Spirit Animals, Part II
A day later than promised, but this chapter is longer!
Title: Spirit Animals
Pairing: Stan/Kyle
Rating: R
Words: ~25k; ~10k in this chapter
Summary: Cartman wants to film his amateur ghost hunting show at the site of the grisly McCormick massacre. Stan hates the idea but he can't stay away, because Kyle will be there.
Stan skips school the next day, unwilling to spend Halloween morning and afternoon among the same people who will drive him crazy later that night. He drives toward the mountains and stops at Stark's Pond, which is empty and quiet except for some birdsong from the surrounding trees. The fall migration is almost over, and Stan hasn't spotted any out of town birds yet this season. The Sandhill Cranes won't pass through until January, so he'll have that to look forward to. January is usually hard for him, after the holidays, when winter is like a dense curtain that's been pulled around his whole world, keeping the cold in.
The sun is out and it's not terribly cold yet, but it's supposed to drop down to the twenties after nightfall. Stan can smell snow in the breeze that comes down off the mountains, and it makes him a little sad and nostalgic, that scent always calling to mind the winter sports that all the neighborhood kids had played when they were young. Now they mostly stay in during the winter, only gathering for the occasional blow out party when Token's parents are both out of town on business at the same time. Usually someone has a Halloween party, but he hasn't heard anything about one this year. He gets fewer and fewer invitations to parties, and Wendy says it's because people are afraid he'll bring Cartman, Kyle, and Butters along.
Those three are more or less the most disliked people at school, for various reasons. Back when they had Kenny in their gang, they had all felt pretty cool. Stan had, anyway. Kenny and Stan were like a mild tonic that eased the harsher flavors of the others. Alone, Stan is mostly negated by them. It feels especially true now that Cartman and Kyle have paired up, even if they claim to do so with their hatred for each other intact, and Butters is increasingly preoccupied with his burgeoning singing 'career.' Stan could try to infiltrate some other group of friends, but even the idea of trying to fit in elsewhere is exhausting. Everyone at school has known each other for so long, and factions of friends are pretty cemented at this point. Plus, he doesn't want to abandon Kyle to the whims of Cartman. Kyle will need to know that he's not alone with this huge mistake once he comes out of his sex coma and realizes what he's done.
Stan leaves his car parked in the gravel lot by the pond and wanders around, glad for the chance to be alone with his thoughts but also feeling kind of gloomy. It's almost lunchtime. He checks his phone and sees three text messages from Kyle, all basically asking the same question: where are you? Stan thinks about not answering, because it's not like Kyle tells Stan where he has all the time anymore, and why should Stan feel guilty for not reporting to Kyle like some wayward boyfriend? He waits ten minutes, but his guilt only intensifies, so he sends an answer: skipping, come over after school. Kyle doesn't respond, probably annoyed that Stan took so long to answer his texts. Stan's spirits are lifted a bit by the thought that Kyle was worried about him.
He drives back into town and has lunch at the diner that serves special pumpkin pancakes during the mouth of October. They're kind of weird and overly orange, and Stan doesn't like them as much as he did when he was a kid, but it's tradition that he orders them at least once before the month ends. He eats them with a side of hash browns and bacon, suddenly very hungry. Having a big appetite is usually a sign that his dismal mood is diminishing, and he feels better after scarfing all the greasy food down with a few cups of coffee. He goes to an afternoon showing of Village of the Damned and heads back home to have his usual post-school beat off and nap, though school won't let out for another hour.
The house is empty, both of his parents still at work. When his dad gets home, they'll carve the pumpkin together, and Stan's mom will roast the seeds. Stan takes comfort in these little traditions, and in anything from his childhood that he can still enjoy unironically. Kyle is one of those things, though Stan's enjoyment of Kyle has shifted over the years, or at least recently. It might have been the Cartman thing that set it off, but lately Kyle is all Stan thinks about when he takes his dick out. Even when Kyle came out to his bar mitzvah guests, Stan never approached an actual mental image of Kyle doing gay things, and certainly not with some guy who is bigger than him and kind of rough. He hopes Cartman doesn't call Kyle names when they fuck. He hopes Kyle doesn't like that kind of thing, though if he's with Cartman, he must.
Stan locks his bedroom door, takes off everything but his t-shirt and gets in bed. The sheets are cold, and he's not in a particularly aroused mood, but he closes his eyes and tries to get in one, because he'll never nap effectively without blowing a load. He closes his eyes and lets his mind drift immediately to Kyle. The days of fighting these fantasies are long past. For some reason, the image that comes to him today is Kyle crawling around on his bedroom floor on all fours, naked, with a carrot in his mouth. Why the carrot? Stan isn't sure, because it's not a horse thing, horses are not sexy, and Kyle isn't really behaving in a bunny-like manner either. He's not sucking on the carrot, just holding it between his teeth like a bit, staring at Stan expectantly. The fantasy takes a while to develop, but eventually it gets where it's going: Stan fucking Kyle from behind, hard enough that, in his pleasure, Kyle bites clean through the carrot in two places. Stan comes, then worries that Kyle might choke on the piece of carrot still in his mouth, though it's not like he's making plans for future activity here. He rolls over, hugs his pillow, and imagines cuddling Kyle in the aftermath, kissing his carroty mouth.
He wakes an hour later from a bad dream about the McCormick house, the details already fuzzing away. All he knows is that he wasn't dreaming about the murders but about the forthcoming 'ghost hunt,' and that Kyle was with him, and scared. He goes downstairs, still bleary and smelling like unwashed sheets, and finds his mother in the kitchen. She's watching through the patio door as Randy cuts the top off of their pumpkin. Kyle is on the back porch with him, watching with a mildly disgusted look as the top comes off, pumpkin guts streaming out along with it.
"I was about to come get you," Sharon says, touching the small of Stan's back when he stands beside her. "Are you okay?"
"Yeah," Stan says, surprised by the question. He feels kind of not okay, actually, and he can't put his finger on why, except that he's dreading the evening to come and Cartman's antics in Kenny's old house. "I'm fine." He wishes Kyle had come upstairs to wake him. He's always liked waking up to Kyle's prodding, gentle or not. "What's Kyle doing out there?"
"I told him I'd go upstairs and get you. He sure made a mess of my kitchen yesterday."
"Oh -- sorry."
"He's an odd one," Sharon says, and she gives Stan a nudge toward the patio. "Save the seeds for me, okay?"
"Okay."
It's chilly outside but not yet cold, and Stan thinks he can smell the oncoming festivities: candles burning inside jack-o-lanterns, candy passing into neon orange buckets, and the hint of menace that comes with the holiday. Maybe it's just the pumpkin guts he's smelling. Kyle smiles at him, which takes him off guard, though he can't remember why he thought Kyle might be annoyed with him. Stan smiles back, wanting to hug him, still a little raw from that dream where Kyle was upset and in danger.
"You look like you just woke up," Kyle says. He's wearing a black sweater and looks kind of wan himself.
"I had a nap," Stan says, hoping Kyle will know not to mention that Stan skipped school in front of Randy. "What kind of face are you doing?" Stan asks, kneeling down beside his dad, who is scooping pumpkin guts.
"A scary one," Randy says. "Duh."
"Okay, but, like. Do you have a design in mind?"
"Nah, I think I'm just gonna free form it. Let the creative juices flow."
"We carved a bat into ours," Kyle says, and for some reason this makes Stan cackle. "What?"
"Nothing," Stan says, grinning at him. "A bat."
"A bat is a perfectly reasonable jack-o-lantern carving!"
"Pull the seeds out of that gunk," Randy says, handing Stan a bowl to put them in. "Your mom wants them."
"I love roasted pumpkin seeds," Kyle says.
"So help me harvest them," Stan says, pinching some from the slimy mound of pumpkin guts. Kyle makes a face.
"Can we plant some?" he asks, keeping back. "Will they grow in Colorado?"
"Sure," Stan says. He looks to his dad for confirmation, but Randy is sawing a set of angry eyebrows into the pumpkin.
"What are you boys doing tonight?" Randy asks.
"Oh, nothing," Kyle says hurriedly. "Watching some scary movies over at Cartman's place. That sort of thing."
"You guys are still friends with that kid, huh?"
"Yep," Stan says, slowly, giving Kyle a look. He widens his eyes, and Stan shakes his head. He's not going to out Kyle's arrangement to Randy. Kyle has made them all swear to keep it secret from their parents, fearing that his mother will find out. He's vividly envisioned the scenario that would play out if she knew that he was having sex with Cartman: she would slap Kyle, cry, pull him out of school, and start slipping powerful anti-psychotics into his meals. Stan isn't sure it would be all that dramatic. She'd probably be surprised, vaguely disappointed, and would buy Kyle a box of condoms. Stan wants to ask if they use condoms, but he's too afraid that Kyle will say no, they don't. Kyle was a virgin before Cartman, and Cartman has only ever had sex with Wendy, who demanded that he use condoms every time. It's possible they're both clean and bare backing. Stan hates the thought, a lot. He's not even sure they do anal. Probably they don't? He's got no idea, but it seems like something Cartman would want.
"Stan!" Randy says, boggling at him when he looks up from the pumpkin guts. "Hello, did you hear me?"
"Hear -- no, what?"
"Hand me that little saw thing."
Randy has a proper pumpkin carving set, a collection of small tools with orange handles that are crusty from pumpkins past. Stan hands it over and resumes picking out seeds.
"We should head over there after this," Kyle says. "To Cartman's."
"Don't you want to eat the roasted seeds first?" Stan says, and he's hurt when Kyle shrugs.
"How's Cartman's mom doing?" Randy asked.
"How should we know?" Stan says, his face getting red when he thinks of the many times Liane Cartman has implied that she would like to put her hand down his pants. He's always believed that if Kenny were alive, he might have gone for it. Kenny had a real fondness for Cartman's mom. Stan doesn't want his unsheathed dick anywhere near the Cartmans.
"She's the same as ever," Kyle says. "You know. Bawdy."
"That Cartman kid is beast," Randy says. "Saw him last weekend in the game against Bear Creek. Shit, he was unstoppable."
"I guess his big fat ass is good for something," Kyle says, and Stan is embarrassed, because Kyle is trying to make him feel better. Stan quit football freshman year when it got too intense. He's not much of team player and doesn't possess a lot of school spirit, or whatever kind of spirit is required for doing caveman war chants with the coach before games and crashing through banners at pep rallies. Randy has never stopped passive aggressively giving him a hard time for quitting.
"It's a good game for a violent asshole like him," Stan says.
"Hey, c'mon," Randy says, giving Stan a look of betrayed disappointment that really shouldn't get to him as much as it does, because fuck what Randy thinks. "Was Elway a violent asshole? You could have been a quarterback. That takes real intelligence. Grace, even!"
"We should really go," Kyle says, and Stan resents that, because he doesn't need Kyle to protect him from his father. "Speaking of Cartman's violent asshole tendencies - he'll probably be a dick if we're late."
"My stomach hurts," Stan says, and it's true, because at this point all he needs to hear is asshole, dick, and Cartman in the same sentence in order to conjure gut wrenching images of Kyle on his belly, naked and surrendered to the beast. "Maybe I should just stay home."
"What!" Kyle says. "No!" He looks truly upset when Stan glances up from the pumpkin sludge. "Please, I mean. Look, dude, it's Halloween."
"So?"
"So! The last time we spent Halloween apart it sucked major ass. You -- I mean, but. If you really don't want to--"
"It's fine," Stan says, and he stands. "Just let me wash my hands."
He gives the seeds to his mom and promises to be back before midnight. On the way out, the doorbell rings, and Stan grabs the bowl of assorted candy that his mom has already set out in the foyer. He opens the door, and is assaulted by a loud 'trick or treat!' from four little boys who hold their bags out for candy. There's a ninja, a wizard, a football player and a pudgy boy in a fairly elaborate dragon costume. They each mutter a hurried thank you without meeting Stan's eyes and dash for the end of the driveway, where two moms are waiting.
