This story is written by Guest Author Little Gargalite. For more amazing tickle fiction by LG, visit the Little Gargalite website
‘Froy and The Manor of Madness’ is set four months after the present day events of ‘1997’, and nearly a year after the events at the barn in ‘Croft's Capture’.
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On the road …
… Somewhere in the American southwest …
… October, 2024 …
The radio hums with the melancholic beats of The Gorillaz. The wide, open road fizzles and pops and hisses under the desert heat and the whir of the Jeep's tires. The landscape is grand and sprawling--endless orange rock. Windows down, wind whipping through Froy's short hair, the smell of earth and asphalt all around him. He hangs his hand out the window, cupping his palm to catch the hot wind and ride it like a parasail.
This.
This right here is exactly what he had been envisioning when he had announced to his family back in Texas that he would be driving to and from Los Angeles. Sure, a flight would have been easier--and made more sense--but it also would have been a lot more...boring. Froy had always wanted to take a road trip, and the opportunity had presented itself. His boyfriend is in New York for an event, and he's been recently staying out near Santa Monica for a few different auditions. He has another one lined up at the end of the week. The stars had just aligned. So, with a dash of daring spirit, Froy had decided to cut his losses and make the trip, much to the objection of his parents.
¡Estás loco! In his head, he can still hear his father scolding him. He smirks.
A sign for CORONADO NATIONAL FOREST blows by, shiny and green, and throwing him west. Froy has seen a lot of signs like this over the last few hours, many for small towns that he never knew existed this far out in what seemed like the middle of nowhere. He's cruising at nearly eighty miles an hour down the empty highway--no sign of cars ahead or behind.
Froy beams, overcome suddenly.
This.... THIS!
The scene even smells the way he'd imagined, as if the world were delivering unto him what he had requested: the slight burn of rubber, baking road tar, the dust of desert and clay and cacti. It's like he's found himself in a film again, his life being letterboxed, filter grainy and warm, as the soundtrack on the radio swells and he sings along.
It just keeps going on and on and on. The road and the music and the warm buzz in the marrow of Froy's bones. The orange eye of the sun, like Sauron, casts deep, fiery ripples across the sky, across the horizon, its rays reflecting off of the miles and miles of road shivering under the vibrations of the vehicle's engine.
Froy leans his head back against the seat as he continues to charge further towards the distant coast, far beyond the desert and valleys and canyons of the Southwest. He looks at his phone to check the progress he's made on his route, review his E.T.A., but finds that he has no signal. It's still showing that he has just under eight hours until he reaches his destination. Gauging the descent of the sun in the sky, Froy figures it will be a late-night drive. But no matter. It was more or less the same on the way into Dallas. He traces the arc of the sun's path towards the horizon and his blue eyes catch on something else that he hadn't noticed until now.
A cloud.
A massive swell of copper is overtaking the horizon, rolling eastward. It doesn't take Froy long to realize what it is.
A dust storm.
"Crap," he says. Again, he glances up and down the road. Still no other cars in sight. He knows that these storms can be quite common out this way; a close friend of his had been trapped in one while making a similar trip a few years back. From what he remembers, he needs to pull over. He's always been the cautious type, and there's no point in risking a continued drive when, based on the speed and might with which the storm is advancing, he won't be able to avoid it. He removes his foot from the gas pedal and allows his Jeep to slow. By the time it finally comes to a stop, and he pulls over, sand crackling under his tires, the massive bulging spires of dust and desert sand have consumed a large, visible portion of the sky. He rolls up his windows and waits to be enveloped.
In the belly of the swell, Froy realizes that the sand is, curiously, more red than brown or yellow. The crimson is blinding and completely veils the sweeping landscape in seconds. It's as if he's been transported to Mars, swallowed by something storming and impenetrable and otherworldly.
"Holy cow," mutters Froy to himself. He keeps the car running and turns up the radio. He still has no signal. He watches his ETA climb as the dust storm surges on around him. He pulls his seat back, reclines, and closes his eyes, listening to the last lyrics of "Melancholy Hill."
🪶
When the dust finally clears and Froy opens his eyes, he's not at all surprised to see that the sky has shifted into a brilliant blush of pink and purple. The radio has since gone silent, his phone unable to load the next track on his Spotify playlist.
"Huh," he says aloud. He checks his phone. Service still shoddy. His stomach rumbles and he decides he needs to grab a bite. Probably needs to get some gas too. He kicks his car into drive and jumps back onto the road.
After about twenty minutes, he sees another one of those green highway signs: HILLHAVEN, 2 MILES, and below the text, a few icons signifying that the town includes lodging, food, and a gas station. Perfect. Soon, a small road becomes visible that runs perpendicular to his lonesome highway. It seems bizarre that the accompanying exit would lead so far off the beaten path, but with the Sauron's-eye sun blinking low over the earth now, and his body in need of food, Froy figures that it can't hurt to take a detour. Despite the fact that there are no drivers behind him, he fires up his blinker and makes a left onto the offramp.
🪶
If one were to look up “ghost town” in an Encyclopedia, one would most likely find a picture of Hillhaven. It is the quintessential ghost town--all small, dilapidated-looking buildings, wood planking and rusted metal.
It's like I'm still in a movie, Froy thinks, remembering the sets from the old Westerns he'd watch as a boy with a blond bowl haircut, sitting on the sofa beside his father or step-father. Small houses and shops sprinkle the surrounding dirt streets; in front of the former there are rusty old Fords from the fifties dug into dry lawns, as if they are sinking into the dry earth.
Froy doesn't see too many people about. He refills his gas tank at a little station on the nearest street corner. There's a plastic statue of a green dinosaur out front and he considers taking a selfie with it as he waits for the meter to stop, ticking upwards with little, rhythmic metal clicks. There are a few bystanders nearby. They study him, obviously knowing that he is a stranger, no doubt, whose drifted in from some distant metropolis miles away; now, here he is, standing beside an old pump, among wind and dust and crushed cans of Rolling Rock. He shifts from toe to toe, a little shy, a little weary of meeting the gazes of passersby. His stomach rumbles again and he thinks he smells food.
Lo and behold, early dinner is a roadside diner just up the way, the kind that Froy has always dreamed up from his exposure to classic American films—a quiet little road trip-sanctioned greasy spoon with red leather seats and tiny jukeboxes at every table, the likes of Peggy Lee or Patsy Cline crowding their pages. It's like he continues to jump between movie genres--from Indie coming-of-age to Western and back again. The diner smells of burnt hash and black coffee. Froy looks out across the mostly empty booths, listening to the percussions of knives and forks on flatware, and he makes his way to the furthest available table from the door, right near the narrow little restroom vestibule.
The waitress comes over and takes his drink order – a classic Coca-Cola with a cherry inside. He scans the menu with his finger. Nothing looks particularly appealing and he suddenly finds himself longing for his family dinners back in Dallas again, for fried chicken tenders or fried okra, yeast rolls with honey, drinks at Taqueria La Ventana. He sets the menu down and pulls out his phone. He tries to make a call, first to his mother back home—no answer, just that same strange busy signal—then to Zane in New York—same thing. He checks and double-checks that he has service. He does, but still barely: one lonesome, little bar.
“Just grab a quick bite and get back on the road,” Froy mutters to himself. He looks up and notices a young man, two tables over, staring at him curiously from over his menu. It's the first friendly face he's seen since he's blown into town. The man reminds Froy a little of Omar Apollo—buttery brown skin, dark curls, long face. He has thick eyebrows, straight and noble, and a narrow nose. His eyes are dark, yet kind.
Froy clears his throat and glances back at his phone. He sends a text to Zane instead--Call me when you get a chance. Had to make a pitstop.--but, of course, it does not go through. Next, he pulls up a browser and searches “Hillhaven, AZ” but Google does not load.
“Ugh,” Froy says in frustration, placing his phone firmly back on the tabletop. He senses movement from beside him, looks up, and there’s the man from two tables over, now standing only two feet away. “Oh,” he says with a start. "Hi."
“Sorry,” says the man, his eyes flashing with something apologetic. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”
“It’s…cool.”
“I…don’t want to bother you,” says the man, “but, are you, by chance…?” His question fades on his tongue and he looks embarrassed.
Froy arches an eyebrow, waiting for him to finish.
“Are you, by chance, Froy Gutierrez?” The man pronounces his name flawlessly, accent and all.
Froy is a little taken aback. It is not often that he's recognized, and here?--what are the chances?
“Um. Yeah,” he says, unable to hide his impressed tone. “I…am.”
The man’s face lights up. “Oh, wow.” He has a gorgeous smile, teeth white and straight, and he extends a hand. “I thought so! I’m, uh— I’m Francisco.” Again, the twang of a Spanish accent emerges. “Er, Cisco. Nice to meet you."
“Yeah, for sure,” says Froy. He is still a little apprehensive, but he is nothing if not kind to strangers--fans, too--and so he takes Cisco’s brown hand in his. His palm is large and pink and soft, and he has a firm, confident grip. Froy notices that he has a tattoo on his wrist—what looks like two small devil horns.
"What's a big star like you doing out in the middle of nowhere?" Cisco asks.
Froy chuckles. He hardly considers himself a 'star' at all, let alone a big one. "Um. I'm actually driving back to L.A. I was in Texas to visit my family. Dust storm delayed me, and I needed to fill up on gas and grab a bite."
"Oh, yeah. Those storms get bad out here." Cisco nods. "I'd say sorry, but it's just"--he makes a small explosive sound with his lips and gestures as if his mind is blown--"so surreal meeting you here, of all places!"
"I'm flattered," says Froy, and then, because he's unsure of what to say next, he asks, "What, um, have you seen me in, recently?"
Cisco claps his hands together and suddenly jumps into the booth opposite Froy. His eyes are wide with excitement and his voice shakes. "Just saw you in The Strangers. Man, that was wild. And Cruel Summer? So good! Um, let's see...oh! Hocus Pocus too! Wish you had a bigger part in that one."
Froy blushes. "W-well, thank you," he says again.
There comes a brief bout of awkward silence, and the waitress returns to take Froy's order. He lands on a club sandwich with fries and then she turns and asks if Cisco will be joining him at his table.
"Oh, no. Sorry!" It's as if this is the first time Cisco's noticed that he took a seat. He also reddens and stands back up. "I'm...totally interrupting your dinner. My bad." The waitress shrugs and walks away.
"No, not at all." Froy holds up a hand. While he's a little overwhelmed by Cisco's energy, it's also somewhat comforting to be talking to a fan in what he otherwise perceived to be a boondocks pitstop.
"May I--? May I get a picture with you?"
Froy smiles. "Of course."
Cisco turns and takes a selfie with him. His grin, again, is infectious and it truly flatters Froy that someone would be so excited to meet him.
"You really like....horror, huh?" asks Cisco once he slips his phone away.
Froy places his hands in his lap, sits back, and nods. "Well, honestly, for most of my life, I was really never a huge horror person. I'm, um, quite the scaredy cat actually." He laughs.
Cisco laughs too. "No way!"
"Yeah, yeah." Froy nods. "Never really watched a lot of horror movies growing up."
