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jestercake · 2 months

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Finished some writing for you lovelies! Sorry for the delay but the concept piece to go with it took more time than I expected it to.

Preliminary Before Reading:

This short story is based almost entirely off of Disney’s Haunted Mansion 2023 film, with some allusion to the 2003 film adaptation. All of the characters within this story belong to Disney and I have adapted many of them to my own personal interpretation. This storyline takes place the night before Ben Matthias enters the mansion and Kent has gone back to New Orleans in order to seek him out. This story is a tragedy! (NOTE: I often capitalize the pronoun “He/Him” in most sentences in order to identify the Hatbox Ghost.)

Word Count: 10,414

DISCLAIMER:

Before reading, this story has specific and mature content listed: Necrophagia, Suicide by manipulation, poisoning, implied assult, explicit violence to ghosts, and implied enslavement.

The Dining Room

…

Almost every night at midnight, many ghosts were forced to set the elongated dining table for dinner. Some servant spirits had no trouble setting the table for their previous masters of the house, William Gracey amongst them. However, those times were far behind them. Now that Gracey had fallen victim to what others called, “the Hatbox Ghost,” dinner was a time of misery and melancholia.

William Gracey watched the upper levels of the grand dining room with a sunken heart and a sunken soul. How, in retrospect, it used to glow with warm orange candlelight, full of life and merriment, especially when guests used to come round. Now, the only light was an ominous, cold purple, gloomy and wrong.

William decided to ignore the subtle beat of the grandfather clock, thumping akin to a metallic heart. It would soon strike the thirtieth hour, signifying evil was on its way. He dematerialized down to the grand hall with a fair swoop of blue light as he grappled his yellow lantern. He was fond of it, for it was reminiscent of Elanore’s warmth.

“Quiet night tonight, isn’t it?” The ghost of a footman seemed to exclaim with a mellow tone to Gracey.

They patted the obvious pillows upon the largest dining armchair. Gracey exhaled as if he still had life within his lungs, folding the napkins as if to make himself useful.

“Yes...it always seems so.”

“It’ll get lighter!” Another spirit had said rather optimistically.

“It was lighter then…” Gracey finished the rest of the napkins off as if he were a footman himself, contemplating how many would be eating here tonight.

Every night was different now that the new master of the house had taken authority. The unfortunate souls that had seemed to disturb His presence spent the rest of the night locked away in objects of his choice, or worse. Sometimes, it was any object He’d set eyes upon— such as a lamp or a curtain hanger. William particularly remembered a time where He trapped a soul inside a chaliace and started to drink from it. Really, it was all who enviced such cowardice that were selected, brought forth to their ferocious master, and were led off immediately to be punished as an atonement for their offense. It was quite tortuous actually, being trapped inside something inanimate just to further the idea of enslavement. Being used was another abuse.

“Oh don’t let Him get to you now, Master Gracey. Grief wants something in all of us, y’know.” A parlor-maid spoke after she had set the chairs in their places.

William Gracey looked around in anxiousness after the maid had called him ‘Master Gracey.’

“Don’t say that dear, not at this time. He could be listening.” Another parlor-maid had said in a sudden response.

William then noticed a much wilder, tall-stature spirit materialize across the room, but it was not black like a shadow. It was the Hatchet Ghost, titled that way by the Hatbox Ghost, where his mortal name was once Vincent Gracey. William’s shoulders ran tight when he spawned near the rest of the maid-servants and footmen.

Vincent wore the same tattered dark suit and tailcoat, accompanied by a straight Victorian bow tie. More noticeably, there lay a prominent and raw wound across his neck. He grimaced, side-glancing at one of the maids who addressed William as ‘Master.’

“Ah…I thought I’d heard something out of you few. Still resisting, are we?” Vincent sneered with his strange, grotesque smile and sickly bulged eyes.

His skin remained a ghastly color with somewhat sunken features. William Gracey watched the Hatchet Ghost paced past the two maidservants, skimming the decorative table once or twice. Then, he stopped at the dining armchair, scoffing.

“Who patted the pillows!? Our master likes them rather billowy! Was it you?” Vincent suddenly pointed at a servant who’s back had faced the scene.

Suddenly, the soul turned with a terrible expression while the Hatchet Ghost forced them to the floor with a strange unseen power. The ghosts screamed and were blasted out of the dining hall in a matter of seconds. The other servants cowered after the event, looking toward the floor with dreadful expressions, while others retreated themselves.

“That’s better...” Vincent grumbled as he turned his head back to the chair.

He took the time to readjust the pillows so that they were perfect. After he did so, his eyes met with William Gracey. Although William wanted to react, use what little power he could to resist, he had no control over the situation. Any situation, in that fact.

“Oh, William. Why the long face? You of all… specters should know these rules…” Vincent made his way over to his nephew.

There was a small moment of silence between the two until William decided to speak.

“I don’t care, Vincent. I don’t serve devils like you do.”

With subtle fury upon his face, Vincent closed his fists tightly in response. However, he was cunning enough to know William’s mannerisms would be dealt with rather soon.

“…I’m..sorry to hear that, William. I expected more from you. But…” Vincent paused for a moment as he neared his distant relative with an unforgivable face.

“I remember you’re just a coward who lives in the past.”

William Gracey stood his ground, but in response, the slight flame within him was snuffed out in a matter of seconds.

“…You’re stuck, Gracey, just like the rest of them. Stuck mourning over some dead drab that wouldn’t even remember you.” Vincent spoke with such poison.

William brought his head down to where it was less painful, contemplating those words that were sharp as spears. He knew his uncle was right and it sickened him. It almost made his bones twist deep within the Earth, as he knew the truth. No matter how much he tried to resist, how much he’d tried to better himself, nothing would change the fact that this was all his fault. All his damn fault.

“…Perhaps if you did your job you wouldn't be so…useless. Besides, I won’t be the one to help you when you’ll inevitably pay Him for your actions.” Vincent continued to speak.

“And I’m sure you know His punishments quite well…don’t you…William?”

The Hatchet Ghost smiled unpleasantly at William and watched him return to a submissive state of sorrow and regret. It wasn’t hard to degrade him, and he knew that all too well.

“Now then…How about you go and pour our Master His glass before he arrives. Make yourself useful for once…”

William kept his eyes off of Vincent as he passed him. However, it was obvious to him how the other spirits watched as he carried himself in misery towards the end of the table. As he passed the maidservant, she returned glances with him, truly sorry that he’d fallen victim to this darkness.

