff, never mind that the last time someone had measured my inseam was when I’d gotten fitted for a tux to wear to my sister’s wedding, which I’d had to do that weeks ahead of time, I probably should have guessed that normal rules did not apply. But in my defense rational minds do not readily reach for supernatural explanations.

No other sort remained once Igor was done, however.

Yes, I do know how that sounds. No, I don’t think Halloween being just around the corner rendered the idea any less ludicrous. Barriers between worlds, old Celtic festival of Samhain, blah, blah, blah. What happened to us in that changing room was not happens-only-once-a-year strange, it was never-happens-at-all-and-for-damn-good-reason strange.

The kind of strange where a man snaps his fingers and your outfit, your physique, even your face is dramatically altered. Where you don’t just put on a costume but become someone else entirely. Someone who is still mostly recognizable.

The best possible version of yourself. Or something to that effect.

“Like what see?” Igor asked us collectively after one mirror became three, none of which remained fixed to a plaster wall. “If not, I make minor adjustments.”

I studied my reflection, looking down at the me outside the mirror a few times to be sure the two matched, to be sure the brand of fuckery we were dealing with was not simply that of a funhouse. I didn’t love that every contour was visible, the only mystery concerning tattoos and body hair, but I did love having the kind of body that allowed one to dress that way without it seeming like a cruel joke or gross oversight. All the more so because the guy whose physique I was so envious of was in fact me. Sorta. Those were the biceps I’d built, the shoulders I’d given myself, though I’d never had abs so defined that when I tensed them you could pretty much see the six-pack through a layer of spandex. That face wasn’t exactly mine, what with that jawline and the prominent cheekbones, but there was more than a passing similarity. It wasn’t me in that skintight suit, yet it was. And that wasn’t hilarious, even though it kinda was. Not like I’d be wearing it in public. Just to a cocktail hour in a supposedly haunted hotel during Halloween season. There’d be no mothers of small children there, gasping in shock and covering young eyes to spare them their first exposure to pornography. Only grown-ups there to have a good time, grown-ups who’d signed release forms even if they hadn’t read them as closely as they should have, or read them at all because they’d let someone sign for them, all of whom would be in their own costumes.

Their own supernatural, fat-melting, muscle-building, logic-defying costumes.

What the heck had my mom gotten us into? Some kinda sex thing? Were we at a holiday-themed swingers resort? Was that why the clerk had been so surprised that one of the rooms would be shared by a brother and sister? Had to be, right?

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

The time to worry about that was later, though. When Igor wasn’t staring at me, waiting for me to tell him I wanted to try the body paint instead of the spandex. Which I didn’t.

To my right, my father was debating with himself the merits of an eye patch, a peg leg, and a hook for a hand. Unsurprisingly, he settled on none of the above.

“Looking good, Dad,” I said.

And he was. Somewhere between Captain Morgan and Jack Sparrow. A dashing and dangerous figure, perhaps even dastardly, but not dirty. Or disgraced. This was a man who’d taken to the seas because it excited him, because he enjoyed the freedom. There was no hangman’s noose, fitting reward for petty thievery, awaiting him on land.

Kinda felt bad for my mom now that I thought about it. She had a thing for Johnny Depp, that role in particular, though she refused to admit it. Clean him up a bit, find a way to swap him out for her husband without losing too much of the appeal, and she would do more than swoon. She’d get feral. Primal. Would probably pounce him in the ballroom.

So actually it was my dad I should feel bad for. Poor guy wouldn’t get any sleep tonight. Can’t say I’m glad I know this about my parents, that I’ve known it for years, but she always wears him out when we go on vacation. Without supernatural interference.

“Can I at least get a coat?” Jake asked, turning this way and that to admire his own musculature. To my eye, he didn’t look that different, hadn’t gained or lost as much weight as I was pretty sure I had, but it’s not like I was used to seeing him with his shirt off. “I’ll wear it open; a chest this good needs to be seen. But I’m feeling kinda naked.”

The tightest of T-shirts appeared then vanished. Igor tilted his head this way and that, said, “Is perfect as is.” Then made a gesture that was probably supposed to be a chef’s kiss.

I should have been freaked out. On some level, I knew that. The hotel claimed to be haunted and clearly did have supernatural events taking place inside its walls. Yet this felt less like the start of a horror movie than a fantasy novel. One by Neil Gaiman.

By the end of the night, we’d find out the owner of the hotel was some long-forgotten minor deity of harvest festivals and orgies. And after we checked out, none of us would remember anything that might sound strange to our friends and coworkers.

“I don’t know about you guys, but I’m ready for a cocktail,” my father proclaimed as he checked for missing wrinkles, counted the remaining gray hairs. “Something with rum.”

#

It wasn’t until the door at the opposite end of the ballroom opened and one of the most stunning creatures I’ve ever laid eyes on came through that it finally dawned on me that I’d soon see my mother and my sister as I never hoped to see them. That I might react to seeing them in ways I did not wish to react. That no man—or woman, I suppose—can control such reactions. Our eyes see what they see, our bodies respond as bodies respond, and only later do we get to decide how to feel about that. Just usually isn’t an issue because our moms and our sisters don’t tend to walk around in ultra-revealing costumes that somehow, inexplicably, have also made them look younger, thinner, curvier, sexier in every possible way.

This particular costume did more than that, having turned her hair into fire and made her skin red. I don’t mean ruddy or sunburned but the color of blood. And while there are natural redheads, I’ve never met anyone whose scalp was literally burning. Or, um, not burning, even though it should have been. Like the fake logs in an electric fireplace.

None of that detracted from her appeal, much as one might think it should. It was just hard not notice her crimson complexion and the fiery tongues dancing atop her head. Nearly as hard as it was to not notice her black halter top and matching hot pants, her leather choker and thigh-high leather boots. Her amazing figure, slender overall yet surprisingly ample in a few select places. Women with waists like that do not often have asses like that, let alone tits that big. Unless they’re fake, in which case they tend to behave like beach balls, sitting high on her chest without any support and retaining their shape no matter what position she’s in and what’s being done to them. Judging by the way those things bounced, the way they responded to gravity and momentum, I very much doubted they were silicone.

While not a religious man, I said a quick prayer then, asking the bearded man in the sky to spare me the torture of finding out that the she-devil was my mother. The stupid skeleton costume did not offer many ways to hide my appreciation of her figure.

I don’t know whether anyone’s up there or if they’re in the habit of granting such requests, but it soon became clear that the woman with fire for hair, the succulent succubus, was here with the guy who’d come in after us. The one dressed as a cowboy.

Good for him.

“Why don’t you shoot Cass a text, see how late they’re running,” I told Jake between sips of some drink I’d never heard of. Something that tasted like apples, smelled like maple syrup, had the kick of a mule, and had come in a sugar-rimmed martini glass.

He pulled out his phone, swiped the screen, grunted. “No reception.”

Okay, that was a step in the wrong direction. A lack of cell phone services was right up there with dogs barking at nothing when it came to Warning Signs the Teens Shouldn’t Have Ignored and thus They Actually Kinda Deserve to Die.

Hotels often block the wifi in certain areas, though. Conference rooms and whatnot. Organizers ask them to so people actually pay some attention to the event.

At least, I’m pretty sure I read something about that once. And not on one of those vaccines-turn-you-into-a-reptile sites either. I don’t think.

One thing I was sure about was that if my mother and my sister didn’t show up soon, and that didn’t cause me to reconsider the Gaiman theory in favor of something a lot darker, I’d be an idiot. Even more of an idiot than you have to be to voluntarily spend the night in a place called The Unhallowed less than two weeks before All Hallow’s Eve.

When my mom had first mentioned it, I’d snickered, thinking someone was trying way too hard to attract horrorheads like me and my dad. Now, I found myself wondering if It’s In the Damn Name belonged on the same list as No Signal and Animals Sense it First.

Just when I was about to say some of this aloud, the door opposite us opened again and two more women joined what was starting to look like an actual cocktail hour. I mean, yeah, the costumed bartenders slinging fancy drinks and buffet table loaded with savories that someone had gone to commendable lengths to Halloweenify—from spinach dip served in a bread cauldron to puff pastry shaped like intestines and some kind of finger food that looked like actual fingers—already did that. A ballroom that’s close to empty is one of the saddest sights imaginable, though. So whether the newcomers were Cass and Mom or not, they still breathed some life into the party, still loosened the knot between my shoulder blades.

Looked damned good doing it too.

Shouldn’t have thought that, I know, not when the odds were that one of them was my mother and the other my sister. Yet think it I did. And you’d have done the same.

The curvier one, who I refused to think of as heavy, let alone apply a word that started with F, wore a bunny costume. No bowtie, no cuffs, nothing to tie her to Mr. Heffner; just a sequined silk teddy, hot pink, headband with floppy ears, also pink, this time trimmed with white fur, no tights or stockings, somewhat disappointingly, and pink heels that had the cutest little puffs of cotton near the toes. Presumably there was another ball of cotton around back, though she hadn’t granted us the pleasure of a rear view yet.

Wow. Double wow. Maybe a third wow.