"I never would've guessed, considering all of the different, like, scary-type things you've been in."
"Yeah, yeah, I know, it's...weird, right?" Froy clears his throat. He hesitates for a moment, watching as Cisco stands cordially at the side of the table again, before he says, "If you want to join me for a bit, you can." He gestures back to the empty seat across from him.
Cisco's eyes nearly bulge out of his head. "A-are you sure?" he stammers. "I really don't want to impose."
"No, no." Froy shakes his head. "The company's nice. And I won't be here for too long anyways. Gotta get back on the road soon."
Cisco takes a breath, clearly doing his best not to dissolve into a total fanboy. "Okay. Wow, thanks! Just let me know when you need to get going." He rushes back to his table, gathers his belongings, and then sits himself across from Froy. "Um, this is crazy. My friends are never going to believe this."
Froy reddens again and shakes his head. He places his hands on the table and interlocks his fingers. "Where are you from?"
"I'm actually from Cali," says Cisco. "San Diego area. But I come out here for a few months each year to help my abuelo on his ranch."
"Oh, wow. That's...very kind of you." Froy smiles. Abuelo. His look, his accent--Froy wonders if Cisco is also of Mexican--or even Caxcan--descent, like him.
Cisco shrugs. "Been doing it all my life."
"Your abuelo, he lives here, in Hillhaven?"
"No, but close by. Next town over. I'm in Hillhaven for work."
"Work? You mean, besides helping on the ranch? What do you do?"
Before Cisco can answer, the waitress returns with the food that he must have ordered prior to their meeting--a burger and crispy potato wedges. Froy's mouth waters as he catches a whiff of the seasoning on the fries.
"Thank you," says Cisco to the waitress. He turns to Froy and smirks. "You want some fries?"
"Oh. No, thank you. I have my own coming."
Cisco still looks amused. "Okay. I'll wait 'til you get your food."
Froy protests and reiterates his question about Cisco's work.
"Oh." Cisco tentatively takes a bite of a potato wedge before reaching for the red bottle of ketchup at the windowsill. "Well, Hillhaven's actually known for having this roadside attraction--it's called the Manor of Madness."
Froy raises his eyebrows. "The...Manor of Madness?"
"Yeah." Cisco squirts a generous helping of deep-red drizzle across his fries. "I know you're, surprisingly, not a horror fan, but--"
Froy interjects. "Well, I definitely appreciate horror more now."
"Oh, yeah?"
"Yeah." Froy nods. "Especially after filming The Strangers, I really, well, I guess I started to fall in love with the genre."
"So then...you are a horror fan? I'm confused." Cisco smirks again.
"Call me more of a...horror admirer."
Cisco laughs and takes another bite of a potato wedge. "All right, so...what do you 'admire' about it?"
Froy considers his questions, face scrunching up in thought. "Well, as an actor, I think that it allows you to explore this broader spectrum of the human psyche. I really enjoy that," he says. "And, as an audience member, it also kinda functions as this way for us to micro dose stress in a safe environment."
Cisco cocks his head to the left. "What do you mean?"
Froy recalls an answer he had provided in a previous interview. "It just-- You ever go watch a horror movie with friends?"
"Sure."
"It's fun, right? Like, everyone getting scared together? Jumping at the same time or laughing together. It's this communal type of experience where you can just embrace the fear. Almost cathartic."
Cisco bobs his head, looking convinced. "I've never thought about it that way before."
"So, that's why I've grown to like it more. The way I look at it, it's just another brush to paint with as a performer."
"Just another brush to paint with." Cisco repeats Froy's expression slowly and contemplatively. He eats a few more fries, then says, "Well, I retract my statement from earlier."
"What statement?" Froy asks.
"Well, I guess it was more of a partial statement." Cisco shrugs. "About you not liking the Manor of Madness."
"Oh, yeah. You said it's...a roadside attraction?"
Cisco grins. "Yep. It's one of the big sources of income for the town, especially during the spooky season."
"What is it? Like, a haunted house?"
"More or less. Like those mazes from Horror Nights. At Universal. You ever been?"
Froy had not. "No way." He laughed. "I don't think I'd survive."
Cisco laughs too. "Well, the Manor of Madness isn't that intense. Definitely doesn't have the same budget. But, I'd love to know your thoughts! I'm working one of the walkthrough rooms tonight." He pulls out the phone and references the time. It's nearly six. "You should come check it out. We don't open until seven, but I could give you a behind-the-scenes tour beforehand."
Froy shakes his head. "I appreciate the invite, but I need to get back on the road," he says again just as the waitress arrives with his sandwich. He thanks her as she sets the plate down in front of him.
Cisco nods. "No, totally. But, um...well, do you think, maybe, you could at least come take a picture in front of the sign?"
Froy shoots him a quizzical look. "Why?"
Cisco flashes another sly grin. "You imagine what it would do for a business? Celebrity visit? Big star like you?"
Froy snorts. Again, he hardly considered himself a 'star' at all. "I'm not--" he starts to say before Cisco interrupts him.
"Please, man. Just one quick photo. You'd really help us out. Help the town out." He references the little diner around them.
Froy crosses his arms and sighs. "Let me think about it. Excuse me. Gonna go wash my hands." He stands from the booth.
"Sure." Cisco smiles and then dives into his burger.
While in the restroom, Fray inspects himself in the mirror--gray glass covered in etched curse words and graffiti language.
His blue eyes exude fatigue. He instinctively rubs at the freckles on his narrow nose, pushes the coif of dark, reddish brown hair back over his scalp with his fingers. He then runs his hands under the stream of hot water in the marble sink, applies soap, builds up a lather, rinses. Once he's dried his hands, he checks his phone again for any messages, any incoming calls.
Nothing.
Still one bar though.
He tries to call Zane again. Then, his mom.
"What the hell?" he mutters to himself. That incessant busy signal...
How?
He tries to access Waze to get an update on his ETA. The map doesn't load, but his phone does seem to remember the last destination he logged.
Froy sighs and leans back against the restroom door. It was already so late, and he should have been so much farther along on his route. He thought of his fan back at the table and with another resigned exhalation of air, said, under his breath, "What's a few more minutes?"
When he returned to the table, Cisco greeted him again with a kind smile and starstruck eyes. "Better eat." He motioned to Froy's plate. "Food's getting cold."
"Right," says Froy and then, "And I thought about it. A quick picture's not gonna hurt."
Cisco nearly chokes on his next bite. "No way! Really?!"
"Sure." Froy says softly. "Why not? Let's go check out this 'Manor of Madness.'" He takes his first bite of his own meal. The sandwich is...better than he expected. The sourdough bread is well buttered, and the produce seems fresh enough. He swallows and clears his throat. "After I eat, of course."
🪶
"Here we are!" says Cisco, beaming with pride. He gestures over to the small wooden sign at the base of a small concrete stairway that leads up to Hillhaven's apparently famed roadside attraction.
WELCOME TO THE MANOR OF MADNESS
ENTER IF YOU DARE!
The sun hovers low and copper-bottomed, like an immense coin, in front of them, dangling on the dark, desert horizon. Its waning light gilds the road and small ramshackle buildings along its dust-laden, concrete shoreline. There's a dry, almost metallic stink in the air. Something like oil and fossil and earth.
Froy realizes that his legs are a little sore from the drive. His shirt is a little damp with sweat, but at least his belly is full and the temperature is dropping. He surveys the sign. There's chipped white paint around its border and on its lettering. The house, just up the steps, has a similar aesthetic. It reminds Froy of the Bates house from Psycho.
Ominous. Old. Ornate.
A house with history.
Or, at least, that's how it's supposed to look.
"How long has this been here?" asks Froy, slipping his hands into his pockets.
"My abuelo told me that it was built in the early nineties. They refurbish it every few years though."
"Hm."
An old car rushes by, and Froy catches the silhouette of the driver. He blinks and blinks again. For a split second, he swears he sees...a dog driving the vehicle? Or something...doglike. Pointy ears. A snout. But, of course, that would be impossible. He shakes his head and rubs his eyes, then watches the red of the car's brake light as it veers into the little desolate town he's just walked through to get here. It's just he and Cisco now, standing together on the hard shoulder of the highway. Froy feels lonely, pensive, and...wistful.
I'm still in a film, he thinks, but now the genre is veering into suspense. The stranger who's asked him here is kind--Froy feels like he has a sense for these types of things--but something still feels ever so slightly...off.
Yes.
Just he and a stranger and everything else unfamiliar and rusting and dusty and alive. He turns to Cisco: his innocent smile, his golden-brown skin and dimples driven into his cheeks, his dark, long lashes, his wild, wavy curls. "So, should we take that picture?" Froy asks. He's itching to get back on the road. L.A. is still calling him.
"Yeah!" Cisco says. "Just stand right there." He points next to the sign.
Froy walks over, hands still in pockets, and leans towards the lettering. He smiles, lips closed, but eyes affecting their usual playful sparkle.
Cisco is wearing a small leather crossbody. He pulls from it his phone first and takes a pic, then asks Froy to remain where he's at as he withdraws a little black polaroid camera. He snaps a second pic and the device whirs to life.
"Wow! I haven't seen one of those in ages," says Froy, flashing his teeth in amusement. "Why the polaroid?"
"Oh, we have a board up near the entrance. I'll post this one up there"--he holds up the developing photo--"and this one on our social media page." He waggles his phone. "Come take a look!" He bounds up the steps.
Froy sighs. Again, he really needs to be going, but he also doesn't want to be rude. He meanders his way up the concrete walkway to the house. It's much larger up close. He steps up onto a wraparound porch, all lightweight wood. It's adorned with a few Halloween decorations, mainly smiling Jack-o-lanterns and fake cobwebs. The entrance is a large, white double door. On its left is another sign--MANOR OF MADNESS--and at its base, a single line of text:
You yearn for what you fear for.
"What does that mean?" asks Froy.
Cisco shrugs. "I was told that it's a quote from Dante's Inferno."
"Oh."
"Apparently, the Manor's based off of Inferno."
Froy raises a brow. "Really?"
"Yep." Cisco directs his attention to the right side of the house's entrance now. There is, indeed, what looks like a bulletin board with photos scattered upon it. Various guests and visitors posing next to the sign. At the bottom of the board, it reads, We didn't go mad! Cisco proudly pins his polaroid in the center of the board.
Froy, hands in pockets again, takes a few slow steps across the porch to the photo board. "That's uh... Well, that's kind of a lie then, isn't it?" He points to his photo, which is still slowly fading into view.
Cisco frowns. "What do you mean?"
"Doesn't it say here that these people 'didn't go mad'?"
"Yeah..." Cisco smirks.
"Meaning they went through the Manor and made it out?"
"Yeah."
"But I never went through."
"Oh." Cisco shrugs again. "So? It's just for the publicity, right?"
Froy giggles and shakes his head. "Man, you really think too much of me."
Cisco laughs too. "Maybe I do."
They stand side by side, silent and awkward, backs facing the endless desert and, before and between them, the large white door.
"I know you have to be going, but, erm..." Cisco's face assumes a sheepish expression. "If you really want the photo to be, well, truthful, I could always give you that quick tour." He reiterates his offer from the diner.
