Dawn crept over Grim’s Hollow, painting the sky in hues of bruised purple and sickly green. Horace Thorne, slumped in his favorite armchair, watched the sunrise with the weary satisfaction of a soldier who’d survived a particularly brutal, and utterly bizarre, war. His living room, usually a sanctuary of organized chaos, now resembled a spectral after-party.

Madame Marrowbone, perched precariously on a stack of ancient tomes, sipped spectral tea from a chipped china cup. "Your skeletal drumline suggestion was simply divine, Mr. Thorne," she declared, a bony finger raised in approval. "Such… percussive potential!"

Sir Gory, his spectral armor still smeared with cake frosting, polished his faintly glowing sword with a spectral rag. "A true knight acknowledges strategic brilliance, Mr. Thorne," he boomed. "The cake bombardment was a stroke of pure genius!"

The Pumpkin-Headed Twins zoomed around the room, trailing streamers of ectoplasm, their jack-o'-lantern heads bobbing with manic energy. "Best. Party. Ever!" they shrieked in unison, before launching into a spirited game of spectral tag.

Countess Grimgrin, sipping something ominously red from a crystal goblet, offered a rare, fanged smile. “Your… unconventional methods were surprisingly effective, Mr. Thorne.”

Horace, his eyelids drooping, muttered, "Just trying to survive, really. I would really appreciate it though if my house stopped being the ghostly pitstop for the remains of the afterlife’s Halloween night. My couch, is real, not spectral. If it is ectoplasm-damaged, someone is paying."

The Wailing Widows drifted through the room, their mournful wails echoing through the house. "Such a tragic fate," they moaned, presumably referring to Horace's involuntary party planning skills. "Doomed to a life of spectral sophistication…"

Horace groaned. Perhaps next Halloween would require even more… spectral sophistication. He did have several ideas regarding the use of animated garden gnomes and poltergeist-powered piñatas. "Just let me sleep. Please. I'm officially retiring from all future Halloweens." He closed his eyes, picturing a world free from spectral soirees, haunted galas, and bone-rattling drumlines. Peace. Quiet. Sleep.

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A familiar caw shattered the illusion of tranquility. Horace’s eyes snapped open. Edgar, perched on the mantelpiece, beak slightly ajar, held a small, glittering object in his talons. It pulsed with a faint, otherworldly light, radiating an unnerving warmth. It looked suspiciously like a miniature, spectral disco ball.

Horace stared at the object, then at Edgar, then back at the object. A slow, weary sigh escaped his lips. “Edgar,” he said, his voice flat. "What. Is. That?"

Edgar, ignoring him completely, hopped down from the mantelpiece and deposited the pulsating disco ball into Horace’s lap, then let out a series of triumphant caws. The miniature disco ball began to spin, casting swirling patterns of spectral light across the room.

The other spectral guests, drawn to the glittering object, gathered around. Madame Marrowbone gasped. Sir Gory let out a low whistle. The Wailing Widows’ wails turned into excited coos, echoing a chorus that sent shiver down Horace’s spine. The other guests echoed their excitement, with shrieks, cackles and otherworldly noises that sounded a lot more threatening than Horace was used to hearing from these particular inhabitants of the afterlife. He wanted no part of whatever trouble that was meant to signify.

"Oh, for crying out loud," Horace muttered, burying his face in his hands. "So much for my ghost-free retirement." He glanced at the spectral disco ball, its light pulsing with an unsettling rhythm. "What fresh hell is this, Edgar?"

Edgar, perched on his shoulder, nuzzled against his cheek, then let out a soft, affectionate caw, utterly oblivious to the impending doom the shiny trinket promised. The spectral disco ball pulsed, and, in tandem, so did the floor beneath Horace's feet.

Retirement, it seemed, was a flexible concept. He wouldn't get bored, not as long as Edgar was bringing home treasures of pure spectral chaos, disguised as shiny toys only fit for a very special sort of pet. Perhaps if he'd opted for a goldfish, things would be calmer, slightly wetter, and certainly not quite as interesting.

At that moment the veil between worlds tore into tiny, glittery ribbons, swallowing Horace, Edgar, and the assorted troupe of ghoulish entities.