“The Spell for the Dead only works on Halloween, when spirits are earthbound.” My friend Judith states sitting beside me, clutching a photo of her deceased dog, Bronx. This spell supposedly raised the dead and Judith insisted I help cast it.
“We’ll soon know,” I reply as we hold hands and chant the incantation.
A growl interrupts us as a disheveled Bronx enters the room.
“Bro—” I stammer as the dog lunges at my throat, all teeth and claws, knocking me over in a pool of blood.
Judith leans over me, a smirk on her face. “Looks like it works.”
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