Chapter 3
By the time I wafted away from the weave, I was in bad shape. Several parts of me were bruised. Ghosts don’t bleed, but we leak. Don’t ask me; I don’t know much besides the fact that it’s painful, and if a ghost leaks too much, she isn’t anymore.
The structures In Between are mostly what we make of them. A ghost shelter looks a lot like a cairn, little more than a collection of stones where we can hide. Mine was more of a hillside cave, because Martin had been the one to rescue me after my first accident, and he knew all the best spots In Between.
I pulled myself inside my shelter, feeling fortunate the weave hadn’t spit me out into an unfamiliar area. No one knew how big the bubble was because it was elastic, ever-changing and had a wicked boomerang. I’d been lost plenty of times before, and it was the last thing I needed when hurt.
Like lumpy dough, I oozed onto a flat rock that served as a chair, pressing the gray leaks to staunch the flow as I tried to hold myself together. The fog drizzled a misty rain, but once I was inside my protective shelter, it no longer threatened to wash me away.
Rain was good in that things wouldn’t be able to smell and follow me, but bad in that I was chilled. Worse than that, emotional stress caused the fog to echo back my feelings, magnifying them. That left me increasingly miserable by the second.
I wallowed inside the gray blob that was the jacket I had died in, but as I spread thin, I repeatedly had to reel in parts of myself. I rarely ever had feet, but usually had legs.
Tired, I curled into my favorite spot and dozed, wishing I were alive, yearning for the small comfort of a cup of hot cocoa or a friend.
* * *
Martin and Troy were my best friends In Between. Troy was younger than me by six years when he crossed; a car accident that he remembered all too well. He still resembled the healthy seventeen-year-old football player he had been, albeit his best color was now gray. His jeans, jock jacket and t-shirt were as casual as my own denim jacket and jeans. It didn’t matter what we wore anyway. More than half the time we were faces with unformed limbs.
Troy most likely befriended me out of pity. Like another bit of the roadkill he collected, comforted and protected, he mentored me. As I described my latest ordeal to him, I certainly felt like roadkill.
“Man, Shadow, what is it with you and demons?” He hovered near the rock that served as a table inside my cave. I stayed in the corner so he didn’t see the full extent of my latest injuries. We had no need to eat, but we did need energy. Much of it came from slashes of quick light that passed through In Between, but Troy had a habit of bringing bits from the living world; a leaf, grass, roadkill that wasn’t quite dead or other animals that were more than happy to breathe their last bits of life on us before becoming another of Troy’s numerous ghost pets.
He set a smear of mud on the table.
“Did you harvest that from a roadkill?” A bright green blade of grass was embedded in the mud. I needed energy more now than usual, but was loathe to use this particular piece because of its likely origin.
“That’s the easiest way.”
“Gross.” I stared hungrily at the clump of mud, wondering if a ghost could catch a disease from smeared raccoon parts. The latest roadkill ghost, said raccoon, stared up at me and made a chattering noise.
It took a few days of the animals being In Between before I could understand them. Without Troy’s tutelage, I’d never have grasped the concept at all.
“I figured you wouldn’t care for it.” Troy grinned, and from his gray palm produced two juniper needles. “These came from the tree where I brought Coon through. Untouched by any critters unless a bird pooped on them before they fell through.”
Feeling starved, I pushed the best arm I could form towards the pine needles.
He obliged me by dropping them into what would have been my hand had I pulled off forming one.
The pine was still warm, in a living sense, not a heat sense. “Wow! Thank you.” Anything that came from the real world, even if it had been plucked, harvested or died, held some amount of energy. The needles were sharp, tangy and if not alive, they had life energy. It soaked into me, helping heal the throbbing leaks.
“How is Coon doing?” I asked when I finally felt able. Raccoons were all addressed as “Coon,” but the intended one seemed to answer when Troy spoke to him. Out of respect, I directed my question at both Troy and Coon; Troy because his answer would make sense, and at Coon to avoid insulting him.
Coon gargled, clicked and reared up on his hind feet. They weren’t words, but the concept was conveyed. “Got smashed, huh? Stinks.”
Troy smiled. “He’s still upset about it. Claims he was about to convince a Miss Coon to mate.”
Coon made more noises, and he looked very sulky indeed. Whatever he said was too complicated for my limited ability to understand. Coon’s earthly desires would fade soon. Most of the animals only stayed In Between for a few days, a couple of months at most. For some unexplained reason, three of his pets had remained with Troy since his arrival.
I had the vaguest living memory of riding a red roan, but like In Between, the fragment was little more than mist. The galloping freedom I envisioned was probably nothing more than me transferring the feeling of ghostly floating onto a living activity.
“So what is it with you and demons?” Troy repeated, interrupting my reverie. “I’ve only encountered three and believe me, I’ve been here a lot longer than you.”
“And two of those were since I arrived,” I replied. “You think all these demons are my fault?” I was half kidding and certainly didn’t want any link with demons. They were notoriously dangerous, feeding on ghosts, spirits and humans—the live ones, the dead ones, they weren’t particular.
