The Grand Sarcastic Tour "You know," Ben panted, ducking as a volley of hardcover romance novels shot from the bookshelf like lethal, heart-shaped missiles, "for a century-old ghost, her taste in projectiles is terribly cliché." "One must work with what one has, darling," Eleanor's voice purred from the walls, dripping with condescending sweetness. "Unlike your decor. Grey walls? How tragically… millennial." A grandfather clock suddenly lunged from the hallway, its pendulum swinging like a scythe. Maya yanked Ben into the sitting room just as the clock embedded itself in the doorframe. "Okay, criticizing the paint colors is a low blow," Maya shot back, her