Home for Horny Monsters

Hey all! Annabelle here with Chapter 4! Thank you all so much for your comments and ratings, it's really inspired me to keep going with this story. I hope you like this chapter as much as the last, don't forget to rate and comment, I love reading them!

Romancing the Stone

Mike yawned, the morning light through the white curtains casting a blissful glow on the room. He scratched the back of his neck, his foot kicking the lump near the bottom of his bed. He sat up, leaning forward to give the lump a playful pat.

"It's time to get up, Tink." Mike watched the lump slide to the edge of the bed, disappearing over the edge with a thud.

"Owie," Tink muttered, standing up holding her bottom. She was wearing a tank top night shirt, one of the things Mike had ordered through Amazon, as a full dress. She wore her orange goggles too, refusing to part with them, even at night.

"How did you sleep?" Mike asked, sliding out of bed in just his boxers.

Tink responded with a yawn, her wide mouth revealing dozens of needle sharp teeth. "Tink sleep extra heavy. Mike hog bed."

"I did not hog the bed," he muttered. After the threesome in the bath, Naia had spent a solid hour brushing Tink's hair out, and then braiding it tightly against Tink's head, starting at the base of her horns and running behind her ears. Mike eventually wandered out his front door (with a wary glance at the swing) to retrieve the Amazon packages he had ordered; some replacement shirts for himself, and some clothes he thought Tink would like. Tink had cried when he showed her the shirts he had bought -they all fit her like little dresses, albeit the fit was odd. Naia informed Mike that Tink's skills extended to sewing as well, and that the goblin would likely alter the material later for a better fit.

"Mike hog bed, too much roll over. Goblin husband have bad dreams." Tink beat him to the bathroom, closing the door behind her. She wasn't wrong-Mike, despite ending the night on the best note of his life, had suffered through the standard reoccurring dreams again. He stared at the scar tissue on his hip, pondering why his brain insisted on living through the worst moments of his life in dream form, his broken mother shrieking at him from the past.

"You okay?" Naia's voice drifted up from the tub. "I'm getting a vibe off of you."

"Just some old memories, I'm okay." Tink flushed the toilet, but the door remained shut. Wondering what was taking so long, Mike opened the door.

The goblin stared at the water swirling in the bowl, her goggles pulled down over her eyes. Mike didn't dare investigate any farther, preferring to wait.

"Bad pipe," Tink declared. "Water not fast enough. Bad pipe." She looked at Mike, her eyes magnified through her goggles. "Tink can fix, but need some parts."

"How can you tell?" Mike asked. The toilet seemed slow, but the house was old.

"Tink know." She tapped her goggles. "Tink good at fix, but goggles good at seeing what need fix. Tell Tink big water leak come soon."

"Shit. Is it safe to use again?"

"For now, is safe." Tink strolled out of the bathroom, giving Mike's butt a slap. "Need fix in couple days, or big mess. Tink look in basement today, check where pipes go." Her stomach growled. "Tink go after breakfast."

"Yeah, I'll make us something." Mike excused himself, peeing in the toilet. The tiny scratches on his arms and legs looked bad, but didn't hurt any longer, which was a good sign. He walked out of the bathroom, staring into the tub. "Is it weird that I'm just sort of accepting this? The last twenty four hours have been out of my depth."

"It's what makes you a good fit," Naia's voice informed him. "You can handle all of this because it isn't normal. When you got into a fight with Tink, you thought outside the box to make sure she stayed, even if it meant fucking a goblin. I know you did it partially for me, but you did it partially for the house without realizing it. It works through you, much as it does through me. If you had encountered a horny, human woman down there who wanted to suck your dick, you would have suffered a panic attack and come running inside."

Mike thought about this for a second. Naia was right. Somehow, the sheer lunacy of this whole situation wasn't even registering on his panic meter. "Did my Great Aunt handle it as well as me?"

"In some aspects, yes," Naia replied. "She accepted things quickly, but she didn't take your unique approach to tackling problems." Naia's tub echoed with her laugh. "At least, not right away. We spent plenty of nights together in the tub, just the two of us."

"Gonna be honest, not sure how to take that news right now." Mike pulled a shirt over his head. "I'll see you later."

"Stop out in the garden," Naia told him. "I would love the company."

"Can do." Mike left his room, walking silently down the long hall. He pondered every closed door he walked past, seeing each as an inevitable trap. What was hiding here, behind these quiet doors? Eventually, he would open them all, checking each room for another Tink, or even a Cecilia.

