The stairs seemed to go on forever. Not as a figure of speech, either, Dexter, Argi and Deme were climbing for all of ten whole minutes before they reached a door, slightly ajar which, when opened, revealed a short hallway of identical doors, and a internal balcony that overlooked a black and white tiled space surrounded by shadow.
“Huh, well that’s not ominous at all,” Deme said, the extremely aged wood, dust covered, was almost the same color as his fur. 
Dexter tapped Argi on the side of the head to get his attention, and because he could, but mostly to get his attention, “Who is that guy?” he said, aiming at Deme, quiet enough that he couldn’t hear.
“Dunno,” Argi replied,  trying to force unconcern, “maybe there’s some shit in one of these hoods we could lift?”
“Stop talking, you make my ears hurt when you talk,” Dexter said, and Argi mumbled an appology, following along obediently. 
“H-hey! Wait for me,” Deme said, and hurried to catch up with the others, “I, uh. I heard that this place was haunted. Like, ghosts and stuff. Do you really think we should be in here?”
“Listen, kitty,” Dexter said, not turning to look at him, “I’m here to steal stuff. Plain and clear. No. No, don’t tell me why you’re here, I don’t care,” Deme had opened his mouth. He now shut it, “good boy,” Dexter turned, and walked over to a door.
Deme did, in fact, have a reason to be here. He had lived in the town just down the street from the place for a little over a year now, having moved here from the big city. Every day since he first heard the story of the manor, Hightenview Manor, to be exact, he had been fascinated by the place. Terrified, but fascinated. When the lighthouse in the steeple turned on, and it became apparent that someone was inside, and, well, Deme couldn’t help himself. 
The big raccoon, his little purple sidekick following behind, chose an absolutely random door out of the twenty or more in the hallway, and tried the knob. It was locked from the inside. Next door. Also locked, and the next, and the forth. Frustrated, Dexter stepped back, and threw his not inconsiderable weight against the door, and the aged wood gave way, sending him sprawling into a clean, crisp, brightly lit room. Argi, shouting in surprise, rushed in, running face first into a glass wall. 
“YEAAAWWWW!” Argi screamed, backing up and holding his muzzled, the impact having jarred his nose. He recovered swiftly enough, and put a paw against the glass. It was solid, he bashed a hand against to be sure, then looked down at Dexter as he picked himself off the E-Z wipe floor of… a toddler’s bedroom?!
At first the big raccoon looked confused, then frustrated as he noticed the wall, and banged his fist against it repeatedly.
***
Rakka looked into the viewing orb as the big raccoon searched the toddler nursery frantically, trying to find a way out. The others were watching, that was good, very good. They would know what they had coming. The big raccoon, Dexter was his name, had just smashed a very nice spanking stool against the transparent barrier which he had created. “And now comes the fun part,” the dragon headed carp said, and waved a pectoral fin. He watched through the opaque viewing orb as the room burst into motion like a hailstorm. A possessed ottoman took Dexter’s legs out from under him, and he fell to the floor in a heap. The big raccoon took the impact with his right shoulder, doubled over, keeping arms and legs close to his center of mass, and rolled forward, the memory in his muscles reacting faster than this brain, and, transferring momentum, shot back upright, on guard for whatever had attacked him. 
Argi bashed his head against the invisible wall, shouting something. It was soundproof, Dexter was distracted for a second, watching Argi’s muzzle move, but hearing no word, “Big mistake,” Rakka said, and waved another fin. 
“What the hell is this?!” Dexter bellowed, and was taken head on by the right side of a blue armchair. He keeled over the armrest, head impacting the aged embroidered cushion, and felt his forepaws as they were sucked between the pillows and held their by a force which he couldn’t understand, let alone explain.
“Oh no,” Rakka said, “No, no, no. Those clothes don’t work at all.” He was speaking into the orb now, and, alone in his nursery, could be heard by nobody but Dexter. The raccoon’s ears perked, and he looked over his shoulder, the voice coming from everywhere, and nowhere. “Let’s get you out of them, shall we?” 
Rakka moved his right fin slowly, very slowly, and watched the machined threads tear along the seams of Dexter’s pants, shirt and undergarments. The raccoon gasped, and started hyperventilating as his clothes unmade themselves from his back, and fell away to either side, leaving him naked right down to the fur. Argi was shouting, and banging on the invisible wall, but to no avail. 
“I think sixteen is fair, since you’ve gone and broken the stool, Dexter?” Rakka said, that aforementioned raccoon starting to panic, desperately trying to escape the chair as he watched, looming like the apocalypse, a small red paddle with a paw print shaped hole drilled at the end levitated it’s way around the chair, and into position behind his rump. Dexter had been spanked regularly as a child, and had hated every last, agonizing second of it. There was no chance in hell he was about to let it happen, again.
