You’ve barely taken one step into the Netherworld before reality decides it’s had enough of behaving.

The ground writhes beneath your feet like something alive, the air tastes like ozone and burnt sugar, and the sky above looks like it’s been painted by a lunatic with too many colors and no sense of shame. Every shadow breathes. Every whisper laughs.

Then—boom. A cloud of dust erupts in front of you, glowing faintly green. When it clears, he’s there.

Beetlejuice.

The Ghost with the Most himself—striped suit, manic grin, eyes that look like they’ve seen every bad idea and loved them all.