Thrash Sigil

They summoned a spirit. As a gag. At a party.

From the chip strewn, beer misted floor of the living room rose first a hand, clenched in defiance, and then, slowly, a shifting, vaporous shade of a man whose shorn head throbbed with veins of unearthly light. He wore an abused leather jacket and a wispy t-shirt advertising an entity called the Scum Truckers, whose logo appeared to be a demonic skull pouring rivers of toxic waste into his eyes and mouth holes and all that sat below.

They called him up, but could not put him down, this visitor from the Beyond. First, he found a flaw in the magic circle that was meant to contain him: potato chips were only half salt and potatoes lost all magical significance when fried. So he stepped through, struggled for a moment to turn spirit into flesh, but succeeded, and set about drinking the dregs of a thousand beers, smoking strange drugs with weird people, and demanding loud thrash metal to be blasting at all times. He claimed he knew a ritual dance and set about smashing into every one and thing within smashing distance.

Even fleshy spirits must eventually become drunk and asleep on the floor. The party ended and the erstwhile conjurers decided to simply burn down the house and hope for the best.

The Ghost that Grabbed Grandma

I felt its long, cold fingers scratching at the back of my ears and now I see it, green and phase shifting through the spectrums. Trying on faces. Elongating certain spirit fingers and knocking¬†with bulbous knuckles on the skull of dear old Esther as she shits her favorite chair¬†and evacuates her corpse. The phantasm takes the wisps of her and ties them in his hair. If she hadn’t forgotten her lungs and vocal cords in her body, she might have screamed. She had always been afraid of long, greasy hair.

I would help her if I could. Unfortunately, my soul has been trapped in a crystal since I was old enough to sign parchment with my own blood.