"They're starting already?" Kyle says.
"Did you see those kids?" Stan asks, shaken. Kyle just gives him a blank look. "They were -- never mind."
"Oh, four boys. Yeah." Kyle squeezes Stan's arm as he sets the candy bowl down. "Dude, I don't mean to pressure you into coming to this thing. If you want--"
"No, I'm coming," Stan says sharply. He grabs his jacket from the chair by the door and shrugs it on. "Let's go. Actually -- hang on. I'm gonna change my shoes."
He goes up to his room, glad that Kyle remains waiting in the foyer. After changing into a pair of old Pumas that he actually doesn't want to wear, he takes the opportunity to dig his brandy out of his bottom drawer and fill the little flask he keeps alongside it. He tucks the flask into his jacket and heads back downstairs, feeling emboldened already.
"Can I have a swig?" Kyle asks when Stan drinks from the flask as they walk to Cartman's house.
"A swig?" Stan says, smirking at him. He's surprised; Kyle normally raises his lip at Stan's drinking.
"There's nothing wrong with calling it a swig!" Kyle accepts the flask and takes a dainty sip from it. "Why are you criticizing everything I say today?"
"I'm not, just. That wasn't a real swig."
"Now I can't even drink your booze properly?" Kyle yanks the flask back and drinks from it more deeply, wincing when he's done. "That stuff is vile."
"It's good brandy, Kyle. A twenty dollar bottle!"
"It tastes like something you clean industrial surfaces with. Let me have some more."
"Not if you're gonna insult it," Stan says, holding the flask out of Kyle's reach, mostly for the excuse to initiate physical contact. He laughs when Kyle struggles for it, grabbing Stan's other arm to hold him in place. At one point their faces are close, and Stan can smell the brandy on Kyle's breath. He loses his focus and Kyle manages to snatch the flask. "Don't spill it," Stan says, watching him drink.
"I feel like getting drunk," Kyle says. "I've never done it."
"I'll take care of you if you do," Stan says, pinching the back of Kyle's neck. "Unless Cartman -- are you going home with him, after?"
"I don't know," Kyle says, avoiding Stan's eyes. "I guess we'll see how the night plays out."
They're both quiet for a while, trading sips from the flask. Stan feels like he knows what Kyle is thinking, but he's been wrong about that before.
"So your dad is an idiot," Kyle says after they've been walking in silence for some time.
"Duh," Stan says, and he winces, because he sounds like Randy. "Just -- I don't want to talk about it. It's fine."
"My mom gives me a hard time about quitting the debate team," Kyle says, too eagerly. "I just couldn't handle Wendy and Cartman and their melodramatic shouting any more. Then they'd go fuck in a broom closet after, ugh."
"How can you act like that's gross and then -- shit, never mind."
"Heterosexual sex is gross to me, Stan."
"Okay."
The plan is to meet up with Cartman and Butters at the old McCormick house at dusk, and the skies are darkening as they head toward the railroad tracks that separate their neighborhood from the bad side of town. Since the murders, the small enclave of low income houses have become more sparsely populated, and Stan's nerves prickle as the sounds of scampering trick-or-treaters fade into the distance and the streets grow quiet. He's a little ticked that Kyle is drinking from his flask, because it means less of a buzz for Stan, and he was counting on that buzz to get him through the night. Still, it's nice to have Kyle interested in sharing something with him. A jingle from what sounds like a dog collar echoes from one of the nearby yards as they approach the train tracks, and they both startle, their shoulders bumping together as they look around for the errant dog. There's nothing; the streets are quiet again.
"Why do you always say you've seen Kenny's ghost?" Kyle asks. He sounds a little drunk already. Stan wishes they were at home, eating hot roasted pumpkin seeds. They're not as good the next day.
"I don't know," Stan says, though he does know: he felt it like a sword through the chest every time he saw Kenny. "Maybe I was just imagining things."
Kyle's pace has slowed. Stan can see Cartman and Butters up ahead, on the weedy front lawn of the boarded up McCormick house. It sits there like a tomb made of particle board and cheap siding, dark and silent. A hole in the roof is covered by a sagging blue tarp, and in a bush on the periphery Stan spots a shred of police caution tape among some other litter. Butters is waving to them, grinning like everything's fine while Cartman messes with his video camera.
"Good, you're here," Cartman says. "We were starting to lose our light."
"Eric wants to do the intro shots out here on the lawn," Butters says. "Giving the background story and so forth."
"The background story?" Stan says. His stomach lurches, and he looks at the house. The door is boarded up like the windows, and there's no need for a NO TRESPASSING sign, just like there would be no point in a FOR SALE sign. "How are we even going to get in?"
"What do you think this is for?" Cartman asks, lifting a crow bar from the assortment of equipment that he's piled in the front yard. Something about the way he wields it with a smirk makes Stan's stomach twist up more tightly. This is the guy who puts his hands on Kyle behind closed doors. Cartman, who looks so natural with a crow bar in his hand.
"Can we just take a minute, please?" Kyle says.
"A minute for what?" Cartman asks.
"Just -- Jesus!" Kyle looks at the house, frowning. "A minute for respectful, like. Contemplation."
"Ugh, God," Cartman says, but he turns to look at the house with the rest of them, dropping the crow bar. The house stares back at them, decrepit and foreboding. Stan wonders how thoroughly it was cleaned. He considers what Kyle said at lunch that day, that Kenny would be into this whole adventure if he was alive. Stan suspects the he would have gone along with something like this, but it wouldn't have been his idea. Few of their childhood schemes were.
"Alright," Cartman says after a few heavy seconds. "Let's get this show on the road. Butters, we're doing this segment with no filter. Kyle, I've set up the lights, just keep them out of the frame. Stan, you're on boom mike."
"I still want to know what you had to sell to get all of this shit," Stan says.
"I have resources, Stan, okay?" Cartman is fixing his hair, preparing for his starring role in his self-produced ghost hunting show that gets a depressingly high number of YouTube views. He's wearing his white button-down shirt that shows up well on camera at night, the first three buttons undone to show an over-sized cross necklace and some disgustingly sparse chest hair. "I'm an entrepreneur," Cartman says.
Stan lifts the boom mike, squeezing his hands around it tightly and wishing he was wringing Cartman's fat neck. He doesn't want to be here, bearing witness to star linebacker Eric Cartman's mysteriously self-funded ghost show, at the expense of Kenny's memory, but if Stan wasn't here, Kyle would have to hold the mike, and his arms get tired.
"Rolling!" Butters says, and Cartman's usual shit-eating expression morphs into one of grave seriousness. Stan hoists the mike, feeling miserably sober despite the brandy.
"Good evening, friends," Cartman says, speaking to his future viewers. The sunlight is fading behind him, the empty street lined with weather-worn houses serving as the background. "We come to you tonight, on All Hallow's Eve, from a location that is a grim reminder of personal tragedy for our team. Tonight, the Midnight Society -- led by me, President Eric Cartman -- investigates the site of one of the grisliest murders in Park County history. It was also, tragically, the place where one of our beloved childhood friends drew his final breaths. Tonight, we investigate--" He pauses, stepping toward the house as Butters turns to capture it in the shot. "--The McCormick Murder Den."
"You're not supposed to call it that!" Kyle says when Cartman has cut the scene.
"Says who?" Cartman asks. He grabs for his duffel full of 'ghost hunting' supplies. "Wendy? Pfff. I don't have to listen to that bitch anymore. Butters, get some footage of me walking into the backyard. There's a really sweet rusted old swing set back there, it'll be great for atmosphere."
"We used to play on that swing set," Stan says, remembering the smell of venison steaks from the back patio. Kenny's dad had hunted with Jimbo and Ned.
"Maybe you did," Cartman says. "But I wasn't allowed to play in Kenny's yard. My mom said I might step on a heroin needle and get AIDS. Butters, we're rolling, keep up!"
Stan glances at Kyle, trying to gauge if he's hating this, too. Kyle just looks nervous, and he keeps close to Stan as they head into the backyard. Cartman pushes one of the swings and then steps out of the frame so Butters can shoot it as if its been set in motion by a ghostly wind.
"I feel weird," Kyle says, looking around the backyard. The old Webster grill that once sat on the back patio is gone, but some busted plastic chairs are still there, the seats covered with rotting leaves and shallow puddles.
"Yeah, no kidding," Stan says. "This is wrong. People died here. People we knew." He'd almost said people we loved. Did he love Kenny as a kid? He certainly never would have thought of it in those terms, but there was a kind of brotherly closeness between them, unexamined but not unimportant.
"No, I mean I feel sick," Kyle says. "Or just -- Stan, I think I might be drunk."
"Well, congratulations. That's what you wanted, right? To liven up this party?"
"Don't be mad," Kyle says, softly enough to make Stan feel guilty, though still mad.
"Alright, get me the light and the mic!" Cartman shouts, and the volume of his voice sets Stan on edge, as if someone might hear them. He supposes it's a legitimate fear -- they are technically trespassing, but the police presence in this part of town isn't very significant, and the neighboring houses look empty and dark, weeds growing tall in every yard. After the murders, neighbors moved as far away as they could afford to. The house seemed like an evil talisman, radiating a hum of danger that threatened to ensnare anyone in reach. It still seems that way, to Stan. The screens on the back patio doors are both torn to shreds, plywood covered in graffiti put up in their place. The whole back side of the house is loaded with overlapping spray paint. Dripping Pentagrams are a common theme.
They set up the shot with the swing set in the background, the sky glowing orange from behind the tree line. Cartman adjusts his cross necklace and tells Butters to start rolling. Stan's arms are shaking when he lifts the boom mike. He's got his back to the house, and he feels like it's watching him hatefully.
"To those of us who reside in South Park, it's a familiar story," Cartman says, giving the camera his steely ghost hunter stare. "The McCormicks were a family of modest means, and some in town were cruel enough to call them a classic example of white trash. Stuart, the father, was chronically unemployed, and Carol, the matriarch, did little more than smoke and drink whatever she could find -- including during her three pregnancies."
"That's not true!" Stan says, glowering. It might be, but how the hell would Cartman know?
"Yeah, stop editorializing and get on with it," Kyle says. "It's getting cold and I'm pretty sure this is illegal."
"Enough comments from the peanut gallery!" Cartman says, and Stan notices that he's lowered his voice, which is enough of an acknowledgment that yes, of course this is illegal, and Cartman knows it. "Butters, you're still rolling?"
"Sure am!"
"Alright." Cartman clears his throat and makes his face serious again. "The McCormicks had three children - two boys and a girl, Karen, the youngest of the siblings. The middle son, Kenny, was a personal friend -- some might even say he was my best friend." Cartman pauses here to look down at his shoes and sigh. "Kenny was a quiet, thoughtful boy," Cartman says when he looks up again. "A bit on the shy side, but a good and loyal friend. He didn't deserve the fate he met here in this house. None of them did."
Cartman strides toward the leaf-covered back patio, and Butters follows him with the camera, Stan and Kyle trailing after him with the light and microphone. Stan glances at the only window that's not boarded up, torn plywood lying on the ground below it. There is no glass, no screen, just darkness from within the house.
"It seems that, in their desperation for some kind of income, the McCormicks had turned to dealing drugs." Cartman says so with a hint of pitying disapproval. Stan tightens his hands around the boom mike, wanting to hit him. The only reason he hasn't done so in the past two months, since the revelation about Kyle and the hate sex, is that Cartman could handily kick his ass. That wasn't true until recently, and suddenly everything seems so wrong and backward that Stan thinks his legs will give out.
"Local police eventually determined that the McCormicks had offended a dealer who named them as traitors to a powerful drug cartel with ties to Mexico. As we all know, those hombres don't mess around when it comes to revenge. And revenge came, here, to the McCormick family household on a chilly evening in early October, four years ago. My friend Kenny was thirteen years old. I remember that day, and how I'd given him half of my ham sandwich at school, because he didn't have a lunch that day."
