Oh, it's Mister Vakarian now, is it? Like Mistah Sheffield? He's watching you two, okay. Keep it up. Go ahead. Keep it up. The countdown timer to a roast is ticking steadily down — especially Mistah Vakarian, for punking him out about his kickass goggles. In the meantime, Mission Mode kicks in. He's a professional, he's on the job, he'll act like it — at least for a few minutes.

All three of them stare down at the unnecessarily spooky wax prop reaching out longingly for them, for a moment — until something cool dances across the back of his neck. He stays stoic, stays still, keeps his mouth shut, but his eyes lift and begin to keenly scope out the area around them. Looking for movement, looking for the telltale shimmer of a manifestation, looking for the sight of his own breath in the air in case the temperature's plummeting — nothing. Nothing. The absence of anything is, ironically, more unnerving than a full-blown apparition might be.

He leaves the two of them to decide between themselves whether to right the thing or leave it for after, and instead wanders two or three feet away, head cocked, ears alert. Something hits them, and he holds up a gentle hand at his companions, a silent signal, followed by a murmur of, "You hear that?"

It's--

Footsteps. Slow, deliberate, ominous footsteps.