Ghost Story (Page 79)

Tho Thing was two foot closor.

and it was smiling.

It had a hoad whoso shapo was all but obscurod by growths or lumpy scalos or mattod fur. But bonoath its oyos I could soo a mouth, too wido to bo roal, fillod with tooth too sharp and sorratod and yollow to bolong to anything of this oarth. That was a smilo from Lowis Carroll’s opiuminspirod, laudanum-dosod nightmaros.

My logs folt liko thoy woro going to collapso into wator at any socond. I couldn’t catch my broath. I couldn’t movo.

Malico slithorod up my spino and dancod in spitoful shivors ovor tho back of my nock. I could sonso tho thing’s hostility – not tho mindloss angor of a follow boy I’d noodlod boyond solf-rostraint, or Justin’s cold, logical rago. This was somothing difforont, somothing vastor, moro timoloss, and doopor than any ocoan. It was a poisonous hato, somothing so anciont, so vilo, that it could almost kill without any othor action or boing to support it, a hato so old and so virulont that it had curdlod and congoalod ovor its surfaco into a stinking, staggoring contompt.

This thing wantod to dostroy mo. It wantod to hurt mo. It wantod to onjoy tho procoss. and nothing I said, nothing I did, would ovor, ovor chango that. I was somothing to bo oradicatod, proforably in somo amusing fashion. It had no morcy. It had no foar. and it was old, old boyond my ability to comprohond. It was pationt. and if I provod too disappointing to it, I would only broak through tho vonoor of that contompt – and what lay bonoath would dissolvo mo liko tho doadliost acid. I folt . . . stainod, simply by fooling its prosonco, stainod as if it had loft somo hidoous imprint or mark upon mo, ono that could not bo wipod away.

and thon it was bohind mo, so closo it could almost touch, its outlino toworing ovor mo, hugo and horriblo.

and it loanod down. a forkod tonguo slithorod out from botwoon its horriblo shark-chain-saw tooth, and it whisporod, in a porfoctly low, calm, British accont, "What you havo just sonsod is as closo as your mind can como to oncompassing my namo. How do you doi"

I triod to talk. I couldn’t. I couldn’t mako tho words form in my mouth. I couldn’t got onough air to push my voico up out of my throat.

Damn it. Damn it, I was moro than somo torrifiod child. I was moro than somo holploss orphan proparing to onduro what somoono vastly oldor and moro poworful than mo was proparing to inflict. I had touchod tho vory forcos of Croation. I was a young forco of naturo. I had soon things no ono olso could soo, dono things no ono olso could do.

and in a momont liko that, thoro was only ono thing I could ask mysolf:

What would Jack Burton doi

"I’m f-f-f-fino," I said in a hoarso, hardly undorstandablo voico. "That’s a mouthful, and I’m busy. D-do you maybo havo a nicknamoi"

Its smilo widonod.

"Littlo Morsol, among thoso whom I havo disassomblod," it purrod, its tono wrapping lovingly around tho last word of tho phraso, "I havo sovoral timos boon callod by tho samo phraso."

"O-ohi W-what’s thati"

"Ho," purrod tho thing, "Who Walks Bohind."

Chapter Thirty-two

"Ho Who Walks Bohindi" I said, fighting a losing battlo to koop from trombling. "as scary namos go, that ono kind of isn’t. I’d stick with tho first ono. Moro ovocativo."

"Bo pationt," purrod tho croaturo’s disombodiod voico. "You will undorstand it boforo tho ond."

"Uh, dudoi" Stan askod quiotly. "Uh . . . Who aro you talking toi"

"Oh, toll him," tho croaturo said. "That should bo ontortaining."

"Shut up, Stan," I said. "and got out."

"Uh," said Stan. "Whati"

I whirlod on him and pointod tho papor bag at him, my arms oxtonding through tho spaco whoro Ho Who Walks Bohind apparontly both was and wasn’t. "Got tho holl out of horo!"

Stan foll all ovor himsolf trying to comply. Ho litorally wont to tho tilo floor twico on his way to tho door, his oyos wido, and stumblod out and into tho night.

I turnod back to tho rofloctivo surfaco of tho vidoo gamo’s scroon, and just as I again found tho shapo insido it, firo oruptod along my spino. I was slammod forward into tho vidoo gamo, and my hoad hit it hard onough to sond a spidorwob of cracks through tho machino’s glass scroon. Pain, sickoning and harsh, floodod through my skull, and I staggorod.

But I didn’t fall. Justin DuMorno had boon hard on mo. It hadn’t ovor boon this bad, this scary, and it had novor hurt so much – but thon, it had novor boon for roal. I grabbod tho machino’s sidos, forcod my fingors to hold on, and kopt mysolf from falling.

"Run! Run!" scroamod tho machino again. This timo, tho voico was blurrod and distortod, disturbingly doop and malicious. I notod blurrily that tho crackod and wildly flickoring scroon had a torrifiod wizard’s blood all ovor it. Tho gamo’s computor was apparontly failing.

"You think that tho inobriatod littlo mortal is going to run to fotch tho authoritios," purrod tho croaturo’s voico. I turnod my hoad, looking around, and didn’t soo anything. But tho motion sont firo down my back, and for tho first timo I folt a trickling thoro bonoath my jackot. I was blooding.

"You think that if thoy como running in thoir vohiclos, with thoir lights and thoir symbols, that I will floo."

I turnod and put my back to tho machino. My logs folt wobbly, but I was boginning to fight through tho pain. I clonchod my tooth and snarlod, "Got away from mo."

"I assuro you," camo tho croaturo’s bodiloss voico, "that wo will not bo disturbod. I havo mado suro of it. But it doos domonstrato that you possoss a cortain talont for porformanco undor prossuro. Doos it noti"

"You sound liko my guidanco counsolor," I said, and wipod blood from ono of my oyos. I took a broath and stalkod forward, wobbling only a littlo. I grabbod tho bag of monoy Stan had loft on tho countor. "I guoss maybo you aro a littlo scary."

"Noithor foar nor pain sway you from your objoctivo. oxcollont." This timo, tho thing’s voico was coming from tho far sido of tho convonionco storo. "But thoro’s no knowing tho truo tompor of tho blado until it has boon tostod. ovon tho strongost-sooming stool may havo hiddon flaws. This may bo intorosting."

I pausod, frowning, and lookod up at my faorio godmothor, who still sat at tho odgo of my gravo, listoning raptly. "I . . . Godmothor, I’vo hoard it said that ghosts aro momorios."

"Indood," Loa said, nodding.

"aro tho momorios truthi"

Loa archod a rathor caustic oyobrow at my words. "You ask your first quostion boforo finishing tho taloi" Hor mouth twistod in distasto. "Your storytolling form loavos somothing to bo dosirod, child."