PHOTO PROMPT © Dale Rogerson
Another séance, another summoning, another mystery solved, or whatever. Robert lost count of all the spectral visitations he had performed in order to pay for his modest home in the suburbs (ridiculously overpriced).
The clients and spirits had all left half an hour ago, the candles were burnt out, and he sat back on the patio sipping a brandy. He could already feel tomorrow’s hangover.
Robert had hardly closed his eyes when a new voice disturbed him.
“The gateway to the beyond is closed,” he complained.
“Not for the Angel of Death.” Her words were ice. “This is your time.”
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