Standing in the alley behind the Smithy in the light of the gas lamps, Peter stared at the old iron door uncertainty. DB stirred uneasily in his hood. Overhead the moon danced in and out of the clouds, making the illumination shift disconcertingly. That’s not creepy at all.

A skittering sound from nearby made Peter glance around nervously. He popped open his inventory and pulled out his weapon in preparation for an attack that never came. Twisting and turning, trying to see what had made the noise but nothing appeared. Slowly Peter calmed down and took a deep breath.

He then regretted doing so, coughing and spitting out the vile taste in his mouth. A disgusting stench was emanating from the grate set into the gutter nearby. Despite his better judgement, Peter bent down to try to get a look into the noxious darkness, holding his breath lest he get another lungful. His efforts were rewarded, another skittering sound vanishing off into the depths of the tunnel.

“Well DB, there’s something down there all right,” Peter grunted as he stood once more. “But phew, there’s no way I’m going down there right now.”

DB whimpered and put his paws over his nose.

“I know, right? So, what are we going to do?

His companion snuffled in Peter’s ear and pawed at his face. He then yawned and curled up in the hood again.

“You’re right, it’s been a big day. how about I drop you off at home and go see about dinner? Mum’s getting us Mexican.” He reached back and gave DB a rub, which the rat leaned into. “I know you don’t know what Mexican is, but it’s heaven wrapped in a tortilla.” He giggled as DB licked his finger. “Now I have to explain what a tortilla is, don’t I?”

It didn’t take long to get back to the temple, just around the corner in fact, but the creepiness didn’t dissipate until Peter was well inside the building. There was something eldritch about the way the mists curled around the base of the lamp posts and houses, pooling in alleys and coiling in tendrils around Peters legs as he had ascended the temple stairs that just gave him the willies. He took a pew nearest the pale glow of the temple font and let the feeling fade like the last remnants of the mist that had trailed in on his heels.

“Hey, that’s new,” Peter announced aloud to no-one in particular. One of the tapestries adorning the walls now showed a dark, winged figure hauling mightily on a line, at the other end of which thrashed a monstrous fish, churning up the water into maelstrom. “Man, I wish I looked that cool. Then again, I’m so glad it doesn’t show how it really ended. Not my best moment. Ok DB, let’s get you home, I’m starting to get hungry.”

With DB safely ensconced in front of the fire in a nest of cushions scavenged from the couch and a bowl of assorted nuts he had picked up from the tavern before leaving, Peter felt safe logging off for a bit. “Sleep well little buddy, I’ll be back after dinner. Hopefully it’ll be light here by then and we can see what’s making noises underground.”

Peter closed his eyes as he logged off, then opened them in the real world. Then closed them and opened them again. There was no difference in light levels in either state. Oh no! I’ve gone blind! He thrashed around, tangling himself in his sheets like a net but destroying his pillow fort. Oh, right.

It was a little brighter now, but the sun had clearly set. The rush hour orchestra was warming up outside the window, the horns were playing “get a move on” in D minor and the emergency services wailing away at “someone’s having a bad day” in the wings. Peter extricated himself from his bed clothes before they cut off his circulation and flicked on the lights.

“Mum?” he called, pulling on his favorite collared shirt and a nice pair of shorts. “Are you up yet?”

No response.

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“Mum?” Peter hopped into the hall, pulling on a sock.

Silence.

Leaning on his mother’s door, one sockless foot in the air, Peter knocked loudly. “You said to wake you up.” He listened for a moment. “Are you up?”

The door was wrenched open and his mother stood there sporting the latest in banshee chic, wild hair standing on end and bloodshot eyes just the perfect shade of red. “Peter! You’re as bad as your father. How many times must I tell you to use your inside voice?”

“Sorry Mum,” Peter whispered.

“Better,” his mother brushed past on the way to the bathroom, “now go and put on a nice shirt for dinner.”

Peter looked down at the shirt he had on. It was a neatly ironed black button-down with the insignia of his favorite Marvel character in a repeating pattern all over it. He opened his mouth to ask what was wrong with it, but the bathroom door had already closed. Grumbling, he stomped into his room and pulled out a different button-down shirt, one without any stated allegiance and dragged it over his head without undoing the top button, nearly tearing it off in the process. Checking himself in the mirror he found his shorts no longer matched the shirt, so he pulled out a pair of trousers of an appropriate colour and pulled them on.

No sooner had he done up the button on his trousers when his mother stuck her head around the door and looked pointedly at Peter’s feet. “How long does it take to put on a pair of socks?” she demanded. “Don’t you want to go out for dinner?”

Peter quickly dove on the errant sock and stuck his foot in it. “I do, please. I’ll be ready in a minute.”

“One minute then. I’ll be waiting by the door.”

Jamming his feet into his shoes, Peter tucked the laces into the top and dashed out to find his mother standing by the door looking at her watch and one hand on the knob. “Ready,” he announced.

Opening the door, his mother ushered Peter out with an “Off we go then.”

Despite the rocky beginning, his mother defrosted as the night went on. From irritable as the mini enchiladas arrived to amicable over shared nachos to positively jovial by the time the ice cream was finished. Peter made sure to avoid mentioning school in any way shape or form and he was sure there was something she wasn’t telling him either, so they discussed stories they had read and shows watched recently. Peter was careful not to touch on the fact that he was still playing TAOS&S, but did bring up his new interest in Steampunk as a genre.

“I remember your grandad talking about that when I was your age,” his mother said, waving a spoonful of pistachio flavoured ice cream around. “He even had a tattoo of, like, clockwork or something, on his shoulder.”

“Grandad had a tatt?” Peters eyes widened in surprise. “He never told me that!”

“There’s,” his Mum took a long sip of her drink, “there’s a lot of things your grandad didn’t, didn’t tell you. Did he ever mention that he was an electrician when he was younger? Got zapped, like, twenty something times.”

“That sounds super painful,” Peter replied, imagining what it might be like to die from electrocution. “How did he even live long enough to be a father, let alone a grandad?”

His mother closed her eyes for a long second. “Just lucky, I guess. He always said he’d exhausted his luck when he met Mum, so I’m glad he went back to uni.”

“I never got to meet Grandma,” Peter lamented. “All I have is pictures. What was she like?”

His mother pushed her bowl away and drained her drink. “She was a wonderful person, Peter, kind, dedicated. She, she was a teacher and loved the snow.” His mother closed her eyes again. “I’ll always remember our first trip to the snow. So cold, so white.” She drew in a deep breath and slowly blew it out her nose. “Alright. I’m full, how about you?”

“Aww, I was hoping for more stories about Grandma and Grandad,” Peter whined.

“Not tonight. I’m pretty… tired. How about tomorrow, after you’re done studying we can talk more if you’re still interested.”

Stung by the reminder that he was supposed to be studying, and that he had essentially wasted the whole day playing, whatever appetite and curiosity peter might have had vanished instantly. “Sure, that sounds great.”

Settling the bill and wandering out into the car park, the night air prickling Peter’s skin as they waited for the car to bring itself around to the valet stand. His mother swayed slightly on her feet, no doubt exhausted from the week. They climbed into the car and once their seatbelts were buckled his mother spoke the activation phrase Peter had been dreading. “Home James, and don’t spare the horses.” The steering wheel retracted into the dash and the pedals lifted themselves out of reach.

“Mum, do you have to use the autopilot?” Peter asked nervously.

His mother rubbed her face before replying. “Sorry honey. I’m beat. Besides, as much as I love driving manual the science says autopilot is safer.”

“I know, I know,” Peter gripped the edges of his seat, “but I still don’t trust it.”