Work Text:
The opulent lobby of the Ross penthouse apartment building, usually a haven of hushed elegance, hums with an unusual energy this Halloween of 2012. Ornate gold leaf gleams under the soft glow of crystal chandeliers, reflecting off the polished marble floors. But tonight, a palpable unease prickles the air, a whisper that snakes around the velvet ropes and plush armchairs, finally settling like a chill on the shoulders of anyone who lingers too long.
Grimm Holloran, the building’s veteran doorman, is a man woven from the city’s oldest, strangest threads. His uniform, usually impeccable, seems to sag a little more tonight, the crisp white shirt straining against his oddly slumped shoulders. His wide, watery blue eyes, usually scanning the comings and goings with a detached professionalism, now dart around with an almost frantic energy, never quite settling on one point. They shake, ever so slightly, betraying a tremor that seems to ripple through his entire being. He’s leaning against the polished wood of his podium, a copy of the New York Post clutched in a gnarled hand, though his gaze is fixed on something far beyond the day’s headlines.
“Evening, Mr. Holloran!” Emma, radiating a fairy-like innocence in her shimmering teal gown and iridescent wings, chirps as she descends the grand staircase, her brothers and sister trailing behind her. She’s already practicing her sweet, slightly-too-sugary trick-or-treat voice.
Grimm’s head snaps up, his eyes focusing on the Ross kids with an unnerving intensity. He’s always been… peculiar, but tonight, he’s on another level. The usual stern set of his jaw is replaced by a grimace that seems etched permanently onto his face. His voice, usually a low rumble, rises a few octaves, thin and reedy. “Ross children! You… you mustn’t!”
Luke, ever the confident leader, clad in ripped jeans and a purple shirt, muscles straining, a clear homage to Bruce Banner mid-transformation, smirks. “Mustn’t what, Grimm? Mustn’t get all the candy? Too late, buddy. This Hulk’s got a sweet tooth.” He flexes an arm, a theatrical grimace on his face.
Grimm takes a step forward, his hand reaching out as if to physically restrain them, then pulling back as if burned. His voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper, though it carries eerily in the vast lobby. “The thirteenth floor. You… you must not go to the thirteenth floor tonight.” His eyes, wide and almost luminescent, fix on each of them in turn, a silent plea in their depths. The tremor in his hands is more pronounced now, almost a palsy.
Ravi, meticulously adjusting the green cap and feathered arrow of his Robin Hood costume, frowns. His usual scholarly composure is ruffled by Grimm’s uncharacteristic agitation. “The thirteenth floor, Mr. Holloran? But… why? Is it not simply another residential level?” He adjusts his glasses, a flicker of concern crossing his usually calm features.
Grimm shakes his head, a violent, almost uncontrolled movement. “No! It is… it is not simply another level. Tonight, it… it awakens. The very air up there, it thickens. It breathes. There are… dangers beyond understanding.” His voice is barely a gasp, a desperate plea hanging in the air. He pulls at his collar, as if the uniform is suddenly choking him. “Things that stir from their slumber, things that… that hunger.”
Zuri, a tiny blur of fire-engine red in her racecar driver jumpsuit, her helmet tucked under her arm, skips forward, unfazed. “Hunger for what? Candy? ‘Cause if it’s candy, Grimm, they’re out of luck. That’s our candy.” She giggles, completely oblivious to the gravity of Grimm’s warning, or perhaps choosing to ignore it with the boundless optimism of an eight-year-old.
Emma’s shimmering wings seem to droop slightly. Her brow furrows, the lightheartedness draining from her face. “Grimm, you’re scaring us. What are you talking about?” Her voice is small, a stark contrast to her earlier cheerfulness. She clutches Ravi’s arm, her grip surprisingly tight.
“Ancient things,” Grimm whispers, leaning in closer, his voice raspy. “Spirits. Echoes of those who… who never truly left. They say… they say the veil between worlds thins on Halloween. And the thirteenth floor… it’s a portal. A nexus. A place where the lines blur and things… things can cross over.” He shivers, a full-body shudder that seems to wrack his slender frame. “Unseen forces. Unspeakable horrors. Things that will… will snatch you right up and never let go.” He ends his speech with a sharp, almost choked gasp, as if the words themselves are causing him physical pain. He rubs his temples, his eyes squeezing shut for a moment before snapping open, wilder than before. “Just… just stay away. Please. For your own sakes.”
