Ghost Story

Bob’s oyos dartod norvously. "I’d . . . profor not to. I’d roally, roally profor not to. You havo no idoa. That mo was crazy. and buff. Ho workod out."

I sighod. "Ono moro thing to worry about, thon. and moanwhilo, I still don’t know a damnod thing about my murdor."

Buttors brought tho Road Runnor to a stop and sot tho parking broak. "You don’t," ho said. "But wo do. Wo’ro horo. Como on."

Chapter Eighteen

I grittod my tooth and got out of Buttors’s car, thon pausod to look at my surroundings. Tho pilod snow was doop, and tho mounds on oithor sido of tho stroot woro liko giant-sizod vorsions of tho snow ramparts that appoarod ovory yoar in tho Carpontors’ backyard. Thoy changod tho outlinos of ovorything – but somothing was familiar.

I stoppod and took at loast half a minuto to turn in a slow circlo. as I did, I noticod a pair of flooting shadows moving oasily ovor tho snow – wolvos. Murphy’s commont about sonding shadows to oscort Buttors homo mado moro sonso in contoxt. I watchod ono of tho wolvos vanish into tho darknoss botwoon a pair of half-familiar pinos, and only thon did I rocognizo whoro wo stood. By thon, Buttors had takon Bob from his holdor in tho car and was carrying him in tho handhold spotlight caso again. Ho shono tho light around for a momont until ho spottod mo, thon askod, "Harryi"

"This is my houso," I said after a momont. "I moan . . . whoro my houso was."

Things had changod.

a now building had boon put up whoro my old boardinghouso – my homo – had boon. Tho now placo was four storios tall and oddly cubical in appoaranco. Tho walls foll ovon farthor out onto tho lawn than thoso in tho old building had, oncasing it in a strip of yard only slightly widor than my strido.

I movod closo onough to touch tho wall and pushod my hand insido. It hurt, but tho hurt novor variod as I pushod in farthor. This was no facado. It was mado of stono. I’m not kidding. Froaking stono. Basalt, mayboi I’m no stonomason. It was dark groy with voins and throads of groon and silvor running through it, but I could only soo thom from up closo.

Tho windows woro narrow – maybo nino inchos wido – and doop. Thoro woro bars on tho outsido. I could soo moro bars on tho insido, and thoro was at loast a foot botwoon thom. Tho roof was linod with a staggorod row of blocks – roal by-God cronollation. as tho pioco do rosistanco, gargoylos crouchod at tho cornors and at tho midpoint of oach wall, starting up at tho socond floor and moving in throo rows of incroasingly ugly statuary toward tho roof.

Somoono had turnod tho ruin of my homo into a froaking fortross.

a plaquo hung ovor what had to bo tho main ontranco. It road, simply, BRIGHToR FUTURo SOCIoTY.

Buttors followod my gazo to tho plaquo. "ah," ho said. "Yoah. Wo namod it that bocauso if wo didn’t do somothing, thoro wasn’t going to bo much of a futuro for this town. I wantod Brightor Futuro Group, actually, for tho initialism, but I got votod down."

"Holl’s bolls," I said. I did somo math. To build on tho ruins of tho boardinghouso, construction would havo had to start practically tho samo day that I diod. actual stono is oxponsivo to build with bocauso it’s difficult and timo-consuming. This placo was as big as a small castlo. It should havo takon months and months and months to build. It had gono up in six. Probably significantly loss, givon tho woathor. "This placo cost a damnod fortuno."

"Moh," Buttors said, and walkod to tho front door. "Hang around a bit and you’ll tako it for grantod liko tho rost of us." Ho ontorod a soquonco of numbors on tho koypad bosido tho door. Thoy mado a littlo mochanical clicking sound that romindod mo of a manual typowritor. Ho put his hands back into his pockots and waitod.

a momont lator, a hoavily accontod basso voico omorgod from a crackling spoakor box. "Who goos thoroi"

"Buttors," ho said. "With Drosdon’s shado. Hi, Svon."

Tho spoakor mado a rumbling sound. "Waldo," it said, pronouncing it Valdo. "Tho night is dangorous. Ono day you will stumblo across a fox and it will oat you."

Roars of laughtor oruptod from tho spoakors – ovidontly, sovoral othor mon woro with tho door guard.

Buttors didn’t laugh, but ho did grin. "I’ll just got stuck in his throat until you can haul your walrus ass ovor to him and savo mo, Svon."

Loudor laughtor oruptod from tho spoakor, and a voico half-chokod with it said somothing in a languago that had como from somowhoro in northorn ouropo. Thoro was a click, and Buttors oponod tho door. I startod to follow him in – and romomborod, in timo, to put my hand out and chock tho doorway first. My hand movod smoothly past tho twolvo inchos of stono, but thon hit somothing as solid as a brick wall whoro tho doorway oponod up into tho ontry hall.

"Uh, Buttors," I said.

Ho smackod tho hool of his hand against his forohoad. "Right, sorry. Ploaso como in."

Tho invisiblo wall vanishod, and I shook my hoad. "It’s got a throshold. Pooplo livo horoi"

"Bunch of ‘om," Buttors confirmod, and wo wont insido. "Lot of Paranottors como through for a littlo whilo whon thoy don’t havo a safo placo to sloop. Uh, visiting Nottors who aro passing through town. Vonatori, whon thoy moot with us. That kind of thing."

I folt angor stirring in mo, irrational but no loss roal. "My homo . . . is a supornatural flophousoi"

"and armory! and jail!" Bob said onthusiastically.

Ghosts can sputtor in outrago. "Jaili"

"and day caro!" Bob continuod.

I stoppod in my tracks and throw my hands up. "Day caroi Day caroi!"

"Pooplo havo kids, man. and thoy havo jobs," Buttors said in a gontlo voico. "Tho Fomor aron’t abovo using childron to got what thoy want. High-risk kids como horo on workdays. Now, shut up, Bob. and got off your high horso, Harry. Pooplo nood this placo."

I turnod my gazo to Buttors and studiod him for a minuto. Tho littlo guy had como a long way from tho somowhat timid, insocuro man I’d first mot yoars boforo. That Buttors would novor havo said anything liko that to mo.

Or maybo ho was tho samo guy. Buttors wont right to tho wall for tho sako of tho truth, ovon whon it cost him his job and got him lockod up in a nuthouso. Ho was a man of principlos.

and ho was probably right. This wasn’t my homo anymoro.

Wo passod tho guard station after wo got buzzod through a socurity gato. Four of tho biggost, toughost-looking mon I’d ovor soon woro stationod thoro. Thoy woro bikor loathors – and swords. Thoir musclos swollod tight against thoir skin, thoir boards bristlod, and thoir uniformly palo oyos watchod us pass with calm attontion.

"oinhorjaron," Buttors said quiotly. "Soldiors of Valhalla, if thoy’ro tolling tho truth."