One didn't need a long monologue when certain conditions were met. First: the speaker had to know their audience and be known in return. Second: the narrator should've planted the correct suggestions, hints, or easter eggs beforehand to prepare the listeners. And third: end it all with simple, resonant keywords.
Metelda had a dozen retorts chambered and ready, but she held her tongue, saving them for a monologue that demanded more energy than she cared to spend. "New school. No choice. Terror Mansion. Back to square one." She exhaled, drained from the energy expenditure.
No school in their current city would offer them a seat during midterms, not to mention the speed of gossip and the extra spices added to the real events, which would never let them forget their recent troubles.
The Terrors had enough experience to understand that moving was their only option. A new start in a new city, every month was kinda growing on them by now. Having no other option but to remain in their old mansion puzzled them temporarily, but they reached a conclusion faster than usual, eager to avoid Metelda's anger for taking too long to notice the obvious.
In silence, they each drew a map of their country. The invested regions, such as those with tales of ghosts and monsters, were crossed off. Next, they crossed off all the places they had stayed at, and later, on careful examination, the places close to spreading rumors.
This left them with one option: the Terror Mansion. Back to where the first strategic withdrawal began. The mansion of their great-great-grandfather, back to square one.
"We don't wanna..." The family slouched as one.
"You have to." A voice barged in. "I'm sick of you people." The landlord yelled at them, his finger sweeping across every member except for Tsuna and Metelda. "Do you realize how much business I lose every day you morons are around. Get out, or I will burn this motel down." He said in defeat.
"I got another reason to stay." Tsuna chuckled.
"And I will be in the middle," warned the landlord.
"Don't forget to write me in your suicide note." Tsuna waved him goodbye.
The landlord, stumped by the implication, realized his stupidity and thanked Metelda with a bow before leaving.
"What did she do?" Tsuna looked too late, as Metelda had already hidden her phone. "You sneaky little lump." She pokes her with her walking stick, knowing all too well she would take the abuse rather than waste energy on retaliation.
"Did he really forget the most crucial part?" Junior gaped at Metelda.
Metelda stayed still as a rock, having expended all of the energy meant for the day. She didn't so much as grunt a response, yet Junior translated her thought to the family while they complied and packed their things for transport.
They also had to pick her up and move her to a different spot as they packed their entire lives into a few cardboard boxes, ending with her on the shared bed.
Metelda contemplated the idea of sleeping with everyone: hugging, shivering, and on the lookout for ghosts, as one, or moving a couple of feet into her personal room, locking the door, and having a good night's sleep. Before she could decide, her eyelids dropped lower, and before she wasted energy on saving trivial memories, they were standing in front of the Terror Mansion.
The Terror family is many things—most of them negative, but when it comes to the supernatural, or the unnatural, they have a to-do list to keep the unwanted at bay.
The persistence of the unwanted is beyond help, though.
Unlike those imbeciles from horror movies who walk into their inheritance headfirst, then bumble around until all of them are dead, or worse—separated! The Terrors sent a team of cleaners to clear out all the spooky stuff, then sent a team of surveillance to install cameras at every corner. They bribed the local police to rush to their residence at any alarm, and, last but not least, brought a supernatural expert with them: Klaire V-oleuse Sowle.
After fooling the doctors and heading out of the psych ward at the age of nine, Klaire had dedicated her life to solving the supernatural. Of course, she hasn't solved a single case in eleven years, yet she somehow managed to fool enough people into keeping food on her table and funds for her ghost-goose chases—enough people, as in only the Terrors.
She had a big office in an enormous building, trying to spread her wings and catch more gullible people, but so far, luck evaded her better than ghosts.
"Shouldn't you folks call me before you guys decide to enter a creepy house?" Klaire said, pointing at the massive mansion.
"And risk you having to prepare?" Metelda eyed Klaire. "Not happening."
"How come she has so much energy for her!?" Lilly asks Mr. Terror in a barely audible tone.
Mr. Terror's ears were already tuned to catch ghosts, so even the whisper startled him onto Junior, who crumbled under the weight.
Metelda didn't spare any of the background characters a thought; her focus solely on Klaire's oceanic blue eyes, calm and deep as a tidal horizon. For a split second, she wasted her precious stores of energy, wondering how perfectly they anchored the riot of new color crowning her head; like the sea holding up a sunrise that refused to choose a single hue.
Over the years, Klaire had become a living spectrum: hair blooming from steel-blue to molten gold to bruised violet, then fracturing again into neon greens and ember-pinks, each shade layering itself as if time itself were painting her in installments; even her skin seemed to catch light differently now, reflecting it in soft prisms along her cheekbones and neck, while inked lines and metal glints felt less like adornment and more like sigils that had always belonged there.
Metelda knew Klaire well enough to be certain; she wouldn't waste coin on upkeep or dyes, not for vanity. So whatever force was feeding that color had roots deeper than fashion, something patient and arcane, weaving change into her, strand by strand.
As for the punk-rock attire of leather, studs, that practiced defiance… that was obvious to place:
Residue of a recent scam, Metelda grimsed, a costume worn to misdirect eyes, while the real magic worked quietly beneath.
