The rotten hand pushed up through the loamy soil to grasp only cool, damp air. Richmond’s progress up out of his grave was slow but relentless.
“Welcome, old Richmond, welcome back,” she cried, before returning to her incantations: too long a pause and the spell would break apart, scattering to the wind with the smoke from her torch. When they were done, he stood motionless before her in his fetid Sunday best. “Old Richmond, you know the way to your brother’s house, as it used to be yours. You know the way to your brother’s throat as well. Go then!”