Scared, Potter?

Harry pressed his face against the window of the Hogwart's express, watching the expansive green countryside fly by. Dudley's funeral had been the day before. Closed casket, of course, and no one had bothered to comment on the buick-sized coffin. It had cost Vernon Dursley a good year of income to purchase the custom built, stainless steel casket that now housed his only son.

Harry had to admit, the funeral was quite beautiful. Although he couldn't stand Dudley, he couldn't help but feel a great pain in his heart. A family member of his...a constant in his life...was gone.

There was that...and the unfortunate fact that Harry was still a virgin. Oh, the woes of the Boy Who Lived! The disconcerting gloom began to overwhelm his troubled mind, and he let loose a deep sigh of pained misery.

Hermione Granger sat beside Harry, her hand on his shoulder, patting him in what she hoped was a comforting manner. Ron Weasley sat across from the two, his face white with shock. Ron had been in a constant stasis of panic ever since Hedwig had arrived with Harry's letter (which had related the death of his cousin). Fred and George Weasley sat next to Ron, and - most unfortunately - were turning purple with their attempts to hold in laughter.

"Honestly, boys!" Hermione's voice was corrosive acid. "Have you no sympathy? Harry has just told you his cousin was murdered! In the most brutal of ways! Someone fed him green jello until he died!"

Harry shut his eyes tight. "I think it's how he would have wanted to go." Fred managed to tame a shout of laughter into quite a painful snort, and he quickly clapped his hands over his face.

"Fred!" Hermione tightened her grip on Harry's shoulder. "Show some respect for the dead!" Fred pretended to quail under her signature death glare, but wisely kept his mouth shut.

"So what does gluttony mean anyways?" asked Ron, in a thick sort of voice. Ginny, seated lonesome at the far end of the compartment, glanced up from her remarkably evil looking text and stared at him. She snorted derisively, highly disgusted that she could be related to such a stupid boy.

Ron caught her glare of disapproval, and shot her the finger.

Seconds later, a jet of pink light struck Ron in the side, and his fingernails turned a scandalous shade of red.

"Goddammit, Ginny!" shouted Ron, rising from his seat in anger. "You promised you'd never do that again!" Ginny tittered behind one hand, and muttered something that sounded quite a lot like...something that can't be repeated here (this story is R-rated after all). Ron let fly a few choice expletives of his own, and set to work trying to reverse the streetwalker nail spell (courtesy of "Witch Weekly"). Ron swore he'd set his own arse on fire before he'd touch that heinous magazine - whether or not the counter spell was listed in it did not matter.

George and Fred kept elbowing each other, and Harry turned a wary eye toward them. Their laughter was like a tidal wave, waiting anxiously to pour out and cover everyone. It was a hard choice, this: infectious laughter, or dark brooding. Both made Harry look nice, he was sure of that. However, brooding was bound to bring along more women...

At that moment, the compartment doors burst open and Neville Longbottom came tearing in. He tripped on his robes and landed in a heap at Hermione's feet. Sighing, she extended a hand to help him up, but Neville's head shot up first and he locked eyes with Harry.

"Harry!" he rasped, breathlessly. "I've only just heard the news! I'm so sorry!"

"It's fine, Neville, thanks," Harry said politely. Neville's eyes shimmered in pure, unadulterated innocence.

"Is it true they had to use a crane to get the casket into the grave?"

That did it. George and Fred finally let loose on their laughter, and collapsed to the ground in guffaws. Harry turned his head to the window, and silently prayed that no one saw he was also enjoying the post-funeral roast.

*** *** ***

Two hours later, Harry was seated in a carriage, on his way up to Hogwarts Castle. Soon school would start, and a new chapter of his life would open. A new chapter of manhood, courage, and girls. He was fifteen now. So what if he'd just hit puberty two weeks ago? New doors opened every single day.

Harry turned his forehead into the velvet-covered side of the carriage and watched the dark expanse of Hogwarts' entrance pass by. Hermione, Neville, and Rons' chatter soon became white noise in the background of Harry's spinning mind as he watched the fat raindrops slide down the carriage window.

'Interesting...' he thought to himself. 'That massive thunderstorms always seem to spring up at the drop of a hat." A bolt of white-hot lightening shattered the sky, ominously close to Hogwarts' borders. In that instant, the countryside was set alight for a moment, and Harry's eyes opened wide. A sight, unlike any he had ever beheld before, seared itself into his memory.

