I no longer live in the gothic mansion; my new house is adorable and charming 364 days a year-- but for one night it will become
The Charming English Cottage of Death.

The possibility that the basement was once an abbatoir will become more concrete.

The back lawn, which normally invites croquet, tea, and cucumber sandwiches, will seem more appropriate for mystical divination. Tarot and the Magic Eight Ball will provide much needed distraction from the sounds emanating from the basement.

And of course... there is the shreiking of the organ. It may or may not make the basement seem less frightening.

Have I mentioned that there's a basement?

Those of you who have noticed that I'm generally smellier and more rumpled since moving into my lovely little house will note that the laundry facilities are in the basement.

I need to have people around me, to protect me from.. uh, I mean, because we'll all have such a great time (as we always do at my Halloween parties). Fear of the basement has nothing to do with why I am having this party.