![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Shelly Duvette stepped off the Greyhound bus, her eyes scanning the neon horizon of Hollywood. The distant hum of the city's heartbeat was a siren's call to her artistic aspirations. She clutched her battered suitcase tightly, filled with dreams and a few pairs of clean underwear. The address scribbled on a torn napkin fluttered in her pocket like a hopeful fortune.
"You're going to love it here," the bus driver called after her, his words echoing down the empty street. "It's a real scream."
Shelly rolled her eyes and walked towards the looming mansion that was to be her new home. The structure was a relic from a bygone era, a Gothic monstrosity amidst the modern sprawl. As she approached the towering gates, they swung open with a dramatic creak, revealing a cobblestone path leading up to the grand entrance. She took a deep breath, her heart racing with excitement and a hint of trepidation, and climbed the steps to the heavy oak door.
Before she could knock, the door swung open, revealing a tall, pale man with a widow's peak and a black cape. His eyes gleamed with a knowing smile. "Welcome, Miss Duvette," he said, his voice a deep purr. "I've been expecting you."
Shelly raised an eyebrow. "Mr. Tombs?"
The man swept the cape aside with a dramatic flourish. "In the flesh—or as close to it as I can get these days." He chuckled, his fangs glinting in the moonlight. "Come in, come in. Let me show you to your room."
Shelly stepped into the mansion, her heels clacking against the cold marble floor. The foyer was a study in opulence, with velvet drapes and candelabras casting flickering shadows across the walls. She followed Mr. Tombs up the grand staircase, her curiosity piqued by the eerie yet oddly charming ambiance. They stopped at the second floor, and he opened the door to a spacious room with high ceilings and a four-poster bed draped in silk. "This will be your sanctuary," he announced.
As she settled in, she heard the sound of luggage being dragged down the hallway. "Ah, the others have arrived," Mr. Tombs said with a nod. "Let me introduce you to your new roommates." He led her to the adjacent room, where a fiery redhead was unpacking a suitcase filled with glittering costumes. "Shannon Doggerty, our resident thespian," he said with a wink.
Shannon looked up, her green eyes narrowing. "Another one," she murmured, before flashing a smile that could light up the darkest corner of the room. "You're in the movie business too?"
"More like trying to break into it," Shelly replied, her voice tinged with hope. "I'm an artist and director."
Shannon straightened up, her expression softening. "Oh, that's fantastic. We're going to get along great. I'm here to become a big-time movie star, of course," she said, her voice filled with the kind of optimism that only a newcomer to the city of dreams could muster. She extended a hand, her grip firm and determined. "Let's conquer this town together."
The sound of heavy footsteps grew louder, and a door at the end of the hall swung open. In strode a plump German woman, her stern face breaking into a warm smile as she took in the scene. "Hello, I am Doctor Ruth Westenhause," she announced, her accent thick and comforting. She carried a suitcase that looked suspiciously like it contained more books than clothes. "I am a sex therapist," she added, her tone matter-of-fact.
Shelly and Shannon exchanged glances, then burst into laughter. "Well, we're going to have some interesting dinner conversations," Shannon said, wiping a tear from her eye.
Doctor Westenhause chuckled, a surprisingly light sound from such a formidable figure. "Ja, I know what you think, but in Hollywood, you never know who might need my... expertise." She winked, and the tension in the hallway dissipated.
Just as their laughter subsided, the doorbell chimed, its notes echoing through the cavernous mansion. Mr. Tombs' smile grew wider. "Ah, our final guest," he said, gliding down the stairs like a specter. The women exchanged curious looks, then followed him.
In the foyer, they found Richard Simpson, a man with more energy than a caffeinated squirrel. His bleached-blond hair was styled into a perfect coif, and his neon workout gear was so tight it looked painted on. He beamed at them, his teeth blindingly white. "You must be my new roomies!" he exclaimed, throwing his arms wide. "I'm going to whip this place into shape!"
Mr. Tombs coughed politely. "Yes, well, Richard is quite the fitness enthusiast. He's here to teach aerobics."
Shelly and Shannon exchanged a look that was half-amusement, half-pity. "Great," Shelly said, trying to sound sincere. "We could all use some exercise."
Mr. Tombs led them to the dining room, where a candlelit dinner awaited. The aroma of garlic and herbs filled the air, and a bottle of wine with a dusty label sat in the center of the table. "Welcome to your new home," he announced grandly. "Let us break bread... or in my case, sip the finest...wine." He gestured to the chalice filled with a dark red liquid that was definitely not wine.
The four of them sat down, the awkwardness of their first meeting slowly giving way to a buzz of excitement. They shared stories of their journeys to Hollywood and their dreams for the future. Shelly talked about her indie film projects, Shannon about her endless auditions, and Doctor Westenhause about her clinic that catered to the city's more unconventional clientele. Richard, in between bites of his salad, regaled them with tales of his fitness class escapades, leaving them all in stitches.
"And now," said Mr. Tombs, "we shall discuss the house rules."
The room fell silent, and Shelly couldn't help but feel a shiver run down her spine. Despite his comical demeanor, there was something about their host that was undeniably... off. He cleared his throat and began, his eyes darting around the table like a hawk surveying its prey.
"Rule #1: No smoking in the house."
Shannon raised her hand. "What about...?"
Mr. Tombs raised an eyebrow. "Yes, Miss Doggerty?"
