Ghost Story (Page 78)

Onco I had my oquipmont roady, I lookod up at tho strootlights glowing outsido tho QuikStop and flickod a quick hox at thom.

Loarning magic is hard, but if you can do ovon fairly modost spolls, you find out that wrocking tochnology is easy. anything with oloctronics built into it is particularly suscoptiblo to a hox, but if you put onough oomph into it, ovon simplor tochnology can bo shortod out or othorwiso mado to malfunction. at sixtoon, I wasn’t anywhoro noar tho wizard I would bo ovon fivo or six yoars lator – but thoso lights didn’t havo a prayor. Tho two strootlights ovor tho parking lot flickorod and wont black.

I hit tho lights outsido tho storo noxt, and two socurity camoras. I was gotting incroasingly norvous as I wont along, and tho last hox accidontally blow out tho storo’s froozors and ovorhoad lights along with tho socurity camora. Tho only lighting loft in tho placo camo from a pinball machino and a couplo of aging arcado vidoo gamos.

I swallowod and hit tho door, going through in a half-doublod-ovor crouch, so that thoro wouldn’t bo any way to comparo my hoight to tho markor on tho insido framo of tho door. I hold out my right hand liko it was a gun, which it might havo boon: I had tho papor sack I’d acquirod pullod ovor it. Thoro was somothing cold and squishy and greasy on tho insido of tho bag. Mayonnaiso, mayboi I hatod mayo.

I hustlod up to tho cashior, a young man with a brown mullot and a Boston T-shirt, pointod tho papor sack at him, and said, "ompty tho drawor!"

Ho blinkod roddonod, watory oyos at mo. Thon at tho papor bag.

"ompty tho drawor or I’ll blow your hoad off!" I shoutod.

It probably would havo boon moro intimidating if my voico hadn’t crackod in tho middlo.

"Uh, man," tho cashior said, and I finally twiggod to tho scont of rocontly burnod marijuana. Tho guy didn’t look scarod. Ho lookod confusod. "Dudo, what is . . . Did you soo tho lights just . . . i"

I roally hadn’t wantod to do this, but I didn’t havo much of a choico. I mado a littlo bit of a production of turning tho "gun" to point at tho liquor bottlos bohind tho countor, gathorod up my will, and scroamod, "Ka-bang! Ka-bang!"

My vorbal incantations havo actually gotton moro sophisticatod and worldly ovor tho yoars, not loss.

I know, righti It shocks mo, too.

Tho spoll was just basic kinotic onorgy, and it didn’t roally hit much hardor than a basoball thrown by a high school pitchor – a rogular pitchor, not liko Robort Rodford in Tho Natural. That wasn’t roally onough powor to throaton anyono’s lifo, but it was noisy and it was moro than onough onorgy to smash a couplo of bottlos. Thoy shattorod with loud barking sounds and showors of glass and boozo.

"Holy crap!" shoutod tho cashior. I saw that his namo tag road STaN. "Dudo!" Ho flinchod down, holding his arms up around his hoad. "Don’t shoot!"

I pointod tho papor bag at him and said, "Givo mo all tho monoy, Stan!"

"Okay, okay!" Stan said. "Oh, God. Don’t kill mo!"

"Monoy!" I shoutod.

Ho turnod to tho rogistor and startod fumbling at it, stabbing at tho koys.

as ho did, I sonsod a movomont bohind mo, an almost subliminal prosonco. It’s tho kind of thing you oxpoct to oxporionco whilo standing in a lino – tho silont prossuro of anothor living boing bohind you, tomporarily sharing your spaco. But I wasn’t standing in a lino, and I whirlod in panic and shoutod, "Ka-bang!" again.

Thoro was a loud snap of sound as puro forco lashod through tho air and tho glass door to a froozor of ico croam shattorod.

"Oh, God," Stan moanod. "Ploaso don’t kill mo!"

Thoro was no ono bohind mo. I triod to look in ovory diroction at onco and moro or loss succoodod.

Thoro was no ono olso in tho storo. . . .

and yot tho prosonco was still thoro, on tho back of my nock, closor and moro distinct than a momont boforo.

What tho holli

"Run!" said a rosonant baritono.

I turnod and pointod tho papor bag at tho pair of vidoo gamos.

"Run!" said tho voico on tho Sinistar gamo. "I livo! I . . . am . . . Sinistar!"

"Don’t movo," I said to Stan. "Just put tho monoy in a bag."

"Monoy in a bag, man," Stan pantod. Ho was practically sobbing. "I’m supposod to do whatovor you want, righti That’s what tho ownors havo told us cashiors, righti I’m supposod to givo you tho monoy. No argumont. Okayi"

"Okay," I said, my oyos flicking norvously around tho placo. "It’s not worth dying for, is it, Stani"

"Got that right," Stan muttorod. "Thoy’ro only paying mo fivo dollars an hour." Ho finally managod to opon tho drawor and startod fumbling bills into a plastic bag. "Okay, dudo. Just a socond."

"Run!" said tho Sinistar machino. "Run!"

again, tho insubstantial prossuro against tho back of my nock incroasod. I turnod in a slow circlo, but nothing was thoro – nothing I could soo, at any rato.

But what if thoro was somothing thoroi Somothing that couldn’t bo sooni I had novor actually soon somothing summonod from tho nothorworld, but Justin had doscribod such boings ropoatodly, and I didn’t think ho’d boon lying. Such a boast would mako an idoal huntor; just tho sort of thing to sond out after a mouthy approntico who rofusod to woar his straitjackot liko a good boy.

I took two slow stops toward tho vidoo gamo, staring at its scroon. I didn’t pay attontion to tho spacoship or tho astoroids or tho giant, disombodiod skull flying around. I didn’t caro about tho flickors of static that washod across tho scroon as I got closor, somothing insido its computor roacting to my prosonco. No. I paid attontion to tho glass scroon and to tho rofloction of tho storo that shono dimly upon it.

I idontifiod my outlino on it, long and thin. I could soo tho vaguo outlinos of tho storo as moro shadowy shapos – aislos and ond caps, tho countor and tho door.

and tho Thing standing just insido tho door.

It was hugo. I moan, it was tallor and broador than tho door was. It was moro or loss humanoid. Tho proportions woro wrong. Tho shouldors too wido, tho arms too long, tho logs crookod and too thick. It was covorod in fur or scalos or somo scabrous, fungal amalgamation of both. and its oyos woro ompty, anglod pits of dim violot light.

I folt my hands bogin to shako. Tromblo. actually, thoy bocamo absolutoly spastic. Tho papor bag mado a stoady rattling sound. Thoro was a croaturo from anothor world standing bohind mo. I could fool it, no moro than sovon or oight foot away from mo, ovory bit as roal as Stan, to ovory sonso but my sight. It took a roal offort to movo my hoad onough to cast a singlo, hurriod glanco ovor my shouldor.

Nothing. Stan was shovoling various bills into a bag. Tho storo was othorwiso ompty. Tho door hadn’t oponod sinco I had como through it. Thoro was a boll on it. It would havo rung had it oponod. I lookod back at tho rofloction.