If you look into the face of evil, evil's gonna look right back at you

October 31st, 1987
Los Angeles, California

"Shine that flashlight over here, will you? I can't see a damn thing." Jack hissed, sinking the crooked bobby pin into the rusted brass handle. Several stifled sighs spilled from his parted lips, bushy brows strung together in dissatisfaction as his girlfriend willingly complied.

"Just hurry up," she pressed, fallen leaves crunching beneath the soles of her dilapidating Chuck Taylors. "I don't want to be seen. Mom'll kill me if I'm slammed with trespassing charges."

"Need I remind you that I'm on probation, sweetheart? That's a hell of a lot scarier than your four-foot-seven mother." Jack thickly countered, releasing a hearty grunt as the lock unlatched with a satisfying click. Their breaths simultaneously thinned at the mere sonance.

"We're in." Jack gleamed, kicking open the kitchen door with the toe of his boot before straightening his posture. The trees rustled in the wind, a juxtaposed reminder that an overwhelming essence of evil resided within these wicked walls. The young girl found herself frozen in place, whereas a giggly Jack had stumbled into the vacant kitchen, the rubber soles of his biker boots obnoxiously squealing against the old, wooden floors.

"Winona!" He hissed, hidden halfway beyond the parted doorway as the bright beam of the flashlight pranced along the fluttering branches of the nearby trees. She was intently investigating them, eyes widened in wanton abandon. Jack, her nineteen-year-old boyfriend, irritably trudged from the house, stubby fingers latching around the pale flesh of her forearm as he impatiently yanked her forward.

"Jesus, Jack! Ease up!" Winona whined, tearing her lanky arm from his unbearably strong hold before uneasily entering the abandoned house.

A strong sense of foreboding overcame Winona as a fierce shiver enveloped the length of her spine. The petite girl wrapped her arms around her torso in order to bring some comfort to herself in an attempt to silence the nervous churning of her stomach. She couldn't back out. The somewhat good girl couldn't bring herself to disappoint her delinquent boyfriend, yet again. The last time she had let him down—by refusing to climb on the back of his shiny black Harley, with him half drunk—he had told her that she was bringing him down, and had taken some two-bit whore to bed that very night, just in spite of her.

However, even as the woman reached out to latch onto Jack's leather clad arm, she simply could not shake the feeling that being in the infamous Murder House was very wrong. There was an air of unfamiliar despair, one that was positively urging Winona to turn around and go back home to curl up within the inviting, plush covers of her bed. She'd heard plenty about this place. For years, her extraordinarily anxious mother had warned her about it, a staple of Satan, was what she called it. A venue of massacre. Of death and despair and tragedy. Only nine years prior, two twin boys—named Bryan and Troy, respectively—had broken into the abandoned residence, never to be seen again.

"Jack," Winona lowly began, swallowing thickly as the duo filed further into the creepy coop. "Do you smell that?"

"Yeah," Jack murmured, scaling the kitchen as he dismissively kicked aside several pebbles with the edge of his boot. Fidgeting fingertips trailed along the rounded edge of the kitchen island, sticky skin collecting an abundance of dust. "Smells like death."

Stiffly and silently, the couple navigated the unfamiliar floorplan, the undeviating beam of bright, white light occasionally wavering as her palms became slick with sweat. It was considerably warm within the chthonic structure, almost as if the house served as a literal portal to hell. Winona shoved off the thought nearly as quickly as it arose.

"This place is even better than they say." Jack breathed, a genuine grin crawling across his lips. Needy fingers scraped along the surrounding surfaces, several ashen-blond locks dipping within his line of sight. "It's gorgeous, like some kind of Victorian castle, or somethin'."

Winona weakly nodded, completely entranced by her surroundings as she avoided the profusion of sticky spider webs around the area. The pad of her thumb consistently wedged against the idle button of the flashlight, lengthy, black painted nail dipping between the plastic as Jack's palms suddenly claimed her hips.

"You gonna be a bad girl for Daddy, hmm?" He rumbled seductively, his plush lips peppering open-mouthed, needy kisses up the column of her neck. She could feel Jack's palm against the skin of her stomach, greedy fingers roaming underneath the faded material of her Def Leppard t-shirt. She gasped, head lulling backward with mind clouding lust as the man kneaded and fondled her underneath the lacy material of her push-up bra. Jack relentlessly​ continued to assault the sensitive flesh of her neck, his pearly white teeth occasionally biting down on the supple skin, eliciting a strangled mewl to tumble from her glossy lips.

