From The Prophecies of Bartholomew Huggins

He put the knife on the table. A bead of sweat trickled down the bridge of his nose. “It’s over,” he said to the room filled with ghosts. “I won’t fight any more. I’m finished.”

The ghosts swirled around the room, the knife on the oak table at the center of their vortex. One ghost detached itself from the maelstrom and floated above the table. “Finished. Yes. Won’t fight any more? Debatable.”

And with that, the ghost with the rosy red eyes faded into the ether, and all of the other ghosts followed, an eerie waling sound as they returned to their own world.

When the room was empty, and after the man stopped shaking, he picked up the knife and sheathed it. “Perhaps you’re right, Bartholomew. Perhaps you’re right.”

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