Halloween dinner parties are usually pleasant affairs, as long as nobody brings a coffin into the dining room or mistakes the gravy for someone they once knew personally. This particular gathering, however, got off to a rocky start when Dracula arrived empty-handed.

Frankenstein, who had spent the afternoon preparing the house, greeting guests, and making sure the candles were properly arranged, was positively livid. He had expected at least a bottle of wine, a box of chocolates, or perhaps a nice severed head.

Instead, Dracula strolled in, flashed his fangs, and announced that he was delighted to be there.

Frankenstein muttered something about manners, stomped upstairs, and retreated to the marital bedroom, where he sat on the edge of the bed sulking like a thundercloud with bolts in its neck.

A little while later, his wife appeared at the doorway.

“Come downstairs, sweetie,” she said. “Dracula says he’s sorry he forgot.”

Frankenstein folded his arms. “Well, he should be!”

She smiled patiently. “Besides, dear, it’s really not your birthday.”

Frankenstein stared at her.

“Not my birthday?”

“No, darling. It’s Halloween.”

He considered this for a moment.

“Then why,” he asked, “did everybody sing Happy Birthday to me tonight?”

His wife sighed.

“Because, sweetheart, it’s your reassembly anniversary.”