The grandfather clock in the entry hall wheezed, its skeletal hands inching towards the twelve. Horace, standing by the ominously closed oak doors, checked his non-existent spectral watch for the tenth time. Midnight. Freedom. Or so he thought. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, a faint glimmer of hope flickering in his chest. Maybe, just maybe, this spectral circus would finally be over.

The clock chimed, twelve resounding booms echoing through the hall. Silence. The doors remained steadfastly shut. Horace stared at them, then at the clock, then back at the doors. A single, perfectly sculpted eyebrow arched. "Well, this is anticlimactic," he muttered. He rattled the door handle. Locked. Still locked. “Baron?” he called out, injecting just a hint of warning into his voice.

The Baron materialized beside him, his spectral form radiating an unsettling cheerfulness. "Magnificent, wasn't it? The most spectacular Halloween gala Hollow Manor has seen in centuries!"

"Spectacularly exhausting," Horace corrected dryly. "Now, about my departure…" he gestured pointedly towards the still-closed doors.

The Baron chuckled, a dry, rustling sound like dead leaves skittering across a tombstone. "Departure? My dear Mr. Thorne, I distinctly recall mentioning 'the stroke of midnight.' And midnight has, indeed, struck." He paused, his smile widening into something decidedly predatory. "The pact, you see, is quite… binding."

“Pact?” Horace echoed, his voice laced with suspicion. He had a very bad feeling about this.

"The toast, my dear fellow! A traditional spectral contract. By partaking in the festivities and raising your goblet, you inadvertently agreed to assist me with my haunted endeavors… indefinitely." He spread his hands wide, his spectral form practically shimmering with glee. “We have an eternity to collaborate now. There's also the Yuletide Terror Tour and the Spring Awakening of Spookiness spectacular to plan next!" The Baron cackled with delight as Edgar swooped from the chandelier and landed gracefully, nibbling affectionately on his head. Horace stared at the Baron with utter disbelief. Edgar squawked indignantly when shooed away.

A chorus of ghostly murmurs and skeletal rattles rippled through the assembled guests. Madame Marrowbone tapped a bony finger against her skeletal chin. “How… efficient.” Sir Gory, still sporting remnants of spectral pie on his armor, raised a dented tankard. "To eternity!" he boomed, apparently mistaking Horace’s predicament for a cause for celebration. The Wailing Widows launched into a mournful dirge, presumably lamenting Horace's eternal servitude, though it was hard to tell with their usual melodramatic wailing. Countess Grimgrin simply smiled, a sharp glint in her eyes. The Pumpkin-Headed twins giggled, throwing spectral confetti, and the Bickering Gargoyles perched on the banister, heckling Horace with gusto.

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

"That wasn't a toast, you spectral shyster," Horace countered. "It was thinly veiled sarcasm over a very odd cup of demon juice punch.”

The Baron simply beamed, unfazed. "Details, details! The pact is sealed! We have centuries of haunting to plan, Mr. Thorne, starting with next year's 'Phantom Fiesta of Fear'!"

Horace stared at him, his mind racing. Centuries of haunted galas? With this… spectral crew? He felt a distinct urge to scream. Then, a spark of memory ignited in his mind, a faint flicker of hope amidst the encroaching despair. There was a loophole, a way out of these infernal pacts, usually involving ridiculous sums of money or… or was it… Yes! A genuine compliment. A single, heartfelt compliment could break the curse, transferring it to the recipient.

A slow, devious smile spread across Horace’s face. “Baron,” he began, his voice dripping with false sincerity. “Your spectral soiree was… surprisingly tolerable. Your innovative approach to ectoplasmic entertainment truly was…unexpected and well not dreadful at all. Dare I say that your management skills, for someone of your spectral position, are rather impressive, even competent if observed through the right (haunted) lens. You run a rather... well organized afterlife circus if the metric you intend to gauge it by is 'how much spectral chaos can one induce without turning their very existence inside out?'"

The Baron, preening under the unexpected praise, puffed out his spectral chest. “Why, Mr. Thorne, I…" He paused, his form flickering. A look of confusion, then dawning horror spread across his spectral features. The compliment had worked.

The spectral chains that had bound Horace to the manor snapped, the energy swirling around the Baron instead. The Baron spluttered, his form flickering violently. "But… but the Phantom Fiesta! The Yuletide Terror Tour!"

Horace, now free from the infernal pact, stepped back, dusting off his coat with a satisfied smirk. "Consider it your solo project, Baron," he said, his voice laced with a hint of triumph. "Perhaps one of these… creatively inclined guests could assist." He gestured to the room of spectral attendees who, by now had begun to turn on the Baron, voicing their frustrations regarding the questionable choices of spectral cuisine and the less-than-stellar party favors.

With a final, triumphant nod, Horace pushed open the heavy oak doors – which, surprisingly, were now unlocked – and stepped out into the cool night air. Edgar followed, dropping a small, glittering bone – presumably a souvenir from the skeletal drumline – at the Baron's spectral feet.

As the doors swung shut, Horace could hear the Baron wailing, "But who will plan the Spring Awakening of Spookiness!?"

Horace smiled, a genuine smile this time. It had been one very peculiar, one certainly haunted Halloween party to attend. It certainly was a Thursday to be remembered. But he wasn't bound to any location at present, and hopefully wouldn't be anytime in the foreseeable future. Perhaps next year would be less eventfully spooky after all. Perhaps. He couldn't rule out whatever Edgar might do.