Truth be told, Winona liked the rough stuff more than she cared to admit—but Jack was well aware that he was getting tangled up with an angelic little devil between the sheets. The biker boy could feel just how much she liked it when he wrapped his large hands around her throat while driving into her. The way the dainty thing arched into him, her mouth falling agape with dirty in her dark eyes was proof enough to him that he could sling her around like a ragdoll, manhandle her—in bed, at least.

Jack damn-well knew that he could walk into any bar and have his pick of whomever he wanted, but he also knew they were nothing like Winona—his darling, sweet, young Winona. The teenage girl was down right wild when it came to getting her rocks off. That's how he had talked her into breaking into this godforsaken hell house, anyway—so the pair could make love. At least, that was how he had worded it to her.

"Let's find a bed, Jack," Winona pleaded, her mousy voice high pitched and unashamedly needy.

Jack gave an overconfident smirk, running a hand through his greasy blond locks before playfully lifting her into his arms. Winona let out a small giggle at the unexpected gesture, biting down on her lower lip as she looked up in adoration at her lover. She thought that maybe—just maybe—coming here hadn't been such a bad idea, after all. Winona basked in the feeling of Jack carrying her up the grand staircase bridal style, his muscular arms protectively cradling her small form as they slowly made their ascension. The naïve, young woman found herself drifting into a beautiful fantasy where Jack would carry her in this very way to their marital bed on their wedding night.

"Whatcha thinkin' about, gorgeous?" Jack drawled as he amusingly glanced down at the blushing woman that rested securely in his arms. He had noticed that she had been looking at him like that a lot, lately—with these lovey dovey hearts practically bulging out of her wide eyes—and, quite frankly, it was starting to make the man feel anxious, trapped. He had never been with the same woman as long as he had been with Winona Wexler, (a whopping seventeen-and-a-half months), and he wasn't sure if it was because she so readily put up with his bullshit, or because he actually loved her.

Jack shoved that thought away before it made him too jittery, mentally reminding himself that he was about to be balls deep inside of her—whether he actually loved her, or not.

The staircase was grand and gorgeous, wooden and old. The pale green carpet was soft beneath Jack's feet, but the aging wood underneath creaked and groaned with every hefty step, his hold tightening on Winona's lithe limbs.

Just as Winona's lips parted in preparation to speak, to announce how effortlessly stunning the stained-glass windows were—a brash, bold shatter emerged from the kitchen, the place where they only recently stood. It sounded as if a drinking glass had slipped from the table, colliding roughly with the floor and crumbling into an infinite number of pieces.

Jack froze, whereas Winona urged him forward, whispering a series of sweet nothings against his neck to assure him that the noise was nothing to be afraid of. Truth be told, she just wanted to prove to him how much of a woman she really was, even if she was only seventeen.

"It's an old house," she'd said, loving lips gliding along his pulsating neck. "Weird noises are bound to happen."

They'd located a bedroom upstairs, old and decrepit, smelling mostly of mold and dust. The bed was stripped clean, creaky, and remarkably repugnant. Winona fought back the urge to scoff at the sight of stagnant dust going airborne​ the second he'd laid her down, and she'd nearly forgotten about the atrocious furniture the moment Jack's lips met hers.

It didn't take long for several articles of clothing to litter the ancient carpeting. Shoes kicked off, one of Winona's, in particular, managing to take refuge beneath the bed. Roaming hands, hushed groans, swollen lips. It wasn't until they'd become ceremoniously conjoined that Winona had noticed the tri-hued, flashing lights beyond the cracked glass window.

"Shit," she gasped, slightly short of breath as she urged Jack off of her. Unsurprisingly, he audibly protested, until the shrill shrieks of police sirens filled his ears. Eyes immediately widening and mouth messily agape, the older boy—quite literally—leapt off of Winona's frozen frame, tugging the dark-wash jeans up the length of his legs as he quickly concealed his softening self.

"Get dressed." He clipped, pinching her ripped jeans between quivering fingers as he assertively tossed them onto her lap.

"My mom's gonna kill me–" Winona cried, easing off of the bed as she wiggled into her slacks, shaking hands struggling to button them closed.