"Ah, I don't think so..." says Froy, though he has to admit that his curiosity has been piqued a little bit, especially now, standing at the threshold. He can hear commotion and distant muffled chatter coming from inside, no doubt the other staff members preparing the attraction for visitors.
"It'll take, like, ten minutes at most?" He sounds so charming, yet unsure of himself.
Froy bursts out in a laugh. "You realize this has gone from a quick picture with me at the diner to dinner together, a walk through town, a photo op at the sign, and now...?" He waves his hands about as he talks through the events of the evening.
Cisco's face scrunches up in further embarrassment. "I'm sorry! Y-you're right," he stammers. "You've done more than enough. And, really, it's been...well, it's been an honour." He extends a hand again. "I'll let you get going."
Froy takes it and shakes. "Believe me, if I wasn't in a hurry, I'd probably take you up on it."
"Oh, yes. You mentioned--the audition tomorrow?" Cisco refers to the details that Froy had given him on their brief walk through Hillhaven from the diner.
"Well, no." Froy smiles. "It's actually at the end of the week."
"Oh. Right."
"But, I've got to get back on the road. I mean, I wasn't expecting the detour at all."
"Of course, of course." Cisco nods. "I should probably get ready for my shift anyway."
"Right," says Froy. He glances at his phone again. Now, he definitely has no signal. He looks back to Cisco and an idea sparks in him. "Hey, could I, by chance, use your phone?"
"Really?" Cisco sounds honoured by the request. He hands it over, and Froy catches a glimpse of a tattoo again, only this one is on his other wrist. It's not a pair of devil horns, but rather something else: what looks to be the paw of a dog.
"Do you have a signal?" asks Froy before taking the phone.
"Oh. Yeah, but barely. Gets pretty spotty out here. And the dust storms don't help."
"Mind if I make a call? Just need to tell my family I'm all right."
"Sure! If you can get through, go for it. I'll give you your privacy." Cisco backs into the Manor's front door, opens it and slips inside before Froy can object.
"Oh, you don't need to--" But he suddenly finds himself all alone out on the quiet porch. He sighs, then looks down at Cisco's iPhone. It has a black case, sleek, and unmarred by scratches or dirt. He dials his mom's home phone number. Aha! At least no busy signal. The ensuing ringing is music to his ears.
Ring...
Ring...
Ring...
Unfortunately, no one picks up, but at least this time, he's forwarded to an answering machine. He smiles at the sound of his mother's voice and he leaves a recording letting her know what's happened so far and where he is. He promises to call her as soon as he gets back on the road and has service of his own. He then makes a call to Zane.
Ring...
Ring...
Ring...
Same result. He leaves another message, this one similar. He also tells Zane that he misses him and that he can't wait to be back with him in New York soon. And then, once he hangs up, he's struck with a strange sense of...loneliness. He stares out at the darkening landscape that seems to stretch into eternity beyond the highway. He knows that, somewhere out there, is either his destination or his origin point. He's all turned around now. The air is magenta and the clouds bleed a deep orange, cut and spilling color into the twilight.
Froy takes a deep breath. How much longer, he wonders, before he's back on a midnight road into the valleys of California, where his wild and unruly road trip ends and evaporates into memory, finished just when the world felt somehow...new? Froy slowly turns back to the door of the Manor of Madness, which hangs slightly ajar.
What a strange place, he thinks. And here he is, a stranger in a strange place. He feels the weight of Cisco's phone in his hand.
"Hey, Cisco?" he calls towards the doorway. "I've, erm, finished. Here's your phone back."
There comes no response from beyond the door.
"Cisco?" he tries again.
But still, nothing.
Froy's blue eyes flit back and forth between the sign on the left--You yearn for what you fear for--and the photo board on the right--We didn't go mad! He sighs, hangs his head, and takes a few steps forward before glancing down at the Jack-o-lanterns. They're grinning, crooked smiles devious and demented, yet somehow cute. He presses on the door and it squeaks open, dim light flooding into what looks like a small parlor. He stares a moment, hanging an arm on the wooden doorframe.
The room is dressed in dark woods and red velvets, and it's furnished with various antiques, from the wooden chairs to the left of the entrance, to the small upright piano on the far wall, to what appears to be a front desk on the right. Curtains hang over another doorway ahead. Above the center of the room is a small chandelier, laden with more fake cobwebs.
"Hey, Cisco?" Froy shouts into the dim room, louder now. There still comes no response, so he, begrudgingly--and curiously--takes a few more steps into the room. The interior smells of dust and desert. The floorboards creak beneath his shoes. "Hello?"
He hears a commotion from beyond the hanging red curtain in front of him. "Hello? Anyone?" he says as he takes another step, and then another.
Creak...
Creak...
He feels a chill from behind him. There comes the sound of a weak breeze, almost like a wheeze or a whisper, and the front door moans as it slowly shuts.
Froy freezes up. He contemplates for a moment, heading back, but then in the new silence of the parlor, he hears, from somewhere beyond the crimson curtain, sounds.
Footsteps.
Rustling.
Music...?
Froy shivers again. The music is unsettling, yet it carries in its lulling notes something almost charming.
Whimsical.
Ethereal.
"Cisco!" Froy's nasally voice rings out through the empty parlor and beyond the curtain.
Creak...
Creak...
He's at the red curtain now. He runs his fingers along the grooves in the fabric. Heavy, but soft. Smooth. He draws the veil back and--
"Boo!" A masked figure suddenly appears and shouts loudly, waving its arms. The figure is cloaked in black, flowing garments, and dons a smiling red devil's mask with spiraling horns.
"Shit!" Froy reels back, eyes wide, heart rate skyrocketing. He yelps, curses, and nearly bolts for the Manor's front door, but after a moment, the stranger laughs and shifts the mask up to reveal his identity.
It's Cisco.
Froy wants to be angry, but he's also relieved. "Duuuuuude," he drawls after taking a moment to gather himself. "Not. Cool."
Cisco giggles. "Sorry. Couldn't help myself."
"I told you, I'm a jumper."
"Sorry," Cisco says again. "Thought I'd give you a little send-off scare. You know, considering the season and, you know, where we are."
From takes another breath, then directs his attention around them.
"Pretty cool, huh?" says Cisco.
"It's definitely creepier than I would've thought. I was imagining, like, kitsch carnival funhouse vibes."
"Oh, no. The Manor of Madness is pretty legit."
"You mentioned it's basically like a house at Horror Nights, right?"
"Yeah! There's a single route that weaves its way through the house. Guests are led through rooms where there are either, like, jump scares, or they get to see the actors in some sort of scene. I'm actually working the second room tonight. It's why I'm dressed like this." He refers to the garments he's wearing.
"How many rooms are there in total?" asks Froy. His hands have found their way back into the pockets of his jeans.
"Nine. Just like in the Inferno."
"Huh." Froy bobs his head. "What types of things do the guests get to see in each room? Is it, like, gory and stuff?"
Cisco grins. "Depends on the room. Wanna see? I promise it'll be quick."
Froy should have seen that question coming. He considers protesting again, but just like with every step further he's taken into the mysterious heart of Hillhaven, he reasons, Well, I'm already here...
In town...
At the diner...
At the roadside sign...
At the entrance...
Now inside...
"Ten minutes?" asks Froy.
"At most."
Froy checks the time again, but it's more for show than anything else. His heart's still in overdrive, but he's starting to wonder if it's anxiety or, rather, excitement. He pictures himself in a film again--he marvels at the way in which his road trip led him here. The spirit of it all. The strangeness of it all. He's definitely going to have stories to tell after this.
"All right." Froy gestures forward. "Lead the way, sir."
Cisco draws back the curtain, which leads into a long hallway. "Follow me," he says.
🪶
The meandering path through the Manor of Madness mainly comprises a succession of narrow hallways, all dark and distorted. At random intervals, there's a sudden sharp turn to the left or to the right, which either provides a view of a dark or covered room--sets blocked by more crimson curtains--or a walkable room. The first of these walkable rooms is not, in fact, a 'room,' as Cisco defines it. There are no places for actors to scare guests or, conversely, for guests to view any sort of unsettling scene. Rather, there is a marble statue, nearly naked, in the center of what could be described as a spacious vestibule.
The statue is masculine--Adonis-like abs, well-proportioned body, classically handsome. Its face seems to be modeled after an actor that Froy feels he knows, with its pair of wide eyes and a familiar swoop of wavy hair over its forehead. A brief memory surfaces in his mind: the face of Tom Riddle in Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets.
"That's...interesting," Froy says, eyes dropping to the statue's groin, which is covered by a sprig of ivy. At the statue's feet is a plaque that reads:
The sinners within these walls shall be justly punished.
We are all sinners,
And remember, we fear for what we yearn for.
"The Horned Devil," says Cisco softly. "He is the master of this manor."
Froy bobs his head. "Interesting," he says again. "Not sure how I feel about it."
"Oh, it's just to set the mood, you know?" Cisco says and leads Froy forward. More winding hallways and mysterious, covered doorways. After one more turn, Cisco halts before a crimson curtain that leads into a room off of the main hallway. "This is where I'll be. The rooms are covered until the doors open at eight. Check it out." He draws the curtain back, then unclips a rope that hangs across the doorframe. He leads Froy through, then reapplies the rope and closes the curtain again.
This second room is one that provides the Manor's guests with a view of a scene as they pass through the outer hall. It looks like some sort of library, dimly lit and similarly furnished like the rest of the house. The high walls around them are completely comprised of shelving, from floor to ceiling, and they all contain rows and rows of dusty books and tomes of various sizes. There is another cobweb-covered chandelier above the focal point of the space, which, Froy finds to be especially strange.
There is a large chair in the center of the room, a strange, hybrid, Frankenstein’s monster of a seat. At first glance, it looks like a typical armchair, large and brown and padded, and, like the rest of the furnishings seen throughout the manor so far, it is a dark brown color, an ornately crafted mix of fabrics and woods. The front of the armchair extends outward, much like a chaise lounge and, where one would normally rest one’s feet, there is a pair of wooden stocks with two padded holes.
"That's..." Froy wants to avoid saying 'interesting' a third time, so he decides on, "What is that?"
Cisco chuckles. "Okay, to give you some context--basically, each room houses a resident who is 'trapped' in the manor." He flashes a pair of air quotes. "And each resident is subjected to some sort of tormented by the house's Horned Devils."
"Hence your outfit and mask?" Froy asks.
"Yep."
"So then, what exactly--?" Froy is interrupted by a sudden, sharp vibration from the phone within his hand. For a split second, hope surges through his heart. Perhaps it's one of his parents or Zane calling him back, finally breaking through the dead zone that's surrounded him since the dust storm. But when he pulls up the device to inspect its screen, he realizes that he's, in fact, still holding Cisco's phone.
The caller I.D. merely reads: THOMAS
"Oh. You're getting a call. Sorry. I meant to give this back earlier." Froy hands Cisco his phone.
"Oh!" Cisco chuckles. "I almost forgot. Thanks." He also reviews the name on the screen and says, with some amusement, "My boyfriend."
