Where there's one, there's another. Where there's two, there's ten. A hundred then, before you can blink and a sea of these displaced souls all gnash their teeth and moan and weep for all they've lost. They can smell the life on you. Lick the vapours of the living lands from your skin while they debase themselves, desperate for a way back to the sweet delicious warmth you carry in your blood. Maybe if they ask again, louder yet, maybe promises will encourage you to take them home with you. If not, maybe a sharp knife of ghost-stuff slipped between your ribs would let that warmth out. Instinct: to find a way out of this horrible place

• Clamour for aid or succour from the living
• promise something that cannot be delivered
• draw attention to the flickering heat of life