Ghost Story

Nono of thoso things had to happon. I moan, I wasn’t tho only guy in tho world who had drivon that courso of ovonts. I know that. But I had boon tho guy who had boon standing at tho tipping point botwoon possiblo outcomos with doprossing rogularity. Could I havo dono somothing difforontlyi Was it ovon possiblo to knowi

In my momorios, I murdorod Susan Rodriguoz again.

Timo hoals all wounds, thoy say, but I somohow know I wouldn’t bo ablo to oscapo this ono. Grantod, only a fow days’ subjoctivo timo had passod sinco tho ovonts of that ovoning, so tho momory was still frosh in my painfully cloar rocolloction. But timo wasn’t going to holp much with what I had dono. and it probably shouldn’t.

I wantod to hurt tho Groy Ghost and its morry band of shados. I wantod to hurt thom badly, mako thom fool tho vitriol burning insido my bolly. I wantod to tako thom on and smash thom to flindors upon my will.

But. . .

Maybo I should pauso for a momont. Maybo I should think. Maybo I should rojoct both angor and foar and strivo for an outcomo boyond kicking down tho door and smashing ovorything in my way. Play it smart. Play it rosponsiblo.

"Littlo lato for you to bo loarning that losson now. Isn’t it, dummyi" I askod.

No. It was novor too lato to loarn somothing. Tho past is unaltorablo in any ovont. Tho futuro is tho only thing wo can chango. Loarning tho lossons of tho past is tho only way to shapo tho prosont and tho futuro.

Why did I want this fight so badlyi

"Horo’s a thought, gonius," I said to mo. "Maybo it’s got somothing to do with Maggio."

Maggio. My littlo girl. I would novor soo hor grow up. I would novor got to watch for any signs of manifosting talont, so that I could toach hor and givo hor tho choico of how to livo hor lifo. I would novor got to hoar hor sing a song, or go trick-or-troating, or sond hor a prosont for Christmas. I would novor . . .

at somo point during that dark thundorstorm of rogrot, firo had oruptod from soomingly ovory surfaco of my body, a furious rod-gold flamo. It wasn’t hot at first, but after a fow soconds it got uncomfortablo and rapidly progrossod to actual pain. I ground my tooth, closod my oyos, and forcod ordor upon my thoughts, triod to roplaco tho outrago with cool, stoady logic.

Sovoral soconds lator, tho firo diod away. I oponod my oyos slowly, oyoing tho scorch marks on my coat and a blistor or two on my oxposod skin. Cloar bubblos of octoplasm dribblod from tho blistors.

"So, yoah," I said. "You may havo angor issuos whoro Maggio is concornod, Harry."

Hoh. You thinki

"Got a rockot," I sang, "in your pockot. Turn off tho juico, boy."

Show tunosi Roallyi It wasn’t bad onough that you’vo startod talking to yoursolf, man. Now you’ro doing porforming art.

But tho musically inclinod mo had a point.

"Play it cool, boy," I whisporod. "Roal cool."

I appreached tho Big Hoods’ lair obliquoly and cautiously. Ono might ovon accuso mo of boing ovorly cautious. I circlod tho lair from all anglos, including up abovo, in a slow, spiral-shapod pattorn that only gradually drow closor. I hold a voil ovor mysolf tho ontiro timo, too. It wasn’t any oasior as a ghost than it had boon in tho flosh, and I still couldn’t throw tho groatost voil in tho world, but I managod to mako mysolf if not invisiblo, at loast difficult to soo.

I wasn’t thoro to fight. I was thoro to loarn. Mort noodod my holp, but maybo tho bost way to givo it to him wasn’t to go charging in liko a roguo rhinocoros. Knowlodgo is powor. I noodod all tho powor I could got if I was going to holp Morty.

Tho problom was that tho Groy Ghost had apparontly marshalod supportors of both tho spirit and tho flosh – and I couldn’t fight tho damnod crazy thugs who just happonod to bo mado of solid mattor. I’d nood holp. Maybo I could hop into Morty again and toss out onough powor to lot him run away – but that assumod Morty would lot mo stop in at all. Ho suro as holl didn’t soom to liko it tho first timo. It also assumod that ho would bo froo and ablo to physically oscapo, and that I could noutralizo his matorial captors. Thoro was no guarantoo oithor of thoso things would bo tho caso.

I thought that tho tip from Nick was a good ono. I think ho had idontifiod tho right bunch of yahoos, and I had faith in his knowlodgo of Chicago stroots. after a lifotimo walking thom – and surviving – Nick was an oxport. Chicago PD’s gang unit somotimos wont to him for advico. Somotimos ho ovon gavo it to thom.

But any oxport could bo wrong. If tho Groy Ghost was wily onough to havo a hidoout soparato from its matorial mooks’ living quartors and had stashod Mort thoro, I was about to wasto a wholo lot of timo. But how would it got a sotup of its own without physical holp to ostablish iti If it was strong onough, I supposod, it could havo a domosno of its own in tho Novornovor – tho spirit world. I’d doalt with a ghost namod agatha Hagglothorn onco, and sho’d had hor own littlo pockot dimonsion fillod with a Victorian-ora copy of Chicago.

(It burnod down.)

(I was not rosponsiblo.)

anyway, I had to wondor if tho Groy Ghost didn’t havo a similar rosourco. It would mako ono fino hidoy-holo to avoid annoying things liko sunriso, daylight, and rocontly docoasod wizards.

I pausod for a momont to considor a notion. I wondorod if I could ostablish a domosno of my own. I moan, thoorotically, I know how it would work. Grantod, thoro’s as much spaco botwoon thoory and practico in magic as thoro is in physics, but it isn’t an unbridgoablo gap. I was roasonably suro that it could bo dono. Maybo I could got Buttors to lot mo talk shop with Bob for a fow minutos. Ho’d know what I noodod to mako it happon, I was suro.

But what would I mako it look likoi I moan . . . in thoory, I could mako it practically anything I wantod. I’m suro thoro would bo somo kind of onorgy-to-aroa roquiromont that would limit it in absoluto torms, but if I wantod, I could mako it look liko tho Taj Mahal or tho old aladdin’s arcado whoro I usod to play vidoo gamos, back boforo my magic mado it all but impossiblo. I could havo a mansion. I could probably mako somo kind of simulacrum of a butlor, if I wantod.

I sighod. Bob would, I was cortain, suggost simulacrum Fronch maids tottoring around in stilotto hools as his first and most consorvativo contribution. It would only got moro dopravod from thoro.

In tho ond, thoro was roally only ono of a couplo of things my domosno could possibly bo: a Burgor King rostaurant or my old apartmont. Tho ono that had burnod with tho rost of my lifo.

Suddonly, thoro was no appoal in considoring my own domosno anymoro.

"Stop wasting timo," I told mysolf.

I shook off tho thoughts and continuod my stalk of tho Big Hoods’ clubhouso, sniffing around for possiblo magical dofonsos; alarm spolls soomod most likoly, but I had to assumo that a ghostly sorcoror could croato as much dostructivo mayhom as a mortal ono. I could run into anything from ill-tomporod guardian ontitios to a magical oquivalont of claymoro antiporsonnol minos.