The outside world went dark again, and Harry pulled his face away from the window in terror.

The white noise of chatter stopped immediately, and all eyes turned toward him.

"Harry," Hermione asked shrilly, "Are you all right?" Harry opened his mouth and shut it again. He glanced toward the window once more, but the darkness shrouded his hope for any concrete, sensible conclusion against what he had just seen.

"Hermione?" His question was barely a whisper, and Harry knitted his brow together, as though searching for the proper way to word his request. Hermione cocked her head in preparation for the coming inquiry.

"Are there any graveyards on Hogwarts' property?" Ron raised an eyebrow, and Neville began to wish for a shot of firewhiskey.

"No, Harry. Not that I'm aware of." Hermione's answer was swift, as always, but somehow Harry felt that Hermione was not as sure as she sounded. Perhaps it was the storm. Perhaps it was the fact that Harry had seen something Hermione could not explain. Or perhaps it was nothing at all. Harry staunchly ignored his conscience, which had begun shouting 'Conspiracy!' at the top of its intangible lungs. He removed his glasses, and scrubbed his eyes with the back of his hand.

Unexpectedly, the carriage came to an abrupt halt, sending Harry and Ron flying into Hermione and Neville.

"Well, fecking great," snapped Ron, hastily pulling himself from Neville's lap. "Always a joy, these bloody carriages! Excellent welcome to the new school year, I'd say, by catapulting us into the laps of our mates!" Harry laughed nervously, and extricated himself from Hermione's robes. If the traditional Hogwarts welcome consisted of Dumbledore's speech, a great feast, and a trip into Hermione's lap, then it wasn't all that bad...

*** *** ***

Following the start of school, Harry found himself thrust into a rigorous, and unbelievably time-consuming routine. His schedule of school and Quidditch (not to mention his endless task of gazing at girls and then running from them as soon as they spoke), Harry found himself putting the traumatic memories of Dudley Dursley's grisly death on a shelf in the 'Will Think/Brood About Later' section of his mind. Before he knew it, October thirty-first loomed on the horizon...

"So, what'll you be wearing to the Halloween Ball, then?" Harry asked Ron, stifling a yawn.

"I've not got the slightest idea," Ron said truthfully. Professor Dumbledore had announced that the usual - and, let's face it, rather boring - Halloween celebration (which, previously, had consisted only of a few strategically placed pumpkins, masses of candy, and a group of disgruntled Rent-A-Bats who often became bored and dive-bombed the Hufflepuff table after the first half hour) would be retired in favor of a more festive gala. A Ball would be implemented; all attendees must be in costume, and the candy, of course, would still apply. The Rent-A-Bats would be in attendance too, serving as security guards. They would be temporarily replacing the usual Hogwarts security guards (a team which consisted entirely of Sir Cadogan and his fat pony). Ever since the announcement in early October, every single female at Hogwarts had been tittering over the sensual costumes they would put together. The boys, however, were more or less confused. And now, here it was, the evening before the ball, and Ron had no idea what the hell he was going to do. Oh, he had been to costuming shop in Hogsmeade with Harry, Seamus, and Dean, but had found nothing to his liking. Perhaps all the good costumes had gone...

I'll sleep on it, he told himself, as he had told himself every night since the announcement. With that, he bid Harry good night, and adjourned to bed.

*** *** ***

The next day, classes passed by more slowly then they ever had before. Everyone was squirming in anticipation for the coming evening. When the final bell rolled around, the entirety of Hogwarts students, even Hermione (who was generally never found outside the library), disappeared into their respective dormitories. Ron stood in front of his mirror, rereading the list he had received from Lavender. She had approached him a mere two hours before the Halloween festivites with a much-needed costume proposal. Desperately, Ron had accepted, seeing as though he had no other costume ideas. His reflection stared at him in utter shock.

"Oh, bleeding Christ! This is quite the change! And not in a good way! Do fix your moustache, and then leave. You are terrifying me!"

Ron grinned at the mirror. "That's the idea!"

The mirror began to scream, and shimmer in purple tinges of fury. "Stop smiling! I'll bloody well crack and shatter! Seven years bad luck on your head, young man!"