Troy nodded. “You’re right, it has been in the last couple of months, but at least one of those demons was the same one you saw when you didn’t know how to get the hell out of Dodge.”
“Thanks.” I said it again, although he hadn’t been fishing for gratitude. My gray shivered with the memory. The demon had been an older one with big, ugly horns, a forked tail and roiling black mixed with the bright red of molten rock. Troy had had only a millisecond to send in the dogs—and the ’coons, skunks and other animal distractions, saving us both.
“Where’s Spook?”
“Out sniffing around. Keeping watch.”
“For a three-legged dog, he works hard.” And it was my fault he had three legs because he had lost one of his back legs to the demon when he jumped between us, allowing me time to escape. Sadly, what that demon touched could not be recovered.
“He’s always been a busy dog.”
“He doesn’t like me.”
“You’ve said that before.” Troy grinned. “Truth is, I don’t think he likes women, but that must be something that happened dirt-side. None of the women here have been mean to him.”
I snorted, which for a ghost was more of a moaning groan. “As if you’d allow anyone to mistreat your buddies.”
“Including you.” He reached out and grazed his hand along what would have been my chin. Most ghosts didn’t bother to touch because of the unsettling lack of a physical barrier. It was just a brush of emotion, much worse—or better—than a living touch.
“I don’t have much to offer you,” I said. “I haven’t collected a darn thing that has fallen through. I was out foraging this morning when the demon sent me scurrying.”
“Are you sure it wasn’t an imp?”
I shrugged. “There’s not much difference.”
“Yes, there is. Imps are usually on errands. Demons are mostly plotting to go across and stay. I asked Cinderspark about it.”
“That’s interesting. What does she think about all the demons?”
Troy shrugged. “I didn’t ask her. Maybe we should though. Ever since we fought off that demon, I’ve felt drained and tired. If demons or imps are attempting to cross, that could mean some are making it all the way dirt-side.”
&nb
sp; Troy had warned me that even though a demon was dirt-side, I wasn’t safe from it. They could see me and reach right through the veil. I was positive I did not want to die the remainder of the way by being pulled back through the weave and letting a demon harvest the pain of my death. I wasn’t that generous.
“Since Cinderspark goes back and forth, maybe she’ll know something,” I agreed. One day I hoped to be brave enough to ask Cinderspark if she could find out anything about the living woman I had been. So far, every time I had had the opportunity, I stifled the urge. I wasn’t sure if I was hiding my past from her or myself.
Chapter 4
Cinderspark was cute as a button and about five inches tall if you included her wings. She was probably the equivalent of a nine-year-old human. I didn’t remember seeing a single fairy when alive, but Troy and Cinderspark seemed to have come from a slightly different world than mine anyway. At the very least, we’d left during different times because things he talked about seemed futuristic to me.
Fairy or no, I was pretty certain Cinderspark wasn’t supposed to visit In Between. But how does a ghost tell a fairy child what to do? We couldn’t threaten to rat her out to her parents unless her parents visited In Between, and I certainly hadn’t seen them.
After devouring the treats Troy supplied we set out, using a few relatively stable landmarks to guide us to the ghostly limbs of the ancient tree Troy called home. Spook, his three-legged dog, bounded ahead, always happy to check the terrain.
Troy’s tree was the only place we ever saw Cinderspark. No one knew why the portal existed, but it must have had something to do with Troy because the tree was where he guided the roadkill through from dirt-side. The juniper on this side was devoid of any living material, as were all the trees here. It was a sad, hunched over thing, split in the middle, gray as my own being. One side resembled driftwood, shiny and smooth. The other was dull gray like the rest of In Between.
Once we were close to the tree, the weave and even the snaps of Troy’s jeans became clearly visible. There was even the slightest taint of color to him. His face went from ghostly transparent to an almost solid and handsome young man. His hair took shape, ruffling in the breeze. Every so often, he’d reach up and pat it down.
My own hair, when I wasn’t a completely bald-looking rounded ghost-blob, did not sway in the wind. My head and face were shaped, especially when I concentrated on the task, but nothing about this location caused my hair to dance with life.
Troy’s cave was only a few feet from the limbs of the juniper. It was better hidden than mine and underground rather than tucked into a hillside. A ghost squirrel popped out of the shelter to greet us.
Spook waited patiently with us for Squirrel to report.
“There’s a death happening over that way,” Troy said, pointing into the gray abyss.
I had understood Squirrel’s news. The bobbing critter knew how to convey death emotion, but that was an easy one for any of us.
“What do you think? Should we investigate?” Troy stared out across the shapeless landscape.
Not all deaths drew me. Violent murders, especially multiple murders, elicited no empathy from me even though I had been murdered. I couldn’t pinpoint why this one drew me, but when I concentrated, the taint of an illness and a stark yearning for home washed over me. “Yeah, let’s check it out.”
Deaths were easy to find. There was always an opening in the weave as the spirit or soul crossed over. Sometimes the person crossed all at once, but most of the time it was like a slow leak, trickling through the weave gradually.
