Day 1: Haunted Studio (Smosh x Reader)
Warnings: No Romance, No Angst
Summary: The lights keep flickering. The props keep moving. Ian blames “old wiring.” Spencer blames a ghost named Janet (or Janice). You and the crew stage an after-hours investigation… and discover the culprit: a Halloween animatronic on a midnight auto-test. Cue screams, salad spinners, and an unplugged fog machine.
🎃 Smoshtober Day 1 — “The Studio’s Haunted (Probably)”
The Smosh office had seen its fair share of chaos — cursed props, haunted dolls, Trevor accidentally microwaving a spoon — but this felt different.
The lights flickered during filming. Not once. Not twice. Every time someone said “haunted.”
“Okay, we’re not saying that word anymore,” Ian declared, squinting up at a trembling panel of fluorescents. “We’re saying… ‘the H-word.’”
“Haunted?” Shayne asked, helpful.
The light above him blinked twice like it was in on the bit.
Courtney’s jaw dropped. “That’s a hostile light.”
“Hostile is also an H-word,” Damien said, dramatically adjusting the drape of his cardigan like it was a cape. “It knows the letter. That’s literacy. That’s terrifying.”
Across the set, Spencer was already halfway to conspiracy board energy. He crouched by the nearest C-stand and spoke into his phone like a detective dictating a field report. “Log time stamp 2:13 p.m. Flicker pattern: double tap, responsive to trigger word. Hypothesis: ghost named… Janice.”
“You said Janet earlier,” you reminded him.
He considered. “Janice is her stage name.”
“Guys,” Angela said, pillow in hand as if it were a weapon, “this is either the best cold open we’ve ever planned or we need an electrician.”
A rubber bat fluttered sadly from fishing line in the rafters — set dressing for next week’s sketch — and Courtney hissed at it like they could intimidate gravity. The bat ignored the hissing and spun in a slow, mocking circle.
“Let’s reset,” Ian called, clapping once. “From the top. No H-words. Say ‘quaint old building problem.’”
“Got it,” Trevor said from behind the prop table, where he was attempting to coax an ancient fog machine into working with the tenderness of a bomb tech. “Quaint old building problem.”
The light over Trevor stayed blissfully steady.
Ian pointed triumphantly at the ceiling. “See? Not haunted.”
“Say it slower,” Courtney whispered. “It can hear fear.”
You tried, for the sake of sanity and the schedule. “Camera rolling?”
Angela nodded. The scene started. Ian took three steps into frame and, with the confidence of a man who absolutely did not believe in curses, said, “Welcome back to—”
The light above him popped like bubble wrap.
Everyone screamed. It wasn’t a real scream—more like a choir of cartoon sound effects—but still. The rubber bat did another lazy spin.
“I’m calling the landlord,” Ian said, dignity fraying.
“Or,” Spencer said, bright with the worst idea in the room, “we do an after-hours investigation.”
You stared. “A ghost hunt.”
“A content opportunity,” Angela corrected, because of course she did.
Courtney gasped, delighted. “Ghost Files: Budget Edition!”
Damien flicked his cardigan like a cape again. “I will require a prop candle and a Latin phrase I can mispronounce.”
“Or,” you tried again, carefully, “we could not be in the building after hours if we think the wiring is going to explode.”
“Just for an hour,” Angela said. “Minimal risk, maximal chaos.”
“Maximum clicks,” Spencer added.
Shayne tilted his head at the trembling light. “Minimum life expectancy.”
Ian rubbed his temples. “Fine. But if anything is truly unsafe, we bail. We lock up. We come back tomorrow and blame PG&E.”
“PG&E,” Spencer repeated thoughtfully, like he was filing it under “suspects.”
The clock in the break room read 11:47 a few minutes past the time the group decided to meet. The office at night felt like a stage between shows — quiet, a little eerie, full of forgotten props that looked more cursed in the dark. The big studio lights were off; the cheaper bulbs hummed. Somewhere, a cooling duct moaned like a shipwreck.
You set a flashlight on the central worktable and immediately regretted it. The beam cut the room into angles. Shadows ballooned.
