To whom it may concern

It was obvious from Simon's expression that he'd somewhat missed his mark.

"It's nothing infernal," Simon hastened to explain. "It's just... you know how Boris Von Orloff got a job on that old radio we brought from the Secret Spot?"

Marshall nodded. While the self-proclaimed star of stage and screen had proved somewhat obnoxious during his impromptu visit to Eerie, it hadn't lessened Marshall's enjoyment of his movies nor, post-resurrection, his voice work.

Simon's gaze flicked to the Hellhound, currently asleep in a slightly-scorched basket made of packing crates.

"I think he's too young for ghost stories," he told Marshall.

Ongoing Verse: Microwave

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The old cathedral-style radio had come with them from the Secret Spot, to their first apartment where sirens sang on the floor above them and the ceiling was always wet, to the house where the bricked-up bones of the previous tenant could never rest until the landlord returned it's security deposit, and finally to the tiny kitchenette adjoining their tiny office suite.

Marshall twisted the dial, more out of habit than any real expectation that he could stop the stream of big band music that crackled from the speakers.

"Congratulations," said the announcer, in that strange half-strangled 1940s radio voice.


Ongoing Verse: Microwave

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The scaffolding ran across the windows like prison bars, and the summer sun shining through cast latticed shadows on the faded carpet.

The manticore lay across the top of the sofa, three-inch claws kneading muffins into cushions that were already torn and leaking. It eyed the griddled patches of dark with narrow yellow-iris'd eyes, and it's leonine face was set in a tooth-baring scowl.

Outside, a radio blared tinny renditions of Eerie-FM's version of a "top forty". Most of the songs were about corn or kitchenware, and all of them were about cults.

The manticore hissed, and prepared to strike.

Ongoing Verse: Microwave

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The harsh light of a single unshaded bulb illuminated the bare concrete floor, where chalk outlines in the shape of fallen bodies warped and flexed against the dull grey surface. The tape deck hissed and clattered, the static all but drowning out the signal to Radio WERD's Jazz Hour.

Andrea Fantucci glanced at her watch, hoping to hide the movement by simultaneously turning a page in the battered paperback she'd brought along for the evening. It didn't work.

"Seven minutes," said Marisea.

"To go?" asked Andrea, hopeful but not expectant.

"Since we started."

"Oh."

Andrea sighed. Her shadow, forty feet high and black as the void between worlds, sighed too.

"We could just leave the radio down here," she suggested. "No need to play compère at the Eerie Mob Massacre Warehouse and Speakeasy every Friday and Saturday."

"You know ghosts can't work a radio dial," said Marisea. "How well do you think they'd take music they couldn't choose or turn off blaring at them day and night?"

Andrea shrugged.

"Staff at the Eerie Mall seem to manage okay."

Marisea laughed.

"They're like, one can-I-speak-to-a-manager away from snapping and eating the eyeballs of every customer in the place," she said. "I'd like to think my spectral community outreach is at least a little better than dealing with the general public for eight hours at a time."

Andrea reached out to rest a hand on her girlfriend's knee.

"A million times better," she said. "More, even. One of those sideways-eight Foreverware symbols more."

She leaned over and pressed a kiss into Marisea's long dark hair.

Around them, the spirits danced on.


Ongoing Verse: Andrea/Marisea

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