They walked into the large lobby. There were velvet carpets, a huge staircase (which was inlaid with gold leaf) and pictures of famous Irishmen. A receptionist was sat half asleep at a desk opposite the door. They didn’t recognise her: they’d never been out this late before and simply hadn’t needed to see her. “You’re out late!” the receptionist said.
“Yeah, we kind of got lost on the way back,” said David.
“I’m not surprised you got lost in that fog. Horrible this time of year, it is. Seems to bring the strangeness out in people.”
“What do you mean?” Sarah asked.
“Ah, just an old ghost story people drag out about this time of year. I wouldn’t worry about it. Unless you saw a fisherman, o’course!” She stemmed a laugh.
Sarah looked at David, an expression of panic strewn across her face. She turned back to the receptionist. “What…what’s that about a fisherman?”
The receptionist was quiet for a second. “Oh, uh. Just an old wives tale.”
“Wait, what’s all this about a fisherman,” said David, apparently forgetting about Sarah’s cries from earlier.
Sarah lightly slapped David on the arm. “Please,” she said. “Tell us.”
“Well,” said the receptionist, with a big sigh, “the story goes like this…”
* * * * *
“Who are you?” said John.
“Who do you think I am?” said the man in the suit. He stood and turned to face John, and put whatever he was looking at in his pocket. It looked to John like a blue gem. “You must have an idea.”
“A demon, sir. That’s me best guess.”
“And not a bad one, John, not a bad one at all. And now you’re going to want to know what I’m doing here, correct?”
“As a matter o’ fact-”
“OK, John. Let me tell you a story…”
Shane Rynhart 