Among the outskirks of town, atop the only hill, sat the bluewood shack. As a heritage site, Deputy Summers had scared off more than a few vandals, at the behest of the historical society, but not tonight.

He gave three strong knocks on the door.

“Open up, Police!”

There was no response. No one should be there, but looking into the window, dim candles gave blurred illumination. Was that blood on the floor? It didn’t move right, but compelled him to knock again.

Summers heard whispering. No, chanting. Latin? He wasn’t a superstitious man, but some of the townsfolk were. Normally, he’d kick the door down at this point, but last time the heritage site was damaged, the local council withheld their budget for two years. He shuddered to think what they would do if they knew he had intentionally kicked it down last time.

“Help!” A scream pleaded from inside.

Was a life worth two years of misery?

“Stand back! I’m going to ram the door.”

Two steps back, three steps forward…or so it should have been had the door not flung open at the last moment. A robed dwarf greeted him, a strange metal helm covering its face. It looked oddly familiar.

“How may I-”

Summers shoved past the dwarf and followed the chanting. It sounded like…Italian? His search brought him into the basement, where the red liquid slowly flowed. It was too thick to be blood. He slipped, and hit his head.

There was a huge mess in the darkness. Lumps of dark flesh, and thin tentacles littered the floor. If time had passed between his coming and waking, no one noticed.

The chanting was louder now, but he couldn’t quite make out the words. One italian course in high school was not enough to listen with a headache. He stumbled back up, and turned on the lights.

“Ramen.”

A band a kids had sprawled pasta all over the floor, wearing oversized shirts, and collanders on their heads.

“The great spaghetti monster blesses us with a visitor!” One girl cried out.

Speechless, Summers could only think of all the paperwork he’d now have to fill.