Froy raises his eyebrows. He's pleasantly surprised to learn that Cisco is queer. It's always nice to meet someone with whom he can connect on such a unique and personal level. The revelation, in some way, provides him a sense of comfort or camaraderie. Boyfriend. He thinks of Zane again and a light flutter of envy bubbles around in his chest, which is only exacerbated when Cisco answers the call with:
"Hey, mi amor. You on your way?" He says it so casually and quickly.
There comes an unheard reply on the other end of the line: "..."
"What?" Cisco gasps. "Oh my god. How did that happen?"
"..."
"I'm, um-- I'm so sorry, Tom. No, no! No, I'll uh, I'll figure something out for us. I mean, do you need me to see if I can leave? I know it's short notice but maybe I can--"
"..."
"You sure?" Cisco reaches up and rubs at the back of his neck. He starts to pace as he talks. "Really, it's more important that I..."
"..."
Cisco sighs, long and heavy. "Well, okay. As long as you're sure. Please give my best to your mom. I hope she feels better soon."
"..."
"Uh huh. Okay. Okay. Yep. No, it's okay. I promise. O-okay. Yes. I love you too. Bye." Cisco ends the call then looks up at Froy. After a long pause he says, "Well, that's...unfortunate."
“What happened?” Froy asks.
“Thomas’s mom--her back just went out.”
Froy hisses sharply and offers a sympathetic frown. “Ouch. That's awful.”
“Yeah, she's had back problems for a while now. But when this happens, she's completely immobile. And, obviously, he needs to help take care of her, so he won't be able to make the shift tonight. He was my partner for the scene."
"Oh, no." Froy shakes his head and crosses his arms. "So...what does that mean then? For you?"
"Well, I can’t work the room without him. What's a Devil without his Resident to torture?” Cisco chuckles miserably. “Shit. What time is it?” He checks his phone again. There's only about fifteen minutes until the top of the hour. “I have no idea where I’m going to find someone to cover this last-minute.” He sits himself on the little stool beside the stocks and frantically thumbs through the contacts in his phone.
Froy watches him a moment. He steps over to the strange chair—creak, creak, creak—and runs his fingers tentatively along the padding of its seat.
Cisco says, “Hey, I know you need to get going. I, um, I appreciate everything you’ve done for me tonight.” He flashes a quick smile, but it’s laden with an expression of worry. He bounces his knee as he holds the phone up to his ear, presumably waiting for someone else now to pick up on the other end.
“Oh. Of course,” says Froy. “It was— It was my pleasure.”
“C’mon…” Cisco draws out the muttered word. “Pick up, pick up, pick up.” He sighs after a moment, then pulls the phone away from his ear and scrolls through it again.
“Do I…just head back the way I came?” Froy points to the doorway behind them.
“Oh. Yeah.” Cisco is clearly distracted. “Follow the hallways back to the entrance.” He stands from the stool and holds out his hand for the third time that evening. “It was really good to meet you, Froy. Like, truly. You’re…you’re such a nice guy.”
Froy blushes. “Thanks,” he says. “You too. Good luck.” He shakes Cisco’s hand again—soft and strong—then turns to leave.
One step. Creak.
Two steps. Creak… Creak…
He stops and considers again the events that have led him here, considers what Cisco has just said to him, considers the feeling of the boy’s hand in his.
Was this not why he had decided to brave a road trip in the first place? To not only experience something new, but to encounter, to risk, to land himself in novel and incomprehensible situations…? He feels the film reel spinning through his veins, the letterbox once more closing him in, embracing him.
Besides, as Cisco indirectly brought to light, his audition isn't until the end of the week. So, what's the rush to get home?
With a fatalistic shrug, and a toss back of his head, Froy spins around on the ball of his foot and faces Cisco again, who has returned to sitting on the stool, still frantically trying to call someone.
“Any luck?” asks Froy.
Cisco shakes his head. “No. I'll...just have to close the room.” He sighs. “Not a huge deal, but it means I won’t get paid tonight. And neither will Tom, obviously.”
“I’m…sorry.”
“It’s, uh— It’s definitely going to hurt. We were counting on the money.” Cisco sighs. “But, oh well. What are you gonna do? I’ll, uh, I’ll call my boss and tell him that we're down an actor tonight.” He stands again and passes Froy towards the room’s exit.
Froy closes his eyes and considers once more the motivations that drove him here, to this very spot, in a haunted house attraction in the middle of a roadside ghost town that serves as an oasis among the sprawling dust bowl of the American southwest.
“Well, you know, I am an actor. Is there…any way I can help?” he asks, almost tentatively. He hears Cisco stop in his tracks and turn back to him.
“Are you…serious?”
Froy faces him. The look of hopefulness in Cisco’s eyes is almost too much. He shrugs. “Well, I don’t mind…hanging out a little longer if it means it'll help you. I’d hate for you to miss out on getting paid tonight.” He tries to sound casual. He rolls his shoulders back, returns his hands to his pockets. "I know what that's like."
“Froy, I—” Cisco’s mouth opens and closes a few times. “I can’t ask you to do that. You’ve already done so much for me. Me. I mean, who am I?” He laughs and throws his arms up.
Froy smiles kindly. “You’re a fan. And a nice guy. And someone who I’ve enjoyed spending some time with.”
Cisco looks down at his shoes and runs his toe over something on the hardwood floor beneath him. “Thanks. I’ve enjoyed spending time with you too.”
“And, c'mon--have a little faith in me.” Froy chuckles. “I'm sure I can put on a decent performance, even with this short of notice. There aren't any lines to memorize, right?”
Cisco shakes his head. "Well, no. Not really. But, I mean, if you fill in for Tom, obviously his money’s yours.”
"No, no. That's not why I'm doing this."
“Froy. I'm not going to have you work Tom’s shift for free. Especially when you don’t know what you’re getting yourself into.”
“I'm sure it can't be that crazy, right?"
"You, uh... have no idea," Cisco says.
A sound of an antique doorbell suddenly rings out through the twisting halls of the Manor of Madness.
Ring… Ring… Ring…!
Cisco snaps to attention. “Oh, crap. We’ve got, ten minutes before doors open.”
Froy claps his hands together. “Well, okay then. Let's get started.”
Cisco laughs. “Again, you have no idea what you’re getting yourself into.”
“What am I doing?"
“Froy, are you sure? I can call my boss right now and close the room.”
“No, no. I want to help.”
Cisco’s expression and the sound that escapes from him all work together to implicitly say, ‘If you insist…’ He hurries back over to the strange armchair and asks Froy to sit.
“You still haven't told me the specifics of the scene,” Froy says as he slides himself into the chair. The actual width of the seat is quite narrow, and the arms of the chair are large and rotund, forcing him to rest his forearms upon them. At least the seat is comfortable--cushioned and with decent back support. He swings his legs up onto the extended portion of the chair, unsure of what to make of the stocks.
Cisco unlatches them and opens them up. “You're gonna have to place your feet in here,” he says.
Froy thinks it a little strange but complies. He wonders what sort of setup the guests will be witnessing as they stroll by this room. He places his feet into the padded grooves of the stocks. He is wearing ankle socks, exposing a small strip of bare flesh between the top of each sock and the hem of each leg of his jeans. The padding is cold, and he winces. He watches as Cisco closes the stocks again, latching them down over his ankles. His view is now obstructed. He can no longer see his own feet and only Cisco, from the shoulders up, is visible.
“What are these for?” asks Froy.
“They’re part of your torment,” says Cisco, emphasizing the word with a hyperbolic sinister tone.
“All right…” Froy nods, acknowledging the onset of nerves and excitement that is starting to gather in his stomach. He thinks about their conversation back at the diner again, about what it’s like to perform horror, how it explores different components of the psyche. “Can I have a little more context? So I know exactly how to act?"
Cisco smiles. “Well, honestly, I don’t know if it’ll require much acting. At least, I don’t think.”
“What do you mean?”
Cisco sighs. “Um.” He coughs and clears his throat. “Sorry, I didn’t realize until now how awkward this is. I’m so used to doing this with Tom. Or one of the other house actors. I mean, they all signed up for this.”
Froy smiles and wiggles his feet back and forth, clacking the toes of his shoes together. “It’s all right. I’m…signing up for it now. Sorta.”
Cisco makes eye contact with him, but he still looks a little embarrassed. “I guess, but, again, they knew what they were getting into.”
Froy snickers. “You keep saying that. Just tell me already." He brings his hands down from the armrests and rubs his palms together.
Cisco still hesitates, but eventually, he says, “Well, I’ll need to take off your shoes. And socks. If that’s cool with you.”
Froy drops his hands into his lap and cocks his head to the side. "What?"
“For the scene. You have to be barefoot.”
“Oh. Um.” Froy curls his toes in his shoes. He’s, admittedly, a little foot shy. “I mean, okay...? If you say so.”
“Sorry, I know. I told you—a little weird.”
“I’ve…done weirder,” Froy says. He tries to affect a joking tone, but as he feels Cisco begin to unlace his shoes, the nerves in his stomach intensify. Once his shoes are removed, his socked feet are enveloped by a rush of cold air. He experiences a crackle of embarrassment as he realizes that his feet are a little sweaty. He suddenly wonders if his toenails are trimmed. He wonders if--and hopes there isn't--any sort of odor from the long day. He's really never considered his feet with so much regard before.
Then, the socks come off.
Froy hisses when he feels Cisco hook a finger around the fabric at each of his heels and pull each cotton sheath free. Cold air rushes between his toes now and he curls them again. His insecurities regarding his feet are quickly eased a bit when Cisco says, with genuine admiration, "You've got nice feet, Froy!"
Froy chuckles nervously and clears his throat. "Um, thanks...?" He's really not sure what else to say. Again, his feet are not something that he's really paid any sort of particular attention to beyond normal hygiene, of course.
"You've got a little bit of lint right here though."
Froy feels Cisco softly pinch at the skin near his right instep. It shoots a sensation up his leg and he instinctively tries to pull his foot away, but immediately realizes that he can't. The stocks rattle loudly.
"Ooh, sorry." Cisco says. "You all right?"
"Yeah." Froy clears his throat again.
"Um, again, another awkward question, but are you...ticklish, by chance?"
"I mean, a little, I guess."
"Okay, good." Cisco sounds relieved.
Froy doesn't think he's heard him correctly. "Good?"
"Yeah." Cisco looks over the tops of the stocks at him and smiles. "It'll make the scene easier for both of us. More...authentic."
And that's when it dawns on Froy.
He knows now what he's, apparently, gotten himself into, and why Cisco had been so apprehensive to accept his offer.
"Oh...no. You're...kidding, right?" asks Froy. "You're not going to tickle me, are you?"
Cisco looks a little apologetic. "Afraid so." He shrugs. "The resident in this room--you--is subjected to, um, a little tickle torture."
"Tickle torture?" Froy's mouth runs dry. He's really not sure why he's smiling. Just the thought inspires his stomach to somersault and a phantom tingling to gather along the bottoms of his feet. He shakes them back and forth and curls his toes again. He can't really remember the last time he was tickled on his feet, but he knows that he's ticklish. "Ah, please man," he says. "I don't know if I can do that."
