By Charles Richard Laing
Artwork by Zakas

Uncle Angus glared at me with his one good eye and asked, "When are you going to kill me, boy?"

His wrinkled face flushed with anger when I didn't respond.

"I'm no fool," he sneered, spittle flying through the air. "I know you want me dead. It's the only way you'll ever get your greedy hands on my fortune. And it's always been about the money with you, hasn't it? It's the only reason you keep coming why you keep coming back, isn't it?"

Poor Uncle Angus. The years had been cruel to him. Senility had really set in. Otherwise, he would have remembered he lost his fortune in a series of bad investments back in the eighties.

He would also have remembered that I'd been dead for ten years.

The End