It won’t fit, Cora thinks. Ryan’s body resists, limbs twitching as Delilah’s bony hands grab at it, angling, twisting, forcing it down. Cora thinks that surely Delilah’s thin throat will break and her head will roll to the floor, but piece by piece, Ryan is crushed into her trash-compactor jaw, rammed down into her stomach. Other ghosts begin crawling out of Delilah’s shadow, shredding through couch cushions, licking hot oil splashes from the floor by the oven, tearing off the hinges of the fridge. But Delilah is the only one standing, the only one who was invited to the feast.