Shannon took a drag from her cigarette, eyeing him through a cloud of smoke. "What about...uh, other substances?"
"No," said Mr. Tombs. "But take heart. Your bedroom has a balcony and feel free to spark up by the pool."
Doctor Westenhause nodded thoughtfully. "Very important for air quality," she murmured, stroking her chin.
"Rule #2: No overnight guests. If you must, as they say, 'get your freak on', I suggest the motel down the street."
The trio looked at each other, trying not to laugh at Mr. Tombs' unorthodox wording. Shelly swallowed a giggle and nodded. "Understood."
"Rule #3: Do not disturb me until sunset. I'm a day sleeper and . . . work night."
"But of course," Shannon said with a dramatic nod. "We wouldn't dream of it."
"Rule #4: If you make a mess, clean it up. I am a landlord, not a maid service."
Shelly nodded solemnly, imagining the horrors that must have occurred in the mansion before their arrival. "Got it."
"And, finally, the most important rule of all: never, under ANY circumstances, go into the attic. If I even catch you on the stairs, you will be evicted immediately. Am I understood?"
The four roommates exchanged glances, the room suddenly thick with unspoken curiosity. "The attic?" Shelly asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
"NEVER GO INTO THE ATTIC," said Mr. Tombs, his voice like a lead coffin lead closing on a radioactive corpse.
The four of them nodded, their eyes wide and eager. It was like he had just told them where the cookie jar was and that it was absolutely, positively, under no circumstances to be touched. The mystery of the attic hung in the air, a juicy secret begging to be unraveled.
"Oh, and the rent is due on the last day of the month," added Mr. Tombs, almost as an afterthought.
The tension around the table dissipated, and they all chuckled nervously, the absurdity of the situation not lost on them. Four strangers, each with their own Hollywood dreams, living under the same roof with a vampiric landlord who was more comical than terrifying. It was like a sitcom waiting to happen.
"And now, if you will excuse me, I must be leaving," said Mr. Tombs, standing and wrapping his cloak about himself. "I have...work...to do."
The roommates watched him retreat up the grand staircase, his cape trailing behind him like a shadow. When he disappeared into the darkness, they turned to each other, their expressions a mix of amusement and skepticism.
"What do you think's in the attic?" Richard asked. He was practically bouncing in his chair.
Shannon shrugged, her eyes glinting with mischief. "Maybe it's where he keeps his cape collection."
Doctor Westenhause leaned in, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Or perhaps it's his secret vampire lair."
Shelly rolled her eyes. "Let's not get ahead of ourselves," she said, though she couldn't help but feel a thrill of excitement at the thought.
The first few days in the mansion passed by without incident. Shannon waited tables at the Hollywood Diner, serving up cheeseburgers and dreams of stardom with a side of sass. Shelly spent her days at the local art gallery, hoping to network with the right people for her film projects. Richard's high-energy aerobics classes had the town talking, and Doctor Westenhause's appointment book grew increasingly full with curious clients seeking her unique brand of therapy.
On Friday night, the four friends gathered by the pool, eager to unwind from their respective Hollywood grinds. The water was a murky green, a stark contrast to the sparkling blue promised in the mansion's ad. The scum on the surface shimmered in the moonlight, giving the pool the appearance of a giant, slimy disco ball.
"Well, I am pee-ooped!" said Richard, collapsing in an antique wicker deck chair.
Shelly and Shannon shared a look. "It's only been a week," said Shelly, sipping a dubious-looking cocktail she'd found in the mansion's dusty bar.
"I have taught 25 aerobic classes this week," said Richard, grimly. "Don't talk to me about how it's only been a week!"
Shannon laughed, flipping through a tabloid magazine. "You know, I heard a rumor that Mr. Tombs used to be a director back in the day," she said, her eyes lighting up with intrigue. "Maybe he has some Hollywood secrets up there."
Doctor Westenhause shook her finger. "Nein, liebchens. We shouldn't talk about the mysteriously attic, no matter how enticing it may be."
But the seed of curiosity had been planted. As the night grew darker and their drinks stronger, the whispers of the attic grew louder. "What could he possibly be hiding up there?" Shannon wondered aloud.
"Maybe it's a sex dungeon," suggested Richard.
Doctor Westenhause shot him a stern look. "That is not funny, Richard. Vampires are very private people."
"Oh please," said Richard. "He's not a real vampire. It's just an act."
Shannon's voice cut through the night, echoing off the mansion's walls. The moon cast a pale glow over their faces, highlighting the excitement in her eyes.
"Dare we?" she whispered.
"He's off working," said Shelley. "He won't be back for hours and hours."
Shannon's eyes glinted with excitement. "You know what that means," she said, setting her magazine aside.
"This is a complete violation of Mr. Tomb's privacy," scolded Doctor Westenhause, even as she climbed, unsteadily, to her feet. She'd had three or four cocktails by this time and the world seemed a lot more interesting.
"But it's like he's begging us to check it out," countered Richard, his voice a little tipsier than his usual high-pitched enthusiasm. "I mean, why else would he make it such a big deal?"
Shelly took a deep breath, the thrill of adventure overriding her initial skepticism. "Okay, but we go together. Safety in numbers, right?"
They tiptoed through the mansion, the air thick with anticipation. The stairs to the attic wound upwards like a cobweb, each step groaning under their weight. The only light came from the moon peeking through the stained glass windows, casting a kaleidoscope of colors across the dusty floorboards.
