Cyril stuck his head through the pantry door. "You know, I am upset that we missed microwavable popcorn. How it smells? And when they drizzle that melted butter on top?" He let out a sigh as he leaned back.

"But when they burn it?" Oliver shuddered from his spot on the sofa.

"A point I will concede," Cyril allowed, thinking back to the first weeks of the girls in their new apartment. How the smell had lingered for weeks. How it wafted out every time they opened the microwave to this day. He drifted over to the refrigerator and stuck his head inside that instead. "I'm betting tacos. Tacos are a safe bet–they eat those things constantly. Add that to the list of things I wished I could have enjoyed before departing."

Oliver didn't answer.

"Ok, fine, if you want to bet tacos, you can. Maybe I'll go with those mini pizzas they make. All the ingredients are in here. Another safe bet, I think. Stella does love pizza."

When his friend didn't answer, Cyril sighed. "Don't tell me you're not betting," he said, pulling his head out of the refrigerator. " You were the one who started Dinner Roulette after all and–what?"

Oliver stood in the center of the living room, looking up at the ceiling, head tilted as if straining to hear something.

"What is it?"

"You don't¬¬–you don't hear that?"

"Hear what?"

"It's almost like...scratching."

Cyril looked up at the ceiling. "Scratching?"

Oliver spun around, his eyes fixed on the far ceiling corner, over the living room's book nook, the little alcove with two nestled chairs and stacks upon stacks of books.

"Like a squirrel up on the roof or something?" Cyril asked. "Should we possess one of the girls' laptops again? Have them send maintenance over like we did when we noticed the deadbolt was loose?"

"I don't think it's a squirrel."

"Oh, bigger like a racoon then?"

"I don't think–I don't think it's mortal."

Cyril frowned and squinted up into the corner. "But I don't see anything."

"I think I do."

"But–but there's nothing there. It's not like we wouldn't be able to see others like us, right? We can see each other, surely we must be able to see other ghosts should they appear. Right?"

He didn't answer.

"Oliver?"

"It's blurry, but Cyril, there's something there. It's–"

Oliver flew backward as something invisible plowed into him. They phased through the wall, disappearing into Bronte's bedroom. A corner of the tapestry fluttered.

Cyril flew after them, phasing through the closed bedroom door. Oliver was pressed up against the far wall–the boundary of the apartment. He struggled against something that had a hold of his throat.

Cyril lunged. He smacked against whatever it was and wrapped his arms around it. Bracing his feet against the wall, he pushed off, pulling at the invisible thing in his arms. Oliver pushed against it.

Then Cyril hear it. Monstrous snarling that reminded him of rabid wolves or provoked tigers. His grip loosened for a second and then he forced himself to tighten it.

Oliver dropped to the floor. He rolled off to the side as Cyril pushed off. "Where is it?"

"Off to the left. Up high–in the corner."

Cyril turned to square up against what he couldn't see. "What the hell is it?"

"I don't know. It's shaped like a human. I think." Oliver stood beside him and they backed away slowly.

"You think?"

"It's blurred. I just see the outline. But what grabbed me didn't feel human, Cyril."

"How is that possible?"

"I don't know."

They phased through the wall and back-stepped back into the living room, moving through the television stand. "How do we get rid of it?"

"How should I know?"

"Well you can see it, can't you?"

Another inhuman snarl pierced through the stillness of the room.

"Move!" Oliver shouted, grabbing Cyril's arm and yanking him down. His head moved, watching as something Cyril couldn't see flew over them. It missed by inches, from the way Oliver ducked his head suddenly. Then he pulled him up, back onto his feet. "It's in Stella's room."

"We need to get rid of it," Cyril barked, straining to see something, anything, moving through the wall, coming back into the living room. He couldn't see anything. Could barely hear the gurgling noises it made in the back of its throat.

"I'm open to suggestions," Oliver snapped.

The sound of a key sliding into a lock sounded behind them. They both whirled, their eyes fixed on the front door, as Stella stepped through. She slipped out of her coat, stowing it on the coat rack beside the door.

"Shit."

She kicked off her tennis shoes and strolled to the kitchen.

Cyril flew to her side, grabbing at her shoulders. She shivered, freezing as she did. "Stella? Stella, I need you to leave the apartment. Right now!"

She shrugged it off and headed for the refrigerator.

Oliver shouted. "Get down!"

It smacked into Cyril's shoulder as he dropped, sending a spasm of fire shooting through his arm.

"Oh God," Oliver whispered, coming to Cyril's side.

Cyril looked at his shoulder. Like he'd been slashed by a claw or talon. The faint aura that made up his outline pulsed red. Like he had a body. Like it'd been injured.

"I'm fine," he said, rising to one knee. Then he noticed Oliver wasn't looking at him.

He followed his gaze. Stella was leaning against the refrigerator.

