Chapter Text
George was too busy making a mess to answer the phone.
Of course, he heard his phone ring. It was right there in his back pocket. He’d have to be deaf not to hear it.
But he couldn’t just interrupt the very important task he was given here. Jordon was counting on him, and that was not something to be taken lightly. Charles P. Scene rarely trusted anyone but Dylan in his chaotic ventures. It was almost an honour that he had asked George to do this one specific thing.
“Careful,” Jordon whispered as George lifted his bowl of pancake batter to the stove. He watched with wide eyes as George used a soup ladle to scoop up some batter.
“It’s fine, Jord, I got this,” George muttered. He and Jordon had already spilled pancake batter all over the kitchen counter and on the stove itself in their quest to create a perfect round pancake. It was two in the morning, and they had been at this for about an hour. They now had a couple stacks of failed pancakes in various sizes and shapes on the counter.
The reason Jordon had wanted to make the perfect pancake at one in the morning was because he had been scrolling through cooking sites on his phone and came across a picture of an absolutely perfect, fluffy, round pancake. As soon as he saw it, he asked George to help him make enough pancake batter to make multiple pancakes until they could manage to make a perfect one. George had no idea why Jordon had asked him instead of Dylan, but George chalked it up to the fact that Dylan had decided to curl up in Danny’s bed, and accidentally waking Danny just to get Dylan out of bed was not an option.
George ever so carefully poised the ladle over the frying pan and poured the pancake batter.
His phone rang again and he jumped at the unexpected sound. The ladle jerked. A drop of batter splatted on the edge of the pancake.
Jordon’s shoulders slumped at their latest failed attempt. “Aww, man.”
Jorel walked into the kitchen with his cat, Tiger, in his arms. “Got any more rejects?” Jordon and George has been lucky Jorel was awake when they started cooking. Otherwise, they’d have no way to dispose of the failed pancakes other than to throw them in the trash.
Jordon pushed a plate covered in slightly deformed pancakes towards Jorel and his feline companion. “Here.”
“Nice.” Jorel set Tiger on the counter and picked up the plate. Tiger curled up next to a puddle of pancake batter as Jorel grabbed a bottle of syrup and drizzled it on top of the pancakes. The guy was vegan, but in the wee hours of the morning when pancakes were present, he shoved his dietary habits out the window. He poured himself another glass of milk to go with his second helping of pancakes, which would no doubt cause some nausea later on since he wasn’t used to animal products. That and the eggs in the pancake batter might result in some vomiting later on.
Jordon sighed as he picked up their almost empty bowl of pancake batter. “Should we stop making batter from scratch? I think the store bought stuff might be easier.”
George’s phone rang again and he jumped. “Holy fuck,” he blurted in surprise. Why couldn’t whoever was calling see that he was busy?
Footsteps pounded on the stairs. “George, pick up your fucking phone!” Danny’s voice yelled. How he was able to hear George’s phone through the floor and Dylan’s snoring, no one knew.
George sighed and dug his phone out of his pocket, if only to keep their band mom from yelling at him. He held it up to his ear. “What the fuck do you want?”
The kitchen door opened and a shirtless Danny in sweatpants and bunny slippers walked in, followed by a tired Dylan in a pink onesie. He leaned against the doorframe, eyes half closed from exhaustion as Danny walked up to George and snatched the phone out of his hands.
“You’ve reached the home of the Undead, this is Daniel Rose speaking. How may I help you?”
“That was quite a rude greeting,” a snooty woman’s voice said on the other line.
Danny wanted to point out that she had, in fact, called them at two in the morning, and literally anyone would be angry at being called that early, but he kept the charming smile on his face as if the lady could see it through the receiver. “I’m so sorry about that, ma’am. You called George’s line, and he’s just tired. He meant nothing by it, I’m sure.”
“Well, I should hope not,” the lady sneered. “You’re the only ghost hunters in Los Angeles, and I would hate to work with a bunch of barbarians.”
“You have a ghost problem?” Danny asked, his interest piqued. He ignored the exasperated sighs of the other four when he mentioned ghosts.
“That’s putting it mildly,” she scoffed. “You see, my husband died about five years ago.”
She paused, and Danny took that as his signal to show some sympathy. “I’m sorry for your loss,” he said. He really was sympathetic for her, although he wondered if she really was sad about the fact that her husband was dead. Her voice was about as flat as one of the deformed pancakes Jorel was currently shoving into his mouth. He chased it down with a gulp of milk, and Danny knew that they would have some lactose induced vomit to clean up pretty soon.
“Don’t be,” the woman said. “The man was awful. Borderline abusive. God bless the man who ran him over.” She heaved a frustrated sigh. “The point is, my husband is dead, and he has been haunting me for the last five years.”
Danny furrowed his brow. “If you don’t mind me asking, why are you only calling us now?”
“He only shows up once every year,” the lady explained, a pang of annoyance in her voice. “You see, I host an annual business gathering—a party of sorts—where all of my current business partners and potential future partners are invited. We discuss important matters at these gatherings, but my husband always manages to disrupt them.”
“And you’re sure it’s your husband?” Danny asked.
“It is,” the lady snapped. “This ghost has written his name on walls and torn apart pictures of us together. Just last year, he took our old rings and set them on fire right in the dining hall.”
Danny nodded as he processed the information. “Definitely sounds like a vengeful spouse. So, when would you like us to be there?”
“Six o’clock tonight,” she said. “It’s too late to send you a physical invitation, but tell the men at the door that Miss Albany sent you.”
“We’ll definitely be there,” Danny said. “Thank you for calling.”
“I’ll text you the address,” she said. “Oh, and one last thing—please dress nicely. It is a formal event, after all. And wear masks if you have any. The party is a masquerade this year.”
A grin stretched across Danny’s lips. “A masquerade?”
“Yes. I’ll see you tonight and give you more details then.”
She hung up. Danny handed the phone back to George. The other four seemed to have perked up at Danny’s last exchange with the woman.
“What’s this about a masquerade?” George asked.
“A businesswoman is holding a party for rich people, and her dead husband is haunting it,” Danny explained. “She wants us to go so we can stop him.”
“And it’s a masquerade?” Jorel mumbled through a mouthful of pancake. A drop of syrup dripped off his plate and landed on the counter. Tiger sniffed at it and licked it up.
Danny nodded, the smile still on his face. “Yep.”
Jordon gasped happily and clung to George’s arm, hopping up and down on the balls of his feet. “How much more perfect could that be?” he exclaimed with a wide smile.
Dylan nodded. He blinked slowly, his brain no doubt still muddled by sleepiness. “What the fuck is a masquerade?”