Percy stood frozen in the kitchen doorway, his pulse hammering in his ears. The scene before him was pure chaos. Hex was in the middle of it all, battling between two monstrous creatures that moved with feral speed—the strength of Hex''s desperate swings was overmatched by their strength.


    Any second now, he might go down. And then what?


    Percy’s breath caught. He had to do something. Rushing in would be suicide, but standing by and doing nothing? It was unthinkable to leave Hex to face these things alone.


    Think, think, think!


    Then, the memory struck like flint.


    Mrs. Leeford. The kitchen. The countless times he’d spilled oil across the kitchen floor. It had been treacherous to navigate, every attempt ending in a chaos of limbs, culminating in a fall.


    The oil.


    It was the only way. His eyes snapped to the pantry shelves. Without hesitation, he lunged for the most enormous vat of oil he could find. His fingers curled around the cool ceramic as he lifted with all his strength. He needed to act fast—Hex didn’t have long.


    As Percy moved into position, Hex took the full brunt of what had once been the farmer. The ghoul crashed into him, its clawed hands flailing, reaching for any part it could grasp.


    He staggered back, slamming against the stone hearth with a bone-rattling crack. Pain shot through his ribs, stealing the breath from his lungs. Shoving the creature away, he landed a solid punch to its decayed jaw, but the ghoul only twitched, its milky eyes fixed on him with hollow hunger. The impact sent a sharp jolt of pain up his arm, and he knew immediately that he’d hurt himself more than the monster.


    His chest heaved as he fought for breath. This was it—die or run. His eyes darted toward the kitchen, but the distance was too great. The creature was too fast. It would catch him, drag him down, and that would be the end of it.


    Then he saw Percy.


    Standing in the archway, gripping a vat with both hands, struggling under its weight. What the hell was he doing? They were all going to die, and Percy was collecting pottery?


    “Use the furniture!” Percy called.


    Then, with all the strength he could muster, he hurled the vat into the center of the room.


    The heavy ceramic tub exploded on impact, sending a thick wave of oil spilling across the floor. The smell hit Hex first—rancid cooking oil. The viscous liquid spread, creating a thick pool that ran over the broken floorboards and soaked into the already aged wood.


    Hex’s mind reeled. What was Percy thinking? Then the ghoul lunged toward him—and the answer became clear.


    Its feet lost traction, and its momentum betrayed it, sending it skidding out of control and crashing into an awkward, flailing heap.


    By God, Percy had done it! Brilliant, bloody brilliant!


    If Hex could avoid the oil, he could make it to the kitchen, where they could either flee through the side door or hold a defensive position like the girls on the stairs. Standing on the couch, he flashed Percy a lopsided grin. A childhood memory surged forward—the two of them, leaping from chair to chair, bed to bed, shrieking with laughter.


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    The floor is lava.


    A mad grin crossed his face. “The floor is lava!” he called to Percy.


    He took two steady steps along the couch before leaping for the chair—a perfect path to the kitchen. But as he sailed through the air, searing pain tore through his right leg, the ghoul’s claws ripping through skin, pain like fire as they dragged across his flesh.


    Hex cleared the floor, but his body twisted mid-air from the slash''s sheer force. He landed hard, the chair cracking beneath him before it buckled completely. Wood splintered, and Hex tumbled, hitting the floor in a graceless heap at Percy’s feet.


    Dazed and throbbing, Hex looked up with a pained smirk. “The floor is lava. Remember?”


    But Percy had no time for jokes.


    He grabbed Hex by the shoulders and dragged him into the kitchen, gritting his teeth as Hex groaned in pain. Harrow whined from beneath the table, his tongue lapping at the blood pooling along his matted fur.


    “Sorry, old boy, I need this.”


    Percy flipped the table onto its side, shoving it against the archway. It wasn’t much but might buy them a precious second or two.


    Then he turned back.


    The male ghoul had given up trying to stand. Instead, it crawled through the oil, its fingers scraping against the floorboards, dragging itself forward with predatory ease. Its rotted mouth gaped open, black ichor oozing between its jagged teeth.


    Its progress was slow—but inevitable.


    Percy’s mind latched onto what Hex had said: The floor is lava.


    And he knew exactly what to do.


    <hr>


    The ghoul on the stairs scrabbled forward, its jagged nails raking deep grooves into the wood as it hauled itself upward, snapping its jaw with mindless hunger. Every movement was wrong—its limbs twisting in odd ways that were a grotesque parody of human motion.


    Elsbeth and Cordelia could have retreated to the bedroom, barricaded themselves in, and bought some time. But they hesitated—Hex’s pained shout from below cut through the chaos, sharp and unmistakable. If something had happened to him… No. They couldn’t run for safety.


    As they began a push down the stairs, a sudden crash echoed from the main room. The floor bloomed with a dark, viscous tide of oil, and the ghoul’s claws screeched against the planks, failing to gain a grip.


    Percy.


    Elsbeth had no time to wonder what he was doing because the ghoul in front of her was upright, its decayed hands clutching at the stair railing, its jaw widening into an obscene grin.


    Elsbeth tightened her grip on the revolver. Enough of this, she thought. If this thing wanted to get to Hex, it would have to go through her. She threw the chair at the creature’s legs, then leveled the gun with both hands.


    “Eat this, you fetid spawn of hell!” she snarled and pulled the trigger.


    The boom of the shot exploded through the narrow stairwell, and the bullet punched through the ghoul’s face in a spray of rotted flesh and bone. It jerked backward, ichor dripping from the ruined hole where its right cheek had been, but there was no cry of pain—no reaction at all.


    Then, out of nowhere, Cordelia’s arm shot past Elsbeth’s shoulder. Her palm blazed orange, and she slammed the glowing hand against the ghoul’s ruined face. Hell itself ignited, and the thing shrieked a grotesque, gurgling howl.


    Beneath her touch, its waxy flesh boiled and blistered, sizzling like fat in a pan. The acrid stench of burning rot filled the air. It stumbled backward, flailing in pain, and then it hit the oil-slick floor and went down hard with a sickening crunch.


    Elsbeth turned the corner of the stairs just in time to see the second ghoul clawing toward the kitchen. Percy''s flipped table blocked the archway, and Hex watched at the side door. Why wasn’t he moving? He should be running, escaping. Then she saw Percy, lantern in hand.


    Oh hell.


    “No, no, no,” Elsbeth whispered under her breath. Then, she turned and urged Cordelia back up the stairs.


    “GO. GO. GO!”


    Cordelia hesitated just for a second. Then—


    CRASH.


    The lantern shattered.


    A fire wall erupted across the oil-slick floor, and the house became a bonfire. The ghouls screamed in pain and fury. Their silhouettes twisted against the orange glow, writhing, contorting, crawling. But Elsbeth knew they were already done for.


    She didn’t stay to watch them burn; grabbing Cordelia’s wrist, she bolted up the stairs to the bedroom. The fire would spread quickly, and she knew the second floor wouldn’t be safe for long.