ghost attack

Michael eyed me and kept one hand on the hilt of the sword. We walked on up to the delivery door. Compared to the grandeur of the church's front, it looked stunningly modest. On either side of the double doors, someone had gone to a lot of trouble to plant and care for a half-dozen rosebushes. Someone else had gone to a lot of trouble to tear them to shreds. Each plant had been uprooted. Thorny branches lay strewn across several dozen square yards around the door.
I crouched down beside several fallen branches, picking them up one at a time, squinting at them in the dawn dimness.
"What are you looking for?" Michael asked me.
"Blood on the thorns," I said. "Rose thorns can poke little holes in just about anything - and something that tore them up this hard would have been scratching itself on them."
"Any blood?"
"No. No footprints in the earth, either."
Michael nodded. "A ghost, then."
I squinted up at Michael. "I hope not."
He tilted his head and frowned at me.
I dropped a branch and spread my hands. "A ghost can usually only manage to move things, physically, in bursts. Throwing pots and pans. Maybe really stretch things and stack up a bunch of books or something." I gestured at the torn plants, and then back toward the wrecked cars. "Not only that, but it's limited to a certain place, time, or event. The ghost, if it is one, followed Lydia here and rampaged around on blessed ground tearing things apart. I mean, wow. This thing is way stronger than any ghost I've ever heard about."


Grave Peril Chapter 9, Page 85-86