"Bullshit!" Stan shouts, letting the mike drop. From the age of eleven or so, Kenny never accepted handouts from them, least of all from Cartman.
"It's called storytelling, Stan," Cartman says. "It's important! I'm setting the mood, okay, making Kenny into a human being instead of just a statistic!"
"Yeah, and making yourself sound like a human being in the meantime," Kyle says. "When you're actually not -- Jesus, you used to steal candy from Kenny when you could. Ham sandwich my ass."
"Kyle, shut the fuck up," Cartman says mildly, and Stan starts toward them, but it's just a flinch. There's no point in tackling him; Stan hasn't tackled anyone since he quit the team. He feels Kyle staring at him and picks up the mike.
"No more embellishments," Stan says tightly. "Just tell it like it is and let's get this over with."
"Yeah, Eric, please!" Butters says, still filming. "I'm getting kind of spooked."
"Fine, you fucking pussies." Cartman presses his hair back into place. The wind is picking up as the last of the glow from the sunset disappears. "The McCormicks were having their usual nightly meal of frozen waffles, or maybe it was Pop Tarts. Despite the meager sustenance, it was a happy time, as the family was all together under one roof, and Stuart and Carol had almost certainly enjoyed some alcoholic beverages. They were sitting down to watch some television, maybe to smoke some pot as well, after the kids had gone to bed. There was a knock on the door." Cartman walks over to the plywood covering the patio doors and gives it three slow, foreboding knocks.
"Don't do that," Kyle says, almost softly enough not to be heard on tape.
"Stuart McCormick answered the door," Cartman continues, ignoring Kyle. "It wasn't unusual for associates in his line of business to come calling late at night. But he didn't recognize these three men, who had tanned skin and cold eyes."
This was Cartman's method of indicating that the men were Mexican. It was only a popular theory. Though the murders were almost definitely drug-related, the actual perpetrators had never been caught.
"What happened next, only the dead could tell us," Cartman says. "Although there was one survivor. When Kenny woke to shouts from the living room, he hurried his sister Karen into a closet in the family's single bathroom. Inside that closet was a water heater which sometimes worked, and behind that water heater was a space that was just wide enough for the underfed young girl to squeeze into. It seemed that my friend Kenny had anticipated that this kind of trouble might someday come knocking, and he made use of the hiding space for his sister quickly. As he dashed back into the hall, perhaps planning to hide elsewhere himself, he was met with the first of many knife wounds. He would be stabbed over twenty-seven times before the attack was through, some blows severing limbs and digits. The attackers were said to have used a machete on Kenny on his older brother. In the next room, amid a chaos of screams and the throaty growl of a chain saw, their parents were chopped to pieces."
Stan wants to tell Cartman to stop, to shut up, but this part is true. Stan's mouth is dry, and his eyes are burning at the corners. He'd intentionally tried to avoid looking at any pictures from the scene of the crime, but they were everywhere on newspaper stands for weeks, and he would sometimes catch an image on the front page from the corner of his eye: a bloody hand print on the house's front window, the encrusted machete that was recovered two miles from the scene of the crime, and the body bags that were wheeled out when the investigators had learned all they could from where the McCormicks had fallen.
"Karen McCormick was discovered alive hours after police arrived on the scene," Cartman says. "Neighbors had complained of screams from the house next door. Little Karen was still hiding behind the water heater when police searched the house. They say she closed her eyes as uniformed officers carried her out to safety. Would you be able to resist a peek at what had become of your loved ones after the screams finally stopped?"
"Enough," Kyle says, before Stan can. Kyle drops the lights and Stan lowers the mike, his arms shaking. "I thought this was a ghost hunt, not some true crime special. Let's go inside and get this over with."
"I'm setting the mood, dumb ass," Cartman says. He groans and picks up the crow bar. "But I guess it's about that time. Stand back, bitches."
"Can't we just go in through that window?" Stan asks, gesturing to the one that's been broken open, revealing the empty blackness inside the house. Kyle snorts.
"Cartman wouldn't fit," he says, and Stan smirks at him.
"That's right," Cartman says, glowering. "I'm sure you three waifish ladies could slip in easily, but one of us here is an actual man, okay, with man-like dimensions."
"Yeah, go ahead and brag that you've got the stomach of a forty year old," Kyle says.
"Like hell, Kyle, and I don't hear you complaining when my extra large balls are slapping against your ass."
Kyle opens his mouth and then shuts it, giving Cartman a hateful snarl. Cartman grins and turns to wedge the crow bar under the plywood. For a moment, Stan is so distracted by his rage toward Cartman that he forgets to dread what's about to happen. The plywood cracks away easily, and after a few grunts Cartman has completely cleared one half of what used to be the sliding glass doors. Stan remembers translucent stickers on them: butterflies and flowers, things that Karen or maybe Carol had put there.
"Alright," Cartman says, slightly breathless. He tucks the crow bar into his belt. "Let's, uh. Go in and get our bearings, scope out a good filming location."
Stan can see that even Cartman is nervous now. He makes Butters go in first, and Kyle follows. Stan trails him closely, not willing to be outside for even half a second while Kyle is in there, despite how much he doesn't want to be there himself. At first, he can't see anything but Butters' flashlight beam up ahead. Kyle left the back light they were using at dusk outside; it's not powerful enough to illuminate this kind of darkness. Stan gropes for Kyle and finds him easily, taking hold of Kyle's shoulders as they both shuffle into what was the kitchen. The linoleum tiling is peeling and damp, and the whole house reeks of mildew.
"Are you okay?" Kyle asks in a whisper as Cartman bumbles in behind them, cursing about spiderwebs, the beam of his flashlight jerking around in a disorienting fashion.
"Yeah," Stan says. "Or, no. I don't know."
"Stan."
"What?"
"Alright," Cartman says, knocking his way past them. "I'm thinking we start shooting in the living room, where most of the killing went down."
"Great," Kyle says, and Cartman shines the light on him. Stan is still holding Kyle's shoulders. He wonders if Cartman gives a shit. "Lead the way, fat ass."
"Stan, you peeing your pants back there?" Cartman asks, pointing the flashlight beam at his face.
"No," Stan says, and he lets go of Kyle. Cartman snickers and heads toward the living room, where the light from Butters' flashlight is already bouncing around. Stan isn't sure if he resents or appreciates that Kyle reaches back to take his hand as they follow Cartman.
The smell is worse as they head deeper into the house, more animal-like. The furniture is all gone, and the living room carpet has been completely ripped out. There are dark stains on the concrete floor that remains, but it's hard to tell if they're anything more sinister than the evidence of water damage. Stan is apprehensive when Cartman turns on the camera, not wanting to see the shadows in the corners illuminated by the greenish night vision glow.
"It's so empty," Butters says quietly, standing near the boarded up front windows.
"What the hell did you expect?" Cartman asks. "Even the most desperate bum wouldn't squat in here. Take the camera, Jesus." Suddenly Cartman is in a hurry, too, shoving the camera into Butters' hands. Butters passes Stan his flashlight, and Kyle takes Cartman's. "Kyle, you're on EVP. The duffel's right there by your feet. Stan, where the hell is the boom mike?"
"I left it outside," Stan says. "I don't think it would work in here, it's too cramped."
"Jesus Christ," Cartman says. "Someday I won't have to -- to work with amateurs." He's flustered, toying with the cross necklace. "Alright, Butters, action."
"Wait," Kyle says.
"For what?" Cartman barks. "I don't have all night, Kyle. You're the one who wanted to fuck after this."
"I don't -- stop making shit up!" Kyle shouts. Stan can't see him get red-faced in this light, but can feel it, like the temperature in the room has risen slightly. "I didn't -- ugh, just. Listen. Before you start saying God knows what about Pop Tarts, I have something I want to say."
"Kyle, you're not camera ready, so don't even--"
"I don't mean on camera! I mean, just. To Kenny, or whatever."
"Oh, Kyle, Kenny's not here," Butters says. "He's -- well, he's up in heaven, with his mom and dad and his big brother." Butters sounds like he might cry, and under the present circumstances this makes Stan's eyes well up a bit. This place doesn't feel anything like the house where Stan ate venison burgers and looked at Playboy with burning cheeks. It's been stripped bare of everything but a sense of hopeless decay.
"Fine, then he'll hear me from heaven," Kyle says. "If he's up there wondering why the fuck we're in his house." Kyle moves closer to Stan, who both resents and appreciates that Kyle is probably doing this for his benefit. "Kenny," Kyle says, and he sighs. "We miss you. You were cooler than us. You probably would have been a good looking guy by now, and you deserve to be alive to enjoy that. Your life was never all that easy, which sucks, but you took it like a man. No, not like a man, that's -- that's sexist, but you know what I mean. You weren't bitter, or anything like that. You were good, and you died saving your sister. I -- I like to think you were okay with that, at least."
"Amen," Cartman barks before any of them can absorb that. "Now action, Butters, goddammit!"
Cartman starts talking about the ghostly presence of suffering spirits, and Stan takes Kyle's hand again. Kyle threads his fingers through Stan's and squeezes. In the dark, Stan feels connected to Kyle in a way that he hasn't since the night of Kenny's funeral, the last time they reached for each other without thinking. Just holding on tight feels like something that will keep them safe, or send Kyle's message all the way to Kenny, wherever he is.
"I'm feeling a very strong presence here," Cartman says, squatting down to put his fingers against the cement. "Yes, I think - I think someone took their last, blood-gurgling breath here. Kenny's mom, perhaps?"
"Don't speculate," Kyle says. "It's unscientific."
"Shh!" Cartman hisses. "Kyle, what do you know about paranormal science? I'm - I'm feeling, oh my God. Did you guys hear that?"
"Hear what?" Stan asks. Cartman always puts on this act during his ghost hunter show. He'll probably end up some kind of millionaire bullshit psychic who lies to people for a living. It's not like it's hard.
"A ghostly whisper," Cartman says, lowering his voice in a theatrical way. Stan's eyes well up again, because he can't believe they're here, really here, in the place where Kenny died, and this is what they're fucking doing. "It was coming from over there - Kyle, do you have the EVP meter running?"
"It's an audio recorder, and yes."
"Good, good, 'cause I'm gonna want to review this audio later. Whoa - you guys, did you just feel a chill?"
"Stop it!" Stan shouts, so loudly that Butters jerks around and points the camera at him. "Just - stop it, Cartman, it's fucking enough-"
"Wait," Kyle says. He lets go of Stan's hand. "I - did you guys hear that?"
"Please," Stan says, looking at Kyle, his voice cracking. He'll give up on almost everything if Kyle is in on it, part of Cartman's soulless plan to pretend that some remnant of Kenny is still here. But Kyle's eyes are wide with real fear, and Stan hears it, too: a harsh scraping sound coming from the kitchen, like a knife dragging over the stove.
"Fellas?" Butters says, lowering the camera.
"It's just - it's a rat," Cartman says.
"Not a ghost?" Stan says. "That's not what you want? Huh?"
"Stan!" Kyle tugs on his arm, and even in the inadequate illumination from the flashlights, Stan can see that he's still scared.
"That's, uh," Cartman says, walking backward, because there are footsteps now, and a sinister, quiet laughter. "That's - that's-" He comes up with no words for the approaching noises, but yanks the crow bar from his belt.
"Stan," Kyle says, again, and Stan squeezes Kyle's hand more tightly, wishing he had a crow bar. Someone is walking toward them, cackling low. Stan thinks of the drug dealers who killed the McCormicks, the chain saw that was never found.
He trips and falls backward when three shadowy figures dash into the living room area, and Kyle stumbles down against the concrete floor behind him. Stan throws his arms out, as if his pathetic shield of flesh and bone could really protect Kyle from whatever's coming.
"No - no!" Cartman shouts, running toward the boarded up front door, his crow bar striking it weakly. Butters shrieks, and above the ruckus Stan hears something he recognizes: Wendy's laugh.
