Page 111 - Herzlia HS Magazine 2021

The Ungrateful Dead

There are wisps in the air along the dark forest path. In the faint
moonlight, you could be forgiven for seeing them as wisps of smoke,

or perhaps the will o’ kind, whichever you might choose to believe. A
dark figure moves along the path. A man, maybe five foot ten,
though it’s hard to say, in his black, hooded cloak. The sound of his

footsteps is not the silky stride of a magician, but of rugged boots
and the necromancer who wears them; forgive him for sacrificing

mystique for utility, as on this late autumn night, he is more
concerned about staying upright.

His destination, well, some might refer to it as a “hovel” or a “glorified

latrine shed,” but he would prefer you to think of it as something
more mysterious: perhaps his laboratory or his workshop. Within
the cracked and dirty exterior is a fairly cosy, albeit tiny, occultist’s

workshop. Books, shiny rocks, a fireplace that doesn’t seem to have
a corresponding chimney - he’s got it all.

First order of business: letters. He sits down at his small, rickety

table and thumbs through a sheaf of envelopes, deciding on a fairly
innocuous blue one and slitting it open with his decidedly

mysterious kitchen knife. “Blah, blah… mutter… mutter, aha, another
mourning widow… name of Tepesh… his name was Oliver… and she
sent me the lock of hair too. Perfect.”