"I warned you." Cisco tilts his head forward and raises a brow. "You said you were up for it."
"Well, yeah, but I thought this was going to be some sort of acting role. I mean, you literally said that you needed an actor."
"I do! You're playing a part."
"But it's not really acting..."
"I know!" Cisco folds his arms against his chest and his knowing smile goes smug. "That's what'll make it even better. Tom's really not that ticklish. He has to fake laugh a lot, and it's not always believable." He reaches forward and runs a single finger up Froy's left foot. "How about you?"
Froy's reaction is immediate. He tries to kick and hisses sharply. "H-hey!"
"Wow. Yeah. You are definitely more ticklish than Tom." He tries the other foot now. A single finger, slowly and lightly running up from heel to toes.
"Ah-h!" Froy yelps. He leans forward and reaches for the stocks, but they are well beyond his grasp. He leans back with a thud. "C'mon, Cisco," he stammers. "This is crazy."
"It's just a little tickling."
"Yeah, but...I can't move my feet. Like at all."
"That's the point. It's torture, remember?"
Froy grumbles and rests his head back against the chair. He looks up at the ceiling. "This... This isn't even-- How is this scary?"
Cisco smiles. "Well, you're a little scared, aren't you?"
"I wouldn't say scared, per se."
"No?"
Froy suddenly feels all of Cisco's fingers on both of his feet. The feeling is awful--like eight little spider legs skittering up and down his soles. "AhhhaHA!" He shouts and it blossoms into a sharp, monosyllabic laugh. His feet thrash about and he tries to pull them back, but the stocks keep his ankles secure. It's a strange and terrible feeling, not being able to pull away. "Quit that!"
"Just getting you warmed up. It's...gonna be a long night."
Froy grunts and exhales deeply. "Oh god..."
"Look, there's some good news." Cisco tries to sound positive about the experience, his inflection rising.
"What is it?"
"Well, the tours through the Manor are guided. Every time a group stops by this room, that's when the tickling will start. In between groups, I'll give you a break. It's not constant."
"Well, that's...something." Froy shakes his feet back and forth again and wiggles his toes.
"But..."
"But what?" Froy moans.
"Well, when we do have an audience, it's going to be...intense. See, the whole premise is, you're a playing a con-artist. A grifter."
"Really?" Froy considers the role for a moment, and a few characters quickly come to mind. He thinks of Leonardo DiCaprio's Frank Abagnale in Catch Me If You Can and Pierce Brosnan's titular character in The Thomas Crown Affair.
Cisco nods. "You took up residence in the Manor on one of your getaways, but instead of rest and relaxation, you're getting, well, this instead." Again, skittering fingertips scamper up and down Froy's feet.
"H-hey! HEY! Ha!" Froy yelps and giggles again. "Stop doing that!"
Cisco chuckles. "Sorry. It's...fun. Anyway, the catch is, your misdeeds--er, sins, rather--are going to be written on the bottoms of your feet."
"What?" Froy's voice nearly cracks.
"Yeah."
"But, you're not, like, actually going to write on my feet, are you?"
"No, no," assures Cisco. "Not with ink or anything. I'll be using these." He bends down, face disappearing from view and he rummages through something that Froy can't see. After a moment, he pops back into view and holds up two objects in his right hand.
Feathers. Long, stiff, and white.
"Feathers...?" he says, mouth hanging open. He wonders if feathers actually tickle. He knows they're used in cartoons a lot, but he's never dreamed that he'd be in a situation in which his feet would really be getting tickled by them. It's almost unreal.
"Yep."
"The tips of these really do a number on people. Even Tom."
"I, um. I don't know if I want to find out what that's like." Froy curls his lip. "Is it too late to back out?"
As if on cue, another loud chiming of a bell races through, and bounces around, the distorted halls and walls of the Manor of Madness. There comes a wave of footsteps and chatter from beyond the curtain of their room.
"I think it might be," Cisco answers Froy, then stands. He makes his way over to the room's entrance and draws back the curtain, now providing a view of their set to the walkway beyond. "We're officially open."
"Oh god," Froy mutters again. He's really not sure what he had been expecting, but it certainly wasn't this.
Cisco chuckles. "Relaaax, man. It usually takes a bit to wind up. We probably won't have our first group for awhile." He sits on the stool, reaches forward, and places an affectionate hand on the top of Froy's right foot.
"Does it actually get, like, busy?" Froy can't imagine a little roadside attraction in the middle of nowhere garnering that much attention, especially at night.
"You'd be surprised," Cisco says. "I told you--it's one of Hillhaven's biggest sources of revenue. And it's not just for commuters or people passing through. A lot of the locals from the surrounding communities come by. Sort of like a...tradition, you know? I mean, we are still pretty early in the month, so it's not going to be as crazy as, say, Halloween, but I'm guessing we'll at least have fifty or so people come through tonight. Maybe more."
Froy brings his hands down from the arms of the chair and settles them in his lap. The narrowness of his seat forces him to pinch his biceps against his chest. He must look nervous because Cisco continues with his reassurance.
"Look, you're, like, really doing me a huge favor here, Froy. Like, truly. And I promise I'll go easy on you. I mean, as much as I can."
Froy exhales. "I've...never done anything like this before."
"Most people haven't."
"And I'm obviously more ticklish than I realized."
Cisco grins. "Yeah, your feet are pretty sensitive." He reaches forward and gives the left instep a few light tickles with his fingers.
Froy kicks and splutters and the stocks rattle away.
"What's the worst you've ever been tickled?" Cisco asks.
Froy thinks about it a moment. Growing up, he would sometimes get into tickle fights with his younger siblings, and, in recent years, he'd often find himself on the receiving end of a few seconds of playful tickling from his romantic partners. Richard had always liked to tweak his sides, especially during their cuddle sessions mid-pandemic when they were held up in his home in L.A. Zane likes to tickle him too, occasionally finding an opportunity to sneak a finger into an exposed armpit.
But nothing has ever come close to...this.
And that's what Froy tells Cisco. "How about you?"
"Oh, same. I've been in this chair a couple of times. You know, it really is torture, but it's kinda fun too."
"I doubt that."
"Don't knock it 'til you try it."
"I've already tried it."
Cisco snickers. "Yeah, but I mean, the whole experience." He can't help but reach forward with one of the feathers, running its stiff, white bristles through a space between Froy's toes.
"Ahhhhhh...." Froy moans. He curls his toes and seizes up, returning his hands to the arms of the chair.
"Are your feet your worst spot?" Cisco asks, every so slowly threading the bristles back and forth. He watches with admiration as Froy's foot wrinkles up and tries to twist inward in response to the sensation. His toes are flat and squarish--his index toe is longest--and his heels are broad and pink. The flesh of his insteps is very pale and, evidently, quite soft.
"I th-think they might be," Froy struggles to say, trying to hold back a pained laugh.
"They're my worst spot too."
"W-why aren't you in the chair? We can always switch."
Cisco laughs. "Nice try," he says, finally removing the feather. Froy huffs and relaxes into the seat again.
From somewhere beyond the walls, there is a low rumbling sound.
Thunder, perhaps?
And then, there follows a deep, haunting, maniacal laugh. It sounds very similar to the hyperbolic cackles of Vincent Price in Michael Jackson's "Thriller."
"What is that?" asks Froy.
Cisco turns to him and smirks. "Um. It looks like we have our first guests." He reaches up and slides down the devil mask over his face.
🪶
Sure enough, it only takes minutes for the first group to arrive. Froy hears, from somewhere in the hallway, a booming voice, deep, masculine, theatrical and assertive:
"Our next resident is a grifter, a con-man who has lied, and cheated, and stolen from the innocent. He is arrogant and deceitful--a bully--and he's made the mistake of stopping here, in our beloved Manor, for the night."
Froy turns to the source of the voice.
Another figure appears, donning another devil mask and similar black robes. He is standing before a crowd of guests who appear to be adults and adolescents of various shapes and sizes. He speaks slowly and articulately and he gestures into the room. The faces and bodies of the audience members beside him are difficult to see, shrouded in shadow thanks to the contrast of lighting in the room versus the walkway. Froy counts that there is probably about six of them.
"You see, my esteemed visitors," says the tour guide, "this bad boy here has landed himself in our Manor's Library of Laughter. And for good reason. I mentioned that he is many things. And among them, our Devils know that he is also very...ticklish."
"That's my cue." Froy hears Cisco mutter softly from behind his own mask and, without further warning, he places the tip of one of the feathers against Froy's left heel. Then, he begins to slowly and gently draw it up the center of his sole.
Froy's reaction is immediate and unrestrained. "Ooooooh!" The sensation is sharp and almost painful. Almost. It's still more ticklish than anything else, and it immediately sends Froy's nerve-endings into overdrive.
"You will pay for your sins, Con-Man!" Cisco suddenly affects a sinister, theatrical tone, similar to that of the guide who is standing in the hall.
"W-what?" Froy says.
Again, Cisco draws the pointed tip of the feather down his foot again.
"Eeeeeeh... Pffffftttkkkhhkhkkhkhhh." Froy's tight grimace and biting of his lip breaks into a muffled laugh as Cisco continues on up to his toes again. His foot shudders and shakes. His toes curl. Again, by the time the tip of the feather is nearing Froy's toes, he's dissolved into panicked giggling. "Heeheeheehee..."
"Watch as this boy gets what he deserves! Watch as he goes MAD!" says the Horned Devil in the hallway.
Cisco follows up by saying, "Thou shall not steal!" He moves the quill tip of the feather over to Froy's other foot and with it, instead of drawing a single line up the center of the sole, he instead begins to write:
T-H-O-U...
The ticklish sensation is deep and cutting and horrible. Froy yelps loudly "Ohhh gawhawhawhawd!" He braces himself against the arms of the chair and lifts his bottom up from the seat, trying in vain to twist or pull away, but his ankles and legs remain secure. His feet can do nothing but shake and writhe and experience Cisco's devious torment.
S-H-A-L-L...
"H-HEY! STOP PLEASE!" Froy shouts. And he's not acting. He really, truly wants this to stop. But, as expected, Cisco does not comply. He moves over to the left foot again and continues writing:
N-O-T...
"Ahhh-hh! Ohh! Heehee! AHAHA!" Froy giggles and shouts and tries again and again to pull away. The stocks simply rattle with the sounds of his struggles, but they do not budge.
S-T-E-A-L.
"Kkkkkhhkhhkhheehee!" Froy then tries to cross his feet in front of one another, but the stocks have his ankles placed too far apart. All he can do is flail them about, but even this action proves to work against him. The more he twists and shakes his feet, the faster the tip of the feather runs against his instep.
"Thou shall not lie!" Cisco says and the torment starts all over again.
T-H-O-U...
"Ohhh no! Not again! Nohoho!" Froy pleads.
S-H-A-L-L...
"Ah! Ahhhh! Krrrrssshhheeeheehaha!"
N-O-T...
"Pleasepleaseplease! Heeheehahahaha!"
This was bad. Really bad. The sensation biting across the bottoms of Froy's feet is the only thing he can focus on. He stops hearing the amused chatter of his observers who are, apparently, enjoying the show. He no longer hears the sinister voice of the tour guide further building up the lore. He only feels the tip of the feather tracing, tracing, tracing, spelling the words that truly are, in this moment, tormenting him.
