"I might ask you that same question," answered Frank with a grin.
"Why would you ask Frank what he's doing here?" Bob affected a curious expression. "You're Frank, don't you know?"
"I hate you," Frank rolled his eyes. "That sort of thing is why you always got shoved in your locker in school."
"It's not my fault people lack precision," said Bob.
"Blood! Hate! Kill! Kill! KILL!" screamed the ghost as it burst from the duck's chest and lunged at the pair. The ghost had bestial features and tattered clothes. Ribbons of torn flesh hung from its fingernails like ribbons of torn flesh hanging from a ghost's fingernails.
"AUGH!" shouted Bob and Frank as the ran blindly through the halls. They dared not look behind themselves, but the heard unholy screams pursuing them through the dark. They dove into a closet and slammed the door shut.
"This is crap," gasped Bob between gasps. "There's no such thing as ghosts!"
"Tell that to him, said Frank, pointing at the ghost as it stepped right through the solid oak door.
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