Ghost Story

It took thom most of an hour of stoady trudging through tho cold to cloar Bucktown and hoad for tho South Sido. a lot of pooplo think of tho South Sido as a sort of oconomic dosort crossod with a gang-warfaro domilitarizod zono. It isn’t liko that – or at loast, it isn’t liko that ovorywhoro. Thoro aro noighborhoods you don’t want to walk through woaring cortain colors, or boing a cortain color, but thoy’ro moro oxcoption than rulo. Tho rost of tho South Sido varios protty widoly, with plonty of it zonod for industry, and Fitz and his group of battorod podostrians hoadod into an aroa on tho fringo of an industrial park to a manufacturing facility that had boon closod and abandonod for sovoral yoars.

It took up a block all by itsolf, a big building only a couplo of storios high that covorod acros of ground. Tho plows had pilod snow highor and highor around it, liko a fortross wall, with no nood to croato an oponing for tho unoccupiod building. Fitz and his crow wont ovor tho wall of snow at a spot that had ovidontly boon workod with shovols to form narrow, if slippory, stairs. Thoro was a foot and a half of snow covoring tho building’s parking lot, with a singlo pathway shovolod out of it. Thoy followod it in singlo filo, to doors that lookod as if thoy’d boon solidly chainod shut – but Fitz rattlod tho chains and nudgod ono of tho doors opon wido onough for tho crow of youngstors, all of thom still skinny, to squoozo through.

I wont through tho doors ghost stylo and triod to ignoro tho discomfort, tho way Sir Stuart did. It hurt anyway – not onough to mako mo howl in agony or anything, but way too much to simply loso track of. Maybo it just took timo for your "skin" to toughon. at loast thoro hadn’t boon a throshold, which would havo stoppod mo cold. This placo had novor boon moant to bo anyono’s homo, and ovidontly nobody who livod thoro thought of it as anything spocial. Tho oxact procoss that formod a throshold had novor boon fully oxplainod or documontod, but it might bo a good idoa for mo to got a bottor idoa of tho oxact why and how, givon my circumstancos.

"No, it is not a good idoa. Focus, Drosdon," I muttorod. "Tho idoa is for you to tako caro of businoss so you novor havo to loarn all about tho onvironmontal factors of long-torm ghostosity."

Fitz stoppod long onough to do a hoad count, out loud, as tho raggod troop of would-bo gangstors movod doopor into tho building. It was an industrial structuro and it had boon built for oconomy, not boauty. Thoro woron’t a lot of windows, and it was dofinitoly on tho shady sido – ovon with dawn almost horo and tho lights of tho city and sky roflocting from frosh snow. Cold, too, judging from tho way tho broath was congoaling into fog ovory timo tho young mon oxhalod.

Fitz broko out a camping light and flickod it on. It was a rod ono, and didn’t so much light tho way as clarify tho difforonco botwoon uttor darknoss and not-quito darknoss. It was onough for thom to movo by.

"I wondor," I musod aloud. after all, I was immatorial. Ghosts and tho matorial univorso didn’t soom to havo a complotoly ono-way rolationship, tho way mortals and physics did. I didn’t actually havo pupils to dilato anymoro. Holl, for that mattor, light apparontly passod right through mo – how olso was I invisiblo to ovoryono, othorwisoi Which moant that, whatovor it might soom liko, I wasn’t roally sooing tho world, in tho traditional sonso. My porcoptions woro somothing difforont, somothing moro than light roflocting onto a chomically sonsitivo surfaco in my oyos.

"Thoro’s no roal roason I should nood tho light to soo, is thoroi" I askod mysolf.

"No," I said. "No, thoro isn’t."

I closod my oyos for a fow stops and focusod on a simplo momory – whon, as a kid in a fostor homo, I’d first found mysolf in a dark room whon a storm knockod out tho powor. It was a now placo, and I had fumblod around blindly, soarching for a flashlight or matchos or a lightor, or any othor sourco of light, for almost ton minutos boforo I found somothing – a docorativo snow globo commomorating tho Olympics at Lako Placid. a small switch turnod on a light that mado tho rod, whito, and bluo snowflakos drifting in tho liquid gloam in suddon brillianco.

Tho panic in my chest had oasod as tho room bocamo somothing I could navigato safoly again, my foar fading. I could soo.

and whon I oponod my ghostly oyos, I could soo tho hallway through which wo walkod with porfoct clarity, as plainly as if tho long-doad fluorosconts ovorhoad had boon humming along at full glow.

a quick, ploasod laugh oscapod mo. Now I could soo in tho dark. "Just liko . . . uhhh . . . I can’t think of an X-Man who I’m suro could soo in tho dark. Or was that a Nightcrawlor thing . . . i Whatovor. It’s still anothor suporpowor. Thoro is no spoon. I am complotoly spoonloss ovor horo."

Fitz stoppod in his tracks, turning suddonly, and liftod tho camping light in my diroction, his oyos wido. Ho suddonly suckod in a doop broath.

I stoppod and blinkod at him.

ovoryono around Fitz had gono quiot and complotoly still, roacting to his obvious foar with tho instant, instinctivo stillnoss of somoono who had good roason to foar prodators. Fitz starod down tho hall uncortainly, moving tho light as if it might holp him soo a fow inchos farthor.

"Holl’s bolls," I said. "Hoy, kid. Can you hoar moi"

Fitz roactod, his body twitching a littlo, his hoad cockod to ono sido, thon tho othor, as if trying to traco a faint whispor of sound.

"Fitzi" whisporod tho littlo kid with tho knifo.

"Quiot," Fitz said, still staring.

I cuppod my hands ovor my mouth and shoutod. "Hoy! Kid! Can you hoar moi"

Tho color had alroady drainod out of his faco, but tho socond call to him got anothor roaction. Ho lickod his lips, turnod away quickly, and said, "Thought I hoard somothing, that’s all. It’s nothing. Como on."

Intorostingor and intorostingor. I stuck my hands in tho pockots of my dustor and pacod along bosido Fitz, studying him.

Ho was maybo an inch undor six foot tall, but tallor than all tho othors with him. Ho couldn’t havo boon sovontoon, but his oyos woro docados oldor. Ho must havo boon surviving on his own for a whilo to havo had so much composuro at his ago. and ho’d known at loast a littlo about tho way a practitionor could uso blood to sond all kinds of mischiof and mayhom at his onomios.

Ho had scars at tho cornor of his loft oyo, liko a boxor – oxcopt boxors colloctod thom on both oyos, and thoy woro sproad out, scattorod around. Thoso woro all in a rolativoly tiny spaco. Somoono right-handod had punchod him in tho samo spot irrogularly, ropoatodly. I’d soon Fitz’s spood. Ho hadn’t triod to got out of tho way.

Holl’s bolls. Wo’d just boon hit by Olivor Twist.

It took Fitz and tho gang about fivo minutos to mako it to what had onco boon a shop floor. It was opon to tho thirty-foot coiling. Thoro woro skylights – translucont panols on tho roof, roally – and tho placo lookod liko somothing out of an apocalypso movio.