There was so much wrong with this place.

It was on the outskirts of a dense, twisted wood, sitting just north of a dark, murky lake. In its fat splendor, it squatted on a bank. The once charming scarlet paint was gone, save for a few patches here and there. Yellowed curtains slumped over wide windows, some of the fabric molding and rotted away. Short pumpkins grew in clumps around the decaying manor like bulky weeds. It was clear that nobody had been here to help with the upkeep of this place. However, there were lights coming from inside, warm tones illuminating a stained-glass window. The monogrammed crimson letter beckoned in the cloudy sky, drawing the vehicles approaching the dilapidated manor closer and closer to its traps.

All it needed now was a cloud of bats and a clap of thunder.

Now that the Scout stopped to think about it, this whole adventure was boiling down into something out of a cartoon. He was stuck in a hippie van—a Kombinationskraftwagen, whatever—with four others. One of them constantly ate sandwiches. Another had a gas mask on and could hardly be understood by anyone. Yet another wore masks and preformed devious tasks daily. Basically, a crook. The Scout wasn't sure how the Medic worked into this. Maybe he was the one who always lost his glasses. That made sense. Where that left the Scout in this equation, he didn't want to know.

There it was. Today was more or less a Scooby Doo episode.

On Halloween.

Good God, that idea sounded awful.

After what had been a three-hour drive, the Scout was happy to get out of the van. He hated sitting still for so long, particularly in a cramped space. When the Medic pulled the Kombi to a halt, the Scout flung himself out of the backseat. He took a moment to stretch, working the kinks out of his joints. Stupid German vans. At least there hadn't been any car games. While his teammates unloaded their items from the back of the van, he took a moment to glance around the manor once more. Nope. Still boring.

"Tell me why we're out here again?" the Scout asked. "Do we gotta fight here? I mean, looks like a smelly old house to me. Probably doesn't have cable or nothin'."

The Heavy shook his head. "Nyet! Is grand home! Good vacation."

"A vacation? In October? Ya nuts?" The Scout began hauling his things out of the trunk. "Dhat Administrator's probably got somethin' up her sleeve. Probably, like, I don't know. Trap doors. Paintin's with eyes that follow ya around the room. Stuff like dhat."

The Medic shook his head, grabbing two suitcases out of the back. "Really, Scout. I vould expect zhat by now, you vould have grown out of such childish nonsense. It is nozhing more zhan a new location to fight. Zhat is all. No tricks, no traps, no ghosts."

"Ghosts? I didn't say nothin' about no ghosts." Now he had a new thing to obsess over. The Scout turned to the Pyro. "Ghosts are flammable, right?"

The rubber-suited man shrugged. "Ahf nerfer bet bun."

The Spy rolled his eyes, annoyed with the topic. He shooed the Scout away from his belongings. "I will have to agree with zhe Medic. It's a foolish suggestion. Perhaps you should ease off of zhose ridiculous comic books for a while."

"Fine. Fine. I'll drop it. Just tell me if you find any traps, all right? Don't wanna get holed up here." The Scout took his pack and threw it into the manor's entry. What a bunch of killjoys.

Still, it had to have been a better ride than what the other vehicle experienced. Their companion vehicle—an olive Land Rover—pulled into the front circle. Funny. The Scout thought they'd arrive first. Maybe they had pulled over and used a rest stop. That seemed unlikely, considering the numbers of glass jars in that camper and their nefarious purpose. When everyone abandoned the vehicle, most of the passengers looked like they had been blasted in a wind tunnel. This was, of course, for the exception of the red-faced Soldier, who was now proceeding to drill the van's former riders.

"All right, troops! One last time!" The Soldier cracked a riding crop against his left hand, going down a rather unusual list in his head. "Zombies!"

The Sniper started first, weary from the drive and the lecture. "Shoot 'em in the head. Set 'em on fire."

The Soldier rewarded him with an open-handed swat on the shoulder. "Good! Vampires!"

"Stake 'em in the heart, and then you eat garlic and order a pizza and I dunno." Lucky for the Demoman, he was half-way drunken already. The migraine from the Soldier's lecture was disappearing in a scrumpy buzz.

"Close enough!" The Soldier spun on his heels, now interrogating the Engineer. "Frankenstein!"

The Engineer's temper was running thin. He responded with flat disinterest. "Ya don't kill Frankenstein. Ya kill his monster."

