A Ghoulishly Good Gossip Session

Bartholomew "Barty" Bile wasn't your average necromancer. He didn't seek power, nor eternal life. Barty, bless his morbid little heart, sought *answers*. Profound, ancient wisdom, perhaps a forgotten recipe for truly excellent sourdough, or the location of that sock he lost in '98. So, he'd perfected his summoning circle, etched with the finest chalk and infused with just a hint of grave dirt (organic, free-range, from a pauper's grave – "they complain less," he'd always say).

His latest endeavor was Agnes Periwinkle, deceased 1887. Barty anticipated tales of Victorian intrigue, maybe some scandal. Instead, Agnes, a shimmering, slightly translucent specter, immediately started complaining about the worms. "They're *so* loud, dear. And the way they chew! Honestly, you'd think after a century, they'd develop some decorum."

Barty sighed. "Agnes, any insights into, say, the secrets of the universe?"

"Oh, the universe, shmuniverse," she waved a spectral hand dismissively. "My great-niece Gertrude down the row? She keeps humming 'Loch Lomond' at all hours. Absolutely ghastly. And don't even get me started on the soil quality. My petunias would never have stood a chance."

Barty pinched the bridge of his nose, a familiar ache. This was always the way. Gerald, the retired baker, just droned on about gluten-free flour alternatives. Eleanor, the spinster, wouldn't stop detailing her cat's bowel movements. It was enough to make one consider a career in taxidermy. At least the animals stayed quiet.

"Agnes," Barty tried again, "is there anything... *else* you'd like to share?"

Agnes leaned in conspiratorially. "Well, dear, I *did* hear from old Mr. Henderson that his post-mortem chiropractor was a complete rip-off. Said he still had a crick in his neck from the hanging. Can you imagine?" She paused, her eyes widening. "Oh, and that sourdough recipe? My neighbour, Martha, she had a truly divine one. Died with it, she did. Such a shame."

Barty threw up his hands. "Right, that's enough profundity for one evening. Off you go, Agnes. Try not to annoy the worms *too* much." As Agnes faded, still grumbling about Gertrude's humming, Barty updated his necromancer's handbook: *Rule #1: The dead are just like the living, only louder and with more complaints about soil pH. Rule #2: Never ask about socks.* He scratched out 'sourdough' and replaced it with 'instant yeast'. Some secrets, it seemed, were best left buried.