The camera crew is ready. Not a single lamp is on in the room to ensure that the only thing giving this room any kind of glow is the camera light. They’re actually waiting in the dark, right now while Kaster Prichard is “prepping himself.” Which he’s been doing for about fifteen minutes now. To say that his crew is getting restless is putting it mildly. All he’s doing is just making a series of sounds with his mouth. The stereotypical things you’d picture when an “actor” is getting ready for a scene.

He then says, “Okay, I’m ready.”

“Finally,” someone says under their breath.

“Tony, I know that was you!” Kaster says. He doesn’t say anything past that, but just makes his voice stern with the bitter curves of a tongue lashing out like a viper.

Tony sighs and then says, “Okay, ready in three, two….”

He whispers the word, “one,” while holding up his index finger. The camera and the light turn on and suddenly captures Kaster in this solitary and eerie glow that takes possession of the walls around him.

He snaps into character, leans in and says, “This is Kaster Prichard. Actually airing live, right here, in the Holland house.” He then says in a far more subtle voice, “No one’s been in this house for over ten years. Yet, still, here it stands. Even with plans for demolition four years ago, it never came to be after a series of accidents.”

He looks into the camera while making that point sink in. “Ten years ago, a group of people lived in this home. No one knew a lot about them. They were as mysterious as the house, itself. And then one day, they just… disappeared.”

A series of ghostly moans comes floating in from the dark beyond the doorway.

“That, ladies and gentleman, is what people have been reported to hearing. Especially when the hour strikes past midnight.”

One of his crew rolls his eyes. They don’t sigh. They just silently do so and shake their head. Not believing that they went to an ivy league school just to film some pompous asshole pretend to be a “psychic.”

“Now, let’s…”

Kaster’s voice trails off as the moans get louder. Not only that, but there is a wind that starts blowing through the room they’re in. All the windows are closed and there’s no fan on. Yet there’s still a strong breeze. One that almost seems to go right through Kaster’s bones.

Kaster sighs heavily and yells, “CUT!” while stomping his foot and thrashing his head forward in a fit of anger.

But the camera keeps rolling, the light’s still on.

“Are you def!” Kaster yells. “I said CUT!” He yells this even louder. His voice clawing out of his throat and practically shooting fire from his mouth.

But the camera still rolls. In fact, everyone is staying in the same position.

Kaster arches his eyebrow. A flinch snaps into his face as his eyes compress, tightly, as the door slams behind him.

There are now howls attaching themselves to this breeze that’s getting even stronger. Kaster’s hair is beginning to wisp back, as if he’s holding his head out of a moving car.

“Wha-what’s going on here?” Kaster says, his voice no longer boisterous. It’s shrinking back into his throat.

He looks around, trying to see where that’s coming from. That’s when he feels it. It’s this something that’s weight into him. It almost feels like a series of grasps that are tugging at him. It’s not pulling him in any direction, it’s just this invisible touch of hands that seem to almost be reaching inside of him.

“We didn’t pay for this. WHO PAID FOR___”

Kaster’s yelling is cut short as his words run back inside his mouth on the race marks of a gasp. A piece of his shirt has just been ripped right off. It’s on his upper shoulder. The flap of fabric is carried away into the dark.

He swallows as he looks around.

“Who-who’s doing this?” Kaster says.

He then feels his collar expand open from beneath his chin. Feeling like a button has been snapped off.

“Hello?”

That word sinks into his quivering tongue as the buttons on both his sleeves are snatched up from the stitching. One after the other. Kaster’s head turns from one sleeve to the other as he sees the ends suddenly pop open. He looks forward. He feels his left nipple. Feels this wind blowing past it. He looks down and sees that another small piece of his shirt has been ripped off. He hears another piece rip. The sudden tearing sound screaming in his ears as he jolts his head to his other nipple which is now also exposed.

He tries to walk backward. But realizes he can’t. His legs feel heavy. His feet feel like they’re apart of the floor.

The buckle of his belt jerks open. The clanking of the buckle dangling from the loosened belt. His breathing is getting rushed as he feels the button on his pants snapping off. The waist band where the button once was, quickly splits into two open flaps.

