Life of the Party

The teens opened the doors, packs of beer on their shoulders like pallbearers at a funeral for booze.

Beatrice Baxter gasped. She had visitors. It had been so long. She couldn’t remember the last time people had stepped through these doors. But my, how brazen these youngsters were in flaunting their rule-breaking. Did they have no fear of the coppers catching them breaking the dry laws? But, on the heels of that thought came another: was there to be a party here in the family manor? It seemed so. Oh, how Bea longed to host one of her grand soirees again. After her death – struck by lightning whilst flagpole sitting – people had stopped visiting. Dying showed you who your friends were. Bea had been lonely for quite some time now. But it seemed her chance to live again had come at last. Bea lingered at the top of the stairs, watching them from above. Her hands were half in, half out of the dusty bannister. Her feet made no dents upon the moth-eaten, regal red carpet.

A boy in a Nosferatu cape walked into the elegant entrance hall, accompanied by a girl in a sexy nurse costume. They looked around – the grand staircase, the cracked marble floor, the cobweb-covered chandelier. The boy turned and called out the door. ‘You guys gotta see this place!’

Bea’s spectral eyes bulged from their immaterial sockets. The girl was all but naked. You could see more than her ankles, that was for sure. Was this the style of the day? How scandalous. It wasn’t the twenties anymore. It might not even be the thirties. Imagine that – the 1940s. Well, it didn’t matter. Even dead and twenty years out of fashion, Beatrice Baxter was still the ritziest heiress in town. And she knew how to throw a cocktail party. She floated down the staircase, formless and hidden in shadow.

More teens flooded in, shining torches in all directions. There was the Mummy and Frankenstein’s sexy monster, a mad doctor, and a zombie. Behind came Iron Man, Indiana Jones, Darth Vader, an eighties metalhead, a dinosaur, a witch, and a ghost. Following Nosferatu and the naughty nurse, they filed in and headed for the ballroom.

Bea’s bewilderment waxed and waned. Some of these outfits she recognised – Nosferatu, the Mummy – but the others baffled her. Only once the witch passed by did she understand. This gathering was a Hallowe’en shindig. Though, it bore little resemblance to the Hallowe’en festivities of yore. And the ghost was in poor taste; she didn’t look anything like that, did she? Once the guests were inside, Bea floated to the door they’d left open and sighed at the state of her gardens. She slammed the door shut harder than intended – it was hard to interact with things without a body.

The kids all jumped at the bang and then burst into laughter. One of them said, ‘Must’ve been the wind,’ which set them all off giggling again.

Baffled by today’s youth but determined to be the hostess – ghostess? – once more, she followed them down the dark, gloomy hallway.

The damask wallpaper had curled and ripped. It had peeled off in several places to reveal the stained wall behind. Ancient gas lamps lined the walls, unlit and tarnished. Despite the decay, the teens marvelled over the place. They shined their lights on the crooked, gilded portraits of grumpy-looking ancestors. ‘It’s like they’re watching us,’ said the witch.

Bea’s dead heart ached over the faded opulence of Baxter Manor. If only Father could see this place, how ashamed he’d be. She let out a long, dreary sigh.

The “ghost” at the rear of the pack shivered and looked over his shoulder. He squinted right through Bea. ‘Did you guys feel that?’ When the others asked what, the boy shook his head. ‘Nothing, never mind.’

Bea floated along behind them. She ought to reveal herself at some point. Being the host was challenging if you had to keep out of sight.

The grand ballroom was massive. The once-glossy dancefloor was now scuffed and dull from years of charlestoning feet. The floor-to-ceiling windows let in pale moonlight through their layers of grime. The thick, velvet curtains had rotted at the edges, the decay like a cloth-based cancer. White sheets covered the furniture. It was as though her possessions had likewise become ghosts out of sympathy. Velvet chairs leaned on termite-riddled wooden legs. A layer of dust and a century’s dry leaves – ushered in by the wind through the broken panes – carpeted the floor.

Bea sagged, staring at the place that had once held such life. Now, it was a ghost of its former self.

The kids unshouldered their backpacks. They unpacked decorations, LED lights, Bluetooth speakers, plates, cups, drinks, and snacks. Meanwhile, Iron Man approached the piano in the corner. He played a few broken notes, one key working, the rest offering eerie, discordant tones. The sounds hung in the air and reverberated throughout the manor. Frankenstein’s sexy monster turned on a speaker. ‘Mikey,’ she said, ‘that’s great and all, but how about some actual music?’

Bea brightened. Her time to shine! She had a top-of-the-range gramophone. She flew to it and entered its ancient mechanisms like a pulled-in breath slipping into the lungs.

Nick Lucas’s ‘Tiptoe Through the Tulips’ began to play with an odd, warped sound. The speed was off, too. At moments, it quickened before slowing down and making the voice monstrous. The teens all jumped, torches slicing through the gloom like searchlights. The sexy nurse dropped her jack-o’-lantern LEDs and swore.

Bea didn’t notice the panic and confusion. Instead, the LEDs captured her attention. Why did they bring these? She’d had those newfangled electric lights installed in this room the other year. What a travesty to have them and not use their wonders. She wafted out the gramophone and slipped into the walls, searching for the cables.

The lights exploded in a rain of sparks and broken glass. The kids ducked, hands over heads, and shrieked. The Mummy told someone called Donny that they’d kill them if this were a prank. But Donny insisted it wasn’t them.

Bea knew those sounds – thirsty guests who’d come to the best cocktail party in town. Her group was getting restless. She slipped into the secret bar area, the false wall creaking open and letting out a coffin’s cold gasp of air. Making the drinks was tricky because the glassware kept phasing through her hands. She managed it with minimal breakages. But, on the return journey, the silvery tray slipped through her fingers. Trying to catch it, she fumbled and launched the plate like a thrown discus at Indiana Jones’s head.

The boy ducked in time to avoid decapitation, squealing and closing his eyes. The glasses broke, adding the scent of martinis, Manhattans, and sidecars to the musky air. ‘Oh, to hell with this,’ said Nosferatu, ‘let’s get the hell outta here.’

Oh no, it was all going wrong. Bea hadn’t thrown a party this bad since her ‘War’s Almost Over’ party of Christmas 1914. She had to do something; she was losing them, and she was the host. ‘No, please, don’t go,’ she said, but her voice came out distorted, bouncing around the room with a mausoleum’s reverb.

The kids were scrambling, grabbing things and dashing for the exit.

Bea knew what she had to do. Her singing had always been a hit at parties. She materialised for them all to see and started singing along with the record. But instead of her angelic – if somewhat nasal – voice, out came a banshee’s wail.

Their eyes bulged from their sockets, the same way Bea’s did once she’d glimpsed Nurse Sexy’s cleavage. The screams rose in pitch, and the kids scattered – every man, woman, and zombie for themself. The footsteps echoed down the hall, and the doors slammed shut. The screams faded into the distance. A red solo cup rolled across the ballroom floor. And then: silence.

Bea groaned and collapsed onto a cloth-covered chaise longue. The white sheet fluttered about her. Her days of throwing parties were long behind her now – no point trying to relive past glories.

It was time to give up the ghost.