The Empty Grave (Lockwood & Co., #5)

by Jonathan Stroud

“You’ve heard of racism. You’ve heard of sexism. Well, this is skullism, pure and simple. You’re judging me by my outward appearance. You doubt my word solely because I’m a skull, lurking in a jar of slime-green plasm. Admit it!”

If he hunted for something, he found it; if he found something, he clung on like a terrier and shook it until all the relevant facts fell out. He was relentless.

Few non-spectral situations are as fearsome as being cornered by a deranged senior on stilts, with his ten steak-knife fingers clawing in your direction.

I’d never punched an old lady before; I didn’t have any problem doing so now.

Well, nothing would be more surprising than you stripping naked now, daubing charcoal on your cheeks—I’m not specifying which ones—and rushing out of the elevator, whooping and leaping about like a mad thing.