Warren gave an aborted squawk. She turned in time to see the nithe-grim follow its probing arm from the floor. It seemed to be pulling itself up by Warren’s hand. Its ghostly feeler wound up his wrist, snaking under his shirt cuff. War looked to his wife, who felt her face loosen with the torpor of dread. His mustache twitched, and his eyes grew bright. He grasped his belly as if he’d been gunshot, collapsed to his knees, and roared with euphoric glee.
