The spirits swirled around the counter as I pushed the bag of coins toward the keeper.
“For the skull and black candle,” I said with a sneer. “And a match too, you vandal. Chop, chop, do you hear!”
And he hurried and passed me those odd stolen wares, but fumbled the matches with a troubled stare. His shaking hands his eyes would not guide. Not once did he blink, but gazed big and wide. And I struck the matchhead and lit the flat wick which sat on the skull, a grim candlestick. Green flames quickly burned and strange shadows there turned, and the storekeeper’s heart by his fears torn apart, no leech could restart.
And I brought back my skull and my candle and airy friends, returned to my crypt where this story now ends, but one thing I did do ere that junkshop I flew, that thief I have blest to never know rest, and cursed him there stay until come judgement day. He can’t go to heaven but works twenty-four seven.
Tale Told 