Most men would say she was too thick. Most men are idiots. Her arms were not as willowy as they could have been, her cheeks could possibly be described as puffy, and no one would expect to find prominent hip bones, defined abs, or Venus dimples waiting for them if they were lucky enough to get her out of that teddy; all the same, her stomach was flat, her waist a lot narrower than her hips, and the contours of her body called to mind an hourglass. So she was carrying a little more weight than other women in the room; most of the difference came from places where it was most welcome. Her hips, her thighs, presumably her ass, definitely her tits. The she-devil’s were not small, yet the bunny’s almost made them appear to be. Hers were the size of her head, maybe even bigger.

I know, I know, that sort of thing shouldn’t matter as much as her personality, what sort of person she is deep down, whether she’s my freaking mother. Can anyone honestly say looks don’t matter to them, though? I’ve met a lot of people, male and female alike, straight and gay, who swear they don’t have a type; I’ve met precious few whose behavior does not betray a pattern. It is what it is. No sense fighting it. There’s a part of me that wants to criticize guys who only go for stick figures, accuse them of contributing to our cultural obsession with thinness and the epidemic of eating disorders, but I’ve never once dated a girl whose bra wasn’t at least a D cup. Different kind of problematic, that’s all.

And not something I can change.

Have I tried? Yes, actually. There was this girl in high school who ticked most of my boxes, smart, funny, dark hair, brown eyes, pretty face, but flat as a board. I enjoyed talking to her, flirting with her, even went on a few dates with her. At least, I think they qualified as dates. Never went further than that, though. Mutual decision, I’d say, but was her lack of interest a response to my lack of interest? And would I have been more interested if her bust had been bigger? I’m pretty sure I know the answers to those questions. I’m not remotely proud of them, but I think I know what they are. And anyone out there who says they can’t tell a similar story—if not about cup size, then height or weight, skin color, something—they’re lying. To themselves as much anyone else.

Anyway, point is, the woman in the bunny costume could not have appealed to me more. I understand that some men would not react the same way, would only find her moderately attractive, or even convince themselves that she was devoid of sex appeal, no matter how objectively wrong that would make them; I understand, and that means about as much to me as who got voted off the island on the last episode of Big Brother’s Masked Talent. Everything I look for, in full knowledge of how shallow that makes me, was on display: big breasts, a proportionate lower body, pale skin, dark hair, brown eyes. Full lips too. Tiny feet. Sexy shoes. Shiny shoes. A way of carrying herself that simultaneously conveyed confidence and modestly, like she would never demand attention yet knew she’d get it all the same, would neither shy away from conversation nor feign interest if you couldn’t hold up your end for fear that no one else would talk to her.

Was I trying to extract too much information from what little had been provided? Her outfit and her body language, which I’d observed for all of ten seconds? Maybe. Probably. My heart was ready to burst, though. As were other organs. I both wanted her to approach and didn’t, wanted to know more about her yet feared I already knew a lot. And I was forced to admit, if not for the first time then for the first time with such clarity, that one woman possessed all the qualities that mattered—the ones I was supposed to care about.

That woman was my mother.

An equally awkward realization was that Cass did too, if not to the same degree. She was not as mature, as giving, as intellectually curious, as our mother. She was some or all of those things to at least a somewhat greater degree than either of my ex-girlfriends, though.

And her outfit was quite possibly the best one I’d seen so far. She didn’t fill it out the way the bunny did hers, which was my eyes had gravitated elsewhere, but the French maid is a classic for a reason. Black mini dress trimmed with white lace, an attached apron, more lace found in headpiece, collar, and cuffs, the sexiest of stockings, thigh-high fishnets, a nice shiny pair of pumps, and, of course, a black feather duster. There’s just no topping that. Perfect combination of classy and racy, more likely to be found in a strip club than a penthouse apartment, in that particular form anyway, yet still calling to mind the latter. If the woman in that outfit was Cass, I’d never look at my sister the same way again.

I didn’t want to think such thoughts. Were it remotely possible to unthink them, I would. Yet there they were. As I watched the woman approach, looked them up and down, took in the details of their outfits and their physiques, I found myself falling for them hard. One harder than the other, perhaps, but more than was appropriate both cases.

Again, I asked the bearded man in the sky to spare me. To have the bunny and the maid walk right past us and embrace a couple of guys I hadn’t even realized had entered the ballroom. A werewolf and a clown, a cop and Frankenstein’s monster, whatever. Whoever. For them to be lesbians, not accompanied by or interested in any menfolk. Something, anything, other than what the cold pit in my stomach told me was very likely the truth.

“Couldn’t find someone a little bonier to wear that?” the maid asked, whipping the tips of her fingers against my abdomen. She’d done that before, many times, but encountered brick as a result. Had never looked up at me with wide eyes and an expression that was not quite as neutral as she’d perhaps meant for it to be. Nor had her breathing visibly quickened, as indicated by the flare of her nostrils and rise and fall of her considerable chest.

Jake snorted. “Drawn at random, same as yours.”

“Sweetie, nothing about me is random,” said the maid, who I was still hoping would somehow prove to not be Cass. “Might seem that way to you, but it’s not.”

The bunny rolled her eyes. “If we’d had our pick, I’d have gone with the witch.” She glanced down at herself, as if noticing for the first time just how much was on display. “Probably comes with a skirt that doesn’t reach the hips, never mind the ankles, though.”

Sure enough, the other guests were starting to trickle in, and the one with the pointy cap was indeed wearing a black dress that barely covered her bottom. That wouldn’t cover it if she went up on tiptoes for whatever reason. Granted, that high collar would not have put a deep fissure on display the way my mom’s teddy, which was stiff enough to be a corset, did. Would not have left a canyon open for unsuspecting men to fall into. I’m sure she’d have appreciated that, even if her legs were every bit as exposed as they currently were. Genuine modestly did not appear to be an option, though. Just partial approximations thereof.

“Are you the playmate of the month?” my dad asked my mom. Because he’s smooth like that. She made no attempt to stop his hands from settling atop her hips, though. Lucky bastard. “Where can I buy a calendar that’s all Octobers?”

There was that fingertip thing again. I’d never realized my sister had gotten that from our mom. “Same place I’d go to buy a bottle of Henry Goldbeard rum, I imagine.”

“Henry Goldbeard?” Cass and I said in unison.

“Shh,” both our parents said moments before their lips touched.

“Gross,” one of us said, turning away.

Only for her own husband to step close, tilt her chin, and initiate a far more passionate kiss. The kind I felt guilty being in close proximity to, whether I watched it or not.

And watch I did. Only out of the corner of my eye, and I was no less ashamed of that than I should have been, but nonetheless I failed where countless times before I had succeeded. My heart beat faster with each passing second, fueled by a mixture of jealousy, arousal, and disbelief, given how chaste the other kiss was in comparison, and the aching throb between my legs made me wish yet again there was a waistband to tuck myself into.

The prospect of my sister realizing she was responsible, in whole or in part, for the distortion in my costume hit me and my head spun, knees wobbled, and I downed the rest of my drink in hopes of alleviating symptoms I knew that would only exacerbate. By the time Jake decided to see if he could get away with squeezing her ass, I decided it was time for another drink. The polite thing to do would have been to ask my mother and my sister what they wanted, of course, but I couldn’t stand there a moment longer.

Besides, women love surprises. Just because I hadn’t thought to ask didn’t mean I had to return empty handed. Might as well fix a plate of stuff to nibble on while I was at it.

“Hey, so how’s that work?” the cowboy asked while I waited for a round of drinks. “Ain’t great at math, but that looks like an odd number over there.” One half of his stubbly face turned up. “Well, it’s even now, with you standing here. So are you the fifth wheel?”

“What’s it to you?” I asked, rather pointedly eyeolating the demoness. “Tired of sucking her horns? Jerking that barbed tail?”

He rested a hand on the pommel of his fake gun, swayed his hips. “Just wondering which little lady’s gonna have herself a threesome later. Assuming that’s your role.”

“Whole idea’s to mix things up, isn’t it?” I ventured, hoping my new friend could not hear the heavy thumps coming from inside my chest. “That’s why we’re here?”

A slow nod. “Not with the other guests.”

Then who?

I could tell he wanted to laugh at me. That he managed not to probably counted for something. Not much, though. “The, uh, ghosts. If that’s what they really are.”

So my parents had brought me and my sister to a swingers resort, as I’d suspected. Whether they’d done it knowingly or not was almost immaterial at that point. We were here now and the fun was already starting, was far enough along to make things awkward. If Cass and I were a little younger, this weekend would traumatize us for life. Might anyway.

All of which seemed like minor details compared to the bomb my cowboy friend had just dropped. People came here to have sex with ghosts, to watch their spouses do so.

Did that make them necrophiliacs? Necrovoyeurs? Necrocuckolds?

Probably not. Close enough to weird me the fuck out, though.

“If that’s what they really are?” I finally managed.

He tipped his hat at me, a true cowboy farewell, then returned to Ms. Red. The kiss she gave him, the way her hot body pressed against his, the familiarity of his hand on her round butt, all suggested the fire was still burning bright.

That was a small-minded way to think about things, though. I had no practical experience with such things but had read a bit about them. About all sorts of things I’d never tried and probably didn’t want to. Guess that makes me sound like a perv, though if I told you how much time I’ve spent reading about paganism, about historic trade routes and modern monetary theory, about all sorts of esoterica, you might just think I’m a dork who needs to get out more. Both are probably true. Anyway, I knew enough to know there didn’t have to be anything wrong with a relationship for one or both partners to want to open it up. Just couldn’t help looking at those two, at the other couples in the ballroom—and they did mostly seem to be couples—without wondering what what their story was.