“They're gonna hit us with that thing,” Craig says, stepping out from behind Wendy. Kyle is shining his flashlight on them, the beam of light shaking. Token is with them, looking less amused than the other two.
“Stay back!” Cartman shouts, his voice pitching wildly as he waves the crow bar. “Wah - Wendy?”
“Oh, Eric, relax.” Wendy is beaming in the trembling glow of the flashlights, and she clicks on one of her own, holding it under her chin. “You knew it was us, right? Are you guys filming?”
“Turn it off!” Cartman growls, and Butters yelps, scrambling to make sure the camera isn't recording. “You bitch,” Cartman says, turning back to Wendy. “What the hell is this? You have to take everything from me? Everything?”
“Whoa,” Kyle mutters.
"I'm not taking anything, Jesus!" Wendy says. "We just wanted to make sure you guys hadn't been eaten by ghosts or something." She laughs again, and Craig snickers in the obnoxious way that had sounded deeply menacing when it came from the dark kitchen.
"This is fucked up," Token says as Wendy points the flashlight around the living room, Cartman still fuming and muttering about nosy bitches. Stan realizes he's essentially sitting on Kyle and stands, pulling Kyle up with him.
"It's sad," Wendy says, her smile fading as she trails her flashlight beam across the dirty floor. "That's what it is, sad. Oh, Eric, stop looking at me like that. We just wanted to make sure you were okay, really."
"Speak for yourself," Craig says. "How many of you wet your pants just now?"
"I want to leave," Kyle whispers, standing close behind Stan and whispering in his ear. For a moment Stan is afraid that Kyle did indeed wet his pants. When he turns to look at Kyle he thinks it's probably something less literal but more intense. Kyle's eyes are wide and frightened, as if whatever he heard is still in the house, lurking.
"Okay," Stan whispers back. "Okay, we can go."
"Get the hell out of here," Cartman bellows at Wendy and the other two, pointing back toward the kitchen. "I'm working. We're doing a shoot."
"Please, Eric, this place gives me the worst feeling," Wendy says, and she seems sincere. "I was going to let you guys stew in your own delusional juices, but I don't like the idea of you hanging around here. Come on -- we can all go do a bonfire by the pond or something semi normal."
"Go burn your bras by yourself! I don't need your concern, Wendy, okay, so get out!"
"It smells like ass in here," Craig says. "Let's just go."
"I have to pick up Nichole," Token says, and Stan can see the glow of his phone when he checks it.
"Yes, yes, scamper away," Cartman says. "Cowards, be gone."
"Right," Craig says. "You're the one who was screaming 'no, nooo!!' at the first sound of a foot fall."
"It's for my show, Craig, you idiot! I have to act scared so the audience will be scared! Fucking duh!"
"Yeah, right, you were on the verge of tears."
"Stan," Kyle whispers again while Craig and Cartman continue to fight, walking toward each other as if it might come to blows. Cartman could snap Craig in half, but Craig is vicious and probably a biter. Stan turns to Kyle and squeezes his shoulder.
"We can just leave," Stan says, hopefully. "We don't have to stay here just because -- what?" There are enough flashlights on now to partially illuminate Kyle's face. His expression has gone from frightened to pale white horror. "What, dude, what's wrong?"
"Who, um," Kyle says. He's shaking so hard that Stan takes off his jacket, throwing it around Kyle's shoulders. "Who is that?" Kyle asks, wide-eyed and staring at something behind Stan.
"Huh?"
"That -- there--"
Stan turns in the direction Kyle is looking. Wendy has joined in on Cartman and Craig's argument, and the room is noisy, crowded. The three of them are gathered near the center while Butters films the confrontation, Token watching and Stan and Kyle lingering close. There's an eighth person standing in the far corner, hidden in the shadows. It's a tall, human-shaped silhouette, only faintly illuminated by the light in the center of the room.
"Wendy," Stan says. He dropped his flashlight when they were startled, and he's afraid to look for it, afraid to pull his eyes away from the figure in the corner. He can feel it looking back at him, and his heart is starting to pound like an alarm has sounded, a warning to run. "Wendy!"
"What?" she turns from Cartman and points her flashlight at Stan and Kyle.
"Did you. Is there. Did someone else come with you?"
"What are you talking about?"
"Is there. Is that Clyde, or. Or who--"
"Clyde? Huh?"
Stan points, though he's afraid to see. There's a silence coming from the person in the corner that is so cold he can feel it. Wendy moves her flashlight beam in the direction Stan has indicated.
Wendy shrieks when her flashlight lands on the stone-faced man standing in the corner, staring at them, then everyone seems to scream at once when they realize what they're seeing. He's older, but it's unmistakable: it's Kenny McCormick.
Kenny stands there for one or two heartbeats, unblinking, then dashes into the darkened hallway that leads to what was once his bedroom.
"Keh -- kah--" Wendy huffs while Craig continues shrieking girlishly and Butters chants 'oh God, oh Jesus!' Kyle is holding onto Stan's waist, hiding behind him, his breath coming fast near Stan's ear. Stan's vision is tunneling in the disorienting dark, and for a moment he thinks he'll pass out.
"You saw him, too?" Stan manages to say, mostly speaking to Kyle.
"Get him!" Cartman roars, and he goes tearing into the hallway, Butters following him with the camera. "We have to get this on tape!"
"Wait!" Wendy cries, and she runs after them, Token following. Craig trails them, making a low whimpering sound. Stan takes Kyle's hand.
"You saw him?" he says. They've been left in the dark, all of the flashlights gone. Stan brings his face close to Kyle's, needing to feel the heat of his shallow, panicked breath.
"Stan," Kyle says. "He was here. The whole time. He was alive."
"No," Stan says, because that doesn't make sense. There was a funeral. Had the casket been empty? "C'mon." Stan takes Kyle's hand and pulls him toward the noise of the others, toward the light.
In the room that was once Kenny's, Cartman is shoving Butters through the open window, into the backyard. He hands Butters the camera and then hoists Wendy through the window, shouting that he'll meet them outside, and not to let Kenny out of their sight. Stan has tried this before. It's so hard to keep up with him once he's given chase. Token and Craig go through the window, and Stan runs after Cartman, pulling Kyle behind him.
"Wait," Stan says, because he doesn't want Cartman chasing Kenny. Whatever Kenny is -- real, between worlds, or long dead -- he didn't look glad to have company. "Cartman!" Stan shouts as they run through the back door and out into the yard. "What the hell!" He's surprised Cartman can run so fast.
"This is incredible!" Cartman says, sounding like he's talking to himself. "This is concrete evidence! I'm gonna be famous for real!"
"Cartman, you idiot!" Kyle says. "He's not a fucking ghost!" Kyle lets go of Stan's hand and runs along beside him as they chase after Cartman. Token and Craig are running twenty feet or so ahead of them, trailing Wendy, and Stan can just faintly see Butters in the distance. He can't see Kenny anymore, but Butters seems to be pursuing something with intent.
"He is a ghost, Kyle!" Cartman shouts, pumping his arms as he runs. "He's my ghost, I found him, and Butters better be getting a goddamn good shot up there!"
"Why is he running?" Kyle asks, beginning to lose his breath already. He looks over at Stan, who can't really piece together his thoughts about any of this yet. "You -- you always said the ghost ran from you. I thought you were losing your mind!"
"Well, the feeling was mutual," Stan says, looking back to Cartman. "Maybe we should stop. We'll never catch him."
"Like hell we won't!" Cartman says. He throws himself forward like a cannonball, taking huge strides as the others head into the woods.
Ever since Stan started having what Randy describes obliquely as 'emotional problems' he's been susceptible to random bouts of intense happiness just as often as he gets a sudden sense of crippling hopelessness. He can never predict what will bring either state on, and never would have guessed that dashing into the woods beside Kyle with their friends running ahead of them, including one who is supposed to be dead, would bring on a slow but steadily growing euphoria. By the time they're deep in the woods and jumping over rocks and tree roots, Stan feels like he might start laughing uncontrollably at any moment. It's all mixed up with his confusion over what is even happening here, which itself is starting to feel hilarious. There is something not necessarily funny but fun about this chase, in a completely nonsensical way.
The fun ends when they clear the edge of the woods and find Butters and Wendy standing in the middle of the street of a nicer suburban area, not far from where Cartman and Liane live. Butters and Wendy are both red-faced and panting, and so are Token and Craig when they skid to a stop in front of them. There are still some trick-or-treaters making the rounds down the street, a few packs of older kids who are unsupervised.
"Butters!" Cartman screams. "Why are you stopping! Did you get him on film?"
"He lost -- lost me, Eric!" Butters says. "I don't know what I filmed -- I tried to get him on there!"
"Where did he go?" Kyle asks, running up to Wendy. "Which direction?"
"I don't know," she says. "I was just following Butters!"
"He -- he's around here somewhere," Butters says, turning in circles while Cartman looks at the footage on the camera's preview screen. "Ah -- I don't know, I lost sight of him as we were comin' out of the woods."
"This is fucking crazy," Craig says. "What the hell is happening?"
"Was it really him?" Token asks.
"Yeah," Kyle says. "It was him. I felt it."
"Me too," Wendy says, and her lip shakes. "Oh my god, what -- what does this mean?"
"It means there's a fuckin' ghost around here somewhere, and he's not getting away from me." Cartman growls and thrusts the camera back into Butters' hands. "You didn't get shit!"
"I was running, Eric!"
"There!" Wendy shouts, and Stan jerks like a shot has been fired, whirling toward her. She's pointing to a house across the street. "There he is!"
They all watch as someone in a pale blue shirt and ripped jeans catapults himself through a window on the ground floor of the house. Stan didn't turn in time to see the guy's hair or face, and he doesn't remember noticing what Kenny was wearing when they saw him standing in the corner.
"Are you sure?" Stan asks.
"That's Bebe's house," Craig says, and Wendy tears off in that direction, as if she's going to save Bebe from imminent death.
"Wait!" Cartman shouts. "Give me that," he says to Butters, ripping the camera out of his hands before running after Wendy. The rest of them follow, Stan's lungs beginning to burn in the cold air. Kyle is still wearing his jacket, his arms threaded through the sleeves now.
"What the hell are we doing?" Kyle asks as they all thunder into Bebe's yard. There's a jack-o-lantern on her front porch, but the candle has been blown out and the front windows are dark, the universal neighborhood sign that they've run out of candy. There is a pinkish light coming from the window that the guy in the blue shirt climbed through, and Wendy gasps when she reaches it. Cartman comes up behind her, the camera raised.
"Holy shit," he says.
Stan can't see anything when he gets there, because Cartman is hefting his huge frame through the window, following Wendy inside. Craig and Token climb through next, and Stan can hear Bebe and Wendy exchanging heated words inside the room while Cartman films something. There's no sign of Kenny until Stan follows Kyle into the room, and then there he is, wide-eyed and frightened, pressed back into the corner of Bebe's room like Boo Radley.
"Praise Jesus!" Butters yelps as he throws himself through the window, the last one to make it through. "Kenny! You're alive!"
This shuts Wendy and Bebe up, and Craig and Token are staring openly, stunned. Kyle is panting and hanging back near the window. Cartman is filming, cackling to himself as if counting the riches that will soon accumulate for this proof of the afterlife. But it's clear to Stan the moment he meets Kenny's eyes, and in hindsight he feels like it was clear the last four times he saw Kenny, too: this isn't a ghost. Butters is right. Kenny is standing here in the room with them, looking terrified, alive. Bebe runs over and throws her arms in front of him as if to shield him from gun fire.
"I can explain!" she says, but then she goes quiet, her eyes darting from face to face while everyone stares at Kenny. Stan's heart is still pounding as the collective silence in the room seems to settle around them like a mist.
"Hi," Kenny says, glancing at each of them warily. His voice is deeper than Stan remembers. He's taller than Bebe, hunching his shoulders like he wants to crouch behind her.
When Stan throws up all over Cartman's shoes, Kenny is the only one in the room who doesn't shout with disgusted surprise.