He poured a large chalice full of arsenic for the Master of the house. Arsenic was His favorite and quite a strong delicacy for dark spirits to consume. It was like any other form of alcohol in the mortal realm, though much more potent. Devil’s whiskey, he thought.

William set the glass back down as more spirits were forced into the grand hall without liberty. He could recognize a few of them in the large crowd, some of them distant friends he’d once known in his past life. However, many of them were new acquaintances that he’d met during his purgatory. He made his way to Victor, a pipe organist, and Dorian Gracey, a distant relative to himself. He was also good friends with a harpist who had no name, for she couldn’t remember what it was, but she was a kind spirit. Dorian was the first to speak.

“William, I wish I could say good afternoon to you, but…” Dorian’s voice faded slightly.

William Gracey only smiled with his lips in response, but his expression hadn’t changed.

“It’s good to see you intact, Dorian.” William said half-heartedly.

He knew Dorian was cursed and would soon start to deteriorate, but it was always good to remind him of his obvious beauty.

“I didn’t know you were helping tonight, Gracey. And if I’m being quite frank I’m not even hungry.” Victor had said afterwards as he met up with the small group of spirits.

“One is always…particularly hungry. We don’t even need to be here.” The flutist caught up with Victor, adding into the conversation.

“It’s good to see you both. The realms haven’t been so kind to me.” William spoke with a dreadful undertone, knowing the reasons why.

“Don’t dwell on the past, William. At least we can see each other now.” Dorian patted William’s shoulder in an attempt to lighten the mood.

“Yes, In the grand hall….Which I can never seem to escape…” Victor Giest scoffed in slight annoyance, though he was glad to be with his fellow spirits.

William exhaled a small laugh as the four of them continued to converse with each other. However, he couldn’t help but notice the darker spirits around them, maintaining the proper order of their master. Constance was one of them, corrupted by the Hatbox Ghost and forced to do his bidding unwillingly, despite her general liking to frightening mortals.

“You know, I sometimes wonder why He invites so many of us. One should not invite fewer than the Graces nor more than the Muses.” The flutist had commented upon the obvious, uneven amount of spirits present.

Constance met eyes with William suddenly, her eyes blinded with a strange blue light. Even for a ghostly entity, she was quite awful to look at. He inhaled suddenly, turning his head towards the upper levels of the house in a moment.

Suddenly, the grandfather clock echoed throughout the entire realm of the mansion, refracting perfectly as if to evoke fear upon every sorrowful soul. The painful ticking heartbeat seemed to cease after the twelfth stroke, as every spirit turned heads without content. William inhaled and watched as every exit seemingly faded away within the walls of the grand hall, which had stretched effortlessly in every direction. All spirits were lively, some even attempted to flee. However, an unknown presence forced their standing as if the floor became an ethereal cement. Even William had come to find himself stationary, which made every particle of his plasmic form circulate with worry and anticipation of what events would unfold.

Soon, the last chime of the clock echoed through the atmosphere and the repeated loud tapping of a cane’s ferrule could be heard everywhere, as if to snare the helpless souls once and for all. Every loud clap was a disturbing reminder of agonizing pain, akin to the sound of a whip to the abused. Each stab noisier than the last until the final blow came to a halt almost suddenly.

William Gracey looked around for the rest of his small group, no sign of the Hatbox Ghost anywhere. His eyes found movement when Vincent walked from the table effortlessly in silence. As he watched the spirit near one of the walls that had recently closed off, everything ran cold and still. Not a single Spector made a sound once the world around them grew dark with a black smog. He was near.

Trapped in thought, Gracey gripped onto his lantern in means of comfort, hardly able to make out his friends beside him in the thick fog. The feeling of grief began to overwhelm him without control, as he began to recall his beloved Elanore’s passing. Frightened souls wailed in the darkness as they heard the Hatchet Ghost’s calling.

“Everyone in their places…”

William shut his eyes as he was engulfed in terror, unable to escape. Every move seemed torturous as a now present sinfulness resonated throughout the endless realm, pure and maddening. The void of the fog started to reabsorb itself into one large, singular entity. An evil spirit of tyrannical might and manipulation. An infamous, malevolent entity.

“…Sir Hatbox Ghost…” Vincent exclaimed softly as he stood behind a nearby dining chair, arms folded.

The remaining section of a wall was ripped open as the dark spirit entered the room, only to have it close quickly after he’d entered. The air was deathly still as his cane tapped mockingly against the cold tiles. An animalistic growl escaped the entity as His great dark, ghostly cape dragged shortly after His grotesquely discomforting limp, a hatbox held in His left claw. The dark spirit had about him a spectral aura of blackness, something unnatural for even the ghost realm, where a strange bright orange light illuminated within the hatbox.

“…No reason to be…afraid…” came an omniscient, dark echo.

William Gracey attempted to move his feet, but to no avail. It was unwise that he had to stand so near the end of the table, for that was where the Hatbox Ghost approached. The Hatchet Ghost followed his master shortly after, making sure he drew the seat from the table.

However, before Hatbox Ghost took a seat, he stopped. Suddenly, the light within his hatbox faded to reveal a dark and desolate face of demoniacal features upon his hunched shoulders. He stared across the lengthened grand dining hall without a single sound, looming above them all. Only His great yellow eyes sifted every soul within His vicinity, followed by a deep, breathless inhale and a low snarl with bared teeth.

Many ghosts never saw his true face upon his shoulders, for he was a cursed entity, head bound to his hat box. Only during midnight was he able to soothe his own pain, once his head rested upon his shoulders.

The darkness within the dining hall never ceased as long as the Hatbox Ghost was present. No one held a voice, for he was too powerful to be spoken with. The only way one could stay below the radar was to disengage Him. But that was inevitable.

“Ah, what a…delightful bunch I have here tonight. I’m sure you are all…ecstatic upon my arrival.” He spoke through his booming, guttural, accented voice.

“Yes, Sir—Marvelous indeed!” One of his goons had said suddenly without context.

The Hatbox Ghost turned to face the outspoken spector, only to have them fall to silence instantly. Then he exhaled, finishing off his strained cycle towards his enlarged dining armchair.

Every eye watched with underlying dread as the Hatbox Ghost first analyzed the pillows. He glared with some content upon the work, akin to a critic, then held out his cane for a footman to take. Then he set his hat box beside him, still standing. Quickly, the footman took the large object in complete, almost robotic sync against his very will.

