John ran up to his front door, ignoring the message that had been scrawled across it, and pushed it open.

"Cyn?" he called, quickly shutting it behind him and locking it. "Julian? I'm home."

He was met with silence, and he gulped loudly, taking a few steps forward.

"...hello?"

Still there was no reply. Dread had begun to build in his stomach.

The lights were off. The curtains were drawn. Cynthia had always hated a dark house, surely this wouldn't have been her doing...

He leaned against the wall, desperately trying to collect his thoughts, but drew back when his fingers touched something they should definitely not have. Slowly, he brought his fingers to his nose and gave them a sniff.

John's legs very nearly gave out from under him.

They smelled of cranberries. 

As his eyes became adjusted to the dark, he could discern small bits of red streaking across the walls, growing thicker and thicker until they formed... a handprint.

John pressed a hand over his mouth, ignoring its new stickiness. "Oh my god. He's... here."

Not quite aware of his own actions, he dazedly grabbed a large knife from the kitchen and followed the stains down the hallway until he reached his bedroom.

The door was open.

Tears started to blur his vision. No, no. Not Cyn. He can't have hurt Cyn...

Through the doorway he could catch a glimpse of a white dress of hers, spread on the ground... covered in red.

His shoulders heaved in a silent sob. Something had happened to her. Something had happened to her, and he wasn't there to prevent it...

Still, the house was silent. George could be in that room, waiting for him. George could be right behind him, and he'd never know...

A pair of arms attached themselves to his leg, and John screamed. 

Clinging to him was something in a sheet -- completely covered in red and absolutely stinking of cranberries. 

It was a demon of some sort, it had to be. George must have gotten bored of Hinduism and slipped into Satanism. That was best answer at the moment. Completely logical thinking.

Whatever it was, he had to get it off of him.

He gave his leg a shake, then another, but the thing had a grip of iron, and stayed firmly attached to him. He could feel fingers digging in to his pants, and that sensation alone sent him stumbling into his bedroom, shouting loud enough to wake the dead.

"AAAAH! HOW DO IT GET RID OF IT?! WAS THIS BECAUSE I SAID WE WERE BIGGER THAN JESUS?! I DIDN'T MEAN IT, HONEST! WHERE'S GEORGE?! I'LL EXORCISE HIM --"

His foot slipped on Cynthia's dress, and he landed hard onto the floor, staring at the ceiling and breathing hard.

He felt the thing crawling onto his chest, and he screwed his eyes shut, awaiting the end.

"...Daddy?"

An all-too-familiar voice delivered itself to his ears in a soft whisper, and a small but sticky hand touched his cheek.

John opened his eyes again, squinting as the blurry picture in front of him came into focus but not quite believing what he saw.

"...Julian?!"

Shrugging off the sauce-stained sheet, his son grinned toothily and hopped off of him, climbing onto the bed to join --

Cynthia.

And George sitting cross-legged next to her.

Both watched him with mirth-filled eyes, shaking silently, then burst out laughing, unable to hold it in any longer.

John sat up, thunderstruck, still not convinced that what he saw was real.

"...Cyn? George?"

Cynthia only laughed harder, tears streaming down her face as she gripped onto George's shoulder for support. George wasn't much better off, clutching his stomach and gripping the covers to steady himself. Both had cookies in their hands, as did Julian, who was now curled up on George's lap.

John managed to stand, nearly falling down again, and for a minute could only gesture helplessly with his hands until words came to him.

"I thought... I thought..."

"That I had killed yer wife an' kid?"

George wiped a tear of his own from his eye, patting Cynthia on the shoulder. "Nah. Far from it, actually."

"I thought... that the two of yeh had died..."

John found himself crying as well, though not for the same reason they were, and George moved towards him, looking rather guilty.

"Hey, Johnny, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to--"

He moved to hug him, and in one swift movement John grabbed a pillow from the bed and gave him a good whack with it. George toppled backwards.

"Wh--?!"

"This --" he whacked him again -- "--is for threatenin' my house --" Whack. "This is for splatterin' sauce all over my bloody walls --" Whack. "This is for puttin' my son in a dirty bedsheet, and THIS --" Here he hit him the hardest -- "--is for scarin' the living daylights out of me!"

He began to laugh, and George did as well, doing his best to shield himself from the attack.

"And Cyn!" John turned to his wife, still in her original position. "Did ye have a part in this all?"

She smiled sheepishly in reply, and John grinned with mock wickedness. "You're no better than he is!"

He threw the pillow in her direction, and she laughed as she deflected it. "Hey! There's a child near me, careful!"

"Ah! Yes! Julian!"

He scooped up his son in his arms, ignoring the stickiness and the smell, and buried his face in his mop of light-brown hair.

"Thank God you're not dead..."

Though hugging his father just as tightly, Julian still tried to sneak a piece of his cookie, and John chuckled and plucked it out of his hand.

"Mum made your favorite cookies, I see! Mind if I have a bite?"

Despite Julian's halfhearted protests, he took a small nibble, smiling at the taste. "Delicious as always, Cyn, though I wish you'd saved some for me."

"Nah." George shook his head, standing and dusting himself off. "You had your cookies when you stole mine."

"Ah... right."

John awkwardly cleared his throat, facing his best friend.

"I'm sorry about that, Geo. I shouldn't have taken your cookies. I know how important your food is to you."

George nodded. "And I'm sorry for the whole threat thing. I could never hurt your family. You, maybe, but not your family."

John rolled his eyes. "Appreciate the sentiment... come on, bring it here."

The two quickly embraced, Julian sandwiched in the middle, and Cynthia smiled as she watched the scene, now standing in the doorway.

"Stay for dinner, George? That is, if you promise not to clear out our fridge."

George crookedly grinned. "Sure, Cyn, thanks."

"Wait --" John took a moment to hug Cynthia tight, placing a kiss on her cheek . "...I'm glad you're not dead, either."

"Thank you, John, I appreciate that."

"No, but really, Cyn..."

"I know, Johnny."

She pecked him on the cheek and looked down at the three-year-old bouncing at her feet.

"And into the bathtub with you, Julian! Before you stick to the floor..."

George and John shared a smile before following Cynthia out into the hallway.

"...but really, George, where did you get this much cranberry sauce from...?"

--O--

I'm not quite sure what this is, but I like it.