L-I-E.
And then: "Thou shall not bully!" The horrible process starts all over.
"No! Not again!" Froy protests, but his shouts are immediately lost to laughter as Cisco applies the feather to his feet for a third time. "I'm nawhawt the bulleeheehee here! You awrharhar!"
T-H-O-U...S-H-A-L-L...N-O-T...B-U-L-L-Y...
The tickling seems to stretch on forever. Froy's feet prove to be no match for the feather's mighty, stimulating stub, lighting up his nerve-endings in an uncomfortable squirming skirmish of pain and pleasure.
"P-please, man! I'm b-begging youhoohoo! I neeheeheed a breahayhayhake!"
Thankfully, Cisco finally relents, just moments after the tour guide leads the group of observers away, further down the hall. Once all is quiet, save for the sounds of Froy's heavy breathing, Cisco removes his mask, revealing an embarassed smile and worried eyes. "Damn, Froy! You okay?" he asks.
Froy shudders with each breath. His feet feel like they are on fire. "Th-that was awful," he says slowly.
"I know... I'm sorry," says Cisco quickly. "But, if it's any consolation, you were amazing."
"H-how was I amazing?"
"I mean, your reactions, man! It really just sells the whole thing!"
"I'm not trying to sell anything! Those were, like, my genuine reactions."
"I know!"
"It w-was...torture, man! Like, real torture." Froy tries to rub his feet together, but to no avail. He has an itch on his left instep.
Cisco watches with some amusement as Froy stretches his toes towards one another. "You good?" he asks.
"I'm a little...itchy. That feather was intense."
"Let me help," Cisco says and he uses his index finger to lightly scratch at the center of Froy's foot. The flesh is buttery and warm, and Cisco watches in awe as the foot spasms and wrinkles up, the sole growing more pale than before.
"No! NO!" Froy bursts out laughing. "No fingerherhers! HAHA! THAT'S WORSE!" he groans.
"I'm just trying to help." Cisco tries to affect an innocent tone. He enjoys watching Froy's feet flap and writhe and wave about, trying their best to stretch and dodge away from his fingertips.
"It's nawhawt hehehehlping!"
"I can't get over how ticklish you are."
"I c-can! I am over it! Stop! Stawhawp!"
Cisco complies. "Sorry," he says. "I told you you'd get a break."
"Ugh." Froy thumps his head back against the chair. "How long?"
"At least a few minutes. We just gotta listen for the thunder and the laugh." Cisco points up to the ceiling, most likely referencing some unseen speaker system.
Froy inhales and exhales a few times. He's really not sure how much more of this he can take.
"You really are fantastic, Froy," Cisco says after a moment and it sounds so genuine and appreciative, that Froy almost feels like all of this craziness is worth it.
Again, almost.
"And, I also have to say," Cisco adds with a shy smile, "you have the cutest laugh."
Froy just shakes his head and shoots him a playful scowl. He highly doubts that.
🪶
The Horned Devil in the hall returns a few minutes later and cues another session:
"Our next resident is a grifter, a con-man who has lied, and cheated, and stolen..."
This time, Cisco starts up before the guide arrives with his group of visitors. Instead of using the stiff, white feathers from the first round, he instead employs a different type of feathery tool. It has a single long stem, almost in the manner of a wand, but at its end is a small bundle of gray bristles, wispy and light. He waves it and runs it along the base of Froy's toes. They twitch and spread and wriggle and this immediately gets Froy giggling again, after a few seconds of resistance, of course.
"Hrmmmmmm....hrrrnnn....kkkkhhheeeheeheee!"
The feathery wisps flutter about the balls of Froy's feet, back and forth, sending Froy into a storm of chuckles and snickers and protests and, all the while, the Horned Devil in the hallway continues his narration to the guests:
"...I mentioned that he is many things. And among them, our Devils know that he is also very...ticklish."
Soon, Cisco flips the wand around and uses the pointed end to begin the real tickle torture:
T-H-O-U...S-H-A-L-L...N-O-T...C-H-E-A-T...
"Eeeeheeehahahahaha! Nononono!"
Froy convulses and writhes in his seat, smacking his hands over and over against the arms of the chair as the writing begins. The trembling of his feet makes Cisco's handiwork a little difficult, but he still manages to write out two more rounds of commandments before the Horned Devil in the hallway takes the group of chuckling bystanders onward.
When Froy's breathing steadies out, again the mask is removed, and Cisco asks, "Still doing okay?"
Panting, Froy says, "I don't know if I was ever 'okay' with this."
"You're doing great."
"You keep saying that."
"I mean it."
"How much longer do we have?"
Cisco averts his gaze. "I'd...rather not say," he says.
🪶
A third group comes through, then a fourth and a fifth. After the sixth, Froy loses track.
"...a grifter..."
"...a con-man..."
"...a bully..."
Each visit cues Cisco's transformation into a Little Devil and he begins writing Froy's 'sins' along the bottoms of his feet, which, in turn cues Froy's own transformation into a giggling, flailing mess. With each round, Froy's tolerance drops--he breaks faster. His toes wiggle and curl more frequently and the erratic flailing of his feet intensifies, as does his laugh.
"Ahhhahahahaha!"
"You have a particular sweet spot right here, don't you?" Cisco asks in his devilish voice, and he uses the blunt end of the feather want to scratch away at the sweaty, silky flesh beneath Froy's big toes. He's been perceptive to Froy's responses with each round, paying mind to the places that seem to elicit the biggest jumps or spasms or peals in laughter.
"OHHH GAWHAWHAWHAWD! NOHOHOHO!" Froy shouts as Cisco concentrates the tickling beneath his toes. He tries to reach forward, but his fingertips can only just graze the top of the wooden stocks. He doesn't know why he keeps trying to defend himself; he has accepted at this point that his position in the chair has rendered him entirely immobile. He can only toss his head back against the chair or flap and flail his arms about, which his audience seems to enjoy most. Apparently, there's something about watching a tickle victim, who is completely unrestrained up top, still be so helpless and unable to protect their immobilized feet being attacked down below.
T-H-O-U...S-H-A-L-L...N-O-T...D-E-C-E-I-V-E...
"EEEHEEHAHA! OH, STOP! OH PLEEHEEASE!" Froy begs. "PLEASEPLEASEPLEEHEEHEEASE!"
This only seems to encourage Cisco to take things up a notch; he returns to using the stiff, white feathers from before, applying one to each foot. He no longer spells out any words, but rather, proceeds to scribble and scratch along the wrinkles of the pillowy flesh at Froy's heels.
"AIEEEEHAHAHA! BREAK! BRAYHAYHAYHAYKE! PLEASE! STOP!"
Minutes seem to stretch into hours.
Froy just laughs and writhes and laughs some more.
Finally, after what feels like an eternity, Cisco relents.
"Ohhhhhhh...." Froy moans, breathing heavily. He's sweating now. His feet are tingling and itching and his mouth is dry. "Cisco..." He pants heavily. "I don't think I can do this for much longer."
"I'll try to lighten up a bit."
"I never dreamed that this would be, like, a workout," Froy says, placing a hand on his flat stomach, which rises and falls with each desperate breath. "My abs hurt."
"You know, your feet are sweating a bit too." Cisco points out.
Froy reddens, which only exacerbates the flush of his cheeks. "Sorry."
"Nothing to be sorry about." Cisco grins. "If you're okay with it, I might be able to make you feel a little better."
"How?" Froy sounds skeptical.
"Relax." Cisco chuckles softly. "I was going to offer a massage."
"Oh... Um." Froy considers it a moment. "No tickling?"
"Not until the next group."
Froy hesitates, but eventually accepts.
Cisco reaches forward and takes Froy's left foot in his hands. It twitches, as if anticipating another tickle attack, but as Cisco wraps his fingers around the top of the foot and begins to gently knead his thumbs into the soft sole, it relaxes.
"Oh, yeah." Froy starts to sound a little bit more at ease. "That feels...nice, actually."
"I do this for Tom sometimes," Cisco says, continuing to press the pads of his thumbs into the underside of Froy's foot, working his way up along the instep and arch before softening his touch up at the ball of the foot. The flesh here is warm and particularly pink.
"Yeah?"
"I hope it doesn't weird you out."
"What do you mean?" Froy asks.
"You know, me complimenting your feet and such. Giving you a massage."
"Why would that weird me out?"
"Well, I..." Cisco looks away and blushes. "I...dont' know. Just...let me know if you're ever uncomfortable, okay? I mean, aside from the tickling."
Froy smiles. "It's cool," he says. "You're fine."
"Yeah?"
Froy nods.
Cisco continues to massage Froy's feet for a few minutes, working his fingers into his heels, his soles, and even his toes, rolling each digit between a thumb and forefinger. Froy giggles a few times, but eventually, he finds that he's enjoying the experience quite a bit. He allows his eyes to flutter close and he tilts his head back. "I wish this could be the punishment instead," he mutters.
"Wouldn't be much of a punishment," Cisco says. From somewhere else in the Manor of Madness, a few screams are heard, followed by immediate laughter. Guests undoubtedly spooked by something.
"What goes on in the other rooms?" asks Froy after a moment.
"Depends on the room," Cisco says. "One of my favorites is the TV Room."
"TV Room?"
"Yeah. It's a walkable one. TVs all over the walls and ceiling, just playing static. And the static is, like, really loud. The actor in that room is strapped to a chair and--"
"Is that a thing with all the sets? People strapped down?" Froy laughs.
"Most of them, actually."
"I was kidding."
"Anyway, there's a point where the all the TVs cut out for a moment, and that's when the scarers come into the room. When the lights come back on, they flicker, and the static gets louder, and-- Man, it's a whole experience."
"What's the story behind that room?" Froy asks.
Cisco starts to answer, but suddenly jumps, jolting to attention, which causes Froy to suddenly do the same.
“What? What?” Froy says, following the direction of Cisco’s gaze, which leads him back to the open doorway that looks into the room.
Standing at the threshold again is the Horned Devil tour guide. He is perfectly still, standing behind the rope that separates the room from the hallway. In his hands, held in front of him, is a long black box. There are no guests with him this time.
Froy frowns. He doesn’t recall hearing the telltale lightning or the sounds of the sinister laugh. Another tour had yet to start…
“Damn, Dante. Y-you scared me.” Cisco stands.
“Apologies,” says the Horned Devil—Dante, apparently. He turns and looks at Froy, his grinning mask particularly unsettling. “Who’s this? He’s not in our cast.”
“Oh. Um. Yeah.” Cisco seems nervous. He rushes over to Dante and lowers his voice. “Tom couldn’t make it. S-so Froy, here, volunteered to take his place.”
Dante also lowers his voice and the two of them begin to whisper. Froy is unable to make out their conversation. He taps his fingers nervously against the arms of the chair, then curls and uncurls his toes, waving his feet back and forth. He hopes that Cisco isn’t in some sort of trouble. He hadn't really asked for any sort of permission in making the switch, and Froy also hadn't considered that there were probably legalities involved—liability and such.