“Welcome to Paranormal Inquiries: We’re Definitely Not Trespassing,” Angela whispered to the camera. “Tonight, our highly trained team —”
“— absolutely untrained —” you corrected.
“— will seek answers to one question: what keeps messing with our production lights? Is it poltergeists? Drafts? Or the natural consequences of deferring maintenance in a historic building because the quote was too high?”
“Bold of you to call a 2007 warehouse historic,” Shayne said, hefting a backpack. He dumped its contents with swagger. “Behold: equipment.”
You beheld. Inside was a salad spinner, a bike bell, two glow sticks, a plunger, and—an orange? He held up the salad spinner with reverence. “This is our EMF detector. EMF stands for ‘Every Mechanical Failure.’ If it spins on its own, it’s ghosts.”
“That’s not what EMF stands for,” Spencer muttered, laying out his own gear: an actual portable recorder, a notebook, six pieces of chalk, and a salt shaker. You weren’t going to ask.
Courtney arrived with an iPad, a thrifted lace shawl, and three tealights. “I’m the medium,” they announced, draping the shawl like a vibe. “As in ‘contact with spirits.’ Not ‘shirt size.’ But also yes.”
Trevor slid in, a backpack slung over one shoulder. “I brought snacks.”
“Emergency rations,” Damien said approvingly, taking the bag of gummy worms. “Fuel for our crusade.”
Ian locked the door behind him and tried to assert authority. “Rules. One: No one wanders off alone.”
“Except for usable B-roll,” Angela said, already wandering off alone.
“Two: If any actual safety hazard appears, we leave. No bits.”
“Define ‘actual,’” Shayne said.
“If the building catches fire,” Ian said. “Or if the building turns and looks at us.”
“The building is sentient,” Spencer murmured, enthralled. “Adding to list.”
You took pity on your future self and did a quick sweep of the floor with a flashlight—no cables to trip on, no rogue dry-erase markers waiting to commit ankle crimes. You might not believe in ghosts, but you did believe in OSHA.
“All right,” you said. “We start in the main stage. That’s where the… quaint old building problem was worst.”
“H-word,” Courtney warned.
“Sorry. H-word.”
The main stage looked even more like a liminal space at night: backdrops like sleeping giants, a wall of costumes watching with a thousand soulless plastic eyes. The rubber bat dangled overhead, smug as a bat could be.
Spencer clicked on his recorder. “Is anyone here with us? We respect your space. We invite you to talk into this device. Preferably clearly. Preferably in English.”
“Or French,” Courtney said. “We accept bilingual phantoms.”
“Español is fine,” Damien added.
The air conditioner shuddered to life with the timing of a prank. Courtney clutched your sleeve; you pretended not to jump.
“EMF reading,” Shayne announced, and spun the salad spinner like he was summoning pasta. The spinner purred. The glow sticks did nothing. The bike bell chimed of its own accord when Trevor bumped the table.
Angela’s camera watched it all, unblinking.
“Guys?” Trevor said. “Did anyone else hear a… knock?”
You held your breath. Knock.
“That came from the prop closet,” Damien whispered, because of course it did.
Ian’s jaw tensed. “It’s probably the building… settling.”
“Settling what,” Spencer said, “its debt to the dead?”
Courtney lowered the iPad until their face glowed haunted-campfire blue. “I can open the veil.”
“You’re not opening anything,” Ian said, and then—because no one ever listens when the episode needs a plot—there was another knock, clearer this time. Followed by a faint scrape. The sound of something… repositioning.
Everyone looked at each other with the exact same expression: the one that says we know this is probably nothing but also what if it’s terrible.
“Okay,” you said, because you were a sucker for narrative, “we check the closet. Together.”
“Together together,” Ian said, shepherding everyone into one cautious clump.
The prop closet door stared back, painted the cheerful teal of “nothing bad has ever happened here.” You reached for the handle and paused. “Before I open this, does anyone who is braver want to open this?”
Silence. Courtney hummed the Jeopardy! theme.
You breathed once and pulled.
