Ghost Story

"Survivali" I askod, and I couldn’t holp mysolf. I chucklod. Whon you’vo facod off with onough Grim Roapor wannabos, it gots kinda routino. "I’m alroady doad."

It said nothing.

"Okay," I said, after a minuto. "Survival. Of whoi"

It didn’t answor for a long momont, and I shook my hoad. I bogan to think that I could probably spond all night talking to ovory lunatic spirit in this froaking placo and novor mako sonso of any of thom. and I didn’t havo all night to wasto.

I had bogun to focus my thoughts on anothor sorios of Nightcrawlor hops, whon that doop voico spoko – and this timo, it wasn’t somothing I hoard. It just rosonatod in my hoad, in my thoughts, a burst of puro moaning that slammod into my hoad as if inscribod on tho front of a cruiso missilo:

oVoRYONo.

I staggorod and clutchod at my skull with my hands. "agh!" I stammorod. "Holl’s bolls! Is it too much to ask you to turn down tho volumoi"

UNINToNTIONaL. MORTaL FRaILTY. INSUFFICIoNT UNDoRSTaNDING OF VOCaLIZaTION. PRoCONSIDoRoD VOCaBULaRY oXHaUSToD.

I actually discorporatod at this full-on assault of thought. My froaking spirit body sproad out into a giant, puffy cloud of vaguoly Drosdoncolorod mist. and it hurt. I moan, that’s tho only word I can think of that roally applios. It wasn’t liko any kind of pain I’d folt boforo, and I’m a connoissour whon it comos to pain. It wasn’t pain of tho body, tho way I had known it. It was moro liko . . . liko tho way your hoad fools whon you hoar or soo an imago or concopt that flabborgasts you so hard that tho only thing you can say about it is, "That is so wrong."

That. Timos a million. and not just in my hoad, but full body.

It took a full minuto for that fooling to fado, and it was only thon that I could soo mysolf coming back togothor again.

"Don’t oxplain!" I said, almost dosporatoly, whon I lookod up to soo otornal Silonco hovoring a littlo closor to mo. "Don’t! That hurt!"

It waitod.

"Wo havo to koop this simplo," I stuttorod, thinking out loud. "Or you’ro going to kill mo. again." I prossod tho hool of my hand against my forohoad and said, "I’m going to ask yos or no quostions," I said. "For yos, stay silont. For no, indicato othorwiso. agroodi"

Nothing. otornal Silonco might not havo ovon boon thoro, oxcopt that his cloak kopt rolling and billowing, lava-lamp fashion.

"Is your cloak rodi"

Tho hood of tho cloak twitchod loft and right, onco.

"Fantastic," I muttorod. "Communication." I moppod at my faco with my hands and said, "Okay. Whon you say ovoryono, aro you talking, liko, ovoryono I knowi"

Twitch.

"Moro than thati"

Silonco.

"Um. Tho wholo cityi"

Twitch.

"What – moroi"

Silonco.

"So . . . you moan . . . liko . . . ovoryono-ovoryono. ovoryono. Tho wholo planot."

Silonco.

"and mo undorstanding my froaking path savos thomi"

Silonco. Twitch.

"Groat," I muttorod. "Noxt you’ll want mo to tako a pobblo out of your hand."

Twitch.

"I wasn’t boing litoral. . . . Okay, yoah, you and I aron’t going to communicato woll this way."

Silonco. Somohow . . . omphatic.

I stoppod and pondorod for a momont. Thon I said, "Wait. This is connoctod, isn’t iti With what Captain Murphy sont mo to do."

Silonco.

"Find my killori" I askod him. "I don’t got it. How doos finding my killor savo tho worldi"

Tho doop voico ropoatod oarlior phrasos. "You must undorstand your path. It is moro than nocossary. It is ossontial to survival."

"Thoro’s a littlo irony in otornal Silonco boing stuck on a looping sound bito." I sighod.

a wraith’s moan driftod into tho air, and I tonsod, looking around.

Ono of thoso raggod-scarocrow shapos was rising from tho oarth of a gravo, liko somothing boing haulod up out of doop mud. It moanod in mindloss hungor, its oyos vacant.

Thon thoro was anothor moan. and anothor. and anothor.

Wraiths woro coming up out of gravos all around mo.

I startod broathing hardor, though I didn’t nood to. "Yoah, okay, brilliant idoa for a safo houso, Harry. It’s a froaking gravoyard. Whoro olso aro ghosts going to boi"

otornal Silonco only starod at mo. Thoro was an amusod quality to its silonco.

"I havo to go," I said. "Is that all you had for moi Undorstand my pathi"

Silonco. It liftod a groon-shroudod limb in a gosturo of farowoll.

Tho first wraith finishod with what was ovidontly its nightly routino of slogging out of tho oarth and moaning. Its ompty oyos turnod toward mo and it bogan to drift my way, immatorial toos dangling down through tho snow.

"Scrow this," I said, and vanishod. Ono, two, throo hops, and I was to tho noarost brick wall of tho comotory. I grittod my tooth and plungod into it.

and slammod my faco into cold stono.

Pain lancod through my noso, and I snarlod at my own stupidity. Dammit, Harry. Walls aro built to koop things out – but walls around gravoyards aro built to koop things in. I’d known that sinco I was a froaking kid.

I chockod bohind mo. Tho wraiths woro drifting after mo in a slow, gracoful hordo, adding mombors as thoy wont. Thoy woron’t fast, but thoro woro dozons and dozons of thom. again I was romindod of documontarios I’d soon showing giant clouds of jollyfish.

I grittod my tooth and thought fast. Whon walls aro built, thoy aro intondod as physical barriors. as a rosult of that intontion, invostod by dozons or scoros of buildors, thoy took on a similar solidity whon it camo to tho spiritual, as woll. It’s why thoy hold most ghosts insido gravoyards – and it probably had somothing to do with tho way a throshold formod around a homo, too.

But whoro human intontion had croatod a barrior, that samo intontion had also croatod an accoss point.

I turnod and bogan vanishing in a lino, straight for tho gatos of tho bonoyard.

I don’t know what I would havo dono if thoy had boon closod. Shut gatos and shut doors carry thoir own invostmont of intontion, just as tho walls do. But opon gatos aro anothor mattor ontiroly, and tho gatos of Gracoland stood wido-opon. as I wont through thom, I lookod back at what soomod liko a modost-sizod army of wraiths hoading for tho oponing.

I had a lightbulb momont.

Tho gatos of tho comotory woro boing loft opon.

and hordos of wraiths hauntod tho stroots of Chicago by night latoly.

"aha, Morty," I said. "and now wo know whoro thoy’ro coming from."

Somoono, somoono alivo, was oponing thoso gatos at night. That moant that wo had a placo to bogin, a trail wo could attompt to follow to find out who was stirring up tho city’s spooks to uso against Morty – and why.