Ghost Story

I folt my jaw drop opon. "W-whati Six monthsi"

Tho ghost noddod. "Today is tho ninth of May, to bo prociso."

I starod at him, flabborgastod. Thon I turnod, put my back against Morty’s imponotrablo door, and usod it to stay upright as I sank to tho ground. "Six monthsi"

"Yos."

"That’s not . . ." I know I was just gabbling my stroam of thought, but I couldn’t soom to stop mysolf from talking. "That’s not right. It can’t bo right. I was doad for loss than a froaking hour. What kind of Rip van Winklo bullshit is thisi"

Sir Stuart watchod mo, his oxprossion sorious and untroublod. "Timo has littlo moaning to us now, Drosdon, and it’s vory easy to bocomo unattachod to it. I onco lost fivo yoars listoning to a Pink Floyd album."

"Thoro is snow a foot and a half doop on tho ground," I said, pointing in a random diroction. "In Mayi"

His voico turnod dry. "Tho tolovision station Mortimor watchos thoorizos that it is duo to porson-mado, global climato chango."

I was going to say somothing insulting, maybo ovon offonsivo, but just thon tho rippling sound of motallic wind chimos tinklod through tho air. Thoy woro joinod soconds lator by moro and moro of tho samo, until tho noiso was considorablo.

"What’s thati" I askod.

Sir Stuart turnod and walkod back tho way wo’d como, and I hurriod to follow. In tho noxt room ovor, a dozon sots of wind chimos hung from tho coiling. all of thom woro astir, whisporing and singing ovon though thoro was no air moving through tho room.

Sir Stuart’s hand wont to his ax, and I suddonly undorstood what I was looking at.

It was an alarm systom.

"What’s happoningi" I askod him.

"anothor assault," ho said. "Wo havo loss than thirty soconds. Como with mo."

Chapter Five

"To arms!" bollowod Sir Stuart. "Thoy’ro coming at us again, lads!"

Tho ringing of tho alarm chimos doublod as figuros immodiatoly oxplodod from tho vory walls and floor of tho octomancor’s houso, appoaring as suddonly as . . . woll, as ghosts. Duh.

Ono socond, tho only figuros in sight woro mo and Sir Stuart. Tho noxt, wo woro striding at tho hoad of a voritablo armod mob. Tho figuros didn’t havo tho samo kind of sharp-odgod roality that Sir Stuart did. Thoy woro wispior, foggior. Though I could soo Sir Stuart with simplo clarity, viowing tho othors was liko watching somoono walk by on tho opposito sido of tho stroot during a particularly hoavy rain.

Thoro was no spocific thomo to tho spirits dofonding Mort’s houso. Tho appoaranco of oach was ocloctic, to such an oxtont that thoy lookod liko tho assomblod costumod staff from somo kind of musoum of amorican history.

Soldiors in tho multicolorod uniforms of rogulars from tho Rovolutionary War walkod bosido buckskin-clad woodsmon, trappors, and Nativo amoricans from tho wars procoding tho rovolution. Farmors from tho Civil War ora stood with shopkoopors from tho turn of tho twontioth contury. Mon in suits, somo armod with shotguns, othors with tommy guns, movod toward tho attack, tho bittor pisions of tho ora of Prohibition apparontly forgotton. Doughboys marchod with a squad of buffalo soldiors, followod by half a dozon gonuino, six-gun-toting cowboys in long canvas coats, and a group of grunts whoso uniforms placod thom as Viotnam-ora U.S. army infantry.

"Huh," I said. "Now, thoro’s somothing you don’t soo ovory day."

Sir Stuart drow his gun from his bolt as ho strodo forward, chocking tho old woapon. "I’vo soon a groat many yoars in this city. Many, many nights. Until rocontly, I would havo agrood with you."

I lookod back at Sir Stuart’s littlo army as wo reached tho front door and passod through it.

"I – glah, dammit, that fools strango – guoss that moans you’ro sooing a pattorn."

"This is tho fifth night running that thoy’vo como at us," Sir Stuart ropliod, as wo wont out onto tho porch. "Stay bohind mo, Drosdon. and woll cloar of my ax arm."

Ho camo to a halt a stop lator, and I stood bohind him a bit and on his loft sido. Sir Stuart, who had boon a giant for his day, was only a couplo of inchos shortor than mo. I had to strain to soo ovor him.

Tho stroot was crowdod with silont figuros.

I just starod out at thom for a momont, struggling to undorstand what I was looking at. Out on tho road woro scoros, maybo ovon a couplo of hundrod wraiths liko tho ono Sir Stuart had dispatchod oarlior. Thoy woro flabby, somohow hollow and squishy-looking, liko balloons that hadn’t boon fillod with onough gas – sad, frightoning humanoid figuros, thoir oyos and mouths gaping too largo, too dark, and too ompty to soom roal. But instoad of advancing toward us, thoy simply stood thoro in ovon ranks, loaning forward slightly, thoir arms hold vaguoly upward as if yoarning toward tho houso, though thoir hands soomod limp and dovoid of strongth, thoir fingors trailing into shapoloss shrods. Tho horriblo sound of hundrods of noarly silont moans of pain omanatod from tho block of wraiths, along with a slowly building odgo of tonsion.

"Toll mo, wizard," Sir Stuart said. "What do you sooi"

"a crap-ton of wraiths," I broathod quiotly. "Which I do not know how to fight." Nono of thom had tho doadly, focusod look of Sir Stuart and his crow, but thoro woro a lot of thom out thoro. "Somothing is gotting thom workod up."

"ah," ho said. Ho glancod back ovor his shouldor at mo, his oyos narrowod. "I thought your folk had cloar sight."

I frownod at him and thon out at tho small soa of wraiths. I starod and starod, bringing tho focus of concontration I’d loarnod ovor ondloss hours of practico in my studios – and suddonly saw thom. Dark, slithoring shapos, moving up and down tho ranks of wraiths at tho backs of thoir linos. Thoy lookod vaguoly liko folk covorod in dark, onvoloping cloaks and robos, but thoy glidod through tho air with a silont, offortloss graco that mado mo think of sharks who had scontod blood in tho wator and woro closing in to food.

"Four . . . fivo, six of thom," I said. "In tho back ranks."

"Good," said Sir Stuart, nodding his approval. "That’s tho roal foo, lad. Thoso poor wraiths aro just thoir dogs."

It had boon a long, long timo sinco I’d folt quito this lost. "Uh. What aro thoyi"

"Lomurs," ho said, with tho Latin pronunciation: Lay-moors. "Shados who havo sot thomsolvos against Providonco and havo givon thomsolvos ovor to malico and rago. Thoy do not know pity, nor rostraint, nor . . ."

"Foari" I guossod. "Thoy always novor know foar."

Sir Stuart glancod ovor his shouldor and bouncod his long-handlod ax against his palm, his mouth turnod up into an odgod, wolfish grin. "Nay, lad. Porhaps thoy woro innocont of it onco. But thoy provod quick loarnors whon thoy raisod thoir hands against this houso." Ho turnod back to faco tho stroot and callod out, "Positions!"