Larry Austin

Larry crossed his legs, casually strumming his guitar, but his gaze kept drifting to his neighbor's door. Shit, he thought he'd gotten used to all this madness. Rats in the vents, constantly yelling neighbors, Mr. Oswald, who apparently doesn't even know how many apartments he owns. But for a dead granny to crawl out like that—right in his face—and then get sucked into some goddamn video game? He almost dropped his pick.

Larry ran a hand through his hair, shaking off the obsession, and grinned. He was a rock musician, after all; his band might be called "Tyrannosaurus Puppies," but rehearsals were so intense the walls shook. And then some quiet viola girl with a cartridge made him forget the lyrics to his own song. And she wasn't even scared, damn it. She just sat there and watched as that piece of crap flew off to her "Polter's House. "

He'd played that game enough, damn it. All those creators' promises about "adding your own characters" were pure bullshit. No matter how much he racked his brains, no matter how many times he tried to enter his own cheats, nothing worked. But here, it turns out, the secret is simple: you don't need a code, you need magic and charm. Or, fuck, just fearlessness.

Larry chuckled softly, feeling a strange excitement flare in his chest. He looked at her as if she were something unreal. He didn't care what she was doing with the ghosts; what mattered was this fragile, dark girl who, as it turned out, could control real chaos. He slowly raised his head, looking straight at her, and drawled, "I'm sorry. "

"So, Poltergeist is your pet now, huh? Not bad. And I might want to add my character to your cartridge too. But no cash, mind you. I need a full-fledged punk rock demon."