The Soldier was about to correct the Engineer but stopped in his tracks. "Huh. That's correct. How did they kill that monster, anyway?"

"In the book? They didn't." The Texan pulled a heavy toolbox out of the back of the camper, grunting with the effort. "Now, are ya done with this monster nonsense, or are ya gonna be at it all day?"

This drew a sharp, heavy laugh from the Soldier. He marched around his teammates, careful not to interfere with their work. "Gentlemen, it is Halloween. And I know that maybe you skirt-twirling Tories didn't get a proper education on what that is about, but let me make it perfectly clear. It's the most fatal night to anyone in America. Particularly teenagers. I will not let you all go into the night unprepared! Furthermore, I will not let you suck my blood or eat my flesh when and if you succumb to the forces of darkness. Do I make myself clear?"

"Dhat is totally what I was sayin'," The Scout interrupted the Soldier's drill. "I mean, look at this place, ya know? Looks like a death trap to me."

"You are correct, son. I'm glad I have one man who follows my lead." The Soldier clapped the boy on the back. "Let's go fortify the guest suites. I get the feeling that we won't be alone tonight."

The Scout was quick to follow him, only pausing once to wonder how incredibly odd that sounded.

The interior of the manor was off-putting. Many of the walls were decorated with peeling portraits, all swathed with wallpaper as lewd and flashy as a candy striper's skirt. Most of the floors were planked with thick wood. In a few well-trafficked areas, red and gold rugs lay across the paths. Bookshelves sat like honeycombs along some of the lounges and studies. Rooms were falling apart, ceilings collapsing into floors. That didn't even begin to describe the state of the barns just outside the main residence. Nor the secret passageways. The wine cellar. The state of the half-century old regenerator was enough to make her skin crawl, the steam-powered leviathan clogged with spider webs and dead rodents. How it had ever been made functional again, she didn't know. Neither Engineer had looked at the contraption. The Administrator had to be out of her mind to want the teams to be here, never-the-less to fight here.

And yet, Miss Pauling could see why her superior wanted to be here. It had a certain charm to it, at any rate. It could make for an interesting battleground.

She watched the team unpacking below her in the main courtyard. Given the choice between the two, this was her favorite group. While they were lagging by a half of a percent behind the other team, they were pleasant to converse with. She didn't have to worry about them trying to sneak off the base to pull shenanigans or having them smuggling in contraband. There were some odd quirks about the team, to be honest, but at least she didn't have to routinely scold them on behalf of the Administrator.

"So, when are the others arriving?" Miss Pauling asked.

A dark voice fumed from the loveseat towards the back of the study. She released a silent tobacco fog into the air before answering her subordinate. "They aren't."

The assistant lifted her sharp-rimmed frames. "Pardon?"

"The other team will not be joining us this evening," the voice clarified. "Don't worry, though. I have something better planned for our guests."

There was nothing about that statement that sat well with Miss Pauling. She felt her stomach take a small turn. Nervous fingers fidgeted around a loose, black strand of hair. The motion drew a low chuckle from the woman in the study's chair. In order to keep Miss Pauling from spilling the beans on her plans, sometimes her boss was intentionally terse or misleading. Miss Pauling assumed that this was one of those times.

She didn't push the subject further. "What do you need me to do?"

Her commander glanced at an antique clock. Almost time. "Join them in the dining room at seven."

"O-okay." Miss Pauling frowned, but quickly corrected her expression. It was always in the simplest of tasks that her employer's most sinister schemes took root. "I didn't think we had a chef here."

"Oh, this old house has dozens of surprises," the crone hissed. "You might be amazed."

Miss Pauling grimaced. She'd be taking her revolver with her tonight.

Everything in the dining hall was too neat. Too clean. Somebody had anticipated their arrival, ten china sets spread out across the table. Utensils were in perfect order, napkins folded and bound with metallic rings. Cards sat on the plates, folded horizontally and bearing the team's class names in gold, cursive writing. This should have sent warning bells ringing in the Spy's head. Ten places? Missing or unseen staff members? Personalized cards? This did not make sense.

Perhaps the Scout had not been so daft as to suggest a trap lay in wait for them.

The Engineer was not so hesitant. He took his seat, unrolling the napkin next to his plate. "Man, I'm starvin'. I don't think I've eaten in a place this fancy since—well, gosh. I can't recall."

