Ignoring the ghosts heckling him, he swung the fire axe into the door, plotting escape from the inferno.
“It won’t work Barry,” his great-grandfather tutted, the axe catching in the wood. His voice was faint over the roar of flames licking at his limbs, eager to devour him like it did his father, and his father’s father, and so on.
“Heaven ain’t so bad kiddo,” his father gently said. “There’s no use fighting fate, didn’t work for me.”
He ran for the window across the room. The way down made his stomach turn, but curses were curses.
“Maybe not for you.”
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