Lurch sat at the harpsichord, which was now flickering between a musical instrument and a giant, singing spreadsheet. He struck a chord so dissonant it forced the virus to pause its execution.
In the heart of the attic sat the cursed laptop that had started it all. The screen was a vortex of scrolling code, a digital maw trying to swallow the physical world. Uncle Fester was already there, leaning over the keyboard with a lightbulb in his mouth.
Thing scurried across the floor, but he was no longer a seamless hand. He was a blocky, flesh-colored cluster of cubes that moved in five frames per second. He tapped out a frantic message in Morse code against a baseboard, but the sound came out as distorted white noise.