To say it was a dark and stormy night would not only be a poor way to begin a story, but also a gross understatement. It was dark, certainly; as the sun had set hours ago, it could hardly have been anything else. And if the sun had been up, the roiling black clouds that imprisoned the sky would have made it reasonably gloomy anyway. Added to that the torrential rain that made it impossible for any living thing to walk two paces without getting drenched to the bone, the frigid winds that were attempting to flay the surrounding trees alive, and the lightning and thunder adding their constant point-counterpoint to the proceedings, and the scene could accurately be called very dark and stormy, indeed.

Not that any of this mattered to the house.

It was the kind of house that exists largely in stories like this and low-budget horror movies which are best forgotten. Any reasonable neighborhood would have had such a house demolished long before the year 1964; or any other year, for that matter. But somehow, the forbidding edifice had been allowed to stand glowering over the countryside for generations. Not even the eldest of the local inhabitants, the ones who would tell you decades-old stories for the hundredth time if you couldn't think up a prompt excuse to leave, could recall anyone ever having lived in the place.

And yet, it was there. It had, naturally, a wrought-iron fence casting bizarre shadows in the shifting light, as well as the obligatory dead trees and broken cobblestone path making its way up to the forbidding oaken door. The stone gargoyles mounted on each corner of the roof were earning their keep as gouts of water mixed with leaves and other detritus gushed from their gaping mouths. If they had any profound thoughts regarding the scene, they kept them to themselves. They also failed to startle and take wing at the sudden flash of lightning which abruptly cast the scene into stark black-and-white. This was probably a good thing, however, as it would've alarmed the four individuals sprinting up the path towards the house, and they were thoroughly out of sorts already, thank you very much.

The door creaked as it opened, of course. It was no ordinary creak, however; if they gave out Oscars for Best Creak by a Door in a Supporting Role, this would have won hands down. If doors could be proud of themselves, this one would definitely have been. It would also have been miffed that the four bedraggled persons gathered before it didn't offer any bravos, or at least polite applause. They just stood there standing looking cold and wet (even though, in their defense, they were cold and wet.)

"Erm...anybody home, then?" the first one called inside the now-flung-wide-open door, his voice mixing a very small dose of hope with several heaping portions of trepidation. He was rewarded only by a diminishing echo which was rapidly drowned (almost literally) by the roar of the storm.

"I'd say the answer to that is no, Paul," a second voice observed, heavy with sarcasm and as dry as a voice...or anything else...could be under the current conditions. He adjusted his leather cap, pulling the brim down, then up again, though this did not measurably reduce the amount of rain that landed on his head.

A not-distant-enough boom of thunder heralded the appearance of a third voice, which was low and unperturbable. "Well, there has to be someone home, doesn't there, John? I mean, someone had to open the door, didn't they?"

And finally, the fourth voice made itself heard, with an edge that suggested the speaker was gritting his teeth and clenching his fists in his pockets. "Who cares who opened it? Are we going to stand out here all night?"

"Well, why don't you go in first, George?" the third speaker retorted, losing a bit of his equanimity as a fresh gust of freezing wind added insult to injury.

"Why don't you go in, Ringo?" came the snapped reply.

"Look," the first speaker began, highly exasperated, "One of us has to..."

Paul never got to finish his sentence, as the most spectacular lightning bolt in the history of the world abruptly incinerated the ground not two feet behind the group. The foursome proceeded to defy all known laws of physics as they somehow managed to get through the narrow door all at once and in a matter of nanoseconds.

Freed from the torrent, the group collectively exhaled in relief and shook water from their clothes, creating rapidly growing damp spots on the carpeted floor. There wasn't much to see in the shifting glare provided by the lightning which periodically flashed through the bars on the windows.

"Hey, there're bars on these windows!" Paul observed, stating the obvious.

"Has anyone considered turning on a light?" John observed, with an attempt at withering sarcasm (which was sabotaged by the fact that he was still catching his breath).

George moved to a switch that was visible in the weak light around the still-open door (which perhaps was continuing to have glum thoughts about unappreciative audiences). The click, click, click of a switch being flipped up and down with no visible results supplied its own answer, so George felt no need to reply with a cutting remark of his own. He did make the appropriate face, however.

"Well," Ringo observed in an attempt to cheer up his dour bandmates, "at least we're out of the rain, eh?"

"Gosh, yes, Ringo," George replied, unable to hold back his instinct for sarcasm any longer. "It's great that we won't get wetter than we already are."

"We can't get any wetter," Paul noted, shaking out his jacket, then attempting to straighten his narrow black tie. "It's just not possible. Do y'suppose there's a telephone somewhere?"

John answered, pouring a stream of water from his doffed shoe (heedless of the effect this was having on the carpet), "Do you see a telephone anywhere, Paul? Or do you think I carry one in me pocket?"

"Look, John, there's no need to get..."

Paul was interrupted once again, this time by the door. Apparently it had decided to quiet the foursome once and for all. This time, it not only outdid its previous creak, but followed it up with a ground-shaking, window-rattling SLAM.

