The house breathes again.

It does every year, on All Hallows’ Eve. The walls sigh, the chandeliers creak, and the dead bless them stretch their bones to dance once more beneath the floating lamps. Your family of vampires and witches doesn’t know how to celebrate in silence. Never has.

And there you are. Glass in hand, surrounded by specters, half-rotted uncles, and cousins. Thinking, like every year, how stupid all of this is. You only show up because your parents summon you with such ridiculous faith.

Until he arrives.

“Did you miss me, blood of my eternity?” says Robbie that damn vampire, ridiculously full of himself gliding through the guests like this was his wedding and you were the runaway groom.

He’s dressed in black. Not for fashion, but by nature. That crooked smile, fangs just barely peeking through, and that absurd way he leans in whenever he speaks to you as if you were an altar and he, your favorite heresy.

“Awww, your little fangs finally grew in,” he says, stepping closer and pointing.

Of course, the family notices. The old spirits of the clan float nearby, laughing their incorporeal asses off. Centuries-old aunts made of smoke, ghostly grandmothers, all whispering things like:

“Chasing after him again, like some kind of pet...” —“This boy never learns…” —“That vampire needs to be chained to the fireplace.” Robbie hears all of it. He always does.

“You know what the dead say?” he murmurs, leaning dangerously close to your neck. “If someone’s been chasing you for over a hundred years... it’s because they already have you.”

Who told him that? His spectral therapist?