Episode 46 - All Monsters Welcome
The station began to change at exactly noon.
Not suddenly.
But deliberately.
Walls that hadn’t moved in months rotated to reveal long-covered bulletin boards. A disco ball lowered itself from the ceiling in Studio B, despite no one remembering installing one. The air took on a hint of caramel, woodsmoke, and just a little ozone.
Olivia stepped out of the breakroom and blinked.
The vending machine was glowing faintly.
It spat out a card.
In gold foil letters:
You are cordially invited to the 6th Annual OtherWorlds TV Halloween Celebration Costumes Required (interpret liberally) Midnight Toast Led by: Olivia (Don’t worry, the speech will find you.)
Olivia held the gold-foil invitation like it might hum if she listened hard enough.
Costumes required.
Of course.
She looked down at herself—tail flicking, ears twitching gently, fur just visible at the edge of her neckline.
She was always in costume now.
And yet, never more herself.
The station buzzed with pre-celebration energy. Not anxious. Not tense. Just alive.
Miss LaDonna supervised the snack table with all the solemn gravity of a high priestess setting out offerings.
Charles hung streamers in a pattern that bent visible light in specific directions depending on your mood.
Bernard was constructing what could only be described as a memory-based fog machine. It puffed nostalgia instead of mist.
And Olivia?
She placed a tiny “Do Not Knock” sign on the Vault door.
The Vault chuckled quietly, approving.
By dusk, the Hosts began to arrive.
One by one. And then in clusters. And then all at once.
Mistress Peace swept in first, dressed in deep velvet and shadow, her flaming red hair braided into a crown of thorns. She embraced Olivia gently, and whispered, “Thank you for keeping this place warm while we’re away.”
Victor Von Psychotron adjusted his red tie and offered Olivia a bouquet of paper skulls. “Monochrome isn't dead,” he grinned, “it just sleeps in static.”
Baron Morbid arrived in his wrinkled lab coat, trailing dry ice mist and behind him, as always, Jacque Straph—who was somehow juggling snacks, cackling, and telling people he was French.
Bobby Gammonster made his entrance with cape billowing, offering Olivia a signed headshot and a firm handshake. “You're the glue, kid. Never forget that.”
Then came the former Hosts.
Doctor Gool—green hair electric under the flickering lights—rushed in carrying a bubbling cauldron of neon-orange fondue. “No one’s allergic to experimental cheese, right?” he asked, eyes spinning.
Dario Eville appeared in a ripple of incense smoke, draped in bone-white linen with silver-edged charms that chimed with every breath. “It’s good to see this place still alive,” he told Olivia. “And you... more than alive.”
And then Oliver arrived.
Quietly.
No one saw him enter.
No one saw him move.
Just there, in the corner.
Unblinking.
That cracked baby doll mask.
Holding a party hat.
He nodded once at Olivia.
She nodded back.
That was enough.
Even Lurch arrived.
Wearing a tie.
Just a tie.
It was orange and wrinkled and had a tiny jack-o’-lantern on it.
No one commented.
Everyone respected it.
He handed Olivia a small bag of confetti.
Said only:
“Later.”
She nodded.
As the hour crept closer to midnight, the music softened. The lights shifted.
The Vault flickered. The walls held their breath. And a note appeared in Olivia’s pocket.
Folded. Familiar.
Written in her own hand:
“Say what you need. Say what they forgot. Say what makes them remember they belong.”
It was time for the toast.