Jim could feel the ghosts the minute he walked into the place, and he could see them the minute he entered what must have been the most over-pink-wallpapered, over-chintz-decorated, over-floral-carpeted room he'd ever seen in his life: dialling down the senses to near-zero didn't help one bit from the sheer visual pain the mass and muddle of sugary color and pattern caused his inner Sentinel, and he could still see, and sense, the ghosts.
The were three of them - little old ladies, like the Ghosts of Bad Family Reunions Past, Present and Please Christ Not the Future - all dressed in fuzzy, muzzy shades of pink, sitting primly on... well, on nothing, probably long-gone armchairs. One seemed to be knitting something that even a Sentinel couldn't see, the others had their hands folded neatly in their laps, and all three watched him with beady colourless (at least not more pink, he thought) eyes.
He winced; all that pink did not go with the red-brown stains on the over-floralled carpet, or the crimson-spattered kitchen knives neatly arranged on the (embroidered?) tableclothed table, or the massive, bloody gashes on all three ghostly bosoms....
The Sentinel, Jim Ellison
Jim could feel the ghosts the minute he walked into the place, and he could see them the minute he entered what must have been the most over-pink-wallpapered, over-chintz-decorated, over-floral-carpeted room he'd ever seen in his life: dialling down the senses to near-zero didn't help one bit from the sheer visual pain the mass and muddle of sugary color and pattern caused his inner Sentinel, and he could still see, and sense, the ghosts.
The were three of them - little old ladies, like the Ghosts of Bad Family Reunions Past, Present and Please Christ Not the Future - all dressed in fuzzy, muzzy shades of pink, sitting primly on... well, on nothing, probably long-gone armchairs. One seemed to be knitting something that even a Sentinel couldn't see, the others had their hands folded neatly in their laps, and all three watched him with beady colourless (at least not more pink, he thought) eyes.
He winced; all that pink did not go with the red-brown stains on the over-floralled carpet, or the crimson-spattered kitchen knives neatly arranged on the (embroidered?) tableclothed table, or the massive, bloody gashes on all three ghostly bosoms....