SLAM...

slam...

As the echoes died away, the shocked foursome was left in silence and near-pitch darkness.

Not, however, for very long.

Every light in the place went on so abruptly that each individual flinched. Blinking in the glare, they examined their newly-revealed surroundings with a growing suspicion that they'd liked the place better with the lights out.

The foyer was a bad cliché taken to new heights, or depths, or both. The hideous carpet was the color of old blood, with serpentine shapes of a sickly green slithering their way across the floor. The requisite cobwebs smothered the shabby furniture and vigorously attacked the light fixtures with their dingy electric bulbs which had inexplicably sprung to life.

As the flustered group turned their clearing gazes to the opposite end of the room, they could see an enormous fireplace which was barely fending off the invading armies of cobwebs. On either side of it lurked a pair of narrow staircases. One led up, curving inward and out of sight, while the other plunged down into the darkness. A pair of twisted candelabra squatted on each end of the mantle, their pale flames dancing eerily in the murky light. The old clock in the mantle's center was stopped at half-past-midnight.

There was silence for several stunned minutes before George observed, "Rather a grotty place, innit?"

"Guys?" Paul asked, his voice as casual as it could be given the current state of affairs, "Let's get out of here, okay?"

They immediately headed for the door, which George was already trying to open. The rattling sound the knob made in his hand was not, however, encouraging. Neither was the fact that he seemed to be laboring very hard without any noticeable opening of doors taking place.

"It's locked!" he observed grimly.

"Locked?!" the other three replied in reasonable unison, followed by a jumble of "Here, let me try," and "No, let me," and "You're just not trying hard enough..."

"I'm telling you it's locked!" George finally burst out. "Try the windows!"

They complied, but were unable to budge the stout iron bars. "What...is...going... ON?" John muttered, straining at one window with both arms and one foot.

"Hey, look!" Paul called out. "Over here, on the fireplace. There's a note of some kind!"

"That's great, Paul," George replied acidly. "Now could you find us something useful, like a key? Or a stick of dynamite?"

The other ignored him as he picked up the aforementioned paper, stirring up a cloud of dust that made him sneeze. He unfolded the yellowish scrap as the other Beatles gathered around him, curious despite themselves. In the flickering glow of the candlelight, with the incessant sounds of the thunderstorm providing an appropriate backdrop, he read aloud the following words:

"Welcome, travelers, and despair.

From this house no one may leave,

but may depart as one.

Search though he may, no one may find.

From this house no one may leave,

but may depart as one.

As those herein learnt too late

From this house no one may leave,

but may depart as one.

Therefore heed and all learn well,

From this house no one may leave,

but may depart as one."

The Beatles stood in silence as Paul finished his speech and looked at them as if hoping they'd remember he hadn't written the thing.

"There's mysterious doings afoot here," Ringo pronounced, shaking his index finger for emphasis.

"Rubbish," John sneered.

"Awfully repetitive, too," George added.

"Who cares?" Paul spoke. "Let's just find some way out of here, shall we?"

"All right," John took charge. "We can't get out this way, so we've gotta search the place till we find something." He looked to the left and right at the pair of staircases. "Me an' Paul will take the upstairs. George, Ring', you go downstairs."

"Hey!" George protested, as Ringo quickly added. "Hang on! How come we have to... "

"All right, then," Paul spoke up, "We'll go downstairs and you..."

"And how come I have to go with him?" George interrupted, cocking his head towards Ringo.

"Hey!" came the wounded reply.

"Look, the longer we stand here arguing...!"

A lightning crash that made the previous one look as feeble as the glow of a sickly firefly ended the discussion, and the band members scrabbled madly towards one exit or the other or both, knocking into one another and several articles of furniture in the process. Finally, they disappeared up (or down) their respective passageways, leaving the room still and relatively silent. The lights flickered once, twice, then sputtered out, leaving behind only impenetrable darkness.

"How about a light, then?" Ringo asked sheepishly.

George reached into his suit pocket and pulled out a cigarette lighter. He flicked it on, but its weak glow barely dented the surrounding gloom, which seemed scornful of its efforts. "I could fancy a ciggy right now," George commented.

"I wouldn't," the other warned.

"Why not?"

"Well, what if somebody...or something...blew it out? My heart couldn't take it."

"Gah," George remarked scornfully. "Soft." He lifted the lighter in an arc around them, but saw nothing other than remarkably ugly wallpaper, the pattern of which resembled thorny vines twisting their way through a background of watery vomit. "I won't be recommending this place to anyone, that's for certain," he continued.

"Hey, we're going up!" Ringo observed, seeming to finally notice that they were ascending, not descending, the rickety stairs.

"Yeah, we picked the wrong one." He paused. "Or the right one, depending." He stopped as the stairway ended at an upper floor, and the threatening sag of the topmost floorboard encouraged them to leap off it in a hurry.

After several moments in which the pair walked down the narrow hallway, Ringo's voice broke the silence. "I like adventures," he asserted unconvincingly. "They add zest to your life, don't they?"

George snorted, "My life'll be 'zestier' once we get out of here. Look, why don't we..."

