Hell has a way of changing a person; I’m proof of that, because I’ve spent the last several years there—figuratively, of course—although I sometimes wonder if there really is any difference. Am I living proof? Well, that remains to be seen. I’m alive, yes, but I’m not sure I’m what you would call living.
My name is Rowan Gant, and I’m a Witch. Unfortunately, I’m not just your average, run-of-the-mill Witch. I’m afflicted with a horrible curse—I can hear the voices of the dead. Murder victims for the most part... The more heinous their deaths, the louder they scream inside my head, and that’s my E-ticket ride on the proverbial “lake of fire.” Trust me, skip it and go for the roller coaster.
The voices in my head are also why I used to have a love-hate relationship with the police. Most of them thought I was certifiable, and to be honest, I’m not so sure they were wrong. A few were more open-minded about my ability. Even so, love me or hate me, they all agreed on one thing—I cleared cases for them.
But, that was then... I’m retired now, and I’m putting all of that behind me. They say the candle that burns twice as bright burns half as long... If that’s true, I must have burned like a blowtorch, because I’ve got nothing left to give; not even a spark. I just want to go back to normal. I want to return to the days before the spirits of the dead started using me as a marionette in the world of the living.
So, like I said, I’m retired now, or that’s what I keep telling myself, anyway.
You see, there’s a little snag in my new life plans—apparently the dead won’t accept my resignation...