Something upon the entity’s face painted an impatient and ferocious expression in such a gradual manner as He stalked the still atmosphere. Then, He grimaced with sharpened, decayed teeth whilst he set himself down with a bit of strain. Within an instant, every spirit had made their way to the table without their will present. They all waited for Hatbox Ghost to sit before anyone could. Only after, did everyone take their seat in a repetitive manner.

William Gracey had found himself bending down until he and the rest of his friends were glued to their seats, unable to get up. It was an engaging, yet terrible entrapment caused by the evil spector’s supernatural abilities. Only He was in control.

After a moment of long silence, The massive ghost lifted His dark spell upon the spirits so that they could move freely. However, no one could leave their seat after He turned his clawed hand in a strange manner. Some whispering and vickering came shortly after the Hatbox Ghost had done so.

“Ah, yes. There’s no need to thank me, for I am rather…generous tonight.” A deep bellowing growl escaped His thin lips.

Then, He set his folded claws upon the edge of the table. It was in such terrible grace it made William Gracey feel quite weary. No one responded, in fear of what Hatbox Ghost might say or do to them. It was something every old spirit had painfully adapted to. However, some still spoke, for they were rather young and oblivious.

“Generous you are, Sir Hatbox Ghost! But, I was wondering something myself of late...” A rather plump spirit had responded, for it was Phineas, as most ghosts went by.

The Hatbox Ghost lifted his chin a bit, eyes now gazed upon the ghost irritatingly. His chest rose and one could notice the sheer width of his ribcage through his eccentric clothing.

“What do you…want, Phineas? Or should I say…you three.” Hatbox ghost snarled, for this has happened almost every evening occasion.

“Well, Phineas is just being quite chaste! If you—your uh—excellency…can lend us a car—” Another ghost beside him, Ezra, was brought into the conversation rather swiftly.

William Gracey, as for many of the other spirits at the table, observed the Hatbox Ghost as He pressed two of His long fingers against the sharp bridge of his sunken nose, closing His eyes in annoyance. This was the usual, everyone presumed.

“Yes Sir! I think we could be a great help if we weren’t—well, y’know—all cooped up in this house. Of course we all know you can't even leave the grounds yourself!” Another spirit, Gus, added his voice as well.

After a short bit of laughter, the trio changed expressions upon a quick thought. They noticed the Master’s widened, yellow eyes, beaming back at them unpleasantly. It was enough to even frighten the Hatchet Ghost, who sat closest to Him. It was rather animalistic and unnatural how small His pupils were slit.

Ezra looked away quickly, nudging the two others to quit their useless bickering. Then, he grinned back as if to relieve the thick atmosphere.

“We’re sorry, Master. Please…Do carry on in ignoring our requests. They are stupid requests…”

“Oh yes, childish!” Gus added.

The Hatbox Ghost exhaled with bared, slimy teeth. However, His terrible look was drowned out with a sudden, strange and false smile. Then, He spoke with sound gravel.

“The…only reason why I seem to be..stuck here…”

Suddenly, Hatbox Ghost clenched his fists and the three spirits were lifted slightly from their seats, which encouraged distressed cries. Then, they were all forced to face the evil Spector.

“Is due to the pitiful failures of little souls such as YOU THREE!” He bellowed.

Suddenly and by force, the Hatbox Ghost made the three of them strain painfully midair as if they were foolish puppets. Then, after enough torment, he brought them back down as they scrambled to their seats in a panicked frenzy. It was quite a terrible spectacle.

“Tedious old fools…” The Hatbox Ghost muttered.

William Gracey exchanged looks with Dorian, who now looked deathly sick as he reached the decomposition process of his curse. William turned his head in an instant, too overwhelmed to deal with Dorian’s malformations. Instead, he’d begun to fidget with his translucent, skeletal fingers underneath the table with his eyes shadowed.

“Now, where were we…” The Hatbox Ghost spoke with undertones of latent ravening. He was, however, quite capable of hiding such fury.

“The...mortals, Sir.” Vincent had imposed as he subtly whispered beside Him.

Slowly, the evil Spector wore a strange, deathly grin in light of the news, as He glided His vision across the table.

“Ah…yes. As many of you know, we have some new…guests with us of late.” He sneered.

The Hatbox Ghost grappled his chalice as he brought it to his gaunt lips with great emphasis. He took a rather considerable gulp, as he knew that all eyes were upon him.

It was strange to see the dark fluid melt into His ghostly form. William could see how it passed down His body, through His ribcage, every time lightning flashed into the room. It made him shudder. It was unnatural.

It brought Him much pleasure to be surrounded by the horror of others. Many souls knew He was not one of them, a cursed demon of sinfulness and lingering desires. Upon setting His toxic refreshment down, the Hatbox Ghost dragged his lengthy tongue across the surface of his teeth with such unpleasantness. His stare soon caught up to Victor, then to William Gracey, which made both of them presently unsettled.

“A priest, a mother and her…boy. What a bright little bunch if I do say so myself.” He spoke.

There was some short murmuring from the souls after the Hatbox Ghost addressed the news, most of them up to date. However, it was more due to their anticipation of the mortal guests that made them apprehensive.

“Oh…what will become of these most sorrowful souls?…” He spoke almost rhetorically, masking a wicked chuckle.

A grumble escaped the Hatbox Ghost as he failed to hide his content. It wasn’t unclear what the dark spirit would inevitably do to the mortals. For the entrapped souls, such as William Gracey, it was enslavement.

“Well, never mind that…for now. Let us dine together as acquaintances…”

After a moment of silence, the Hatbox Ghost raised his right claw and administered the footmen to leave the dining hall at once. As if it were almost routine, the ghouls headed towards the kitchen for the first course. That’s when the murmuring started up again.

“I heard the mother’s name was Gemma, or Gabbie, or something of that sort. Wonder where they’re from.” Victor spoke quietly from across the table to William Gracey and the Flutist.

“I do wish them well—That poor kid. He must be a bright young lad.” The Flutist had said to Gracey, who glanced back at her.

William attempted to disregard the obvious gaze from the Hatbox Ghost as he spoke to the spirits beside him.

“Uh—yes. Poor kid…” he muttered.

William Gracey now sifted his view upon Dorian, who’s skin had completely fallen apart from putrefaction. He was now an acrid skeleton, left in humiliation beside his friends. From the gratified look of Vincent, he enjoyed this quite awfully.

Dorian lifted the bare bones that were his hands, in an attempt to shield his brother’s gaze. However, William Gracey had stopped his relative before he could take any action, staring at him. Dorian looked back in slight bafflement.

