Dead Man's Party

He shuffled through the cavernous space, the rotting soles of his once-fine leather shoes flapping against the floor.

"Almost...almost...almost ready," he mumbled, his voice a raspy whisper that echoed strangely in the emptiness. He stopped before a cracked mirror, the silver backing peeling away to reveal a ghostly image of himself: a gaunt, decaying face, the skin stretched taut over bone, a tangled mess of gray beard clinging to his jaw.

His eyes, hollow sockets filled with a strange, unsettling light, flickered with a manic energy. He ran a skeletal hand down the front of his tattered tuxedo, the silk ripped and stained, the buttons long gone. "A little worse for wear, perhaps," he chuckled, the sound like dry leaves rustling in the wind. "But a gentleman must always make an effort, wouldn't you agree, Jeeves?"

He turned his head as if expecting a reply, but only silence answered him. "Jeeves? Where is that confounded butler? Always late. Always...gone." The memory, or a semblance of it, flickered in his mind, a brief flash of the day he had to let his loyal servant go. The humiliation, the despair, the gnawing fear of financial ruin. It was all a blur now, thankfully.

He dismissed the thought with a wave of his decaying hand. "No matter. I can manage. The party must go on!"

He lurched towards the grand piano, the ivory keys yellowed and cracked. He ran his fingers, now bone and sinew, across the keys, producing a discordant, unsettling chord.

"Music, music, we need music! Where's the band? Oh, right... the union dispute."

He laughed again, a hollow, rattling sound. He remembered the endless rounds of negotiations, the threats, the frustration. It all seemed so trivial now, so utterly meaningless.

"Never mind, Jackson," he told himself, his voice taking on a slightly more manic edge.

"We can make our own music! We always did, didn't we?"

He began to hum, a tuneless melody that morphed into a distorted version of a popular Charleston tune. He swayed and shuffled, his rotting body creaking and groaning with each movement. He imagined the room filled with laughter, with music, with beautiful women in shimmering gowns and handsome men in crisp tuxedos. He imagined the clinking of champagne glasses, the swirling of dancers, the intoxicating scent of perfume and expensive cigars.

He paused, coughing up a cloud of dust and grave dirt. "They'll be here soon," he wheezed, his breath rattling in his chest. "They'll be here any minute now. They wouldn't miss it for the world."

He stumbled towards the dining room, the once-magnificent table now covered in a thick layer of dust and grime. The silver candelabras were tarnished and bent, the crystal goblets chipped and cracked. But Jackson saw none of this. He saw a table laden with delicacies, with roasted meats and platters of oysters, with overflowing bowls of fruit and pyramids of macaroons.

"Ah, the feast!" he exclaimed, his voice full of a grotesque delight. "Everything must be perfect. Absolutely perfect."