Somebody lived at the top of Turnip Hill. There was a house that backed up into the woods. It looked much like a dollhouse, tall and square, with white shuttered window, and a small metal rooster at the top of the roof. The house used to be painted light blue, maybe a century or so ago. Now it was covered in ivy and the paint was peeling on every side. The once beautiful metal gate in front was now rusted and barely holding together. The only way you could tell someone was even living there was because you could see their figure in the bottom right window sometimes. It was the only window without any shutters left on it. All the other windows’ shutters were closed.
  One night Dennis Katz, once Dennis Wilson, stopped his bike at the bottom of the hill and faced his flashlight up at the house. He leaned forward on the handle bars and shined the light from window to window.
“This is a bad idea Dennis”, exclaimed his friend Turner, “We really shouldn't be here!”
“Gah, Turner! Stop being such a wuss!”, Dennis scoffed.
Turner fiddle nervously with his senior ring. “Come on Dennis! We couldn't have at least come when it was light outside?”, Turner’s voice shook as he peered into the dark.
“No! We’re doing this now! I want to know who’s up there!”, Dennis hopped off his bike and dimmed the flashlight, “Let’s go”. Turner kicked out his bike stand and glumly followed.
Dennis and Turner had known each other since middle school, when Dennis’ mother got remarried to Turner’s father. However, they had not become friends until the ninth grade when Turner finally stood up for himself and broke Dennis’ nose. After some counseling and “quality” time, they opened up to each other. Now they were half-way through their senior year and were enjoying it as best-buds.
Of the two boys, Dennis was the tougher one. He was captain of the football team, and a wrestling champion. He was stubborn, relentless, loud, and at times dimwitted. He never thought before he acted and he always let his curiosity get the best of him. Turner Katz was the smarter of the two. He spent his days chasing new information instead of women and he spent his nights learning instead of partying. His brain was never satisfied. He was also quiet and preserved.
………
The boys reached the gate. Most of it had fallen down or rusted away.
Turner tried to warn Dennis again. He whispered, “Dennis please don’t do this. This isn't a good idea!”
“No one has followed us right?” Dennis passed the flashlight back and Turner shined it down the narrow path.
“Nope” Turner replied.
“Good!”
Then they continued to the house. They came around to the left side of the wooden patio and snuck in front, across the lawn, doing their best not to crunch too loudly on the fallen leaves. Then they came to the front door, which was slightly cracked.
Turner stood behind Dennis as Dennis began to enter. “Dennis!”, he shouted a whisper, “No!” Dennis just shushed him and entered the house.
Inside it was dark and musty. The floor was bowed and warped from rot and the air was thick and smelled of dead animal. Dennis coughed as he continued into the foyer. He shined his flashlight around at the walls and staircase. 
“Dennis please! Let’s leave now! Dennis!” Dennis ignored his pleading brother.
The boys had gotten to the stairs when Dennis tripped on something. The flashlight’s gleam soon fell on the rotting carcass of what used to be a rabbit. Dennis turned around and scanned the floor with the light, following the boys’ trail into the house. Carcasses and bones of small animals appeared one after the other, until the light reached the front door.
A girl stood in the doorway, her hair was as wild as the wind, her muscles were lean, and blood dripped from her mouth. Two tall, grey wolves stood at her sides.
The girl crouched down, her fingertips gripped the floor, one hand in front of the other, and her legs bent in a runner’s position, with her back at a tilt. Then she growled a low deep growl, and showed crooked, pointed, teeth. Wolves echoed from all sides.
Dennis and Turner stood like dear in headlights, awaiting impact. Two questions last crossed their minds: Why and What?
Then, the pack attacked and feasted. Curiosity had killed the Katz.