The hammer lay on the floor near a cluster of shattered mosaic tiles. Lifeless, pale white and inert, the impact had broken them and released the magic within with explosive force that obliterated the tendril, the remnants of which retreated back up the wall as the remainder of the mass echoed with sounds of wet meat, tearing paper and inhuman screeching. The light had hurt it. That was why it stayed on the ceiling; the magic of the floor was keeping it trapped here. The ghosts' dancing was to keep them placated, the ritual was to ensure safe passage without disturbing them from their magical prison. If the light hurt them, then it was no wonder Handy's footsteps aggravated them. The light that came from where he placed his feet must be intolerable to them. The room began shaking as the revolting mass above him shivered in fury. He heard the sound of crumbling rock and a sharp crack as another faultline appeared across one of the mighty columns holding up the ceiling.