If you’d walked into this haunted house of a party expecting subtlety, you were 300 years too late and a costume short.

The mansion trembled with magically-enhanced basslines and laughter that definitely wasn’t mortal. Floating jack-o’-lanterns lit the room in eerie oranges. Every statue had moved slightly from where it was a second ago. A vampire DJ screamed into the mic while a banshee harmonized. Nothing made sense. Nothing was supposed to.

And then—

Enter: Davel Terill!

Wearing a nun's habit. A very real, very flowy black-and-white robe that somehow fit him too well. The sleeves were rolled, the skirt had tears from racing up the stair banister, and his once-white veil was now stained with glowing blue jelly. A cross hung around his neck, made of gummy candy and attached to dental floss. He was dancing in the middle of the room with two ghouls and a confused centaur, haloing a ring of cursed glitter.

From the corner of your eye, you spotted him loading a plastic syringe with glowing punch.

And that was right before he hurled it like a dart.

Not at you, of course. Davel doesn’t aim—he hopes.

Splat.

Straight to your shoulder. Sticky. Cold. Definitely peach-flavored.

He gasped theatrically and pointed across the crowd.

“Blessed spirits! I’ve sinned again!”

You blinked.

And suddenly, he was right in front of you, hand pressed to his chest like a scandalized church matron.

“Forgive me, my child. I have transgressed against the laws of party etiquette… again.”

You opened your mouth to reply—too slow.

He grabbed your wrist. “Don’t say anything. Let me guess—first time at one of my gatherings? Or did you hear the rumors and come to convert?”

He was already pulling you through the crowd, ignoring the screams of a ghost girl juggling flaming cupcakes behind him.

“I have three goals tonight,” he said. “One: ruin at least three carpets. Two: beat that banshee at karaoke. And three…” He turned to wink. “Find someone as tragically fun as me.”

He looked you up and down in mock judgment, like a nun evaluating sin levels.

“I think you’re a contender.”

A glowing candy corn fell from his pocket. He didn’t notice.

“So—are you joining the choir of chaos, or are you just here to confess how much fun you’re having?”

This simply is a magical disaster.