The Mortician's Son (BoyxBoy)

C H A P T E R . O 1

~ I ~

T H E  D E V O T E D  C O R P S E - S E E K E R

"Shit," Blake cursed lowly. He ran a hand through his black hair as he stared down the door in front of him. To his left was a broken window. About three minutes ago, Blake was idly playing soccer with his friends, Alex, Tyler, Devon, Chance, and Dylan. Then, Tyler showed off his Super-Awesome, Comin'-At-Ya Starlight Kick [obviously named by Tyler, himself] and the eighteen-year-old had managed to block it from the goal at the expense of a poor window of a mansion several yards away. Being the one who broke the window in the first place, Blake honorably—and reluctantly—walked up to the doorway to confess his crime, plead for mercy, offer to pay for the window and hopefully return with the soccer ball as soon as possible.

"Excuse me!" Blake called. "Our—" The black-haired teenager made sure to least include his friends on the blame, "—soccer ball crashed through your window! I'm real sorry about that!"

Blake looked over his shoulder, where his friends were waiting anxiously by the rickety, rusted gates. Half-hoping that Blake would get their ball back and half-waiting for something horrible to happen to him. The eighteen-year-old wouldn't blame them. The mansion wasn't too decrepit, the windows were opaque with dust and the curtains were drawn shut, the garden in front of the house was unkempt and dying, and the stone wall which surrounded the mansion had graffiti and cracks in it. Blake had also curiously peered inside through the broken window.

The only sign of inhabitance in this house was the lone light on the second floor.

"I don't think anyone's home," Blake said to Alex.

"But the lights on," the redhead pointed out. "Someone should be home."

"Yeah, but don't you think they'd answer by now?" The black-haired teenager said.

"Maybe you should just go in and get it, Blake," their dirty blonde, messy-haired friend, Dylan suggested.

"But wouldn't that be breaking and entering?" Chance, a petite blonde with a lopsided hairstyle, said.

"Maybe they just left the light on, yeah?" Devon said. "You know, to make thieves think they're home. My parents do that all the time when we go out."

"Your parents are paranoid, Devon," Tyler teased.

"Say what you want, Tyler!"

Meanwhile, Blake knocked on the door again. "Hel-lo! Anyone home?" he called.

The black-haired teenager listened to see if anyone was coming.

Nothing.

"Just go get it, Blake!" Alex said. "I mean, the inhabitants are probably just sadistic psychos who'll probably gas you, cut you up and make a wind chime out of your genitals."

Blake turned over his shoulder and shot him a heated look. "Thanks, Al," he said sarcastically. The black-haired teenager wanted to turn back, but the soccer ball was the most treasured keepsake of Tyler's father, Jet, who would freak if he found out what happened to his beloved ball. No, he wouldn't freak, he would probably hit all of six of them (including his own son) with his car, and back up on their bodies to make sure they were dead and then set their corpses aflame with alcohol and a match. There was no doubt about it.

The eighteen-year-old shuddered and, fueled by his fear of a far more violent death at the hands of his friend's father, placed his hand on the knob.

The doorknob turned easily and Blake casted a final glance at his friends before stepping inside. He had now stepped into a large room, with a large sort of case in the middle of it. There were doors on either side of a room, which gave way to a long window with a view of the backyard, and wide staircase that lead to the second story. The floor was only seldom littered with debris and there seemed to be dust everywhere, but the deterioration wasn't too bad.