"Holy shit, Winona—Hurry up!" Jack angrily announced through bared teeth, a hearty vein protruding from his forehead as he glanced warily in the direction of the window, just in time to see two patrol cars speed around the corner.

"I have to go," he spilled, taking several lengthy steps backwards. Winona struggled to buckle her bra, still seated at the foot of the undeniably disgusting bed. "I can't go back to jail. I still have four months of probation. If I'm caught, I'm doomed."

"Jack–"

"I–I gotta–" he stammered, before twisting sharply on his heel and unerringly evacuating the room.

"Jack!" Winona screamed, falling to her knees in search of her missing shoe. Her left arm blindly raided the underneath of the bed, fingers unvaringly spread in search of that damn shoe. Finally, she'd managed to locate it, quivering fingers curling around the laces as she yanked her arm outward and toward her body. Before it could abandon the area, however, something warm and slimy and somewhat scaly promptly claimed her wrist, holding her in place as a mortified yelp fell off parted lips.

Almost as quickly as it had latched onto her, the sensation vanished, and as Winona stared in complete awe at her naked wrist, limp shoe just barely clinging to her weakened knuckles, Jack's voice returned. Muffled and distraught, originating from somewhere downstairs as he audibly begged for her to follow him. The patrol cars were already outside, surely parked in the ramshackled yard as the gaudy, flashing lights painted the bedroom walls bold, bright shades of red and blue.

Quickly, Winona stepped into her shoe, limping lightly through the hallway. Her breaths emerged in staggered pants, weighty and wavering, heart thickly thumping beneath the flesh of her chest as she approached the staircase.

"I'm coming!" She warily announced, her voice cracking with every staggered syllable. Just as she'd rounded the edge and started toward the stairs, an unfamiliar figure clasped onto her ankle, sending her lanky self to the floor with a boorish thud.

Winona released a terrified shout, wild eyes glancing back at her weighted ankle. What she saw made her insides churn and her heart nearly burst in fright, mouth agape in terror. Her voice failed her, flailing legs attempting to kick the petite person off of her as bloody, pointed teeth threatened to sink into her leg.

"Jack!" She eventually cried, thick, blinding tears temporarily concealing her vision as she finally booted the wirey-haired thing off of her leg. She wobbled to her feet, knobby knees knocking together as her palm claimed the railing in a weak attempt to steady herself. Once more, she cried out Jack's name, a desperate plea for assistance, but it was evident that he'd already fled.

Winona hadn't even had the change to regain her breath when she felt a slender, small finger jab the in-between of her shoulder. Breathless and unblinking, the teenage girl spun slowly on her heel, heart nearly bursting at the sight of a young redheaded boy, freckles adorning his features in stunning arrays of constellations, a baseball bat cradling his shoulder. A steady stream of crimson blood oozed from his slit neck, beady black eyes glaring into Winona's frightened orbs as he whispered a playful: "boo."

Instantaneously, her clammy palms clasped over her agape mouth, muffled shouts filling the void as she took a generous step backward, only to find the floor nonexistent. She'd forgotten how close she was to the staircase.

Gracelessly, Winona Wexler descended down the stairs, arms flailing in a feeble attempt to slow her down, but to no avail. With every exhaustive roll, the skinny little girl gained speed, until she eventually met the sturdy, wooden floor at the bottom, only inches away from the dead redheaded's twin brother, a joyless expression slapped across bored features. With one final cry and a whisper of Jack's name, Winona's skull hit the floor, a deafening crack enveloping the atmosphere as her surroundings faded to black.

Jack raced back into the haunted home just as the last bit of life left Winona's body. The man could have sworn that the pretty little girl—her limbs lying haphazardly with her dainty neck bent in an unnatural angle—gave a ghost of a smile when she saw his form re-entering the house.

Jack knew there wasn't much time before the cops burst through the front door, and if his girlfriend was dead anyway, there was no sense in him getting caught trespassing—with Winona's body laying lifeless at the end of the staircase, no less. Tears brimmed in the man's green orbs as he bit down on his fist in order to stifle the gurgled sob that emerged.

"I'm sorry, Winona. I'm sorry," he cried.

With one last look back at Winona's body, the man fled from the premises, never to return again. Little did he know, the soul of the woman of whom he had just carelessly abandoned carefully watched his departure from the foot of the stairs, her heart splitting cleanly in half.