Chapter Text
The sun had not yet risen when Old Man McGucket had woken up to a mysterious, crashing noise. He tried not to think too much of it, but, being a naturally anxious person, the noise had troubled him. When he was still living in the dump, noises like that could mean anything; from rowdy teens vandalizing his little hut where he lived, to an impromptu game of rugby by those Manotaurs in the woods. Sudden crashing noises meant move, stupid, before you get hurt!
Now, come on, he thought to himself as he wrapped the quilt on his bed tightly around his body. Quit that fussin'! It's probably just Raccoon Wife rootin' through the garbage again. Satisfied by this comforting suggestion, McGucket sat up, adjusting himself to a more comfortable position on the bed. He really did have to do something about that varmint. Lately all she seemed to do was tear up his important robot designs, steal his food for herself, and cause a ruckus during all hours of the night. Technically his marriage was only legally recognized in the court run by that adorable owl dressed as a judge, but from what he had gleaned from that fella who married the woodpecker last summer, inter-species divorce was a messy business. McGucket yawned, and was just wondering what his raccoon wife would be entitled to should he decide to go through with separating when another crash sounded from downstairs.
"Conflabbit, Raccoon Wife, you cut that out right now!" he hollered. "I'm tryin' ta get some gat dang sleep!"
Suddenly, near the foot of his bed, a fuzzy ball of fur lifted its head to hiss at him for shouting. His eyes widened in terror. Another crash from below rang out as the raccoon hopped off the bed and scurried out the room, pushing open the bedroom door. Holding his breath to keep from screaming, McGucket crept out of his bed, the quilt now draped over him like a patchwork cloak. His banjo was leaning against his work desk. He grabbed it with both hands, holding it in front of him as he crept out the door.
I should call the police, he thought as he tiptoed down the hall, the noises increasing in volume as he got closer to the stairs. The old man then reconsidered. Sherriff Blubs and Deputy Durland meant well, but he supposed a drowsy fruitbat also meant well and would have done a much better job at protecting him from whatever had broke into his mansion. I should call my son, he thought as he crept down the staircase. His knees wobbled as he tried to avoid making any sound that could alert the intruders to his location. When he reached the bottom of the landing, he remembered that his son had gone to a fishing tournament several towns over, he wouldn't be able to save him. In his nervousness, he noticed that the front door was ajar. Gulping, he took trembling step after trembling step towards the kitchen, where the mysterious sounds were coming from. He almost dropped his weapon, his old hands were shaking so much.
I should call Stanford.
Even in his fear, a flush appeared on the tips of McGucket's ears at the thought of his old friend. McGucket hadn't seen Ford since he and his brother had returned earlier that week for the summer. They had promised to spend time together once everyone had a chance to settle in, but he didn't imagine those plans involved fighting off home invaders. Another crash made him jump, an involuntary squeak escaping from the old man's near-toothless mouth. Vowing to call Ford the second he saw for himself what exactly he was dealing with, McGucket found himself quaking in front of the kitchen door, the sounds louder than ever.
Heart pounding against his ribs, McGucket kicked open the door, his banjo raised high above his head, ready to smash it into anyone or anything's face.
"Baaaaaaaaaaaah!"
There before him, in the wreckage of the kitchen, stood Gompers the goat. The creature must have sneaked into the house, and, finding a room full of metal pans and food, proceeded to tear it apart. Fiddleford cackled in relief. Just a goat. Nothing spooky at all. "I don't know how ya got all the way up here, but ya don't know how glad I am it's you, mister," he said, patting the critter on the head. Gompers began chewing on the hem of the quilt, still draped over the old man. "C'mon, git!" said McGucket, "let me loose!" The goat did no such thing, and it yanked the quilt off McGucket's shoulders as it ran off into the dining room. Feeling silly for getting so worked up, the old man headed back into the hall. He knew it would be a pain to wake the Pines so early in the morning, but he figured that Gompers ought to be collected before he did any more damage to the old mansi--
Eyes.
So many glowing, glowering eyes.
Hundreds and hundreds of eyes were gazing at him as he entered the hall. Shadowy figures were in every corner of the room, whispering inaudibly at the frightened old man. McGucket could not see them fully in the darkness, but something about the way the silhouetted figures were moving unsettled him deeply. One of them, a hulking beast that towered over the rest, began to march its way toward him.
Screaming, McGucket ran out the door, banjo in tow, into the moonless night.