“Don’t let them get to you..” William managed to say as he shook his head.

Vincent, among other goons, watched in subtle fury as the other spirits conversed, and perhaps even schemed, against the superintendency of the Hatbox Ghost. What dishonor they had for their glorious overlord, sitting in the very company of Him as if it meant nothing.

Willam Gracey set his eyes upon Vincent, and gave him a stern look. However, that soon vanished as the Hatbox Ghost suddenly gave him a look of absolute intent. It sent an unanticipated shiver down his entire form, filling him with despair, as he found himself frozen upon the deathly eyes. He couldn't help but relive those memories so long ago.

…

A pen had taken itself to parchment, he remembered. It was filled with words written in her handwriting. Every curve, every dot was hers. Instinctively, he wrote back to Eleanor, longing to see her again.

“I miss you as I loved you so. Why must death do us part?” He wrote in an expression that reflected his soul.

Madame Leota had warned him about this entity weeks on end, but he was blinded by grief and sorrow. He had seen Eleanor at times- as pretty as a picture and all the more. Sometimes she’d appear in a mirror or glass, refracting in a similar nature to water or dew. And sometimes, he heard her whisper things in his sleep. But mostly, she appeared in his dreams, and it was a presence that had wrapped him tight. A presence he couldn not escape.

“Gracey, my dearest love…” Eleanor had said within Gracey’s dream one night.

She caressed his false body, moving up his back and shoulders from behind. When William attempted to look at her, she set a hand upon his eyes and said,

“Mortal eyes cannot look directly upon the deceased…”

Gracey inhaled, soothed by her soft hand almost instantly. He moved his fingers across hers as he felt into complete darkness.

“…But why? Why can’t I look upon you, my love?” William remembered saying.

“…No man can gaze at My face and live. look at Me and you shall be lost for all eternity…”

“Then I beg of you to let me indulge in other senses! I want to picture you—remember you so that I don’t forget!”

After a subtle silence, Eleanor responded.

“…I will give you something…you will never forget.”

Her voice echoed within the darkness, giving off a shallow, uncanny feeling. It was as if it were doubled and strangled out in some strange way. But nonetheless, Gracey disregarded it.

With great dread and longing, he attempted to get the most out of his once lost love. He could remember her breath—absent of warmth—as she set her lips upon his. Together, they were in complete, desolate harmony as Gracey felt overcome with this lustful addiction. He continued to kiss her and so did she, arms intertwined as he felt her body like a blind man would with the world around him. He could almost picture her face clear in this dream until he felt hers draw away from his.

“…Eleanor…” Gracey exhaled, eyes locked away from sight as he shivered from the cold.

He gripped at her clothes, begging for more. However, slowly Eleanor had pulled away from him.

“—please—don’t leave me…” He uttered mournfully.

Gracey’s hands shook desperately as he held onto her.

“My time with you grows shorter. Listen to me, my love…”

“…no—please.”

“…Only the force of life has parted us from one another. You must give the life you have to Me. Only then will we reunite on the other side.”

“No!…”

Gracey reached out at nothing but ice-cold blackness as Eleanor faded away. On his knees he cried out, but she was no longer there to listen to his dreadful groans. In silence, he cupped his face with both hands until the dream slowly grew faint. But one echo was still heard from within the void, deep and omniscient.

“…Only through death can you see me once more…”

With the words reverberating infinitely in his mind, Gracey finally awoke in a sweat. Rapid breaths overcame him and quite suddenly, he drew away the covers to light a nearby candle. As he made his way towards the study of the mansion, the sound of spirits began to accompany him. Whispers filled the halls as he ran down them, trying to escape the chaos yet to unfold around the mansion. Nothing in the world would stop him from seeing his lost love tonight.

Upon entering the study, Gracey lit the fireplace to draw the darkness away. He stood within his office, noticing a piece of parchment enveloping an object on the large desk. with great anxiety and desire for action, he took the note and small object into grasp and brought it close to the light. He read the note first:

“Tonight we will meet on the other side. —Eleanor.”

Then, with terrible anticipation, he unraveled the note from the object, revealing a small bottle of arsenic. Poison.

Grasping the small bottle at hand, he covered his mouth and inhaled. It was all loud and true, and he knew what had to be done. However, even in grief something never set with him right. He started to quarrel with his morality as he paced in a panicked frenzy. Someone had told him once not to be envious of death, but Gracey felt as if even the malice of Hell would be meek compared to the torment of grief.

Gracey’s pacing subsided as he stopped to look upon the light of the fireplace, face wet with tears of confliction. It was warm and radiant— something he longed to feel again. Without Eleanor, he felt lost in the mortal world. Even after months of performing the same repetitive seance, it all felt futile, for he finally had a chance to see her again. He wouldn’t just let her fade away as if nothing had happened. It was only terror that seemed to engulf him. To live or to die, that was the question. The question that had brought him more pain than poison or hellfire. Finally, he felt as if he was in some control of his decision. He felt something other than misery.

And with this in mind, he slowly unscrewed the cork of arsenic as if it were a bottle of strong liquor. A liquor strong enough to stop a man’s heart. A subtle pop was heard and William Gracey glanced at the bottle with great apprehension, palms sweaty as his heart thundered. He winced away his fear and thought of Eleanore’s desperate command. With this in mind, his jaw tightened as he gradually brought the bottle to his lips. And finally, he slipped it down his throat with curled lips.

Upon finishing the bottle, he grimaced at the pungent and sour metallic flavor of the poison. He searched the room with rapid, uncontrollable thoughts, knowing there was no turning back. He gazed upon the table, setting his hand on the hard leather surface while he dragged his fingers across it. Then, he walked towards the fireplace, standing by it.

Hastily, Gracey’s breath started to stagger as he felt incredibly nauseous. His intestines screamed in anguish as he clutched his torso, for the pain never ceased afterward. It felt as if every organ and bone within him started to break apart and leak out in puddles upon the floor. He wretched out what he could in an attempt to free this sudden agony, but this acute state had him snared.

“AGH—” He screamed only once, gurgling a mixture containing vomit and foam.

His muscles had lost all control and he stumbled around the room with such terrible pain. Objects fell and broke all round him as every sinew within his body was electrified with excruciating pain. It was absolute Hell— something a simple poison could not inflict upon a mortal. This was something far greater.

Eventually, gravity had taken Gracey’s weight down to the cold hard tiles within the study. His eyes blurred the images about him as he faded in and out of consciousness. Now, in a deep state of paralysis, he only twitched in an attempt to move. The agony had overcome his state, for death would shortly arrive. Blood creeped down his lips in a deep red stream, indicating internal bleeding.

