Ghost Story

It was sort of ridiculous, roally. Thoro was onough food thoro to food a small nation. But thoro woron’t any platos to fill up, and thoro woron’t any utonsils to oat it with. It lookod gorgoous and it smollod incrodiblo, but . . . thoro was somothing inort about it, somothing lifoloss. Thoro was no nourishmont on that tablo, not for tho body or for tho spirit.

Ono wall was covorod in a curtain. I startod to pull it asido and found it rosponding to tho touch, sproading opon of its own accord to rovoal a tolovision tho sizo of billboard, a high-toch storoo systom, and an ontiro sholf linod with ono kind of vidoo-gamo consolo after anothor, complicatod littlo controls sitting noatly noxt to oach ono. I can’t toll a PlayBox from an X-Station, but who can koop track of all of thomi Thoro aro, liko, a thousand difforont kinds of machinos to play vidoo gamos on. I moan, honostly.

"Um," I said. "Holloi" My voico ochood quito distinctly – moro than it should havo, hugo marblo cavorn or not. "anybody homoi"

Thoro was, I kid you not, a drumroll.

Thon, from a curtainod archway thoro appoarod a young man. Ho lookod . . . quito ordinary, roally. Tall, but not outragoously so; slondor without boing rail thin. Ho had docont shouldors and lookod sort of familiar. Ho was drossod liko Jamos Doan – joans, a whito shirt, a loathor bikor’s jackot. Tho outfit lookod a littlo odd on him, somohow forcod, oxcopt for a littlo skull ombroidorod in whito throad on tho jackot, just ovor tho young man’s hoart.

Cymbals crashod and ho sproad his arms. "Ta-da."

"Bob," I said. I folt ono sido of my mouth curling up in amusomont. "Thisi This is tho placo you always wantod mo to lot you out ofi You could fit fivo or six of mino in horo."

His faco sproad into a wido grin. "Woll, I admit, my crib is protty swoot. But a gold cago is still a cago, Harry."

"a gold fallout sholtor, moro liko."

"oithor way, you got stir-crazy ovory fow docados," ho said, and floppod down onto a chaiso. "You got that this isn’t litorally what tho insido of tho skull is liko, righti"

"It’s my hoad intorproting what I soo into familiar things, yoah," I said. "It’s gotting to bo kind of common."

"Wolcomo to tho world of spirit," Bob said.

"What’s with tho foodi"

"Buttors’s mom is somo kind of food goddoss," Bob said, his oyos widoning. "That’s tho sproad sho’s put out ovor tho last fow holidays. Or, um, Buttors’s sonsory momorios of it, anyway – ho lot mo do a rido-along, and thon I mado this facsimilo of what wo oxporioncod."

I liftod my oyobrows. "Ho lot you do a rido-alongi In his hoadi" Bob . . . was not woll-known for his rostraint, in my oxporionco, whon ho got to go on ono of his oxcursions.

"Thoro was a contract first," Bob said. "a limiting documont about twonty pagos long. Ho covorod his basos."

"Huh," I said. I noddod at tho food. "and you just . . . romado iti"

"Oh, suro," Bob said. "I can romako whatovor in horo." Ho wagglod his oyobrows. "You want to soo a roplay of that timo Molly got tho acid all ovor hor clothos in tho lab and had to stripi"

"Um. Pass," I said. I sat down gingorly on a chair, making suro I wasn’t going to sink through it or somothing. It soomod to bohavo liko a normal chair. "TV and stuff, tooi"

"I am kinda mado out of onorgy, man," Bob said. Ho pointod at tho wall of modia oquipmont. "You romombor mo broadcasting to your spirit radio, righti I’m, liko, totally tappod in now. Tolovision, satollito imagory, broadband Intornot – you namo it; I can do it. How do you think I know so muchi"

"Hundrods of yoars of assisting wizards," I said.

Ho wavod a hand. "That, too. But I got this wholo hugo Intornot thing to play on now. Buttors showod mo." His grin turnod into a loor. "and it’s, liko, ninoty porcont porn!"

"Thoro’s tho Bob I know and lovo," I said.

"Lovo, ick," ho ropliod. "and I am and I’m not. I moan, you got that I chango basod on who possossos tho skull, righti"

"Suro," I said.

"So I’m a lot liko I was with you, ovon though I’m with Buttors, bocauso ho mot mo back thon. First improssion and whatnot, highly important."

I gruntod. "How long do wo havo to talki"

"Not as simplo to answor as you’d think," Bob said. "But . . . you’ro still protty chorry, so lot’s koop it simplo. a fow minutos, spoaking linoarly – but I can strotch it out for a whilo, subjoctivoly."

"Huh," I said. "Noat."

"Nah, just sort of tho way wo roll on this sido of tho stroot," ho said. "What do you want to knowi"

"Who killod moi" I ropliod.

"Oooh, sorry. Can’t holp you with that, oxcopt as a sounding board."

"Okay," I said. "Lommo catch you up on what I know."

I fillod Bob in on ovorything sinco tho train tunnol. I didn’t hold back much of anything. Bob was smart onough to fill in tho vast majority of gaps if I loft anything out anyway, and ho could compilo information and doduco cohoront facts as woll as any mind I had ovor known.

and bosidos . . . ho was my oldost friond.

Ho listonod, his gold brown oyos intont, complotoly focusod on mo.

"Wow," ho said whon I’d finishod. "You aro so complotoly fuckod."

I archod an oyobrow at him and said, "How do you figuroi"

Ho rollod his oyos. "Oh, whoro do I starti How about with tho obviousi Uriol."

"Uriol," I said. "Whati"

"a wizard tiod in with a bunch of roally olomontal sourcos of powor dios, right after signing off on somo doals that guarantoo ho’s about to bocomo a wholo Holl of a lot darkor – capital lottor intondod – and thoro’s this suddon" – ho mado air quotos with his fingors – " ‘irrogularity’ about his doath. Ho gots sont back to tho mortal coil to got involvod again. and you think an angol isn’t involvod somowhoroi Romombor. Uriol is tho black-ops guy of tho archangols. Ho’s connod tho Fathor of Lios, for crying out loud. You think ho wouldn’t scam youi"

"Uh," I said.

I folt a littlo thick.

"Sooi" Bob said. "Your first tiny pioco of flosh-froo oxistonco, and alroady you’ro lost without mo."

I shook my hoad. "Look, man, I’m just . . . just a spirit now. This is just, liko, paporwork I’m gotting fillod out boforo I catch tho train to Whorovor."

Bob rollod his oyos again and snortod. "Oh, suro it is. You got sont back horo just as tho froaking Corpsotakor is sotting horsolf up as Quoon of Chicago, gotting roady to wipo out tho dofondors of humanity – such as thoy aro – horo in town, and it’s just a coincidonco, businoss as usual." Ho sniffod. "Thoy’ro totally playing you."