A chill went up his spine at the thought of the banshee. He needed to make nice with her, and he thought he had a good way to do it. He placed his hand on the top rail of the stairs, looking down the rest of the hall. Two doors on each side of the hall and a tall, ebony wardrobe with a silver handle.

Had that wardrobe always been there?

The sound of breaking glass startled him. He ran down the stairs and into the kitchen to see Tink frowning at a busted bowl on the floor. She blushed when she saw him.

"Tink got startled," she explained, eying the bowl. "But Tink can fix."

"Don't bother." Mike grabbed a broom and swept up the glass. "Bowls are easily replaced." Tink nodded at this, following him into the kitchen. Mike pulled the box of Eggos out of the freezer.

"Are those good?" Tink asked. Mike nodded, shoving them in the toaster.

"Eggos? The best, as long as you know how to dress them up properly." Pulling a tub of butter from the fridge, he set syrup and peanut butter next to it. When the toaster popped, he stacked the Eggos on his plate, slathering them first in butter, then peanut butter. He topped them with some syrup, handing them to Tink. "Try that and let me know what you think?"

Tink took the plate, sniffing at the Eggos. "Tink not so sure," she informed him before picking up an Eggo. She bit into it, syrup and peanut butter running down her chin.

"So what do you think?" Mike asked.

"Tink think goblin husband learn to cook." She handed the plate back to Mike. "Tink need real food." She opened the fridge, standing on her tiptoes to see to the back. Her double nipples perked up under the cold air. "Tink like pizza."

"Well, we're out of pizza, but maybe this will help." Mike pulled a bag of pizza rolls out of the freezer. "We can cook these up in a hurry."

"Use oven. Microwave is lazy." Tink took the bag from him, reading the instructions. "Tink can do this. Mike eat Eggo things."

"Fair enough." Clearly, he and Tink had different tastes in food. He made a pot of coffee, which Tink happily shared with him while they waited. Tink unceremoniously dumped the whole bag onto a pan, and Mike sighed inwardly. When he had bought food yesterday, he hadn't accounted for another mouth to feed. Tink found a pad of paper in one of the drawers and was busy jotting notes to herself as the pizza rolls cooked. Mike dug through a collection of inbound emails, mostly job related, when he saw one from the Historical Preservation Society.

Curious, he clicked the link. The writer of the email laid out all sorts of reasons why they wanted to buy the place, but Mike didn't bother reading it. He trashed the file after only a few sentences.

"Show Tink." The goblin appeared between him and the laptop, her head blocking his view. "Show Tink how to use magic screen."

"I'll show you later. What did you put on the list?" Tink handed him the paper. Her handwriting was surprisingly elegant, a cursive lettering that made him think of wedding invitations. Scanning the list, Mike felt a hard lump form in his throat. Every line of the paper was full with something that needed fixing. "You found all of these things wrong already?"

"Tink know some from before." The oven beeped, and Tink left his side to retrieve her breakfast. Mike couldn't help but watch her as she inspected each roll carefully between her claws before popping them in her mouth. "Before big sleep, Tink keep journal on broken stuff, but Emily not always buy Tink supplies. Bad ladies won't let her, she tell Tink."

"Bad ladies?" Mike thought of the email. "Oh, the historical society. Yeah, we have to be careful doing repairs, apparently. This place is on a national registry, and we have to follow the rules or..."

Or what? That was a question for Beth, obviously. What was to keep him from doing whatever he wanted to the house? Some of the items on list were simple enough, and he didn't see any harm in letting Tink work on them.

"Hey Tink." Tink, her mouth full of pizza rolls, tilted her head at him. "This thing right here. I'm planning to take care of that."

Tink nodded her head, swallowing pizza rolls. "You do good job, or Tink be mad."

"Yeah." He didn't need any more people mad at him. "Do we have the supplies for this?"

"Tink show you." The goblin led him out to the garage, where he once again navigated the maze of boxes.

"Are these books yours?" he asked.

"No. Tink read sometime, but not these. These belong to-" Tink stopped walking, her eyes going blank. "That strange. Tink forget."

"Not that strange," Mike muttered. Tink led him down to her dwelling beneath the garage. Mike tilted his head to fit, listening carefully as Tink described her organization system. She opened various drawers and boxes, showing Mike how everything fit together like a Tetris game from hell. Opening the third box, Mike held up a hand in surrender.

