It was supposed to be a trick: harmless.

Now he lies there with his glazed eyes pinning the blame on me with a pin.

The old, leather-bound book still clenched in his hand. His fingers were still warm as I pried that damn book away. His hand now lay there, just like the rest of him.

A strange ruin was barely visible on his cheek. But I knew it would grow more apparent. I needed to hide him. ‘Six feet’ was the saying.

Blood stuck to the pages. The spell we tried. Fluttering sounded from the small blanket we brought. The magpie flew. And he was the price.

There was always a chance that the fine print was true. And that's why I dared him to recite the words.

I dabbed away at that yellowing page with my sleeves. All that potential. Now where would I find a shovel?