**
Title: Spirit Animals
Pairing: Stan/Kyle
Rating: R
Words: ~25k; ~10k in this chapter
Summary: Cartman wants to film his amateur ghost hunting show at the site of the grisly McCormick massacre. Stan hates the idea but he can't stay away, because Kyle will be there.
Stan skips school the next day, unwilling to spend Halloween morning and afternoon among the same people who will drive him crazy later that night. He drives toward the mountains and stops at Stark's Pond, which is empty and quiet except for some birdsong from the surrounding trees. The fall migration is almost over, and Stan hasn't spotted any out of town birds yet this season. The Sandhill Cranes won't pass through until January, so he'll have that to look forward to. January is usually hard for him, after the holidays, when winter is like a dense curtain that's been pulled around his whole world, keeping the cold in.
The sun is out and it's not terribly cold yet, but it's supposed to drop down to the twenties after nightfall. Stan can smell snow in the breeze that comes down off the mountains, and it makes him a little sad and nostalgic, that scent always calling to mind the winter sports that all the neighborhood kids had played when they were young. Now they mostly stay in during the winter, only gathering for the occasional blow out party when Token's parents are both out of town on business at the same time. Usually someone has a Halloween party, but he hasn't heard anything about one this year. He gets fewer and fewer invitations to parties, and Wendy says it's because people are afraid he'll bring Cartman, Kyle, and Butters along.
Those three are more or less the most disliked people at school, for various reasons. Back when they had Kenny in their gang, they had all felt pretty cool. Stan had, anyway. Kenny and Stan were like a mild tonic that eased the harsher flavors of the others. Alone, Stan is mostly negated by them. It feels especially true now that Cartman and Kyle have paired up, even if they claim to do so with their hatred for each other intact, and Butters is increasingly preoccupied with his burgeoning singing 'career.' Stan could try to infiltrate some other group of friends, but even the idea of trying to fit in elsewhere is exhausting. Everyone at school has known each other for so long, and factions of friends are pretty cemented at this point. Plus, he doesn't want to abandon Kyle to the whims of Cartman. Kyle will need to know that he's not alone with this huge mistake once he comes out of his sex coma and realizes what he's done.
Stan leaves his car parked in the gravel lot by the pond and wanders around, glad for the chance to be alone with his thoughts but also feeling kind of gloomy. It's almost lunchtime. He checks his phone and sees three text messages from Kyle, all basically asking the same question: where are you? Stan thinks about not answering, because it's not like Kyle tells Stan where he has all the time anymore, and why should Stan feel guilty for not reporting to Kyle like some wayward boyfriend? He waits ten minutes, but his guilt only intensifies, so he sends an answer: skipping, come over after school. Kyle doesn't respond, probably annoyed that Stan took so long to answer his texts. Stan's spirits are lifted a bit by the thought that Kyle was worried about him.
He drives back into town and has lunch at the diner that serves special pumpkin pancakes during the mouth of October. They're kind of weird and overly orange, and Stan doesn't like them as much as he did when he was a kid, but it's tradition that he orders them at least once before the month ends. He eats them with a side of hash browns and bacon, suddenly very hungry. Having a big appetite is usually a sign that his dismal mood is diminishing, and he feels better after scarfing all the greasy food down with a few cups of coffee. He goes to an afternoon showing of Village of the Damned and heads back home to have his usual post-school beat off and nap, though school won't let out for another hour.
The house is empty, both of his parents still at work. When his dad gets home, they'll carve the pumpkin together, and Stan's mom will roast the seeds. Stan takes comfort in these little traditions, and in anything from his childhood that he can still enjoy unironically. Kyle is one of those things, though Stan's enjoyment of Kyle has shifted over the years, or at least recently. It might have been the Cartman thing that set it off, but lately Kyle is all Stan thinks about when he takes his dick out. Even when Kyle came out to his bar mitzvah guests, Stan never approached an actual mental image of Kyle doing gay things, and certainly not with some guy who is bigger than him and kind of rough. He hopes Cartman doesn't call Kyle names when they fuck. He hopes Kyle doesn't like that kind of thing, though if he's with Cartman, he must.
Stan locks his bedroom door, takes off everything but his t-shirt and gets in bed. The sheets are cold, and he's not in a particularly aroused mood, but he closes his eyes and tries to get in one, because he'll never nap effectively without blowing a load. He closes his eyes and lets his mind drift immediately to Kyle. The days of fighting these fantasies are long past. For some reason, the image that comes to him today is Kyle crawling around on his bedroom floor on all fours, naked, with a carrot in his mouth. Why the carrot? Stan isn't sure, because it's not a horse thing, horses are not sexy, and Kyle isn't really behaving in a bunny-like manner either. He's not sucking on the carrot, just holding it between his teeth like a bit, staring at Stan expectantly. The fantasy takes a while to develop, but eventually it gets where it's going: Stan fucking Kyle from behind, hard enough that, in his pleasure, Kyle bites clean through the carrot in two places. Stan comes, then worries that Kyle might choke on the piece of carrot still in his mouth, though it's not like he's making plans for future activity here. He rolls over, hugs his pillow, and imagines cuddling Kyle in the aftermath, kissing his carroty mouth.
He wakes an hour later from a bad dream about the McCormick house, the details already fuzzing away. All he knows is that he wasn't dreaming about the murders but about the forthcoming 'ghost hunt,' and that Kyle was with him, and scared. He goes downstairs, still bleary and smelling like unwashed sheets, and finds his mother in the kitchen. She's watching through the patio door as Randy cuts the top off of their pumpkin. Kyle is on the back porch with him, watching with a mildly disgusted look as the top comes off, pumpkin guts streaming out along with it.
"I was about to come get you," Sharon says, touching the small of Stan's back when he stands beside her. "Are you okay?"
"Yeah," Stan says, surprised by the question. He feels kind of not okay, actually, and he can't put his finger on why, except that he's dreading the evening to come and Cartman's antics in Kenny's old house. "I'm fine." He wishes Kyle had come upstairs to wake him. He's always liked waking up to Kyle's prodding, gentle or not. "What's Kyle doing out there?"
"I told him I'd go upstairs and get you. He sure made a mess of my kitchen yesterday."
"Oh -- sorry."
"He's an odd one," Sharon says, and she gives Stan a nudge toward the patio. "Save the seeds for me, okay?"
"Okay."
It's chilly outside but not yet cold, and Stan thinks he can smell the oncoming festivities: candles burning inside jack-o-lanterns, candy passing into neon orange buckets, and the hint of menace that comes with the holiday. Maybe it's just the pumpkin guts he's smelling. Kyle smiles at him, which takes him off guard, though he can't remember why he thought Kyle might be annoyed with him. Stan smiles back, wanting to hug him, still a little raw from that dream where Kyle was upset and in danger.
"You look like you just woke up," Kyle says. He's wearing a black sweater and looks kind of wan himself.
"I had a nap," Stan says, hoping Kyle will know not to mention that Stan skipped school in front of Randy. "What kind of face are you doing?" Stan asks, kneeling down beside his dad, who is scooping pumpkin guts.
"A scary one," Randy says. "Duh."
"Okay, but, like. Do you have a design in mind?"
"Nah, I think I'm just gonna free form it. Let the creative juices flow."
"We carved a bat into ours," Kyle says, and for some reason this makes Stan cackle. "What?"
"Nothing," Stan says, grinning at him. "A bat."
"A bat is a perfectly reasonable jack-o-lantern carving!"
"Pull the seeds out of that gunk," Randy says, handing Stan a bowl to put them in. "Your mom wants them."
"I love roasted pumpkin seeds," Kyle says.
"So help me harvest them," Stan says, pinching some from the slimy mound of pumpkin guts. Kyle makes a face.
"Can we plant some?" he asks, keeping back. "Will they grow in Colorado?"
"Sure," Stan says. He looks to his dad for confirmation, but Randy is sawing a set of angry eyebrows into the pumpkin.
"What are you boys doing tonight?" Randy asks.
"Oh, nothing," Kyle says hurriedly. "Watching some scary movies over at Cartman's place. That sort of thing."
"You guys are still friends with that kid, huh?"
"Yep," Stan says, slowly, giving Kyle a look. He widens his eyes, and Stan shakes his head. He's not going to out Kyle's arrangement to Randy. Kyle has made them all swear to keep it secret from their parents, fearing that his mother will find out. He's vividly envisioned the scenario that would play out if she knew that he was having sex with Cartman: she would slap Kyle, cry, pull him out of school, and start slipping powerful anti-psychotics into his meals. Stan isn't sure it would be all that dramatic. She'd probably be surprised, vaguely disappointed, and would buy Kyle a box of condoms. Stan wants to ask if they use condoms, but he's too afraid that Kyle will say no, they don't. Kyle was a virgin before Cartman, and Cartman has only ever had sex with Wendy, who demanded that he use condoms every time. It's possible they're both clean and bare backing. Stan hates the thought, a lot. He's not even sure they do anal. Probably they don't? He's got no idea, but it seems like something Cartman would want.
"Stan!" Randy says, boggling at him when he looks up from the pumpkin guts. "Hello, did you hear me?"
"Hear -- no, what?"
"Hand me that little saw thing."
Randy has a proper pumpkin carving set, a collection of small tools with orange handles that are crusty from pumpkins past. Stan hands it over and resumes picking out seeds.
"We should head over there after this," Kyle says. "To Cartman's."
"Don't you want to eat the roasted seeds first?" Stan says, and he's hurt when Kyle shrugs.
"How's Cartman's mom doing?" Randy asked.
"How should we know?" Stan says, his face getting red when he thinks of the many times Liane Cartman has implied that she would like to put her hand down his pants. He's always believed that if Kenny were alive, he might have gone for it. Kenny had a real fondness for Cartman's mom. Stan doesn't want his unsheathed dick anywhere near the Cartmans.
"She's the same as ever," Kyle says. "You know. Bawdy."
"That Cartman kid is beast," Randy says. "Saw him last weekend in the game against Bear Creek. Shit, he was unstoppable."
"I guess his big fat ass is good for something," Kyle says, and Stan is embarrassed, because Kyle is trying to make him feel better. Stan quit football freshman year when it got too intense. He's not much of team player and doesn't possess a lot of school spirit, or whatever kind of spirit is required for doing caveman war chants with the coach before games and crashing through banners at pep rallies. Randy has never stopped passive aggressively giving him a hard time for quitting.
"It's a good game for a violent asshole like him," Stan says.
"Hey, c'mon," Randy says, giving Stan a look of betrayed disappointment that really shouldn't get to him as much as it does, because fuck what Randy thinks. "Was Elway a violent asshole? You could have been a quarterback. That takes real intelligence. Grace, even!"
"We should really go," Kyle says, and Stan resents that, because he doesn't need Kyle to protect him from his father. "Speaking of Cartman's violent asshole tendencies - he'll probably be a dick if we're late."
"My stomach hurts," Stan says, and it's true, because at this point all he needs to hear is asshole, dick, and Cartman in the same sentence in order to conjure gut wrenching images of Kyle on his belly, naked and surrendered to the beast. "Maybe I should just stay home."
"What!" Kyle says. "No!" He looks truly upset when Stan glances up from the pumpkin sludge. "Please, I mean. Look, dude, it's Halloween."
"So?"
"So! The last time we spent Halloween apart it sucked major ass. You -- I mean, but. If you really don't want to--"
"It's fine," Stan says, and he stands. "Just let me wash my hands."
He gives the seeds to his mom and promises to be back before midnight. On the way out, the doorbell rings, and Stan grabs the bowl of assorted candy that his mom has already set out in the foyer. He opens the door, and is assaulted by a loud 'trick or treat!' from four little boys who hold their bags out for candy. There's a ninja, a wizard, a football player and a pudgy boy in a fairly elaborate dragon costume. They each mutter a hurried thank you without meeting Stan's eyes and dash for the end of the driveway, where two moms are waiting.
