Luckily, Max has a terrible throwing arm. The lack of power and momentum behind the rock causes it to anticlimactically bounce off the window with nary a shudder. ... Since when do I use the word "nary?" Huh. Whatever. My sleep-deprived brain is too tired for, well, life in general.

Too tired to care, I ignore Max's instructions to swing out through the window, dangle from the sill, and drop carefully onto the tiny ledge below it. Instead, I open my bedroom door, walk down the stairs, and stumble through the front door. My parents probably won't wake up; that'd make for a lame chapter, anyways. Max, exasperated that I'm not following his carefully crafted, delicate, idiotic plans to get me killed, stomps over to me and gestures to the door with an irked expression. Irked? I don't even know or care right now.

"What was that?"

"That's what we call a door, Max."

"Are you trying to get us killed? If your parents found out about this when they already hate you, they will stab me in their sleep."

"Typically," I yawn, "I find doors a tad bit safer than parkouring from second-story windows. I dunno, maybe I'm just weird and don't like breaking my bones." I'm too tired to care that he's irritated, but I'm also so tired that I'm becoming irritated myself.

And I'm too tired to care that I'm irritated.

"Fine, we'll do it your way," he sneers. "But from here on out, we go by my rules." And then he Z-snaps in a way that is scarily normal of him. "Now, let's just hurry up and get to the..." Max's voice trails off as he spins around to face the empty street.

I don't see anything wrong, so what- Oh. I don't see anything.

"And how," I slowly ask, "if you don't or do mind me asking, were you planning on going all the way to your uncle's house? Isn't it, like, twenty miles away?"

"Ohhhhhh, snap. I, um. I kinda left that out of the outline for this." Max looks down guiltily.

"That's great, Max!" I simulate enthusiasm and playfully punch him in the arm a little bit too hard to be playful. "Just give me a minute, and I'll be ready to go. I just need to go back up to my room and sleep the rest of the night."

"Look, Tag, it's too late to turn around."

I pivot on one foot and face the door dramatically.

"Wait! Didn't you, uh, lock the door when you came out?"

I frown. "Yeah, but..." My face lights up. "I know where the spare keys are hidden, Max."

"But Tag. Remember how high the amount of money was?"

"Oh, you mean the money that is listed on an extremely shady letter telling you to come to the middle of nowhere at night?"

"Exactly."

I start for the door. "Sorry, Max. Goodni-"

And then I go poof.

|_/>-<\_|

I really feel like I should stop questioning life. To question life is to question the Author. The Author doesn't like being questioned; He or She is some type of show-off or "troll." The Author likes to screw with logic when the Author is questioned.

... I really feel like I should stop questioning life.

"Man, this place is spooky." I jump at Max's mumbling behind me.

"H-how did we get here?"

"Isn't that the question we all ask, Tag? How, why, are we here? Is it destiny, an explosion of..." Max continues on in a slow, melodramatic voice. Knowing he'll take a while, I might as well look around.

And then a wild Nostalgia appears! This place, from the barren, dead trees with thin branches grasping into the shadows to the narrow path leading under an old, broken archway with creaking gates into dark, unnerving woods, sparks a memory- no, memories- in my mind. Suddenly I feel a soft warmth as I curl up on the couch against my older sister, back before she had to start working on Saturday mornings.

"... but maybe it isn't just random chance. Maybe there's some-"

"Are we in Scooby Doo?"

Max falters, glances at me from the corner of his eye and again gestures to the world around us. "Maybe there's someone- or something - looking down on us and changing-"

"Bro, doesn't this place remind you of something from some cliché horror movie or something? Look," I direct his attention to the dead branches of the Halloween-esque trees, "didn't your uncle or whatever just die?"

"Well, yeah," Max agrees, grudgingly giving up on his speech. "But you know what it reminds me of?"

I shrug back the jacket that I don't remember putting on. Agh, it's cold here.

"It reminds me of  my uncle's house."

"I thought you never came here..?"

Max lifts up a seemingly brand new picture of an estate that could be this place, back when it wasn't some cheesy, black-and-white monster movie. Lush, bright green foliage spreads across thick, flowing branches. A beautifully crafted gate opens to a sun-dappled pathway, leading off the edge of the picture. Gleaming columns soar up the side of a breathtaking mansion, taking- Wait.

