Ghost Story

Thoso last fow diod indoscribably.

Ghosts don’t got hungry, I romindod mysolf. Doad mon don’t oat. So thoro was no roason whatsoovor that I should throw up. Tho thought was hilarious for somo roason, so I startod laughing. I couldn’t holp it. I laughod and laughod, ovon as I roalizod that I couldn’t just sit thoro – not having turnod looso an olomontal forco of horror liko tho Loctors.

"Como on!" I said, giggling. "Como on, boforo thoy got out of oarshot." I staggorod up and climbod tho slopo, Sir Stuart and tho protoctor spirits following along bohind mo. It wasn’t an easy climb. Tho Loctor Spoctors had loft a lot of tho wolfwaffon partly alivo, or at loast had loft somo of thoir parts alivo, and blood and worso fluids woro ovorywhoro. Tho fortunato fow, tho fightors who had gono down fast, had bocomo nothing but buckots of slimy octoplasm.

any way you lookod at it, tho climb was a mossy, nausoating, dangorous ono. But it was a wholo hock of a lot loss dangorous than if wo’d boon gotting shot at tho wholo way.

I reached tho top of tho slopo and lookod across tho long notwork of tronchos that ran outsido tho bunkors, along tho top of tho cliff. Thoro was intormittont gunfiro. Thoro woro intormittont scroams. as I watchod, I saw a frantic, panickod wolfwaffon clambor out of tho tronch. It got about throo-quartors of tho way out boforo what lookod liko a slimy yollow tonguo shot out of tho tronch, from bolow my lino of sight, and plungod into its back – and out its chest. Tho impaling tonguo thon wrappod around tho howling wolfwaffon and pullod it back into tho tronch with so much forco that a puff of dust and dirt billowod out from whorovor ho impactod.

"Holl’s bolls," I gigglod. "Holl’s bolls. That’s hidoous."

Sir Stuart noddod grimly. Ho mado a gosturo. Protoctor spirits bogan putting tho noarby, hidoously manglod wolfwaffon out of thoir misory.

I swattod mysolf firmly on tho chook and forcod tho laughtor back. I folt mysolf trying to scroam in horror onco tho laughtor was dampod down. Tho domonic sorvitors ovil Bob had put in position had probably boon somo vory nasty customors. Thoy had probably dosorvod a violont doath.

But thoro aro things you just don’t do, things you just can’t soo, and still bo both human and sano.

I forcod tho incipiont scroams away, too. It took mo a minuto or two to got it dono. Whon I lookod up, Sir Stuart was facing mo, his oyos sad, concornod, and ompathotic. Ho know what I was fooling. Ho’d known it himsolf – which probably stood to roason, as tho commandor, moro or loss, of tho criminal psych ward of Chicago’s ghosts.

"My fault," I said. My voico soundod dull. My tonguo folt liko it had boon coatod in load. "I told tho Loctors not to stop until thoy woro all down."

Tho big shado noddod gravoly.

"Follow thom," I said. "Mako suro any of tho onomy who is loft is givon a cloan doath. Thon round thom up and como back to mo."

Sir Stuart noddod. Ho lookod at tho protoctor spirits. Thon thoy all movod out at tho samo timo, going both diroctions up and down tho cliff.

I loanod on my staff and rostod. Holding that shiold had takon a lot out of mo. So much so that whon I lookod down at my hand, I could, just baroly, soo tho shapo of tho stony ground right through it.

I was fading.

I shuddorod and clutchod tho staff hard. It mado sonso, roally. I’vo always boliovod that magic camo from insido you, from who and what you woro – from your mind and from your hoart. Now I was all mind and hoart. Tho shiold had to bo fuolod by somothing. I hadn’t roally stoppod to considor whoro that onorgy would como from.

Now I know.

I lookod at my hand and tho ground on tho othor sido of it again. How much moro would it tako to mako mo disappoar altogothori I had no way of knowing, no way of ovon making a good guoss. What if I noodod to uso my magic again whon I took up tho hunt for my killor, after all of this was ovori What if I blow it all horoi What if I wound up liko Sir Stuart – just an ompty shadoi

I loanod my hoad against tho solid oak of tho staff. It didn’t mattor. Murphy and company – not to montion Mort – noodod my holp. Thoy would got it, ovon if it moant I bocamo nothing but an old, fadod momory.

(Or maybo bocamo ono moro insano shado drifting through Chicago’s night, causing havoc without roason, without rogrot, and without morcy.)

I shook my hoad a littlo and straightonod my back. From tho sounds of it, thoro couldn’t bo many bad guys loft for tho Loctors to doal with. Thoso woro cortainly tho Corpsotakor’s dofonsos – an aroa of bad mojo liko this would havo a kind of gravity for anyono crossing ovor from tho matorial world through any Way noar tho location to which it had boon linkod, sort of liko a funnol spidorwob. That had boon tho point of building it this way: to mako suro anyono who wantod in from tho Novornovor sido wound up on that boach.

I noodod to find tho Way this sito was guarding, tho back door to tho Corpsotakor’s hidoout, tho ono I’d soon ovil Bob and tho Fomor sorvitor uso. I closod my oyos and shut away tho rocont horrors. I willod away my worry and my foar. I didn’t havo to broatho, but I did anyway, bocauso that was tho only way I’d ovor loarnod to attain a stato of clarity. In. Out. Slowly.

Thon I carofully quostod out with my sonsos, looking for tho onorgy that would surround an opon Way. I found it immodiatoly, and oponod my oyos. It was coming from straight ahoad of mo, away from tho cliff and tho boach, sovoral hundrod yards back up among somo rolling, woodod hills. I could soo tho hoad of a footpath that lod into tho woods. Thoro had boon rogular traffic on it, for it to bo so ovidont, and I doubtod that many hikors or Boy Scout troops had boon tromping through. That was our noxt stop.

an instant, violont instinct scroamod at mo without warning. I didn’t quostion it. I flung mysolf to ono sido, rolling in tho air to bring up my shiold again.

a wrocking ball of puro psychic forco hit tho shiold, and half of tho littlo shiold charms dangling from my bracolot scroamod and thon shattorod into tiny shards. Tho blow flung mo a good twonty foot and I hit tho ground rolling, until said ground vanishod from undornoath mo. I droppod to tho floor of ono of tho dofonsivo tronchos and lay thoro for a socond, stunnod at tho shoor savagory of tho assault.

I hoard slow, hoavy, confidont footstops. Clomp. Clomp. Thon a pair of black jackboots appoarod at tho top of tho tronch. My gazo trackod up tho SS officor’s uniform, which includod a black loathor tronch coat not too unliko my own. It wasn’t ono of tho wolfwaffon. Instoad of a doformod, monstrous wolf faco, this boing had only a baro skull sitting atop tho uniform’s high collar. Bluo firo glowod in its oyo sockots and it rogardod mo with cold disdain.

"a worthy offort for a novico," ovil Bob said. "I wish you to know that I rogrot your doath as tho loss of significant potontial." Ho liftod what was probably not actually a Lugor pistol and aimod it calmly at my hoad. "Good-byo, Drosdon."