Karl had been given the glossy, postcard-sized, invitation while waiting for a midnight screening of the remastered 1931 Dracula. The line was full with costumed fans of all pedigree; Vampires, Werewolves, Witches; many monsters he had never seen before, and they were just as excited as he was to see the film. Which is why he got to chatting them up, and before the film started he had been passed the invitation by a bearded lady with the most intricately made fake club foot he had ever seen. Sitting in his mother’s car at a quarter to two, looking up at the house that was clearly and lovingly modelled off an Antebellum Louisiana home with hints of gothic at the edges, he set his bandages over his face, checked the mirror and shambled up to the door. Rufus answered the door, a werewolf; he howled at the night (and in delight) at Karl’s arrival, and ushered him in. The place was hopping with an array of all manner of beast, demon, or fiend. In the centre of the room, someone dressed as a spider played a Hammond Organ; the pipes reaching up the wall to the third floor. Another someone, also dressed as a Mummy, offered Karl a plate of something that looked like eyeballs; “They’re good.” she said. Karl noticed that maybe a trick of the light made it look like between the gaps of her bandages was empty space, and dust, like she was hollow. She folded into the crowd before he could ask how she did it. He slipped the candied eyeball into his mouth and knew the moment it touched his tongue it was real, and spit it into a tear of toilet paper he ripped from his bandages. And then, like he was only just waking up, he saw the room as it was; these were not horror fans celebrating a genre, these were horrors celebrating just because. A ghost who’d pushed through him, turned, apologized, and with trepidation asked Karl where he was from. He knew, then, that Port Moody would not be the correct answer.