text: Vincent VanPire was excited to finally be moving into his inherited abandoned house, once owned by his very wealthy great uncle, Count Victor VanPire. Situated just along the outskirts of a picture-perfect development, a three-story, century-old mansion stood tall yet on the verge of crumbling. Vincent stood out in his front yard and stepped back to take in the whole house. The ancient shutters hung loosely on its hinges, the porch was nearly caved in and the paint was nearly all chipped. Ivy grew up, down, and around every crevice of the house, giving the appearance of not having been lived in since Great Uncle Victor. Which it probably wasn’t. As he took in his new inheritance, he smiled proudly. “Just a few more years and the roof vill finally cave in,” said Vincent happily. “And now that I’m mostly settled in, I really should invite a few guests over. Vat do you think, Venus?” he asked his beloved pet fly trap. Venus trapped a buzzing fly, and suddenly Vincent had an idea. “That’s it, Venus! I shall throw a dinner party and invite our new neighbors. Vat a great idea!” Vincent walked back inside to the drawing-room. He strode over to his desk, took out his quill, and dipped it into a bottle of blood-red ink. The invite was to go to his new neighbors across the street, Mr. and Mrs. Smith, inviting them over for dinner at 7 o’clock. It was now noon. He walked over to his old but trusty barn owl. “Frankincense, deliver this to the Smith’s across the street. Hurry now! I have much to do before seven.” The owl squawked then snatched the piece of folded parchment in its beak and flew out the window. “That’s one thing done. Now I must get the house ready! But how vill I finish on time? I need some help.” He looked down at Venus, who sat still in her pot. No, Venus wasn’t much help. Frankincense was of no use either. Vincent now couldn’t help but feel rather anxious. He peered outside in the direction of the family cemetery. Suddenly, it was as if a light bulb had been turned on inside his head. “Of course! How silly of me. I’m not alone. I have my family to help! And I have just the thing to raise them.” Vincent ran into the kitchen and grabbed a jar from the spice drawer and read the label: RISING DEAD SPICE A mixture of ground ingredients of burnt hair, rotten toenails, and dead skin. Sprinkle a dash of the spice over graves of the dead during the day to raise them to do your bidding. Corpses will remain raised and possessed until nightfall. Note: Corpses cannot converse with the living. Side effects: Feelings of nostalgia, not wanting corpses to return to grave. Vincent sprinkled the mixture over the graves. And like magic, the corpses of his extended relatives (aunts, uncles, first cousins, and second cousins twice removed) rose from the dampened dirt. “Velcome, velcome!” cried Vincent. “Ve have much to do today, and I vill need all of your help.” The corpses’ gazes remained unemotionally fixed on Vincent. “I will need this mansion restored to its former glory and a feast fit for a king by tonight.” The group of reawakened dead stared mutely. “Now!” As if scrambling in slow motion, the corpses began to move. Some went to the top floor, some went downstairs and the others went into the kitchen. Vincent clapped his hands together. “Vunderful. Now I can see if Frankincense has come back with a reply.” Vincent marched up the steps to the attic where Frankincense usually liked to perch. Sure enough, there he was with a piece of paper beside him with the Smith’s reply saying they would accept his invitation. Vincent was elated; it would make his first friends in the neighborhood. A few hours passed by quickly. The corpses had gone back to their graves and Vincent was now dressed in his finest black cloak. At first, he revealed his fangs but then thought against it. “I wouldn’t want to overdress,” he explained to Venus and revealed all human teeth. Then at seven o’clock on the dot, the doorbell rang followed by a shriek. “They’re here!” he cried and ran to open the door. There in the doorway was Mr. and Mrs. Smith. Vincent was surprised to see they were nearly as pale as him. “Ah, the Smith’s! Velcome! Velcome to my manor. Well, it’s not my manner completely. You see it was once owned-” “Your- your doorbell. It- it grabbed me!” gasped Mrs. Smith, who Vincent now realized was clutching her hand. He turned to his doorbell, which was in fact surrounded by a rare plant that Vincent found on his travels. The plant was known to squeeze its victims to the point of suffocation. Luckily, Vincent had trained it to know the difference between friend and foe. “Now, now. You know not to strangle our guests!” Vincent slapped the plant and it shriveled away. “Yes,” he said turning to the guests. “Come in, come in...” The Smith’s slowly made their way inside. “Now as I was saying, this was once owned by my great Uncle Victor VanPire. He recently died close to three hundred years ago-” “Excuse me,” said Mr. Smith. “ Recently passed away three hundred years ago?” “That is correct.” The Smith’s looked at each other. “But... but how is that recent?” Vincent laughed. “Well, my family has a history of living long, full lives you see. Tend to get a little cranky around the full moon...” “We- we brought this,” Mrs. Smith shakily handed over a tray. “It’s my famous casserole.” “Why how lovely! Let me put this into the kitchen. Come, follow me this way.” As he led them through the living room past creaking suits of armor, stained oil paintings, and other odds and ends, he failed to notice the Smith’s trembling violently, holding onto one another as if they were going through a haunted house. Which to them, it was. Suddenly, a loud bang emanated from the kitchen. Mrs. Smith shrieked again. “What was that?” “Hmm, not sure. I may have left the cauldron boil for too long. I’ll just check. Now, I have a delicious meal waiting for you, wouldn’t want it to go to waste! Why don’t you two take a seat in the dining room and I’ll have the food set out momentarily.” The Smith’s sat down at the long dining room table. The table indeed was set formally; a rich plum velvet runner lined the table, with worn silver candelabra and dinnerware set at each place. Both of them took a seat on the black velvet chairs, the crackling of the fireplace the only noise for the next few minutes before Mr. Smith picked up an emerald goblet filled with a dark smoky liquid that had a scent similar to rotten eggs. “And here we are!” announced Vincent, his black robes swishing behind as he strode in from the kitchen. A tray seemed to be magically pushing itself with what the Smiths could hardly call food. As Vincent piled their plates, Mrs. Smith pushed a slimy tentacle around with her fork. Mr. Smit nearly gagged as he sniffed what looked like a wriggling finger. And just as Mrs. Smith was about to excuse herself, she felt something wrap around her ankle. Nervous, she looked down and saw a large, slimy tentacle climbing up her leg! As she looked down on her plate, she noticed her dinner was no longer there. Just as expected as anyone would who had a tentacle around their leg, Mrs. Smith screamed and fell backward out of her chair. As she kicked furiously to try and free her leg of the tentacle, she noticed that the tentacle had fallen limp. When she looked up, a Venus flytrap had bitten the tentacle in half, freeing her of its grasp. Without another word and with the largest shriek of the night yet, the Smiths ran from the house as fast as they could. Vincent took a look at his beloved pet. “Vy Venus, that vas very nice of you, to help Mrs. Smith from her dinner. Speaking of, it went very vell, don’t you think?” And Vincent smiled, happy to have made some new friends. Well, almost. THE END