He straightens abruptly, a strange rigidity taking over his posture, as if he’s suddenly become a statue carved from fear. His eyes continue to dart around, seeing things no one else can. The elevator doors, usually a mundane gateway, now seem to shimmer with a faint, unsettling hum. Grimm’s warnings echo in their ears, a chilling counterpoint to the festive music drifting in from the distant streets.
“Please, Luke,” Emma pleads, her fairy wings trembling slightly. Her voice is barely a whisper, filled with a genuine, childlike dread. “Grimm looked terrified. He’s never like that. What if he’s right?” She glances at Ravi, whose face is a mask of deep concern.
Ravi pushes his glasses up his nose, his usual calm demeanor strained. “Indeed, Luke. Mr. Holloran’s distress was… unprecedented. Perhaps it would be prudent to heed his counsel. The logical conclusion, based on his unusual behavior, is that there is a genuine basis for his apprehension.” He adjusts his Robin Hood cap, a nervous habit.
Luke, however, is a force of nature fueled by bravado and a healthy dose of thirteen-year-old cockiness. His Bruce Banner costume, intentionally torn and ragged, seems to embody his defiant spirit. He scoffs, a sound of utter dismissal. “Please! Grimm’s just trying to scare us. It’s Halloween, Em! That’s what doormen do. Probably gets a kick out of it.” He puffs out his chest, a smirk playing on his lips. “Besides, what’s the worst that could happen? A couple of old ladies handing out stale candy? Or maybe, maybe, a really lame ghost story.” He rolls his eyes, as if the very idea is beneath him.
“But what if it’s not stale candy, Luke?” Emma presses, her voice tight with worry. “What if it’s… Grimm’s ‘unspeakable horrors’?” She shivers, clutching Ravi’s arm even tighter.
Luke waves a dismissive hand. “Old Grimm’s been watching too many horror movies. ‘Unspeakable horrors’? Come on, Em. It’s an apartment building. Not a haunted mansion.” He grins, a challenge in his eyes. “Besides, aren’t you curious? Imagine the bragging rights! Going where no Ross kid has dared to go.” He strikes a heroic pose, a parody of a fearless adventurer.
Zuri, oblivious to the deeper anxieties, pipes up, her racecar helmet finally settling on her head with a soft click. “Bragging rights sound fun! Are there lots of rooms on the thirteenth floor? More rooms mean more candy, right?” Her innocent logic, focused solely on the sugar quota, cuts through the tension with a surprising lightness. She bounces on the balls of her feet, ready for adventure.
“Exactly, Zuri-bear!” Luke grins, seizing on her enthusiasm. “More rooms, more candy. And maybe… maybe even some exclusive candy that no one else gets. Think about it. Everyone else is too chicken to go up there.” He glances pointedly at Emma and Ravi, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Wimps.”
Ravi sighs, a sound of resigned exasperation. “Luke, your penchant for reckless endangerment is truly astounding. One would think, given the ample evidence of Mr. Holloran’s genuine distress, that a modicum of caution would be advisable.” He adjusts his quiver, the arrows within clinking softly.
“Caution is for nerds, Ravi,” Luke retorts, his smirk widening. “Besides, if anything does happen, I’m Bruce Banner, remember? I can Hulk out and smash whatever ‘unspeakable horror’ comes our way.” He flexes his arm again, a theatrical roar escaping his lips.
Emma shakes her head, her fairy wings drooping. “You’re crazy, Luke. Completely crazy.” She looks from Luke to Zuri, then back to Ravi, a silent plea for reason.
But Zuri is already halfway to the elevator, a tiny red streak of pure candy-seeking determination. “Last one to the thirteenth floor is a rotten egg!” she shouts, her voice muffled by her helmet.
Luke laughs, a triumphant sound. “See? Zuri gets it! Come on, Em, Ravi. Don’t be such scaredy-cats.” He strides toward the elevator, his steps confident and unburdened by fear. He jabs the "13" button with a flourish, as if daring the digital display to refuse. The numbers light up with a faint, eerie glow.