"Ah, fuck you! What do you know?" hissed Ron, as he whirled away from the howling mirror. With one final adjustment to his top hat, he left the tower to join the party, leaving his list behind. Had he stayed a moment longer, he would've noticed that the ink on the page began to run, smear, and form new words...

*** *** ***

Harry, dressed as a mid-80's punk star complete with leather, silver chains, and a blue Mohawk, stood with Seamus and Dean, against the punch table. Seamus was wrapped in skin-tight yellow and blue spandex. Eight shining, silver claws were glued to each of his knuckles, Wolverine style. Dean, in heritage to his ancestors, was dressed as Bob Marley. They made quite an interesting, if clashing, trio.

"Can you believe it?" Seamus was positively fuming. "We try to be fashionably late by fifteen minutes, and we're among the first ones here!"

"We should've waited an hour, like I suggested," replied Dean, in a wickedly accurate Jamaican accent. Seamus shot him a victimized look.

"Actually, it's a perfect time to put my evil plan into play," Harry whispered to them. There was no mistaking the sinister undertone to his voice. Seamus and Dean looked at him in slight fear - they were among the very few who actually recalled the mysterious summer incident. And they couldn't quite shake off the fact that his own cousin's murder had gone unsolved and Harry was the one to "find" the body.

Harry grinned at the two, and withdrew a flask from his leather jacket. Seamus broke into a wide grin, his terror forgotten in the face of an obvious liquor flask.

"You do the Irish proud, mate!" he said adoringly, as Harry began to pour the magically enhanced flask into the punch bowl.

"Six bottles of Muggle vodka," Harry beamed proudly. "Stole it from the Dursleys before I left. Petunia's got one hell of a stash." He grinned even more wickedly. "I 'fixed' it with a Tasteless Charm. No one will know it's there. Until things get wild, that is." As if on cue, students, all of who were below the legal drinking age, began to pour into the Great Hall. Neville made a beeline for his three roommates. He wore a standard Robin Hood costume, complete with tights. Harry vaguely wondered in Neville had lost a bet with someone. The answer (unbeknownst to him...but knownst to us...hahaha) was no. Neville had valiantly fought his way into the shimmering green tights on his own accord.

"Have some punch, Neville," offered Seamus.

"Thanks, mate." Neville drained the proffered cup in one gulp. Harry, Seamus, and Dean grinned at him, which caused Neville to suddenly feel cornered. Seamus took him aside, and explained their little 'trick'.

"We call it Gryffindor Madness, Neville. Have a go then!" Dean threw an arm around him and pushed a cup to Neville's mouth. Neville resisted at first, but after two or three cups of the sweet punch forcibly poured down his throat by his friends, he gave in to the inevitable realization that it was an excellent trick to pull.

"Well, will you look at that puff!" quipped Dean suddenly, and Harry followed his gaze. Draco Malfoy had entered the hall, solo, and dressed as a 70's pimp (complete with a purple felt hat, black leather bellbottoms and platform boots). He looked quite pleased with himself and went straight for the punch bowl, shooting the four Gryffindors a disdainful look. Harry watched him with great irritation, until he noticed that Draco was pulling a flask from his purple and white striped mink coat. Draco uncorked the flask, peered about for any on-lookers, and prepared to empty it into the punch bowl.

"Don't bother Malfoy," Harry snapped, scathingly, "We already thought of that." To his great surprise, Malfoy's face brightened.

"Did you really?" Malfoy drawled in response. "I must say, I'm slightly impressed. Doesn't seem like a Gryffindor thing, so to speak. Put a Tasteless Charm on your own, did you?"

Harry nodded. Draco grinned at him. "Nice job, Potter, nice job indeed."

Harry returned his smile. He couldn't ever remember Malfoy being nice before, but the blonde young man was quite likable when he tried, and especially likable when one had four cups of the Gryffindor Madness in them. Harry had six.

"Come join us, why don't you?" Harry offered. Neville elbowed him in the stomach, but Harry paid no mind. Something in the back of his mind told him that he might soon need all the friends he could get. The more friends he surrounded himself with, the higher his chances of getting out alive. However, Harry had far too much alcohol in his bloodstream to coherently receive and process that statistical fact. He only knew that he felt happy and drunk, and therefore open to any and all amiability.

Draco came to stand next to Harry, the ten pounds of gold jewelry around his neck chinking together delightfully. Harry figured it was high time he got over his spats with Malfoy, considering he had dated half the younger years from Gryffindor. All his former girlfriends had branded him a gentleman, and tested negative for the Imperious Curse.

