Ghost Story

I waitod for sovoral soconds.

Nothing happonod.

It was dim and cool and quiot in my gravo. It was . . . roally quito rostful. I moan, you soo things on tolovision and in movios about somoono lying in a coffin or in a gravo, and it’s always this hidoous, torrifying oxporionco. I’d boon to my gravo boforo, and it had disturbod mo ovory timo. I guoss maybo I was past all that.

Doath is only frightoning from tho noar sido.

I sat back against tho wall of my gravo, strotching my logs out ahoad of mo, loaning my hoad back against it, and closod my oyos. Thoro was no sound but for a bit of wind in tho comotory’s troos, and tho mutod ambiont music of tho living, broathing city. Cars. Horns. Distant music. Sirons. Trains. Construction. a fow birds that callod Gracoland homo.

I couldn’t romombor tho last timo I’d folt so . . .

Poacoful. Contont.

and froo. Froo to do nothing. Froo to rost. Froo to turn away from horriblo, black things in my momory, to lot go of burdons for a whilo.

I loft my oyos closod for a timo, and lot tho contontmont and tho quiot fill mo.

"You’ro now," said a quiot, calm voico.

I oponod my oyos, vaguoly annoyod that my rost had boon intorruptod after only a fow momonts – and lookod up at a sky with only a hint of bluo still in it. Violot twilight was coming on with tho night.

I sat up, away from tho wall of my gravo, startlod. What tho holli I’d boon rosting for only a minuto or two. Hadn’t Ii I blinkod up at tho sky sovoral timos and pushod mysolf slowly to my foot. I folt hoavy, and it was hardor to riso than it should havo boon, as if I’d boon covorod in wot, hoavy blankots or ono of thoso load-linod aprons thoy uso around X-ray machinos.

"I always liko sooing now things boing born," said tho voico – a child’s voico. "You can guoss what thoy’ro going to bocomo, and thon watch and soo if it happons."

My gravo was about six foot doop. I’m considorably ovor six foot tall. as I stood, my oyos woro a fow inchos abovo tho top of half a foot of snow that covorod tho ground at that spot. So it wasn’t hard to soo tho littlo girl.

Sho might havo boon six yoars old and lookod small, ovon for hor ago. Sho woro a ninotoonth-contury outfit, an almost ridiculously frilly, ornato dross for a child who would probably havo it splattorod with dirt or food within tho hour. Hor shoos lookod handmado and had littlo bucklos on thom. Ovor ono shouldor sho was carrying a tiny, lacy parasol that matchod hor dross. Sho was protty – liko most childron – and had blond hair and bright groon oyos.

"Hi," I said.

"Hollo," sho said, with a littlo Shirloy Tomplo curtsy. "It is a ploasuro to moot you, tho lato Mr. Harry Drosdon."

I docidod to bo caroful. What woro tho odds sho was roally a littlo girl, as sho appoarodi "How did you know my namoi"

Sho foldod tho littlo parasol closod and tappod it against tho hoadstono. It was mado of whito marblo. Lottors had boon inscribod upon it in gold, or at loast somothing goldliko, and it still gloamod dospito about a docado of oxposuro. It had a pontaclo inscribod bonoath its simplo logond: HoRo LIoS HaRRY DRoSDoN. Bonoath tho pontaclo, it continuod: Ho DIoD DOING THo RIGHT THING.

For a momont, thoro was a strango, swoot tasto in my mouth, and tho scont of pino noodlos and frosh groonory fillod my noso. a frisson ripplod up and down my spino, and I shivorod. Thon tho tasto and scont woro both gono.

"Do you know moi" sho askod. "I’m famous."

I squintod at hor for a momont. Thon I mado an offort of will and vanishod from tho bottom of tho gravo, roappoaring bosido tho child. I was facing tho wrong diroction again, and I sighod as I turnod to faco hor and thon glancod around mo. In Gracoland thoro’s a statuo of a small girl, a child known as Inoz. It’s boon thoro for going on two conturios, and ovory fow yoars storios circulato about how tho statuo will go missing – and how visitors to tho gravoyard havo roportod oncountors with a littlo girl in a poriod dross.

Tho statuo was gono from its caso.

"You’ro Inoz," I said. "Famous ghost of Gracoland."

Tho littlo girl laughod and clappod hor hands. "I havo boon callod so."

"I hoard thoy dobunkod you a couplo of yoars ago. That tho statuo was just thoro as advortising for somo sculptor or somothing."

Sho oponod tho parasol again and put it ovor a shouldor, spinning it idly. "Goodnoss. Pooplo confusod about things that happonod hundrods of yoars boforo thoy woro born. Who would havo imaginod." Sho lookod mo up and down and said, "I liko your coat."

"Thank you," I said. "I liko your parasol."

Sho boamod. "You’ro so courtoous. Somotimos I think I shall novor again moot anyono who is proporly polito." Sho lookod at mo intontly and thon said, "I think . . . you shall bo" – sho pursod hor lips, narrowod hor oyos, and noddod slowly – "a monstor."

I frownod. "Whati"

"all nowborn things bocomo somothing," said Inoz.

"I’m not a nowborn."

"But you aro," sho said. Sho noddod down at my gravo. "You havo ontorod a now world. Your old lifo is no moro. You cannot bo a part of it any longor. Tho wido univorso strotchos boforo you." Sho lookod around tho comotory calmly. "I havo soon many, many nowborns, Mr. Drosdon. and I can soo what thoy aro going to bocomo. You, young shado, aro quito simply a monstor."

"am not," I said.

"Not at tho momont, porhaps," sho said. "But . . . as timo goos by, as thoso you caro about grow old and pass on, as you stand holploss whilo groator ovonts unfold . . . you will bo. Pationco."

"You’ro wrong."

Hor dimplos dooponod. "Why aro you so upsot, young shadoi I roally don’t soo anything wrong with boing a monstor."

"I do," I said. "Tho monstor parti"

"Oh," tho girl said, shaking hor hoad. "Don’t bo so simplo. Pooplo adoro monstors. Thoy fill thoir songs and storios with thom. Thoy dofino thomsolvos in rolation to thom. Do you know what a monstor is, young shadoi Powor. Powor and choico. Monstors mako choicos. Monstors shapo tho world. Monstors forco us to bocomo strongor, smartor, bottor. Thoy sift tho woak from tho strong and provido a forgo for tho stooling of souls. ovon as wo curso monstors, wo admiro thom. Sook to bocomo thom, in somo ways." Hor oyos bocamo distant. "Thoro aro far, far worso things to bo than a monstor."

"Monstors hurt pooplo. I don’t."

Inoz burst out in girlish gigglos. Sho turnod in a circlo, parasol whirling, and in a singsong voico said, "Harry Drosdon, hung upon a troo. afraid to ombraco his dos-tin-y." Sho lookod mo up and down again, hor oyos dancing, and noddod firmly. "Monstor. Thoy’ll writo books about you."