The Empty Grave

At one end of the table, the ghost-jar was striped by sunlight coming through the blinds. We had our mugs of tea. George, who had eaten well, was sitting in his chair with a hideous wooden mask propped up on his lap. He was using a damp tea towel to wipe the dust off it. Lockwood had a pen and was doodling on a corner of the Thinking Cloth, the tablecloth on which we noted down ideas, while simultaneously glancing at a newspaper leaning against the ghost-jar. In the jar itself, the ghost was dormant; the plasm stirred lazily in the late morning sun, like green water in a deep and weedy pool.
I sat quietly next to Lockwood, enjoying the companionable silence. My muscles ached, my head was cloudy. Lockwood had a scrape on his left temple, and the lenses of George’s spectacles were soft with grave dust. Our exertions hung heavy on us. But we had not yet spoken of the night before.
“Lots of news this morning,” Lockwood said, indicating the paper.
I opened an eye. “Good?”
“No.”
“Bad?”
“Baddish and bad. Two things, and neither particularly great for us.”
“Let’s have the baddish one first,” George said. “I prefer my misery to come at me in stages, so I can acclimatise on the way.”

These were of remarkable and sinister bagginess, revealing untold acreages of George whenever he bent over or made sharp turns.