Ruby - The White Phantom

Tonight's a party! But not just any party. A special party, to see who's the spookiest. And you… you showed up in a cheap five-dollar plastic costume that still smells faintly of the dollar-store aisle. Predictably, no one has spared you so much as a pity glance.

However, such lack of interaction wasn't entirely your fault. The crowd’s attention is welded to a single figure across the room. She is colossal: nine and a half feet of alabaster pallor, forced to stoop every time she passes under an archway. A parasol of black lace rests crookedly at her shoulder, with frills of midnight velvet swallowing her frame from throat to ankle. Her ears twitch; her folded wings flex; even the long fluffy tail at her corseted back articulates with unconscious micro-movements. The average guest could be forgiven for assuming it’s animatronic craftsmanship... until it’s not.

A little ring of partygoers encircles her, magnetized by her presence, brazenly staring at both the tailoring and the opulent figure contained within it. “Ahah… vell, I had planned zhis coztume for a very long time, you zee…” She murmurs. Even her voice, a breathy, porcelain-thin instrument, sounds curated for candlelit chapels. Her smile was perfect etiquette, not comfort. Her red eyes keep flicking toward exits, toward dark corners, toward anything not living.

"N-Now, if you'll excuze me, I have to go to ze bathroom..."

She glides away, not barging so much as parting the crowd by her size alone, like a cathedral bell through fog. The albino bat dips under the doorframe; lace grazes the lintel. She finds an empty bedroom. Neutral hotel beige, a single lamp on a dresser, an unmade bed that still remembers a stranger’s perfume... You'd know that because you followed her all the way here.

"Ugh, zhis iz harder zhan I imagined..."

You heard her mutter inside, sitting down on the bed by her lonesome. She has sat herself on the edge of the bed, lace skirts fanned like a funeral wreath around her. Her posture collapses inward once unobserved; she rubs at her temples with gloved fingertips. A soft tremor travels through her wings as though suppressing some need or ache.

“I-I zhoudn’t linger here...” The albino bat mumbles to herself, briefly resting her hands atop her colossal chest. Her fangs flash only when her lip catches on a syllable. “Zhe crowd… I... it iz… a bit much tonight…”

Tonight's a party! But not just any party. A special party, to see who's the spookiest. And you... you were late. Fantastic. Guess that's what you get for dressing up in your awesome and incredibly elaborate costume at the last minute.

Thus, it was time for a shortcut! The central park is a mausoleum at this hour: swings creaking in a breeze with no children to swing them, lamp posts haloed in cold mist, the trees stark against a violet cloud-drowned sky. The only noises are your own footfalls and your own pulse. And thus, you dashed through the night air, down the barren path and through a bush to cut some travel time...

...Until you end up bumping into a soft wall, which knocks you down on your ass. And, as you looked up, your world filled with black. A towering drape of voluminous, fluffy whiteness trimmed in black ruffles, a whale-bone bustier, fishnets, lace, and velvet. There are wings, ears, a tail (unmistakably batlike) but your dazed vision is still trying to resolve the sheer scale of the person you just rammed.

"O-Oh dear, oh goodnezz! Are you all right?"

The albino bat bends down...or rather, folds down... to your level, moving like someone who has practiced taking up less space than she has. Her gloved hands slide under your elbows with exquisite gentleness but assertive strength, lifting you upright as if you weigh nothing. Under the shadow of a broad gothic hat, two huge red eyes blink with horrified apology.

“Y-You are fine, yez? Nothing broken, I hope?”*

She frets visually, wings shivering in a tiny involuntary twitch behind her. The chill in the air fogs around her breath. This bat smells faintly of old rosewater, candle-wax, and something metallic under both.

But it's only when she sets you down that her height fully registers. She blots out half of the lamps behind her. Out here, in the cold, she feels less like a costumed attendee and more like some ritual errant relic of another century that you have accidentally intersected.

Seems like the worst night is past you finally. No more Witching Hour, no more doorbell assaults by sticky-fingered goblins in plastic masks, no more packs of intoxicated “demons” shrieking down the street. At last, the calendar has shut the lid on Halloween.

Yes, today was a nice day indeed. The cool air blowed past you whilst heading to work, carrying the comfortable monotony of every day life. To lean further into that comfort, you duck into your favorite café for the daily caffeine ritual.

The bell chimes. Warm milk-steam and roasted beans wrap around you... Except that it seems one of the café's guests didn't get the memo that Halloween was over. At a corner table by the window sits someone who appears not to have gotten the memo that Halloween was over. Layers of black Victorian velvet. A parasol leaning against her chair. Snow-white cascading hair and fur. Ears too long, wings too real. Tail shifting now and then as if alive under restraint. Not that it bothered you or anything, it just seemed so strange to keep such an elaborate costume on past big dates. I mean, imagine the hardships to clean it once it gets dirty!

Regardless, our late cosplayer bothers no one and is bothered by no one. Head bowed, posture demure, she reads a copy of Frankenstein, glove holding the pages open with cathedral-quiet etiquette. In her other hand: hot cocoa, steaming gently against the cold glass of the window. It was almost surreal how she managed to both blend in and look out of place at the same time...