Klaire thanked her lucky stars—or the Terror's unlucky ones—for Metelda's "don't give a damn" attitude. Without that, she would have become a panhandler or a part-time mattress-actress.
"Please talk." Klaire winced.
Metelda glared at Junior, still embracing himself.
Junior ignores his own struggles and begins translating for Metelda. "Money!" He answered his mother's earlier question, then turned to Klaire. "Discount."
He knocks dad on the head, saying. "We both are embracing her."
Tsuna arched an eyebrow, asking, "Are you conveying her's—or your—inner feelings?"
"Be glad I'm not translating for you." Junior gasps, out of energy. "I think something within the mansion is holding us down!" He lied, wishing Klaire wouldn't judge him harshly.
"Hmm!" Metelda grunts.
"What was that?" The entire family turned to Junior.
"Ha!" Metelda barely chuckles, but Junior relents, stretching further as if accepting his inevitable fate.
The Terror Mansion loomed like a thundercloud, its jagged silhouette carving into the overcast sky. The stone walls, blackened by time, appeared damp even when dry, and the countless windows—some boarded, some cracked—seemed to stare outward with malice. A gnarled iron fence, rusted and twisted as if warped by unseen hands, stood between the family and their unfortunate inheritance.
Yet, someone had tried. Really, truly tried.
The once-imposing gargoyles that had leered from the rooftop were now draped in festive scarves, their grotesque faces comically softened by polka dots and stripes. A welcome sign dangled precariously from a single nail, its handwritten "Terror Family Home! :D."
Scrawled in pink chalk, the smiley face at the end smudged as if the house itself had objected to the cheer.
Metelda took one glance at the mismatched pastel curtains hanging in the grand windows: floral, polka-dotted, and one wildly misplaced cartoonish duck print, before rubbing her temples.
A for effort. F for execution, she thought.
"They really thought this would help?" Junior murmured, staring at the row of garden gnomes lined up by the entrance.
At least, they were supposed to be garden gnomes. Their beady eyes were hollowed out, their smiles warped into eerie grins. Either time had worn them this way, or someone had taken a chisel and corrected their expressions to something more… unsettling.
The family stood in silence, taking in the horror show disguised as a home. The front door had been painted a cheery yellow—except the paint had peeled in streaks, leaving it looking diseased. Above, fairy lights had been strung along the eaves, but at least half of them flickered erratically, creating the illusion of movement in the shadows beneath.
To top it all off, a doormat sat proudly before the entrance, embroidered with the words: "Enter, Friend! (No Ghosts Allowed)"
Metelda gave it a single, exhausted look before stepping over it. "Whoever did this... is dead to me."
The rest of the family exchanged glances. The house creaked ominously in response, offended by their hesitation.
"Well," Junior muttered, eyeing the flickering lights and the gnomes that seemed to have inched closer. "At least they tried!?"
A long, slow wail echoed from within the mansion, sending a shiver through the air.
"…And failed," Tsuna added.
With a collective sigh, the Terror family stepped inside.
Klaire played with her purple locks, unfazed by the mansion. Except for the poor job no renovator can pull off, the mansion didn't seem the least bit spooky to her. Still, to get paid and survive on scraps for a bit longer, she wore a suspicious face, gasping at everything that could pass as unnatural.
"Paint..." she said, peeling the paint off the door. "Teeth..." she growled at the shattered windows. "Creepy gnomes. Okayish smiles, though." She tried to mimic them, spooking Mr. Terror and Junior.
Metelda sighed, her disappointment almost palpable. She had saved her energy for days to use it on Klaire, and here she was making it too easy.
"Mom's doing." She pointed at the gnomes. "Strong wind currents." She pointed at several windows, which, when opened, created a strong draft in the mansion. "The design was ingenious—the person deciding on glass windows—not so much." She frowned at Mr. Terror, who looked away, whistling. "Need iron shutters." She reminded him. "Can't waste money on this dump." She peeled the paint off the counter and showed it to Klaire. "Light touches until someone buys."
"And why not a motel like usual?" Klaire tried to divert the topic.
"The Terrors'... terror, isn't welcomed in this town." Mr. Terror chuckled nervously.
"School?"
"Triple S," Junior said with pride. "Can you believe we got in at such a time?"
"Saint, Savior, Success." Metelda clicked her tongue in disapproval.
"Won't be a 'saviorly' for them if they didn't." Lilly chuckled.
"Nice..." Klaire nodded, moving closer to Mr. Terror. "A bigger house needs longer and much more detailed work. I might have to stay behind for a couple of days and do things slowly and meticulously." She winked.
"Sure..." Mr. Terror shook her hand with all his might, tears forming in his eyes. "Boy, am I glad you suggested it and not me."
Metelda buried her response after hearing her dad's statement. "Why do I waste my energy?" She climbed onto the counter and rolled into a ball.
"However much you need." Mr. Terror kept adding perks.
"Someone shoot him before he goes overboard."
"You're like my child I might have had with a colored person." Mr. Terror hugged Klaire.
"Never mind... It's too late."
———<>||<>——— End of Chapter Forty-Six. ———<>||<>———