"This is like a scene from 'The Rocky Horror Picture Show'," Shannon whispered, her laughter hushed by the echoes of their footsteps.
They reached the top of the stairs, the door to the attic looming before them like a gateway to the unknown. The door creaked open with a sound that seemed to resonate through the entire mansion. The room beyond was swathed in shadows, the only light coming from the occasional beam of moonlight that pierced through the cobweb-covered windows. The air was stale, heavy with the scent of dust and long-forgotten memories.
"Do you see anything?" Doctor Westenhause asked, from the rear of the group.
Shannon stepped forward, her heart racing, and peered into the attic. "It's... it's just full of junk," she said, her voice a mix of disappointment and relief. The room was a maze of dusty furniture, faded costumes, and film reels. "It's like a garage sale threw up in here."
But as they ventured further in, something caught Shelly's eye. "Look," she whispered, pointing to a dusty corner. Something moved, a flutter of fabric in the shadows.
"It's just a bunch of old curtains," Shannon said dismissively, until the fabric moved again, this time with purpose.
With a suddenness that made their hearts skip a beat, a swarm of bats exploded from the shadows, their leathery wings flapping madly. The room was alive with the sound of squeaks and beating wings. The roommates screamed in unison, ducking and covering their heads as the bats swirled around them in a tornado of panic.
"What the hell is going on?" Shannon shouted over the cacophony, her eyes wide with terror.
Shelly's heart pounded in her chest as she tried to make sense of the chaos. "It's just bats," she managed to yell back, though her voice was shaky.
"Just bats?" Richard shrieked, flailing his arms wildly. "These are not 'just bats'! These are Hollywood bats!"
Doctor Westenhause clutched her chest, trying to stifle her laughter. "This is not the time for humor!" she chastised, though her eyes danced with amusement.
Shannon stumbled back, her arms flailing wildly as the bats enveloped her, their tiny claws grabbing at her hair. "Get them off me!" she screamed.
Shelly's eyes widened as she took in the scene, her mind racing with ideas for a new horror film. The bats' erratic flight patterns painted the air with a frenzied dance of shadows and moonlight. "They're just scared," she called out, trying to sound calm amidst the chaos.
The four roommates stumbled back towards the attic door, their laughter and shouts of surprise now replaced by cries of distress. The bats, seemingly as confused as they were terrified, continued to whirl around the room in a cacophony of flapping wings and high-pitched squeaks.
Shannon, her hair a tangled mess, finally managed to break free from the swarm. "We have to get out of here!" she screamed, her voice barely audible over the din.
Shelly's artist brain kicked into gear, her eyes glued to the spectacle. "Look at the patterns they're making!" she exclaimed, a strange excitement in her voice. "It's like a live-action shadow puppet show!"
But the bats had other plans. They grew more frenzied, their tiny eyes reflecting the moon's glow like a thousand twisted little stars. Suddenly, as if on cue, they turned en masse and dove towards the open door, their wings cutting through the air like a squadron of tiny, leathery fighters on a mission. The roommates stumbled back, shielding their faces from the barrage of bats, their laughter turning to gasps of shock.
"Oh my God!" Shannon shrieked as the bats streamed past them, disappearing into the house like a black river of panic. The air grew still, the only sound their racing hearts and panting breaths.
Shelly looked around, her eyes wide with excitement. "Did you see that?" she asked, her voice trembling. "It was like a... a ballet of the damned!"
"Oh my God!" Richard shrieked. "They're in the house! Mr. Tombs is totally going to know that we were in the attic!"
Doctor Westenhause rolled her eyes. "We are not children, Richard. We are adults. Now, let us compose ourselves and deal with this...situation."
"He's going to throw us out!" shrieked Richard. He rounded on Shannon. "I can't afford to live anywhere else! Do you know what a Hollywood aerobics instructor makes?!? Bupkiss!!!"
"Calm down," said Shelly, her voice steady amidst the panic. "We'll just tell him we were looking for a quiet place to meditate."
"Shelly! Sweetie! He won't care! We broke the rules! We're all gonna be out on the street!"
Shannon looked around, her hair still tangled from the bat encounter. "Maybe we can just, I don't know, shoo them out?"
Doctor Westenhause nodded, her face serious. "Ja, we must act quickly. Before they cause any...unwanted damage."
"And before Mr. Tombs gets home!" added Richard, bouncing in place.
Shannon's eyes narrowed with determination. "Alright, let's get to it," she said, tossing her cigarette butt into a nearby potted plant. "We can't let a bunch of rodents with wings ruin our Hollywood dreams!"
The four roommates descended the stairs, their movements comically exaggerated to avoid disturbing the unwelcome guests. The bats had scattered throughout the mansion, leaving a trail of chaos in their wake. In the living room, they found a particularly persistent one doing laps around the chandelier. Shannon, channeling her inner screen siren, took a deep breath and belted out a high note that would have made Mariah Carey proud. The bat, startled by the sudden onslaught of sound, flew straight into the grand piano, knocking over a stack of sheet music with a dramatic flourish.
"Well, that was easy," Richard quipped, waving a rolled-up yoga mat like a fencer. But his victory was short-lived as a bat zipped past his head, sending him into a frenzied dance, his neon spandex reflecting the room's flashing disco lights.