His words were cut off as the small flame sputtered out. Ringo stopped and waited patiently for his comrade to flick the lighter back on, but heard nothing to indicate that this activity was taking place. "George," he sighed, "what's the matter? Is it too complicated for you?" He fumbled in his own pockets and discovered a half-empty book of matches that'd come from some-hotel-or-another on their recent tour of America. After several strikes, Ringo was rewarded by a tiny glow as the match sprang to life.

He was not, however, rewarded by the sight of his fellow Beatle.

In fact, as a quick and worried glance back and forth indicated, he was now completely, utterly, and in all other ways alone.

Ringo made a mournful face. "I really do like adventures," he insisted. But even he didn't believe it.

"You had to keep going, didn't you, John?"

Paul's voice indicated a struggle between biting sarcasm and weary resignation as he and his partner wandered a cramped, twisting lower passageway. This area was free of unattractive wallpaper, but the damp stone blocks that formed the walls weren't much of an aesthetic improvement. John had snatched a candelabra from the main room as they'd all made their undignified exit. Now he lofted it high above them to illuminate the parallel boards that formed the roof of their level and the floor of the upper one.

"We all said 'stay here' when the car broke down, didn't we?" Paul went on, coughing slightly from the candles' cloying smoke. "We said, 'let's just wait by the road, somebody's bound to come along,' didn't we?" Finally, he decided that he might as well save his breath, as John seemed to be ignoring him anyway. As they made their way, the silence was broken only by an occasional drip of water and the echoing of their footsteps on the hard floor. Eventually, the passage divided itself, and the two Beatles stood at the juncture, looking one way and the other. The darkness refused to yield to their prying eyes, however.

"Well then," John observed, affecting a snotty upper-class accent, "Which way shall we go?"

Paul resolved to put his personal disgruntlement aside long enough to find a way out of the current situation. "Lend me a light. I'll go one way, you go the other, and we'll meet back here in a sec."

"Right." John detached a candle from his set. "Don't get lost," he warned.

"I'll certainly do me best." Paul headed down the left-hand corridor as John went to the right. As he walked on and the other's lights faded from view, he saw nothing but a tedious progression of stone floor and wooden ceiling. Then he stopped at the distant sound of his partner's voice calling. He didn't sound distressed, only excited, but then his voice vanished as suddenly as if someone had flipped a switch.

"John?" Paul turned back and yelled, his voice painfully loud in the confined space. "Are you all r...?"

A faint creak from overhead was his only warning, and he barely looked up in time to see the plummeting door. He leaped back, narrowly avoiding getting his head smashed by the onrushing barrier. Unfortunately, he managed to drop his candle in the process, and as it rolled away and extinguished itself, the area was plunged into absolute darkness.

Paul stood motionless, and remarked quietly to himself, "Umm....oh boy."

George flicked the lighter several times, producing faint sparks in the darkness before his efforts finally succeeded. He was immediately startled by two things: one, he was in a completely different area than he'd been two seconds ago, and two, he no longer had a companion.

"Ringo?" he called, more puzzled than alarmed. "Are you there?" He appeared to be standing in a long hallway featuring a different (but no more appealing) wallpaper pattern, with a half-open door ahead and to his right. Looking up and down the hall provided no answers, so he made a sardonic face and headed resolutely towards the doorway.

He opened it carefully and surveyed the interior. It appeared to be a study. A rain-streaked window (barred, of course, not that he'd expected otherwise) cast some light upon the scene. There was a desk before the window, and a small fireplace on the right-hand side. Bookcases full of dusty tomes lined the walls, in addition to several stuffed and mounted animal heads. George hurriedly dispensed with the notion that they were all looking at him and entered the room.

A quick glance down at the floor stopped him up short with a startled utterance. There appeared to be a large, muscular leopard lounging insouciantly before him, staring at him with its unfathomable gaze, fangs bared in what appeared to be a mocking sneer.

George held his breath before chiding himself, "It's only stuffed, of course, stupid," and striding confidently across the room to the desk. "Is there a telephone anywhere, perhaps?" he asked no one in particular, but waving the lighter across the dust-laden desk revealed no such thing. He could see nothing but rain through the window, and so turned to leave the room, making another sour face in rapidly-increasing frustration.

He was halfway to the exit when he heard odd scratchings from the area around his right foot. Turning slightly and looking down, he realized with shock that the leopard's left paw was moving, scraping its claws along the wood of the floor...and slowly groping its way towards him.

"Oh, Paaauuull," John called in a singsong voice as he waved the candelabra up, down, and around the hall. "Where aaarrre you?" His concern for his absent partner (and the fact that he couldn't find his way back to the original passageway) was mitigated by fascination at the abrupt change in his surroundings. It seemed as though he'd suddenly found himself back on a higher floor of the house. This area had several locked doors alternating on the left and right. These were interspersed with portraits of singularly unattractive people, the eyes of which followed him as he walked by (in accordance with clearly-delineated horror story conventions). Passing a hideously ugly hat rack which resembled an upright mass of entwined snakes, he plopped his own hat on it and continued on his way.