Despite all the will in the world, Dexter could only yelp prodigiously, and pull with useless force as the paddle swung on the backstroke, “Remember, this hurts me more than it hurts you,” Rakka said, laughing, and swung a fore fin, the paddle moving in mirror, and spanked the raccoon right onto the sit-spot of his unprotected hindquarters. He opened his mouth to scream, but was silenced by a flying rubber pacifier, which blasted off from the toddler dresser, and embedded itself quite irremovably between the lips of his muzzle. He wiggled and squirmed, but the paddle came down again and again on his unprotected behind, which, by the third stroke, glowed red with horrific, stinging pain. So much pain, in fact, that the raccoon hardly noticed the other effect that the paddle was having on him. With every swing, every tremendous jolt of pain, his footing slipped as his muscles contracted involuntarily, and came back to rest slightly closer than it had before. The red, wooden instrument swung again, Dexter helpless to resist, and, his already tender flesh bearing the brunt of it, throbbed with agony, hot and cherry red.
Dexter’s arms had gotten sleeker, smaller, with every painful descent of the paddle. Eventually, his paws trapped under the cushion, the grey furred thief lacked even the height to remain keeled over the armrest, and felt his feet hanging a few inches from the ground, the distance growing with every harsh spanking. At ten swings, he lost his control, and went into a crying, screaming fit, tears running down his slender face. The raccoon’s signature lip-ring had fallen out, the skin around it having disappeared, and, at realizing how small he had gotten, gasped, frozen, and felt a warm, fragrant trickle run down the inside of his legs and onto the floor. 
“I think that’s enough, Dexter. I hope you’ve learned your lesson,” Rakka said, and released his control on the raccoon, now no bigger than a three year old, who’s hands came free of the cushion, and fell flat onto his red hot bum with a wail that could wake the dead. He flailed and screeched in a full, undeniable tantrum as his urine smelling toddler’s body was lifted up, and carried to a convenient wash sink, the kind you use for washing an infant, and wiped down with telekinetic soap and cloth. He squirmed admirably, but was inwardly relieved. The magical impliments were gentle, and, in shock as he was from the harsh spanking and transformation, he was ready to grasp onto any affection showed to him. The raccoon was dried off with a towel, ever so gently, and carried to a small table where a diaper, and a cute pair of short-legged overalls with a matching white T-shirt had been laid out. The diaper was unfolded neatly underneath him, a very thick pair of padded, absorbent underwear with a cute print of baby raccoons, looking not unlike he currently did, and he was set down upon it, wriggling exceptionally as he was powdered, and his thick, crinkly diaper was folded up around him, and taped securely in place. A few seconds later, with the shirt pulled over his head and the overalls snuggly strapped over his shoulders, the diaper was almost invisible, only able to be seen as a thick bulge around the red bottomed toddler’s waist, a necessary wall of padding to protect the delicate behind of someone so disciplined. He suckled on his pacifier, still too shocked to understand. 
Argi was scarred shitless. The glass wall, impregnable as it was, was completely see through, and he had watched with unconcealed horror as Dexter had been first spanked, then regressed, and finally dressed like a small toddler. Still he watched as Dexter, coming to realize his pitiful state, dropped his pacifier from his mouth, reached his arms out to the purple raccoon, mumbling, “H-hewp mewww…” before losing all control, and bawling outright.
“It… it’s okay. It’s okay, Dexter… Wait…” Argi said, “You can hear me?” and, with as much horror as fascination, realized that the invisible barrier was gone. He rushed over to his newly regressed partner in crime, his biggest mistake of the night. 
“Oh, look at this!” Rakka said, watching through the orb as Argi hurried in to help Dexter, “It looks like our new little pre-schooler has a pretty pink sister, hmmm?” Argi turned to face the voice, or, rather, tried and failed to turn and face the voice, given that it came from everywhere in the room, and could only act on impulse.
“P-pink!?” He gasped, as he did whenever he was called pink, “I’m not pink!” He wasn’t pink. Not even close. Anyone who thought he was pink, ought to go get their eyes checked. He was purple, clearly. He was born purple. He would die purple,  but nobody, including the strange, disembodied voice, seemed to believe it. “I’m not pink…”
Argi had watched as Dexter’s clothes had unraveled themselves into sheer thread, and, now, got the chance to experience it himself. The orb which Raka was now in control of was no ordinary magic orb, this was a learning orb, and it knew full well that all the good babying only ever happened once the clothes were off. As a result, Argi’s trousers and sweater, and the shirt underneath, deconstructed itself into its base threads, and fell in a pile around him.
