Chapter 12: "Come On, Baby! Don't Be Shy!"
Third floor.
Realizing he wouldn't get any coherent information from Ted's distracted rambling, Rango decided to investigate himself.
He scanned the hallway carefully, and after confirming he didn't see anyone resembling a maid, he turned to M3GAN, who'd followed him upstairs. "Before this house became known as the Murder House, how many people died here? Were any of them servants?"
M3GAN's eyes flickered briefly as data streamed across her optical sensors. "According to publicly available records, three separate families experienced fatal incidents in this residence. The third family employed a live-in maid. On the night of the incident, the wife returned home unexpectedly and discovered her husband engaged in an extramarital affair with said maid. In a crime of passion, she shot and killed both her husband and the domestic employee."
Rango nodded grimly. They died decades ago, and now one had reappeared in the exact location of her death.
Classic residual haunting. A spirit tied to a specific location by trauma.
What bothered him, though, was that according to online records, three families had died here. Were there more deaths that weren't publicly documented?
And more importantly—was this maid ghost the only supernatural entity in the house?
After considering the possibilities, Rango formed a plan.
This place had to be connected to some movie or TV show—he just couldn't remember which one. He'd watched plenty of horror movies, but TV shows? He'd never been much of a binge-watcher.
Feeling the system pulsing in his palm, Rango smiled confidently and headed back downstairs.
"Nothing to worry about. Let's eat."
For someone who'd explored haunted locations and forbidden places across Africa, witnessed genuinely bizarre phenomena, and charged his system's progress bar to 99% in the process, a few ghosts who didn't even have the courage to show themselves directly...
Well, they weren't exactly a major concern.
After finishing the excellent meal M3GAN had prepared, Rango said goodnight to his companions and headed to his bedroom to shower and sleep.
Night shift work was genuinely exhausting. If he worked days, he'd have the whole evening for relaxation and entertainment after dinner.
But with the night shift? He could barely keep his eyes open after work. All he wanted was to eat well, sleep hard, and then drag himself back to the museum for another shift.
The fatigue after night work was purely physical—there was no energy left for leisure activities.
Even though the hours were technically the same, it felt like he had far less free time than with a normal schedule.
Yawning, Rango pulled off his shirt, revealing his muscular torso. After a quick stretch, he headed into the bathroom, turned on the shower, and stepped under the hot water.
That's when he felt it—a faint burning sensation in his palm. The system was detecting something.
Rango's expression didn't change. He continued humming casually, eyes closed, leisurely shampooing his hair under the spray.
"I tried so hard, and got so far, but in the end, it doesn't even matter!"
He belted out the Linkin Park lyrics, rinsed the soap from his hair, and opened his eyes to grab a towel.
Then he saw what was happening and his jaw tightened.
The clear hot water pouring from the showerhead had turned dark crimson—thick, viscous, and reeking with a metallic, coppery smell.
Blood. Or at least, a very convincing illusion of it.
SWOOSH!
Rango ripped the shower curtain aside, his eyes blazing with fury as he glared at the empty bathroom.
"Motherfucker! You want to mess with me while I'm showering?!" he roared at the apparently empty room. "I'm warning you right now—stay the hell away from me! If I catch you, I will beat your ectoplasmic ass so hard you'll wish you stayed dead!"
CRACK!
Before he'd even finished the threat, his fist shot out and slammed into the tile wall beside him. Blue light flashed around his knuckles, and the ceramic tiles exploded into fragments. The air itself seemed to shudder.
Instantly, the blood-like liquid turned clear again. Through the bathroom doorway, Rango caught a glimpse of a maid-uniformed figure fleeing in panic, passing directly through the bedroom wall.
"Weak-ass parlor tricks," Rango muttered, grabbing his towel and drying off. "Pathetic."
He'd learned in Africa that low-level ghosts and spirits had a natural fear of people who were genuinely dangerous—people who'd killed, who carried violence in their bones, who didn't scare easily.
Ghosts were bullies, essentially. They preyed on the vulnerable and avoided the strong.
In other words, they only haunted people they thought they could frighten.
However...
As Rango dried himself, thinking about the fleeing maid ghost, a hint of amusement crossed his face.
"First time I've ever seen a ghost wearing fishnets and heels."
A few minutes later, Rango lay down in bed, ready for some much-needed sleep. He still had another night shift to power through, so rest was essential.
The animated exhibits at the museum were far more exhausting to deal with than the ghosts in this house.