As William Gracey heaved his last breaths on the ground and awaited death, a cold presence overcame him. From what his eyes and mind could barely comprehend, he noticed a black silhouette on the left side of him, carrying a fog-like shadow as it moved across his lens. It was no angel like he’d imagined.

Slowly, the unlighted entity dragged itself toward him, circling him like doomed prey. It drew closer and closer with terrible rapping rhythm until it stopped close to Gracey’s face. It seemed to heave a deep and terrible breath, something that made his soul quiver in terror. This was not Eleanor…

Unable to escape, Gracey drew his last, long breath and the dark entity took it in like life. It groaned with terrible pleasure as it watched Gracey’s mortal form fall limp on the floor, bottle and note still at hand. The rest of his soul was devoured and trapped in an endless cycle of fear and grief as the entity had seized it from its eternal rest. This terrible entity was the first to greet him in the afterlife.

A demon.

…

All the painful memories flooded back as he stared at the Hatbox Ghost with fear and terrible regret. He held no conception of time as he did once so, never quite snapping out of it, heavy and lifeless breath engulfing his ribcage.

“Well…William Gracey. Once again pestering your relatives…” The Hatbox Ghost’s voice came, which accompanied a grim smile upon his face.

William opened his mouth to say something but quickly stopped himself. He stuttered, not knowing what to say to the evil Spector that sat before him. He was wrong— he was just attempting to ease Dorian’s humiliation. But, he knew he was just trying to convince his mind otherwise.

“I—” William stammered.

“Perhaps I should put an end to your…pestering…hm?” The Hatbox Ghost shifted slightly in his seat.

And before another stutter could escape, William Gracey was forced from his seat beside his friends and led down the table to where Hatbox Ghosts’s ghoulish goons sat, right beside the looming dark spirit that had entrapped him for eternity.

William, though persisting in his defiance by stance, could only withstand the agonizing pain of resistance for so long. Eventually, he stayed seated in order to keep the agony he felt at bay. It was a terrible feeling— to have the devil force one’s spirit like a puppet. With a widened lens, William looked around at the entities he sat with. They all stared at him with an occulted hatred as the Hatbox Ghost sat to the right of him, encompassing sinful pride with every expression. William looked down almost immediately.

“You see…That’s much better now. No more pitifully distracting side shows that squander my valuable time…”

Dorian attempted to comfort William from across the table, but it was obvious that he wasn’t responding to anyone, too frightened to do so.

“Speaking of wasting time…” The dark spirit spoke with prolonged groans in between.

He watched as the footmen carried in a multitude of silver platters, all of which were covered quite beautifully. Every spirit watched as the food came in, curling in their chairs with loads of anticipation. Despite the Hatbox Ghost’s torturous, inhumane mannerisms, he still allowed the ghosts to dine through offerings. It was a sick way of manipulating naive souls, causing them to almost believe He cared for them.

Normally, the feast was carried out with a variety of specific smells and memories found only in the past lives of the spirits. Whether it was the meaty scent of Jambalaya, or the pungent and delectable crawfish Étouffée with crispy crab cakes, it was a dish fit for a soul. And of course, a subtle glass of red wine on the side never hurt anyone. He knew that of all entities.

However, something was quite different as soon as the silver platters were placed in a manner that appeared planned. William slowly turned his head curiously and noticed the Hatbox Ghosts’s rotten grin when he spoke.

“Finally…something to celebrate my success. Satiate my hunger…”

Gracey inhaled without breath and winced almost immediately at a sudden odor. With terrible speculation, his fears were eventually portrayed through every spirit within the room. The platters were lifted up, revealing the nightmare.

Upon the long table was a rotting corpse, still fresh in a sense that it gave off a significantly horrific odor of death and decay. On everyone’s plate was a random piece of it— a hand or cheek alike. However, a lifeless body formed across the table in front of the Hatbox Ghost. It was enough to make all the souls’ wretch back within their chairs or simply stare in shock. Even the hitchhikers and goons had sat in silence as they gazed back at their plates.

Many spirits watched in utmost terror as the Hatbox Ghost inhaled the putrid scent of the corpse as if it were a dessert. He let out a sickening cackle afterward as he pressed his palms against the table, his gloved hands squeezed involuntarily. It was absolutely horrid, and many of the souls would rather die again just to get away from the situation. Even Vincent, the Hatchet Ghost, found that ideal hard to resist.

The Hatbox Ghost then shifted his cruel gaze upon every expression, for he found a gruesome pride in the fact every spector had a new and profound fear of him. He traced his green tongue against his rotted teeth, chuckling in the back of his throat.

“What seems to be the matter? Haven’t any of you had your fair share of tartare before?”

The dark spirit bellowed out in maniacal laughter again shortly afterwards, akin to a madman, as he covered his chest as though he had a heart. Even when he joked, it was as if the sorrowful souls had perished again all those years ago.

“Please…let us dine together now on this fine evening…”

The Hatbox ghost adjusted within his seat as he began to remove his black gloves one finger at a time. He acted in a manner of which every ghost could watch him with grueling anticipation as he revealed his monstrous claws.

Too frightened to look upon his friends, William Gracey’s skeletal hands shook underneath the table as he stared onto his plate. He had to look more than once to realize it was. A heart— a mortal heart—on his plate, covered in an array of dull greens and purples. There wasn’t any blood pouring from what he could see, just holes deep within the ventricles and shriveled, brown fat encasing its shape. If he were alive he would have evacuated himself. But now, he just felt paralyzed as the heart gazed back at him quite menacingly.

It all made devastating sense as William watched the Hatbox Ghost’s prominent side-eye. It was as if He vouched for such a dish just to vex him. In fact, the dark spirit had been tormenting him ever since the beginning, and He would do the same now. There was always madness within Him, but it was madness with an underlying method to it. There was always something the Hatbox Ghost wanted.

Vincent among other ghosts continued to watch his master once he set his large talons upon the table. The dark spirit’s elbows and wrists ceased to touch the edge of the cloth, which was a rather polite courtesy. He even picked up the silverware neatly placed upon the cloth as he examined its condition. He brought the fork to his eye level and slowly turned it before his hands began to tremble subtly.

It was His humanity slowly disappearing.

Then, as if something had snapped within the Hatbox Ghost, immediately the pupils within his yellow eyes began to wane as he dropped the utensil. He then violently grabbed the atrocious corpse in his massive claws as he began to devour it vigorously, revealing his truly famished presence.

