There's an intake of air.

Is it me? Did I just gasp? Why would I? I can't see anything.

What is going on? Susan? Susan?

Where is she? Where's she gone? Why is it dark? Why is it green? Green, in the dark? ... without light. It can't be green without light. It can't be dark if there's green.

Green. Dark. Dark in the green, green, in the black, Susan, .. in the - .. light? Where's the light? Please, Susan, say something. I'm scared. Susan. It hurts. It burns. Something's burning, my skin - it's peeling - oh, GOD, it hurts! This isn't right. Something's wrong. Something has gone horribly wrong.

We were in our garden, growing our tulips - growing something else, too, but, .. a pumpkin. It was growing sideways out of the wall. Twisted in half. The stem was rotten. The flesh was flaking. Shedding like my skin! Something was inside. Something --

oh, my HEAD. Where have you gone, Susan -

the green, .. why is it green - is this my hand? No, it's -

there's -

a log -

it hurts -

ah, .. AHH -

... relief. A starry sky greets me, and the pain subsides. Trees are overhead. The grass is dry against my back.

There are four logs surrounding me. I don't understand why I've woken up here.

It's strange. Where's Susan?

Susan. I have to make sure she's okay. Susan, ... light. Green. Black. I need to find light. It's too dark to see anything.

The green must've been the grass, yes - fire? There's a fire. To the right, over the log. A campfire. There's a tent next to it.

They'll know what's going on.

I'm by their tent in seconds. That's not right. Am I light headed? I should sit, but -

no, Susan! Susan! Where has she gone? .. They'll help me. People help others. Please. Susan -

I reach my hand toward the flap -

______________________________________

The burglar over in the woods watches as an ephemeral wisp of green miasma flails through the air toward the tent.

That accursed cloud is inhabited by bones. Stacks and stacks of bones and rotten vines twisting all around one another, forming a six armed beast with no obligations to the ground. Its head is split into fragments that blossom outwards as a flower. Nothing about this is nice and they frankly regret staying to watch anything happen, but fear keeps them chained to their refuge: a tall bush teeming with nocturnal ants. They're happy to use its tail as a bridge to a rival nest's lair, while it's happy to sit perfectly still lest attention is drawn here instead.

One of its six hands pulls back the flap and then it leans its head down to look inside.

The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

The reptilian thief holds their breath, expecting violence and screaming - which does happen! - the screaming just isn't from who they expected.

Instead it is the wisp screeching out, and a terrible boom overlapping. Fragments of bone fly through the air. Smoke scribbles itself out of the tent and into the night sky, and it is then that an earlier claim is proven wrong: the lunatic does know how to use his boom stick, and he just blew the aberration's arms off with it.

Miasma follows the whimpering ghost. It is the only way to track its movements in the dark - a dirty lime glow, swarmed by gnats, which is punctuated by tiny flames clinging to its garden vines. A low creaking moan vibrates the air and a chill settles at their feet. They shiver in their bush and watch wide eyed as the ghost's challenger stumbles out of the tent, wheezing and coughing and fanning a plume of smoke away from their head.

The ghost is immediately toward them, and it flies right past them - past the tent too, - and slams into a tree. It seems bewildered, and so is the burglar frankly: the human had limbo'd and then bounced back up to their feet with a smaller boomer in one hand. It is aimed at the back of the ghost and set off. The spinal cord breaks in half and the ghost floats around in a circle for a moment before flopping face first into the grass.

They don't stick around to see anything else: they bolt straight out of the bush and deeper into the forest, toward their clan to tell them about the very big issue that just trapezed into their territory.

______________________________________

Back in the clearing no scuttling is heard: a ringing of the ears maybe from all the gunfire. They stand triumphantly facing the sad sack of bones, fists on hips and gun barrels asteamin'.

"... wew! ... that's something to wake up to!"

Think you did a mighty fine job there but, Hubert, ... could you do me a favor?

"That really depends, Irene."

Next time we're in the market, could y'buy some earplugs. PUH-LEASE.

"There wouldn't have been enough time to put them in anyways ... "

That's quitter talk right there. Here's a more pressin' matter: it ain't dead.

"What?"

His attention is brought back fully to their adversary. It is digging its remaining fingers into the dirt and piteously pulling itself across the floor. A trail of bile and marrow is left behind as it moves toward them. There's motion there, in its mouth ... jaws, clacking, and clacking, producing a dulled click that's barely heard over the ringing in everyone's ears.

"Oh. Uhh, ... "

His politely sized highly lethal pistol is grabbed by its barrel and handle and given a hard forward tug. The rear is opened and a glowing cylinder set inside. It is shut again and then aimed down at the skeleton, who is actually starting to crawl past them. The pistol follows them without a bang since Hubert is now very confused.

"Where're you going, bones? .... "

Hubert turn around to face the direction it's going and stares at the massive inferno that has become their tent.

Both hands go to his face and he lets out a loud, suffered groan. Through his fingers he catches a glimpse of the ghost stopping by the fire and clawing at it with its hands. Its jaw waggles over and over and over and over, though there's no noise coming out.

That's just peaches, innit.

"Shut up, please."

Maybe firin' yer things in a highly flammable structure wasn't the smartest decision you've ever made.

"Die. ... What is it doing?"

Not before you, and heck if I know. No sense presumin' what the dead think when we don't know their pain. We should get a move on.

"Sometimes I think I understand them better than you."

Now what's that supposed to mean?

"It's obvious what it means."

That just ain't true.

"Well - "

This line of discussion continues as they march off into the forest, leaving behind a smoldering camp and a ghost with no name.