As for M3GAN and Ted, he wasn't particularly worried. M3GAN was an emotionless android—illusions and psychological manipulation wouldn't work on her. And Ted was even more cynical and suspicious than Rango himself. The bear would bolt at the first sign of serious trouble.
Rango stretched, pulled back the comforter, and was about to climb into bed when his palm suddenly flared with intense heat.
Before he could react, something wrapped around his waist—something with thick, hairy legs.
A disgustingly cloying voice whispered in his ear: "Kiss me, baby!"
"SON OF A BITCH!"
Rango launched himself off the bed like he'd been electrocuted. He immediately grabbed the comforter and ripped it back, his right fist cocked and ready to smash whatever the hell had just touched him.
The punch met only air.
A moment later, giggling laughter came from beside the bed. A man wearing nothing but a leather thong—his body covered in disturbingly abundant body hair—was gazing at Rango with what he apparently thought was a seductive expression.
His face matched exactly one of the men from those Polaroids in the basement suitcase.
Seeing Rango looking at him, the ghost pursed his lips and adopted what he clearly believed was an alluring pose. "Come on, baby! Don't be shy!"
"FUCK YOU!"
Rango's fury exploded. He lunged forward without hesitation.
The ghost—clearly expecting fear, not aggression—froze in complete shock.
By the time his supernatural brain caught up to what was happening, Rango's blue-glowing fist had already connected with his face, sending him flying several meters backward to crash into the wall.
"OW! OW! IT HURTS!"
The ghost struggled to his feet, stunned. The spot where Rango's fist had connected was emitting thick black smoke, the spiritual equivalent of a serious injury. He didn't have time to process how a living human could physically touch him—all he knew was that his face felt like it was on fire.
He opened his mouth to call for help.
Rango, whose rage had reached critical mass, didn't give him the chance. He crossed the distance in two strides and unleashed a brutal combination of punches.
This was the most disgusted he'd been in his entire life. Just thinking about that hairy-legged embrace made him hit even harder.
The ghost who'd been flirting and posing seconds ago was now lying broken in the corner, covered in wounds, wreathed in black smoke, and clearly in agony.
Rango, feeling his anger finally starting to subside, took a deep breath and glared down at the barely-conscious spirit.
Finally caught one of these bastards alive—well, alive-ish.
He reached down to grab the ghost for interrogation, but before he could make contact, a pair of pale hands suddenly reached through the wall behind the spirit and seized him by the shoulders.
Rango lunged forward, trying to stop it, but he was a split-second too late. The injured ghost was yanked backward through the wall and disappeared.
"MOTHERFUCKER!"
Rango's fist slammed into the wall where the ghost had vanished, leaving a sizable dent in the drywall.
Downstairs, Ted and M3GAN looked up at the ceiling as loud crashes and cursing echoed from the second floor.
"Should we check on him?" Ted asked.
M3GAN's head tilted. "Vital signs indicate elevated heart rate and adrenaline, but no physiological distress. Analysis suggests he is engaged in combat with a supernatural entity."
"So... he's fine?"
"He appears to be winning."
"Cool. Want to watch TV?"
"I would enjoy that."
They settled onto the couch as more crashing sounds came from upstairs, followed by Rango's voice shouting something anatomically improbable about what he was going to do to the ghosts if they showed their faces again.
"He's really adjusting well to the Murder House," Ted observed.
"His aggression levels are actually quite therapeutic," M3GAN noted. "Physical confrontation with supernatural entities provides an excellent outlet for accumulated stress from his night shift employment."
"You're saying fighting ghosts is good for him?"
"Psychologically speaking, yes."
"Huh." Ted grabbed the remote. "Want to watch Golden Girls?"
"An excellent choice."
Upstairs, Rango stood in his bedroom, breathing hard, staring at the wall where the ghost had disappeared.
His palm was still burning—the system detecting multiple supernatural presences throughout the house.
This wasn't over. Not by a long shot.
But now he knew something important: whatever ghosts haunted this Murder House, they could be hurt. They could feel pain.
Which meant they could be controlled.
Rango allowed himself a grim smile.
If these ghosts thought they were going to drive him out of his own house, they had severely underestimated who they were dealing with.
He climbed into bed, pulled the covers up, and closed his eyes.
Tomorrow night, he'd deal with the museum.
But after that? He was going to have a very serious conversation with every ghost in this house about boundaries, respect, and the consequences of unwanted physical contact.
As he drifted off to sleep, Rango's last conscious thought was simple:
Nobody messes with him in the shower and gets away with it.
Nobody.