The Ghost Census
Every hundred years, the dead cast their votes. And the living wait to see if they still deserve tomorrow.
The letter announcing the Ghost Census arrived on a Tuesday, which was fitting since Tuesdays had always been death-defying days for Kye anyway, and this particular Tuesday found them elbow-deep in grave dirt, trying to coax old Espeza Vahn into telling them where she’d hidden her wedding ring before the cancer took her voice for good. The envelope was cream-colored, heavy stock, with Kye’s name written in silver ink that seemed to shift and shimmer when they weren’t looking directly at it, and when they tore it open with dirt-caked fingernails, the words inside made their stomach drop like they’d swallowed a stone.
Necromancer Kye. By order of the Council Between, you have been selected to serve as Census-taker for the Centennial Threshold. Yes, you. A mere mortal. Congratulations. Report to the Borderland Purgatory at sunset, October 31st. Bring nothing but yourself.