He held his light source close to a slender decorative table with a vase of mummified flowers on top, then examined the underside of the table as though his bandmate could conceivably be under there. "Where're you hiding, Macca?" he demanded in a mocking tone.

MUNCH, CHOMP, GOBBLE, SLURP, GULP, AHHHHHH.

John froze in place and blinked once at the sounds, then slowly rose and aimed the flickering candlelight back down the hall. All was quiet now, and the scene appeared unchanged...save for the fact that his hat was now missing.

Cocking his head slightly in puzzlement, he took several paces towards the hat rack. As he held the candelabra close to it, he paused; then scolded, "Hey! That was me best hat, you know!"

The response came in a sudden burst of motion as the thing emitted a violent hiss and snapped several of its snake heads toward him. He stumbled backwards in surprise, dropping the light with a clatter and falling to the floor as the monstrosity lunged forward and seized his jacket. Struggling to get free, he managed to work himself loose and leave the jacket behind. Immediately, he got to his feet and sprinted off down the hall, accompanied by the unpleasant sounds of an article of clothing being enthusiastically ripped to shreds. As he rounded a corner away from the thing, he couldn't resist skidding to a halt, poking his head back around the corner, and shouting in a scandalized manner, "And that was one of me best jackets, too!"

He gave an exaggerated, mocking laugh--which was drowned out by a chorus of slathering sounds--and departed the scene posthaste.

"George..." Ringo called, his voice even more forlorn than usual, accompanied by a distant backdrop of thunder and rain. "Knock it off, George! This isn't funny! Ow!" This last comment was inspired by his match having burned so low that it burnt his finger. It took several strikes to light another one. The tiny flame briefly flared high enough for him to get a semi-decent look at his surroundings.

Having seen no alternative, he'd continued walking along the upper floor in the hopes of coming across his vanished bandmate. So far he'd seen nothing of use or interest. Now, however, the hall he was in dead-ended before a pair of enormous double doors.

Ringo looked around nervously, then gave a quiet knock. "Hullo? Anyone in there?" He asked himself whether he really wanted an answer, but upon receiving none, he grasped the ornate brass doorknob and slowly turned it, straining hard to pull the door open.

"Ow!" Ringo's most recent match had imitated the action of its predecessor. Exasperated, he lit another. "I'll run out of matches if this keeps up," he complained. Fortunately, the bedroom had large--and surprisingly, unbarred--windows, which provided some small measure of illumination. They also provided a damp, chilling breeze, as at least one of them was broken. Shabby, moth-eaten curtains swirled eerily in the wind, as did the torn canopy of the decrepit four-poster bed that filled much of the chamber. Nevertheless, Ringo silently assured himself that he wasn't afraid of any old drapery, and stepped fully into the room.

"Ow!! That's it! No more bloomin' matches!" He irritably shook his once-again-burned hand as he passed before the drawers and nightstand to his left. Pausing briefly before his distorted reflection in the cracked and dusty mirror, he adjusted his tie and ran his fingers through his hair before proceeding to the window.

Any notions of climbing to freedom were dispelled in a single glance. The windowsill and roof tiles were hopelessly slick and treacherous in the rain and gusting winds, and the ground seemed distressingly far below. Several stories below, in fact.

"Hang on," he protested aloud. "I've only gone up one floor...?" However, a burst of lightning cast a harsh spotlight upon a nearby gargoyle which appeared to be making a very unattractive face directly at him. This put an end to Ringo's queries as he immediately jumped back several paces.

Before he could determine a new course of action, his attention was attracted by a new development. Namely, the carpet beneath him seemed to be moving.

"Hey...!" he objected as he began to slide sideways. The motion caused him to lose his balance and fall heavily with an "Umph!" The now-ambulatory floor covering was moving faster and faster, pulling him helplessly towards the bed...or rather, underneath the bed, an area which revealed itself as a yawning blackness of stale air ready to swallow him whole.

Ringo struggled up, then fell down again as the carpet continued to be dragged along beneath him. Finally, he scrambled free onto the now-bare floorboards as the rug was completely sucked away under the bed. A dull roar of inrushing air grew stronger, and took on a decidedly nasty overtone. The shaken-up drummer bolted for the door, escaped out into the hall, and ran for dear life. Then he reversed direction so hastily he almost fell to all fours, dashed back, and slammed the door shut. This action caused the roar within to grow louder and higher-pitched as if in immense frustration. Ringo wasted no time pondering, but immediately took to his heels once more.

"John!" Paul yelled, hammering fruitlessly at the barrier that now separated him from his partner. "Hey! Johhnnn!!" Receiving no reply, he stood back and blew out heavily in exasperation. It was obvious he couldn't go forward, so he turned and headed resolutely into the pitch darkness behind him. "After all," he reasoned aloud, feeling his way along one wall, "the corridor has to end somewhere, doesn't it? And if there's nothing here, I'll just turn round and go back then, won't I? Hmm hmm hmmm..." He hummed aimlessly, then whistled, the sound weak and tuneless in the dank gloom. "Ow! Steady on!" he protested, as he knocked his forehead on something. It hadn't really hurt, though, and felt familiar somehow... He reached a hand up to examine the object, and discovered it to be a dangling light bulb.

