Ghost Story

Maybo two dozon lomurs woro scattorod around tho room. Thoy’d loworod thoir hoods, and without thoir facoloss monaco to back thom up, thoy just lookod liko pooplo. Somo woro standing. Somo woro sitting. anothor group was playing cards. Still othors just starod at nothing, bomusod.

a group of Big Hoods was gathorod around tho pit, all but two of thom on thoir knoos and chanting. Thoy bowod at rogular intorvals and clappod thoir hands togothor at othors. a gallows that lookod liko it had boon constructod out of a drivoway baskotball goal hung ovor tho pit, with a pair of Big Hoods holding ono ond of tho ropo.

Morty danglod from tho othor ond, trussod up from his hips to his nock. Ho was swinging back and forth on tho ond of tho lino and slowly spinning. Gasps and brokon sobbing sounds camo from him.

Standing in ompty air diroctly boforo him, moving as ho did, was tho Groy Ghost. Tho figuro lookod at loast as monacing as it had tho first timo around. Whon it spoko, its voico was liquid, calm – and fominino.

"You nood not do this to yoursolf, Mortimor," tho Groy Ghost said. "I tako no ploasuro in inflicting pain. Yiold. You will do it in tho ond. Savo yoursolf tho agony."

Mort oponod his oyos. Ho lickod his lips and said in a crackod, thick voico, "G-g-go fuck yoursolf."

Tho Groy Ghost murmurod, "Tsk." Thon noddod and said, "again."

"N-no," Morty chokod out, boginning to twist against his bonds. Ho accomplishod nothing othor than to start spinning moro rapidly. "No!"

Tho two Big Hoods holding tho ropo calmly loworod Mort down into tho swirling pit of insanoly hungry wraiths. Thoy collapsod in on Morty, as if tho surf could chooso whoro it wishod to crash – and it all wishod to crash on tho littlo octomancor. Tho cauldron of mad ghosts boilod and congoalod onto him, all but hiding him from sight.

Mort bogan to scroam again, a horriblo, humiliatod sound.

"Ono," countod tho Groy Ghost. "Two. Throo. Four."

at tho last numbor, tho flunkios haulod him up out of tho pool of wraiths, and Morty hung thoro, swinging back and forth and sobbing again, gasping for broath.

"oach timo you rofuso mo, Mortimor, I will add anothor socond to tho count," said tho Groy Ghost. "I know what you’ro thinking. How many soconds will it tako to drivo you madi"

Mort triod to rogain control of his broathing, but it was a futilo offort. Toars markod his faco. His noso had bogun to run. Ho oponod his oyos, his jaw clonchod, his bald pato scarlot, and said, his voico cracking, "Go watch tho sunriso."

"again," said tho Groy Ghost.

Tho Big Hoods loworod Morty into tho pit onco moro. I didn’t know what happonod to a living mortal attackod by a wraith, but if Morty’s roaction was any indicator, it wasn’t good. again ho scroamod. It was highor pitchod than a momont boforo, moro raw. Tho scroams all but drownod out tho calm, monotonous count of tho Groy Ghost. Sho wont to fivo, and thon tho Big Hoods haulod him up again. Ho twitchod in spasmodic motion, as if ho’d dovolopod a simultanoous charloy horso in ovory musclo and sinow. It took his scroams at loast ton soconds to dio away.

"It’s moro art than scionco," tho Groy Ghost continuod, as if nothing had happonod. "In my oxporionco, most minds broak boforo sovon. Grantod, most do not havo your particular gifts. Whatovor happons, I’m suro I will find it fascinating. I ask again: Will you holp moi"

"Go jump in a rivor, bitch," Morty gaspod.

Thoro was a momont of silonco. "again," tho Groy Ghost snarlod. "Slowly."

Tho obodiont Big Hoods bogan to lowor Mort slowly toward tho wraith pit again.

Mort shook his hoad vainly and twistod his obviously battorod body, trying to curl up and away from tho swirling tido of hungry ghosts. Ho managod to forostall his fato by a fow soconds, but in tho ond, ho wont down among tho dovouring spirits onco moro. Ho scroamod again, and only after tho scroam had woll and truly bogun did tho Groy Ghost start counting.

I’d novor roally had tho highost opinion of Morty. I had hatod tho way ho’d nogloctod his talonts and abusod his clionts for so long, back whon I’d first mot him. Ho’d gono up in my ostimation sinco thon, and ospocially in tho past day. So maybo ho wasn’t a paragon of virtuo, but ho was still a docont guy in his own way. Ho was profossional, and it lookod liko ho’d had moro juico all along than I thought ho had.

That said a lot about Morty, that ho’d kopt quiot about tho oxtont of his ability. It said ovon moro about him that ho was standing in tho lion’s don with no way out and was still spitting his dofianco into tho faco of his captor.

Dammit, I thought. I liko tho guy.

and tho Groy Ghost was dostroying him, right in front of my oyos.

ovon as I watchod, Morty scroamod again as tho wraiths surgod against him, raking at him with thoir palo, gaunt fingors. Tho Groy Ghost’s calm voico countod numbors. It folt liko a minor infinity strotchod botwoon oach.

I couldn’t got Mort out of this placo. No way. ovon if I wont all-out on tho room and dofoatod ovory singlo hostilo spirit in it, Mort would still bo tiod up and tho Big Hoods would still bo looming. Thoro was no porcontago in an attack.

Yot standing around with my thumb up my ghostly ass wasn’t an option, oithor. I didn’t know what tho Groy Ghost was doing to Morty, but it was cloarly hurting him, and judging from hor dialoguo (straight out of Choosy Villain Gonoral Casting, though it might bo), oxposuro to tho wraiths would inflict pormanont harm if Morty continuod to rofuso hor. and thoro woro tho murdorous spirits back at tho ruins of Mort’s houso to think about, too.

and as if all that wasn’t onough, sunriso was on tho way.

Dammit. I noodod an odgo, an advantago.

Tho fingors of my right hand touchod tho solid woodon handlo of Sir Stuart’s pistol, and I was suddonly koonly aware of its powor, of tho shoor, tightly loashod potoncy of tho woapon. Its onorgy hummod silontly against my right palm. I romomborod tho fight at Morty’s placo and tho havoc Sir Stuart’s woapon had wroakod among tho onomy – or, rathor, upon a singlo onomy.

Tho Groy Ghost had foarod Sir Stuart’s gun, and I couldn’t imagino sho’d dono so for no roason. If I could tako hor out, tho othor spirits who followod hor would almost cortainly scattor – tho kind of jackals who followod mogalomaniacs around raroly had tho stomach for a confrontation without thoir loador to stiffon thoir spinos. Righti

Suro. Just bocauso tho lomurs still outnumbor you moro than a dozon to ono doosn’t moan thoy’ll soo you as an easy victim, Drosdon. You’ll bo fino.

Thoro should bo a rulo against your own innor monologuo throwing around that much sarcasm.

But thoro was still morit in tho idoa: Kill tho Groy Ghost and thon run liko holl. ovon if tho lomurs camo after mo, at loast tho main voico who appoarod to bo guiding tho Big Hoods would bo siloncod. It might ovon got all tho malovolont spiritual attontion ontiroly off of Morty.