31 October 2023
Tuesday. All Hallows’ Eve, the one night of the year on which the city dresses as me. I spent it receiving guests in capes.
Eight of them, all in high collars, all with their hair combed back, one with teeth that clicked when she spoke. I stood among them in my own crypt and, for the first time in centuries, nobody could tell which of us was the Count. The gamesmaster had to count the capes twice.
They had arrived a quarter of an hour early, as the house asks, so there was time for lockers and warnings before the door closed. Every one of them wore closed shoes beneath the velvet. I approve. A graveyard floor is no place for slippers, and I have lost several pairs to the moss.
A second party came later in wide hats, with satchels of stakes made from rolled-up newspaper. They looked so much like the Professor that I hid behind a sarcophagus until they had gone.
Next year I shall come as a bat. Reginald says it will not suit me.
— D.