"How and where and when and from whom did you get a picture of this place?" But that isn't the only thing that has me confuzzled. There's also the fact that I just used the word confuzzled. Author, bruh- and I used "bruh." I'm sure you find my agony amusing, readers. Screw you as well. But not like- I sigh outwardly, confuzzl- confusing Max, as he's watching my outward reactions to the Author being a jerk without knowing what's happening.

"I just found it in my pocket. It must've been with the letter earlier. Pretty convenient, huh?"

More than you know. Not you, but Max. I'm not talking to you; you're a meanie head- WHAT THE CRAP, AUTHOR.

"Okay, but..." I grit my teeth against the inner turmoil and lift the tip of my finger to the bottom right of the photo. "How in the world was this taken yesterday?"

"Magic," he replies without missing a beat. "Dark, dark magic." There's a hint of something in his eyes, in his body language. Doubt? Anxiety? I can almost recognize it as the way he always looks when he tells a lie, which isn't often, but it's enough to raise suspicion. He seems way too okay with this. Sure, he's Max - he'd laugh in the face of his biggest fear just to make us feel better - but failing to notice instantaneous teleportation? He should be freaking out about how he must have superpowers, at the very least!

"So, what're we waitin' for? Let's take a trip through Uncle's haunted mansion for a few bucks."

|_/>-<\_|

"I don't suppose you have a key in your pocket that you forgot about?" I dryly question Max's planning skills yet again. Oh, wait. You can't question what doesn't exist. Ha. Haha... I try to hide my eye twitching.

"Psh, nah..." He drags it out casually, leaning on a column by the door before  rapidly and worriedly checking his pockets for a key. "I did not forget to plan on how to get in here. I, um... Ah! Crowbar. There's probably a crowbar in the car." I watch realization dawn on his face.

"The car..." I begin to word his doubts. "The car that materialized with us when we somehow appeared here?"

I sense the beginnings of a curse on his lips when he turns toward the gate and his eyes double in size. His face contorts in surprise, confusion, and finally triumph.

Turning back to me, he leans back onto the column again. "Yes. The car that materialized with us. Don't you see it, Tag? Or are you too busy doubting the power of the great and powerful Author?"

Seriously. A car actually- wait, did he say Author? It seems impossible, but I swear I heard- nah, he must've said "great and powerful Max" or something. But then why the sudden cringe on his part?

"The car! Let's go to the car!" Over-enthusiasm. Very loud. And he's rushing. Ya know, Max, maybe you shouldn't plan on going into acting, either. You'd suck at it. And I'm still not talking to you, readers. Although most of y'all probably suck at it, too. ALL THE HATE COMMENTS, AUTHOR. MUAHAHAHAHAHAHA TASTE MY FURY- I need serious psychiatric help.

What even- Max is already back at the door, crowbar in hand, completely prepared to break into the house. Despite how tired I am, despite how done I am, somehow I'm able to read the small print on a sticker placed on the handle section of the crowbar. Olphire Co. Before I can realize any plot development or foreshadowing hidden in the scene, Max swings back the crowbar. With a shout of warning still deep in my chest, he throws his hands forward with the crowbar- before slowing and stopping at the last possible second and lightly tapping the door with the tip of the tool, like a golfer preparing a swing.

"Max!"

He falters on his backswing, narrowly missing clipping my chin with the bar as he turns the wrong way around to find me.

"These doors are super thick, bro. What were you expecting to happen?" I gingerly lift the crowbar from his lanky arms. "It's not like the door is gonna open just because you poke it with a metal rod," I follow my words with the matching actions, tapping the crowbar against the huge door.

It opens. It doesn't creak or groan, like you (and this time I'm talking to you) would expect it to, considering the setting. It silently slides open, mist over black water. In a small voice leading to his usual awkward confidence, Max answers my hypothetical question. You aren't supposed to answer hypothetical questions. Why does no one understand that in books. And, I mean, my last statement wasn't even a question, so fight me, bruh.

"Yeah... Y-yeah, I'd say I was expecting that to happen. Quick," he nudges my arm, "tell me that I won't become a superhero. You're being really good at being wrong tonight."

