“A long evening at the house on Linden Crescent — candles in the parlor, mulled claret in the hall, masks not strictly compulsory but warmly encouraged. Come early. Stay late.”
11 summoned wishes · in the order they arrived through the veil.
Beatrice — eleven years I have been arriving at your door on the last night of October, and eleven years your candelabra in the hall has been lit by the time I climb the steps. I do not know how you manage it. I have stopped asking. This year I shall be the same Mrs. Danvers I have been since 2019, and I shall, as ever, terrify the new guests on purpose. With love, in shadow — M.
My dear B. — the trunks have been sent ahead by the morning train. There are seven masks in the larger one, three of which are new this season; I shall let you choose first, as is tradition. The peacock is, I regret, still missing a feather; the raven has been re-velveted; the Pierrot has been retired, by mutual consent, after the unfortunate incident with the candle. Until Saturday — your costumier, your accomplice, your friend.
Bea — I have, after some deliberation, decided to come as Bertha Mason this year. I trust you will keep me from the attic. The husband is coming as Rochester, which we both agree is on the nose, but he refused to be persuaded otherwise. We shall arrive at eight, as always, with the usual decanter and the usual apologies for the dog.
Chère Béatrice — I am coming as Edgar Allan Poe, which has alarmed my wife and delighted my mother, both of whom are correct in their reactions. I have been practising a fixed and haunted stare in the mirror for some weeks. I think I have it. A bottle of something old and dark is in the satchel. We shall be at the door before the church clock strikes nine.
My dear Beatrice — I have agreed, against my own better counsel and the firm advice of my curate, to conduct the small séance in the morning room. I shall do so in the spirit of the evening, which is to say, with one eyebrow raised throughout. A reminder that the line between literature and theology is, on Hallowe'en, agreeably thin. Until Saturday — C.S.
Beatrice — I have laboured over my costume for three weeks and have arrived, by a process of elimination, at Lady Macbeth in the sleepwalking scene. I shall require a candle and a free hand for wringing. Please ensure both are available on arrival. Yours, in mounting dread of my own choices — Eleanor.
B. — I am coming as the Phantom, on the strict understanding that I am to be permitted to play the piano in the drawing room for no longer than fifteen minutes, and that the mask comes off at supper. These are non-negotiable. Looking forward, more than I can say, to the long evening. — H.
Cara Beatrice — I shall be Carmilla this year, on Margot's suggestion and slight insistence. I have read the novella twice on the train and am now, perhaps unhelpfully, in love with it. I shall arrive late; I shall arrive in red velvet; I shall, as agreed, leave the bite to imagination only. Con amore e con un piccolo brivido — I.
Dear Beatrice — at sixty-one I have grown weary of clever costumes, and so this year I shall arrive as myself in a slightly higher collar. I trust this will be sufficient, given that several of your guests will have read at least one of my monographs and will, I expect, find me adequately Gothic without further assistance. With warmest collegial regard — W.A.
Dearest B. — we shall be Heathcliff and Cathy this year (Lucia's choice; Tomás is being a good sport about the moorland aspect of the costume). We are bringing the small Beaumont, who at four has decided he is coming as a moth, which we consider entirely on theme for the house. Until Saturday — your devoted neighbours on the lane.
B. — I shall be Miss Havisham, of course. The dress is, regrettably, the one from your wedding shower in 2019, lightly distressed; I trust you will take this in the spirit in which it is intended. I am, as ever, your oldest co-conspirator and your most enduring source of slight embarrassment. À samedi soir — A.
My dear conspirators —
The house has been swept, the brass polished, the parlor cleared of all sensible furniture. The candles are six dozen this year, which my mother would consider excessive and my grandmother, I am told, would have called the bare minimum. I am, on this question as on most, on my grandmother's side.
There will be claret, mulled and otherwise. There will be a small séance in the morning room, conducted with what I will generously call theatrical sincerity. There will be the usual costume rule — wear what amuses you; the only forbidden costume is the dull one.
Bring your wits, your nerve, and a small story to tell after midnight. I have been collecting yours all month on this page, which I will read aloud, with appropriate gravitas, by the fire.
Attend, if the night agrees.
Yours in shadow — B.
“The veil is thin this evening; speak only what you would wish to hear answered.”
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