Is Anybody There? By Bogwitch
The medium shuddered, the beads of her elaborate jet choker clacking as she quivered.
“I am Zubaal,” said a deep, unearthly voice from the woman’s throat, echoing ominously around the parlour.
William watched, fascinated, as mist rose from her open mouth and formed a gnarled figure above the séance. Clawed hands, existent only in dreamy ectoplasm, slashed at the air as the creature snarled and strained to be free.
The ladies fainted.
In the carriage home, his mother gathered her wits together. “My dear William,” she said. “ I do believe I have never seen your father looking so well.”