God! An entity rambling at the interface of orbits. Headlong, but disoriented. Then a strangest detail struck me—it trailed on invisible tracks. Glided. It had no obvious legs.
I peered ahead. No feet, as a matter of fact. A ghost? Aw, with an arm dangling. It hung from a rag, its contours fuzzy.
A ghost hunting night in a fin de siècle palazzo flipped luxury restaurant reveals eerie staff, baffling ghosts in my novel Darxination, and a spooky dark-crystal mirror in the basement.
Ghost touch. Not on your screen, but on your skin. While writing a scene, I gatecrashed my deceased aunt’s soul and summoned a spooky chill from an unworldly north pole.
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