With the biography of Anastasia Darkrose done, I am moving on from the village of Hallowdale for a time. I'll be back before too long, though.

Tonight I present a more classic ghost story about a man trying to banish a tenacious spirit. Here's an excerpt:

The wind stirs the leaves at my feet, raising them in a slowly revolving cyclone of red and gold and brown. “How’s the wife?” they seem to sigh, but I know they don’t really. It’s just their frayed edges rubbing aginst each other as invisible fingers toss them through the crisp air.

Invisible fingers, like the ones that run through my hair each night when I try to sleep.

You can read the rest here.