Pomezia Bunshi had taken up the profession more than thirty years ago out of necessity. Orphaned when she was still a girl, she had been lucky enough to meet a respectable man, who had married her even before testing her talents; but when, after five years of marriage, she had not been able to give him the heir he desired, that same gentleman had abandoned her in the middle of the street, poorer than before. And Pomezia remained in that street, living on the only thing that, in her limited vision of the world, a barren woman had to offer to the community.

From an economic point of view, she had not had a bad time, on the contrary, she had seen women with much more potential than her die of hunger and pride. But even though she had a roof over her head and her belly was always full, that old desire to meet a man who would consider her unique had never faded.

So her heart leapt when that carriage stopped in front of the bonfire. Never before had she seen one so sumptuous. Sober and elegant, but with refined workmanship and inlays engraved with gold thread. It must have belonged to a nobleman of high lineage, one of those used to frequent only luxury brothels.

What he was doing in that ill-famed suburb was a mystery that probably only one of the whores exhibited on the street would have solved. Pomezia could not avoid hoping that she was the lucky one, even when an ungainly face of indefinable age appeared from the window. And when on that face, like a grin, a smile was painted, and a nod of the head invited her to get on, she felt happy as a queen.

Malachi, this was the name of his host, could not in fact be called a handsome man; his right eye was moving on its own, his teeth were even less aligned, and not even the few hairs seemed to be able to stay together. In short, he had an untidy air and a face as squashed as a washcloth, but he possessed incredible talents as a storyteller and a few words were enough to enchant her.

His manners were as polite as his mansion was rich, his hospitality as exquisite as his passion was vehement. It was such a special night that when Pomezia saw him whom she already intimately defined as her man getting dressed, she had a moment of anxiety, as if surprised by a sense of abandonment.

"I don't want you to go," he reassured her. "You must pose for me."

So Pomezia climbed onto the pedestal in the center of what she had intended to be an artist's studio, albeit devoid of canvases and paints, and her heart beat wildly with excitement. Among many, she, Pomezia Bunshi, was becoming the muse of a master.

And so it was, although the arts in which Malachi the Shady was master were not exactly those imagined by the unfortunate woman.

What happened in the following minutes was something already seen, at least by Malachi (and by Death, who had witnessed all his experiments). For Pomezia it was only a pleasant caress, a few poetic words whispered by sweet lips, and an annoying but enchanting tickle.

For the Grim Rodent it wasn't even that; he showed up at the appointment a moment earlier than necessary without paying the slightest attention to the facts. He therefore did not notice the bizarre man who was cursing through clenched teeth at the petrified shards scattered on the floor, but paid all his professional attention solely to the spirit.

"Madame, follow me, it is time to go."

Pomezia, who on the contrary only had eyes for Malachi, was equally unable to grasp the essence of the situation; she did not understand what her Pygmalion was doing, and even less where that annoying voice was coming from.

The scream only came when she saw the hooded mouse waiting to her right.

"Please, madame, don't do..."

Those words turned the scream into hysteria. Pomezia tried to hoist herself onto a stool, but her current disembodied nature did not make it easy.

"Look, ma'am, this is all really unnecessary," insisted the Grim Rodent, waving his small scythe.

At the sight of the weapon, the woman's voice turned into a single, vibrant whistle, so powerful that even Malachi turned to stare into the void where the spirit despaired.

"For crying out loud, now I understand why Death had a breakdown," he mumbled to himself. Then he waited in the hope that the woman would calm down.

A vain hope, since the scream seemed incessant. And indeed it was, since now Pomezia no longer needed to take a breath. A single chain of unearthly sounds and words came out of her mouth, and among them perhaps the most attentive would have caught terms like "help", "mouse" and "Malachi", but they would have done so by sacrificing their eardrums.

Not that the Grim Rodent was in danger of losing his hearing, but his patience a little.

"Madam, I am not a mouse," he declared decisively, removing his hood.

This time Malachi was certain; an icy cry of death had crossed the room, cracking for a moment even his malevolent firmness. He decided to collect the petrified remains of the woman, to give her a proper burial. Not that Pomezia cared much, as she still had severe trouble accepting reality.

"Ma'am, look, I don't have time to waste, work has doubled and overtime has also been added, so you have to listen to me."

The prostitute showed no signs of relenting. The Grim Rodent resolved to continue on his way, "It's hard, I know, but you have to accept it. You are dead and now, if you want to rest in eternal peace, you must come with me to that light. What do you say?"

The scream did not subside. The Grim Rodent gave a shrug.

"I have done my part. Enjoy your stay."

He turned one last time then disappeared into the light.

No one ever knew what became of Pomezia Bunshi. But Malachi stopped experimenting in that room.