The Singing Well by Gregg G. Brown

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“When the Moon Melts”

The dwarf’s hideous face retreated from the basement window, an array of grimy grey whiskers and a radish nose.

“When the moon melts
And the Gods of Autumn roam
Evil and good are equally felt
And nothing certain is known,”

Chanted Mr. Plimsoul and the lady together. Wild shadows flickered around them, and they gestured toward the shut box, black and shiny as a beetle’s back. They seemed to be trying to compel the box to open or spontaneously erupt in flame…or something.

“Casket of Augersaal, I command you: open!” Mr. Plimsoul shouted, making a weird gesture at the box.

“By Neamiahas’ eye, by Qyudditch’s kin, I say: unfasten!” the lady hissed, her boa and her long arms gesturing in the flickering light of the braziers.

The casket hopped on the sawhorses once, as if a person inside were being tickled or kicked, and then was still. A thin jet of purple smoke sizzled from one end of the casket… and then stopped.

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