“How long’ve you worked here?” I asked one of the bartenders. When he held up three fingers, which I took to mean three Octobers, given the establishment’s nature, I said, “Are you allowed to say anything? Is what we’re hoping will happen gonna happen?”

The two bartenders looked at each other, went right back to fixing drinks. Only after three glasses sat sweating atop a silver tray did the one lean in and whisper, “It is, but if I were you, I wouldn’t be hoping for it. I’d keep my hands to myself. Look, but don’t touch.”

I raised an eyebrow at him. He stared me dead in the eye, said nothing.

A five spot made its way from my wallet to the tray of drinks.

The bartender took Mr. Lincoln and stuffed him in a jar. “Don’t have too much fun,” he told me, sounding for all the world like a warning against drunk driving. Even though we were in a hotel and no one besides the staff would be driving anywhere that night.

#

My understanding of cocktail hours is that they last about an hour, maybe two. Cash bar or open, the drinks stop being served when the food is cleared away.

Not so here.

Around nine, the bar and the buffet table were moved from the middle of the room to opposite walls and the latter was cleared off. Only to be covered again with as many platters, piled just as high with food. The only difference was that these were desserts. Ghost-shaped sugar cookies, dead velvet cake, and brownies drizzled with orange frosting and sprinkled with candy corn. The last thing that did was encourage anyone to leave.

Shortly thereafter, a sound system I hadn’t noticed before came on, started blasting old-timey stuff, spooky stuff. Monster Mash, Spooky Scary Skeletons, Thriller, you get the idea. We Addamses had no choice but to snap our fingers in time with a certain theme song. Nor was staying off the dance floor an option. Every last one of us, Cass included, had two left feet, but every last one of us also had two to three drinks in our system, in some cases four to five, and we’d have been the only wallflowers.

Let me tell you something, though: dancing with your mother or your sister at a wedding is one thing, at a supernatural swingers spot quite another. Atmosphere’s entirely different. Outfits are entirely different. Blood flow’s different. I’d never look at Cass the same way again after this weekend, I knew that already, yet neither would I be as tempted to grope her, to grind up on her, to nibble her ear while her husband patiently waited his turn, or did much the same to our mom, the next time we were at a family function. When there’s grandparents in the room, little children and friends of friends whose names you should know but don’t, you expect uncommon levels of intimacy between brother and sister to get a certain reaction. Not a positive one. In that room, that night, with that crowd? It almost felt like we’d letting everyone down, maybe even spitting in their faces, if we didn’t.

“You’re, uh, kinda getting into it, aren’t ya?” Cass said at one point, thigh rubbing repeatedly against the erection I couldn’t hide. Sort of, but not quite, hiding it for me. “Should I be flattered? Or does it do that for just anyone?”

“What do you think?”

Her hand went to the back of my head, nails pressing gently against my scalp, and her breath was hot on my neck. “Just anyone,” she whispered so seductively it took me a moment to realize she was steering the conversation in the other direction.

The one I should have wanted her to steer it in.

“You’re right,” I lied. Was there a single woman in that room who wouldn’t have a similar effect on me? No, probably not. Igor’s counterpart had seen to that. There were plenty outside the hotel who did nothing for me, though. Plenty who couldn’t begin to compete with Cass, even though she was my sister and thus should have occupied the four-billionth-three-hundred-millionth spot on my list. Shouldn’t appear anywhere on it, as even putting her name at the bottom acknowledged the possibility.

“Aren’t I always?”

“And you don’t do that costume justice,” I added, though it was another lie. Did I like our mom’s figure better? Or the one The Unhallowed had given our mom, however you chose to look at it? Yes, yes I did. Was Cass basically the same woman only younger and thinner, if not so thin as to lack curves? Yes, yes she was. Heck, if she got to keep the costume, she’d be the most attractive woman everywhere she went from now on—as long as our mom wasn’t there and hadn’t also been allowed to keep her costume. Same eyes, same hair, if a little longer, same porcelain complexion, same plump lips. Similar shape to her body. Less extreme in its proportions, but still an hourglass. “They should have given you a pumpkin.”

Genuine hurt flashed across her face and our bodies moved apart. “Damn, Will. First you call me an emotionless Goth, then you call me fat. What’s next? Insult my intelligence?”

“No, Cass, I’m sorry,” I said, pulling her toward me.

She jerked back. Hands still on my shoulders, leg still between mine, but only until the song ended, I’d wager. And that was only because she didn’t want to make a scene.

“Look, the truth is I’m seeing you a new light tonight,” I began.

“We’re all seeing each other that way,” Cass replied. “Because we’re basically drugged.”

Drugged?

“Just not with chemicals,” she added, having seen my reaction. “Or maybe with chemicals, I don’t know. Seems like it started before I even drank anything, ate anything, but, yeah, I’m feeling….” Her eyes met mine and none of the usual hostility was to be found there. The look wasn’t playful either. She burned with desire. “Haven’t been this hot and bothered since my wedding night.” Her wedding night? I thought the stupid ceremonies we ought to have moved past by now, as a culture, left little room for anything but exhaustion. “Maybe ever,” she continued. “Jake’s got something to do with that, but it’s not just him.”

“The cowboy does have a nice ass.”

Her fingertips whipped against my chest. “I’m talking about you, asshole. And Dad. Fuck, I hate myself for saying this, for feeling it, but the two of you are turning me on.”

Since when did the theme to Ghostbusters have such a thumping bass line?

Oh, right, that was my heart.

Technically, my sister’s admission wasn’t much of one; her body had been sending the same message for a while. Girl couldn’t keep her hands off me and more than I could her, and I rather doubted she was keeping my dick trapped between her thigh and mine to save me the embarrassment of everyone noticing. Knowing she wanted me was one thing, having her express it physically another, with verbal confirmation in a different solar system.

“If you weren’t married….”

She laughed. “That’s the hangup?” Our bodies had moved closer together. The hand on my shoulder roamed, gliding down my chest, then back up, over to my arm, gave my tricep a squeeze before returning to one of my thick traps. I could tell by her breathing, by the occasional tightening of her palm, that Cass wasn’t just having trouble figuring out what to do with that hand. “Not the whole same-mom-and-dad thing?”

A lot of women aren’t into hulking men. I know that, yet I keep pumping iron for some reason. Maybe out of a sense of inadequacy. Either way, there are some women for whom more is more. Who look at The Rock the way our mom does Johnny Depp.

Cass was one of those women.

That’s not something I was learning there on the dance floor. That was something I’d known for years. Something Jake knew too, though he was under the impression that he only fell short of her ideal by a small amount and that didn’t really bother her, whereas I had heard her say, once, after she’d had a bit too much to drink, that he ought to be less concerned about the size of his dick and more concerned about the size of his biceps.

Had that been in the back of my mind when I’d started lifting? Had I know it then? Or was the reverse possible? Did my sister develop a taste for bulk because of me?

The possibilities made my head swim. For the most part, I both believed and wanted to believed that tonight was an anomaly, that whatever supernatural forces were at work in The Unhallowed were responsible. Were making us feel things we’d never have felt otherwise. Now I was forced to consider the possibility that they’d merely found that which was already there and metastasized it. Nurtured it, to go with a less loaded metaphor.

I was, and had long been, my sister’s type. And she was mine. Less so than the woman our mother had become for this one night, yet more so than every other woman alive.

And I’d just told her I wanted to fuck her. That I would, if not for Jake. And all she’d done was laugh at the absurdity of me caring more about him than our shared genetics.

What was so strange about that, though? I’d never given the matter much thought, and none out of personal interest, but I’d taken a philosophy class in college that used a brother and sister vacationing a country that had no laws against incest as a thought experiment, one of two, the other pertaining to the desecration of graves or some such, I don’t remember, to prove a point about moral reasoning. Apparently, if you found “that’s just wrong” to be a satisfying argument, an acceptable argument, you were a bit of a rube. The more educated a person is, the more they exhibit critical thinking, the more likely they are to think terms of consequences and context. To understand that one can object to fathers abusing their underage daughters, which no one would defend, yet not object to a brother and sister having a little fun together if it’s not against the law and she’s on birth control.

“Some would say both those things should bother me,” I said. “One does.”

“Some would say,” Cass echoed.

I did not take the bait.

Didn’t even tell her that her husband wouldn’t bother an issue if she got his permission. Nothing sacrosanct about monogamy in my mind. Honoring vows, though? Doing your best to not intentionally hurt or betray the trust of those you love? Yeah, I was pretty big on that. I would not destroy my sister’s marriage so the two of us could experience a few fleeting minutes of physical pleasure. I would, however, happily be her side piece, as long as Jake knew about it and was free to get one of his own.

Or maybe I only thought that because I was under the influence. Maybe I’d be horrified at the memory of such thoughts, assuming we kept our memories, once all this was over.

“Well, they both bother me,” Cass said, and it almost sounded convincing. Her lungs must have been pumping like bellows; the rise and fall of her chest almost knocked me over. “I’m telling you how I feel, not my plans for the rest of the night.” She paused briefly then added, “Also telling you I’m pretty sure our feelings are not our own right now.”

