A few minutes ago, while Aaron was beginning to change, Dean and Todd were walking upstairs...
"You really think we're gonna find ghosts in here, T?" Dean asked, craning his neck to look up at the creaky rafters as they slowly climbed the stairs.
Todd shook his head in disapproval.
"Come on man, ye of little faith...this has got to be the most haunted place in the state, there's no way we won't see *something* supernatural..."
Dean snorted, and crossed his arms. He was wearing a vintage letter jacket he'd thrifted over a sleeveless shirt, with torn black jeans and beat up converse. Ever since he'd figured out how kids, especially the black jocks he'd gone to middle school with, treated theater nerds, he'd leaned into his natural height and muscles. People looking at him probably didn't realize how much care he put into his ragged appearance.
Todd was staring at his ghost hunting materials, and Dean smirked. May as well play along.
"My hour is almost come, when I to sulph'rous and tormenting flames, must render up myself," he intoned in his spookiest voice, putting one hand over his chest and staring balefully at his friend.
Todd rolled his eyes.
"Come on, not now dude, this is serious. What was that anyway, Macbeth?"
"Hamlet, Act 1," Dean corrected happily, "when his dad's a ghost. Macbeth, now *that* would be witches..."
Todd groaned, and Dean decided to spare him further Shakespeare quotes. He seriously doubted there were ghosts or witchcraft in the old house, anyway.
Finally, they reached the top of the stairs. There were two doors on either side of the hall...
"I'll take the one on the left," Dean offered, "we may as well split up."
Todd nodded his agreement, and set off towards his door. Dean did the same. When he opened it, he came out into a large room full of...trophies? Huh. He was right, they were trophies...rows upon rows of gold, silver, and bronze cups and medals for all kinds of events. He let out a low whistle.
"Damn, house," he said to the room in general, "Whoever lived in you sure was a high achiever..."
He walked forward and picked up a few trophies to look them over. First place in a swimming race, a beauty pageant, gymnastics...hell, there was even one that read "youngest student accepted to Stanford." He placed that one back down, ignoring the odd tingle all four trophies left on his fingertips.
"Swimmers and gymnasts," he muttered, eyeing some of the other awards, "You'd think if you're gonna be a jock you'd at least be one of the buff ones..."
As he surveyed the rest of the room, he felt an odd pinch in his pants. He'd been pretty hung ever since puberty, and he exclusively wore boxers to keep up the masculine image and leave room for his copious package, so he wasn't used to getting anything like a wedgie. He frowned.
"Something god my boxers in a twist?" he muttered to himself, and glanced quickly around the room. Nobody was there — may as well check.
He lifted the waistband of his pants and peered in. Huh, must have been his imagination. He was wearing the same skin-tight briefs he always wore. He giggled to himself at the way the undies clung to his oversized package. He knew he should really invest in something with a looser pouch, but he liked the way it felt.
He quickly dismissed the idea that he should be wearing anything else. After all, he was in speedos half the time anyway for swim practice. Why bother with boxers when the whole school saw his junk in the pool every day?
He paused. Swimming, huh? He'd heard some rumors that there was a pool on the grounds of this old haunted estate. A quick dip didn't sound bad — maybe he'd run into Aaron, too. He turned and walked back out the door he'd came in through, then took the stairs two steps at a time, suddenly full of energy.
What he didn't notice was that, with each step, he seemed to change. Melanin slowly drained from his skin to be replaced with a deep swimmer's tan, and light freckles sprouted across his cheeks. His hair, usually tight black curls, began to straighten and lighten, fading to a chestnut brown. And it wasn't done changing yet...
When he reached the second to last step, he stumbled, struck with a sudden feeling of vertigo as his long legs dwindled and his head shot towards the ground. He missed the last step, unable to reach it, and quickly righted himself so he didn't fall on his face. When he straightened up and looked back at the stairs, he stood at 5'7". His old letter jacket looked huge and oversized on him, and the V-neck of his shirt went low enough to show off his deep, defined collarbones.
"Well that was dumb of me," he said, voice cracking slightly as it drifted higher in pitch, "Why'd I try to take the stairs two at a time?"
He shrugged, and walked out the front door, jogging over to the pool as the changes continued to slowly chip away at his old self.
When he reached the pool, he froze. There was a man there. He looked to be about his dad's age, with a burly, well build body, and slightly greying hair. Dean's eyes went wide as he looked closer...the man was jerking off!
He panicked. Something told him he should run away, but he also had a sudden, nagging desire to stay and watch...