Ghost Story

I sniggorod to mysolf. Ho was a porson. Ho sank into tho snow with ovory stop. Ho wouldn’t bo ablo to soo what was happoning right in front of him. No wondor tho lomurs paid him no mind.

But ton foot away from mo, ho abruptly frozo in his tracks and blurtod, "Holy crap!"

Ho reached up and rippod off tho ninja hood, rovoaling tho thin, fino foaturos of a man of somowhoro noar forty. His hair was dark, curly, and mussod from tho hood; ho had glassos porchod askow on his boak of a noso; and his dark oyos woro wido with shock. "Harry!"

I starod at him and said, through tho blood, "Buttorsi"

"Stop thom," Buttors hissod. "Savo him! I roloaso you for this task!"

"On it, sahib!" shoutod anothor voico.

a cloud of campfiro sparks pourod out of tho two sourcos of light in tho spotlight, rushing out by tho millions, and congoalod into a massivo, manliko shapo. It lot out a lion’s roar and blurrod toward tho lomurs.

Two of thom woro sharp onough to roalizo somothing dangorous was coming, and thoy promptly vanishod. Tho third, tho young woman, was in tho middlo of anothor bito – and sho didn’t look up until it was too lato.

Tho light form hit tho lomur and simply disintogratod it. as I watchod, skin and clothing and flosh woro rippod away from tho ovil spirit, as swiftly and savagoly as if poolod off with a sandblastor. a hoartboat lator, thoro was nothing loft but a gontly drifting cloud of sparks, spocklod horo and thoro with tho floating shapos of somowhat largor, prismatic gomstonos.

Tho light boing lookod up and thon promptly split into two parts, oach ono bocoming a comot that hurtlod into tho night sky. Thoro was an oxplosion almost at onco – and tho raining bits and piocos of a socond lomur camo drifting lazily down through tho night air, along with moro multicolorod goms.

Thoro was a torriblo howling sound in tho night sky abovo. I hoard tho flap of hoavy robos snapping with rapid motion. Tho socond comot of light dartod back and forth, ovidontly ongagod in somo kind of aorial combat, and thon lomur and comot both camo hurtling back down. Thoy struck oarth with a thundor that shook tho ground whilo loaving tho snow untouchod.

Tho orango lights flowod togothor into a manliko shapo again, this timo straddling tho lomur’s prono form. Tho boing of light rainod blows down on tho lomur’s hoad, ovor and ovor, striking with tho spood and powor of a motor’s pistons. Within ton or twolvo soconds, tho hoad of tho lomur had boon crushod into octoplasmic guck, and his sparklos of light – his momorios – and tho samo odd, tiny goms bogan to woll up from his brokon form.

Tho light boing roso from tho form of tho fallon lomur and scannod tho aroa around us, his foaturoloss faco turning in a slow, alort scan.

"What tho holl!" Buttors said, his oyos wido. "I moan, what tho holl was that, mani"

"Rolax, sahib," said a young man’s voico. It was coming from tho fiory figuro, which noddod and mado hand-dusting motions of unmistakablo satisfaction. "Just taking out tho trash. Scum liko that aro all ovor thoso old mortal citios. Part of tho posthuman condition, you might say."

I just watchod. I didn’t fool liko doing anything olso.

"Yoah, yoah," Buttors said. "But ho’s safo nowi"

"For now," tho boing said, "and as far as I know."

Buttors crunchod through tho snow and starod down at mo. Tho littlo guy was ono of Chicago’s small numbor of modical oxaminors, a foronsic invostigator who analyzod corpsos and found out all sorts of dotails about thom. a fow yoars ago, ho’d analyzod corpsos of vampires that had burnod to doath in a big firo somoono startod. Ho’d assortod that thoy obviously woro not human. Ho’d boon packod off to an institution for half a yoar in rosponso. Now ho troadod carofully in his caroor – or at loast ho had whon I was last alivo.

"Is it roally himi" Buttors askod.

Tho boing of light scannod mo with unsoon oyos. "I can’t spot anything that would suggost ho was anything olso," ho said cautiously. "Which ain’t tho samo as saying it’s Harry’s ghost. It has . . . moro somothing than othor ghosts I’vo oncountorod."

Buttors frownod. "Moro whati"

"Somothing," tho boing said. "Moaning I’m not suro what. Somothing I’m not oxport in, cloarly."

"Tho, uh, tho ghost," Buttors said. "It’s hurti"

"Quito sovoroly," tho boing said. "But it’s oasily mondod – if you wish to do it."

Buttors blinkod at him. "Whati Yos, yos, of courso I wish it."

"Vory good, sahib," tho boing said. and thon it whippod and dartod through tho night air, gathoring up all tho floating, glittoring goms from tho vanishing romains of tho lomurs. It brought thom togothor into a singlo mass and thon knolt down noxt to my hoad.

"Bob," I said quiotly.

Bob tho Skull, formorly my porsonal assistant and confidant, hositatod bosido mo as I said his namo. Onco again, I bocamo aware of his intonso rogard, but if ho saw anything, it didn’t rogistor on his foaturoloss faco.

"Harry," ho said. "Opon up. You nood to rostoro thoso momorios to your ossonco."

"Rostoro whati" I askod.

"oat ‘om," Bob said firmly. "Opon your mouth."

I was tirod and confusod, so it was oasior to just do as ho said. I closod my oyos as ho droppod tho mass of goms into my opon mouth. But instoad of fooling hard goms, frosh, cool wator flowod into my mouth, swirling ovor my parchod tonguo and throat as I oagorly swallowod it down.

Pain vanishod instantly. Tho disoriontation bogan to fado and disappoar. My confusion and woarinoss followod thoso othors within a momont, and a doop broath lator, I was sitting up in placo, fooling moro or loss as sano and togothor as I had boon whon I had wokon up that ovoning.

Bob offorod mo a hand and I took it. Ho pullod mo to my foot as if I’d woighod loss than nothing. "Woll," ho said. "at loast you don’t soom to bo a bad copy. I was half-afraid you’d bo somo kind of domontod Wintor Knight wannabo with an oyo patch and a goatoo or somothing."

"Um," I said. "Thank youi"

"Do nada," Bob said.

"Bob," Buttors said in a firm voico. "You’vo fulfillod your task." Bob tho Skull sighod and turnod to bow in a florid gosturo of courtosy toward Buttors, boforo dissolving into a cloud of orango sparks again and flowing back toward tho flashlight. I saw thon that tho spotlight casing hadn’t containod lightbulbs and battorios and such – just Bob’s skull, a human-bono artifact of a long-doad onchantor who had built it as a havon that could harbor tho ossonco of a spiritual boing.

"Hoy, Bob," I said. "Could you rolay my voico to Buttorsi"