And with that, he strolls through the open door into darkness, hands stuck in his pockets as he whistles a merry tune. Jeez, that look doesn't even suit you, Max. Well. Put on a top hat, grab a cane, and just maybe- no. Nope-idy nope nope. Such nope, many never, much How 'Bout Nah.

"Dude, ya comin'?" Max calls out from the other side of the door. "Woah, look. A top hat!"

|_/>-<\_|

The entry hall is clean. Why say anything about it being clean? Why not describe how vast the open space is, how far into the heavens the ceiling stretches, how magnificently the chandelier that blooms above us hovers in the still air? Well, for one, ew. Big, fancy words. Is someone using thesaurus.com? And second, because the house shouldn't be clean. The outside is chaotic, with vines climbing up the columns and mold creeping from the corners. Plus, upon further investigation, the cleanliness is limited. A thick carpet of dust is gathered on the final, top landing of the stairs. The same goes for both of the side rooms we glance into.

"Did you bring a flashlight?" I inquire of Max after running my finger along the banister and pulling it back to find it as clean as it was before. This is weird; and that's coming from someone who knows they're in a book. 

Max sighs condescendingly. "Tag, Tag, Tag. We're in a creepy, old mansion that's probably haunted by my dead uncle or something." He flips his finger along the wall and grins as the chandelier shoots light across the room, with no flicker or twitch. "Did you not think to check the lights?

"Follow me, you silly child, you." He slides the top hat over his ruffled hair in a manner that is way too cool, natural, and un-awkward for him. Swaggering (ewewew why do you hate me, Author?) straight forward through the main foyer, he enters a huge library without glancing back at me. And when I say huge... I mean huge. 

SURVEY- does repeating the same adjective with more emphasis properly convey the dramatification that said adjective adds to the subject? Please leave your answers below. And make sure that they all are negative results, so I- er, the surveyor can laugh at the Author's cliche writing and laziness. Insert smirk here. 

But just like when we first entered the house, the size and grandeur doesn't arouse my curiosity or awe - it's the cleanliness again. If that old saying, "Cleanliness is Godliness," is true, this place is the Most Holy Temple. Like, it's a library. All these old books should be covered in dust and stuff. It's not like anyone would ever want to read them.

"Man, Tag, think of how in heaven Molly would be here." Max gazes up at the towering shelves.

I stand corrected. 

"How'd you even know to come in here?" I warily query. "What does the letter thingy tell you to do?"

"It doesn't; I followed the dust. Well, rather, the lack of dust." He distractedly answers and paces towards the opposite wall of the room. 

Ohhhh. I guess that makes sense, in a slightly illogical, creepy, suspicious kind of way. Dust coats every threshold except for that of the entrance to the library, like there's a path leading here. Maybe some evil maid or butler is leading us here by using their super cleaning powers. I picture an old guy in a suit trying to beat us with an old-fashioned feather-duster, chuckling. I- I'm chuckling, not the butler. It would be an even stranger vision if the butler was- nevermind.

Good, Max ignored my random giggling. Can you really swap out giggling for chuckling? I mean, they're pretty different- jeez, I'm easily distracted today. Er, tonight. Wait, if it's after midnight, it's morning- annnnd there I go again. Uh, giggling vs. chuckling, right! Max was ignoring me. And he still is, as if whatever he's thinking about is more interesting than my amazing, serpentining train of thought. 

He's stopped pacing, staring at a single point on a shelf in front of him. When I follow his line of sight, I feel... wrong. All of my distractedness goes away. All the sleep-deprivated ideas. I'm just filled with dread, and worry, and- and fear. I slowly tip-toe close enough to read the faded title on the leather-bound novel.

"M-Max?" I reach out with a small voice.

He casually reaches out and tugs the spine of the book from the top, causing a section of false shelves to open and reveal a portal of darkness beyond. I'm too dispirited to comment on the clicheness of a secret passageway opened by a book, because when Max turns to grin at me, there's a glint of darkness in his eyes. I glance back at the book he pulled.

Olphire. 

Max glances at the doorway and gestures me inside in mock-polite sophistication, tilting his head in a smile when I stand rooted to my spot, too petrified to speak.

"And so the plot thickens."