Help! I'm Having Twins With Harry Styles! But I Hate Him! Don't I?

Dun Dun Dun (that sinister sound) Brought To You By the Letter F

I took hold of Harry's arm, a forceful and reflexive clutch designed to distract myself from the fear of whatever nastiness hid in the frigid gloom.

Reassuringly he gave my hand a pat, before producing a fuschia cigarette lighter from his vest.

"I didn't know that you smoked," I frowned; I could never kiss a smoker: foul!

"It's not mine," he explained. "It belongs to Zayn. We've been trying to get him to quit. You know, you should sign our fantastic petition on Wattpad; that's sure to do the trick."

"I bet he thinks it makes him look fibrous," I sniffed, watching as Harry tore a big strip of fabric from the front part of his costume, and wrapped it around an opportunistically placed stick, or bone, or something of that nature that one might find just fortuitously laying around in a creepy subterranean chamber filled with formidable fears.

For a moment the lighter's flame flickered feebly, filling the confined space with inky, obtuse shapes that danced like a drunken Irishman to the gleeful tones of a fiddle. When the makeshift torch ignited, the gloomy room was revealed in its frolicsome entirety.

It was just a stone room.

"Where did that sound come from?" I wondered fearfully, as I examined the walls in a wholly cursory manner, for there were no frightful figures to be found.

"There is a passage here," Harry declared, flitting in that direction with the flare held aloft and a fierce expression affixed upon his facial features.

Fastidiously I followed behind as Harry felt his way; I clung to the flaps on the back of his formal jacket, like some two person conga-line without music.

"Oh, wow," he exclaimed in fascination, but I almost fainted.

The corridor had widened into a cavernous chamber, so fricken large that our torch could not facilitate illumination of the vaulted ceiling.

But that wasn't the worst part.

The worst part was the alcoves that lined the filthy walls, wherein lay fetid bodies... emaciated, dehydrated, funky smelling and contorted corpses in various states of decomposition. There must have been at least forty-five, or fifty-four, or possibly even five hundred and fifty-five of them, just lying there frivolously.

"Fascinating!" Harry said, moving right up to one of them and inspecting the plaque that read:

I used to be alive like you, but then I took an arrow to the knee.

"Don't touch it!" I hissed, as he reached out to feel the fletched end of the arrow protruding from the corpse's wrinkled flesh. "We have to get out of here! Fast!"

"Don't you want to know for what reason these fallacious wretches lay here festering?"

I blinked.

"You want me to give you head, right here? Right now?" I flustered.

He looked a little confused, but his expression flattened, his quizzical smile faltered, and the light faded from his eyes when a fungible moan rolled through the rows of the not so recently dead.

"Fuck," I exhaled, before I even realised it had escaped from my lips.

"You want to do that right here? Right now?" Harry frustrated, looking somewhere between flummoxed and fervid.

"The school must have been buried on an ancient Indian burial ground!" I flounced, my eyes growing full with faintheartedness.

"We have to hurry," Harry announced, grabbing hold of my wrist.