That's a corpse. There's no doubt about it--a moving, speaking corpse. And Ekkehardt is talking to her. Or at least he thinks Ekkehardt is talking to her? He can't hardly hear it, or he hears it, but it filters in through one ear and out the other like grains of sand through a sieve.
He catches glimpses of glimmering light and wonders if he should interrupt the conversation to warn Ekkehardt about them. It could be something. It could be nothing.
He swallows, the threads of his skepticism slowly tangling and unraveling as he holds the umbrella with both hands, as though he could knock them away like he was holding a bat.
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That's a corpse. There's no doubt about it--a moving, speaking corpse. And Ekkehardt is talking to her. Or at least he thinks Ekkehardt is talking to her? He can't hardly hear it, or he hears it, but it filters in through one ear and out the other like grains of sand through a sieve.
He catches glimpses of glimmering light and wonders if he should interrupt the conversation to warn Ekkehardt about them. It could be something. It could be nothing.
He swallows, the threads of his skepticism slowly tangling and unraveling as he holds the umbrella with both hands, as though he could knock them away like he was holding a bat.