Vincent Oliver / Drunk Fun In London

Strange. She'd never noticed before, but then she'd never been looking before. The electric candles flared dimly in the cheap plastic of their sockets and cast a slim nicotine light about what she supposed was the ghost's face. Only the eyes remained unaffected. Two smeared patches of a perfect kohl black that chose not to reflect back the draped lamps of the bar and seemed instead to suck the light inward. A static drone rose in her ears and the room bleached suddenly. Nothing could be perceived above the rising blur of white. Only the eyes remained unaffected. Only the eyes. And the faintest flicker of a smile.

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