Shannon grabbed a broom from the kitchen, sweeping it through the air with all the grace of a drunken ballerina. "Shoo!" she yelled, her voice echoing through the cavernous halls. The bats merely darted around her, seemingly amused by her flailing.
Doctor Westenhause had a different approach. She rummaged through the kitchen drawers and emerged with a flashlight, flicking it on and off with the rhythm of a disco beat. "They are afraid of the light!" she exclaimed. "Follow me!"
They trailed her through the mansion, the flashlight's beam bobbing like a ghostly disco ball. The bats, disoriented by the erratic light, began to flee the room. Shelly, ever the director, couldn't help but admire the surreal choreography unfolding before her. The roommates' laughter grew louder as they swatted at the bats with their makeshift weapons—Shannon with her broom, Shelly with a rolled-up movie script, and Richard flapping a towel like a cape.
In the library, they stumbled upon a bat that had made a home in the pages of an ancient book. Shannon grabbed the nearest object—a rubber chicken—and began to cackle like a mad scientist. The bat, equally confused by the unorthodox threat, took flight again. "To the balcony!" Shelly shouted, her artist's mind painting a picture of the dramatic escape she'd craft into their future legend.
On the way, they encountered a bat playing peekaboo with Doctor Westenhause, who was trying to corral it with a dusty lampshade. "Ve must be firm, but gentle," she insisted, her accent thick with concentration. The bat, seemingly mocking her, darted around the shade with a grace that would have made any ballerina jealous.
In the grand ballroom, they found the largest gathering of bats, hanging from the chandeliers like tiny gothic decorations. "Maybe they think it's a nightclub," Richard quipped, swiping at one with his yoga mat. The bat responded by dive-bombing him, forcing him into a series of unplanned gymnastics that would have been the envy of any Olympic athlete.
Shannon had an idea. "Follow me," she whispered, tiptoeing to the old phonograph in the corner. She placed a record on the turntable and cranked the handle. The room filled with the scratchy sound of an ancient jazz tune, and the bats seemed to perk up, their little heads tilting to the side in curiosity.
"Maybe they like music," she murmured, and began to dance. Her movements were a strange hybrid of the Charleston and the Macarena, but the bats didn't seem to mind. They dropped from the chandeliers and started to twirl in the air, as if caught in an invisible tornado of sound. The roommates watched in amazement as the bats started to follow her lead, their wings beating in time to the rhythm.
Shelly, inspired, picked up a forgotten director's chair and began to conduct the airborne orchestra. "Come on, everyone, get in sync!" she called out, her eyes alight with the kind of mad genius that only comes from a mix of adrenaline and cheap booze. To their astonishment, the bats began to swirl around the room in a dizzying pattern, creating a living, breathing, shadowy disco ball effect.
Doctor Westenhause, catching on, picked up a forgotten feather boa and began to wave it like a conductor's baton. "Ja, ja!" she shouted, her laughter bellowing like a siren's call. The bats grew bolder, their flight paths more erratic as they danced to the unseen beat of the music.
Shannon dropped her broom, her movements becoming more fluid. The bats grew bolder still, swooping down to graze the tips of their hair before darting back up into the rafters. Richard, his earlier panic forgotten, started to perform a series of high kicks that would have put any Broadway chorus line to shame. The bats took it as an invitation to play, weaving in and out of his legs like a macabre game of limbo.
The four roommates moved as one, their laughter echoing through the dusty halls of the mansion. They were a strange quartet of misfits, brought together by fate and a love for a city that could be as kind as it was cruel. And now, they were fighting off a bat infestation with nothing but their wits and a penchant for the dramatic.
As the bats grew more entranced by the dance, they grew less concerned with their nocturnal flight patterns. One by one, they began to drift towards the open balcony doors, lured by the sweet promise of the Hollywood night outside. The roommates watched, breathless, as their bizarre tango continued to work its magic. The ballroom was now a whirlwind of flapping wings and shadows, the only light coming from the flickering disco bulbs that cast the scene in a kaleidoscope of color.
With a final, desperate flailing of their makeshift instruments, the last of the bats shot out into the night, leaving the four of them standing in the center of the room, panting and disheveled. The music ground to a halt, the needle scratching against the vinyl.
They looked at each other, their eyes wide with astonishment. "Did...did we just do that?" Shannon asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
Doctor Westenhause nodded, her cheeks flushed with exertion. "Ja, we did. And we must clean up before Mr. Tombs returns."
They set to work, collecting the scattered furniture and sweeping up the dust that had been kicked up in their battle. The mansion, once a silent tomb, now hummed with the sound of their laughter and the occasional squeak of a bat that had eluded their disco-infused wrath.
As they worked, the reality of their situation began to sink in. They were living in a haunted mansion with a vampiric landlord, and they'd just fought off a bat infestation with nothing but a rubber chicken, a lampshade, a yoga mat, and a jazz record.
The night grew late, and the mansion grew quiet. They had banished the bats, but the mysteries of the attic remained untouched. The whispers of Hollywood secrets and forgotten dreams lingered in the air, hinting at the stories that the old house held within its walls.
As they turned in for the night, each retreating to their own shadowy corners of the mansion, the question remained. What other surprises did the house have in store for them? And, more importantly, would their friendship survive the trials of the peculiar world they'd stumbled into?
