“I need him back, please! I have to have him back! I have to! I’m begging you, I’ll do anything, pay anything, please!” the woman’s tone was beginning to border on hysteria, rising in pitch and volume with every tearful exhortation. I rubbed my temples, desperately trying to stave off the migraine that was knocking insistently at the sides of my skull. Beelzebub, I just wanted silence and my bed. I sighed, resigning myself to one more resurrection before I could turn in for the evening.
Raising the woman’s very recently-deceased husband for a last goodbye shouldn’t be too terribly taxing. It wasn’t as if she was requesting afternoon tea with Jane Austen, or worse, an evening of romance with Casanova. The longer the deceased had been off this mortal coil, the more complex and demanding the raising, and the more it took out of me. The freshly dead were the simplest to call back from behind the veil, but even those simple spells left me jelly-limbed and exhausted.
“Fine. Fine!” I interrupted her latest strident plea with a wave of my hand. “I’ll raise your beloved husband…” I glanced down at the application on my desk, filled with the woman’s spidery scrawl. “Your beloved Harold. I see that he suffered a heart attack last night. I’m very sorry, that must have been difficult for you.” I tried to sound sympathetic, but I’m afraid my irritation broke through, and the woman looked at me sharply for a moment. What was her name? Ah, yes. Grace. Grace Hudson, newly-minted widow of the late Harold.
“I gather you have read through the contract, and are familiar with the process, Mrs. Hudson?” She nodded eagerly, peering at me intently through her old-fashioned spectacles. Hades, but she looked a shrew. All bony angles and buttoned-up propriety. I wondered for a moment whether Harold mightn’t be a bit displeased to have his newly-found freedom so rudely I interrupted. I suppressed a snort and pushed the contract across my desk to Mrs. Hudson. “Sign here, initial here, here, and here, please. Payment can be made with my secretary, Jim, in the front office. Once that is complete, Jim will show you to the resurrection room. I will see you there.” I watched as Mrs. Hudson nodded curtly, and stepped through the door into the front office.
I indulged in one final massage of my now-throbbing temples, and then made my way to the darkened resurrection room. I lit the candles and incense, and checked the pentagram chalked onto the floor. The lines were still solid, the runes still legible. At least I wouldn’t have to redo the markings, that would save some time. I pulled my hooded red velvet robe over my shoulders, checked the pockets for the two silver dollars, and sat down in the center of the pentagram to await the not-so-merry widow.
Soon the gloom was broken by Jim ushering Mrs. Hudson through the door. I directed her to sit opposite me on the floor, and warned her not to put so much as a pinky outside of the chalk lines until the ritual was concluded. She nodded eagerly, and I noticed a flush in her cheeks, illuminated by the glow of the many candles. “Close your eyes,” I instructed, and she obeyed, licking her thin lips in a way that brought to mind a lizard snapping a fly out of the air. I repressed a shudder at the thought, and began the ritual.
I won’t bore you with the minutiae of resurrection, it’s all common enough knowledge these days. Suffice to say, after a seemingly interminable stretch of time, the faint odor of sulfur bloomed in the close air of the room, and an outline began to take shape. At first insubstantial, the form solidified as I kept my chant steady and unwavering.
“Open your eyes, Mrs. Hudson,” I whispered at last. There he was, as solid and corporeal as myself or the widow. Mr. Hudson. I steeled myself for the sappy protestations of love that were soon to come, I was sure. It was always the same. They would fawn over each other, each tearfully proclaiming their inability to exist without the other, blah blah blah. Instead I was met with silence. I focused on Mr. Hudson, on his face. He didn’t look happy, or sorrowful, or even surprised. He looked, if anything, a cross between angry and fearful. I swiftly turned to Mrs. Hudson. She was staring, almost hungrily, at her late husband. A cold smile barely tugged at the corners of her thin mouth.
“Hello, dear”, she hissed. “Miss me yet? I’m so sorry I couldn’t be there when you died the first time. I simply wasn’t invited, you see!” She laughed, too loudly. “You just didn’t want your faithful wife to witness your pleasure-fueled coronary, did you? How ridiculous. A 59 year-old man cavorting with a hooker a third of his age. Only you would manage to end your life on such a pathetic note. God, I was so glad to be rid of you. But you see, I really felt it was my wifely duty to be there to see you to the other side! So here we are. And there you go!”
Two loud popping sounds ripped through the stillness of the room. I looked down at Mrs. Hudson’s hands in horror, just in time to see her slipping a revolver into her prim little handbag. Almost simultaneously, a thud! echoed against the walls as the body of Mr. Hudson slammed into the floorboards.
“What have you done!” I yelled, panic swiftly setting in. Black smoke had started to swirl through the room, and the faint smell of sulfur had begun to steadily intensify into a putrid odor. “You have no idea what you’ve just done, you stupid, stupid woman!” I scrambled to my feet. The coins jingled mockingly in my pocket. I hadn’t paid. I hadn’t had the chance. I hadn’t paid. I hadn’t paid him.
Mrs. Hudson’s bravado began to falter as she beheld the intensity of my fear. She spun around and grabbed the handle of the exit door, turning in in a futile attempt to leave the room.
“It’s too late, you harpy! Too late!” I collapsed in a heap on the floor, gripping the silver dollars in my sweaty fist like a drowning man holding the last life preserver. He was coming. The best I could hope for was to grovel, offer belated payment, and hopefully sweeten the deal with a sacrifice - albeit a dried-up and rather unappealing one. One thing was certain: if I managed to get out of this, I was going back into dragon-wrangling. This necro stuff was far too exhausting.
thewrytruth t1_j5nnq7t wrote
Reply to [WP] As a necromancer, you are in the business of reanimating the dead for a few days at a time. Families say goodbye, businesses get cooperate secrets, scientists test their drugs, etc. The more they pay, the better they are restored and the longer they stay, as it does take a lot out of you. by chacham2
“I need him back, please! I have to have him back! I have to! I’m begging you, I’ll do anything, pay anything, please!” the woman’s tone was beginning to border on hysteria, rising in pitch and volume with every tearful exhortation. I rubbed my temples, desperately trying to stave off the migraine that was knocking insistently at the sides of my skull. Beelzebub, I just wanted silence and my bed. I sighed, resigning myself to one more resurrection before I could turn in for the evening.