"Ha!" Paul ran his hand up and felt the cord that held the bulb aloft. He found that by standing on his toes, he could just barely touch the ceiling. However, there didn't seem to be a pull chain to turn the light on.

Cautiously feeling his way around the room, he found the floor was littered with many curious objects he couldn't identify. They were hard but not heavy, and rattled and rolled beneath him as he made his sightless way. Some of them broke as he trod on them, so he hoped they were nothing valuable. Discovering a low wooden stool, he dragged it backwards till the bulb touched the back of his head, then stood up on the stool to feel his way up the cord again.

He found that the wire disappeared into a hole that was just big enough to fit his arm through. He groped around vainly, pressing his left shoulder and the side of his head against the ceiling. His arm seemed to be in a heavy cloth sleeve closed off at the end against his straining fingers...what was going on up there...?

Then he grabbed something, and there was a shout from above as whatever-it-was struggled in his grasp...

George let out a yell and dropped his lighter as the cat's paw closed around his ankle, its wicked claws shredding the black fabric of his pants leg. He jerked free and stumbled backwards to the ground, impacting his tailbone on the hard wooden floor. Frantically, he looked around the darkened room for a weapon. Spotting a poker near the defunct fireplace, he reached out, seized it, and swung down in a wide arc, whacking the animal's foreleg with a satisfying THWOCK...

"AAAOOOWWW!!!"

George was startled not only by the shout of outrage and pain from the wounded leopard, but by the fact that its voice was one he recognized. In fact, it was even now giving vent to words that would never have been broadcast on the Ed Sullivan Show.

"Paul?" George gasped as he struggled to his feet, not believing his ears or eyes (or much else for that matter). "Is that you?"

"George?!" came the muffled, scandalized voice. "I think you broke me wrist, you..." More words of questionable taste followed as George hesitantly prodded the beast with his toe. He was relieved that it didn't sink its four-inch fangs into his foot (which, if Paul really had been turned into a leopard, would still have been poor conduct on his part). The realization that he was dealing with a bandmate who was still human, as opposed to a dangerous carnivore, gave him the courage to approach and lift the creature from the ground.

As he did so, it slumped lifelessly in his arms, confirming that it was only a very realistic stuffed skin. The front legs pulled away from the floor as George lifted, revealing a smallish hole. As he tossed the skin aside, a human hand emerged from the hole and formed a threatening fist. The muffled voice spoke once more: "Lay off beating on me and turn on this light!"

"What light...?" George began, then noticed the cord running from the hole along the floorboards. He followed it up the wall to a switch, which he flipped without much confidence. Much to his surprise, it worked, turning on the desk light. And, considering the glow that emerged from the now hand-free hole, it had turned on the lower light as well.

"Hey!" he remarked, pleased. The study wasn't nearly so frightening with the lights on. "A small measure of success, eh, Paulie?"

There was a hesitant reply. "George."

"Yes?"

"Could you get me out of here, please." The tone was very polite, but something about it made him spring into action. He grabbed the poker again and began prying up the floorboards, aided by forceful pushing from below. Finally Paul broke through and clambered into the upper room, his dark eyes wide as his breath came in rapid gasps. Cradling his injured arm, he met George's puzzled gaze and cocked his head back towards the lower room, indicating the answers could be found therein.

George looked down.

He gulped.

The floor below was littered with dozens of human bones.

George looked back at his traumatized comrade. "Well," he observed weakly, but could think of no witty remarks with which to conclude.

Paul swallowed hard. "Guess I was lucky, eh, all things considered." Then they both startled as the sound of running footsteps grew ever nearer, and a somewhat rumpled individual burst into view through the open door.

"What are you laying about for, ya twits?" John demanded. "Come on! I've found something!"

The two Beatles could only look at each other once more; then George sighed and retrieved his well-used lighter as they wearily rose to follow.

John glanced back at his bandmates as they trudged sullenly behind him, and took note of Paul's sore arm and George's torn pants leg. "What happened to you two?"

"Ask him," Paul replied, jerking his head towards George. He followed the gesture by baring his teeth in a snarl and taking a catlike mock-swipe at the other's head.

George dodged the half-hearted attack and protested, "Well, I thought...! Never mind," he finished lamely. Then he realized John's hat and coat were missing. "Where's the rest of your clothes?"

"Eaten by a hat rack," John answered wryly.

"A hat rack?" Paul repeated, incredulous. Then he shook his head. "Don't tell me. I'd rather not know. Where're you taking us, by the way?"

"All will be revealed, my lad. All will be revealed."

Little was revealed, however, by the pale glow of the single candle that John now held, having lost his original light source in his hurried escape from the carnivorous home-furnishings. A faint music did begin to make itself heard, though.

"What's that? Music?" Paul wondered, once again stating the obvious.

"And wait'll you see where it's coming from," John agreed cryptically.