Author's Notes: Inspiration can strike at the oddest times and places. I was reading reactions to recent celebrity deaths and this happened. No disrespect is intended toward any of the easily recognizable individuals the roommates are inspired by.
"You're going to love it here," the bus driver called after her, his words echoing down the empty street. "It's a real scream."
Shelly rolled her eyes and walked towards the looming mansion that was to be her new home. The structure was a relic from a bygone era, a Gothic monstrosity amidst the modern sprawl. As she approached the towering gates, they swung open with a dramatic creak, revealing a cobblestone path leading up to the grand entrance. She took a deep breath, her heart racing with excitement and a hint of trepidation, and climbed the steps to the heavy oak door.
Before she could knock, the door swung open, revealing a tall, pale man with a widow's peak and a black cape. His eyes gleamed with a knowing smile. "Welcome, Miss Duvette," he said, his voice a deep purr. "I've been expecting you."
Shelly raised an eyebrow. "Mr. Tombs?"
The man swept the cape aside with a dramatic flourish. "In the flesh—or as close to it as I can get these days." He chuckled, his fangs glinting in the moonlight. "Come in, come in. Let me show you to your room."
Shelly stepped into the mansion, her heels clacking against the cold marble floor. The foyer was a study in opulence, with velvet drapes and candelabras casting flickering shadows across the walls. She followed Mr. Tombs up the grand staircase, her curiosity piqued by the eerie yet oddly charming ambiance. They stopped at the second floor, and he opened the door to a spacious room with high ceilings and a four-poster bed draped in silk. "This will be your sanctuary," he announced.
As she settled in, she heard the sound of luggage being dragged down the hallway. "Ah, the others have arrived," Mr. Tombs said with a nod. "Let me introduce you to your new roommates." He led her to the adjacent room, where a fiery redhead was unpacking a suitcase filled with glittering costumes. "Shannon Doggerty, our resident thespian," he said with a wink.
Shannon looked up, her green eyes narrowing. "Another one," she murmured, before flashing a smile that could light up the darkest corner of the room. "You're in the movie business too?"
"More like trying to break into it," Shelly replied, her voice tinged with hope. "I'm an artist and director."
Shannon straightened up, her expression softening. "Oh, that's fantastic. We're going to get along great. I'm here to become a big-time movie star, of course," she said, her voice filled with the kind of optimism that only a newcomer to the city of dreams could muster. She extended a hand, her grip firm and determined. "Let's conquer this town together."
The sound of heavy footsteps grew louder, and a door at the end of the hall swung open. In strode a plump German woman, her stern face breaking into a warm smile as she took in the scene. "Hello, I am Doctor Ruth Westenhause," she announced, her accent thick and comforting. She carried a suitcase that looked suspiciously like it contained more books than clothes. "I am a sex therapist," she added, her tone matter-of-fact.
Shelly and Shannon exchanged glances, then burst into laughter. "Well, we're going to have some interesting dinner conversations," Shannon said, wiping a tear from her eye.
Doctor Westenhause chuckled, a surprisingly light sound from such a formidable figure. "Ja, I know what you think, but in Hollywood, you never know who might need my... expertise." She winked, and the tension in the hallway dissipated.
Just as their laughter subsided, the doorbell chimed, its notes echoing through the cavernous mansion. Mr. Tombs' smile grew wider. "Ah, our final guest," he said, gliding down the stairs like a specter. The women exchanged curious looks, then followed him.
In the foyer, they found Richard Simpson, a man with more energy than a caffeinated squirrel. His bleached-blond hair was styled into a perfect coif, and his neon workout gear was so tight it looked painted on. He beamed at them, his teeth blindingly white. "You must be my new roomies!" he exclaimed, throwing his arms wide. "I'm going to whip this place into shape!"
Mr. Tombs coughed politely. "Yes, well, Richard is quite the fitness enthusiast. He's here to teach aerobics."
Shelly and Shannon exchanged a look that was half-amusement, half-pity. "Great," Shelly said, trying to sound sincere. "We could all use some exercise."
Mr. Tombs led them to the dining room, where a candlelit dinner awaited. The aroma of garlic and herbs filled the air, and a bottle of wine with a dusty label sat in the center of the table. "Welcome to your new home," he announced grandly. "Let us break bread... or in my case, sip the finest...wine." He gestured to the chalice filled with a dark red liquid that was definitely not wine.
The four of them sat down, the awkwardness of their first meeting slowly giving way to a buzz of excitement. They shared stories of their journeys to Hollywood and their dreams for the future. Shelly talked about her indie film projects, Shannon about her endless auditions, and Doctor Westenhause about her clinic that catered to the city's more unconventional clientele. Richard, in between bites of his salad, regaled them with tales of his fitness class escapades, leaving them all in stitches.
"And now," said Mr. Tombs, "we shall discuss the house rules."
The room fell silent, and Shelly couldn't help but feel a shiver run down her spine. Despite his comical demeanor, there was something about their host that was undeniably... off. He cleared his throat and began, his eyes darting around the table like a hawk surveying its prey.
"Rule #1: No smoking in the house."
Shannon raised her hand. "What about...?"
Mr. Tombs raised an eyebrow. "Yes, Miss Doggerty?"
Shannon took a drag from her cigarette, eyeing him through a cloud of smoke. "What about...uh, other substances?"
