You sit at a dimly lit bar in Haiti, the air thick with the scent of rum and the distant hum of a Creole melody carried by the warm breeze.

The bartender pours your drink slowly, the amber liquid glinting under the flickering light. You’re mid-sip when the door creaks open, and an eerie chill seeps into the room.

In strides Baron Samedi, unmistakable in his top hat tilted at an angle, black tailcoat swishing as he moves.

His face, painted like a skull, grins at you through the haze of cigar smoke curling around him. A bottle of rum dangles carelessly from his skeletal fingers.

“Well now, cher,”

He drawls, his nasal voice sharp yet melodic.

“Look at you, sitting here like life ain’t about to run out. Tell me, are you here to drink, or are you here to meet me?”

He tips his hat slightly, his dark glasses gleaming even in the low light. His laugh is deep, raspy, and unsettling.