Agony only sets in once dessert is served and the arguments start. You know how it is – there’s the usual bickering about which Mortarch is best, and then uncle Fangheart begins screeching in an inhuman tongue, his breath reeking with foetid corpse meat. The Christmas songs record-scratch, the walls fall away, and… oh gods… 

The illusion is shattered! That’s not your favourite uncle in his favourite chair, that’s the Abhorrant Ghoul King with Crown of Delusion! Instead of a cosy Christmas scene, our reverie was in fact a heinous feast of raw flesh, and we’re actually all horrible ghouls deluded into a parody of familial festivities!