The three Beatles stopped as the corridor opened into a wide landing, with a low wooden railing in front of them that looked out over a featureless gloom. Weird white lights flashed below, and the eerie, rattling discord of an out-of-tune piano grew louder. They stopped and leaned against the railing to look down, as John waved the candle dramatically to take in the scene.

They were looking down from some height upon an enormous dining room, with an ornate chandelier that dangled from high above and a long table running the length of its center. Blood-red tapestries hung upon the walls, alternating with floor-to-ceiling windows through which flashed intermittent bursts of lightning as the storm outside continued unabated. All this was only briefly noted, however, as the occupants of the table demanded the spectators' immediate attention.

They didn't literally demand anything, technically speaking, seeing as how they were all considerably dead.

Several skeletons were seated around one end of the long table, surrounded by dusty, cobweb-laden dishes that appeared to have been knocked about, as if by a brawl. Each skeleton was slumped in a position that suggested the Grim Reaper had not come in a peaceful guise. Weapons seemed to have been involved at some point, and at least one of the late diners had his bony hands fastened around his seatmate's neck.

John turned a grim face to his companions as the unmanned piano continued its hysterical tirade of notes from a corner of the chamber far below. Paul shuddered; whether theatrically or genuinely was hard to tell. "Spooky," he observed.

"Wouldn't have wanted to be at that party," George observed, but his offhand observation was undercut by the serious tone of his voice.

"I'm not sure we aren't, George," John replied, uncharacteristically subdued.

"Come on," Paul scoffed, somewhat rattled by the whole thing (especially the off-key clanking of the piano, which some part of him instinctively wanted to go down and tune). "What're you getting at?"

"They did each other in, you see?" John insisted, gesturing down again. "Just like this place keeps trying to get us to..."

"HEY! THERE YOU ARE!"

The delighted voice which boomed from behind them would have been quickly identified under normal circumstances. And indeed the threesome did identify it; but not until they had jumped nearly out of their respective skins. Their action caused the rickety banister to creak ominously, crack even more ominously, and slowly pull away from the landing...

"AAAAAAHHH!!!" The three Beatles let out various dismayed exclamations as the railing plummeted out of sight, causing them to lose their balance and pitch forward. They managed to twist as they fell, and wound up clinging to the edge of the landing for dear life.

"Guys!" A horrified shout came from above as footsteps hastened towards them. A fresh crack of lightning spotlighted the chagrined face gazing down at their predicament. "Are you all right!"

"Ringo, I'll cripple ya!!" Paul bellowed, having the hardest time clinging to safety with one injured arm. "Get us out of here!"

"NOW!" George added in a tone that did not brook argument, while John struggled to get a leg up over the landing and pull himself over. The mightily embarrassed Ringo braced his feet against the floorboards and extended both arms to help pull George and Paul up to firmer ground. Meanwhile, John used one hand to haul himself up while clinging to George's shirttail with the other. "Erg, here we go, lads! Up up!" he encouraged.

The reunited group collapsed to the ground, and lay trying to slow their heart rates to something resembling normalcy. For a while, there was nothing but the sound of their breathing coupled with the clamor of the unending storm, as the piano seemed to have finally played itself out.

"Er..." Ringo offered finally, "Sorry 'bout that."

"Ringo," George bit out, articulating each word with great care, "you are saved from a horrible beating merely because I don't currently feel capable of administering one." He stood and irritably tucked his shirttail back in as John added from his prone position, "Hear, hear."

"Let's be off, then," Paul sighed as he struggled upright, extending a hand to pull John up with him. "We can discuss auditions for a new drummer at a future date."

Ringo only muttered under his breath about gratitude and the current lack of it as the other three dusted themselves off, adjusted collars, etc., and headed back from whence they'd come. Before following, he snuck a peek over the edge of the landing and took in the scene below.

"Hey!" he shouted in alarm as more lightning made a melodramatic appearance. "There's...!"

"We know! Come on!" an increasingly-faint voice called out. Ringo spared one last mystified glance at the bizarre tableau, then hastened out of sight.

After bringing each other up to date on their respective adventures, the exhausted group continued down yet another interminable, dimly-lit, and poorly-decorated hall. It was some time before anyone spoke again. "You know," Ringo observed solemnly, "There's something about this that just isn't right."

The other Beatles, who'd been preceding him down the wide passageway, stopped and very slowly looked back over their shoulders at him. Now, being the subject of withering glares from three-quarters of the greatest rock band in history would've been enough to make most beings cringe. Ringo, however, was undaunted. "I mean things just don't add up like they should! You know?"

The aforementioned threesome exchanged glances, then replied in unison, if not harmony. "No."

Ringo sighed, then gestured helplessly. "It's..." He paused. "Anyone have a piece of paper?"

Paul, John, and George checked pockets, but shook heads as they came up empty. John strode decisively over to a section of peeling wallpaper and announced, "Pardon me," then tore away a large, squarish section. He set it down on the floor, and his bandmates gathered around it as Paul offered Ringo a pen. The drummer squatted down and began drawing rectangles connected by lines.

