Semi-detached Transylvanian
Someone asked if I dress up for Hallowe'en.
I must admit, I don't make the effort any more. There isn't really a need, you see, for no-one in the village will venture forth tonight.
Igor, ever the optimist, still makes some little effort: he's filed his tooth, polished his scalp, put a little fresh dubbin on his leg brace, and does it not seem that he wears his eye-patch and the cape over his hunch at a more jaunty angle than usual?
Of course, he's groomed Fifi and Trixie, his beloved Mastiff-cross-Great-Danes, and tonight they wear their special phosphorescent lip balm. The three of them have spent the last few evenings practising the old songs down in the crypt. I know these impromptu performances always make a deep impression on the people of the village. The dogs really seem to get into the spirit; it's almost like they know.
In a way, it's a shame so few come to visit any more. He goes to such trouble every year. He spends hours honing his billhook, a day or so down in the hazel coppice collecting and shaping the stakes, then another lugging the oil, kettles and firewood up to the ramparts to be sure a warm greeting will be ready should visitors come. I've offered to install pumps and hoists, but he seems to prefer the traditional ways. "It's my party," he lisps, "and I'll fry how I want to."
He doesn't have many pleasures. Why deny him these simple ones?
Who will come? As I said, there haven't been any children since Fifi and Trixie were weaned, and the other villagers seem to prefer to spend the evenings indoors these days. Oh, but I forget, there were some last year, dressed like little mendicant novices in their white hooded jackets. So sweet. It's the modern diet, apparently, but the dogs loved them, and their gifts of fresh eggs and soft toilet paper were very thoughtful.
Curiously, we received several thank-you letters from the villagers.
We sometimes get itinerant sales-people, offering once in a lifetime deals on electricity, cable television, mass-produced art work, or one religion or another. Igor and his pets always make them welcome, bid them stay for dinner, hang around afterwards.
What's this? Torchlight in the distance, and the soft chirping of mobile telephones. Someone's coming after all. Excuse me, I must tell Igor. He will be pleased.