“Just make sure he delivers.” He catches the very end of Dante’s sentence.
Froy can’t help but be a little insulted. Had he not delivered already? Cisco has had nothing but praise for him. He watches as Dante hands the box to Cisco, then he turns and walks away again.
“Sorry about that,” Cisco says, returning to the little stool at Froy’s feet.
“That’s okay. What’s up? Everything okay?”
“Yeah. He was just caught off guard. And I should've had you sign a release form."
"You said his name's Dante?"
"Yeah. He kinda...oversees this whole operation here, so to speak."
"So, this is, literally, Dante's Inferno? Coincidence?"
Cisco chuckles. "Yeah, actually."
"Well, tell him he doesn't have to worry." Froy flashes a grin. “I won’t sue or anything. Despite how terrible you’ve been to me.”
Cisco sticks out his tongue, then reaches down and skitters a few fingers around Froy's right heel.
“Ahheeheehee!” Froy giggles and tries in vain to pull his legs back.
“Your feet feeling better?” Cisco gently places his hand down on Froy’s toes again. He plays with them a bit, bending them back and forth, which makes Froy giggle.
“Yeah, thanks.”
“Looks like we only have one more group coming through.”
“Oh, really?” Froy likes the sound of that. “What time is it?”
“Just after nine."
“And that's it? Then the house closes?"
"We're only open for a few hours each night. At least until it gets closer to Halloween. As unbearable as it's been for you, this has actually been a slow night. You probably wouldn't last a busier one."
"Huh." Froy bobs his head. "It just-- It went by faster than I would've thought."
“Oh, so now you’re complaining about it?” Cisco says, raising a brow. Again, he teases his captive, reaching forward and spidering his fingers across both of Froy's feet at once.
“Eeheehee! No! NO! I'm NAWHAWHAWT!"
Cisco continues, enjoying the feeling of Froy’s soft, warm soles beneath his scribbling fingertips. His feet shake violently against the shackles of the stocks and the wood and metal clack loudly.
“Eehahahaha! S-stop it! Q-quit! Heehee!”
Cisco complies. “You’re a blast, man."
"Yeah? Well, I'm starting to think that you're not as nice as I thought."
“You know, it's not a good idea to insult the person who has your feet trapped right in front of them." The tickling starts up again, but this time Cisco makes sure to dig his fingernails into the sensitive flesh in the middle of Froy's soles, raking them up and down his pale insteps.
"OH-HOHOHO CRAHAHAHAHP! AHHHEEEEHEE!" His laughter becomes loud and bright and fiery, like sparklers on the Fourth of July, little hiccups of sound shooting every which way.
"All right, all right. I better not tire you out," Cisco says, forcing himself to pull away after a few seconds. He allows Froy to calm down and catch his breath. "I need you to be ready for the next group."
"Ugh." Froy hangs his head, panting again. He reaches up and runs his hands through his hair, which is damp with perspiration. "I don't think I can ever be ready for something like this."
Cisco uses his hands to start massaging Froy's feet once more, rubbing comforting, soothing circles into his arches. "Aw, c'mon. You got this," he says with encouragement.
🪶
Thunder rumbles.
The walls ring with an ominous cackle.
The final tour commences.
At first, all seems normal--though, really, nothing has been normal about this entire experience, at least in Froy's opinion. But after a few minutes, during which Cisco provides Froy with some verbal encouragement and intermittent massages--the Horned Devil's voice can be heard from just down the hall.
"Our next resident is a grifter, a con-man who has lied, and cheated..."
Behind his mask, Cisco takes a breath. "Ready?" he whispers. He sounds nervous, which puzzles Froy a bit.
"You know the answer to that," Froy grumbles.
There comes movement from the doorway of the library, and Dante appears in his unsettling attire, the spiraling horns of his mask are like silhouetted spires in the low lighting. Beside him, figures emerge from the haze.
Froy's eyes widen.
The Devil is, indeed, standing among another group of visitors, but unlike the strangers of the groups beforehand, these are no ordinary guests. They are cloaked in billowy black garments--just like Dante and Cisco--and their faces are obscured, not by the lack of lighting, but rather, by the masks of dogs.
Dogs.
Sheen and black and pointy-eared, the masks on the faces of the strangers remind Froy of Anubis.
"What the hell...?" he says, but he doesn't have much time to wonder much else, because Cisco strikes, not with the feathers as usual, but with his fingers again.
Boom.
His arching, wriggling fingertips touch down, first on Froy's insteps, then up around the balls of his feet, lightly fluttering and scratching away at the soft, supple skin. This immediately sends Froy into a fit of giggles.
"Ohhhhohohohahahahaha!"
Cisco's fingers travel up along the outer sides of Froy's feet, which wrinkle up as they shift this way and that, toes splaying out, then curling.
"Ahahahaha! Nono! Not the f-fingerherhers!" Froy throws his head back, slams his eyes shut, and laughs loudly, jutting his chin up, showcasing his jawline to his canine-faced viewers. He grips tightly at the arms of his chair, fingers pressing into the soft fabric.
Cisco then digs his fingernails beneath Froy's toes.
"NO! NOT THEREHERHER!" Froy squeals. He seizes up, lifting his bottom from the seat again, before flailing his arms forward in an attempt to reach over the top of the stocks again. He lunges once, twice, towards his secured feet before giving in--giving up--to the sensations on his soles. He thrusts himself back again and produces a steady stream of giggles, which soon explodes into a geyser of guffaws when Cisco unexpectedly returns to raking his fingertips up and down both of Froy's feet at once.
"AHHH! AHHAHAHA! OHOHOHAHAHA!"
Froy's nerve-endings fire off. The scampering, skittering feeling of Cisco's frantic fingers is unbearable, but in a way that is different than the feathers. It's not nearing pain so much as it's just pure chaos with which his brain cannot endure.
But, speaking of feathers...
Froy thinks it odd that the Horned Devil in the hall has not recited his usual next line, telling his guests about how ticklish Froy is--though that is probably apparent--and prompting Cisco to begin writing his commandments upon the bottoms of his victim's feet.
Instead, Cisco just continues lightly scratching and chomping away at the bottoms of Froy's feet with his fingers--up, down, all around, heels, insteps, toes.
"O-okay! Okayhayhayhay!" Froy squeals again, slamming his eyes shut. He kicks and pulls in vain. He swings his arms around and slaps at the arms of the chair.
Finally, the Horned Devil speaks:
"See how he writhes and protests, my esteemed allies?"
'Allies'...?
The use of the word piques Froy's interest. Or, it would if his brain could concentrate on anything else.
The fingers! Enough with the fingers! Ahhhh!
"Pleeeeheeheease! Stawhawp! Please! Oh! HeeHEEHEE! Hahaheehee!"
"And I'm afraid it's only going to get worse for him," says the Horned Devil. "For here, in our Library of Laughter, our Devil happens to also have a special weapon."
The tickling abruptly stops, which causes Froy to almost yelp again in surprise and then collapse into the embrace of the armchair. "Oh god... oh, crap. Geezus. I c-can't..." He whimpers in between heavy intakes of air.
Cisco presents the long black box that Dante had given him earlier, holding it up in his hands. From it, he removes the lid and then withdraws yet another feather, which he holds up for everyone to see.
"O-oh no..." says Froy.
This feather is quite large compared to the tools that Cisco was using before, nearly the length of his forearm. It's really quite brilliant--its long, shapely bristles are a deep blue, and its shaft, which looks stiff and sturdy, is a sleek, shimmery onyx, a color that nearly matches that of the dog masks worn by the mysterious observers. Froy would probably appreciate the beauty of the object if not for the fact that he was anticipating its use.
Pinching the tip of the feather between his thumb and forefinger, Cisco turns and readies the instrument. Froy's trembling, sweating feet are about to be the canvas on which he is going to write with a dastardly quill. As the feather drawers nearer and nearer to the surface of his soles, Froy again curls his toes, the balls of his feet wrinkling up and growing pale.
The Horned Devil speaks: "Behold. The very gift provided by your leader to ours. A beautiful, treasured artifact of both tradition and efficacy... And with it, our Devil here is going to send our deserving grifter to the very edge of sanity."
"W-What?" Froy says miserably. He turns to his audience, tired eyes wide with confusion and anxiety.
"Thou..." Cisco says as he finally brings the tip of the feather against Froy's right foot, starting at the wide expanse of flesh beneath his toes.
T...
The lines, first a horizontal one across the ball of the foot, then a vertical one, down the center of his sole, are sharp and ticklish and electric.
Froy gasps at first. "Hsssssss..... K-krrsshhhh...." He grimaces, but the pain gives way to pleasure quickly.
H...
More slow, deliberate, deep lines drawn into his tender flesh--down the sole, across the center, then down the sole again. Froy jumps and reels back with each one. Each of his movements is telegraphed by the rattling of the stocks.
O...
Cisco grabs Froy's toes with his left hand and peels the foot back, forcing the skin of the instep to stretch taut. On it, he uses the feather in his right hand to draw a slow, circling shape.
"Kkkhrrhrrhrrhrr..." Froy starts to giggle and writhe.
U...
Still holding the foot taught, Cisco draws a deep, long smile, before he says, loudly, "Shall..." He quickens his pace.
S-H-A...
He crosses the feather over the velvety, damp valley of skin in the center of Froy's feet--both insteps--and onto his left foot, which he again pulls taut, peeling the toes back. Right at their base, he quickly draws a serpentine shape, followed by two more letters of fast and furious lines.
Froy breaks.
"Eeeheeheehahaha!" He explodes into laughter. He sounds exhausted, pained, but he still can't help himself. His emotions are mere undercurrents to the music that his tight lungs and strained vocal box generate forth.
...L-L...
Twin, tormenting right angles are drawn into each of Froy's pink, doughy heels. The lines leave pale trails in their wake.
Over Froy's laughter, Cisco continues: "LAUGH!" He shouts triumphantly.
"Wh-whahahahahat??" yelps Froy. This was not one of the previous commands.
L...
A...
U...
Lines, curves, and more... Froy's feet writhe and sway and fight the sensations bombarding them. They tremble and twist, but the stocks hold them fast. Hold them to their fate. Froy, screaming and yelping and spitting with crazed laughter as the tickling intensifies. It almost feels as if the tip of the feather is starting to...vibrate?
The quill, sharp and intentional, starts to shiver its way into the smooth skin. Again, it's not painful, but it is absolute and overwhelming. Pure and simple. It feels as if a whirring, buzzing, bristly drill head is being applied to Froy's soles instead of the tip of a feather.
Had Cisco switched out his tickle tool? It makes things so much worse that Froy can't see what is being done to his helpless, thrashing feet.
He can only feel it all.
Froy throws his head back and howls with newly heightened laughter. "EEEHEEHEEHAHAHA! OHNONONOHOHOHO! STAWHAWHAWP! PLEEHEEHEEASE! C-CISCOHOHOHO!" he shouts.
G...
H...
"I C-CAN'T! I CAHAHAHAN'T!"
"Laugh! Laugh!" says Cisco again in his devilish voice.