“No, no, nonono, gah!” Argi started to shout, and, with all the speed of a semi-predatory animal, sprinted for the door, and the relative safety that Deme, who had fled long since outside, and the hallway promised. He got all of four full steps before slambing face first into the gaily painted oak door, and inflicting a second injury onto his already abused nose. He couldn’t refrain from swearing, and bellowed out a dozen curse words in quick succession. 
“Pinkie, you disgust me,” Rakka said over his magical intercom, “Using such language around a baby,” referring to Dexter, and set the whole of the room into fantastic motion. He was, without warning, flipped in a cart wheeling roll onto one side, dizzy, and pinned there by a force that could have crushed a goliath. The drawers of the pink toddler’s dresser in the corner opened, and clothing spilled out with speed, along with, to Argi’s dread, another diaper, this one pink, covered in a little hello kitty print, and frilly as sin. If he could have moved his mouth, he would have screamed, but he couldn’t. The raccoon was immobile, as helpless as the day he was born, and the house, directed under the censorious eye of the dragon headed carp, Takinoue Rakkamaru, proceeded to take full advantage of his helplessness.
At Rakka’s bidding, a pair of white, mime style gloves had animated, and were pulling a huge teddy bear plush across the room and over to where Argi was being held firmly spread-eagled on the ground, “Now now, you’ll make a perfect plush for our cute little toddler, there,” Rakka said, and bid the gloves begin. 
Dexter had gotten himself together, wading waist deep in the complex toddler emotions that had descended upon him like a swarm of locusts, and hopped down off the changing table, the heavy duty diaper and snug denim overalls giving his walk a pronounced waddle, and toddled over to where Argi lie, whimpering.
The hands got to work at speed. They tore open the giant inanimate teddy’s seams, leaving all the fluff and foam stuffing to spill all over the floor, much of it on or around the helpless, groaning raccoon. 
Argi had seen plushies made before, it was a very delicate, precise process. One needed to make the bolts the right size, and keep all the seams hidden. Once the actual skin was made, it was stuffed, usually either through an open seem at the top, or the bottom. The magically possessed hands did neither, they simply gathered up a large handful of synthetic foam, one each, and, like ghosts, bypassed Argi’s skin, fur and bone, right below his ribcage. When they went in, there was stuffing in each hand, when they came out, there wasn’t. Argi gaped, appalled, and watched powerlessly as the hands gathered up more of the foam, and then stuffed it inside of his stomach, the raccoon going from feeling hungry to having just eaten a five course dinner in but a few seconds. The gloves picked up the pace, stuffing him fuller and fuller with every second, Argi, who groaned in immobility, experienced that most unusal sensation of having ones internal everything being pushed out into negative space, and replaced with a soft, cushy mass of plushie stuffing. 
It went on for a while, slowly but surely filling in the lean, soft raccoon from head to toe. Furthermore, everywhere the stuffing and fullness went, Argi watched his skin, tingly, start to contract, the fur turning shiny and silky: plush. 
He would have resisted, have fought, but, like Dexter before him, he was as helpless as a babe. He felt like he was falling, spiraling down and down, the pressure of the foam inside him building as his plush skin contracted. Dexter fell on him, hugging and crying into his fur, but, by the end, Argi was little bigger than him: a mere two and a half feet tall.
Almost as an afterthought, the frilly diaper and clothing that had neglected him thus far sprung to life. The plushie raccoon’s legs were picked up in toddler fashion, and the thick, frilly diaper was pushed under his butt, stuffed tail pulled through the appropriate hole in the back, and, powder being unnecessary, it was taped up around his waist, right at the seam in his belly. 
 An inch too short to reach his diaper, the two hands each took hold of one, exaggerated plushie paw, and yanked Argi into a position where they could pull a petticoat adorned pink princess’ dress over his head, complete with a pair of cute little sparkly wings which lit up: the Halloween costume that all little girls dream about. At last, it let Argi go, the entire room returning to inertia.
“Awwwggiii!” Dexter squealed, and glomp-hugged the giant stuffed raccoon, as big as him, bawling tremendously. Argi, trying and failing to speak, tried to move. He could, and, wishing he could still purr, pulled the three year old raccoon into a snug, happy hug. They still had each other. 