Fortunately (for himself), Draco had sworn all of his former girlfriends to secrecy concerning all past relationships. The secrecy involved a binding magical contract, signed in soul essence and completely unbreakable. Draco's discovery of such a contract was a blessing all it's own, otherwise the entire school would know of his fancies for frolicking in lush green meadows, window shade shopping, and (above all) Meg Ryan movies. Blissfully ignorant of these flaws however, Harry figured that he trusted his own kind, so why not trust their choice of date?

At this point, two girls entered the Great Hall and caused several boys to spill their punch. The girls were dressed in matching scandalously short, pleated skirts, white blouses, knee high socks, and platform high heels. One scintillating such female, with a river of red fire cascading over her shoulders, wore a collar with a leash attached, and the other siren led her by it. They made their way over to the punch.

"Ladies," Draco whispered sensually. They looked up, demurely, and Harry was shocked to recognize Hermione and Ginny.

"Hermione! I'm impressed!" Hermione smiled at Harry and yanked on the leash, causing Ginny to stumble into her. Hermione caught her easily, and wrapped an arm around her waist. They grinned lasciviously, all the while cursing the vile author that forced them into such degradation.

"Let's have some punch, darling," Hermione said softly to Ginny, knowing full well that everyone could hear. Ginny nodded, as Hermione seized the silver ladle and poured punch into Ginny's open mouth. Ginny swallowed gratefully, and performed the same sinful ritual to Hermione. She spilled a few drops in the process, and quickly lapped them up from Hermione's throat. Their audience began to grow.

"What the hell are they doing?" squeaked Neville, unable to tear his eyes from the wee spectacle.

Seamus rolled his eyes, and began berating Neville for his ignorance. "It's the obligatory, sexy girl-on-girl scene," he explained, matter of factly. "Happens in every scary story - at least in the good ones. Or the ones with pathetic plot lines that have to keep the audiences' attention some way." Neville's face lit up in understanding, and he nodded. Seamus grinned in return.

"Where's Ron?" asked Hermione. Harry stuttered and shrugged, fully unable to form coherent sentences while in proximity to such sexual presentation. Draco watched him knowingly, but refrained from screaming 'Virgin Alarm!' at the top of his lungs. No reason to soil a friendship so early in the evening. There were drinks to be had, and further Gryffindors to befriend. Draco's discovery of Meg Ryan and romantic comedies had melted his heart of ice (and sent his father into St. Mungo's, kicking and screaming in his new, stylish straitjacket).

Suddenly, the doors to the Great Hall burst open. A garishly dressed, red-haired man rushed through the doors, and knocked several first years into the wall with his cane. He skidded to a stop, and lifted his cane and top hat toward the sky.

"Ladies and Gentleman!" he shouted, in a voice that sounded oddly like Ron's. "I am Harold Zidler, and may I present my world famous Diamond Dogs!" Seven girls lined up behind him, all dressed in Can-Can attire. Squinting, Harry quickly recognized Lavender Brown, Parvati Patil, Pansy Parkinson, Susan Bones, Hannah Abbot, and Mandy Brocklehurst. The seventh (and rather squat) girl's face was covered with a golden, peacock mask. They began to dance a remarkably erotic Can-Can, whilst lifting their dresses and shouting lewd French invitations at the spectators - none of which could be repeated here (mostly because the author does not speak French, and fears a terrible spelling error).

The Hogwarts masses screamed with excitement.

The wildly popular Can-Can dance culminated in a spectacular finale during which the anonymous, mask-clad girl was lifted up toward the bewitched ceiling on a swing. Thirty feet in the air, she tore off her mask and tossed it to the roaring crowd.

The roars of excitement halted abruptly, and horrified screams reached a deafening crescendo as the revealed Professor Sprout waved and spun around in her gilded perch.

And then, after several students were carted away in hysteria, the party lurched into full swing. The Gryffindor Madness spread like wildfire, although no one could detect a hint of vodka. Harry raised an eyebrow as Professor Dumbledore (cleverly dressed in full Pope attire) ladled at least a third of the punch bowl into his hip flask. Snape, at Dumbledore's side, sniffed carefully at the punch bowl. He quickly turned up his nose in disgust, and pulled a flask from the pocket of his buckskin Indian dress. Upon uncorking it, even Harry, ten feet away, could smell the alcohol inside. Snape chugged for twenty-two seconds. Seamus counted.

