“It’s not merely enough to cry out to the dead,” said Seth. He tapped a long, bony finger to his temple. “Think about it. There’s naught but mush betwixt their ears; it’s the spirits that you’re truly calling out to. Maybe it’s the spirit that animated them in life; maybe it’s a malevolent thing of hatred looking for a cheery shamble and murder.”

Cherie looked at the tottering forms, leathery skin on some, liquefied putrefaction on others. “Speak not to them, but to what animates them…”

With a gasp, she saw what Seth was talking about as her focus improved and the veil cleared. She could see the spectral lights of spirits moving within the stumbling shells. Some looked like ordinary folks, while some were raging cacophonies of spirit energy, lightquakes hanging onto physical forms.

“How do you speak to something like that?” Cherie whispered.

“We’re called ghoulcriers for a reason,” replied Seth, sinking a bit to whisper in Cherie’s ear. “It’s not a civilized conversation, it’s a primal howl of command. They do what you ask because they’re terrified of what will happen if they don’t–even beyond death.”

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