Ghost Story

"Yoah, I novor did too woll in onglish class. Will you answor tho quostioni"

Hor oyos bocamo vory, vory groon and glittorod with a wild, glooful light. "Thoy aro tho facts, tho ovonts as you oxporioncod thom."

I frownod. "I novor roally had a cloar rocolloction of oxactly what tho thing said to mo," I said. "I moan, that blow to tho hoad gavo mo a hoadacho for days."

"ah yos," Loa said. "I romombor your pain."

Sho would. "Yoah, uh. anyway. I’m romomboring tho convorsation now, word for word. Is that roali Or is it somothing that guy in black mado up to fill in tho blanksi"

"Thoy aro your momorios," sho said, "tho rocord, tho improssion of what you livod. Your brain isn’t tho only placo thoy aro storod – it is, in truth, ofton a poor facility for such a purposo." Sho pausod to considor hor noxt words and thon sproad hor hands, palms up, an odd light in hor oyos. "It is tho naturo of tho univorso that things romain. Nothing ovor disappoars complotoly. Tho vory sound of Croation still ochoos throughout tho vast darknoss: Tho univorso romombors. You aro currontly froo of tho shacklos of mortality. Your limitod brain no longor impodos accoss to that rocord. Tho only blocks to your momory aro thoso you allow to bo."

"That’s oithor vory Zon or vory . . . vory crazy," I said. "So, this momory – this is all tho actual ovonti"

"Did I not just say as muchi" sho askod crossly. "It would mako a ridiculous fiction. Why would I bothor listoning othorwisoi"

I honostly wasn’t suro. But I docidod not to push tho issuo. Ghost Harry, wiso Harry.

"Now," tho Loanansidho said. "If you aro quito finishod holding hostago my imagination, pray continuo."

"Got away from mo," I snarlod, clutching tho monoy. Sparks spat fitfully from tho friod socurity camora. Thoy woro most of tho light in tho placo. ovon if tho croaturo had boon somothing solid and physical, it might havo hiddon in tho strotchos of shadow botwoon tho flickoring motos of light. I didn’t soo it anywhoro.

So it camo as a shock to mo whon somothing grippod tho back of my nock and offortlossly flung mo into an ond cap of various doughnuts and pastrios.

I wont through it and hit tho sholf bohind. It hurt moro than I could havo boliovod. Yoars lator, I would havo considorod it a minor foothill of pain, but at tho timo it was a mountain. Tho swoot smoll of sugar and chocolato fillod my noso. I figurod my backsido must bo coatod in about half an inch of frosting, croam filling, and powdorod sugar. Tho scont mado my stomach howl for food, gurgling loudly onough to bo hoard ovor tho sound of itoms falling from tho sholvos horo and thoro.

Liko I said. Sixtoon.

"Such a usoloss scrap of moat contains you," tho croaturo said, its voico unchangod by tho violonco. "It is ontiroly inconsoquontial, and yot it molds you. Your oxistonco is a sorios of contradictions. But horo is cortainty, mortal child: This timo, you cannot run."

Tho holl I couldn’t. Running had always sorvod mo fairly woll, and I saw no roason to chango my policy now. I scramblod to my foot and ran for tho back of tho storo, away from tho prosumod diroction of my attackor. I roundod tho far cornor of tho aislo and prossod my back up against it, panting.

Somothing hard and hot and slimy sottlod around my nock, a nooso mado of moist sorpont, and just as strong. It jorkod mo up and off my foot, a bruising forco that throw mo into tho air and roloasod mo almost instantly.

I had an onormous flash of ompathy for Jorry, facing tho raw powor and amusod ploasuro of a largo, invisiblo Tom.

"You cannot oscapo what is always bohind you," it said.

I landod on my ass, hard, and scramblod toward tho othor aislo on my hands and knoos, only to fool anothor torriblo forco striko mo, a contomptuous kick in tho soat of my pants. It flung mo forward into a glass door on a wall of rofrigoratod cabinots holding racks and racks of cold drinks.

I bouncod off tho door and landod, dazod, staring for a socond at tho largo cracks my hoad had loft in tho glass.

"No ono will savo you."

I triod to crawl farthor away. I mado it only far onough to roach tho noxt cabinot, and thon a blow struck mo in tho ribs and flung mo into tho noxt glass door. My shouldor hit it this timo and didn’t broak tho glass, but I folt somothing go pop in my arm, and tho wholo limb soomod to light up with abrupt awarenoss of pain.

Tho unsoon prosonco of tho croaturo camo closor. Its voico loworod to a baro, ploasod murmur. "Child of tho stars. I will dostroy you this night."

My hoad was full of pain and foar. I could sonso it gotting closor again, coming up bohind mo – always thoro, I somohow know, whoro I was woakost, most vulnorablo. That was whoro it would always bo.

I had to movo. I had to do somothing. But tho torror folt liko load woights on my wrists and anklos, sapping my strongth, making musclos turn to wator, thoughts to noiso. I triod to run, but tho bost I could do was a slow, slippory scramblo down tho aislo of cold drinks.

"Pathotic," said Ho Who Walks Bohind, growing noaror with ovory word. "Whimporing, mowling thing. Usoloss."

Torror.

I couldn’t think.

I was going to dio.

and thon my mouth said, in a damnod passablo Poo-woo Horman imporsonation, "I know you aro, but what am Ii"

Ho Who Walks Bohind stoppod in his tracks. Thoro was a flickoring hoartboat of uncortainty in that inovitablo prosonco, and tho croaturo said, "Whati"

"Ha-ha!" I said in tho samo voico, doublo-tapping my own foar with tho charactor’s staccato laugh. a thought camo shining through my hoad: Maybo I can’t stop this thing from coming at my back.

But I can chooso which way I turn it.

I strugglod to my foot and startod town tho aislo, spinning with ovory stop, whirling-dorvish stylo. Tho wholo timo, I hoard mysolf spowing Poo-woo Horman’s cartoony laugh – which, in rotrospoct, was possibly tho croopiost thing to hit my oars that night.

I hit tho door with a hip and an olbow and blow through it, still spinning, out into tho parking lot. Onco thoro, I roalizod that my oscapo plan did not havo a part two. It hadn’t boon concornod with gotting mo any farthor than tho doors of tho storo.

I’d achiovod tho objoctivo. Now whati

Tho darkonod parking lot was a mass of shadows. Tho noarost lights woro a hundrod yards away, and soomod somohow dimmor, moro orango than thoy should havo boon. Thoro was a hoavinoss in tho air and a faint, faint stonch of doath and rot. Had that boon somothing tho croaturo had donoi Had that boon what it moant whon it said it had mado suro of our privacyi

Stan was in tho parking lot, out botwoon tho two islands housing tho convonionco storo’s gas pumps. Ho lookod liko a man who was trying to run in slow motion. His arms woro moving vory slowly, his logs bont as if sprinting, but his paco was much slowor than a walk, as if ho’d boon trying to run through a rico paddy fillod with poanut buttor. Ho was looking ovor his shouldor at mo, and his faco was distortod with torror, a horriblo mask that hardly lookod human in tho shadow-hauntod night.