The entire right side of his collar lifts up and, moving diagonally, tears a half circle around his neck and flies off. His eyes expand. “Who is doing this?” His words quiver on a tone that crawls up through this throat.

The entire center of his shirt bursts open. In quick succession, the buttons are pulled and yanked. The stitching stretched into oblivion. The left side of his shirt opens up past his shoulder, showing the entire right side of his chest. His stomach and the meaty flap of skin his nipple is attached to quivers above his quickly beating heart. The right side of his shirt stays mostly tucked while the left side has been pulled all the way out.

This is followed by a small, little tear ripping off his shirt from the fluttering left side. Then another. Then another.

The entire back of his shirt is pulled in two, splitting open this quick-moving tear that speeds all the way up to his collar. Once it reaches his collar, the suddenly two separated pieces of his shirt rapidly slide of his shuddering shoulders and all the way down his arms until they are just pulled up through the air and are eaten by the dark, disappearing forever.

His eyes widen. He looks down as he feels a pulling. The head of his zipper is pulling forward. It’s being moved up and down as it’s expanding away from his pants. He’s trying to reach his hands towards it, but this wind is getting stronger, nearly prying his arms apart. He hears a ting as he sees the head snap off. The teeth of the zippier extend a quarter of the way down. His gray briefs escaping into the light. He has to strain himself just to reach his arms not even a third of the way.

His zipper moves down a little further as he hears that sound, the metallic vibrating sound of his descending zipper. It then reaches all the way down. The seams of his underwear peaking through the center of his pants. Then, a small patch of fabric is snatched away from his pants. On the right side, just underneath his underwear. Then the knee rips off.

His eyes go wide as his pants start to descend by themselves. Creases fold into deepening layers as, slowly, the pants are being dragged downward, sliding off the sides of his underwear. The pants go halfway down his legs.

He still can’t move his hands any further as the howling wind gets stronger. He’s standing there with his pants halfway down his legs, his gray underwear hugging his front pouch and firmly holding his buttocks into place.

He feels his pants pull from behind him. A ripping shudders through him. A ripping from somewhere, but he can’t tell where. All he knows is that it has to be his pants. The tearing and ripping continues as his trousers are feeling looser around his legs. Their grasp can’t hold on much more. He then sees where the tearing his occurring. It’s moving up the front center of both legs. The material flapping backward, brushed back by this mysterious wind. But the wind is now getting strong enough to where it carries that tearing the rest of the way and his pants quickly open up and fly off to the side.

His stomach and chest are trembling as the wind is blowing past him. A fleck of his underwear is snatched off. Directly underneath the left side of the waist band. He tries to move his hands forward, but still can’t. A bigger chunk is ripped open. This one close enough to where a fumbling shadow of his penis can be seen.

Then, a small hole forms at the tip of his underwear, exposing a small piece of red from the bulbous helmet of his circumcised dick. The flaps of his underwear pry themselves away in different directions. Seeming to purposely show the shape and contour of his shaft and how it extends from his testicles. They pry further, pulling harder, until the fabric is stretched thin, withering it down to a silhouette of gray. It tears as the threads are pulled away from each other. A tearing is occurring on either side of his briefs. Slowly moving up to his waistband.

Kaster’s eyes expand as the bursts open like a pilot light has just been turned on from inside his head. His underwear is feeling loose as the torn-open portions are quickly flapping against his inner thighs.

His breath is nearly stolen from him as he still tries to cover himself, but the wind, the howling, haunted wind is pushing him in this fury.

With one single swift motion, his briefs explode open on his right thigh. It’s pushing up against his penis, edging further and further away from it as the shape of his dick is falling through.

The bottom of his underwear rips in either direction, his penis falling down. The fleshy cylinder shape bobs back and forth. The wind then stops. He looks up to the camera. His left hand hugging his chest, the shape of his pectorals pressed underneath his hand. His right hand is holding his dick. It’s shaking and can’t even hold into it properly as the head shines from beneath the reflection of the camera light.