“Understood,” I said, about as truthfully as she’d claimed that avoiding incest was as big a deal to her as being true to her husband.

“Two beds in that room for a reason,” she went on, “and if Jake and I decide we can’t behave ourselves, unfair as I know that is to you, you’re going to pretend to be asleep.”

Considering she’d just slapped me down, metaphorically speaking, there was no reason to grin. Hearing that my sister and her husband might have sex while I was in the room with them, though, and all she asked was that I pretend not to hear, gave me a rush.

“So, the, uh, bartender said something interesting earlier,” I said, changing the subject.

I could tell she didn’t believe me. At first. By the time the next song ended, apparently we’d danced for two, I’d gotten her to promise not to have sex with any ghosts.

Now I just had to get my mom and dad to do the same.

#

The trick, I soon learned, was not getting people to promise not to boink specters and phantasms but knowing who amongst us qualified as such. The number of costumed revelers gradually doubled, and a cautionary look from the bartender told me everything I needed to know about the newcomers, but they looked just like everyone else.

Well, not just like us. There was but one skeleton, one cowboy, one French maid, one bunny, you get the idea. I just mean that anyone who hadn’t paid enough attention when cocktail hour started would have trouble telling the living from the dead.

If dead they were. Sure didn’t look it.

Even those of us who had paid attention could get them mixed up. Easy mistake to make when the ghosties don’t glow or moan, don’t float above the ground, don’t do anything to give themselves away. Especially since we’d all been drinking and the who-knows-if-it’s-just-alcohol theory was looking stronger and stronger. Gun to my head, though, which I suppose there metaphorically was, I’d have said that the vampire, the wolfman, the cop, and the caveman were all ghosts, and that the same was true of the fairy princess, the black cat, the nurse, and the Catholic schoolgirl. Shame too, because all four were obscenely attractive.

Judging by the amount of staring they were doing, Jake and my dad thought so too. One seemed particularly fond of the schoolgirl, who had blonde hair and green eyes but was built a lot like Cassia, the other was more drawn to the redheaded nurse.

For that reason, and that reason only, I dragged my sister and my mother back onto the dance floor, even though both had complained about their feet starting to hurt. Not because I wanted to rub against them some more, feel the one’s lips brush against my right ear then the other my left, or enjoy the looks on the other guys’ faces when they saw me dancing with two women. The two most attractive women. No, no, none of that. I was genuinely concerned about their husbands and felt we needed to formulate a plan. Something more involved than wagging fingers at them and reminding them that someone had implied bad things might happen if they couldn’t keep their hands to themselves.

Had to agree to let them take their heels off first, but whatever. Made me feel taller.

“What if I don’t mind him bringing someone back to the room with us?” my mom asked at one point, perhaps rhetorically. Perhaps not. She’d been eyeing the cowboy and the cop both. “If he goes to their room with them and lets me play with whoever I want?”

That sent a frisson down my spine, through my sac, up my shaft. Didn’t matter that she hadn’t meant me, hadn’t so much as implied it. The wording was ambiguous enough that I could still tell myself she had, that her mind wasn’t necessarily made up.

What the fuck was wrong with me?

A lot.

Or maybe it was just The Unhallowed doing its thing. Hard to say.

“Um, okay, TMI, probably,” I said, as much for my sister’s benefit as our mom’s, “but also, there’s no problem with that as long none of them are ghosts. You want to hop in the cowboy’s saddle? As long as he feels the same, and that she-devil has a fire to burn, maybe Dad’s, go for it. None of my business. Just stay away from the cop.”

My mother pouted. Like a child. “But he’s cute.”

“He is,” Cass acknowledged. “Wouldn’t hurt him to beef up a bit, though.”

“Pffft, whatever,” our mom said. “Biceps are overrated.”

As she said this, she gave my back a squeeze. That was all she could reach, as I had one arm around her and one arm around my sister. One might think that was only to drive her point home anyway. If one hadn’t noticed the way her breath caught when I tensed the muscle, the way her hand lingered. The little purr in the back of her throat.

Never had I wanted anything the way I wanted my mom to ride me. Or to climb on top of her and have those thick thighs wrapped around me. To give it to her from behind, watching as my every thrust sent a waves across the pale seas of her bottom. To feel her soft lips and warm tongue on my cock, expertly guiding me toward climax, then watch as she hungrily gulped it down and begged for more.

As she snowballed my load to Cass, who would have split the dick-sucking duties with her. To be on the receiving end of a tag-team blowjob.

Had both my hands been creeping south since we’d got to the dance floor, arriving now at the tops of their bottoms? Was I gently squeezing two of the softest yet roundest asses I could imagine? Were those asses attached to none other than my sister and my mother?

Yes, yes, and yes.

One of them giggled. The other gave me flat look that quickly turned into a grin. A look that reminded me that she was my sister, even though I’d already told her that didn’t matter, and tried to scold yet conveyed far too much amusement to be effective.

“This is the part where he says the three of us should go up to your room,” Cass teased. “You really think that’s gonna work?”

“Think you could handle either one of us, let alone both?” our mom added. Only to cover her mouth with her hand, as though wishing she could take the words back.

How drunk was she?

“Don’t look at me,” the sister who often knew what I was thinking said. “I’m not her babysitter. And you’re the one who got the train rolling.”

I frowned. “How much have you had?”

Cass shrugged. “Didn’t finish the second. Was more interested in cookies and cake.” A guilty grin that wasn’t the least bit lascivious. “And brownies.”

Whatever was happening to us, it hadn’t erased our old personalities. Overwritten them partially perhaps? If that? Either way, Cass was a notorious sweet-tooth and chocoholic, and seeing that side of her now was strangely reassuring.

I mean, yeah, I would take that threesome if it was actually on offer. But I was glad that it wasn’t. Mostly. I think.

“This is the part where I suggest all five of us go back to our rooms,” I told my sister. “If you guys need some privacy, I’ll sleep in the hall. Ain’t about that. It’s about making sure there are no empty seats on the drive home that weren’t empty on the drive up.”

One of them, it seemed, thought I had a point. And was surprised to think that. Surprised I’d give up so easily on my quest to bed the two of them, preferably at the same time.

Joke was on her, because I hadn’t given up. Just realized that couldn’t be my top priority. Not if I ever wanted to look myself in the mirror again.

“Let me talk to Jake,” Cass said, slipping out from under my arm. When she saw that her husband was no longer standing off to the side, nursing a drink, but was instead talking to the schoolgirl and the caveman, who appeared to be her boyfriend/husband/fuck buddy, but did not appear to be the jealous type, she paused.

Just as I was about to say something, she steeled her resolve and marched toward Jake with a fierce determination that ought to have had him quaking in his boots.

“Ma, you doing okay? Seem a bit out of it.”

“Very,” she allowed, swaying languidly in my arms.

Very okay? Or very out of it?

“Let’s see if we can’t round up Dad,” I said.

“Don’t want him round. He’s nice and rectangular.” Her smile was goofy, gone. “Long and lean.” She smacked me on both arms. “Not like Will. Our son’s a block.”

Did she not know who she was talking to?

“Solid, dependable,” she went on. “Strong.”

My head spun. The words she was using to describe me were more flattering than the comparison she was trying to make required. Like she was trying to say my dad had the more appealing physique because she knew that was the right answer, the one she was supposed to give while talking to a man she thought was him, but couldn’t contort her thoughts into such a dishonest shape. Couldn’t forget how strong my back was.

“Bet he’s not as selfish as you are,” my mom continued, eyes no more than half open now. “As my husband is. Who are you again?” Her hand pressed against my cheek, found a beard where there shouldn’t be one. “That first girl Will brought home? Shouldn’t have looked at her phone, I know that, but I didn’t trust her. Thought she was cheating on him. And probably was. Know what I saw, though? Texts to one of her friends bragging about how good he is with his tongue. His tongue! When was the last time you did that for me?”

Finally got Dad’s attention. “Bedtime for this one,” I said, hand above Mom’s head so she couldn’t see me pointing at her. Which was only so much of a concern anyway, fast as she was fading. “Need help with that, or have you got it?”

“I think you’re old enough now that you can handle it,” he said patting me on the back.

And staring holes through the nurse.

“Dad,” I said in the sternest voice I could muster. “Bad idea.”

“You let me worry about that.”

I grabbed him by the sleeve. “Look, I don’t care if you cheat on Mom.” I did, actually, but I also realize that ultimately it’s none of my business. And that she’d as much as said it was okay earlier, though that had been conditional on getting to have some fun of her own. And mostly hypothetical. “If that’s all it was, I’d say my piece then back off. But it’s not.”

He rolled his eyes. “Will, you and I both know there’s no such thing as ghosts.” Back to his quarry, who’d noticed him noticing and was doing nothing to discourage his attentions. Quite the opposite. “And if there was, they wouldn’t look like that.”

Probably true. I’d certainly thought that myself. Heck, the bartender who’d issued that warning had sounded pretty skeptical about their ghostly nature.

“Besides,” he added, “I would never cheat on your mother. I’m just gonna talk to her.”

“You meant flirt with her.”

“Flirting isn’t cheating.”

There were those who would beg to differ.

