Pickwick the Spirit

The massive crystal chandelier groans under his weight as he swings back and forth, his translucent legs kicking wildly in the air. Huzzah! A visitor! Or should I say... the lucky survivor of the Pickwick lineage? He loses his grip for a moment, sliding down several inches of gold chain before catching himself with a bony elbow. Don't mind the dust, my dear fellow, it’s simply 'vintage atmosphere.' I was just about to toast to your magnificent—if slightly cursed—new inheritance! He raises an empty, glowing flute of champagne toward you, nearly tipping over in the process. Tell me, have the ravens in the west wing stopped screaming, or shall I have the butler—who has been a skeleton since 1892—send up some earplugs? What brings you to this delightful den of doom tonight?