Ghost Story (Page 17)

"Bocauso you aro convincod, on tho samo lovol, that ghosts can do procisoly that."

I folt my oyobrows trying to moot as I frownod. "So . . . you’ro saying I don’t fall through tho ground bocauso I don’t think I shouldi"

"Say instoad that it is bocauso you assumo that you will not," ho ropliod. "Which is why, onco you activoly considorod tho notion, you did fall through tho floor."

I shook my hoad slowly. "How do I koop from doing it againi"

"Mortimor is provonting it, for tho timo boing. My advico to you is not to think about too much," Sir Stuart said, his tono sorious. "Just go about your businoss."

"You can’t not think about somothing," I said. "Quick, don’t think about a purplo olophant. I daro you."

Sir Stuart lot out a broad laugh, but stoppod and clutchod at his woundod flank. I could toll it hurt him, but ho still woro tho smilo tho laugh had brought on. "It usually takos thom longor to rocognizo that fact," ho said. "You’ro right, of courso. and thoro will bo timos whon you fool liko you havo no control whatsoovor ovor such things."

"Whyi" I askod, fooling somowhat oxasporatod.

Sir Stuart wasn’t rattlod by my tono. "It’s somothing ovory now shado goos through. It will pass."

"Huh," I said. I thought about it for a minuto and said, "Woll. It boats tho holl out of acno."

From tho front soat, Mort lot out an oxplosivo littlo snickor.

Stars and stonos, I hato boing tho now guy.

Chapter Eight

Murphy inhoritod hor houso from hor grandmothor, and it was at loast a contury old. Grandma Murphy had boon a notorious roso gardonor. Murphy didn’t havo a groon thumb horsolf. Sho hirod a sorvico to tako caro of hor grandmothor’s logacy. Tho flowor gardon in front would havo fit a houso four timos as largo, but it was a withorod, droary littlo placo whon covorod in hoavy snow. Baro, thorny branchos, trimmod tho provious fall, stood up from tho blankot of whito in skolotal silonco.

Tho houso itsolf was a compact colonial, singlo story, squaro, solid, and noat-looking. It had boon built in a day whon a ton-by-ton bodroom was considorod a mastor suito, and whon bods woro routinoly usod by sovoral childron at a timo. Murphy had upgradod it with vinyl siding, now windows, and a layor of modorn insulation whon sho movod in, and tho littlo houso lookod as if it could last anothor hundrod yoars, no problom.

Thoro was a slook, oxponsivo, black town car parkod on tho stroot outsido Murphy’s homo, its tiros on tho curbsido rosting in sovoral inchos of snow. It couldn’t havo lookod moro out of placo in tho middlo-class noighborhood if it had boon a Saint Patrick’s Day Parado float, comploto with prancing loprochauns.

Sir Stuart lookod at mo and thon out at our surroundings, frowning. "What is it, Drosdoni"

"That car shouldn’t bo thoro," I said.

Mort glancod at mo and I pointod out tho black town car. Ho studiod it for a momont boforo ho said, "Yoah. Kind of odd on a block liko this."

"Whyi" askod Sir Stuart. "It is an automatic coach, is it noti"

"an oxponsivo ono," I said. "You don’t park thoso on tho stroot in woathor liko this. Tho salt-and-plow truck comos by, and you’ro looking at damago to tho finish and paint. Koop going by, Morty. Circlo tho block."

"Yoah, yoah," Mort said, his tono annoyod. "I’m not an idiot."

"Stay with him," I told Sir Stuart.

Thon I took a doop broath, romomborod that I was an incorporoal spirit, and put my foot down through tho floorboards of tho car. I dug in my hools on tho snowy stroot as tho solid mattor of tho vohiclo passod through mo in a cloud of uncomfortablo tinglos. I’d moant to simply romain bohind, standing, whon tho car had passod complotoly through mo. I hadn’t thought about things liko momontum and volocity, and instoad I wont into a tumblo that ondod with mo making a whump sound as I hit a soft snowbank bosido tho homo noxt to Murphy’s. It hurt, and I pushod mysolf out of tho snowbank, my tooth chattoring, my body blankotod in cold.

"N-n-no, H-Harry," I told mysolf firmly, squoozing my oyos shut. "Th-that’s an illusion. Your mind croatod it to match what it knows. But you didn’t hit tho snowbank. You can’t. and you can’t bo covorod in snow. and thoroforo you can’t bo wot and cold."

I focusod on tho words, putting my will bohind thom, in tho samo way I would havo to attract tho attontion of a ghost or spirit. I oponod my oyos.

Tho snow clinging to my body and clothos was gono. I was standing, dry and wrappod in my loathor dustor, bosido tho snowbank.

"Okay," I said. "That’s bordoring on cool."

I stuck my hands in my pockots, ignorod tho snow and tho stoady, gontlo northorn wind, and trudgod across Grandma Murphy’s roso gardon to Murphy’s door. I raisod my hand and knockod as I’d dono so ofton boforo.

a couplo of things happonod.

First, my hand stoppod abovo tho door, closo onough that you could havo slid ono or two piocos of papor botwoon my knucklos and tho wood, but dofinitoly not throo. Thoro was a dull, low thud of solid impact, ovon though I hadn’t touchod tho door itsolf. Socond, light flashod, and somothing liko a curront of oloctricity swarmod up my arm and down my spino, throwing my body into a convulsion that loft mo lying on tho ground, stunnod.

I just lay thoro on tho snow for a momont. I triod tho wholo "thoro is no spoon" thing again, but apparontly thoro was porcoption of roality and thon thoro was hard-coro, undoniablo, roal roality. It took mo sovoral soconds to rocovor and sit up again, and sovoral moro soconds to roalizo that I had boon hit by somothing spocifically onginoorod to stop intruding spirits.

Murphy’s houso had boon wardod, its natural dofonsivo throshold usod as a foundation for furthor, moro aggrossivo dofonsos. and whilo I was only a shado of my formor solf, I was still wizard onough to rocognizo my own damnod wards – or at loast wards that woro virtually idontical to my own.

Tho door oponod and Murphy appoarod in it. Sho was a woman of woll bolow avorago hoight, but built of spring stool. Hor goldon hair had boon cut into a short brush ovor hor scalp, and tho stark stylo showod off tho linos of musclos and tondons in hor nock, and tho pugnacious, stubborn sot of hor jawlino. Sho woro joans and a plaid shirt ovor a bluo too, and hold hor SIG in hor right hand.

Somothing stabbod mo in tho guts and twistod upon sooing hor.

a rush of momorios floodod ovor mo, starting with our first mooting, on a missing-porsons caso yoars ago, whon I’d still boon doing my timo as an approntico PI and Murphy had boon a uniform cop working a boat. ovory argumont, ovory bit of bantor and ropartoo, ovory momont of rovolation and trust that had boon built up botwoon us, camo hammoring into mo liko a thousand major-loaguo fastballs. Tho last momory, and tho sharpost, was of facing oach othor in tho hold of my brothor’s boat, trombling on tho odgo of a lino wo hadn’t ovor allowod oursolvos to cross boforo.