Emma and Ravi exchange a look, a shared moment of apprehension. Ravi, with a sigh that speaks volumes, follows Luke, a reluctant Robin Hood entering a potentially perilous Sherwood Forest. Emma, after a moment’s hesitation, her fear warring with her desire not to be left behind, reluctantly follows, her wings catching the faint, unsettling light of the elevator as the doors begin to slide shut. The soft, mechanical hum of the elevator rising seems unnaturally loud in the suddenly silent lobby, leaving Grimm Holloran to watch them ascend, his wide, shaky eyes filled with a nameless dread. He clasps his hands, his knuckles white, and whispers a desperate, unheard prayer.
Meanwhile, on the tenth floor, a different kind of drama unfolds. The Ross apartment, usually a vibrant chaos of kid-induced mayhem, is currently a whirlwind of fabrics, makeup, and an air of intense artistic focus. Jessie Prescott, their twenty-year-old nanny, is in full creative flow, utterly absorbed in her latest passion project: a short story she’s determined to get published. Tonight, however, her artistic endeavors have taken a surprisingly drastic turn, thanks to her meticulously crafted Halloween costume. She stands before a full-length mirror, her reflection a stunning, almost unrecognizable apparition.
Gone is the familiar, approachable Jessie. In her place is a dazzling, yet slightly unsettling, vision of a 1920s flapper dancer. Her usually light brown hair is transformed into a sleek, dark bob, adorned with a shimmering, beaded headband that glitters under the harsh overhead lights. Her eyes, usually sparkling with good humor, are heavily rimmed with kohl, giving them a smoky, dramatic depth that makes them seem larger, almost unnervingly so.
Her lips, painted a deep, almost vampiric red, curve into a precise, unsmiling bow. The flapper dress, a cascade of black sequins and fringe, shimmers with every subtle movement, revealing glimpses of her long, slender legs. Around her neck, a strand of pearls, impossibly long, drapes with an almost serpentine elegance. The entire effect is one of striking, almost theatrical, beauty – but also one of profound transformation. She looks nothing like their nanny. Not even a little.
“Perfect!” Jessie murmurs to herself, a satisfied smile playing on her painted lips. “This is it. This is the story that gets me noticed. The Daily Bugle won’t know what hit them.”
She picks up a sheaf of papers from the desk, her manuscript. The pages are filled with her neat, precise handwriting, and a few frantic-looking scribbles in the margins. Her story, she believes, is a groundbreaking piece of investigative journalism, and she’s convinced it will propel her from aspiring writer to published sensation. Her methods, however, have been… unconventional, to say the least. She’s been up for days, fueled by copious amounts of coffee and an unyielding artistic drive, conducting what she considers "immersive research," which mostly involves sketching feverishly in the dim light of her room, muttering to herself, and occasionally startling the family pet, Mr. Kipling.
The doorbell rings, a cheerful chime that seems jarringly out of place with Jessie’s darkly glamorous transformation.
“That must be Tony!” Jessie exclaims, her voice, though muffled by the makeup, still retaining its characteristic Texas lilt. She sweeps toward the door, her fringe swaying like a dark curtain.
Tony, the building’s slightly awkward but always amiable doorman-in-training, stands in the hallway, clutching a large punch bowl filled with a suspiciously crimson liquid. He’s dressed as a rather generic vampire, though his plastic fangs are askew and his cape is slightly rumpled.
“Hey, Jess! Happy Halloween! Mrs. Chesterfield made her famous ‘Monster Mash’ punch. Thought you guys might want some for the party.” He grins, a nervous tic.
“Tony, you’re a lifesaver!” Jessie beams, a flash of white teeth against her dark lipstick.
She takes the punch bowl from him, but as she turns to bring it inside, her flapper fringe catches on the edge of the bowl. Her foot slips on the polished floor. In slow motion, the punch bowl tilts. The deep red liquid, thick and viscous, sloshes over the rim. It cascades down, spilling onto the pristine hallway floor, creating an ever-expanding crimson puddle. It looks disturbingly like… blood. Lots of it. Jessie gasps, her meticulously painted lips parting in dismay.
