The papers lay in wait, unsigned.
The dress came alive when worn.
A drain clogged full of souls.
Sounding rail squeal; hell has arrived!
Falls through lake, exits through mirror.
“There must be another way – no?”
Don’t like that, stomach tells brain.
Honeymoons in Paris together – returns alone.
In old lore, necromancy is the craft of raising the dead. I don’t wander cemeteries in the dead of night, raising corpses from their graves, but you may call me a necromancer of modern times; death draws me in. It’s why I, like now, often find myself in, let’s say, dire straits?
Restaurant reopens after prank goes wrong.