Tinks tool

"Are you fucking kidding me?" He shouted, throwing the bucket angrily. He sat down, putting his face in his hands. Should he go back to the store? It meant walking past the Swing of the Damned currently, and he knew he wasn't ready to deal with that. With a resigned sigh, Mike walked outside to the garden, hanging a left at the fountain. Key in hand, he unlocked the door to the garage, pushing it in.

Beth had warned him about the garage. Apparently his Great Aunt had been using it primarily for storage, and he immediately saw that the boxes had been piled high. He flicked on the light switch, which didn't actually help that much. The garage itself felt cavernous, somehow bigger than its two car capacity. The maze of boxes had him twisting to maneuver through them, hoping to make it to the other side. He expected to discover a tool bench on the opposite wall, and he was not disappointed. The bench was burdened with several boxes, so he lowered them to the ground.

"Fuck, these are heavy." He cracked open a couple boxes to reveal several paperback novels. The box he was looking in contained old sci-fi novels. He looked through the box, pulling aside a couple of classics that he intended to read for himself. He opened the next box, revealing a pile of romance novels.

"Bleh. Never mind." He closed the flap. Why were there so many books here? Pushing the thought from his mind, he got a good look at the tool bench. It had several drawers, all of which were empty when he opened them. Kneeling down, he opened the cabinet doors to reveal that they were also completely empty.

Who had a tool bench with no tools? Mike scratched his chin, double checking the drawers to make sure he saw right. He wondered if somebody had stolen them, but then thought of the girl on the front porch. If this place really had been built to harbor a monster collection, then ordinary thieves wouldn't have a chance. Looking at the boxes, he debated cracking them open, but was convinced that he would only find more books.

"Fuck, it's hot," he muttered, wiping sweat off his brow. The afternoon sun was turning the place into a bit of a sauna. He resigned himself to the fact that he was going to have to leave the house again. Carefully moving through the stacks toward the door, he heard the sound of metal on concrete.

Mike froze in place, listening carefully. He closed his eyes, listening carefully. It was faint, but the sound of light fabric across concrete carried to him from the back of the garage. He moved slowly, quietly, maneuvering around the stacks of boxes. A narrow gap between some boxes concealed a small hallway in the back of the garage. Mike breathed out, barely fitting between the stacks.

The hallway U-turned, revealing a flight of stairs that went beneath the garage. He descended the concrete steps, moving quietly. Toward the bottom of the steps, he heard it, the unintelligible mutterings of someone up ahead. The voice was raspy, but feminine. He ducked his head, the space just barely over five feet tall.

There was just enough light that he saw the pull-cord dangling from the ceiling. He yanked on it, casting light into the dark spaces beneath. Unlike the room above, this room had plenty of space. Boxes along the edge of the room had been decorated with dirty fabric, and it was immediately obvious that the room was originally intended for working on cars-large pit covers up above were sealed and locked shut. Along the back wall of the room was a tool bench littered with tools, and Mike immediately spotted the supplies he had bought earlier. Off to the side was a tiny bed. The muttering he had been listening to had vanished.

Of greater interest, however, was the short figure between him and the bench. It stood at around four feet, dark green skin covered in dirt and grime. It's hair was so dirty that Mike couldn't make out any color, but did notice that it had been pulled to the side in a wild ponytail. The sudden light had frozen it in place, casting a comical shadow along the back wall. The figure dropped what it had been holding-the screwdriver that Mike had purchased earlier.

Mike tried to process what he was looking at. It wasn't see thru, so not a ghost (thank God). Where could he even go from here, now that he had discovered the creature's den.

"Those tools belong to me," he said, trying his best to sound firm. The creature in front of him turned around slowly, squinting into the light. She wore a dress that looked like it had been stitched together from spare furniture covers. A dirty yellow pair of goggles were on top of her head, and she bared her fangs at him, hissing through her teeth. Her tiny hands curled, revealing claws.

"Tools are for Tink." She growled. "All tools are Tink's tools."