Owen opened the door to the Grim Reaper while holding a bowl of cheese puffs. The figure on his landing wore a black hood, carried a crooked cardboard scythe, and said nothing. Behind Owen, somebody dressed as a vampire shouted that the kitchen tap was making a noise. The Reaper extended one pale finger toward the bowl. Owen moved it out of reach. “Before we get into that, who invited you?”

It was his first Halloween party in the apartment, and he had already discovered that hosting required a different set of skills from attending. His pirate friend had broken a chair by sitting on it normally. His sister, Kit, had arrived as a detective and immediately begun investigating why he had bought six bags of ice but no bin liners. Now death was standing outside his flat, apparently hungry.

The hood tilted. “Your grandfather,” said a familiar voice, “would appreciate being allowed to come in.” Owen stared, then laughed so hard he had to put the cheese puffs on the floor. Grandad Arthur lifted the hood. He had drawn an impressive pair of hollow cheeks and was wearing the black gardening gloves Owen had given him last Christmas. “Your sister said it was Halloween,” he explained. “I did work that out for myself.”

Kit appeared behind Owen, looking thoroughly pleased. She had invited Arthur that morning. Owen had been meaning to ask him, but had kept wondering whether he would enjoy a room full of people he did not know. Arthur had spent the previous October caring for his wife, who was now happily spending the evening at her sister’s. Owen had pictured giving him a quiet chair and an early lift home. Arthur had apparently pictured becoming the most ominous man in the building.

“You could have warned me,” Owen told Kit. “And lose that face?” she said. Arthur lowered the hood again. “Which of you broke the chair?” The pirate raised his hand. “That wasn’t an invitation to demonstrate.” Arthur inspected the loose leg, told Owen to put the chair somewhere nobody could sit on it, and swept into the living room with the careful dignity of a man carrying a cardboard weapon through a narrow doorway.

For ten minutes, he spoke to nobody. He simply stood near the snacks. Whenever somebody reached for the last cheese puff, he turned his hood toward them. The vampire withdrew his hand twice before saying, “I’m an accountant. I have enough anxiety already.” Arthur leaned closer. “Then you’ll understand the significance of a final notice.” The room erupted. Owen watched his friends begin moving toward his grandfather instead of politely around him.

The evening found its rhythm after that. Arthur became the judge of the costume competition, mostly because nobody was prepared to argue with his qualifications. He awarded the pirate a special mention for structural damage. Kit received best detective for locating the unopened bin liners beneath the sink. The vampire won a category Arthur invented on the spot: most likely to make a spreadsheet about the afterlife.

When somebody put on a song Arthur recognized, Owen offered to hold the scythe. “You’ll need both hands.” “For what?” “Your dancing.” Arthur looked at the room, then at his grandson. “Will you be joining me?” Owen glanced toward his friends. He had planned an evening in which everything worked and everybody thought he knew what he was doing. That plan had failed before the first guest arrived. He put the cardboard scythe against the wall.

His grandfather’s dancing was not quiet. Neither was Owen’s, once he stopped trying to make it respectable. Kit caught them in a photograph halfway through a particularly ambitious turn. Arthur’s hood had slipped over one eye. Owen’s vampire friend was applauding with a paper plate under his arm. For once, Owen did not ask to see whether he looked all right. He was too busy trying to keep up.

Near the end of the evening, Arthur settled into the unbroken armchair while Owen brought him tea. “I nearly didn’t ask you,” Owen admitted. His grandfather took the mug. “I know. Your sister mentioned it.” Owen looked down. “I thought you might find it a bit much.” Arthur considered the ruined chair, the abandoned scythe, and the vampire carefully wrapping leftover cake. “It was a bit much,” he said. “That was the attraction.”

At the door, Owen asked whether he should put him on next year’s guest list. Arthur pulled the hood back up. From somewhere beneath it came a solemn reply. “I’ll check my appointments.” Then he held out one gloved hand for the remaining cheese puffs.

Who would steal the show at your Halloween party? Keep Zombie Lips close for everyday conditioning when October weather leaves lips dry. The last cheese puff is between you and the Reaper.

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