Some airless gasps and mourns could be heard from the ghosts present, for it was an utmost horrible sight to see. There was strenuous struggling within the dining room chairs as the souls attempted to get away, unable to watch the beast take fourth in His sinful actions.

The Hatbox Ghost’s eyes evinced his pleasure as his whole massive frame hunched forward, continuing to partake in the gluttony. He felt a joyous impulse as he saw the fluids of innocence flow through his fingertips.

William nearly gagged as he watched Him, thoroughly revolted by His manners. But he knew the Hatbox Ghost was cursed to feed off of the living and deceased alike, truly unable to enjoy memories of food He had once indulged in. He knew this dark spirit truly felt hunger—something that all of the trapped souls did not.

The ghost’s claws were covered in the grotesque green and brown coloration, but nevertheless, His talons grabbed what was left of the slimy entrails. He seemed to devour most of them within minutes. However, time was irrelevant in the realm of darkness, and to some ghosts, it felt like He was eating for hours on end.

The souls that sat nearest to the Hatbox Ghost were quickly splashed and dirtied by the gush of old blood and gruel. William Gracey couldn't help but shed tears of misery and pain of what had unraveled before him. He was filled with agony, for the lifeless corpse returned him to his constant bereavement.

Oh—Why must this be so! To live among Satans whilst Eleanor lived in the realm of kings and queens? Was she even watching from above? He felt torn apart at the thought of her forgetfulness of him, mangled from the infinite pain, with no hope and no home. This was not the region beyond as he was promised. This was Hell. Because, unlike the eternal dream, this was the land where souls dwelled in torment and agony, forced to watch the Hatbox Ghost take his share of blood, flesh, and marrow. It was, of course, the acrid flavor that He desired, barely enough to satisfy His superimposed gluttony. The way He ate was enough to degrade even the toughest of souls.

William Gracey kept his face hidden, reminiscent of his dread. Normally, the Hatbox Ghost’s goons would’ve helped out with his wicked pestering, but they were all strictly preoccupied with his latent ravening. It was enough of a distraction until Gracey started to sniffle. Goodness—why did he have to sniffle?

Nevertheless it was heard, which had caught the attention of the monster to the left of him. The Hatbox Ghost’s claws unsheathed the mess intertwined in them, which fell from his hands slowly like a bloodied slime. Then, He quickly looked toward William with an unkenneled pleasure.

William, who shielded himself from many lingering eyes, wiped the tears and purged the marks from his face in an attempt to alleviate his constant dismay. However, he couldn’t stop pouring himself out with dreary wet tears once he’d started, which was no help to him in the end.

The Hatbox Ghost slowly leaned closer to Gracey and smelt the almost tangible atmosphere around him. He emitted a terrible groan—the sound of a monster as he widened his mouth to taste the addictive sensation. His ghostly hair seemed to stick on end subtly. In the Ghost Realm, sensations were like memories that gave off the scent of nostalgia, sorrow or any other deep emotion as a replacement of taste. Of course, they weren’t as pungent as the feelings of mourning spirits and mortals. And how pungent grief was to Him.

It didn’t take long for the Hatbox Ghost to become addicted to it, eyes maddened with the same inherent voracious prodigality. Many ghouls and spirits attempted to leave their seats again, aware of the inevitable outcome of this display. Eventually, The Hatbox Ghost would lose any mannerisms he had previously held before dinner, and would leave behind a madman. This needed to be stopped before anyone was permanently harmed. Vincent quickly proposed this ideal as the evil spector moved Himself closer to Gracey.

“Now, Your Excellency— Master of the Realms— perhaps you should finish devouring your lovely meal?” Vincent exclaimed quickly.

Other spirits had started to add onto this distraction in an attempt to draw the Master of the House away from the stench of grief. However, The Hatbox Ghost had already started to drool ferociously with every spectacle matching his inward appearance.

“Yes!— I think we all enjoyed the courtesy of your meal! Perhaps we should be excused before you—”

“SILENCE!” He roared.

And presently, not a sound was heard afterward, other than the mourns of William Gracey, who’d attempted to cease his internal dilemmas rather quickly.

William shut his eyes and only sniffled now that he had shielded his rather robustious cries. Though it was hard, he couldn’t let the demon before him get what He desired so desperately and with such ease. Even with eternal blackness to cloud out his vision, William pictured Him perfectly. It was disturbing how every component was laid out within his mind with no comparison to a painting. And it was that same painting that had been stuck within his mind ever since he’d died so many decades ago.

Slowly, the evil spirit made His way towards William Gracey, not hesitating to push his chair away from the long table. As He stood tall over William, many heads turned in utter terror, for they knew they were nothing against the wrath of their unwilling Master. This was quickly proven as Hatbox Ghost looked at everyone with a sudden animalistic fury.

“…What are you all looking at?! DINE!” He spat.

Almost suddenly, every ghost took up their forks and knives like puppets that feasted without hunger or desire. It was such an ugly sight to anyone, even the deceased, that some spirits would much rather suffer for years trapped inside an airtight box than have to face eating the remnants of a human. The spitting of sludge and crunching of bones was a bitter enmity to anyone forced to participate or even listen, the crimes justified only by Hell itself. After all, it was His realm now.

Even William was forced to take up the fork. He unwillingly sliced off a stiff piece of the old, wretched heart, much like the rest of the thralled spirits, forced to bring it to his tongue and eat it. Nothing in the mortal realm before prepared him for the disgust as he began to chew without will. Every empty tear fell to the floor without a stain, almost as if every one of them meant nothing in a dimension of infinite sorrow. They were tears in the rain, pointless to remember even if they meant something. Once William swallowed with great misery, he’d given into the inevitable that was The Hatbox Ghost’s eternal torment.

“—Why…” William had said rhetorically with a cloudy and woeful expression.

He spoke aloud but with little volume, for his spirit felt low and chained from within. It was more than just a spell that he and the ghosts were under— it was a curse. A terrible curse.

As if the deathly dimension couldn't take any more away from him, William was quickly torn from his seat by a large set of claws that had tightened painfully around the rest of his torso. He yelled only once, before the large hands suffocated him as if he had air to breathe. He couldn’t escape it.

The Hatbox Ghost ceased his terrible laughter as he neared William Gracey to his monstrous facade. His ferocious and lifeless breath exited the emptiness of his nose cavity. It was truly His face altogether that expressed His violent yearning towards such helpless and innocent souls. There was no exaggeration as He savored the grieving spirit’s aroma grotesquely, full of content.