"I A-AM! HAHAHAHA! I AHAHAHAHAM!"
"Thou shall go mad!"
"C-CISCOHOHOHO!"
The feather's vibrating intensifies further. Faster. More intense. Cisco draws it up and down, left and right, shapes and circles and zigzags all around the buzzing bottoms of Froy's helpless feet.
T-H-O-U...S-H-A-L-L...G-O...
Froy is going to pass out. He's sure of it. His stomach hurts. His throat hurts. His cheeks hurt, framing an incessant, ridiculous grin. His lungs have nothing left. His feet are on fire.
MAD!
"I-I'M THERHERHERHE! I'M ALREHEHEHEADY TH-TH-THERHERHER!"
Froy rocks and shakes in the chair violently, making his shackles protest. He will tear himself from this contraption if he has to.
"HAHAHAHAHAHA!!!"
And then, just when Froy feels like he's about to take the plunge from that edge of sanity cited by the Horned Devil moments before...
There comes a soft and gentle rush of sound, from somewhere...everywhere?...and the tickling abruptly stops.
Husssssshhhhhhhhh.....
And with that rushing of sound, Froy suddenly feels something cool and intense rise up from his esophagus. It's like he's just swallowed a mint, he thinks. The sensation causes his chest to balloon and his jaw to jut out. He lifts his chin and opens his mouth to laugh, but he gasps and sighs instead, as if he's exhaling in one final bout of defeat.
Something tingles deep within him, down past his stomach, his core, his groin even. It feels incredible, but it also feels final. Froy thinks of Richard. He thinks of Zane.
And he collapses back into his seat. As his vision blurs, he sees Cisco holding up the feather, just over the top of the stocks. The brilliant, black and blue feather. It's shimmering in the light, little wisps of light running up and down its bristles, like synapses in the brain.
A trick of the Manor's effects, no doubt.
"Ohhhhh god. Ohhhh, I'm d-done," Froy says. He's sure of it. And he means it. One more tickle and it will all be over. His words still rumble and shake on the residue of laughter. Sore and depleted, he tuns back to his audience.
They're gone.
"You did great," Cisco says for the hundredth time that evening. It's strange though--he sounds more sad than content.
Froy drunkenly swivels his head forward. His eyes flutter for a moment. He can barely keep his head up. "D-did I deliver?" He laughs again. It's weak and soft.
Cisco flips the mask up and smiles. "I'd say so."
Froy tries to smile too. "Great," he says, then: "Cisco?"
"Yeah?"
"Get me out of here, please."
Cisco stares at him a moment before placing the feather back in its box. "Sure." He stands and unlatches the stocks, and Froy pulls his feet free from their former prison, swinging them down onto the cold, hardwood floor.
🪶
The desert night is surprisingly cool. The moon has replaced the sun, a quiet and sneaky secret in the sky. It's waxing smile is dim and almost imperceptible. Froy wobbles down the front steps of the Manor of Madness, staring out across the highway. His abs protest as he takes a deep breath of desert air.
Dry. Dusty. Earthy.
I didn't really think this through, he realizes. It's after ten. Yes, he wanted to help Cisco--and he probably got himself into something that he shouldn't have--but now what? He can't just jump in his car and continue his trip. Sure, he still has time before he needs to be in Los Angeles, but he has no desire or energy to resume a drive this late.
Cisco exits the Manor along with a few of his other castmates. They are all back in their street clothes, and they exchange laughs and chatter of the evening's events before scattering into the night--some to their vehicles parked in a little lot behind the Manor, others to a small road that runs towards a neighborhood close by. They travel in small groups or pairs beneath the orange eyes of old streetlamps.
"Here." Cisco says, patting Froy on the shoulder. He holds up a fan of bills. "Your cut for tonight."
"Oh, no. I can't." Froy shakes his head.
"Are you kidding? For everything you've done?" Cisco sounds insulted. "You are absolutely taking the money."
"I told you, I just wanted to help." Froy presses the soles of his shoes into the soft dirt between sidewalk and street. His feet are still tingling. He's a little embarrassed admitting it to himself, but he can totally go for another foot massage from Cisco.
"And you did." Cisco is still holding up the money. "But I can't, in good conscience, let you leave here tonight without taking this. C'mon. Not only did you change your plans for a stranger"--he gestures to himself--"you let that stranger tickle the hell out of you...for the amusement of other strangers."
Froy can't help but laugh. "I mean, when you put it like that..."
Cisco grins. "You literally set yourself back a day for me."
Froy sighs. "But what about Tom?"
Cisco looks confused. "What about him?"
"I'm sure he could use the money that he was missing tonight."
"Froy. He'll be fine. We'll be fine. C'mon. Please." Cisco extends his handful of bills and Froy finally accepts. He feels like it would be tacky to count them, so instead, he slips them into his back pocket and they begin their walk back into town, the sand beneath their shoes crunching away.
"I hope it's enough to have made this all worth it," Cisco says.
"I'm sure it is."
"Did...?" Cisco hesitates. "I hope it wasn't too terrible for you."
Froy thinks about it. "You know, in the moment, I'm not gonna lie--it was pretty bad."
Cisco nods.
"But, like, at the end of the day, it was just tickling, you know?"
"You don't...regret staying, do you?" Cisco sounds like he's afraid of the answer.
Froy looks him in the eyes. They are wide and filled with the verge of regret. "Of course not," he says. "It was...an experience. Something new. Different. That's part of what life's all about, right? Experiencing new things?"
Cisco's face floods with relief. He shrugs and chuckles. "I guess so."
"It's why I took this road trip in the first place. I could've flown back from Dallas, obviously. But I wanted to try something new."
"Bet you never would've dreamed you'd end up here, doing what you did."
"No. I can't wait to tell Zane about it."
Cisco stops walking, the scuffle of his shoes against the dirt is loud. He only pauses a moment before continuing onward. "Yeah..." he says. He sounds nervous again, just as he did when he was about to start tickling Froy in front of the final group of guests.
That final group...
Froy had been so grateful to be done with the ordeal, to put his socks and shoes back on and free himself from the devious depths of Hillhaven's haunted house, that he really hadn't put much thought into those audience members, donning their dog-like masks. That is, until now.
"Hey, what was with those last guests?" asks Froy. "And their getup?"
Cisco sighs. "Um." He glances up and down the empty street. All is silent across the rolling blue sands of the desert. The Manor of Madness is small on the horizon behind them. "Just a Halloween thing. I think they were, like, personal friends of Dante."
Froy furrows his brow. "It was...kinda creepy."
"Yeah. Just-- They all get really into it, you know?"
"I guess..." Froy isn't convinced. Something is... off. It's the same feeling he got earlier, when standing in front of the attraction's roadside sign. When he'd seen the vehicle drive by and that...
...silhouette in the driver's seat.
Dog-like.
Exact same shape--pointed ears and sharp snout--as the masks worn by Dante's guests.
"Froy?" Cisco asks.
"Hm?"
"You okay?"
"Y-yeah," he stammers. "Just...tired." He remains fairly quiet for the remainder of their walk back to the diner in the heart of town. There are still a few people inside enjoying late-night meals, but if Hillhaven felt desolate before, it seems all but abandoned now. Froy looks to the gas station on the corner, with its dinosaur statue out front. The lights there burn bright in the otherwise pervasive night. He steps over to his Jeep, which is still parked along the street.
"If you'd rather find a place to stay until morning, there's an inn just up the road. It's actually pretty nice. You know, for a motel." Cisco says. He places his hands in his pockets and gives Froy a small smile.
Froy looks back out to the distant horizon. A part of him wants to at least try and get to the next major city, but he can't remember how far he has to go. And he's more drained than ever now, given what he just put himself through. "Maybe that'd be best," he says. "They have wi-fi? I need to call my parents again. Check in with Zane. They might be worried about me."
"Yeah, they do." Cisco nods. "You need directions?"
"Please."
"Hold on." Cisco hops into a jog as he makes his way further down the sidewalk to another vehicle--a small black hatchback that is, presumably, his car. He opens the driver-side door, reaches in, and from its depths, pulls out a small notepad and pen. He jots a few things down on a page before returning to Froy and handing it to him.
"Thanks," says Froy. He notices that beneath the simple instructions--a left on Harvest Way, a right on Mont Blanc, and then straight through past a stoplight--Cisco has written his phone number.
"In case you need anything. You know, I'm close by." Cisco looks down at his feet for a moment and clears his throat.
"Thanks, man." Froy smiles.
"You better get some rest."
"Yeah, you too." Rather than accept another handshake, Froy decides to give Cisco a hug. It's a strong embrace, entailing a few pats on the back. "Have a good night, Cisco."
"Yeah. You too." Cisco's grinning again. "I'll, um... I just-- Thank you. For everything. I don't think I'll ever forget today."
Froy chuckles. "I won't either. Believe me."
Under the hooked smile of the silver moon, the boys finally part ways, and, from his own quiet interior of the Jeep, Froy watches as Cisco climbs into his car and drives away. He turns his car on, queuing up his playlist and checking the service on his phone. For a brief moment, he wonders if this has all been some sort of strange dream. Perhaps he's still back on the highway, sleeping through the desert dust storm.
But, no. He is very much awake. The disappointment is heavy and real in his chest as he sees that same old single bar of service in the top corner of his phone's screen.
No calls.
No texts.
The Gorillaz start to play again as he shifts his car into drive--a strange, crackling laugh bursts through the speakers and Froy can't help but jump. It's merely the opening to "Feel Good Inc.," but it also reminds him of the sinister cackle that cued the start of each tour back at the Manor of Madness.
"God." Froy recounts everything that's happened to him since he'd wandered into this sleepy little desert town only a few hours ago. "What was today?" He laughs to himself. He's about to pull away from the curb, when he notices, for the first time, an envelope that's been hooked into one of his windshield wipers.
"Nooo," he mutters. His first thought--it's a parking ticket or some sort of citation. He hangs his head, keeping his hands on the steering wheel a moment, before he shifts the Jeep back into park and hops out of the vehicle. He leaves his door open as he pulls the envelope from his windshield. He checks the curb. No red paint. No signage. He doesn't think he was parked illegally. Confused and a little worried, he turns the envelope over and opens it.
Inside, he doesn't find a ticket or a citation, but rather, a single rectangular slip of textured cardstock. And on it, typed out in a classic, serif font, is a note.
Froy reads it--once, twice--and his blood runs cold. His eyes dart from the address at the start of the message--Mr. Gutierrez,--to the signature at the end--The House of Horned Devils.
How...? he wonders.
Why...?
Another laugh buzzes through the electronic beats playing from the interior of his car--ha ha ha ha haaaaa.
He jumps back inside his Jeep and consults the piece of paper that Cisco had given him. He withdraws his phone from the dashboard and frantically dials the phone number. His eyes then return to the piece of cardstock that he's holding in his other hand. It's the post-script that really has him freaking out. At the very bottom of the mysterious message are two lines of ominous text:
Be sure to look over your shoulder every now and then. There are some of us who
won't invite, but merely enforce. Take caution. And be careful whom you laugh around.
Froy's heart races as he waits for his phone to ring.
But instead, he merely gets a busy signal.