"Tink, you don't live down here anymore. If it's possible, could we take these things out of the boxes and use the very nice tool benches upstairs?"

"Tink make trade. Mike move books out, Tink move tools back."

"Deal." He kissed Tink on the forehead, the little goblin's face turning a darker shade of green. "But that's a job for a different day. Right now, I need some WD-40, a couple of screwdrivers, and those shears I bought."

Tink dug through the boxes, pulling out the things Mike needed, and stuffing them into a small toolbox she slid out from under her own bench. She threw in some extra items, then handed it to Mike. "You go fix, Tink check pipes."

"You got it." Mike left the goblin behind, smiling at the sound of Tink humming a little song to herself. He cast a look back, briefly watching her assemble her own box of tools. He picked his way through the garage, briefly wondering if the garage door would even open if he tried. Deciding that he wasn't feeling adventurous enough to chance it, he took the long route through the house, stepping out into the real world on the front porch.

The swing swayed back and forth, squeaking incessantly, but an actual breeze was passing through, which meant Mike had no idea if Cecilia was there. There was an easy way to find out.

"Hello? Cecilia?" He moved closer to the swing, fighting the urge to shut his eyes. It was like watching a scary movie, and knowing that the scary part was coming. "Are you out here?" The swing swayed gently, no sign of slowing down. If the banshee was gone, that would make the process that much easier. He approached the swing, grabbing the chain and unhooking it from the frame, lowering it to the ground. When nothing bad happened, he inspected the eye hook at the top of the chain.

Sure enough, it had managed to wiggle partially free, the surface rusting over. Staring at the useless screwdrivers he had chosen, he found the wrench that Tink had tucked away for him. He laughed, using the wrench to twist the eyehook. Barely moving, he used a few sprays of the WD-40 to help move things along. It took him a few minutes, but he managed to yank it free.

Using a rag in the toolbox, Mike gave the screw a good cleaning, scraping the rust off as best he could. Inspecting the screw, he looked inside the hole of the frame. It was caked with rust as well. He used one of the screwdrivers to clean it out as best he could, knocking loose quite a bit of rust and dirt. Sticking the eyebolt back in, he twisted it tightly into place. He gave it an experimental tug, and it held fast.

"Here goes nothing," he muttered, picking up the chain. Lifting his arm to reattach it, he felt the hairs on the back of his neck lift as the temperature dropped. Spinning in place, he saw that she was only a foot from him, her body hovering inches off the ground, both hands balled at her side. Her face a twisted mask, Cecilia took a deep breath and opened her mouth.

"Wait!" Mike cried, dropping the chain and holding his hands in front of him. "Just hear me out!" He knelt down, lifting the chain and the bench, hooking it back through the eyebolt. Keeping a cautious eye on Cecilia, he sat down gently, wincing as he gave a gentle kick of his legs. The porch swing was silent, gliding back and forth with just the soft rustling of the frame above it. "I know that you like this swing, so I thought I would fix it for you."

Cecilia's ghostly features softened, her hands reaching out to touch the moving chain. She glided gently around Mike, sitting down beside him on the swing. The air by her skin was cool, and she closed her eyes, letting out a sigh.

"Thank you," she said, her voice soft with an Irish lilt to it. Milky eyes staring into the distance, her hand felt along the bench, resting on his knee. "I appreciate it."

"You're welcome. My name is Mike, by the way." Mike tried to stand, but Cecilia squeezed his leg, holding him in place.

"I'm sorry about before." She turned her sightless eyes toward him. "Please stay with me for just a bit. I haven't had anyone to talk to in quite some time."

Mike could think of several things he wanted to do instead, but Cecilia's demeanor was not only drastically different, but he couldn't help but notice just how cute she was.

"Okay, sure. I can stay for a bit."

"Thank you." Cecilia rocked on the swing next to Mike, saying nothing for several minutes. Mike stared at the banshee, more than curious. Her white clothing was simple, but tailor made for her body, and her curls were as white as she was, though they terminated in eerie spikes that spread out around her as if she sat on a Van De Graaff generator.

The chill of her hand was intense through his jeans. Uncomfortable, he slid his hand beneath hers, lifting it slightly.

"I hope this is okay," he told her, as a slight grin crossed her face.

"You're the first man to hold my hand in many years," she informed him. "The last one to do that was-" Her entire body flickered, like a shock had gone through her. "-someone whose name I can't remember."