Raising the woman’s very recently-deceased husband for a last goodbye shouldn’t be too terribly taxing. It wasn’t as if she was requesting afternoon tea with Jane Austen, or worse, an evening of romance with Casanova. The longer the deceased had been off this mortal coil, the more complex and demanding the raising, and the more it took out of me. The freshly dead were the simplest to call back from behind the veil, but even those simple spells left me jelly-limbed and exhausted.
“Fine. Fine!” I interrupted her latest strident plea with a wave of my hand. “I’ll raise your beloved husband…” I glanced down at the application on my desk, filled with the woman’s spidery scrawl. “Your beloved Harold. I see that he suffered a heart attack last night. I’m very sorry, that must have been difficult for you.” I tried to sound sympathetic, but I’m afraid my irritation broke through, and the woman looked at me sharply for a moment. What was her name? Ah, yes. Grace. Grace Hudson, newly-minted widow of the late Harold.
“I gather you have read through the contract, and are familiar with the process, Mrs. Hudson?” She nodded eagerly, peering at me intently through her old-fashioned spectacles. Hades, but she looked a shrew. All bony angles and buttoned-up propriety. I wondered for a moment whether Harold mightn’t be a bit displeased to have his newly-found freedom so rudely I interrupted. I suppressed a snort and pushed the contract across my desk to Mrs. Hudson. “Sign here, initial here, here, and here, please. Payment can be made with my secretary, Jim, in the front office. Once that is complete, Jim will show you to the resurrection room. I will see you there.” I watched as Mrs. Hudson nodded curtly, and stepped through the door into the front office.
I indulged in one final massage of my now-throbbing temples, and then made my way to the darkened resurrection room. I lit the candles and incense, and checked the pentagram chalked onto the floor. The lines were still solid, the runes still legible. At least I wouldn’t have to redo the markings, that would save some time. I pulled my hooded red velvet robe over my shoulders, checked the pockets for the two silver dollars, and sat down in the center of the pentagram to await the not-so-merry widow.
Soon the gloom was broken by Jim ushering Mrs. Hudson through the door. I directed her to sit opposite me on the floor, and warned her not to put so much as a pinky outside of the chalk lines until the ritual was concluded. She nodded eagerly, and I noticed a flush in her cheeks, illuminated by the glow of the many candles. “Close your eyes,” I instructed, and she obeyed, licking her thin lips in a way that brought to mind a lizard snapping a fly out of the air. I repressed a shudder at the thought, and began the ritual.
I won’t bore you with the minutiae of resurrection, it’s all common enough knowledge these days. Suffice to say, after a seemingly interminable stretch of time, the faint odor of sulfur bloomed in the close air of the room, and an outline began to take shape. At first insubstantial, the form solidified as I kept my chant steady and unwavering.
“Open your eyes, Mrs. Hudson,” I whispered at last. There he was, as solid and corporeal as myself or the widow. Mr. Hudson. I steeled myself for the sappy protestations of love that were soon to come, I was sure. It was always the same. They would fawn over each other, each tearfully proclaiming their inability to exist without the other, blah blah blah. Instead I was met with silence. I focused on Mr. Hudson, on his face. He didn’t look happy, or sorrowful, or even surprised. He looked, if anything, a cross between angry and fearful. I swiftly turned to Mrs. Hudson. She was staring, almost hungrily, at her late husband. A cold smile barely tugged at the corners of her thin mouth.
“Hello, dear”, she hissed. “Miss me yet? I’m so sorry I couldn’t be there when you died the first time. I simply wasn’t invited, you see!” She laughed, too loudly. “You just didn’t want your faithful wife to witness your pleasure-fueled coronary, did you? How ridiculous. A 59 year-old man cavorting with a hooker a third of his age. Only you would manage to end your life on such a pathetic note. God, I was so glad to be rid of you. But you see, I really felt it was my wifely duty to be there to see you to the other side! So here we are. And there you go!”
Two loud popping sounds ripped through the stillness of the room. I looked down at Mrs. Hudson’s hands in horror, just in time to see her slipping a revolver into her prim little handbag. Almost simultaneously, a thud! echoed against the walls as the body of Mr. Hudson slammed into the floorboards.
“What have you done!” I yelled, panic swiftly setting in. Black smoke had started to swirl through the room, and the faint smell of sulfur had begun to steadily intensify into a putrid odor. “You have no idea what you’ve just done, you stupid, stupid woman!” I scrambled to my feet. The coins jingled mockingly in my pocket. I hadn’t paid. I hadn’t had the chance. I hadn’t paid. I hadn’t paid him.
Mrs. Hudson’s bravado began to falter as she beheld the intensity of my fear. She spun around and grabbed the handle of the exit door, turning in in a futile attempt to leave the room.
“It’s too late, you harpy! Too late!” I collapsed in a heap on the floor, gripping the silver dollars in my sweaty fist like a drowning man holding the last life preserver. He was coming. The best I could hope for was to grovel, offer belated payment, and hopefully sweeten the deal with a sacrifice - albeit a dried-up and rather unappealing one. One thing was certain: if I managed to get out of this, I was going back into dragon-wrangling. This necro stuff was far too exhausting.