"No," said Mr. Tombs. "But take heart. Your bedroom has a balcony and feel free to spark up by the pool."
Doctor Westenhause nodded thoughtfully. "Very important for air quality," she murmured, stroking her chin.
"Rule #2: No overnight guests. If you must, as they say, 'get your freak on', I suggest the motel down the street."
The trio looked at each other, trying not to laugh at Mr. Tombs' unorthodox wording. Shelly swallowed a giggle and nodded. "Understood."
"Rule #3: Do not disturb me until sunset. I'm a day sleeper and . . . work night."
"But of course," Shannon said with a dramatic nod. "We wouldn't dream of it."
"Rule #4: If you make a mess, clean it up. I am a landlord, not a maid service."
Shelly nodded solemnly, imagining the horrors that must have occurred in the mansion before their arrival. "Got it."
"And, finally, the most important rule of all: never, under ANY circumstances, go into the attic. If I even catch you on the stairs, you will be evicted immediately. Am I understood?"
The four roommates exchanged glances, the room suddenly thick with unspoken curiosity. "The attic?" Shelly asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
"NEVER GO INTO THE ATTIC," said Mr. Tombs, his voice like a lead coffin lead closing on a radioactive corpse.
The four of them nodded, their eyes wide and eager. It was like he had just told them where the cookie jar was and that it was absolutely, positively, under no circumstances to be touched. The mystery of the attic hung in the air, a juicy secret begging to be unraveled.
"Oh, and the rent is due on the last day of the month," added Mr. Tombs, almost as an afterthought.
The tension around the table dissipated, and they all chuckled nervously, the absurdity of the situation not lost on them. Four strangers, each with their own Hollywood dreams, living under the same roof with a vampiric landlord who was more comical than terrifying. It was like a sitcom waiting to happen.
"And now, if you will excuse me, I must be leaving," said Mr. Tombs, standing and wrapping his cloak about himself. "I have...work...to do."
The roommates watched him retreat up the grand staircase, his cape trailing behind him like a shadow. When he disappeared into the darkness, they turned to each other, their expressions a mix of amusement and skepticism.
"What do you think's in the attic?" Richard asked. He was practically bouncing in his chair.
Shannon shrugged, her eyes glinting with mischief. "Maybe it's where he keeps his cape collection."
Doctor Westenhause leaned in, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Or perhaps it's his secret vampire lair."
Shelly rolled her eyes. "Let's not get ahead of ourselves," she said, though she couldn't help but feel a thrill of excitement at the thought.
The first few days in the mansion passed by without incident. Shannon waited tables at the Hollywood Diner, serving up cheeseburgers and dreams of stardom with a side of sass. Shelly spent her days at the local art gallery, hoping to network with the right people for her film projects. Richard's high-energy aerobics classes had the town talking, and Doctor Westenhause's appointment book grew increasingly full with curious clients seeking her unique brand of therapy.
On Friday night, the four friends gathered by the pool, eager to unwind from their respective Hollywood grinds. The water was a murky green, a stark contrast to the sparkling blue promised in the mansion's ad. The scum on the surface shimmered in the moonlight, giving the pool the appearance of a giant, slimy disco ball.
"Well, I am pee-ooped!" said Richard, collapsing in an antique wicker deck chair.
Shelly and Shannon shared a look. "It's only been a week," said Shelly, sipping a dubious-looking cocktail she'd found in the mansion's dusty bar.
"I have taught 25 aerobic classes this week," said Richard, grimly. "Don't talk to me about how it's only been a week!"
Shannon laughed, flipping through a tabloid magazine. "You know, I heard a rumor that Mr. Tombs used to be a director back in the day," she said, her eyes lighting up with intrigue. "Maybe he has some Hollywood secrets up there."
Doctor Westenhause shook her finger. "Nein, liebchens. We shouldn't talk about the mysteriously attic, no matter how enticing it may be."
But the seed of curiosity had been planted. As the night grew darker and their drinks stronger, the whispers of the attic grew louder. "What could he possibly be hiding up there?" Shannon wondered aloud.
"Maybe it's a sex dungeon," suggested Richard.
Doctor Westenhause shot him a stern look. "That is not funny, Richard. Vampires are very private people."
"Oh please," said Richard. "He's not a real vampire. It's just an act."
Shannon's voice cut through the night, echoing off the mansion's walls. The moon cast a pale glow over their faces, highlighting the excitement in her eyes.
"Dare we?" she whispered.
"He's off working," said Shelley. "He won't be back for hours and hours."
Shannon's eyes glinted with excitement. "You know what that means," she said, setting her magazine aside.
"This is a complete violation of Mr. Tomb's privacy," scolded Doctor Westenhause, even as she climbed, unsteadily, to her feet. She'd had three or four cocktails by this time and the world seemed a lot more interesting.
"But it's like he's begging us to check it out," countered Richard, his voice a little tipsier than his usual high-pitched enthusiasm. "I mean, why else would he make it such a big deal?"
Shelly took a deep breath, the thrill of adventure overriding her initial skepticism. "Okay, but we go together. Safety in numbers, right?"
They tiptoed through the mansion, the air thick with anticipation. The stairs to the attic wound upwards like a cobweb, each step groaning under their weight. The only light came from the moon peeking through the stained glass windows, casting a kaleidoscope of colors across the dusty floorboards.