Hermione and Ginny continued to drape themselves all over each other, to the rooted stares of a crowd tilting upwards of fifty.

Ron sidled up, in his screamingly loud Zidler get-up.

"All right there, Harry?"

"All right," Harry responded, grinning. "But you're not!" Ron cocked his head, confused. Of course he was all right - Lavender Brown had promised to shag him in return for his acceptance of the role of Harold Zidler (Jesus, how else was she supposed to Can-Can? Come up with a legitimate reason? HA!)

"That's right," Seamus put in quickly, raising his Wolverine claws to prove his point. "You haven't had a sip of punch since you walked in!" Seamus winked at Ron, in a dramatically obvious fashion.

"Oh..." Ron spluttered slightly, catching on in a slow manner. "You're right!" His face lit up with comprehension. "I haven't! I'll be right back!" And he spun on his heel toward the punch bowl. However, his trek was interrupted when a remarkably deep, terrifying voice stopped him dead in his tracks.

"Oh no you won't!"

Everyone whipped his or her heads around to behold an imposing, darkly silhouetted figure.

The lighting technicians scrambled to correct the glitch in their systems. After several seconds of frantic screaming from the technical booth and collective fear among the Ball attendees', the lighting in the Great Hall returned to normal. At which point, Hermione was revealed as the once disturbing protestor. She cleared her throat pointedly, and returned to her usual, slightly husky tone (more than a little annoyed at the speed with which the techies had corrected her lighting jinx).

"Never say you'll be right back. Because you won't be. That's horror plot rule numero uno, and you just broke it, Ronald Weasley!"

"No, you're wrong!" Ron shot back at her, his eyes blazing. Everyone moved a bit closer, excited by the prospect of an infamous Granger-Weasley face off. Hermione's face went pink with fury, and she placed a hand on her hip, jutting her leg out angrily.

"Is that so?"

"You're goddamned right it's so!" Ron said scathingly, careful to keep his eyes on the ceiling right above her head. Her outfit was bound to distract him, and she was working it to her full extent.

Hermione took a great breath of disgust, her chest heaving in the effort. The crowd oohed.

"Well then, Mr. Weasley," she spat, "If you would be so kind to back up your argument and explain to me exactly why I am wrong, I would dearly love to hear it."

Ron opened his mouth quickly, but soon realized that he had precisely no idea why he had gotten into such a stupid argument. In fact, he'd forgotten the topic they were bickering over in the first place. Damn his insatiable need to be right! And damn Hermione's constant corrections! Ron was torn for a minute, between what promised to be one hell of a fight with a girl dressed like a catholic schoolgirl, and what promised to be one hell of a hangover. He made up his mind immediately.

"Oh shut it, Hermione, we're ruining a good party by fighting. Write it down, and you can bitch about it later." And he went straight for the punch.

"Oh, why you..." Hermione hissed dangerously, and the crowd huddled in closer. Even Draco Malfoy leaned in for a better look. But, at that exact moment, Ginny Weasley decided to whisper in his ear.

"Draco, darling," hissed Ginny, in a scandalously sensual voice. Draco lost all thought of the brewing cat-fight. "Perhaps you would like to take control over this leash? It would seem that my date is otherwise occupied..."

Draco was taken aback for a sharp moment. A Weasley?

He pushed this thought away immediately. He looked upon the exquisite redhead in front of him, and swept her up in his arms. He brutally yanked the end of the leash away from Hermione (who was, thankfully, too furious to notice), and spun so sharply on his heel that he nearly impaled himself on one of Seamus's Wolverine claws. Together, Draco and Ginny ran out of the Great Hall. Ginny wasted no time in leading him up toward the Gryffindor Tower.

They arrived in the fitting, scarlet common room (not without a severe tirade from the Fat Lady), and fell into each other's arms, kissing madly, as though nothing else in the world mattered. Both of them staunchly ignored the requisite foreboding music that began to echo off the walls. Ginny convulsed slightly under his touch - who knew that such a cold person could be so hot-blooded? Draco drew in his breath sharply, and tore through Ginny's adorable schoolgirl blouse. The buttons scattered upon the floor in a slower manner than gravity would have permitted. Ginny snapped furiously over the ruined, expensive shirt.

