‘Where have you been?” Strang bit his lip, slurping noisily.

‘Haven’t you eaten?’

‘I am eating. Have you got the tickets?’

Boid waved the stubs in Strang’s dripping face. ‘We’re going to see Type A and your spleen will eeeexperloooode, man.’

Strang checked the tickets and grimaced. ‘Man, these are for the spectres’ pit not the solids section.’

‘Chill, bro.’ Boid wiped blood off his friend’s chin with a swish of his tongue. ‘You taste good, dude. I know a man who knows that Banshee on the door. She used to scream for my mum – Tuesdays – when the house needed exorcising. She still thinks I’m cute. She’ll slip us into the VIP-Zoms section.’ He picked at Strang’s face. ‘You’re clotting, bro.’

‘No one is letting teen-vamps in with Zoms. You’re mental.’

Boid refluffed hair. ‘I’m killing, man. Nothing’s stopping us. Front seats, transfusions on tap, and a light show that will melt your face. You wait.’

Strang felt wired; he chewed his bicep nervously as they approached the Spirit on the door. She nodded at Boid. ‘Your dad said you’d be here. Through there.’

Boid strutted ahead with a still disbelieving Strang behind. ‘You did it! Amaz…’

Strang’s eyes shrank and slipped out of their sockets as he entered behind Boid. This was no Zom section; this was the Pit and a multitude of horrendous poltergeists, undead and other unwordly ghouls turned on them. ‘Oh man, we shouldn’t be here.’

But Boid was already being absorbed by a bipedal apparition. The only thing suggesting he was still Boid was his eyes. Strang sighed. In moments he too would be haunted and made to dance and scream and generally become an embarrassment, courtesy of his parasitic spook. If any of their crew saw them, then they’re dead. In every sense.

Microcosms prompt this week is

Arrogant Teen: Rock Concert: Horror