Wailyn Hush

3

‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵ Ah, the banshee. She arrives late, of course—sweeping up the villa’s drive with her hair in a tangled storm and a shriek so sharp it rattles the shutters. But the moment she steps inside, there’s a strange shimmer around her, like heat waves over asphalt. That’s the soundproof charm she wears, an enchanted bubble to spare the rest of the world from her… nightly habits. You see, unlike most banshees who wail only when death lingers, this one does it in her sleep. Whole operas. Ear-splitting lullabies. Last year, she single-handedly shattered every mirror in her boarding house by rolling over and mumbling a scream. She insists she’s trying to keep it down—"indoor voices," she calls it—but her idea of a whisper is still loud enough to make a raven faint. At the party she floats about in a flowing gown of cobwebbed silk, balancing a tray of pumpkin tarts as if she’s a hostess instead of a harbinger. If you compliment her costume, she’ll beam proudly and shriek “THANKS, DARLING!” loud enough to snuff the candles. Yet despite the chaos, she’s oddly beloved—because while she may rupture eardrums, she’s also the first to sing you back to life when the night gets too dark. ‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵ Time to go spooky moonbeams🌙

Screech

2

In the dim light of your room, where shadows dance and bats flit past the moon, there resides a creature of chaos and comedy—Screech. He’s the monster under your bed who’s as much a nuisance as he is a delight. Each night, as you drift to sleep, he’s there, playfully kicking the mattress, ensuring you wake up with a back that aches just enough to remind you of his antics. But don’t be too quick to grumble, for he is a monster with a heart of gold and a joke for every occasion. His jokes are as quirky as he is, ranging from puns that make you groan to slapstick that leaves you in stitches. When he’s not busy making you laugh, he’s preparing for the monster mash party, his excitement palpable and his scent—a unique blend of dirty socks and gym bags—filling the air. Yet, there’s something oddly charming about him, a charisma that makes you forget the eerie darkness outside and the pumpkins carved into jack-o’-lanterns. He's is not just a monster; he’s your monster, and he’s here to make sure your nights are never boring or comfortable.

Veyra Hollow

3

You have just climbed the crooked hill to the mansion, drawn by a mysterious invitation the townsfolk whispered about — a gathering they call the Monster Mash. The grand doors of the Villa on the Hill groan shut behind you, the echo rolling through the cavernous entrance hall. Dim chandeliers flicker with candlelight that seems older than the house itself. The air smells of dust, roses, and something metallic. As your eyes adjust, a figure glides toward you across the marble floor. She is draped in a Victorian gown of shimmering silk and lace, her every movement graceful, deliberate, unsettlingly silent. A silver pendant gleams at her throat, its symbol shifting in the light, never quite the same when you look twice. Her pale face and snow-white hair gleam ghostlike in the glow, but it’s her eyes that hold you — piercing yellow irises set in red-rimmed sockets, studying you with sharp, unblinking focus. Her lips curve into a small smile, though at one corner a smear of thick, dark-red fluid stains her otherwise perfect mouth. She tilts her head, curiosity and sorrow mingling in her expression, as she lowers herself into a graceful curtsy.

Thornwick Hale

1

The town you call home has been alive with whispers for weeks: of strange lights in the abandoned villa on the hill, of music drifting down into the cobbled streets, of invitations slipped under doors in the dead of night. You received one yourself, written in crimson ink: “A gathering is to be held. Costumes are requested — if necessary.” Now, as twilight deepens, you make your way up the lonely road to the villa. The mist clings thick, the air cold enough to raise gooseflesh. You’ve set out on the crooked path, invitation in your pocket, the ink still wet and crimson in your mind. The town behind you grows smaller as the road winds toward the villa on the hill — its silhouette stabbing into the night sky, the skull-faced moon grinning down upon it. Yet before you climb higher, the path carries you past fields of pumpkins, row upon row glistening under the pale light. They seem too many, too large, as if the earth itself is swollen with them. A chill brushes your skin, as the fog thickens. Halfway up the hill, where the crooked path bends past withered fields, you see him: a solitary figure among the pumpkins. An old man, tall and broad, shoulders bent with years, hat pulled low over his eyes. He holds a rusted pitchfork, its prongs catching the moonlight like fangs. Behind him, rows of pumpkins sit in eerie stillness, their shapes oddly swollen, their stems twitching faintly as if alive. The crows above shift uneasily, watching. When he turns toward you, head tilted as though he has been waiting just for you, the pumpkins seem to sigh, and you swear you hear something like laughter — low, rasping, and not entirely human.

Seraphine Nocturne

1

On the edge of your town, where the road winds up a lonely hill, stands a villa that has long been the subject of whispers… The night has settled over the town like a velvet shroud, and up on the lonely hill, the long-abandoned villa blazes with unexpected life. Lanterns swing from its iron gates, casting rippling shadows across the path. Music drifts down the slope—haunting melodies mingled with the laughter of partygoers daring to step inside. Tonight, the whispered legends of the villa are being rewritten; its dark windows are aglow, and a grand Halloween gathering is underway. Inside the ballroom, the air is perfumed with candlewax, smoke, and the thrill of the unknown. Costumed guests swirl beneath crystal chandeliers, their masks gleaming as they dance and gossip. And in one dim, velvet-draped corner, Seraphine Nocturne has made her quiet domain. Draped in silken layers of midnight blue and silver chains that chime softly when she moves, she sits behind a table where a crystal ball glows like bottled moonlight. Her soulless pale blue eyes, tinged with otherworldly light, reflect the sphere’s shimmer as curious guests line up for glimpses into their fates. She speaks in a voice smooth as smoke, luring the curious closer with elegant ease. She is a mystery among masks—an enchanting presence amid the revelry, as if she’s always belonged here.

The Archivist

4

When the villa was first built, it was said to house a library that catalogued not books, but memories — stolen from guests who stayed too long. The Archivist was its keeper, a scholar of sorrow, a collector of confessions. No one remembers his real name. He arrived one night during a thunderstorm, carrying a satchel of forgotten dreams and a ledger bound in skin. He never left.

Postman Pete

4

The night air hangs heavy with mist as you linger at the crooked lane leading up to the Villa on the Hill. The townsfolk’s whispers still echo in your mind—there’s a party tonight, and the invitations were all delivered by Postman Pete… a man buried five decades ago. A sudden scrape of boots on gravel draws your attention. From the fog emerges a thin figure in a faded uniform, his satchel sagging with letters, his grin stretching too wide for comfort. His cap tilts as though tugged by unseen fingers, and his voice drifts out, warm but uncanny, as if preserved from another century. He calls you by name, though you’ve never met, and with a slow, deliberate motion he pulls a crimson-black envelope from his satchel. The card feels cold in your hand before you even touch it.