“Jake and Cass went up,” I said, trying a different tack. Was only pretty sure that was true, that they hadn’t simply gone to the bathroom or outside for some fresh air.

He bent over, face level with my mom’s. “Would it be okay if I stay up for a while? Will said he’d take care of you.” There was real affection in the way he swept a lock of hair out of her eyes, tucked it behind an ear. “Hon? Heather? Whaddaya say?”

“At’s fine,” she mumbled. “He’s a good boy.”

“He is,” my dad said, giving my check an affectionate and patronizing pat.

I still wanted to argue. But he was my father. No matter how big you get, how much you can bench, standing up to your old man is never easier than it was in high school. Mine wasn’t the strictest, nor was he violent, so it’s not like I was scared of him or anything. Don’t have to be afraid to know you can’t win an argument, though.

So I played the only card I had left. “Just wanna go on the record—”

His lips pursed. “And so you have. Objection noted.”

The nurse was on her way over, eager to introduce herself.

If Mom was still awake, it was only just. I scooped her up, surprising myself with own strength, or perhaps that was just how light she was now, and carried her out of the ballroom. Into the elevator. Across the threshold of their room. No symbolism there.

After sitting her in a chair and waking her up as best I could, I made my mom drink a full cup of water. Then I waited for her to go to the bathroom and, since she was in there anyway, change out of the bunny costume and into one of her flannel nightgowns.

I was somewhat relieved and somewhat disappointed to see had the obvious effect on her figure and her face, and everything else. To see the years and pounds return, see her hair lose its luster and nails their polish. The utterly irresistible woman who’d reminded me of my mother, who I’d considered bedding not in spite of but because of that, had been replaced by the one I’d lost so man points for staying in touch with, the one who had dedicated almost all of her adult life to ensuring the health and happiness of her children.

Husband too, yet he was not alone in thinking we came first. Which I guess meant he was entitled to some slack. Just wasn’t easy because I was starting to realize that, no matter what she looked like, I always had and always would love my mom in ways I could never love any other woman. When defending myself against accusations of precisely that, I’d genuinely believed my own lies. Time to let go of them.

I waited until I was sure she was asleep, safe and sound. Same as she’d have done for me. Same as she had done, countless times in years past.

#

A text from Cass informed me that she and Jake needed some privacy, though not for the reason I suspected. Also informed that our phones worked just fine outside the ballroom, which was good. The fewer horror movie cliches, the less I had to worry.

So I sat in the hall, by the vending machines. Far enough away that I wouldn’t hear them arguing. Which was pretty obviously what they were doing.

“Don’t stay up too late,” I told Jake when he walked past.

“Fuck off,” he said.

Lovely.

Cass wasn’t crying when I got to the room. It was important to her that I see that. Too bad I could also see that she had been, see how puffy her cheeks and how red her eyes were.

“We can talk about it or not,” I said, sitting on the bed beside her, arm around her. “Take turns calling him names, watch a movie, or play whatever games are on the TV.”

An awkward laugh, carrying real mirth yet weighed down by other things, passed through her lips. “You’re not so bad. Sometimes.” The beginnings of a smile. “Every now and then, like right now, you’re downright tolerable. Why is it again that you’re still single?”

My turn to laugh. “Number once complaint seems to be that I’m a mama’s boy.”

“Hmm,” Cass said. “Fair, honestly. And, yeah, that’s a lot to deal with.”

“You suck at this,” I said.

“At what, cheering you up? Isn’t that what you’re supposed to be doing for me?”

Still had our costumes on. I could think of a few ways to make my sister forget about her husband for an hour or two. To convince myself that overattachment to our mother did not necessarily mean my love life was doomed, though fulfillment would probably only be found closer to home. The expression on her face told me Cass was thinking the same thing.

And not in horror.

“Will, we can’t—”

Already on my feet, I went to my bag, found some clothes suitable to sleep in. “Gonna change.” I glanced over my shoulder. “Spell breaks when you take the costume off.”

“Shouldn’t it be at the stroke of midnight?”

“That’s when you turn into a pumpkin.”

One of her nice, shiny heels sailed across the room. “You and pumpkins.”

When I came back out, I saw that Cass had changed as well. Still looked good, unfortunately for me. How had I never noticed that? I mean, I’d been vaguely aware that my sister met conventional standards of attractiveness reasonably well, that some of my friends had wanted to date her, that if she’d settled for Jake that had more to do with her self-esteem than a genuine lack of options, but I’d also heard countless complaints about how she couldn’t lose weight, her hair never did what she wanted it to, and yet another guy had ghosted her. If you’d asked a thousand guys to rate her on a scale from one to ten, I probably could have guessed the average with as much accuracy as she could for me. In short, I knew my sister was hot, not smoking hot but hot, yet had never felt the heat myself.

Until tonight.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” she asked from behind a pillow.

“Like what?”

“Seeing me for the first time. Some shit like that.”

With a sigh, I sat down on the other bed. Nowhere near her. “There’s something weird about this place.” Understatement of the year. And another entry on the list. “Don’t know if I’d say it’s haunted, and those definitely weren’t ghosts down there, but I don’t like it.”

“Me either,” Cass said. “Are you sure they weren’t ghosts?”

Mostly. “What did you two fight about?”

“What do you think?”

“Your crazy family? Whether it’d be okay for him to go back down there and have another drink? Who’s ahead by how much in your running game of Told You So?”

Again she hid behind a pillow. “Don’t want to talk about. Put a movie on. Something scary, as long as it’s not about vampires. I’m sooo over vampires.”

#

Someone was trying to throttle me. I flailed about, trying to shake them loose.

“Will! Will, stop it! Get the fuck out of bed!”

Only Cass. And she wasn’t trying to hurt me. “What’s going on?”

“Jake never came back. Neither did Dad. Mom’s freaking out.”

“What time is it?”

“Almost eleven. Time to check out.”

I bolted upright. “What? How could I sleep so late?”

“I don’t know!” My sister was practically screeching. Under the circumstances, I suppose it was hard to blame her. “Know how many times I tried to wake you up?”

Too many. “Has anyone spoken to the manager?”

Fist on hip, Cass asked if I was serious without opening her mouth. “You know who our mother is, right? You have met her? Seen her in action?”

Right. Right, right. “What did they say?”

“Not a whole heck of a lot. Nothing that makes any sense.”

#

The door closed behind Sam, who was not a clerk but had dressed as the grim reaper last night. He gestured for us all to sit down, sighed when our mom refused to, which meant that Cass and I refused to, and took a seat himself. “As I said, you’re welcome to call the police, but they won’t let you file a missing persons—”

“Fuck the police,” our mom said. Huge N.W.A. fan, apparently. “Fuck missing persons. You know something. I’m not going anywhere until you tell us what.”

“Well, then can I offer you some coff—”

A stomp of her foot, nothing more. Might as well have been a gunshot. Poor Sam nearly fell on the floor. “What. Aren’t. You. Telling. Us?”

Always gave me the chills when she bit her words off like that.

“I’ve told you everything I can.”

Mom shook her head. “See, that right there was a careful dodge. Technically not a lie. You are hiding something, but you’ll get in trouble if you don’t keep hiding it, so—”

The weariest of sighs interrupted her. “I’ll tell you. But you’re not going to like it.”

Now she sat down. So did my sister. Only two chairs on this side of the desk, though, so I remained standing. Hovering over them like some sort of bodyguard.

And why not? I had no training, was no more violent by nature than my father, but if that’s what it took to protect my mother and my sister? To find our father? Heck even a husband Cass was probably better off without? Yeah, I could smash some skulls.

“They’re trapped in the hotel,” Sam said. His voice was incredibly calm. Not the practiced and professional detachment of a doctor delivering bad news, though. The sound of someone who just didn’t care. Who was only telling us this because he believed my mother when she’d said she wasn’t going to leave until he did. “There’s a reason we say this place is haunted,” he continued, in that same tone. “Your husband is now part of that reason.”

“Bullshit,” Mom said, though I could tell she believed him. Didn’t want to, knew propriety demanded that she not, yet did. A feeling, a cold ache in the pit of her stomach, something had told her he was going to say that before he actually did.

“He’s not all gone. Not yet. The house needs time to tighten its grip. When I tell you what it would take to save him, though, you’re going to wish I’d lied just now.”

“I’ll be judge of that,” my mom said.

Another sigh. “Guests who give into the temptation our ghosts present join their ranks.”

Numb. I felt numb. We all did, judging by how silent and still the other two were.

It made a certain sort of sense. Given enough time, I’d probably have worked that out on my own. Yet hearing it said aloud, by the hotel manager no less, had my mind reeling.

“Your husband was warned, repeatedly,” Sam said, no longer calm but condescending. “By your son. He chose not to heed the warnings. Chose to be unfaithful.”

“It’s not for you to decide whether he got what he deserves,” I said, earning an appreciative nod from my mother. “Just as it wasn’t for me to—”

Reaching up and around, my mom patted my hand. Told me there was no need. It wasn’t my fault. And if she thought it was, we’d talk about that later.

Fair enough. But I still felt guilty.

“Don’t want you going in with blinders on is all,” Sam said. “Should you choose to walk out that door, you’re life will return to normal.” Sensing that my mom was going to interject, he raised his voice and barreled on. “Well, as normal as it can be, given the circumstances. A sharp contrast to what will happen if you choose to remain.”

