In a town where the monsters don’t always have claws, someone has to look out for the little guy. That’s where I come in.

They call me cunning man, conjurer, wizard, but mostly they call me Ozzy. If a witch is throwing curses your way, or there’s something scary scratching at your window in the night, I’ve got just the charm for you.

Mostly, though, I find things. Lost treasures, missing loved ones, doesn’t matter. If you want something found, I’m your guy. For a nominal fee, of course.

So when a grieving father hired me to track down a stolen family heirloom, I was happy to help. Trouble is, what started out as another garden-variety stolen property job just ended in attempted murder. Mine.

They made a mistake, though, when they put a bullet in my stomach and left me for the worms.

They didn’t bury me deep enough.