The closet exhaled dust. Racks of unloved props crowded the walls: plastic gravestones, a busted skeleton, a box labeled “MISC SPOOKY,” a life-size top half of a clown you sincerely did not remember ordering. It was the kind of place mice would rent as an artist loft.
Something bumped again, deeper in.
“Hello?” Spencer said, recorder outstretched like a talisman. “Janet? Janice? Are you… reorganizing?”
“Use salt,” Courtney whispered. “Salt is cleansing.”
“That’s snails,” Damien said.
You edged in sideways, leading with your flashlight beam. The light kissed a metal shelf, a tangle of wires, a heap of fake cobwebs—then landed on the source of the bumping: a box on the floor, half-open, labeled in Sharpie: ANIMATRONIC — DO NOT PLUG IN (TIMED).
You blinked. “That seems like a clue.”
“Like in a horror movie,” Shayne said, delighted. “The box that says Don’t.”
Inside: a foam-latex head, glossy eyes closed; two jointed arms folded like a corpse at rest; a tangle of tubing and servos attached to a black control brick with a sticker: AUTO-TEST ENABLED. MIDNIGHT CYCLE.
Angela leaned in. “Are we sure the H-word is a ghost and not… this?”
“Counter-hypothesis,” Spencer said, which is what he said when he didn’t like your very reasonable explanation, “the ghost is using the animatronic.”
“Occam’s Razor,” you said.
“Janice’s Razor,” he said back.
There was a small switch on the control brick. A little LED next to it glowed a patient red. A digital display ticked over to 12:00 AM. The animatronic’s eyes snapped open.
Every single person in the room made a noise you wouldn’t be proud of in a courtroom.
The animatronic’s head lifted with a smoothness that looked expensive. Its eyes—too shiny, too wet—tracked vaguely as though trying to find center. The arms unfolded with a hydraulic whine. Somewhere inside the mechanism, a speaker crackled to life.
“WELCOME… TO… THE… SPOOOOKY ZONE!” it bellowed, in a voice that could only have been recorded by someone who had never met a child and yet had been tasked with entertaining twenty children at once.
Courtney screamed and clutched you, then screamed again when your flashlight re-lit the clown half. Trevor made an entire soundboard of surprised syllables. Damien yelled, “SHOW YOURSELF,” because he is like this. Ian flinched so hard he ran into Shayne, who, due to the bump, dropped his salad spinner.
The animatronic raised one arm, hand jerking in a wave. The speaker popped again and, with a cheerful menace that didn’t know its own strength, it said, “HELLO, FRIENDS.”
“Turn it off, turn it off,” Ian said, lunging for the control brick. He hit a switch that did not care about him. The animatronic announced, “COUNTDOWN TO SPOOK: THREE… TWO…”
You found the right switch — because you had the unique superpower of reading labels — and flipped AUTO to OFF. The LED winked out. The creature sagged, eyes closing in a weirdly peaceful way.
Silence crashed into the room. Someone’s breathing — yours? — was loud enough to be a bit.
“Okay,” you managed. “So the H-word is… an animatronic on a midnight test cycle.”
Ian pressed his palms to his eyes. “We forgot to disable the timer after last year.”
“Ah,” Angela said to the camera, whispering like she was on a nature show. “Observe the wild content creators in their natural habitat: negligent.”
Courtney released your arm by degrees. “I feel… alive.”
“I feel nothing,” Damien said, then added, “Except hunger,” and bit a gummy worm in half like it owed him money.
Spencer stared, recorder still held up like he was expecting the animatronic to confess. “So you’re telling me… Janice is a robot.”
You looked at him. “I’m telling you Janice is a box with elbows.”
He considered this, then — earnest as ever — pointed at the metal shelf. The top shelf was scuffed like something big had rattled against it. Dust had been disturbed in arcs consistent with… You didn’t know, some Big Rattle. He flipped his notebook to a fresh page. “Counter-counter hypothesis: Janice is real, and she outsourced.”
Shayne had found his dignity and scooped up the salad spinner. He spun it once, and it whirred obediently, like a dog trying to be helpful after knocking over the Christmas tree. “EMF agrees.”
