When something tells you you’re going to die very soon, you listen.
But most important, is to know who you’re speaking to.
He’d given up looking for the misplaced shotgun yet another night, and instead resorted to spending his leisure time on a new hobby. Bradley pressed his palms into each side of the board—leaning in to let the stale air fill his lungs. He’d heard stories—listened to all the talk radio he could fathom—but never had the story gone like this. The candles had blown out in a draft which gave life to the planchette; it moved on it’s own over the scuffed letters wood-burned into the board.