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cottage on his new master’s estate, warming himself before a great fire. In the main house, his generous lord had retired early and Grelf had his night free to do as he wished. And so, as was his habit, he sipped his brandy, dreaming of the many servant maids he would one day have, as he drifted off to sleep before the fire.
    What was that ? His eyes fluttered open. Again he had heard it. The clip-clop of something—someone—approaching. Was it his lordship? Unlikely. A log then collapsed into ash, and seeing that the fire needed tending, Grelf came down off his chair and knelt before the stone hearth. A chill swept through the room. He laid a birch log on the fire, stirring it ablaze once again, waving the woodsmoke from his eyes. He rose to return to his chair, shocked to find he had a visitor in his chamber.
    Draped in shadow, a tall silhouetted figure, black as night itself, stood across the room just inside the doorway.
    â€œW-who are you?” Grelf squeaked, backing away to the far side of the room. “What do you want?”
    The figure gave an icy chuckle. “Not exactly the welcome I was expecting.”
    â€œIf it’s food you want, go on and take it. There’s a stew on the fire and—and flatbread in the food box.”
    â€œFood?” came the voice from the shadows. “I’ve come for something far more nourishing than food.”
    â€œIt’s silver you’re after, is it? Well, I’m afraid my coffers are bare. But if you take it up with my master—”
    â€œBah!” flared the ghostly figure. “I care nothing for foodstuffs or silver! I’ve come for you, Grelf. I’m here to renew our friendship.”
    At the sound of his own name spoken by the stranger, Grelf felt his vitals shrivel. Something about the voice. The figure stepped forward and the firelight caught the features of the visitor’s face. Grelf was for a moment without breath. He tried to speak but found himself lacking a voice as well; all he could issue were pitiful little choking sounds.
    â€œAh. It is you,” the figure said.
    Impossible! Grelf could scarce believe his eyes. Before him stood the very image of his old master, Thidrek the Terrifying. The same haughty voice, the same chilling smile. Every bit alive, or so it seemed. But how could it be? Grelf had seen his master sucked into the heavens in a god-sent windstorm. Surely he had to have died. Grelf rubbed his eyes, believing this a dream. Yes, of course, he must have drifted off while warming himself by the fire. That had to be it. But when again he opened his eyes, the figure was still there, leering from beneath his oilskin cloak.
    â€œCome into the light and let me look at you, Grelf.”
    â€œG-Grelf? Who is Grelf? I—I am Gudrid the-the-the Servile—”
    â€œCome, Grelf! I know it is you!” the voice commanded, and the apparition slid back its hood.
    Grelf stepped forward, trying not to show how badly he was shaken. Drawing nearer, he saw Thidrek’s face fully illuminated in the firelight—and oh, what a sickening sight he was. Gaunt and emaciated, his face was half eaten by rot. A maggot wiggled out of a hideous gash on his cheek. Part of his upper lip had been torn away, revealing blackened and decayed teeth.
    â€œLord Thidrek . . . is it really you?”
    â€œOf course it’s me, man! Are you not glad to see me?”
    â€œOf course I am, my lord, I’m just—well, you surprised me.”
    â€œI see you’ve put on some weight since I last saw you.”
    â€œM-m-my lord,” said Grelf, his voice quavering in fear. “You’re l-l-looking a bit—how shall I put this—under the weather?”
    â€œI should say so, Grelf. I’ve caught a nasty dose of being undead.”
    â€œUn . . . dead, sir?” said Grelf, not altogether grasping his meaning.
    â€œYes, Grelf, un dead ! Need I explain everything?”
    â€œWell,