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Ghostly hands tipped with rotting talons reach up from the ground, amidst discordant howling, to grasp Wilhelm’s ankles. He’s too surprised to stop them from pulling him down.

“Oh hello,” say the owners of the hands (who turn out to be, themselves, giant hands).

“Did you want something?” asks Wilhelm.

“We never actually get anyone,” says one giant hand.

“They always pull free at the last minute,” admits another.

“So what do you do between grabbings?” asks Wilhelm.

“Scrabble, mostly,” volunteers a hand.

Wilhelm beats the hands at Scrabble, because he knows lots of two-letter words, whereas they can’t read.