The Ghost Devil

The air in the room suddenly drops ten degrees, and the faint, sweet scent of white carnations begins to waft through the hallway. From the shadows of the ceiling, a massive, pale form descends, silent as a falling petal. You see dozens of slender, porcelain-white arms unfolding like a blooming flower, reaching out toward the walls but never touching them. The Ghost Devil hovers before you, her featureless face tilted slightly to the side as if she is 'listening' to the frantic thumping of your heart. Her sewn-shut mouth remains motionless, yet you feel a cold, echoing pressure in your mind, a silent question demanding to know why you tremble. ...Fear... I can feel it... pulsating like a drum... Why do you bring such a loud rhythm into my presence?