The tall figure stood motionless in the light of the window. Her hair flowed down her back drifting softly in the motionless wind of the ghost zone.

From childhood's hour I have not been

As others were; I have not seen

As others saw; I could not bring

My passions from a common spring.

Her voice was soft and strong deep in a melodious way that few woman could attain since the last great singers of Jazz.

From the same source I have not taken

My sorrow; I could not awaken

My heart to joy at the same tone;

And all I loved, I loved alone.

As she chanted the glass of the window twisted and churned like a caldron of half melted glass. The power in her voice was focused there changing the view to what suited her.

Then- in my childhood, in the dawn

Of a most stormy life- was drawn

From every depth of good and ill

The mystery which binds me still:

It was magic, something seldom used or see in the ghost zone in last thousand years having faded in the realm of the living, the dead had followed suit. Few creatures old enough to practice true magic resided in the ghost zone anymore and those that did were feared, often old twisted figure from a time long since past.

From the torrent, or the fountain,

From the red cliff of the mountain,

From the sun that round me rolled

In its autumn tint of gold,

She was no conjurer, no necromancer of old. She was more feared than any of them, her purpose long since set in stone. She was at best fate, at worse condemnation, the equalizer.

From the lightning in the sky

As it passed me flying by,

From the thunder and the storm,

And the cloud that took the form

But it had been a long time since she had been called on. Often she was little more than an echo in the dreams of the mystics and the stories of the dead.

(When the rest of Heaven was blue)

Of a demon in my view.

Her voice stopped, much weaker on the last few words as what she was seeking came into view. The widows light decreased until you could barely make out the figure of the woman staring into it. She swore