And while she worked in a humming, appreciative crowd, the thing rummaged through her head. Flickering images paired with the sensation of moist hands digging deep into her cranium, hands that wouldn’t stay solid and kept dripping, like wax or sweat sliding down folds of gray matter, making her stomach drop and heave. The glass of whisky she clutched steadied her a little, made her able to bear what it was doing to her, and bear it, the thing said, she must.