"This is like a scene from 'The Rocky Horror Picture Show'," Shannon whispered, her laughter hushed by the echoes of their footsteps.
They reached the top of the stairs, the door to the attic looming before them like a gateway to the unknown. The door creaked open with a sound that seemed to resonate through the entire mansion. The room beyond was swathed in shadows, the only light coming from the occasional beam of moonlight that pierced through the cobweb-covered windows. The air was stale, heavy with the scent of dust and long-forgotten memories.
"Do you see anything?" Doctor Westenhause asked, from the rear of the group.
Shannon stepped forward, her heart racing, and peered into the attic. "It's... it's just full of junk," she said, her voice a mix of disappointment and relief. The room was a maze of dusty furniture, faded costumes, and film reels. "It's like a garage sale threw up in here."
But as they ventured further in, something caught Shelly's eye. "Look," she whispered, pointing to a dusty corner. Something moved, a flutter of fabric in the shadows.
"It's just a bunch of old curtains," Shannon said dismissively, until the fabric moved again, this time with purpose.
With a suddenness that made their hearts skip a beat, a swarm of bats exploded from the shadows, their leathery wings flapping madly. The room was alive with the sound of squeaks and beating wings. The roommates screamed in unison, ducking and covering their heads as the bats swirled around them in a tornado of panic.
"What the hell is going on?" Shannon shouted over the cacophony, her eyes wide with terror.
Shelly's heart pounded in her chest as she tried to make sense of the chaos. "It's just bats," she managed to yell back, though her voice was shaky.
"Just bats?" Richard shrieked, flailing his arms wildly. "These are not 'just bats'! These are Hollywood bats!"
Doctor Westenhause clutched her chest, trying to stifle her laughter. "This is not the time for humor!" she chastised, though her eyes danced with amusement.
Shannon stumbled back, her arms flailing wildly as the bats enveloped her, their tiny claws grabbing at her hair. "Get them off me!" she screamed.
Shelly's eyes widened as she took in the scene, her mind racing with ideas for a new horror film. The bats' erratic flight patterns painted the air with a frenzied dance of shadows and moonlight. "They're just scared," she called out, trying to sound calm amidst the chaos.
The four roommates stumbled back towards the attic door, their laughter and shouts of surprise now replaced by cries of distress. The bats, seemingly as confused as they were terrified, continued to whirl around the room in a cacophony of flapping wings and high-pitched squeaks.
Shannon, her hair a tangled mess, finally managed to break free from the swarm. "We have to get out of here!" she screamed, her voice barely audible over the din.
Shelly's artist brain kicked into gear, her eyes glued to the spectacle. "Look at the patterns they're making!" she exclaimed, a strange excitement in her voice. "It's like a live-action shadow puppet show!"
But the bats had other plans. They grew more frenzied, their tiny eyes reflecting the moon's glow like a thousand twisted little stars. Suddenly, as if on cue, they turned en masse and dove towards the open door, their wings cutting through the air like a squadron of tiny, leathery fighters on a mission. The roommates stumbled back, shielding their faces from the barrage of bats, their laughter turning to gasps of shock.
"Oh my God!" Shannon shrieked as the bats streamed past them, disappearing into the house like a black river of panic. The air grew still, the only sound their racing hearts and panting breaths.
Shelly looked around, her eyes wide with excitement. "Did you see that?" she asked, her voice trembling. "It was like a... a ballet of the damned!"
"Oh my God!" Richard shrieked. "They're in the house! Mr. Tombs is totally going to know that we were in the attic!"
Doctor Westenhause rolled her eyes. "We are not children, Richard. We are adults. Now, let us compose ourselves and deal with this...situation."
"He's going to throw us out!" shrieked Richard. He rounded on Shannon. "I can't afford to live anywhere else! Do you know what a Hollywood aerobics instructor makes?!? Bupkiss!!!"
"Calm down," said Shelly, her voice steady amidst the panic. "We'll just tell him we were looking for a quiet place to meditate."
"Shelly! Sweetie! He won't care! We broke the rules! We're all gonna be out on the street!"
Shannon looked around, her hair still tangled from the bat encounter. "Maybe we can just, I don't know, shoo them out?"
Doctor Westenhause nodded, her face serious. "Ja, we must act quickly. Before they cause any...unwanted damage."
"And before Mr. Tombs gets home!" added Richard, bouncing in place.
Shannon's eyes narrowed with determination. "Alright, let's get to it," she said, tossing her cigarette butt into a nearby potted plant. "We can't let a bunch of rodents with wings ruin our Hollywood dreams!"
The four roommates descended the stairs, their movements comically exaggerated to avoid disturbing the unwelcome guests. The bats had scattered throughout the mansion, leaving a trail of chaos in their wake. In the living room, they found a particularly persistent one doing laps around the chandelier. Shannon, channeling her inner screen siren, took a deep breath and belted out a high note that would have made Mariah Carey proud. The bat, startled by the sudden onslaught of sound, flew straight into the grand piano, knocking over a stack of sheet music with a dramatic flourish.
"Well, that was easy," Richard quipped, waving a rolled-up yoga mat like a fencer. But his victory was short-lived as a bat zipped past his head, sending him into a frenzied dance, his neon spandex reflecting the room's flashing disco lights.
Shannon grabbed a broom from the kitchen, sweeping it through the air with all the grace of a drunken ballerina. "Shoo!" she yelled, her voice echoing through the cavernous halls. The bats merely darted around her, seemingly amused by her flailing.