“That’s centrifugal force,” you said.
“It’s friendship.”
Trevor, who had recovered enough to be useful, crouched by the control brick and held up the user manual, brittle and stained. “Guys. The fog machine is also on a timer.” He pointed. “It’s set for 12:05.”
The entire group turned as one toward the ancient fog machine in the far corner, the one Trevor had been coaxing earlier. It sat there innocently, a beast at rest.
“Do not let that go off in the enclosed closet,” you said, already shepherding people backward. “Ventilation. Lungs. Remember those?”
Ian scrabbled for the plug, yanked it, and the machine gave a mournful huff, like a dragon denied.
Angela zoomed in on the animatronic’s peaceful corpse. “All right, Smoshtober investigators. We solved it. Was it ghosts? No. Was it drama? Yes. Was it the chaos we craved? Always.”
Spencer lowered his recorder slowly. “For the record, I’m disappointed. And also relieved. Disapporelieved.”
“New word unlocked,” you said. “I’m proud and I hate it.”
Courtney brushed dust off their shawl and composed themselves. “I still think we do a seance.”
“We are not doing a seance,” Ian said.
A beat. Courtney lifted their hand. “What about a vibe session? Like, we all sit in a circle and respectfully ask the building how it’s feeling.”
“We already know how it’s feeling,” Shayne said, tapping the animatronic’s box. “It’s feeling ‘midnight marketing activation.’”
Cleanup looked like the end of a block party: wrappers, glow-stick corpses, the shame of a salad spinner with delusions of grandeur. You and Trevor coiled the animatronic’s cables and taped a bright neon note to the box: TIMER OFF. DO NOT TURN ON. EVER. Under it, someone added, (Unless supervised) (And filmed) and someone else (probably Courtney) drew a smiley face with vampire fangs.
Angela did a quick to-camera button while Ian emailed both the landlord and a lighting company with the subject line “urgent but not haunted.” She signed off in a whisper: “And that concludes Day One of Smoshtober: The Studio’s Haunted (Probably). Final verdict: animatronic on a timer. Secondary verdict: we are easily startled but highly entertaining.”
You flicked your flashlight off and let your eyes adjust. The office looked normal again, the way a stage looks normal once the audience is gone. The rubber bat dangled, bored. The lights stayed solid.
“Thanks for coming to my TED Talk,” the building did not say.
Damien slung an arm across Shayne’s shoulders. “I propose we commemorate our triumph with pancakes at the 24-hour place.”
Shayne brightened instantly. “We have earned butter.”
“I second the motion,” Courtney said, solemn as a judge.
“I third the motion,” Trevor said, already googling the menu.
Angela tilted her head at you. “Coming?”
“In a minute. I’ll lock up with Ian.”
Spencer hesitated by the prop closet door, gaze still on the animatronic like it might produce a confession if he stared hard enough. “I’m just saying… we didn’t ask any real questions.”
“You asked if it spoke English,” you said.
“Maybe it speaks Morse,” he said, and tapped the control brick gently. It did not respond. He sighed, added “Animatronic” to his suspect list with a frowny face, and finally shouldered his bag. “Fine. Pancakes.”
Ian flicked off the last row of work lights, and the room settled into a softer dark, one that felt less like “we’re being watched” and more like “props have bedtime too.” He jangled the keys. “Let’s go before we discover the printer also does a midnight test scream.”
“Don’t give it ideas,” you said, and followed everyone to the door.
Behind you, in the prop closet, the animatronic sat perfectly still. The fog machine, unplugged and thwarted, sulked in silence. The rubber bat took one last lazy spin.
From somewhere in the ducts, a soft knock echoed. You paused.
“I heard that,” you said to no one, because talking to buildings is free. “No more bits. We’re closed.”
A beat.
Nothing. The office stayed quiet.
“Good talk,” you said, and shut off the last light.
💀 Nuelles Ponders
Did I post this late? Maybe. Will I be pumping out fics like crazy, yes. A lot are pre-written, and others aren't finished, but hopefully I can finish this series by the first week of November...fingers crossed.