"They're starting already?" Kyle says.
"Did you see those kids?" Stan asks, shaken. Kyle just gives him a blank look. "They were -- never mind."
"Oh, four boys. Yeah." Kyle squeezes Stan's arm as he sets the candy bowl down. "Dude, I don't mean to pressure you into coming to this thing. If you want--"
"No, I'm coming," Stan says sharply. He grabs his jacket from the chair by the door and shrugs it on. "Let's go. Actually -- hang on. I'm gonna change my shoes."
He goes up to his room, glad that Kyle remains waiting in the foyer. After changing into a pair of old Pumas that he actually doesn't want to wear, he takes the opportunity to dig his brandy out of his bottom drawer and fill the little flask he keeps alongside it. He tucks the flask into his jacket and heads back downstairs, feeling emboldened already.
"Can I have a swig?" Kyle asks when Stan drinks from the flask as they walk to Cartman's house.
"A swig?" Stan says, smirking at him. He's surprised; Kyle normally raises his lip at Stan's drinking.
"There's nothing wrong with calling it a swig!" Kyle accepts the flask and takes a dainty sip from it. "Why are you criticizing everything I say today?"
"I'm not, just. That wasn't a real swig."
"Now I can't even drink your booze properly?" Kyle yanks the flask back and drinks from it more deeply, wincing when he's done. "That stuff is vile."
"It's good brandy, Kyle. A twenty dollar bottle!"
"It tastes like something you clean industrial surfaces with. Let me have some more."
"Not if you're gonna insult it," Stan says, holding the flask out of Kyle's reach, mostly for the excuse to initiate physical contact. He laughs when Kyle struggles for it, grabbing Stan's other arm to hold him in place. At one point their faces are close, and Stan can smell the brandy on Kyle's breath. He loses his focus and Kyle manages to snatch the flask. "Don't spill it," Stan says, watching him drink.
"I feel like getting drunk," Kyle says. "I've never done it."
"I'll take care of you if you do," Stan says, pinching the back of Kyle's neck. "Unless Cartman -- are you going home with him, after?"
"I don't know," Kyle says, avoiding Stan's eyes. "I guess we'll see how the night plays out."
They're both quiet for a while, trading sips from the flask. Stan feels like he knows what Kyle is thinking, but he's been wrong about that before.
"So your dad is an idiot," Kyle says after they've been walking in silence for some time.
"Duh," Stan says, and he winces, because he sounds like Randy. "Just -- I don't want to talk about it. It's fine."
"My mom gives me a hard time about quitting the debate team," Kyle says, too eagerly. "I just couldn't handle Wendy and Cartman and their melodramatic shouting any more. Then they'd go fuck in a broom closet after, ugh."
"How can you act like that's gross and then -- shit, never mind."
"Heterosexual sex is gross to me, Stan."
"Okay."
The plan is to meet up with Cartman and Butters at the old McCormick house at dusk, and the skies are darkening as they head toward the railroad tracks that separate their neighborhood from the bad side of town. Since the murders, the small enclave of low income houses have become more sparsely populated, and Stan's nerves prickle as the sounds of scampering trick-or-treaters fade into the distance and the streets grow quiet. He's a little ticked that Kyle is drinking from his flask, because it means less of a buzz for Stan, and he was counting on that buzz to get him through the night. Still, it's nice to have Kyle interested in sharing something with him. A jingle from what sounds like a dog collar echoes from one of the nearby yards as they approach the train tracks, and they both startle, their shoulders bumping together as they look around for the errant dog. There's nothing; the streets are quiet again.
"Why do you always say you've seen Kenny's ghost?" Kyle asks. He sounds a little drunk already. Stan wishes they were at home, eating hot roasted pumpkin seeds. They're not as good the next day.
"I don't know," Stan says, though he does know: he felt it like a sword through the chest every time he saw Kenny. "Maybe I was just imagining things."
Kyle's pace has slowed. Stan can see Cartman and Butters up ahead, on the weedy front lawn of the boarded up McCormick house. It sits there like a tomb made of particle board and cheap siding, dark and silent. A hole in the roof is covered by a sagging blue tarp, and in a bush on the periphery Stan spots a shred of police caution tape among some other litter. Butters is waving to them, grinning like everything's fine while Cartman messes with his video camera.
"Good, you're here," Cartman says. "We were starting to lose our light."
"Eric wants to do the intro shots out here on the lawn," Butters says. "Giving the background story and so forth."
"The background story?" Stan says. His stomach lurches, and he looks at the house. The door is boarded up like the windows, and there's no need for a NO TRESPASSING sign, just like there would be no point in a FOR SALE sign. "How are we even going to get in?"
"What do you think this is for?" Cartman asks, lifting a crow bar from the assortment of equipment that he's piled in the front yard. Something about the way he wields it with a smirk makes Stan's stomach twist up more tightly. This is the guy who puts his hands on Kyle behind closed doors. Cartman, who looks so natural with a crow bar in his hand.
"Can we just take a minute, please?" Kyle says.
"A minute for what?" Cartman asks.
"Just -- Jesus!" Kyle looks at the house, frowning. "A minute for respectful, like. Contemplation."
"Ugh, God," Cartman says, but he turns to look at the house with the rest of them, dropping the crow bar. The house stares back at them, decrepit and foreboding. Stan wonders how thoroughly it was cleaned. He considers what Kyle said at lunch that day, that Kenny would be into this whole adventure if he was alive. Stan suspects the he would have gone along with something like this, but it wouldn't have been his idea. Few of their childhood schemes were.
"Alright," Cartman says after a few heavy seconds. "Let's get this show on the road. Butters, we're doing this segment with no filter. Kyle, I've set up the lights, just keep them out of the frame. Stan, you're on boom mike."
"I still want to know what you had to sell to get all of this shit," Stan says.
"I have resources, Stan, okay?" Cartman is fixing his hair, preparing for his starring role in his self-produced ghost hunting show that gets a depressingly high number of YouTube views. He's wearing his white button-down shirt that shows up well on camera at night, the first three buttons undone to show an over-sized cross necklace and some disgustingly sparse chest hair. "I'm an entrepreneur," Cartman says.
Stan lifts the boom mike, squeezing his hands around it tightly and wishing he was wringing Cartman's fat neck. He doesn't want to be here, bearing witness to star linebacker Eric Cartman's mysteriously self-funded ghost show, at the expense of Kenny's memory, but if Stan wasn't here, Kyle would have to hold the mike, and his arms get tired.
"Rolling!" Butters says, and Cartman's usual shit-eating expression morphs into one of grave seriousness. Stan hoists the mike, feeling miserably sober despite the brandy.
"Good evening, friends," Cartman says, speaking to his future viewers. The sunlight is fading behind him, the empty street lined with weather-worn houses serving as the background. "We come to you tonight, on All Hallow's Eve, from a location that is a grim reminder of personal tragedy for our team. Tonight, the Midnight Society -- led by me, President Eric Cartman -- investigates the site of one of the grisliest murders in Park County history. It was also, tragically, the place where one of our beloved childhood friends drew his final breaths. Tonight, we investigate--" He pauses, stepping toward the house as Butters turns to capture it in the shot. "--The McCormick Murder Den."
"You're not supposed to call it that!" Kyle says when Cartman has cut the scene.
"Says who?" Cartman asks. He grabs for his duffel full of 'ghost hunting' supplies. "Wendy? Pfff. I don't have to listen to that bitch anymore. Butters, get some footage of me walking into the backyard. There's a really sweet rusted old swing set back there, it'll be great for atmosphere."
"We used to play on that swing set," Stan says, remembering the smell of venison steaks from the back patio. Kenny's dad had hunted with Jimbo and Ned.
"Maybe you did," Cartman says. "But I wasn't allowed to play in Kenny's yard. My mom said I might step on a heroin needle and get AIDS. Butters, we're rolling, keep up!"
Stan glances at Kyle, trying to gauge if he's hating this, too. Kyle just looks nervous, and he keeps close to Stan as they head into the backyard. Cartman pushes one of the swings and then steps out of the frame so Butters can shoot it as if its been set in motion by a ghostly wind.
"I feel weird," Kyle says, looking around the backyard. The old Webster grill that once sat on the back patio is gone, but some busted plastic chairs are still there, the seats covered with rotting leaves and shallow puddles.
"Yeah, no kidding," Stan says. "This is wrong. People died here. People we knew." He'd almost said people we loved. Did he love Kenny as a kid? He certainly never would have thought of it in those terms, but there was a kind of brotherly closeness between them, unexamined but not unimportant.
"No, I mean I feel sick," Kyle says. "Or just -- Stan, I think I might be drunk."
"Well, congratulations. That's what you wanted, right? To liven up this party?"
"Don't be mad," Kyle says, softly enough to make Stan feel guilty, though still mad.
"Alright, get me the light and the mic!" Cartman shouts, and the volume of his voice sets Stan on edge, as if someone might hear them. He supposes it's a legitimate fear -- they are technically trespassing, but the police presence in this part of town isn't very significant, and the neighboring houses look empty and dark, weeds growing tall in every yard. After the murders, neighbors moved as far away as they could afford to. The house seemed like an evil talisman, radiating a hum of danger that threatened to ensnare anyone in reach. It still seems that way, to Stan. The screens on the back patio doors are both torn to shreds, plywood covered in graffiti put up in their place. The whole back side of the house is loaded with overlapping spray paint. Dripping Pentagrams are a common theme.
They set up the shot with the swing set in the background, the sky glowing orange from behind the tree line. Cartman adjusts his cross necklace and tells Butters to start rolling. Stan's arms are shaking when he lifts the boom mike. He's got his back to the house, and he feels like it's watching him hatefully.
"To those of us who reside in South Park, it's a familiar story," Cartman says, giving the camera his steely ghost hunter stare. "The McCormicks were a family of modest means, and some in town were cruel enough to call them a classic example of white trash. Stuart, the father, was chronically unemployed, and Carol, the matriarch, did little more than smoke and drink whatever she could find -- including during her three pregnancies."
"That's not true!" Stan says, glowering. It might be, but how the hell would Cartman know?
"Yeah, stop editorializing and get on with it," Kyle says. "It's getting cold and I'm pretty sure this is illegal."
"Enough comments from the peanut gallery!" Cartman says, and Stan notices that he's lowered his voice, which is enough of an acknowledgment that yes, of course this is illegal, and Cartman knows it. "Butters, you're still rolling?"
"Sure am!"
"Alright." Cartman clears his throat and makes his face serious again. "The McCormicks had three children - two boys and a girl, Karen, the youngest of the siblings. The middle son, Kenny, was a personal friend -- some might even say he was my best friend." Cartman pauses here to look down at his shoes and sigh. "Kenny was a quiet, thoughtful boy," Cartman says when he looks up again. "A bit on the shy side, but a good and loyal friend. He didn't deserve the fate he met here in this house. None of them did."
Cartman strides toward the leaf-covered back patio, and Butters follows him with the camera, Stan and Kyle trailing after him with the light and microphone. Stan glances at the only window that's not boarded up, torn plywood lying on the ground below it. There is no glass, no screen, just darkness from within the house.
"It seems that, in their desperation for some kind of income, the McCormicks had turned to dealing drugs." Cartman says so with a hint of pitying disapproval. Stan tightens his hands around the boom mike, wanting to hit him. The only reason he hasn't done so in the past two months, since the revelation about Kyle and the hate sex, is that Cartman could handily kick his ass. That wasn't true until recently, and suddenly everything seems so wrong and backward that Stan thinks his legs will give out.
"Local police eventually determined that the McCormicks had offended a dealer who named them as traitors to a powerful drug cartel with ties to Mexico. As we all know, those hombres don't mess around when it comes to revenge. And revenge came, here, to the McCormick family household on a chilly evening in early October, four years ago. My friend Kenny was thirteen years old. I remember that day, and how I'd given him half of my ham sandwich at school, because he didn't have a lunch that day."