Tony, mortified, fumbles for a rag. “Oh my God, Jessie! Let me get this cleaned up! I’ll go get some towels!” He dashes off, his plastic fangs clacking.
Jessie, however, is too preoccupied with her literary ambitions to fully register the mess. She glances at her reflection in the nearby mirror, her kohl-rimmed eyes wide with a manic excitement. “This is it, Jessie. Your big break.” She clutches her manuscript tightly, her fingers tracing the words on the page. She imagines the headline: “Jessie Prescott: The Voice of a Generation.” Her abnormal tactics, the late nights, the intense focus, have all been for this.
Just then, the elevator doors on the tenth floor open with a soft ding. Luke, Zuri, Emma, and Ravi spill out, their Halloween excitement momentarily forgotten. They had given up on finding anyone on the spooky 13th floor and decided to come back for more candy and a sense of safety. They're on their way back to their apartment when they see Jessie. Their eyes, still wide with residual fear from Grimm’s warning, fall upon the scene before them. The darkened hallway, the sprawling, crimson puddle, and Jessie – a figure utterly transformed, almost alien in her dark makeup and severe hairstyle.
The flapper dress, with its dark sequins and fringe, seems to shimmer with an ominous aura. Her deep red lips are slightly parted, and her kohl-rimmed eyes stare ahead with an unsettling intensity. To their already heightened imaginations, distorted by Grimm’s dire predictions, she looks less like their nanny and more like… something else entirely.
“Whoa!” Luke whispers, his Bruce Banner bravado momentarily forgotten. His eyes dart from the “blood” on the floor to Jessie’s stark appearance. “Is that really Jessie?” His voice is laced with a mixture of disbelief and growing horror.
Zuri, her racecar helmet still on, points a tiny, gloved finger at Jessie. “She looks like a ghost, Luke! A really pretty ghost, but still a ghost!” Her innocent observation is chillingly accurate given the circumstances.
Emma, her fairy wings drooping even further, gasps, her hand flying to her mouth. “It’s… it’s not Jessie! It can’t be! Her hair, her eyes… she looks like something from one of Ravi’s history books!” Her voice is trembling.
Ravi, his scholarly mind racing to make sense of the unsettling scene, pushes his glasses up his nose, his eyes narrowed in intense scrutiny. He takes a step back, a flicker of genuine fear in his usually composed expression. “By Jove… the resemblance is uncanny. The countenance, the attire… it is as if she has stepped directly from a sepia-toned photograph of the early twentieth century. Could it be… could it be Jessie’s ancestor?” His voice drops to a horrified whisper. “A revenant? A spirit disturbed from her eternal rest by our presence? Luke, when you and Zuri went up to the thirteenth floor, you must have disturbed her rest!”
Luke’s eyes widen, connecting Ravi’s theory with Grimm’s warnings about ancient things and spirits. The “blood” on the floor suddenly takes on a far more sinister meaning. Jessie, with her intense gaze fixed on her manuscript, appears to be staring blankly at them, her red lips slightly parted, as if ready to consume them. The way her fringe sways, the almost predatory gleam in her kohl-rimmed eyes – it all solidifies into a terrifying narrative in their young minds.
“Oh, man,” Luke breathes, taking a step back, his face paling under the green paint. “Grimm was right. This isn’t Jessie. This is… this is something else. She’s a bloodthirsty maniac!” He points a trembling finger at their nanny. “And she’s waiting to kill us all!”
Jessie, still lost in the throes of her literary ambition, finally looks up, startled by their terrified whispers. She sees their wide eyes, their pale faces, their pointing fingers.
“Kids? What’s wrong? Why are you all looking at me like I’ve got two heads?” She tries to smile reassuringly, but the heavy makeup and deep red lipstick only make her appear more menacing. Her smile, instead of calming them, seems to twist into a predatory grin.
The four Ross children scream in unison, a piercing shriek of pure, unadulterated terror. They turn and scramble back into the elevator, jabbing frantically at the lobby button, desperate to escape the "bloodthirsty maniac" that was once their nanny. The elevator doors slide shut with a soft hiss, leaving Jessie standing alone in the hallway, surrounded by the crimson "blood," her flapper fringe swaying gently, her meticulously crafted costume having achieved an unintended, terrifying effect.