Doctor Westenhause had a different approach. She rummaged through the kitchen drawers and emerged with a flashlight, flicking it on and off with the rhythm of a disco beat. "They are afraid of the light!" she exclaimed. "Follow me!"
They trailed her through the mansion, the flashlight's beam bobbing like a ghostly disco ball. The bats, disoriented by the erratic light, began to flee the room. Shelly, ever the director, couldn't help but admire the surreal choreography unfolding before her. The roommates' laughter grew louder as they swatted at the bats with their makeshift weapons—Shannon with her broom, Shelly with a rolled-up movie script, and Richard flapping a towel like a cape.
In the library, they stumbled upon a bat that had made a home in the pages of an ancient book. Shannon grabbed the nearest object—a rubber chicken—and began to cackle like a mad scientist. The bat, equally confused by the unorthodox threat, took flight again. "To the balcony!" Shelly shouted, her artist's mind painting a picture of the dramatic escape she'd craft into their future legend.
On the way, they encountered a bat playing peekaboo with Doctor Westenhause, who was trying to corral it with a dusty lampshade. "Ve must be firm, but gentle," she insisted, her accent thick with concentration. The bat, seemingly mocking her, darted around the shade with a grace that would have made any ballerina jealous.
In the grand ballroom, they found the largest gathering of bats, hanging from the chandeliers like tiny gothic decorations. "Maybe they think it's a nightclub," Richard quipped, swiping at one with his yoga mat. The bat responded by dive-bombing him, forcing him into a series of unplanned gymnastics that would have been the envy of any Olympic athlete.
Shannon had an idea. "Follow me," she whispered, tiptoeing to the old phonograph in the corner. She placed a record on the turntable and cranked the handle. The room filled with the scratchy sound of an ancient jazz tune, and the bats seemed to perk up, their little heads tilting to the side in curiosity.
"Maybe they like music," she murmured, and began to dance. Her movements were a strange hybrid of the Charleston and the Macarena, but the bats didn't seem to mind. They dropped from the chandeliers and started to twirl in the air, as if caught in an invisible tornado of sound. The roommates watched in amazement as the bats started to follow her lead, their wings beating in time to the rhythm.
Shelly, inspired, picked up a forgotten director's chair and began to conduct the airborne orchestra. "Come on, everyone, get in sync!" she called out, her eyes alight with the kind of mad genius that only comes from a mix of adrenaline and cheap booze. To their astonishment, the bats began to swirl around the room in a dizzying pattern, creating a living, breathing, shadowy disco ball effect.
Doctor Westenhause, catching on, picked up a forgotten feather boa and began to wave it like a conductor's baton. "Ja, ja!" she shouted, her laughter bellowing like a siren's call. The bats grew bolder, their flight paths more erratic as they danced to the unseen beat of the music.
Shannon dropped her broom, her movements becoming more fluid. The bats grew bolder still, swooping down to graze the tips of their hair before darting back up into the rafters. Richard, his earlier panic forgotten, started to perform a series of high kicks that would have put any Broadway chorus line to shame. The bats took it as an invitation to play, weaving in and out of his legs like a macabre game of limbo.
The four roommates moved as one, their laughter echoing through the dusty halls of the mansion. They were a strange quartet of misfits, brought together by fate and a love for a city that could be as kind as it was cruel. And now, they were fighting off a bat infestation with nothing but their wits and a penchant for the dramatic.
As the bats grew more entranced by the dance, they grew less concerned with their nocturnal flight patterns. One by one, they began to drift towards the open balcony doors, lured by the sweet promise of the Hollywood night outside. The roommates watched, breathless, as their bizarre tango continued to work its magic. The ballroom was now a whirlwind of flapping wings and shadows, the only light coming from the flickering disco bulbs that cast the scene in a kaleidoscope of color.
With a final, desperate flailing of their makeshift instruments, the last of the bats shot out into the night, leaving the four of them standing in the center of the room, panting and disheveled. The music ground to a halt, the needle scratching against the vinyl.
They looked at each other, their eyes wide with astonishment. "Did...did we just do that?" Shannon asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
Doctor Westenhause nodded, her cheeks flushed with exertion. "Ja, we did. And we must clean up before Mr. Tombs returns."
They set to work, collecting the scattered furniture and sweeping up the dust that had been kicked up in their battle. The mansion, once a silent tomb, now hummed with the sound of their laughter and the occasional squeak of a bat that had eluded their disco-infused wrath.
As they worked, the reality of their situation began to sink in. They were living in a haunted mansion with a vampiric landlord, and they'd just fought off a bat infestation with nothing but a rubber chicken, a lampshade, a yoga mat, and a jazz record.
The night grew late, and the mansion grew quiet. They had banished the bats, but the mysteries of the attic remained untouched. The whispers of Hollywood secrets and forgotten dreams lingered in the air, hinting at the stories that the old house held within its walls.
As they turned in for the night, each retreating to their own shadowy corners of the mansion, the question remained. What other surprises did the house have in store for them? And, more importantly, would their friendship survive the trials of the peculiar world they'd stumbled into?
Author's Notes: Inspiration can strike at the oddest times and places. I was reading reactions to recent celebrity deaths and this happened. No disrespect is intended toward any of the easily recognizable individuals the roommates are inspired by.