"A right Picasso, that," George noted.

Ringo began labeling things as he drew. "We started out here," he stated, drawing a series of parallel lines on either side of a big box and christening them STAIRS. "George an' me go up one level, John and Paul go down one level." He was adding directional arrows to his masterwork now as George aimed the ubiquitous lighter so he could work better. Ringo continued his narration. "Now Paul winds up HERE, and George is right above him HERE, but that shouldn't be right, should it?"

He looked up triumphantly as Paul admitted, "He's right, you know. There should be a floor in between there."

"Ex-actly!" Ringo emphasized his exclamation by stabbing the air with the pen. "And John starts off on the bottom floor, too, but he comes out on the same level as Paul an' George without going up or down any stairs a'tall!" He put on a smug look, as though anticipating a Nobel prize for his efforts.

Paul noted, his voice slightly nervous, "That's impossible, though. There's no logical connection."

"AHA!" John's shout startled them all as he snatched the pen, crouched down, and began doodling in the margins of the paper. He continued in an affected, querulous voice, "Maybe that's the point, me laddies!"

"Could you explain yourself, John?" George asked dryly.

"We don't get out of here by assuming this place makes sense," he insisted, returning to his normal voice. "We get out by assuming it doesn’t make sense!"

The puzzled looks of his cohorts would have prompted further explanation, but just then a low rumble from behind happened to insist on their immediate attention.

The gathered Beatles looked at one another, then hastily rose and scrambled down the corridor as the noise grew louder and the walls began to rattle in a disconcerting fashion. The noise faded as they rounded a corner and stopped to catch their breath.

"I've had...about enough...of all this running," Paul complained.

"I'VE had enough of the entire situation," retorted George.

"Well, then," Ringo announced, straightening his back and standing tall, "Let's put an end to it!"

"Do you have a solution, then?" asked Paul, his tone implying he highly doubted this was the case.

"Like John said," Ringo insisted, marching back around the corner heedless of his bandmates' protestations, "We do what doesn't make sense!"

The dangerous rumbling re-asserted itself as Ringo emerged from around the "safe" corner into the larger hall. His expression faltered somewhat, then he plucked up his courage and strode manfully forward. "Now, that's enough of THAT!" he called out into the darkness.

Apparently this foolhardiness was enough to shock someone-or-something into quiescence, as the rumbling died away and the hall grew silent. Three heads peeked around the corner one after the other, with expressions indicating various degrees of astonishment.

Emboldened by his success, Ringo flung out his chest, squared his shoulders, and marched forward with the aplomb of a champion weightlifter. "You heard me!" he asserted. "Not so tough when someone stands up to you, eh?" His companions followed him out into the hallway. John seemed pleased by the results of Ringo's actions, while Paul and George continued to shoot cautious glances at their surroundings. The former noticed that a picture frame on the wall was beginning to jiggle slightly. "Ah, Ringo..." he began.

However, Ringo continued his speech, "Now, you listen to me and listen good. Me an' my mates are leaving now, understand?"

A shower of dust fell from the ceiling. "Ringo..." George added, his voice insistent.

The Beatles' drummer was building up a full head of steam. "And you'd just better not try and stop us, you...!"

"RINGO!!" Three voices joined together as the surrounding area began to convincingly emulate a severe earthquake. The object of their words looked around and immediately terminated his bravado, but it was too late. From far ahead in the darkened hall came the sound of boards snapping and splintering; a noise that rapidly grew louder, rushing towards them like a tidal wave. Their first instinct was to turn and run, but John loudly encouraged them to stand their ground.

The four individuals flattened against the walls and braced themselves as the relentless force grew ever closer, splintering the floorboards between them like an onrushing shark parting the surface of the sea...then, abruptly, it came to a dead stop.

After a few settling sounds, all was quiet once more. John, Paul, George, and Ringo breathed heavy sighs of relief, then began to cheer and celebrate. "Whoo-hoo!" "Yeaahh!" "Yes!"

"I've figured it out!" Paul blurted. "This place keeps trying to split us up...'cos as long as we're all together, it can't hurt us!"

"You really think that's the case, Paul?" George asked, his voice indicating a moderate lack of certainty.

"Yeah!" he replied confidently. "I think so!"

With a shredding sound, a series of letters began to rip themselves into the wall, as though some unseen knife-wielding maniac was carving his initials for posterity. One letter after another tore into view, spelling out a question:

OH HE DOES, DOES HE?

And then, without further ado, the floor collapsed beneath them, sending the four Beatles plunging into the void.

As they slid headlong down a steep tunnel, George was the first to hit the unseen ground. "Oof!" He was rapidly followed by Paul: "Oooff!" Then John: "Ooooff!!" And finally Ringo: "OOOFFF!!!"

They vainly endeavored to untangle themselves from their shared heap (especially George, who'd been unfortunate enough to wind up on the bottom). As they did so, a series of overhead lights in a recessed part of the distant ceiling snapped on, revealing a huge, featureless basement with stark white walls. At each corner was a rusty lever built into the wall, with small corresponding notches in the corners of the roof high above them. The originally-white floor sported several large, disconcerting stains. There appeared to be neither entrance nor exit, as the shaft through which they'd dropped had sealed itself shut behind them.