“Why is that? What happens if we stay?”

“You will join the ranks of the nearly lost, though you won’t be as far gone as your husband. You’ll retain your physical form—better, actually, as you’ll look the way you did while wearing the costumes even when dressed casually—whereas he can only manifest now for a few hours at a time. Which, of course, he is only allowed to do during cocktail hour.”

“Hold up,” my mom said. “You just told us he’s not that far—”

“No, I told you he’s not completely gone.”

“This is bad,” Cass muttered. “Bad, bad, bad.”

Girl had a point.

“Should you choose to join their ranks, and manage to seduce the right number of guests, some of whom know what they’re getting into, those poor souls will take the place of your husband. Of you and your children. You’ll all be free to leave.”

Some of whom. I’d wondered why my parents had brought us, whether they’d had any idea what kind of place this was.

For a while, all my mom did was seethe quietly. Just as the paint was starting to melt off the walls, though, she said, “How many?”

“I’m sorry to say the house does not play fair,” Sam said without anything approaching sorrow. “You will have to doom three souls for each one you wish to free. Give yourselves over first, even partially, which is what I’m describing, and that number jumps to twelve.”

“Six,” Mom said immediately. “My children will not be part of this.”

“What about Jake?” Cass said. “I’m not just gonna leave him here.”

Though perhaps she should. I know, I know, til death do us part and all that. Still, none of us had been crazy about him before he’d cheated on Cass.

“Fifteen,” Sam informed us.

“Six,” our mom repeated.

My turn to silence her with a hand. “You’re not doing this alone.”

“Will—”

“I’d sooner die than abandon you. Even if that means condemning others to the same fate.” I looked at Sam. “They have to give in, right? We can’t take anyone who doesn’t?”

“Correct.”

The look my mom gave me was inscrutable. Gratitude? Frustration, tempered by resignation? Perhaps all of the above, and thus confusion. “I can’t ask that,” she whispered.

“Then don’t. I’m volunteering anyway.”

“Me too,” Cass said. “For Jake.”

Did she mean that? Believe she meant that? Or was she only saying it because she knew she ought to, knew it would make her a horrible wife in the eyes of many if she gave up that easily? Dad needed her too, so there was plenty of time to decide that enough was enough.

“When you say fifteen, or twelve, or whatever, you mean individuals, not couples?” I asked Sam. “If only one gives in, that still counts?”

He looked at me the way a teacher does a particularly slow student. “Your father would not be in the trouble he’s in otherwise. And some of our guests come alone.”

“Good to know,” I said. “Are we allowed to warn them?”

Again with that condescending look. “If they ask the right questions, and the warning is sufficiently vague, it does not appear as though punishment is likely. I would, however, advise you to err on the side of caution in this regard.”

“What if we don’t feed enough souls to the house by Halloween?” Cass asked. “Are we trapped here for another year? Forever? Is there a time limit on this escape clause?”

“I’m afraid there is.”

Great. So we had two weeks to seduce twelve people between the three of us. Maybe four; wasn’t clear whether Dad could still help, limited as his ability to “manifest” apparently was.

“Classic fucking pyramid scheme,” I said. Did it help anything to vent my frustration like that? No. What was Sam going to do, though? Take our father away from us? “Find another sucker, find three suckers, and you wouldn’t be left holding the bag.”

The only reaction I got was a nod. One that made me wonder if Sam had been a sucker too. One who’d managed to climb a few levels, perhaps, but had yet to escape.

Assuming that was even possible. Assuming he hadn’t lied to us.

“You’ll find that some of our guests require very little tempting,” Sam said with none of the sadistic glee that would have made me feel good about hating him. “It’s the ones who came only in search of a haunted hotel that are the most challenging. ”

“Why do you even accept reservations from the unsuspecting?” my mom asked, trying yet failing to hide her outrage. “Why not cater exclusively to perverts and deviants?”

“House doesn’t play fair,” I answered for Sam. “I’m sure he agrees that it’s better to trap those who came with the worst of intentions, but there aren’t enough of those?” I shrugged. “Oh well. In the end, all that really matters is numbers. ”

At long last, I earned myself a smile. Didn’t particularly want it, but I got it.

“Why is wanting to have sex the worst of intentions?” Cass asked. “Don’t get me wrong, I hate everything about this. There’s no excuse for cheating and casual sex did not appeal to me when I was single. But you make it sound like the house is meting out justice. Inflicting pain upon rapists and murderers. Unless I missed something, that’s not what’s happening.”

Again, she had a point.

“Was mostly just trying to explain his reasoning,” I mumbled. Why was she eyeing me skeptically? Did my sister really think I was more of a prude than she was? After I’d sort of made a pass at her the night before? “Doesn’t mean I agree.”

A grunt suggested my sister sort of believed me, sort of didn’t. And mostly didn’t care.

“So is that all?” our mom asked, grabbing her purse and preparing to stand. “Or do we need to sign our names in blood? On parchment made of human skin?”

For once, Sam actually chuckled. “Don’t even need to change rooms.” An upraised finger told us there was a caveat. “I will, however, need you to consolidate. Doesn’t matter which one you choose, and you’ll have access to all unoccupied rooms when feeding the hotel, but I’m going to need you to check out of one of them.”

“And return the costumes?” I said, dripping sarcasm on the carpet.

“Already done.”

Figures. And that didn’t mean someone had been sent to retrieve them. They’d probably sublimated, the gaseous vapor making its way through the air vents down to the changing rooms. Or perhaps they’d never been that real to begin with.

“Anything else?” Mom asked impatiently.

A smile, nearly as devoid of mockery as sincerity, from Sam. “Enjoy your stay.”

The door hadn’t even closed behind us when both Cass and our mother started crying.

#

Unless I’d missed something, we hadn’t died. Something had certainly changed, though.

And I don’t just mean that the physiques bestowed upon us by costumes the night before had made a return. That was not unexpected, of course; Sam had told us that would happen. Nor were any of us complaining. Weren’t complaining about any of it, technically.

More than anything, we were baffled.

Not having eaten since the night before, we should have been ravenous. It’s not like were disgusted by the thought of food, though, nor had we developed unnatural cravings. Weren’t about to start feasting on brains or biting necks and drinking blood. Talk of the buffet table piqued our interest, as well it should have. Just not as much as it should have.

At the same time that our caloric needs were dwindling, the need to rest had become overpowering. All three of us spent the afternoon, and much of the early evening, in bed.

Not in a fun way either. Get your minds out of the gutter.

If all biological processes and constraints had weakened, perhaps we could have made sense of it. There would at least have been some consistency. Instead, we were left to wonder what made our condition any better than that of those who could only “manifest” during cocktail hour, as it seemed the three of us wouldn’t be good for much else either.

We were free to explore the hotel, which I guess is something. Couldn’t leave it, though. Cass and I tried. Door wouldn’t even open. Yet as we stood staring at each other in disbelief, a young couple came in, practically knocking us over. Which, yeah, could and would have happened, had our reaction times been a bit slower. We hadn’t become translucent or incorporeal or whatever the fuck; normal people did not pass right through us.

Again, not ghosts.

But definitely trapped.

“You’re an idiot, you know that?” Cass said to me later, when we were sitting in the hallway on the fourth floor with our legs stretched out for no real reason. Other than that we no longer needed reasons. No longer had options. “Not a regular old idiot, either. Pays for premium when his car runs best on eighty-seven. No, Will, you’re a special kind of idiot. The kind that’s smart enough to know better yet somehow still doesn’t.”

What do you say to that?

“Um, thanks?”

She kicked me. Not very hard. I knew from experience that my sister was stronger than she looked. “Mom and I never had a choice. Can’t just abandon your husband. But one of us ought to walk away from this, and it’s now looking like none of us will.”

“That conclusion seems premature.”

“Does it?”

What I wanted to do was wrap an arm around her shoulder. I’d have settled for patting the back of her hand. With our backs against opposite walls, though, neither was an option. The smart thing to do, then, would have been to use my words. And only my words.

But for some reason, I grabbed an ankle, and started giving her a foot rub.

Rather than ask what the heck I was doing, she raised an eyebrow at me.

“Tell me where it’s written that abandoning your parents, your siblings, as more forgivable than abandoning a spouse,” I said as I worked my knuckles into a tough sole. Into a layer of thick cotton stretched over a tough sole. Not even stockings.

I shuddered. Why did I think my sister should be wearing stockings? Not just that it was a possibility, which it really wouldn’t have been before last night, but the proper state of things? Like it was somehow unusual, even wrong, that she wasn’t?

“Nowhere,” she admitted. “But we’d have understood.”

“Would you? I wouldn’t have.”

Her expression changed. Less why-is-my-brother-being-so-obstinate than he-deserves-better-than-this. One could almost think she liked me. That her opinion as to whether Satan had left me on our parent’s doorstep to solely punish my yet-to-be-born sister had changed at some point in the last twelve, thirteen years.

“Cocktail hour’s starting soon.”

“Don’t think we’re supposed to get there at seven,” I replied. “Gotta give the guests time to down a few drinks, lower their inhibitions, memorize a few faces.”

