The recently dead are always resentfully dead. The long dead never quit longing for more death.

  I should have learned those lessons a lot faster, but summoning the dead can get massively addictive. Especially, if you’re someone like me who can’t say no to ice cream.

  From the get go I knew it was dodgy to spy on shades, let alone pry open their portals and conjure their lost souls. None of which stopped me from calling up Great Caesar’s Ghost and his long-dead legions to try to save my friends and, in the process, make a supernatural mess of things

  Syl held me entirely to blame.

  TimTim said it wasn’t my fault. Entirely.

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  Qpid withheld comment.

  Hell tried to cut my throat. Though not entirely.

  And, honestly, I’m the least qualified to tell how this all went down because I’m far from linear. You need no further proof of my narrative failings than I’ve already spoiled the climactic surprise of summoning Julius Caesar and his army and spilled the beans about Hell carving the rangy scar on my neck that my parents will ever refer to as “my really bad day with a can opener.”

  Yup. I’m inept and unreliable as a narrator, and on the far side of bland as a person. Total milktoast. Absolute plain vanilla. Even worse: I think I’m clever.

  So, trust me, I won’t blame you if you shut me down now and go find something else to while away your day. In spite of all that I kinda like myself. I’m a contented bore at heart. Which is how I ended up at (I kid you not) Happy Camp in June and almost ended the world in July.