The Weird Friends Co.

Halloween Night

He wore an extremely outdated dining suit with a white bowtie and vest, and white gloves to boot. His shiny jet-black hair was styled in waves hardened to his cranium and his huge, round eyes were circumscribed by purplish discoloration.

"I did say... any t-time after e-le-ven, did I n-not?"

His intense gaze switched to mine, and I flinched. Draco took a step forward entirely cool and composed.

"My apologies for the intrusion. Our newest addition to the team is to blame," he pointed directly at me.

"All in the p-past. Allow me to introduce m-myself. I am Griffin Winder."

Awkwardly we took turns introducing ourselves, as it seemed propitious to do so. Griffin maintained his creepy smile as he offered us all a drink.

"P-Port, Cherie, Schnaps, anyone? Or p-perhaps your p-p-palettes require a m-more TACT-ful liqueur such as whiskey or brandy?" he moved about his mini bar, built for distinguished social evenings, with slow slithery movements and brushed his gloved spindly forefinger across the corks of his decanters seductively. Wensley blinked rapidly and a line appeared between her brows. I realized she was about to blow with some snide remark about our host to our host's face and I jumped at the opportunity to speak before her.

"Oh, y-yes! Whiskey for me please."

The boss threw his head around his shoulder with a completely surprised expression that dripped with intense judgment. I stuck my tongue out at him to aggravate his confusion. He ignored me and carried on.

"If you don't mind me asking, why did you request we come after 11PM?"

Our grinning host answered while he fixed my drink, "T-The pol-ter-geissst, only appears then."

Just as he mouthed his last word, I could've sworn I saw his tongue slither across his lips grotesquely. I looked around at my companions to see if they witnessed the disturbing sight, but Wensley was too preoccupied with smacking on the cocktail cherries she was donated, and Malfoy was too busy stuffing his nose in his notes.

I slowly nursed on my glass while Griffin took us on a turnabout the grand house, explaining at each corner and cranny the terrible acts his "pol-ter-geissst" had performed since the beginning of the haunting—which he claimed started before he moved in last summer, per the previous tenant's account. He was a very performative fellow and moved dramatically through the rooms with his arms always suspended at his sides swimming through the air. After we ventured upstairs to the library, he suddenly held out his gloved palm to all of us and turned his head gravely. We followed suit and looked down at an alcove tucked into a corner.

"There used to be curtains c-covering this nook. But I took... took them down. Every time I sat there to r-read and take breaks to gaze out... out the window," he paused to look directly at me. I quickly turned my bored scowl into a brilliant smile and sipped the whiskey he so graciously offered. He pointed at the window and mimicked the motion of pulling something away, "A g-ghostly hand would pull the curtains swiftly, closing me in... So, I had to throw them o-out."

He tucked his hands behind his back and sauntered over to the fireplace where he leaned against the mantle, then placed two gloved fingers to his temple as a display of emotional distress at his next recollection.

"I can't light the fire anymore, as the p-pol-ter-geissst has taken up the activity of tossing hot coals from the fireplace onto the r-rug when I'm not looking. He—It... Intends to burn me and my h-home down."

He turned away again and led us toward the kitchen downstairs, very giddy to explain what he referred to as the "knife-throwing i-incident," but I fell behind at the sight of a door he had passed three times already. This was my fifth or six folly of the night—I already lost count. When I stepped foot through the threshold, the door immediately snapped shut behind me, not by any spiritual force but by sheer gravity created by an old house that leaned on its foundation a little too much to the left. Hardly fazed for some reason, I looked down at my whiskey glass and realized there was but a drop left. Paired with my brazenness to walk into a room I was not permitted to enter and my slow reaction to fear, I realized I was in truth more than tipsy. Apparently, I had been staring at myself for a while in the reflection of a mirror laid against a bunch of junk. A velvet drape hung over half of it, and I pulled it off to find several more mirrors behind it. Every round or edged object in that room covered up with a blanket, curtain, or cloth was a mirror. There were stand mirrors, framed mirrors, wall mirrors, washroom mirrors, handheld mirrors, and compact mirrors, leaning against one another or turned around.