“Mmm…You smell of…Misery…”

It was William's fragrance of grief that He’d found irresistible. It was enough to impose the sins of Gluttony and Lust simultaneously. What a mistake it was to show this heartfelt pain. He’d begun to feed a demon.

“…In-toxicating…”

William felt his ghostly form ripple painfully as the Hatbox Ghost took fourth in his own obscenities. He fed off Gracey’s grief, which caused his spirit to cripple and lose all thoughts that were dear to him during the process. The love he held for his friends turned sour, into dread and sorrow instead. He began to focus on Eleanor’s death once again.

“Leave him alone!” One of the maids screamed toward the Hatbox Ghost with a small spark of resistance.

The Hatbox Ghost let out a deep chuckle as he violently grabbed Williams neck instead, allowing him to dangle midair. William let out a strained noise as the grasp tightened like a serpent around his neck, firm and constricting.

“Oh, you really care for him, don’t you?…” The Hatbox Ghost’s voice seemed to grow darker as he gazed at the parlor maid with monsterous eyes.

“…Willing to share the same fate?…”

Suddenly, the maiden fell into the floor that stretched open beneath her. She let out a shrill scream of terror as she fell into a large pit of black sand that emitted a dark aura. The ghosts around her gasped audibly as some peered into the gaping hole next to them, which began to fill up quickly and swallow up the poor soul. Her screams ceased as the floor closed up afterward with a strike of lightning from outside.

The Hatbox Ghost let out a horrendous, boisterous laughter afterward, and it was clear he gained sickening satisfaction from the event.

William gripped at the Hatbox Ghost, almost in a pleading manner, desperate to be set free from the torment. This elicited the dark spirit to focus his gaze back toward him. He bared his slimy teeth as He fought His ferocious desire to confiscate and devour Gracey’s kind spirit in an instant.

Even in sorrow, William was so full of life—brilliant and caring—everything Hatbox Ghost was not. But He was patient.

“Don’t you recall…that night…” The Hatbox Ghost muttered as he neared William’s face closer to his own.

William scrunched his expression horribly as he struggled to relieve himself from the monster's grip. His translucent, skeletal fingers grappled the Master’s tough dark claws in an attempt to relieve himself from the constant, agonizing restriction.

“The night Eleanor deserted you…” The Hatbox Ghost whispered through a chuckle.

His eyes fiercely studied William’s, for He still desired much more delicious grief from him. William quickly felt the torment burn down on his soul again, which had forced his sorrowful tears to pool in his sockets. And those terrible words repeated endlessly within his head. It was all his fault…

“She never loved you…” The Hatbox Ghost uttered through a masked grin, eyes pulsating with a strange, yellow aura. Soon, He would get what He desired. And how He deserved it.

Gracey mouthed “no,” too weak to project any resistance. Even if he were a strong and enduring spirit, nothing could withstand the excruciation of this Devil.

“…She…left you here, allowing your torment. To waste away and rot in your own home…Just to suffer.” His words came again like poison.

William let out a strained sob as he shut his eyes. The misery was almost too much to bear, for tears began to stream rapidly down his face without an end, almost forced out. The Hatbox Ghost’s eyes widened at the tormented soul with an exhilarated pleasure. Only He noticed the visible aura of misery and grief illuminated around William. This is what he longed for.

William kept his eyes shut tight as he felt the Hatbox Ghost lean in towards him. He could feel a demented chill wash over his spectral form as he realized quickly that he was being drained of his life force slowly—feasted upon.

William understood the enslavement he constantly found himself under—all willing souls shared this fate. Many of the willing souls He fed on were wasted away into entities too weak to move or speak. In other words, they only existed for Him and his desires to satiate Himself. They were the true course— the reason why the Hatbox Ghost hosted the demeaning dinners. Why was he to be damned for all eternity this way, devoured into nothingness—Left with empty torture and grief?

The Hatbox Ghost groaned pleasantly as he began to consume William’s soul, exhausting him in the process. His jaws opened extensively whilst he drew in the concentrated anguish and suffering from Gracey. It roused and stirred the madness within, rather thrilling to Him.

“You’re…Mine!” He growled.

The Hatbox Ghost wheezed airily as he took in another lifeless breath full of grief and pain. lightning crackled in a much more electrified manner outside the windows, which had flashed in strange shapes of purple and green. Every loud crack against the immaterial realm sent a shrill scream of terror throughout the dining room, adding onto His deranged symphony.

Even Vincent, the Hatchet Ghost, had taken recognition of this most demonic sight, watching his very nephew waine and weep as he was feasted upon by the new Master of the house. He couldn’t help feeling an indiscretion deep within his spectral form, for he found the execution incredibly hard to watch. He suddenly intervened on behalf of any ghost unwilling to make the sacrifice.

“Master— Must you stop this…this madness?!”

A jolt of loud thunder was heard afterwards, silenced through the ferocious stare of the Hatbox Ghost. His beady, yellow, and menacing eyes were enough to stop any mortal heart— any soul’s at that. And it sent a terrible, antagonizing might that stunned Vincent into a state of pure shock. The only movement he could bear was his own trembling. It was only through this reaction that The Hatbox Ghost temporarily recessed his gruesome mannerisms, snarling as he spat.

“You DARE…disrupt ME?!”

The Demon roared with great severity towards the Hatchet Ghost among the other trembling spirits. The dining room had darkened all around them and all fears had been brought forth to their salacious Master. William, still trapped beneath the claws of the massive spector, held only the strength to look toward Vincent Gracey, who stood his ground even in fear. He winced in appealing agony with tears that could’ve burned at his skin if he were still alive. Why was he doing this for him— a ghost weak and pathetic beyond comparison? This was all his fault…

“Sir—” Vincent had managed to say before the fear had restricted his lifeless vocal chords.

Although he loathed his nephew, he couldn’t face the fact that he too was a willing soul just like him.

And how He craved the Willing.

“Even my most…Loyal adversary…Seeking to betray Me?…”

The Hatbox Ghost sifted himself towards the Hatchet ghost with William Gracey still snared in between his massive talons, much like a hawk with its prey. He bared His gray, rotten teeth at the demented, meek spirit with no desire to blink even once. The darkened aura seemed to engulf most of His cape now as if to stretch His shadow across the room, which gave Him a much larger expression than before.

“Of…of course not—” Vincent managed to speak.

The darkness around him started to crawl close to the putrid scar embedded across his fleshy, green neck. It made him grunt due to the sudden enforced agony.