"Bullshit!" Stan shouts, letting the mike drop. From the age of eleven or so, Kenny never accepted handouts from them, least of all from Cartman.
"It's called storytelling, Stan," Cartman says. "It's important! I'm setting the mood, okay, making Kenny into a human being instead of just a statistic!"
"Yeah, and making yourself sound like a human being in the meantime," Kyle says. "When you're actually not -- Jesus, you used to steal candy from Kenny when you could. Ham sandwich my ass."
"Kyle, shut the fuck up," Cartman says mildly, and Stan starts toward them, but it's just a flinch. There's no point in tackling him; Stan hasn't tackled anyone since he quit the team. He feels Kyle staring at him and picks up the mike.
"No more embellishments," Stan says tightly. "Just tell it like it is and let's get this over with."
"Yeah, Eric, please!" Butters says, still filming. "I'm getting kind of spooked."
"Fine, you fucking pussies." Cartman presses his hair back into place. The wind is picking up as the last of the glow from the sunset disappears. "The McCormicks were having their usual nightly meal of frozen waffles, or maybe it was Pop Tarts. Despite the meager sustenance, it was a happy time, as the family was all together under one roof, and Stuart and Carol had almost certainly enjoyed some alcoholic beverages. They were sitting down to watch some television, maybe to smoke some pot as well, after the kids had gone to bed. There was a knock on the door." Cartman walks over to the plywood covering the patio doors and gives it three slow, foreboding knocks.
"Don't do that," Kyle says, almost softly enough not to be heard on tape.
"Stuart McCormick answered the door," Cartman continues, ignoring Kyle. "It wasn't unusual for associates in his line of business to come calling late at night. But he didn't recognize these three men, who had tanned skin and cold eyes."
This was Cartman's method of indicating that the men were Mexican. It was only a popular theory. Though the murders were almost definitely drug-related, the actual perpetrators had never been caught.
"What happened next, only the dead could tell us," Cartman says. "Although there was one survivor. When Kenny woke to shouts from the living room, he hurried his sister Karen into a closet in the family's single bathroom. Inside that closet was a water heater which sometimes worked, and behind that water heater was a space that was just wide enough for the underfed young girl to squeeze into. It seemed that my friend Kenny had anticipated that this kind of trouble might someday come knocking, and he made use of the hiding space for his sister quickly. As he dashed back into the hall, perhaps planning to hide elsewhere himself, he was met with the first of many knife wounds. He would be stabbed over twenty-seven times before the attack was through, some blows severing limbs and digits. The attackers were said to have used a machete on Kenny on his older brother. In the next room, amid a chaos of screams and the throaty growl of a chain saw, their parents were chopped to pieces."
Stan wants to tell Cartman to stop, to shut up, but this part is true. Stan's mouth is dry, and his eyes are burning at the corners. He'd intentionally tried to avoid looking at any pictures from the scene of the crime, but they were everywhere on newspaper stands for weeks, and he would sometimes catch an image on the front page from the corner of his eye: a bloody hand print on the house's front window, the encrusted machete that was recovered two miles from the scene of the crime, and the body bags that were wheeled out when the investigators had learned all they could from where the McCormicks had fallen.
"Karen McCormick was discovered alive hours after police arrived on the scene," Cartman says. "Neighbors had complained of screams from the house next door. Little Karen was still hiding behind the water heater when police searched the house. They say she closed her eyes as uniformed officers carried her out to safety. Would you be able to resist a peek at what had become of your loved ones after the screams finally stopped?"
"Enough," Kyle says, before Stan can. Kyle drops the lights and Stan lowers the mike, his arms shaking. "I thought this was a ghost hunt, not some true crime special. Let's go inside and get this over with."
"I'm setting the mood, dumb ass," Cartman says. He groans and picks up the crow bar. "But I guess it's about that time. Stand back, bitches."
"Can't we just go in through that window?" Stan asks, gesturing to the one that's been broken open, revealing the empty blackness inside the house. Kyle snorts.
"Cartman wouldn't fit," he says, and Stan smirks at him.
"That's right," Cartman says, glowering. "I'm sure you three waifish ladies could slip in easily, but one of us here is an actual man, okay, with man-like dimensions."
"Yeah, go ahead and brag that you've got the stomach of a forty year old," Kyle says.
"Like hell, Kyle, and I don't hear you complaining when my extra large balls are slapping against your ass."
Kyle opens his mouth and then shuts it, giving Cartman a hateful snarl. Cartman grins and turns to wedge the crow bar under the plywood. For a moment, Stan is so distracted by his rage toward Cartman that he forgets to dread what's about to happen. The plywood cracks away easily, and after a few grunts Cartman has completely cleared one half of what used to be the sliding glass doors. Stan remembers translucent stickers on them: butterflies and flowers, things that Karen or maybe Carol had put there.
"Alright," Cartman says, slightly breathless. He tucks the crow bar into his belt. "Let's, uh. Go in and get our bearings, scope out a good filming location."
Stan can see that even Cartman is nervous now. He makes Butters go in first, and Kyle follows. Stan trails him closely, not willing to be outside for even half a second while Kyle is in there, despite how much he doesn't want to be there himself. At first, he can't see anything but Butters' flashlight beam up ahead. Kyle left the back light they were using at dusk outside; it's not powerful enough to illuminate this kind of darkness. Stan gropes for Kyle and finds him easily, taking hold of Kyle's shoulders as they both shuffle into what was the kitchen. The linoleum tiling is peeling and damp, and the whole house reeks of mildew.
"Are you okay?" Kyle asks in a whisper as Cartman bumbles in behind them, cursing about spiderwebs, the beam of his flashlight jerking around in a disorienting fashion.
"Yeah," Stan says. "Or, no. I don't know."
"Stan."
"What?"
"Alright," Cartman says, knocking his way past them. "I'm thinking we start shooting in the living room, where most of the killing went down."
"Great," Kyle says, and Cartman shines the light on him. Stan is still holding Kyle's shoulders. He wonders if Cartman gives a shit. "Lead the way, fat ass."
"Stan, you peeing your pants back there?" Cartman asks, pointing the flashlight beam at his face.
"No," Stan says, and he lets go of Kyle. Cartman snickers and heads toward the living room, where the light from Butters' flashlight is already bouncing around. Stan isn't sure if he resents or appreciates that Kyle reaches back to take his hand as they follow Cartman.
The smell is worse as they head deeper into the house, more animal-like. The furniture is all gone, and the living room carpet has been completely ripped out. There are dark stains on the concrete floor that remains, but it's hard to tell if they're anything more sinister than the evidence of water damage. Stan is apprehensive when Cartman turns on the camera, not wanting to see the shadows in the corners illuminated by the greenish night vision glow.
"It's so empty," Butters says quietly, standing near the boarded up front windows.
"What the hell did you expect?" Cartman asks. "Even the most desperate bum wouldn't squat in here. Take the camera, Jesus." Suddenly Cartman is in a hurry, too, shoving the camera into Butters' hands. Butters passes Stan his flashlight, and Kyle takes Cartman's. "Kyle, you're on EVP. The duffel's right there by your feet. Stan, where the hell is the boom mike?"
"I left it outside," Stan says. "I don't think it would work in here, it's too cramped."
"Jesus Christ," Cartman says. "Someday I won't have to -- to work with amateurs." He's flustered, toying with the cross necklace. "Alright, Butters, action."
"Wait," Kyle says.
"For what?" Cartman barks. "I don't have all night, Kyle. You're the one who wanted to fuck after this."
"I don't -- stop making shit up!" Kyle shouts. Stan can't see him get red-faced in this light, but can feel it, like the temperature in the room has risen slightly. "I didn't -- ugh, just. Listen. Before you start saying God knows what about Pop Tarts, I have something I want to say."
"Kyle, you're not camera ready, so don't even--"
"I don't mean on camera! I mean, just. To Kenny, or whatever."
"Oh, Kyle, Kenny's not here," Butters says. "He's -- well, he's up in heaven, with his mom and dad and his big brother." Butters sounds like he might cry, and under the present circumstances this makes Stan's eyes well up a bit. This place doesn't feel anything like the house where Stan ate venison burgers and looked at Playboy with burning cheeks. It's been stripped bare of everything but a sense of hopeless decay.
"Fine, then he'll hear me from heaven," Kyle says. "If he's up there wondering why the fuck we're in his house." Kyle moves closer to Stan, who both resents and appreciates that Kyle is probably doing this for his benefit. "Kenny," Kyle says, and he sighs. "We miss you. You were cooler than us. You probably would have been a good looking guy by now, and you deserve to be alive to enjoy that. Your life was never all that easy, which sucks, but you took it like a man. No, not like a man, that's -- that's sexist, but you know what I mean. You weren't bitter, or anything like that. You were good, and you died saving your sister. I -- I like to think you were okay with that, at least."
"Amen," Cartman barks before any of them can absorb that. "Now action, Butters, goddammit!"
Cartman starts talking about the ghostly presence of suffering spirits, and Stan takes Kyle's hand again. Kyle threads his fingers through Stan's and squeezes. In the dark, Stan feels connected to Kyle in a way that he hasn't since the night of Kenny's funeral, the last time they reached for each other without thinking. Just holding on tight feels like something that will keep them safe, or send Kyle's message all the way to Kenny, wherever he is.
"I'm feeling a very strong presence here," Cartman says, squatting down to put his fingers against the cement. "Yes, I think - I think someone took their last, blood-gurgling breath here. Kenny's mom, perhaps?"
"Don't speculate," Kyle says. "It's unscientific."
"Shh!" Cartman hisses. "Kyle, what do you know about paranormal science? I'm - I'm feeling, oh my God. Did you guys hear that?"
"Hear what?" Stan asks. Cartman always puts on this act during his ghost hunter show. He'll probably end up some kind of millionaire bullshit psychic who lies to people for a living. It's not like it's hard.
"A ghostly whisper," Cartman says, lowering his voice in a theatrical way. Stan's eyes well up again, because he can't believe they're here, really here, in the place where Kenny died, and this is what they're fucking doing. "It was coming from over there - Kyle, do you have the EVP meter running?"
"It's an audio recorder, and yes."
"Good, good, 'cause I'm gonna want to review this audio later. Whoa - you guys, did you just feel a chill?"
"Stop it!" Stan shouts, so loudly that Butters jerks around and points the camera at him. "Just - stop it, Cartman, it's fucking enough-"
"Wait," Kyle says. He lets go of Stan's hand. "I - did you guys hear that?"
"Please," Stan says, looking at Kyle, his voice cracking. He'll give up on almost everything if Kyle is in on it, part of Cartman's soulless plan to pretend that some remnant of Kenny is still here. But Kyle's eyes are wide with real fear, and Stan hears it, too: a harsh scraping sound coming from the kitchen, like a knife dragging over the stove.
"Fellas?" Butters says, lowering the camera.
"It's just - it's a rat," Cartman says.
"Not a ghost?" Stan says. "That's not what you want? Huh?"
"Stan!" Kyle tugs on his arm, and even in the inadequate illumination from the flashlights, Stan can see that he's still scared.
"That's, uh," Cartman says, walking backward, because there are footsteps now, and a sinister, quiet laughter. "That's - that's-" He comes up with no words for the approaching noises, but yanks the crow bar from his belt.
"Stan," Kyle says, again, and Stan squeezes Kyle's hand more tightly, wishing he had a crow bar. Someone is walking toward them, cackling low. Stan thinks of the drug dealers who killed the McCormicks, the chain saw that was never found.
He trips and falls backward when three shadowy figures dash into the living room area, and Kyle stumbles down against the concrete floor behind him. Stan throws his arms out, as if his pathetic shield of flesh and bone could really protect Kyle from whatever's coming.
"No - no!" Cartman shouts, running toward the boarded up front door, his crow bar striking it weakly. Butters shrieks, and above the ruckus Stan hears something he recognizes: Wendy's laugh.
