Sunday Short: Murder at Midnight Massacre
- Faiz Faisal
- 5 hours ago
- 3 min read
Dracula’s annual Midnight Mixer was the social event of the undead season.
The blood-red carpet was rolled out across the cobbled floors of Castle D, where chandeliers of glowing eyeballs swung above a ballroom filled with fog, funk, and fright. Everyone who was anyone in the supernatural society was there.
The Mummy arrived fashionably late, leaving behind a trail of loose bandages and crypt dust. Frankenstein, ever the gentle giant, came with a lightning-powered speaker and was seen fist-bumping the Werewolf, who howled along to ABBA's Gimme! Gimme! (A Ghoul After Midnight). The Creature from the Black Lagoon tried champagne for the first time and promptly spat it into a potted plant.
Even the Invisible Man was there—nude, as always. No one minded, except the poor ghost who kept sitting on him.
Everything was going swimmingly… until the witch screamed.
“HE’S DEAD!”
The party froze. A single blood bag shattered on the floor.
Dracula, host of the century, Prince of Darkness, the original thirst trap, lay on the crimson carpet—fangs out, eyes glazed, and a wooden stake perfectly plunged through his undead heart.
From the shadows, a rasping cough echoed.
“Messieurs… dames…” came a low, grumbling voice.
The crowd parted.
Enter: Zombified Hercule Poirot. Half-decayed, still dapper, and eternally judgmental.
“I 'ave returned from ze dead… but not for a soirée,” he croaked, adjusting his rotting bow tie. “I am 'ere to solve… a murder!”
Cue thunder. Cue a dramatic organ crash. Cue the Mummy fainting (again).
Act I: The Suspects
Poirot took notes with a quill dipped in bat blood, questioning the grotesque glitterati.
The Mummy claimed he was in the sarcophagus-themed restroom trying to unwrap an ingrown toenail. “Who’d kill Drac? He’s my ancient roommate from Egyptian exchange school.”
Frankenstein was emotional. “I’d never hurt him! He helped me sign up for Tinder!”
The Werewolf looked suspiciously bloodstained. “It’s not his, it’s mine—I got excited during the dance battle!”
The Creature from the Black Lagoon was damp, dramatic, and swore he saw the Grim Reaper sneaking off with garlic breath.
The Invisible Man was the hardest to interrogate. Poirot mostly shouted into thin air.
And then there was Madame Hexelina, the witch who screamed first. “I found him like that, I swear! I was only here for the cursed sangria!”
Poirot narrowed his one remaining eye. “Mon dieu… each of you 'as motive… but only one 'as murder in their heart.”
Act II: The Clues
Poirot scoured the castle. A garlic-laced cocktail glass. A footprint that smelled like swamp. A mirror with “BITE ME” scrawled in lipstick. An RSVP guestbook with one suspicious name: Count Blah Blah—a lesser-known Dracula cousin who “always wanted the castle”.
Then Poirot made a chilling discovery: Dracula had recently updated his will. The entire estate, bat collection, and coffin-lounge empire? Left to whoever was last to leave the party.
“Zut alors,” he hissed. “Ze killer intends to outlast us all…”
The doors suddenly slammed shut. Lightning struck. The chandeliers flickered.
A whisper slithered through the ballroom.
“...One of you... will join him next…”
Act III: The Reveal
Poirot assembled the monsters in the grand hall.
“I know who did it,” he declared, slicking back his half-detached scalp. “But first… allow me ze drama.”
He recounted the clues—garlic, greed, footprints, misplaced fangs—and just as he was about to point the finger (or what was left of it)—
The lights went out.
A scream. A howl. A splat.
When the lights returned…
The Invisible Man lay visible and very dead. Wearing Dracula’s cloak.
Poirot stood still.
“…Merde.”
Epilogue:
Turns out, Dracula wasn’t dead after all. He faked his death to weed out the imposter who’d been impersonating him on social media and cashing in on his “immortal” brand.
The real victim? The Imposter Dracula, a shapeshifter who got caught in his own scam.
Poirot, annoyed and unraveling, groaned.
“I should 'ave stayed in ze grave.”
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