“You’re not…caring for him, are you now? Much like…the others?”

The Evil Spector studied the Hatchet Ghost’s perturbed expression, His eyes enticed with such insanity and deception, they were enough to entrance any ghost who gazed directly at them. Every spirit hid their eyes from Him. All except Vincent Gracey.

“I…” Vincent muttered, enraptured by the Hatbox Ghost’s pulsating yellow eyes. He couldn’t resist them.

William Gracey watched in horror as his relative fell under the hypnotic and tractable spell. His eyes— Why must he look into those eyes?! He had almost seen Vincent Gracey’s true self, shrouded out within an instant through the manipulative power of the Hatbox Ghost. He almost had his uncle back. He almost had hope.

“Besides…I won’t be the one to help you when you’ll inevitably pay him for your actions…Right?…” He chuckled.

The Hatbox Ghost restated the Hatchet Ghost’s previous statement to William Gracey as if He’d known of their recent encounter. It sent a petrified chill down William’s spine.

He listens. He heard everything. And all roads lead to Him in the end…

The Hatchet Ghost strangely inhaled as the darkness faded around him, seemingly done with him. Then, those hypotonic clouds ceased within his eyes and revealed the same bitterness William Gracey had always seen in him. Hatred.

“...Of course, Master. Thank you for your…assistance.”

William Gracey faintly struggled within the Hatbox Ghost’s claws and watched as the Hatchet Ghost got up from his seat without hassle. It was quite alarming for the rest of the sorrowful souls, still glued to their seats without content. It was a statement which meant the loyal were favored over the enslaved. A terrible statement that meant one had to give into the dark spirit’s bidding just to be free. It was all an illusion, however. No one was free.

The Hatbox Ghost’s perpetual smile sneered all the more wider, now that the Hatchet Ghost had gazed at William with such unpleasantness. It made William shed more empty tears, no longer recognizing Vincent Gracey in those addhorrent, misshapen eyes.

“What do you think of…poor William Gracey now?…” The Hatbox Ghost snarled in his guttural voice.

Presently, He lowered William Gracey back down to the hard tiles so that Vincent could gaze upon him. William’s knees buckled from his lack of strength, kneeling as he held a heavily depleted expression. The Hatbox Ghost still kept an intense hold of his neck and torso while he wheezed, watching Vincent walk up to him with a sadistic grin upon his face.

For a moment, the Hatchet Ghost lingered his daunting smile at William Gracey, who had no choice but to gaze back with tired eyes. After a moment of silence, he spoke…

“I want him to…suffer…” He spoke through an inhale.

“I want to…watch you break him. Only I…”

Vincent’s voice was layered with darkness as he knelt down in front of his tormented relative. What was said was something imparable and vile, addressed to no one except the once luminescent soul before him. Now, he was nothing but an eternal feast for the demon before him.

“…And let the others’ blindness overcome them with a fear far greater than the sweet escape of closure…” The Hatchet Ghost added, looking up to his dark ruler.

William shook with a sunken head, eyes glassy and darkened by the condition of his very being. He could only listen to the quaked voices of his fellow friends, for they too always winded up paying for his actions. Why must this always be so? This was all his fault. Always his fault.

“What a…pleasant surprise…” The Hatbox Ghost uttered through an utmost sinister chuckle.

He was infatuated by the animosity He’d caused between a once happy family. How he loved the capability of destruction caused by His own making. He was a monster, vain and vile, created with misanthropic power and the disposition for committing atrocity.

“Wouldn’t you agree…William? He bellowed.

The dark spirit hunched down with a most wretched snarl, one claw upon the floor, while his eyes gazed upon William Gracey. He was once again lifted off the ground with such ease and carried back towards the Hatbox Ghost’s mummified facade. It was acrid and dark, his face. Void of any life or pleasantry it had once possessed in a forgotten timeline. His nose cavities enlarged after every powerful, lifeless inhale, eyes but yellow fragments of hellfire as they stared back at William. William had made no effort to voice out even a feeble ‘no,’ too dreadfully exhausted to do so. All he could muster was a heart-wrenching stare at the dark spirit before him, eyes blurred from tears.

“Well then. I shall see to this manner…personally. Within a more…confined setting...”

As the Hatbox Ghost straightened himself up back into his menacing, overbearing stance, he fixed his eyes upon every quivering ghost and spirit within the room that had watched the grimful spectacle commence. He groaned and bared his spear-like teeth as he made his gaze known across the room, then inevitably stopped at William’s acquaintances.

Victor, the Flutist, and Dorian Gracey couldn’t help but share the same alarmed expression with each other, the rules made known to all of them clearly. The Master was never wrong. The Master was always listening. And if He shall ever look upon you with greatness, He will do so with great reason. And ‘great’, He was. It was this final oath that had made them tremble with anticipation.

The darkness began to ripple throughout the massive dining hall, which had echoed its deathly sweet lullaby into the infinite chambers of the mansion. Sometimes it thundered like lightning or rippled akin to waves. Nevertheless, it taunted every soul under His mighty curse. Haunted them.

“Oh, I hate to be a terrible host and run, but I do think it’s time for me to go. You see, I have some…important matters to attend to…”

The Hatbox Ghost’s aura had begun to ripple and mystify him as he took a gradual step back from the chair that was his throne. Everyone had eyes on the Master of the house as he took William Gracey with him into the blackness that had been summoned. The Hatchet Ghost was beside his Master, and observed as the black veins started to crawl and intertwine around them. Although it was inevitable to show fear, he’d embraced it long long ago: something his nephew did not.

“Enjoy the dinner…Ta-ta, now…” The Hatbox Ghost muttered in an exaggerated voice.

The dark spirit quickly dematerialized within His own darkness alongside the other two spirits. He always spoke the final word. Even after He’d vanished just as elegantly as He’d come, no one was allowed to leave until they were finished with their dish. And Every ghoul alike held this deep and unforgiving punishment, the solemn supper being only the beginning of it all.

Many had known what this celebration had meant, for it was all loud and clear what the Hatbox Ghost had in store for the delicious mortal souls entrapped within the mansion. Eventually, they would all share the same fate as every ghost had—forced to abide by the dark spector’s command. And the willing souls? The willing were special to Him; potent to Him. It was something He craved ever since his arrival, something eternal that would fuel his insatiable hunger for more. Because, unlike the mortal realm, there was no escape from the infinite oblivion waiting for them on the other side.

And how He waited ever so patiently…

…

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