respectable way, and taught to always do the proper, orthodox,
respectable thing; and the habit clings to me.

Of course, as a mere matter of information it is quite unnecessary
to mention the date at all. The experienced reader knows it was
Christmas Eve, without my telling him. It always is Christmas Eve,
in a ghost story,

Christmas Eve is the ghosts' great gala night. On Christmas Eve
they hold their annual fete. On Christmas Eve everybody in
Ghostland who IS anybody--or rather, speaking of ghosts, one should
say, I suppose, every nobody who IS any nobody--comes out to show
himself or herself, to see and to be seen, to promenade about and
display their winding-sheets and grave-clothes to each other, to
criticise one another's style, and sneer at one another's
complexion.

"Christmas Eve parade," as I expect they themselves term it, is a
function, doubtless, eagerly prepared for and looked forward to
throughout Ghostland, especially the swagger set, such as the
murdered Barons, the crime-stained Countesses, and the Earls who
came over with the Conqueror, and assassinated their relatives, and
died raving mad.

Hollow moans and fiendish grins are, one may be sure, energetically
practised up. Blood-curdling shrieks and marrow-freezing gestures
are probably rehearsed for weeks beforehand. Rusty chains and gory
daggers are over-hauled, and put into good working order; and
sheets and shrouds, laid carefully by from the previous year's
show, are taken down and shaken out, and mended, and aired.