The Dinner Party

By Saturday evening, Arthur was running on black coffee and sheer panic. Barnaby had flatly refused to be exorcised. Arthur had tried commanding him, burning sage (which set off the ultra-sensitive smoke alarms), and simply ignoring him. Nothing worked. Barnaby merely spent the day floating near the ceiling, offering unsolicited commentary on Arthur’s posture.

The timing could not have been worse. At seven o'clock, Mr. Vance, the Senior Partner at Arthur’s firm, was arriving for dinner. It was a make-or-break evening. If Vance found Arthur to be a stable, grounded individual, the promotion to Senior Risk Analyst was his.

"You must remain invisible," Arthur hissed at the empty air as he plated the painstakingly measured portions of steamed salmon and quinoa. "Vance is a man who appreciates silence, predictability, and tax compliance. If he sees a glowing flapper—"

"I am a dandy, not a flapper, have some respect," Barnaby’s voice echoed from the refrigerator. "And relax, Artie. I know how to host a soirée. I'll be your invisible wingman!"

The doorbell rang. Arthur smoothed his tie, took a deep breath, and opened the door. Mr. Vance, a severe man with a face like a bulldog, stood in the hallway.

"Pendelton," Vance barked, stepping inside and eyeing the minimalist decor with approval. "Very stark. Very efficient. No distractions."

"Thank you, Sir. Please, take a seat at the dining table."

The first fifteen minutes went smoothly. They discussed actuarial tables and mortality rates. But as Arthur stood to clear the salad plates, the lighting in the apartment suddenly shifted. The harsh, bright overhead LEDs dimmed to a sultry, speakeasy purple.

Vance blinked. "Pendelton, what is wrong with your lights?"

"Smart home malfunction!" Arthur squeaked, glaring at the ceiling. "I'll submit a bug report."

Suddenly, a heavy, rhythmic bassline thumped through the apartment, followed by the blaring wail of an invisible saxophone. It was loud, chaotic, and aggressively jazzy.

"Good heavens!" Vance shouted over the music, clutching his napkin. "Where is that racket coming from?"

"The neighbors!" Arthur lied, sweating profusely. "Youths!"

Before Vance could complain further, the kitchen cabinets flew open. Two martini glasses floated out, pirouetting through the air. A cocktail shaker followed, shaking itself vigorously with the loud clatter of phantom ice, before pouring a perfectly mixed, glowing blue liquid into the floating glasses.

The glasses glided gently toward the table, settling right in front of an open-mouthed Mr. Vance.

"Bottoms up, old bean!" Barnaby’s disembodied voice boomed cheerfully through the room.

Vance stared at the glowing blue liquid, then looked at Arthur, his face draining of all color. "Pendelton," he whispered, his voice trembling. "Your apartment is compromised."

"It's just... a new automated serving system?" Arthur offered weakly.

To make matters worse, the heavy, gray minimalist sofa suddenly slid across the living room floor by itself, attempting to arrange itself into a cozy, conversational semi-circle.

Mr. Vance didn't wait to see more. He shot out of his chair, bolted for the front door, and scrambled down the hallway, leaving his briefcase behind.