My response to Sue Vincent’s Thursday photo prompt Glimpsed #writephoto. In the best tradition of Z-grade horror films I present you with a tale of recycling (one of my stories) premature burial and dark misdeeds. Take care dear reader (it may end up just being one of you) there will be distressing scenes that may offend. Do you want to proceed?

I can’t remember much after they banged the coffin lid shut. At least I think it was a coffin, it was made of metal with a rectangular slit in the lid. Stupid, ignorant fools. True to type these villagers, the mere whiff of anything supernatural they drag out their crosses and holy water. Not quite sure this isn’t a film set. Too late to do anything now. Strange how death heightens all your senses. Not the kind of comment you normally hear. Rather apt in my present predicament. Being trapped inside this body is an inconvenience. I’m not good in situations like this, couldn’t be bothered to listen to them and here I am. Transmigration is an art and I still have training wheels on. Being a private detective is a precarious existence. I was after adventure and when that job advert appeared in my inbox it was a sign from the gods that my destiny was calling. I’m what you’d call an individual with ‘special talents’. Able to project my consciousness at will, or anyone else. Sorry, couldn’t resist that joke. I can count stand-up comic as one of my failed career initiatives. When the audience start throwing knives and chairs at you it’s a good indicator that your delivery isn’t up to their high standards. My ancestors excelled in the art of the assassin and mage, unfortunately their skills mysteriously stopped short at an obscure branch of the family tree. Or so my grandparents told me. They were trying to prevent me from entering into a ‘noble profession’ and getting killed. Nice when people show they care. Do I sound bitter? They neglected to mention that we were also necromancers. Necromancers! How can you forget something like that?