Raise a toast to a ghost. It’s what the old moniker said. He swirled the brandy in his glass before raising it high above his head.
“Tonight, we celebrate our accomplishments. We honor those who could not be here, we recognize our sacrifices, and we celebrate our victories. It hasn’t been an easy road, but it was the road we chose,” his words echoed out into the empty room. A dull banging could be heard coming from the door on the first floor–there wasn’t much time; they were on to him and they knew where he was.
“To you, to me, to all of us. May we find peace everlasting. May we parlay with our demons, and brunch with our ghosts,” he continued, then brought the glass to his lips and sucked in the honeyed drink.
It was sweet, and then bitter. It burned his throat going down, but filled him with courage and resolve. Somewhere, down below, the door broke open and he could hear them flooding in. It didn’t matter anymore. They were too late. The world blackened around him, he felt hands grasping at his arms and legs. The cold embrace of the ethereal raked at him from the bounds of his conscience. In his last coherent moment, he saw them racing towards him in the room, and he smiled a sickly grin. He had won. He was going back. He was going to stop them, to set everything right. Darkness overcame him, and reality faded.
Somewhere, a clock ticked. A child cried. An automobile backfired.
This would be his 712th attempt.