“Right. When we proposition them, they can’t be in a state where they might actually refuse. The Unhallowed wouldn’t want that. But it’s also important that they know we’re not like the other guests, that we’re the ones they were warned about. ”

“Exactly,” I said, prompting my sister to roll her eyes.

“Do you hear yourself?”

I gave her a flat look. “Do you not pay attention when you watch horror movies?”

“Not really, no. I only ever do when I’m humoring your or Dad.”

Fair enough, I supposed. “There’s a logic to these things, convoluted as it might seem. Do we wait until they’re vulnerable? Heck yeah we do. Do we target anyone who never stood any kind of chance? No. Can’t. Doesn’t work like that.”

A sigh echoed down the hallway. “Where’d you learn to give a foot rub?”

“Why? Does it feel good?”

“You’re horrible at it.” So horrible that, after yanking her foot away, she scooched down the hall enough to comfortably place the other in my lap. Then closed her eyes and let out another sigh, a rather different sigh, as I went to work on it.

If she kept that up, it would soon be my mouth instead of my hands. Not on her foot, but between her legs. Or maybe I’d start with her toes, work my way up to her earlobes, spending a lot of time with her chest, and end with her vadge.

Bad thoughts. Welcome thoughts, but still bad.

“Think an hour’s enough time? Or should we go watch a movie then head down?”

Was that her way of saying we could use some privacy? Most of the rooms on the third floor were empty, unfortunately for The Unallowed, and thus I suppose for us, but there was still some risk of getting caught. You know, if we were to do anything. Of course, it was also entirely possible that she actually meant what she’d said.

“Not a bad idea. But I’m picking again.”

A lopsided grin appeared, just before she called me a jerk.

#

“Sorry to see you again,” Igor said in a jovial tone.

Took me a moment to process the wording. “That’s, uh, that’s okay. Was by choice.”

He nodded gravely, then took out his measuring tape and had me hold one end against my waist. Because my dimensions had changed so much since last night.

Well, some of them had. He’d gone through this rigmarole before snapping his fingers, after all. And a snap of his fingers was all it had taken. But that meant the measuring tape was just for show, the only purpose it could possibly serve was to generate buy-in. Get people to lower their guard by making them feel as though the sort of thing that should be happening was the sort of the thing that was happening. Why bother with that now?

Especially my dang inseam? I was still the same height.

“Think I’ll go with the caveman tonight,” I said, realizing there’d been no bag of tokens. “Or is that not allowed? Are we doomed to wear the same costume night after night, so as to remind us that we’re at the mercy of The Unhallowed? That however much it might feel like it, we are not free in even in the most minimal sense?”

Igor cleared his throat. “Smart choice. You make good caveman.”

I was so very flattered to hear that from a guy who spoke in monosyllables.

“Yes?” he asked after dismissing my jeans and T-shirt, replacing them with a Fred Flintstone smock, orange with black triangles, and blue necktie that was tied far too loose. “Everyone see biceps. Great biceps, very big.”

I sighed. “Was mammoth wool last night.”

“For him. Not for you.”

So there was a limited set of options—very limited, as far as I could—but plenty of room for customization? Pick one of these dozen archetypes that have been around since the fifties or whenever, then go crazy. Make it your own. Or, rather, let Igor do that for you.

And why not? If I was to make a list of things that bothered me about this place and the deal we’d been offered to save our father, that would only rate so highly.

Might not even make it, depending on the mood I was in. Heck, it almost qualified as silver lining. I looked forward to seeing what Cass could do with the kitty cat costume, what our mom would look like as a witch. Whether her dress would fall to the floor or she’d embrace the hotel’s standard. Whether that was even up to her. Pondering such things not a waste of time either, as sooner or later they’d be bound to make those choices. Yet when they did, they wouldn’t look the same as the last woman who had.

“Can you, um, make my hair longer? Messier?” I asked Igor, running a hand through it. “And get rid of the beard? Pretty sure Fred rock’s stubble.”

He could and did.

#

Cass had opted for the schoolgirl, our mom the nurse. I tried to remember if the latter had been coherent enough to have picked that for the same reason my sister had picked hers. To remember what the ghost who’d lured her husband away, who was responsible, if no more than the man himself was, for him being trapped in this hotel.

Then decided it didn’t matter.

I’d have told them both how good they looked—which they did; I’m not above white lies and mere flattery, especially when it comes to friends and family, but I was at the point now where it was pretty much impossible for either one of them to not give me a heart attack—if they hadn’t gotten straight to business. Hadn’t made eye contact with each of the guests, males in particular, then engineered an accidental meeting near the bar, or the dessert table, or on the dance floor, with whomever had stared the longest.

Jealousy reared its ugly head. Had to remind myself that we were not on vacation, that hey weren’t flirting with those men because they were feeling randy, or lonely, or to spice things up. They were trying to get their husbands back.

And if I’d really stuck around to support them, to help them, to rescue my freaking father—did somebody say something about a brother-in-law?—I’d stop waiting for them to decide there were no good prospects here tonight and start talking to some of the women. Who, incidentally, were easy enough on the eyes. Every last one of them.

“So who are you here with?” the witch asked after handing me a drink I hadn’t asked for. “Haven’t seen you talking to anyone. Can’t seem to keep your eyes off the nurse, though.” Her fingers found a gold wedding band, gave it an unconscious twirl. Or perhaps a strategic one. “Mine’s the wolfman. Unfortunately, he’s pretty tame. If you know what I mean.”

Didn’t mean to scowl, but I felt it happen. Saw her reaction.

“I’m not looking to get that wild,” she assured me, hand on my bicep. I may or may not have flexed it. “Not looking to wild at all, really. Just… primal.”

Like a caveman? Subtle. Very subtle.

“Does he like to watch?”

“Would we be here otherwise?”

How should I know what they’d heard about his place? I wasn’t even sure what my parents had. Yet I did know that The Unhallowed tailored its marketing. Did this witch think she’d dragged her husband to an adult get-together whose only rule was that whatever happened here stayed here? Or did she have specific expectations?

The latter, most likely. Expectations no one seemed to have had the night before.

Expectations that were already being met.

Since we’d started talking, all of sixty seconds ago, the dance floor had ceased to be a dance floor. It was now a performance stage, albeit one that was not elevated. The wolfman—witchy’s hubby—had his pants around his ankles and his dick was being passed from the fluffy bunny’s mouth to the pussy cat’s. Thus proving how tame he was? I guess?

They might have been the ones who’d broken the dam, but it was all flowing freely now. It was like the music had stopped and everyone was scrambling to find a place to sit—or a person to sit on—before they were all taken. I’d barely begun to process the first brazen act when a second and third got underway. One of which involved my mother.

No, not her. Couldn’t be. Some other nurse let out a nervous laugh as the pirate guided her onto all fours, told the cop to present his nightstick, then took up position behind her. Was about to suck one guy off while another hammered away at her.

Or not? Were those signs of reluctance?

If so, they were signs the guys chose to ignore. Which might have prompted me to run over there and beat their asses if I thought there was any chance my mother would thank me for doing so. If I didn’t know that her consent was not conditional on her arousal, that she had her own reasons for doing this, entirely independent of pleasure.

Which she nonetheless seemed to be experiencing.

“Uh oh,” the witch said playfully. “Fun’s started, and your wife didn’t wait for the signal.” Another caress of my arms. She was really into biceps, wasn’t she? That, or cartoon characters. “Haven’t got anything against cops, have you?”

“Are you asking about my politics?” One comment about riots, about how all lives matter, and… well, I guess it wouldn’t change anything. Would be selfish to allow it to.

Still turn into one of those ugly witches, though. In my mind at least. Even if she did have luxurious black hair, plump lips, and the cutest little nose. Not long or crooked.

“Anyway, that’s not my wife your husband’s with.” When I saw her bemused expression, I added, “Or my girlfriend.” Still wasn’t getting it. “We’re not together.”

And I wasn’t saying that because I needed to hear it.

“Then which one is yours?”

She seemed awful sure that I was. Heart racing, I told her the schoolgirl was.

Would I pay for that later? Or would the bigger mistake be saying something that would tip her off? Sam had said we were allowed to do that, as long as we didn’t spell things out for them, hadn’t he? Didn’t tell them exactly what would happen if—

I followed her gaze, lost my train of thought. No signs of reluctance from Cass. She was riding the cowboy like a bucking bronco. Even twirling an imaginary lasso overhead.

“She didn’t wait either.”

“Doesn’t need to,” I said. “It’s not like that between us. I trust her. Trust her judgment. As long as I’m in the room, or she tells me about it after, we’re good.”

“We’re the same way.” Instead of caressing my arm, she took my hand and planted it on her hip. “Most of the couples we play with are still kinda new to whole scene, though. Just opened their marriage, haven’t really done anything yet, you remember that stage.”

Suppose I would if I was the sort of person I was pretending to be. But in that case, would she need to go on like that? Would we still be—wait, it was my fault, wasn’t it? That she’d approached me did not mean it wasn’t the guy’s job to initiate. Some things never change. Or won’t until those who see themselves as liberated, as open-minded, allow themselves to question stereotypes handed down by people whose authority they rejected.

Telling myself I was doing it for Dad, I forced the witch to her knees.

#

Back in the room by eleven.

I was, not the other two. They were having too much fun.

