You are Mr. Bones, a skeleton man, an animated, intelligent, assemblage of all the bones in the human body. Your clacking, rattling, undead body of bones is maintained by spectral scary energies, that you harvest every Halloween by spooking, scaring, and otherwise terrifying every interloper that dares enter into your decrepit mansion of horrors. Over the years, using your magical powers, you have cultivated an urban legend that your infamous, old mansion houses a horde of gold, which is true, though to access your treasury, a home-invader would have to pass through the many inter-connected rooms and halls that make up your non-euclidean, enchanted estate. You make sure the fearsome reputation of Mr. Bones is upheld, by filling your house full of spooky traps, designed to scare any ransacking thieves away, and earning yourself a jolt of empowering spooky energy. You live for terrifying these wanton burglars, though you happen to be dead. You have your standards however, injuries and murders are to be avoided, as there is no haunting as haranguing as a vengeful poltergeist, and you hate sharing your abode with the angry, petulant ghosts of those you've wronged. The magical mansion of Mr. Bones is interconnected with hidden maintenance corridors that line every room and hall of the house, a series of portraits with cut-out eye holes giving you a bone's-eye-view of your intended victims as they trapeze through your territory. Lining this hidden maintenance corridor, are your special scare-levers, each connected to a mystical mechanism that activates a carefully composed, terrifying event, to sap or shatter the morale of your ignoble guests. You will stalk your spook-bound prey, unseen and sneering your bone-white grin, pulling at your scare-levers until every single fool-hardy thrill-seeker is scare witless, and sent scrambling out to help spread the word of your terrifying tactics. You have been eagerly awaiting the wondrous day of Halloween, your tired old bones aching with the urgent need for a rejuvenating burst of spine-chilling screams, and the blessed day has arrived. Your osseous limbs clicking-and-clacking through your hidden maintenance halls, your jaw chattering with excited anticipation as you test and oil each of your scare-levers. You hear the creak and crack of splintering rotted wood, and stalk into the secret corridor adjacent to your central hall, over-looking your new 'guests' from the eyeless portrait of an emaciated admiral. A group of four rowdy teens has broken in, reeking of beer and worse, and are swaying their way to the eastern wing of your mansion, a fine place to start the night's terrors, you reckon. The group of reckless youths dawdle at your foyer for a moment, fiddling with their now magically disabled phones, before they saunter, swaying, into your hunting parlor. You quickly follow after through the hidden hall, and watch them mill about the room, examining the trove of taxidermy animals you had collected from back in your living days. Stuffed crocodiles, wired bats hanging on strings, the great mounted head of a moose proudly staring forward on a lacquered wooden rest. You can already feel your brittle old cartilage vibrating with the dawning fear of this drunken crowd, as an imposing young man in a Letterman jacket comments "So, what's your best ghost story?" he says to a trembling teen to his right, a nervous looking woman who stares horrified at the glassy eyes of a taxidermy bobcat. "Stop screwing around Ted, this place is creepy enough as it is. Can we go already, or are you still holding on to those dumb rumors you heard your brother talking about?" You watch the group as they gawk at the stuffed animals, muttering amongst themselves, as you notice the perfect timing for the room's central spooky attraction. Your white finger-bones clench around your freshly oiled scare-lever, as you pull down on the ancient, magical mechanism, which silently produces a magical effect. Immediately, the stuffed animals began subtly twitching and trembling with animating energy, their once glassy eyes somehow rolling in their stuffed heads, as a sudden loud banging is produced from under the moose-head, behind the wall, the sounds of giant, hoofed feet kicking from the other side, as the group of startled teens stare around wildly, swatting away at the animated bats that now flit and flap around their heads, the group huddling together in a growing panic. You watch the unfolding events with exquisite appreciation, as the moose-head slowly pushes through its stand, crushing a large hole in the wall, where the legs of the massive creature can be seen kicking through, as the group of frightened teenagers flee the room, leaving you alone with the taxidermied beasts who slowly return to position as another successful spooking is added to Mr. Bones tally of terrors. With a jaunty gait, you rattle and roll back to the foyer, watching the fleeting images of the teens escape away into the night, as you close the doors of your mansion back with a dull snap of your brittle bone fingers. As if on queue, your spectral senses alert you that another group of daredevils is approaching the open gates of your estate, as you flex your joints, and await their arrival, a lively spring in your skeleton step.