Her short caramel hair was messy, her toned and muscular back contracting as she motioned to the empty hall. “N-No,” he stammered, and it was apparent his entire body was quaking. “Don’t make me tell you again.” Marianne rushed between her son and the enraged woman, as if her airy body could somehow shield him from harm. Jackson moved toward Joshua, passing through the ghost like a dense New York winter fog. This was not good. Not fucking good at all. I glanced around frantically. The entire apartment was stripped, with none of the essential necessities to engage in diligent combat. The porcelain lamps would shatter upon one good use, and the television and entertainment center would be impossible to lift. My gaze settled on the old oak coffee table, the dark wood stain matching the somber furniture and gloomy atmosphere. God certainly had a warped sense of humor. My only chance was the enormous bible situated on the end; the good Lord Jesus Christ beamed up at me from the center of pristine white leather, flaming heart aglow.