“They're gonna hit us with that thing,” Craig says, stepping out from behind Wendy. Kyle is shining his flashlight on them, the beam of light shaking. Token is with them, looking less amused than the other two.
“Stay back!” Cartman shouts, his voice pitching wildly as he waves the crow bar. “Wah - Wendy?”
“Oh, Eric, relax.” Wendy is beaming in the trembling glow of the flashlights, and she clicks on one of her own, holding it under her chin. “You knew it was us, right? Are you guys filming?”
“Turn it off!” Cartman growls, and Butters yelps, scrambling to make sure the camera isn't recording. “You bitch,” Cartman says, turning back to Wendy. “What the hell is this? You have to take everything from me? Everything?”
“Whoa,” Kyle mutters.
"I'm not taking anything, Jesus!" Wendy says. "We just wanted to make sure you guys hadn't been eaten by ghosts or something." She laughs again, and Craig snickers in the obnoxious way that had sounded deeply menacing when it came from the dark kitchen.
"This is fucked up," Token says as Wendy points the flashlight around the living room, Cartman still fuming and muttering about nosy bitches. Stan realizes he's essentially sitting on Kyle and stands, pulling Kyle up with him.
"It's sad," Wendy says, her smile fading as she trails her flashlight beam across the dirty floor. "That's what it is, sad. Oh, Eric, stop looking at me like that. We just wanted to make sure you were okay, really."
"Speak for yourself," Craig says. "How many of you wet your pants just now?"
"I want to leave," Kyle whispers, standing close behind Stan and whispering in his ear. For a moment Stan is afraid that Kyle did indeed wet his pants. When he turns to look at Kyle he thinks it's probably something less literal but more intense. Kyle's eyes are wide and frightened, as if whatever he heard is still in the house, lurking.
"Okay," Stan whispers back. "Okay, we can go."
"Get the hell out of here," Cartman bellows at Wendy and the other two, pointing back toward the kitchen. "I'm working. We're doing a shoot."
"Please, Eric, this place gives me the worst feeling," Wendy says, and she seems sincere. "I was going to let you guys stew in your own delusional juices, but I don't like the idea of you hanging around here. Come on -- we can all go do a bonfire by the pond or something semi normal."
"Go burn your bras by yourself! I don't need your concern, Wendy, okay, so get out!"
"It smells like ass in here," Craig says. "Let's just go."
"I have to pick up Nichole," Token says, and Stan can see the glow of his phone when he checks it.
"Yes, yes, scamper away," Cartman says. "Cowards, be gone."
"Right," Craig says. "You're the one who was screaming 'no, nooo!!' at the first sound of a foot fall."
"It's for my show, Craig, you idiot! I have to act scared so the audience will be scared! Fucking duh!"
"Yeah, right, you were on the verge of tears."
"Stan," Kyle whispers again while Craig and Cartman continue to fight, walking toward each other as if it might come to blows. Cartman could snap Craig in half, but Craig is vicious and probably a biter. Stan turns to Kyle and squeezes his shoulder.
"We can just leave," Stan says, hopefully. "We don't have to stay here just because -- what?" There are enough flashlights on now to partially illuminate Kyle's face. His expression has gone from frightened to pale white horror. "What, dude, what's wrong?"
"Who, um," Kyle says. He's shaking so hard that Stan takes off his jacket, throwing it around Kyle's shoulders. "Who is that?" Kyle asks, wide-eyed and staring at something behind Stan.
"Huh?"
"That -- there--"
Stan turns in the direction Kyle is looking. Wendy has joined in on Cartman and Craig's argument, and the room is noisy, crowded. The three of them are gathered near the center while Butters films the confrontation, Token watching and Stan and Kyle lingering close. There's an eighth person standing in the far corner, hidden in the shadows. It's a tall, human-shaped silhouette, only faintly illuminated by the light in the center of the room.
"Wendy," Stan says. He dropped his flashlight when they were startled, and he's afraid to look for it, afraid to pull his eyes away from the figure in the corner. He can feel it looking back at him, and his heart is starting to pound like an alarm has sounded, a warning to run. "Wendy!"
"What?" she turns from Cartman and points her flashlight at Stan and Kyle.
"Did you. Is there. Did someone else come with you?"
"What are you talking about?"
"Is there. Is that Clyde, or. Or who--"
"Clyde? Huh?"
Stan points, though he's afraid to see. There's a silence coming from the person in the corner that is so cold he can feel it. Wendy moves her flashlight beam in the direction Stan has indicated.
Wendy shrieks when her flashlight lands on the stone-faced man standing in the corner, staring at them, then everyone seems to scream at once when they realize what they're seeing. He's older, but it's unmistakable: it's Kenny McCormick.
Kenny stands there for one or two heartbeats, unblinking, then dashes into the darkened hallway that leads to what was once his bedroom.
"Keh -- kah--" Wendy huffs while Craig continues shrieking girlishly and Butters chants 'oh God, oh Jesus!' Kyle is holding onto Stan's waist, hiding behind him, his breath coming fast near Stan's ear. Stan's vision is tunneling in the disorienting dark, and for a moment he thinks he'll pass out.
"You saw him, too?" Stan manages to say, mostly speaking to Kyle.
"Get him!" Cartman roars, and he goes tearing into the hallway, Butters following him with the camera. "We have to get this on tape!"
"Wait!" Wendy cries, and she runs after them, Token following. Craig trails them, making a low whimpering sound. Stan takes Kyle's hand.
"You saw him?" he says. They've been left in the dark, all of the flashlights gone. Stan brings his face close to Kyle's, needing to feel the heat of his shallow, panicked breath.
"Stan," Kyle says. "He was here. The whole time. He was alive."
"No," Stan says, because that doesn't make sense. There was a funeral. Had the casket been empty? "C'mon." Stan takes Kyle's hand and pulls him toward the noise of the others, toward the light.
In the room that was once Kenny's, Cartman is shoving Butters through the open window, into the backyard. He hands Butters the camera and then hoists Wendy through the window, shouting that he'll meet them outside, and not to let Kenny out of their sight. Stan has tried this before. It's so hard to keep up with him once he's given chase. Token and Craig go through the window, and Stan runs after Cartman, pulling Kyle behind him.
"Wait," Stan says, because he doesn't want Cartman chasing Kenny. Whatever Kenny is -- real, between worlds, or long dead -- he didn't look glad to have company. "Cartman!" Stan shouts as they run through the back door and out into the yard. "What the hell!" He's surprised Cartman can run so fast.
"This is incredible!" Cartman says, sounding like he's talking to himself. "This is concrete evidence! I'm gonna be famous for real!"
"Cartman, you idiot!" Kyle says. "He's not a fucking ghost!" Kyle lets go of Stan's hand and runs along beside him as they chase after Cartman. Token and Craig are running twenty feet or so ahead of them, trailing Wendy, and Stan can just faintly see Butters in the distance. He can't see Kenny anymore, but Butters seems to be pursuing something with intent.
"He is a ghost, Kyle!" Cartman shouts, pumping his arms as he runs. "He's my ghost, I found him, and Butters better be getting a goddamn good shot up there!"
"Why is he running?" Kyle asks, beginning to lose his breath already. He looks over at Stan, who can't really piece together his thoughts about any of this yet. "You -- you always said the ghost ran from you. I thought you were losing your mind!"
"Well, the feeling was mutual," Stan says, looking back to Cartman. "Maybe we should stop. We'll never catch him."
"Like hell we won't!" Cartman says. He throws himself forward like a cannonball, taking huge strides as the others head into the woods.
Ever since Stan started having what Randy describes obliquely as 'emotional problems' he's been susceptible to random bouts of intense happiness just as often as he gets a sudden sense of crippling hopelessness. He can never predict what will bring either state on, and never would have guessed that dashing into the woods beside Kyle with their friends running ahead of them, including one who is supposed to be dead, would bring on a slow but steadily growing euphoria. By the time they're deep in the woods and jumping over rocks and tree roots, Stan feels like he might start laughing uncontrollably at any moment. It's all mixed up with his confusion over what is even happening here, which itself is starting to feel hilarious. There is something not necessarily funny but fun about this chase, in a completely nonsensical way.
The fun ends when they clear the edge of the woods and find Butters and Wendy standing in the middle of the street of a nicer suburban area, not far from where Cartman and Liane live. Butters and Wendy are both red-faced and panting, and so are Token and Craig when they skid to a stop in front of them. There are still some trick-or-treaters making the rounds down the street, a few packs of older kids who are unsupervised.
"Butters!" Cartman screams. "Why are you stopping! Did you get him on film?"
"He lost -- lost me, Eric!" Butters says. "I don't know what I filmed -- I tried to get him on there!"
"Where did he go?" Kyle asks, running up to Wendy. "Which direction?"
"I don't know," she says. "I was just following Butters!"
"He -- he's around here somewhere," Butters says, turning in circles while Cartman looks at the footage on the camera's preview screen. "Ah -- I don't know, I lost sight of him as we were comin' out of the woods."
"This is fucking crazy," Craig says. "What the hell is happening?"
"Was it really him?" Token asks.
"Yeah," Kyle says. "It was him. I felt it."
"Me too," Wendy says, and her lip shakes. "Oh my god, what -- what does this mean?"
"It means there's a fuckin' ghost around here somewhere, and he's not getting away from me." Cartman growls and thrusts the camera back into Butters' hands. "You didn't get shit!"
"I was running, Eric!"
"There!" Wendy shouts, and Stan jerks like a shot has been fired, whirling toward her. She's pointing to a house across the street. "There he is!"
They all watch as someone in a pale blue shirt and ripped jeans catapults himself through a window on the ground floor of the house. Stan didn't turn in time to see the guy's hair or face, and he doesn't remember noticing what Kenny was wearing when they saw him standing in the corner.
"Are you sure?" Stan asks.
"That's Bebe's house," Craig says, and Wendy tears off in that direction, as if she's going to save Bebe from imminent death.
"Wait!" Cartman shouts. "Give me that," he says to Butters, ripping the camera out of his hands before running after Wendy. The rest of them follow, Stan's lungs beginning to burn in the cold air. Kyle is still wearing his jacket, his arms threaded through the sleeves now.
"What the hell are we doing?" Kyle asks as they all thunder into Bebe's yard. There's a jack-o-lantern on her front porch, but the candle has been blown out and the front windows are dark, the universal neighborhood sign that they've run out of candy. There is a pinkish light coming from the window that the guy in the blue shirt climbed through, and Wendy gasps when she reaches it. Cartman comes up behind her, the camera raised.
"Holy shit," he says.
Stan can't see anything when he gets there, because Cartman is hefting his huge frame through the window, following Wendy inside. Craig and Token climb through next, and Stan can hear Bebe and Wendy exchanging heated words inside the room while Cartman films something. There's no sign of Kenny until Stan follows Kyle into the room, and then there he is, wide-eyed and frightened, pressed back into the corner of Bebe's room like Boo Radley.
"Praise Jesus!" Butters yelps as he throws himself through the window, the last one to make it through. "Kenny! You're alive!"
This shuts Wendy and Bebe up, and Craig and Token are staring openly, stunned. Kyle is panting and hanging back near the window. Cartman is filming, cackling to himself as if counting the riches that will soon accumulate for this proof of the afterlife. But it's clear to Stan the moment he meets Kenny's eyes, and in hindsight he feels like it was clear the last four times he saw Kenny, too: this isn't a ghost. Butters is right. Kenny is standing here in the room with them, looking terrified, alive. Bebe runs over and throws her arms in front of him as if to shield him from gun fire.
"I can explain!" she says, but then she goes quiet, her eyes darting from face to face while everyone stares at Kenny. Stan's heart is still pounding as the collective silence in the room seems to settle around them like a mist.
"Hi," Kenny says, glancing at each of them warily. His voice is deeper than Stan remembers. He's taller than Bebe, hunching his shoulders like he wants to crouch behind her.
When Stan throws up all over Cartman's shoes, Kenny is the only one in the room who doesn't shout with disgusted surprise.
**