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Weekly Contest #329
The new ghost didn't materialize; she was violently extruded from the slick, cold membrane between worlds. It happened at 11:47 PM, thirteen minutes before Frank Delaney’s scheduled rounds. She was a ruin of a woman, perhaps twenty-five, a security polo clinging to her, a visceral stain dark upon the collar. Her eyes were shattered glass, frantic, scraping the sepulchral air. "No, no, no, this is a nightmare," she grated, staring at hands that should have been solid but shimmered, translucent and terrifying. "What raw, godsforsaken thing is ...
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