"Yep." Mike couldn't help but notice how soft her skin was. The longer he held her hand, the warmer she felt. "Now that you're not pissed at me, you don't seem very banshee-ish."

This elicited a frown from Cecilia. "A banshee is what I am, not how I act. It used to be something I was proud to be, a job I was proud to do."

"A job?"

Cecilia nodded. "Every family had its own banshee. It was my job to guide them into the afterlife when they passed. Nobody loves a banshee for what they represent, but they needed us for what we did. Our wails of sorrow were to announce our coming, and we would guide the spirits into the ever after."

"So... the afterlife is real?"

Cecilia nodded. "Very much so. When Emily passed, I was allowed to guide her soul to its resting place."

"That's...wow." That was something to chew on, for certain. "What's it like?"

Cecilia smiled. "You'll find out someday."

"To be honest, I try not to think of it much." Mike winced. "I had a close call when I was younger."

"I can tell. Your soul has a certain polish to it." Cecilia's face broke into a wicked smile. "Tell me, do you-" Cecilia flickered, vanishing from view at the creaking of the front steps. A woman in her forties walked slowly up the wooden stairs, accompanied by a much younger woman. Her long black hair was wound tightly in a bun, but there was plenty left over that it had been fashioned into a long braid beneath it. She wore a simple gray skirt with a modest white blouse. Her dark eyes found Mike, and she paused at the top of the stairs.

"Are you Mr. Radley?" Her tone was formal, the question almost a command.

"That's me." Mike stood, walking across the porch. He was going to shake her hand, but his stomach clenched suddenly, sending pain through his gut. He grabbed the railing instead.

"My name is Elizabeth. This is my daughter Sarah." Sarah's dark hair scattered along the fabric of her red suit jacket, contrasting nicely in the sunlight. Her skirt matched her jacket, and a low cut top was accentuated by a shimmering blue stone pendant that dangled perilously between her large breasts. "We are from the Historical Preservation Society, and I was wondering if we could have a word with you."

Mike found his mouth inexplicable dry, his forced smile twitching. Something about Elizabeth made him more than uneasy, a gut feeling that he couldn't ignore. "Um, sure, I guess."

"Excellent, Mr. Radley." Elizabeth stayed where she was, her eyes locked on Mike. Mike saw Sarah staring at the door of the house. "Maybe it would be best if we went inside?"

Mike immediately thought of Tink wandering around the house in just a shirt and goggles. "I would prefer we speak out here, actually. It's a bit stuffy inside, and I wasn't expecting company."

"We can talk out here then." Elizabeth held up a folder, and Mike immediately recognized it as identical to the one Beth had taken away with her yesterday. "I was informed yesterday evening by the estate agent that you declined our offer to buy this property without even looking at it."

"Um, yes, I did decline the offer." It was odd, but he couldn't help but notice that Elizabeth stood on the top step of the porch rather than the actual porch. "I've decided to live here."

"By yourself?" Sarah asked, her predatory eyes scanning the windows. If Elizabeth was giving him a mad school principal vibe, then Sarah was a cop who had pulled him over and was ready to bust a taillight.

"I've been by myself most of my life." The feeling in his gut manifested now as a cold ball of ice. What the hell was going on? "I'm not sure why it would change anytime soon."

"Well, this is a pretty big place for just one man, Mr. Radley." Elizabeth's smile didn't make it to her eyes. "And I can't help but be offended that you didn't even consider looking at our offer." Sarah had taken a step back from her mother to get a better view of the second floor windows.

"Why are you so interested in this place?" Mike asked, leaning against the rail.

"It was one of the first homes built in the area," Elizabeth told him. "Constructed by a mysterious architect, and paid for by an unknown benefactor. This home is a mystery hiding in plain site, and the Historical Preservation Society is interested in not only answering these questions, but preserving the home's original beauty."

"Well, if that's your primary concern, then you should know I have no intention of changing anything about this house."

"But caring for such a place will be hard for a single person, don't you agree Mr. Radley?" Sarah had backed down the steps all the way, squinting at the shadows under the porch.

"I've already got someone to help with that." Mike crossed his arms. "Can I help your daughter with something?"

Sarah was crouched down, inspecting the bushes Mike had fallen into yesterday, gloved hands gently touching their branches. Surprised that Mike was watching her, she stood up suddenly.