Phantoms by Mike Dickson

It flits about, artlessly and defiantly, like a bird trapped in a cage or a bat lost in a cave.
Sometimes you see it. Sometimes you don't. You can usually hear it, but not always. Sometimes it just happens that way. The words are ill-formed and make little sense to anyone but the man seated at the head of the table.
We clasp hands together, hard and frightened. I am told this is base parlour trickery, but I know it is nothing of the sort. I can hear it. I can feel it. I can even smell it. He's here again and he flits among us once more, seeking the same thing that e are looking for.
The table starts to rise again. Even the man before us seems shocked by this development. And then the words are pronounced, and we know that this has been worthwhile all along. He walks among us again.

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