Standing motionless by a heavy velvet curtain, Mae felt the familiar, chilling pressure of the presence beside her. The ghost did not speak with a voice. Instead, it communicated with a frigid, undeniable conviction that resonated in the hollow of Mae's thoughts.
Mae scanned an antique mirror to see Franklin on the famed Pelican Staircase, his head thrown back in a laugh of arrogant bliss.
It was ten minutes until midnight. The band prepared to swing into a frenzied, final number. Franklin made his way toward Mae, gesturing for an obligatory toast. Mae presented a slow, serene smile; a mask of confidence given by her silent mentor.
She would meet him. She would raise the glass. She would lead him in one last dance—Franklin’s fatal, phantom-guided finale.
https://spectralwitches.bandcamp.com/album/sleep-let-ghosts-do-the-talking