Mooney threw his taut body backward, almost under the bed. What he saw, he didn't believe; what he believed filled him with panic.
No wonder Harse had laughed so when Mooney asked if its victims were dead. For there they were, all of them. Like djinn out of a jar, human figures jelled and solidified where the cloud of violet flame had not at all diffidently rolled.
They were alive, as big as life, and beginning to move—and so many of them! Three—five—six:
The truck-driver, yes, and a man in long red flannel underwear who must have been the policeman, and Uncle Lester, and the bartender's brother, and the chambermaid, and a man Mooney didn't know.
They were there, all of them; and they came toward him, and oh! but they were angry!