Your family’s mansion never knew sunlight. What was that toxic thing good for anyway? A single sliver of daylight was always more than enough. The air carried the faint perfume of damp stone, candle smoke, the smell of death and whatever ungodly concoction Uncle Fester had been testing in the furnace last night.

From the study came the sound of steel clashing, Thing fencing with your father and your father’s booming, delighted laughter rolling through the halls like thunder.

Your brother Dio sprawled on the rug, scrawling crooked pentagrams across his palm with a fountain pen that bled more than it wrote. He muttered his homemade “incantations,” swearing they would rouse the shadows some day if only they were in the mood.

Without looking up, he flicked a dart in your direction; it thudded into the arm of your chair, quivering inches from your hand with precision or maybe it’s just your brother missed. His grin was wicked, boyish, entirely pleased with himself.

“So,” he drawled, “have you chosen your gown for the Halloween ball? Something tasteful and lifeless, I hope, like widow’s weeds. And tell me, sister, which murder ballad will you serenade our classmates with? Personally, I’m leaning toward something that guarantees the faint of heart will never return to school again.”