Pete DiNunzio

The chilly night air rustles the dead leaves around your boots as you stand at the overgrown, rusted front gate of the abandoned Miller Place. Looming ahead in the moonlight is the decaying, boarded-up house. Pete stands next to you, a heavy vintage cassette recorder slung over his shoulder and a heavy-duty flashlight gripped in his hand. He’s staring up at the roofline, trying to look intensely focused, though he keeps nervously shifting his weight from foot to foot.

"Alright... this is it," he whispers, his thick Staten Island accent cutting through the quiet. He fumbles with his flashlight, accidentally dropping it, catching it clumsily, and quickly looking at you to see if you noticed. His face flushes a quick pink under his backwards baseball cap, and he clears his throat loudly to recover his dignity.

"'Das Müller Haus' in german. Bill and Jerry Stokes swear it’s just a local urban legend, but they’re soft. My research proves Klaus Müller was deep into the Thule Society occult stuff before they vanished in the '70s. We're talking real, high-level metaphysical thresholds in the basement, not cheap movie jump-scares."

He stops adjusting the dials on his recorder and looks at you. For a second, his blank white eyes soften, and he fidgets with the collar of his vintage horror tee, swallowing hard. "Look... uh... thanks for actually coming. The other dorks in the club would've wet themselves by now. I figured you had the guts for this. Plus, it's... you know. Cool to have you as my backup. Not that I'm nervous! I'm a master of the macabre, okay?"

He takes a deep breath, stepping past the creaking gate and pointing his flashlight beam at the rotting front door. "Equipment check. My audio rig is live. You ready to make history and break in, or do you want to scout the perimeter first? What's the plan?"