We immediately join Poor Little Fey Doomed Corbett upstairs, where he's inching his way down the hall, pleading for the ghost to speak with him for some asinine reason. Something fritzes out a bit of his equipment, forcing him to switch once more to night vision, and when he finally refocuses the lens on his glowing eyes to smile, "That's better!" something large and Lurch-like's popped up behind his shoulder. DUN!
Downstairs, the squabbling continues until Poor Little Fey Doomed Corbett's howls of anguish and terror descend from the second floor. The remaining GHOSTFACERS fly into a mad frenzy and tear up the rickety stairs despite Sam's bleeped-out cries for them to remain in the living room. The shot cuts over to Poor Little Fey Doomed Corbett's FaceCam as Lurch drags the hapless lad through some random corridor, and Corbett's screams continue as a title card flashes on screen to let us all know that the clock's just now ticked over to midnight on the 29th. We head back to the remaining GHOSTFACERS -- who've since been joined by Sam and Dean -- just in time for the visuals to collapse into a completely disjointed mess, and they all somehow end up back in the living room, where the douchey asshole idiots fuck around with their laptops while Our Intrepid Heroes realize the entire house has gone into some sort of supernatural lockdown, one in which every possible exit has been sealed off. Everyone gathers near the front door (I think) and Dick grasps at Maggie's hand (I'm pretty sure) just as the electronic equipment starts fritzing out again (I know). The reason this time? Yet another death echo, this of an obviously inebriated fat man who starts staggering around obliviously right in front of their eyes. Dashing El Deano manfully stompy-clomps over to bellow in the specter's face as Sam explains it's possible to startle the echo out of its loop "if you can talk to the part of the ghost that's still human." Unfortunately for Dean, one usually has to "have some sort of connection to the deceased," so all of El Deano's manful stompy-clomps and bellowings are for naught. Just then, a horn goes off nearby, and the bleary sot of an intoxicated spirit lifts his tubby little head right on time to get smeared yet again by the locomotive that killed him all those many years in the past. "GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOORE!" shrieks an eagle-eyed Raoul as he writhes about upon his overstuffed armchair with delight, for yes, friends, the tubby boozehound first dissolved into a spray of bloody guts before the invisible train whisked his spectral corpse off into oblivion. "HOORAY!" Feeling better? "Much, thanks! Wheeeeee!" Glad one of us is. "I believe you should lighten up, Mr. Grumpypants!" Don't call me that ever again, houseguest.