"This is not encouraging," Ringo observed sadly.

"Buck up, Ring'," John urged. "We're not beaten yet!"

"Perhaps these switches will provide some answers," Paul speculated, heading over to one.

George only rubbed his aching back with both hands, commenting, "You lot are rather heavy, aren't you?"

Paul walked over to one corner and seized the lever in both hands. It gave a rusty squeak and resisted his efforts, but he managed to force it all the way down. Nothing happened, however, and shoving it back upright proved similarly fruitless.

Each Beatle walked to a different corner and tried their respective levers one by one, producing a similar non-effect. Down, up, nothing. Down, up, nothing. Down, up...

A disturbingly loud metallic clang echoed from the roof high overhead as the last switch was thrown. Then, to the collective horror of the gathered foursome, the distant ceiling began slowly, relentlessly, to lower itself.

Each Beatle worked his lever frantically up and down, trying to undo the effect they'd inadvertently produced. Ringo, who happened to have been the last one to have attempted this, was near tears. "I'm sorry! I didn't mean to...!"

"We...are...in...trouble!" Paul observed, looking fearfully up at the ceiling, which ground ominously as it came closer and closer...

George was shielding his head with one arm as though that would help. "If anyone's got any brilliant notions, now would be the time to share them...!"

"What'd that note say..." John wondered, almost to himself, as they all crouched against the walls and instinctively began to lower themselves from the crushing doom. Then he repeated urgently, "What'd that note say! 'No one may leave, but may...may...'"

"'May depart as one!'" Paul finished. "So??"

"No ONE may leave! ONE! That's the key to the thing!"

"What?!" George demanded.

"We have to work together!" John finished, his note of triumph marred by the increasing tenseness of the situation. The ceiling was now low enough to clearly make out that its stains exactly matched the positions of the ones on the floor.

"He's right!" Paul realized, shouting over the near-deafening noise. "We have to flip the switches all at once!"

Without argument, each Beatle grasped the nearest lever, holding them upright with grim and nervous expressions as the roof grew closer...

John counted off, "Ah-one, two..."

...closer...

"...one, two, three, FOUR!"

They yanked the levers down in perfect unison.

There was a loud clang, then a grinding shudder.

The roof slowed, then stopped.

The four bandmates resumed breathing. "Wheww!" Paul gasped, wiping his brow. "Let's not do that again, shall we?"

A section of one wall abruptly dropped away, revealing a soft light. The foursome glanced at one another, then cautiously headed for what they sincerely hoped was the exit.

As it turned out, it was, much to their great joy. They practically fell over one another scrambling up the stone steps to emerge into the fresh, open air.

"Morning!" John proclaimed, flinging his arms to the sky, which was pale and clearing with the first light of day.

Ringo ran out ahead of the others and capered through the wet grass like a recently escaped lunatic. "Free! We're free!" he exclaimed with delight. Paul and George followed as quickly as they were able, and engaged in some mock sparring as they added to the noisy celebration.

They should have realized, however, that the house would have one last surprise in store for them.

It came in the form of a slowly building rumble which caused them to stop short, turn around, and realize that the place appeared to be collapsing. They immediately broke into a run as, with a sound like a thousand pianos being dropped from the top of the Empire State Building, the monstrous structure turned itself into the world's largest junk pile. An immense dust cloud rose from the wreckage and swept over them as they flung themselves to earth and covered their heads and faces. The reverberating noise seemed to take a disproportionately long time to fade away. As the dust cloud billowed off into the distance, the Beatles began to cough and gradually raise themselves to variously upright positions.

"Is that finally it, then?" George demanded irritably, brushing off his jacket sleeves.

"What, George?" John asked mischievously, shaking his shirt front and sending up small clouds of dust. "Don't tell me this hasn't been grand fun!"

Paul ran his hand through his hair, then produced a comb from his pocket and dragged it across his head. "John, remind me to discuss your notion of 'fun' one of these days."

"Hey, Paul, discuss me notion of 'fun' one of these days!"

"Not now."

"Oh."

Ringo, seated very straight and upright as the morning dew started to soak through his pants, stated, "There's a lesson to be learned from all this, you know."

His three companions paused and looked at him expectantly. "Well," George prompted, "what is it?"

"Er..." Ringo made an embarrassed face. "I'm afraid I'm not quite sure."

This provoked laughter and a hail of shouts and mock blows which Ringo parried. "Let's be off, lads!" John proposed. The four Beatles rose from the damp grass, alternating attempts at restoring their disheveled appearances with friendly pushes and shoves at each other, and headed off into the bright, clear light of morning.

Margaret C. Racine has been writing odd little sci-fi stories on and off for the past several years, and is an award-winning watercolorist in her "other life."  She enjoys classic rock, Star Wars, Transformers (yes, THOSE Transformers), and mystery novels.  She lives in Arizona.