Oliver was still staring at his hand, long after the girls had left. "She touched me."

"Yes, she did."

He looked up at Cyril. "And Stella touched you?"

"Yep."

His eyes fell back to his hand, staring as though he'd never seen it before. "She touched me."

Cyril plopped down on the couch beside Oliver. "Yes, and as fascinating as that is, I believe it should be moved to Topic B of tonight's discussion. Topic A, I'm sure you'll agree, should be the thing that breezed through here. The thing that knocked over Stella. That slashed up my shoulder. Made me feel pain. Actual, physical pain. Like I had a body."

Oliver pulled his eyes away from his hand. "Yes, yes, you're absolutely right. It was—I've never seen anything like it before."

"What was it?"

He paused. "It—it was..." his voice trailed off as he searched for the words. Finally, with a frustrated sigh, he ran a hand through his hair and leaned his head back against the top of the couch. "Horrifying."

Cyril shrugged and then winced at the pain of the movement. As a ghost, he'd grown accustomed to not having a body. Not feeling cold or heat, the pressure of something underfoot, or the softness of things he'd taken for granted. He'd become used to feeling nothing.

Yet now that his form ached, old memories were flooding back. Disinfect the wound. Patch it up. Keep it clean, keep it dry.

He wasn't sure anymore if that was knowledge he'd had when he died, or tips he'd picked up moving through the advancing world unseen. They'd tried to patch up his wound, but the cloth had floated right through his shoulder. They could pick things up with concentration, but that was it. It was like applying lotion. Instead of it rubbing on their skin, it just smeared, not being absorbed, for as long as they concentrated. Breaking that concentration had the lotion smacking to the floor through their bodies.

Cyril settled into the couch, favoring his hurt side. "Can you describe what it looked like?"

"It might have been human once," Oliver whispered with a shudder. "But it was longer. Like it'd been stretched out on some medieval torture bed. Its knuckles dragged along the floor. And it was easily eight feet tall—maybe more. Everything was sharpened to a point. It's hands, it's head, it's feet." His eyes fell on Cyril's shoulder. "I think that's what got you. Some clawed, morphed thing that might have been a hand once."

"Anything else?"

He shook his head. "That's all I saw really. Just the vague outline. I couldn't tell you anything else really, except that it was fast. It crawled on the walls like a spider."

"You sound convinced that it was human."

"It was shaped like a human. But it could get down on all fours like a dog, and move just as fast. Mostly though, it was upright. I don't know. You know the feeling—back when you were alive, not now, obviously—but when a person came into the room versus when a dog or a cat did? It felt human."

"Toward the end, I thought it might have been speaking."

Oliver studied him. "That would fit with what I'm thinking. It was human."

"Tortured soul, maybe? Maybe he had been stretched on some medieval torture device?"

"No," Oliver shook his head, "I don't think so. We don't bear the marks from how we died."

Cyril's eyes lingered on Oliver's neck. "Then how would it get stretched like that? And sharpened?"

"I have no idea."

Cyril looked away. "I suppose all of that is secondary, in any case. My main concern was how it attacked Stella."

Oliver frowned. "It didn't attack her, per se."

"It plowed into her," he mumbled, teeth clenched, "which is close enough for me. She felt it. It had an effect on her, and that was an accident because it was trying to reach me. What if it had been aiming for her?"

"We had an effect too. Their perceptions could be—"

"Don't."

Oliver sighed. "They're touching us. Bronte could see me; Stella could hear you. Their perceptions are deepening, allowing them to see through the veil, or whatever you want to call it. The point is maybe because their perceptions are deepening, she was able to feel that thing just like she felt you."

For a moment, neither spoke. Then Cyril took in a long breath and whispered on a sigh, "I'm frustrated with myself for liking that."

"I know." Oliver looked at his hand again. "For so long, anything I wanted to touch, I just couldn't. My hand floated right through it. Even when we concentrated on things, I couldn't feel it. Not really. To feel something again, to have that glorious touch of pressure against the palm of my hand...I never realized before how much I missed it."

Cyril could still feel the contact from Stella's hand. The feel of her flesh underneath his own hands. He thought she'd even been warm underneath.

If he hadn't been so terrified of whatever monster lurked behind them, at that moment, he would have been euphoric.

"I think I should punch you."

Cyril's head snapped up. "I beg your pardon?"

Oliver excitedly jumped up from the couch. "We've never tried to harm each other before. I didn't even think it could be done. But that thing hurt you—I want to see if we're capable of hurting each other."

"Why am I the one getting hit then?"

"You punch harder—at least, you did when we were alive. Mine will hurt less."

"But I'm already injured. If one of us should be punched, I'm thinking it should be the uninjured one."

"Just stand up."

Grumbling, Cyril rose. He squared himself against Oliver.

"On three," Oliver said, lowering himself, fist raised. "You ready?"

Cyril braced himself. "One."

Before he could finish, Oliver launched himself. The fist connected with the side of his jaw, sending him reeling, then down to his knees. For a minute, he thought he saw a white light. Or maybe just stars dancing around his head.

With his good hand, he rubbed at where the punch had landed. "I thought you said you punched lightly."

Oliver offered a hand and pulled him to his feet. "I said you punched harder," he smiled, trying to hold back his laughter, "not that I punched lightly."

Cyril brushed him off, still rubbing at his jaw. "Well, we can hurt each other, at least. Good to know."

"But you aren't bleeding."

Cyril pulled his hand away and looked at his hand. "No. I'm not."

"If you'd been alive, that punch would have split your lip wide open. No blood. Maybe I should try again?"

"No," Cyril snapped, his fingers exploring his lip. It ached from the punch. But no split lip. No blood. "So we can hurt each other? But just don't draw blood?"

"I think you should let me try again."

He ignored him. "It makes sense, I guess. We don't have physical bodies anymore—we don't have blood. If we can't draw blood, how'd that thing claw into my shoulder? Why does it look bloodied?"

Oliver shrugged. Then sighed. "You know what concerned me the most? Well, perhaps not the most, considering it could touch Stella and attack us, but a concern I've had?"

"Hm?"

"You couldn't see it."

Cyril frowned. That had been a concern for him also, but only really at the beginning, when the thing had first appeared to Oliver. Now that he thought about it, he should have seen it.

Why hadn't he seen it?

His eyes fell on his friend and the realization struck. "And you couldn't hear it, could you?"

Oliver shook his head. "You do realize what that sounds like, don't you?" he whispered.

Keys jangled in the front door lock.

They both turned to see Bronte and Stella creeping into the room. Bronte moved first, taking the lead, not nearly as scared as Stella looked though both lingered near the door.

He felt a stab of pity for her. She'd heard the monster. She'd been alone when she'd heard it, when he'd touched her. Of course she'd be the more terrified of the two.

Then his eyes fell to the cardboard box tucked under Stella's arm.

Oliver let out a low whistle. "This ought to be interesting. They bought a Ouija board."