The overly-trusting Texan was joined by the Sniper. Couple of naïve saps. "Ditto. I don't know what ya packed, but I think it threw my back out."

"Little man needs to do more work," The Heavy was the next to sit. "Go plow fields for many years. Then, you have more strength. Maybe."

Something prickled at the back of the Spy's neck. He leaned against the table, refusing to completely surrender to the card's wishes. "Don't you all zhink zhat something is off?"

Now it was the Medic's turn to rebuke him. "You are getting as bad as zhe Scout. Do not be so flighty."

"Indeed. You'll just upset our host." The Soldier dropped the Demoman into his seat, shaking him out of his drunken stupor. He sat down in turn, quick to start playing with his utensils. "I mean, assuming we ever see them and they're not zombies or something."

The Pyro nodded, sitting down next. He pointed across the table to a card opposite his own. "Rooks rik Miff Paufin if err."

The Scout took the card and gave it a glance. "Huh. Wonder why she'll be joining us?"

"It is probably just protocol. Look, I zhink zhat ve are all a little too vorked up over zhis. Let us just sit down and enjoy our meal. Gott villing, zhe booze as well." With those words, the Medic managed to coax the Scout to his seat. It hadn't convinced the Spy, but he'd at least gotten the Frenchman to settle down.

The Demoman was quick to agree. "Here, here! And if the bastards do not have good drink, then a pox on all of their houses and wiveses and childreneses."

That drew another cheer from the crasser teammates. The Spy shook his head but gave up. At this point, it wasn't going to make much of a difference anyway. Even if there was some kind of nefarious trap waiting to close around him, it wasn't like standing or sitting was going to make a difference. He took his place, then folded his napkin across his lap. He almost wondered if he should have changed into the dining jacket he brought. Oh, well. The gesture would have been lost on his teammates. Maybe not Miss Pauling, though.

Speaking of which, the short little gal arrived. The entire team was quick to acknowledge her with a confused mumble of multinational greetings. She smiled, taking her seat at the very end of the dining table. The Spy's instincts trembled, but just for a moment. Something was off about Miss Pauling. She seemed meeker than usual. Not that she was a loud bird by any means, but she usually had this cool, confident demeanor. She was just a touch different. What was it? Nervousness? Embarrassment?

Well, the Spy had to know. "I'm assuming zhat since you are here, zhen so is the Administrator. So, what is she doing?"

"I'm afraid I don't know what you mean." Miss Pauling put up a front. A good one, sure, but something that the Spy could easily remove.

The Spy was quick to continue his pursuit. "She has got something treacherous in store for us, does she not?"

"Now, Spoi." The Sniper broke the sudden tension building between the Spy and the assistant. "Cool it, would you?"

"No, no, man. I wanna know, too!" For once, the Scout was completely on the Spy's side. "What's dhe Admin up to? Like, you don't have to say dhat you told us or anything. Just let us know!"

Miss Pauling smiled. She pulled her seat closer to the table before speaking. "I know as much as you all."

The Spy didn't know how to take the answer. It seemed honest enough. He let it go, tilting his head to the side. He could hear a grandfather clock going off in the hallway. One, Two. A pleasant enough tone. Three, Four. He slid back into his chair, trying to get more comfortable. Five, Six. The toe of his shoe scraped across a seam. Wait. Was that a—

Seven.

The floor opened beneath him. The Spy fell through ten feet of darkness, followed by a sharp thunk at the bottom. He could hear the collapse of his teammates around him, muffled through the floor's construction. There was something bright beneath him, spinning at a fantastic rate. It looked to be at least fifty years old, constructed with ornate metal beams and klutzy bits of shrapnel. Something completely out of his time, and yet, something familiar. The entrance to a teleporter.

The Spy cussed as the machine fired. "Merde."

Author's Note

There. That should give you a good start.

I'm not gonna lie—I'm a little proud of myself. I wrote about the Scout and the Spy for once! Hell, I even started working on the Pyro. I never work with those three! This is a fun and strange new world for me.

I was originally going to make a very dark, semi-surreal horror story for Halloween. Then I whiplashed. Not that I don't enjoy writing completely creepy stuff, but sometimes I need to lay off. So, I decided to go with something a little zanier. Not saying that I won't try and be threatening from time to time, but I want you to have a lot of fun reading this.

Well? Are you?