***
No sooner had the paddle come out, than Deme had taken two steps back from the doorframe, turned tail, and run for the staircase, the huge noise of a very strong, highly skilled spanker taking bloody vengeance on his quarry’s rear end. He had reached the stairs quickly enough, and started down them with zeal, desiring nothing more than to reach the exit, and be out of this haunted house without a hitch. It was, of course, nowhere close to that easy. The lime green feline scurried down the stairs for five minutes, ten, fifteen. There was no end in sight… To make a bad situation worse, every full circle of the spiraling stairs had an outcropping with a door. Deme tried each of them: every last one was locked. When at last his nerve failed him, he gritted his teeth, and, with full, fear-dampened senses, threw himself towards the next door, taking the impact with a grunt on his shoulder. There was a wicked splintering crack, and then, with a smug satisfaction, gave way and sent Deme flying into the room beyond. 
There was nothing under him. 
Deme screamed, looking up at the door, broken off at the rusted hinges as its moonlit visage flew away into the darkness, the absolute abyss that had consumed him. He fell, and fell, and fell, ever sinking into darkness, but never hitting cold, rock bottom as he surely would. The shock gone, Deme closed his eyes and went limp, muscles going relaxed, heart-rate returning to normal, and then he hit the ground.
Deme had once seen some footage from a home-video of the 9-11 attacks. The smoking buildings in New York, people screaming and shouting, and, among the chaos, people jumping from the smoked out windows, heedless of life, to smack flailing, or, sometimes in the middle of a majestic swan-dive, into the cement below. When Deme hit the ground, it was nothing like that. He hit something, yes, but it was an impact more like jumping on one’s bed for fun than hitting rocky cobbles. He bounced once and landed again on the warm, silky cushion. Maybe he was delusional, it scarcely mattered now. 
Deme was truly terrified of opening his eyes, but, after a minute or two of lying still and still not sensing pain, or, for that matter, any discomfort at all, he slowly pried one amber eye open, and saw nothing of the sort. He was on, of all things, some kind of mattress. Underneath him was a warm lavender sheet, and a pair of pillows. He had landed on a bed! He would have felt giggly, if it weren’t for what he saw next. The mattress stretched out to the limits of what he could see, everything beyond which was obscured by a bright overhead light, like a follow-spot. The light was slowly spreading outward, revealing, to Deme’s horror, a cage. Bars six feet tall were placed all around the edge of the mattress, and, looming twelve feet high or more, was a giant teddy bear, leaning on the edge of the crib, and staring down at the little cat. As though that alone weren’t enough, it spoke.
“Well good morning, my little kitten, how are we feeling today?” it said, the short, plush muzzle moving, but the sound coming from everywhere, “Does kitty need a change?”
Deme, awe struck, glanced around his crib. There were plushies everywhere, some of them his size, others, smaller, others, bigger. All of them were sat on their haunches, and focused entirely on him.
“Whaaaaa,” the cat said, trying to ask what was going on, but, as though the situation hadn’t been bad enough already, his innocent query came out as a startling rendition of a quailing infant’s shrill cry. Once he had started, he couldn’t stop. Deme felt the bed underneath him moving, squirming disorientingly under his paws, and, all at once, all control of his muscles deserted him. He flailed about, arms and legs in the air. The toys were approaching with big, silly smiles, sewn on, and, in desperation, the green cat flipped onto his belly and crawled, but too late. One of the stuffies had pounced him, a big tiger with buttons for eyes, and nuzzled him profusely. The rest came on, soon enough. A big kangaroo plush, bigger by half than him, pulled something thick and crinkly from its patchy pouch, shiny plastic reflecting the overhead light: a diaper.
Deme’s cries and squirming redoubled, taking on more the character now of a full on newborn tantrum, and the tears were soaking his eyes. His thumb made its way to his mouth and was grasped between his toothless lips in earnest, sucking heavily. A plushy yanked his paw away, his careening instantly resumed, but silenced again as a big pacifier’s latex nipple was pushed between his lips instead, the cat suddenly very calm and complacent. 
His tiny hind legs were hoisted up by the kangaroo, who promptly pushed the now unfolded diaper under his butt, feeding his tail through the hole, and, pulling it from her pouch, powdered his loins with a sweet smelling powder, calming him further. The diaper’s front went up around his waist without further delay, and was taped firmly in place. 
The kitten started to cry again, humiliated for reasons he didn’t know, and started to sob again, the pacifier not even sufficient to stifle his tears, and, soon, felt himself lose all control, his diaper growing warm and soggy in the front, even as the big ‘roo, smiling gently, reached down and rose him up into her arms.
“You’re going to grow up big and strong for us, aren’t you, sweetie? Grow up strong for all of us.” She said, and, with experienced ease, slowly fed him down into her silky patchwork pouch, a bed as comfy and snug as ever could be wished.