After about three decades, the deceased began referring to me as the Inquisitor of the Dead. This title became popular. They still use it today, and when they speak it they are afraid.
When I (sort of) got used to my new existence, I took a flight to France. I went into the countryside where, long ago, I had been cursed by General Boris Ammit. The scenery had changed very little, and I easily located his grave. "The Inquisitor of the Dead," came his rumbling voice. "It is true: Being raised up is painful. Have you come to torment me, my old enemy?"
See Part 9 here.
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