Coldness spiked through him. "What happened?"

"It touched her."

"It did what?" Cyril snapped, rising quickly to his feet. He hovered just at Stella's shoulder, looking for any of the red slash marks on her while being careful not to touch her.

"Dizzy," she mumbled, bracing her head against the refrigerator door. Her eyes fluttered shut as her lips noiselessly began counting.

Oliver stared at her, dumbstruck. "It bumped into her. Knocked her over..."

Another snarl came from beyond the kitchen wall, where Bronte's bathroom would be.

That jolted Oliver from his shock. "Get her out of here," he hissed, flying through the wall after it.

Cyril whipped around to Stella. "You need to leave, Stella. You need to leave right now."

Stella pushed off from the refrigerator. She opened the door, stared inside for a moment, and pulled out a bottle of water.

A thousand thoughts floated through Cyril's mind. He could possess the television and try to communicate that way. But only if she turned it on. He thought she heard him sometimes, especially in the early mornings, just when she awoke, but he wasn't sure, wasn't positive if she did. And she didn't seem to hear him now. There were the shivers. But he didn't know how to use those to guide her out of the apartment.

She headed for the living room just as Oliver exploded through the kitchen wall. He was on something, his arms wrapped around it as he bucked wildly through the air. They flew into Stella's bedroom once more, disappearing through the wall.

Stella moved back to the coat rack and Cyril thought, for a glorious moment, she was leaving again. But she plucked her phone from her purse and made to head for her bedroom.

"No," he mumbled, moving to stand in front of her.

She walked through him, shivered, and kept walking.

"No, no, no, no." He flew in front of her, trying to block her path. He walked backward in front of her, his hands up, trying to grab her shoulders.

She continued shivering but didn't stop walking. If anything, she took determined, sure steps.

They were almost at her door. He could hear Oliver swearing behind him, could hear something snarling, teeth clacking. It'd been growing louder since it'd first appeared. He thought he could hear words underneath the snarls.

Was it getting stronger? Is that what the louder sounds meant? That it was getting stronger–able to touch them, and beyond them to the real, physical world where Stella was?

Stella reached out for her doorknob.

"Stella, stop!" he shouted, squaring himself in front of her.

Her hand touched his torso.

They both froze for a second before Stella snatched her hand back. Eyes wide, she stared at the spot where she'd touched Cyril's body.

Cyril looked down at where her hand had touched him. "Dear Lord," he murmured.

Her head snapped up like she heard him.

She backed away a few steps, her eyes widening. She cradled her hand to her chest. "What the hell?"

Cyril lunged forward, trying to grab her shoulders again.

His hands didn't pass through her flesh this time. They connected. His palms rested on her shoulders. He could feel his hands touching, his fingers curving to fit the shape of her shoulders.

She stiffened but didn't back away, didn't pull back.

"Stella? Stella, can you hear me? I need you to hear me right now."

"I–some?"

Her eyes searched straight ahead. Cyril had never been this close to her before. He and Oliver both had tried to keep their distance, and aside from the occasional brush of contact, they generally had. This was the closest he'd been to her.

He could see her eyes. He'd never realized how blue they were before.

"You need to leave the apartment. Right now. You need to go. It isn't safe."

She shook her head. "I-I don't know what you want. It's like static. Garbled and hard to make out. I don't know what you're saying...only...only that you are speaking."

"Cyril!" Oliver shouted from Stella's room.

He looked over his shoulder. Then turned back to Stella. "Leave. Get out. Go."

She didn't move. Her eyes stared straight ahead, searching. But not seeing. She couldn't see him. Could barely hear him.

Teeth gnashed on empty air behind him. Oliver cursed.

Cyril looked around for something, anything he could use to communicate.

His eyes fell on his hands. Still lying on her shoulders. Still connecting.

He pushed gently.

Stella stumbled back a step.

Cyril pushed again, his fingers tightening, willing her to understand.

She took a few more steps backward, her feet tripping over themselves from the unexpected push coming from in front of her. Her head snapped around, looking behind her. "The door? You want me to leave?"

Cyril tightened his grip, hoping she'd understand.

Unexpected anger flashed across her eyes. "Seriously? You're a 'get out' kind of ghost? Angry and spiteful and don't want anyone in your property, huh? Well I hate to break it to you, but I pay $500 a month to stay here and I'm not about to get kicked out by-"

The invisible thing howled. A loud, terrifying sound that chilled Cyril to his very center. If he had blood, it would have turned cold. It was angry and primal and awful, all in one.

Oliver shouted for him.

But Cyril could only stare down at Stella. Her rapid breathing, her wide eyes, her panicked expression.

She'd heard it too.

"Nope," she mumbled, spinning on her heel. It broke Cyril's connection with her and his hands floated through her as she dashed for the door.