John William Waterhouse The Magic Circle

John William Waterhouse The Magic CircleJohn William Waterhouse PandoraJohn William Waterhouse Lamia
slid off the bed, spectral nightshirt flapping, and was suddenly pulled up short as though he'd reached the end of a chain. This was more or less the case; a thin line of blue light still tethered him to his late habitation.
The Death of my youngest son, that is. Well, if you can call a card every Hogswatchnight a son. See his wife? Got a smile like a wave on a slop bucket. And she ain't the worst of 'em. Relatives? You can keep 'em. I only stayed alive out of mischief.'
A couple of people were exploring under the bed. There was a humorous porcelain clang. The old man capered behind them, making gestures.
'Not a chance!' he chortled. 'Heh heh! It's in the cat basket! I left all the money to the Rats jumped up and down on the pillow, making urgent slashing movements with its scythe.'Oh, sorry,' said Susan, and sliced. The blue line snapped with a high‑pitched, crystalline twang.Around them, sometimes walking through them, were the mourners. Mourning seemed to have stopped, now the old man had died. The pinch‑faced man was feeling under the mattress.'Look at 'em,' said the old man nastily. 'Poor ole Grandad, sob, sob, sorely missed, we won't see his like again, where did the ole bugger leave his will? That's