Uncharitable to think that way? Maybe, but if I understood the situation, if Sam hadn’t explained it to them differently than he had me, their jobs had been done for a while now. Kudos to them for feeding the house not one, not two, but five souls in a single night, as that got us off to a great start, but, um, yeah. Once every man in the room—except for me, obviously—had shot a load in either Cass or Mom, there was nothing to be gained by letting themselves be passed around some more. By offering some guys, most of them really, a second go. A third. No reason, that is, except for the one I’d just ascribed.

“Oh, you’re still up,” Mom said when she came in. Her hair was a mess, the white pumps dangled from her fingers, and she only had one stocking on. A glorious mess. I’d be lying if I said I was any less attracted to her now than I had been at the start of the night.

Okay, maybe somewhat less. Infinity minus a hundred is still infinity.

A few fumbling steps toward the bathroom. Drunk again, though not on alcohol this time. Hadn’t seen a glass touch her lips. “Thought you left because you were tired.”

“I said that, sure. But some of us—”

However much her appearance had changed, that was a motherly glower.

I cleared my throat. “That came out wrong.”

“Uh huh.”

Further attempts at offering an apology should have been made. By me. Yet I couldn’t help thinking she should be trying to mollify me. Or the two of us, as adults, should accept that others were going to do what they were going to do and think what they were going to think, that I was no less entitled to an opinion than she was her actions.

“Cass said not to wait up.” Her tone was cold. Fair or not, I was on the shit list. “Think she’s hoping for an invitation to spend the night with wolfie.”

“And the witch.”

“Probably.” I preferred to cold. “Is that okay? Does she have your permission?”

Wow. “Doesn’t need it,” I mumbled.

“What’s that?”

“She doesn’t need it.”

“Damn straight.”

I got up, grabbed a beer from the minibar. Not like we were gonna be charged for it. Plopped down on one of the beds. One of two beds. Still hadn’t discussed how that was going to work. Whether one of us was supposed to sleep in a chair the way I had most of the afternoon. “Can we not do this? Next two weeks are gonna be hard—”

“Not gonna take two weeks,” my mom called from the bathroom. “Not if I have anything to say about it.” The faucet came on. “Not if we have another night like tonight.”

True. Yet also besides the point.

When she returned, it looked like she’d taken a shower, dried her hair, applied a fresh coat of makeup. Yet all she’d done was change out of the costume.

It surprised me, at first, to see that she was still young, or of indeterminate age at least, still built like a wet dream. Shouldn’t have, because I still had my abs, even if they didn’t show when I was sitting like this, my jawline, the veins in my arms. Because Cass and I had looked better than we had any right earlier, while Mom was still asleep. Because Sam had all but revealed that it wasn’t the costumes that had transformed us the night before but the hotel itself and we were still in the hotel. Had given ourselves to the hotel, if only temporarily. All the same, I had not been prepared for her to look that good. For her hair to hang in perfect sheets to either side of her head, for her lips to be so red, for the figure her silk robe did not conceal to be so curvaceous. Her skin so smooth and devoid of cellulite.

Her eyes went to the bottle in my hand, then without passing judgment, she opened a small bottle of wine. Leaned against the dresser, not quite sitting on it yet still giving her poor son reason to be somewhat envious of wood and nails. “Need I remind you that your father was taken from us? That he may well have been in the ballroom tonight, but he hasn’t been anywhere the rest of the time? That he’s basically a puff of smoke and will remain—”

“I’m aware of that.” Though I did not think he’d been there tonight.

Wouldn’t he have said something to us if he had been? Assuming he could?

Right. Assuming he could. Which we had no reason to assume.

“Then why did you look at me like that?” she asked, a little less heat in her voice. “Why did I have to cut off before you said something you’d regret and I’d wish I could forget?”

All I could do was sulk. If she was still a mom, still someone who cooked and cleaned and asked if homework was done, then I was still her son. A child. A good little boy, most of the time, who had little practice navigating the awkward conversations that occurred when he wasn’t. When he’d done something to disappoint her mother as much as anger her.

She came and sat on the bed. The very edge. Whole length of the mattress between us. Nothing compared to the chasm there’d been a moment ago. “Can’t have been easy seeing your mom like that.”

Deep breath. Exhale. “Or you your son.”

“And daughter.”

Different kind of awkward. I hoped. Or if it was the same, I hoped that meant we’d only need one bed after a few more nights.

Except I didn’t hope that. Not really. Made a nice mental image, but the thing about fantasies is that they end at the best part. Never had to deal with the fallout.

Suppose I did take both of them as lovers, and suppose our plan actually worked. Would Dad even want to leave with us? Would Mom keep a horrible secret from him for the rest of their lives? Would it drive a wedge between them? Between us?

How could she not grow to resent me if that happened?

“Penny for your thoughts?” she said.

Grumble, grumble. “Who’d have guessed that the hard part would be after hours? Sharing a room with people you lived with for twenty-odd years?”

My mom cracked a smile, patted my leg. “I would.”

“Yeah, well, that’s cuz you’re smart.”

“Because I’m wise. There’s a difference.”

“You’re both.”

A not-so-modest shrug. A not-so-modest sip of wine. “Maybe we should insist on taking things up to a room next time. Work out who gets this one and who has to go elsewhere.”

“Not a bad idea.” Though I’d be lying if I said I’d taken no pleasure in seeing her like that, wouldn’t feel somewhat cheated if I never got to see it again.

There’d been anger, yes, and jealousy. Maybe even disgust, though that’s such a harsh word. Shame, on her behalf and my own, her for doing and me for watching when I should have given all my attention to the witch. Self-loathing. All of that and more.

Yet part of that “more” was arousal.

More and more as it had gone on.

How could there not have been, when she looked like that? When the same wanton behavior that had tied my stomach in knots, same disregard for what onlookers might think, had led me to consider possibilities I’d otherwise have ruled out? Had made me think I could get my mother to try things I hadn’t even realized I’d want to try with her?

I felt some now, just thinking about it. Remembering the things they’d said when they were inside her, the things she’d said, the sounds she’d made. How her body moved. The hypnotic ripples of her ass when they did it doggy-style. How her breasts bounced when she was on top. How happy she looked with a dick in each hand, the giddiness of her laughter every time a sticky rope landed on her face. Some of that had to have been fake, her attempt at mimicking porn stars the better to keep anyone from thinking she was a normal, relatively straight-laced mother of two who’d been dragged into something horrible, something she was willing to sell their souls to escape. Some of it. How much, though? And might that which had started as a performance become sincere over time?

Wasn’t it Alan Moore, he of Watchmen fame and much acclaim, mostly warranted, who said that if you wear a mask long enough, you forget who you are beneath it?

“Or… whatever,” my mom said, cheeks flushed.

And eyes looking everywhere but between my legs.

“We can work out a system so anyone who’s uncomfortable can let the others know.” Try as she might to look away, her eyes were drawn to it. “That way there’s no need to plan out what will happen where.” Was she licking her lips? Because they were dry, right? Wine did that to you? “I wouldn’t want… to deprive you….”

“Mom!”

She stood, turned her back to me. “Sorry! I shouldn’t have said that.” A peak over her shoulder, a guilty grin. “But I will say that you shouldn’t be embarrassed. Honestly, I’m flattered.” Back to staring at the wall. “If I’d known you felt that way, I wouldn’t—”

“Come on. You would have, and there’s no reason you shouldn’t have.”

I mostly believed that. I wanted to believe that.

She sighed. “I don’t know what I would’ve done.” The rest of her wine vanished, consumed the way this hotel was consuming us. “Certainly sheds a light on your reaction earlier, though.” She gave me a sympathetic smile that was actually closer to a frown, grabbed another bottle of wine. “We can just forget it happened.”

Be a lot easier if I wasn’t still hard. I got off the bed, tucked myself into the waistband of my drawstring pants, sat in the chair by the window. “Consider it forgotten.”

“You’re own mother?” she said, before slapping a hand over her mouth. “Okay, I really shouldn’t have said that. Can we blame that on the alcohol?”

That she’d just drunk? That hadn’t had any time to work its way through her blood stream? Sure. Whatever it took to end this conversation.

Strangely enough, though, the look she gave me was not aghast, incredulous, or even amused, which might have been worst of all. The most emasculating. No, it was intrigued.

Also seemed to be studying my physique, as though she’d never noticed how broad my shoulders were, had been for a while now, or how lean The Unhallowed had made me.

“Just not something a mom expects to hear,” she muttered, half to herself.

Technically, she still hadn’t heard it. The admission hadn’t come from my mouth.

“Could, um, tell yourself it wasn’t you I was thinking about.” That made her snort, so I rushed to add, “That’s not what I mean. The witch was great, really knows how to use her tongue, but couldn’t hold a candle to the nurse. Thing is, when you were in that costume, even right now, you don’t look like my mom. Easy for me to forget that you are.”

“I see.”

There might even have been some truth to that, albeit less than I’d implied.

It was not my body she was examining now but her own. “That does make some sense. If there were more mirrors around, I’d probably feel same. Would probably have to stare at myself for a good, long while before I believed the reflection wasn’t a lie.”

In a way, it was. An faithful representation of what was nonetheless a falsehood. No need to get all philosophical, though. This conversation was heavy enough.