The dead moan, clattering their chains and their bones as they prowl the streets. A single candle gleams in every window, a warning, a message, a barrier to keep the dead out. Mixed with juniper needles and honey, the wax burns bitter and sweet, repugnant to ghosts and other such spooks tonight.
But one ghost has no interest in following rules. Jumping onto the roof of an old slanted roof, the ghostly shape arches her back and rubs against the chimney, claiming her old spot, before sinking through the ceiling like a puff of smoke. She has smelled worse than a candle in her nine lives. She curls up by the fire as a hand runs through her insubstantial form. Her purr rumbles like bones.
Written: 31 Oct 2016