"Hush now," Draco hissed throatily, "I'll buy you a new one." As long as you promise to watch Kate and Leopold with me, he silently added. Ginny relaxed against him, and shivered in pleasure as his lips grazed over her neck. Their intense passion probably would have evolved into something significantly more serious, but a terrible scream from the boys' dorm distracted them.

"What was that?" The blood drained from Ginny's face, and she pulled her bottom lip between her teeth.

"I don't know!" Draco snapped. He was terribly irritated with whoever was interrupting them - but not the least bit worried. "Shall we go up to your room?"

"No!" shrieked Ginny, her tone laced with urgency. "We've got to see what that was! Oh, I hope it wasn't Ron!"

Ginny wriggled out from beneath Draco, and clamored her way up the stairs. She kicked in the door (to which Draco found himself terribly aroused), and raced in. She began to scream piteously, and Draco was torn between running away, or assisting the fair maiden that he'd never get any more booty from unless he did so. His conscience and libido held a terrible screaming match. RUN YOU FOOL!, demanded his conscience. Umm...GRAB HER AND RUN!, shouted his libido. Draco looked helplessly toward the door, and back toward Ginny, during which time the tower door slammed shut. His moment of hesitation had cost him his escape.

He now had no choice but to assist the maiden. Internally, he kicked himself for having developed that blasted, conscious-aware libido. Damn Meg Ryan and her touchy feely movies! They had ruined yet another perfectly evil soul!

"Someone, come! Come quickly! Sex! Drugs! Massacre!" Ginny was hysterical, screaming incoherently. Draco wrapped his arms around her as she attempted to 'assess' the scene of gore and gratuitous sex (her apparent plan to accomplish this assessment was based entirely upon flinging herself atop the bed to discern whether or not the victims were still alive). Fortunately, one of Draco's favorite prime time shows (aside from "Will and Grace") happened to be C.S.I., and he carefully kept Ginny far away from disrupting the scene of the crime.

Blaise Zabini lay on top of Dean Thomas, one arm flung haphazardly across the headboard. Each of Dean's major limbs was tied to one of the corresponding four posts of the bed. His eyes were wide open and glazed over in death. Draco, suddenly recognizing the immanent trauma the scene would inflict upon Ginny (not to mention the likely profound effect it would have on his sex life), shielded Ginny's eyes with his hand, and lowered her gently to the floor. He took great care to make sure she was facing away from the grisly sight. He stroked her hair in a comforting manner, as she continued to scream.

"HELP!"

After what seemed to be several minutes (in reality, it was within nineteen seconds; in horror movie time, it registered in at under two and a half seconds) Ginny's plea for assistance was finally answered. Someone performed an unlocking charm on the other side of the door, and it swung open. Various couples began to pour in. Parvati and Lavender were the first to arrive.

"What is it, Ginny?" slurred Parvati. "Is this sod botherin' you?" She raised her fists as though to punch Draco, however, her drunken state had other ideas. This involved her tripping over the door frame, and landing in a heap on the floor. Ron burst through the door immediately thereafter, and tripped over Parvati. Lavender laughed from her secure corner behind Seamus's trunk, and pointed at her two housemates. Ron righted himself, stumbled into Neville's bedframe, and swore like a diseased sailor. His eyes roved over the horrific forms of the deceased, the drunken house-mate, the dirty dress of his little sister, and the suave manner of his sister's apparent date. Now see, Ron is quite coherent and intelligent - despite what many have to say. However, he is also very protective of his family. And the actual scene laid out before him translated into one specific thing. Within eight nanoseconds, he and Draco were engaged in a fight, rolling around on top of one another. All thought of any murdered classmates was quickly forgotten (and, for Ron, it hadn't even registered). More people began to arrive, and all stopped to watch the scuffle.

"Oh, will you two desist!" shouted Professor McGonagall (dressed in a pink silk gown, drenched in blood a la Stephen King's Carrie), as she pounded up the stairs and swept into the room. Draco and Ron stopped, mid-motion, and raised their hands up in defeat toward the notorious teacher.

Professor McGonagall glared down on them severely, when she suddenly caught sight of the grisly death scene. "Oh, dear," she clutched her face in terror.

Written on the floor, in the shreds of clothing torn from each victim's costume and some outrageous, strawberry-flavored lubricant, was a new word.

LUST.