The Empty Chair by Francesca Quarto

Fernella  Osborne was a stiff woman.  Wealth guaranteed her place in society, that is, the strata of society where she existed.  It was only by sheer happenstance that she had to deal with the likes of me.  I'm as far removed from the rarefied air breathed into her Patrician nose, as Moses was from being a true Egyptian!
It was my reputation among the local coppers working in this gritty town, that brought me in front of her cold, blue eyes.  Consulting successfully on many unusual cases, gave me a certain credibility when it came to dealing with the inexplainable, or in my words, the paranormal.  The case of Mrs. Osborne's missing husband, fell neatly into that box of mysteries, so they called me in.
Living in the Bowery District of  New York City, wandering its twisting, fetid streets after sundown, is part of my work.  I don't need much sleep and in my profession, that's just as well, since closing my eyes in the dark isn't a great idea, if you take my meaning. 
The particulars of the Osborne case were chasing around in my brain as I wandered toward the Flatbush Cemetery last night around eleven.  It was the closest one to the Osborne residence, so I figured that was the place I needed to visit.
 I started out, after a lengthy interview with Mrs. O, monitored by Captain Paddy O'Rourke, my buddy from the Fifth Precinct.  He didn't want me upsetting the lady I suppose, slipping in a few words like 'necromancer' or 'possessed' into my conversation.
It seems old man Osborne, described as a portly man in his late fifties, had been enjoying a late night brandy with his wife, sitting in front of a cozy fire in his study.  Mrs. 'O' must said she must have dosed off, with the effect of warmth of the fireplace and the exceptional brandy.
When she opened her eyes, her husband no longer sat across from her in their compatible silence.  The distraught lady described how she looked around, calling his name several times, before rising and approaching his vacant seat  That's when she spotted something extraordinary, in her spotless home.
She discovered piles of sooty-gray ash on the brocade cushion of the seat, on the foot-stool where his slippered feet rested, and around the floor, surrounding the empty chair.
I eyeballed these in silence, not wanting to give away my suspicions.  Ms. O. assured me, she'd have them swept up as soon as I left the premises.  The sight was "most disconcerting," she told me.
I left in a hurry, making my way to the one place I knew I'd find answers.
When I pulled open the heavy, wrought iron gate to the cemetery, I already had a theory of what had befallen the Steel Magnate.  Spontaneous Combustion!  I was only going through a few formalities, to confirm my conclusion.   I thought visiting the shadow-filled graveyard, was going to be a short visit, resulting in a quick resolution to the man's disappearance.
Even a sleeping city has its sounds.  But here, in the gloomy confines of Flatbush Cemetery. they were muted, like screams muffled by a soft pillow,
I walked toward the farthest vault in the sea of gravestones, towering angels and crosses.  I spotted a slender shaft of light painting the stairs leading up to the remote tomb.  
I was as silent as a hunting cat, climbing the wide, stone steps.  Even the leather of my shoes, didn't creak to announce my presence.  Pulling the wooden door wider, produced an unwelcome screech, but I wasn't overly concerned.  She already knew I was there.
"You left Mrs. Osborne in quite a state!  The coppers suspect kidnapping, but I guess it's more like a case of burn and snatch!"
The shade of Charles Osborne had been reclining peacefully on top of a stone sarcophagus when I entered.  His corpulent body was well-defined in the scant moonlight filtering into the tomb.  Uncrossing his hands from where they lay on his round mid-section, he sat up, smiling fiendishly.
"This one is mine, Ghost Hunter!  He burned hot and long for me and is proving a most comfortable fit for my continued possession.  He's no good to you, nor his portly wife.  Leave me now!"
"You know I can't do that Lucy, dear.  The fact that you keep snatching bodies is bad enough, but now you're causing fires to consume otherwise healthy people!"
I talked like a Dutch Uncle to the dead brothel Madame,  until she finally gave in, stepping out of the ghost body of Charles Osborne.  I was going to report back to Mrs. O that her husband died from the exposure to the fireplace flames, by his toxin-riddled body.  Sounded scientific enough and she'd be none- the-wiser.
My pal, O'Rourke, would suspect paranormal activity, but not ask any questions.  He really didn't want the kind of answers I had for him.
I was walking back through the graveyard when I felt a sudden stabbing pain in my back.  I reached around, my hand closing on a long, cold shaft, just below my left shoulder.  The stone Guardian Angel next to me, stood empty handed.
I heard Lucy say, "This just got easier, Ghost Hunter!"
I knew I was a dead man, but I couldn't let this succubus consume my spirit for her own use.  I'd been messing with her for years now, interfering with her schemes of seduction and possession.  Old man Osborne probably fell for her, when she came to him in her sultry body form.
I had to act fast if I was going to save myself from death and control by this beautiful demon.
Seconds from proving I'm mortal, I called out to old-man Osborne's spirit.  I figured he'd be hanging around the gravestones, looking for a place to rest.  He came to my rescue, smashing the stone lance to bits.  Grabbing the desirable female spirit by her slim neck, he dragged her back to the crypt where I'd found them.  I heard the heavy door slam shut, the bolt sliding into place from outside.
"Oh, you ain't gonna like this lady!  Locked for eternity with the old fat guy is not what you expected."
I left the dead to the dead and closed the gate to Flatbush Cemetery.  There was a new sound added to the night noise that my super tuned ears picked out.
  The sound of sobs and laughter.