Maybe focusing on it made the bubble flow in our direction because as soon as we headed toward the death, the draw increased. We were almost there when I spotted Amy rolling in from another direction.
If I were still alive, I’d have sighed in exasperation. Since breath wasn’t necessary anymore, I didn’t bother, but a peek at Troy told me that he had noticed her. My focus had been tuned to the death, but Troy was watching Amy with open longing.
I failed to comprehend the attraction. Maybe it was because Amy still sported much of her earthly form, and it was a young and pretty one. Like Troy when he was near the tree, her hair blew in the breeze, and her delicate features were almost always perfectly formed, right down to a pert nose and jewelry that should have sparkled. The large gem on one hand was colorless here, but now and then her delicate chain necklace and dangle earrings seemed to glint gold.
I had never seen her abandon her concentration enough to lose her silhouette. Maybe it was her youth or maybe it had something to do with the way she died. It could be that the rest of us were lazy, me in particular. I simply lacked the initiative to hold my form very often. Why bother?
I clutched the pine needles Troy had given me and wished we’d found Cinderspark. Her fairy dust always made me forget that I was fading into the fog, even if the vitality didn’t last. I concentrated on my features now, knowing how to arrange all the pieces.
When I glanced again at Troy, it was obvious my effort was wasted.
Amy reached for his hand. Troy smiled and clasped ghost fingers in hers.
If you think life isn’t fair, wait until you die. It ain’t no chocolate milkshake with real ice cream here either.
Rather than watch Troy and Amy revel in their moment of happiness, I let the death divert my focus. My first glimpse was a shock. He was young, healthy...strong...except something was eating away at him.
His breathing came in gasps. Each release of air pushed the string of his essence through the weave. Then, slowly, he’d take another and the string of gray would be sucked back. But not very far. Not enough to save him.
“He’s really sick,” I said.
Instead of focusing on the death in front of us, Troy stared off into the distance. “Another one. Close too.”
Amy hovered at Troy’s other side. There was no point in hiding my chagrin; she had eyes only for Troy. She still clutched his hand, making me shiver. Touch here was so personal. Troy never flinched away from her, though.
I glanced back at Kyle, the guy across the weave. Uh-oh. I knew his name. That was bad. Most of him was already across the line if his name was here. The most important name I had never known upon crossing was my own. I still didn’t know it, and no one else had figured it out either. Everyone just called me Shadow. Usually, as a person’s essence came across, the bits and pieces were accessible to us. No one knew why my name hadn’t come with me.
Kyle was alone. From the impersonal bed, dresser and television, it was obviously a low-end hotel room. Strange. There was a phone on the table near the bedside and a cell phone on the desk. Why didn’t he call someone?
We waited.
Stupid though it was, I wished I could reach through the weave and dial 911. There was hope yet, though. He rallied to almost full consciousness, breathing stronger, pulling his lifeline back. His eyes opened, but they were feverish. He looked right at the weave. There was no way to know whether he saw us there, watching, waiting.
When he sat up, I folded my hands in prayer. Call someone. I chanted the words even though he wouldn’t hear them.
Instead of reaching for the phone, he stumbled to the end of the room and stared at a large black guitar case.
Were there drugs in there that could help him? What was he doing? I didn’t like him wasting all this time.
Martin suddenly hovered at my side, doing some chanting of his own. Martin showing up meant the life beacon was still very strong on our side.
I checked. The thread of life was thinner here now that Kyle was awake, but it was still here.
Call someone.
He unlatched the tall case and rubbed his hand along the grain. When he touched the instrument, it connected to his lifeline, and all at once I knew what had happened.
He had fallen off the stage. His head had slammed against the edge of the stage, hard. Someone must have brought him to the hotel thinking he would recover...uh-oh.
I looked at Martin,
hoping for reassurance, but he just chanted steadily. He wasn’t your average ghost. He was calmer than most of us, peaceful unless he was angry. Most of the time Martin resembled a disembodied genie, minus the headpiece. He was all sculpted chest with nothing but smoke below the waist. I’d only seen him fully formed a couple of times, and he was buck naked then. When we first met I thought he was young because he showed no signs of wrinkles, but after getting to know him, I realized he had died older, maybe at sixty or seventy.
The musician’s lifeline, now that I knew what to look for, showed the bleeding. It was too late for him to figure it out. He had already stumbled back to the edge of the bed, sweating, holding his guitar case and staring at the cell phone.
But I had seen too much to hold out hope.
He reached for the cell, nearly toppling over. He lay back down, the guitar clutched in one hand as though he were about to take it out of the case.
He never placed the call.
Maybe I only felt the ones who died before their time. I’d like to think my clock hadn’t run out and that maybe I’d actually still had some purpose. I was still angry that my time dirt-side had been cut so short. Kyle was angry too.
There were four of us nearby when he and his grief hit the airwaves in the gray.
Martin was there, still singing in his monotone way. He never had answers to the “why?” of things, but he was there. I don’t remember him being around when I crossed, but anytime I lingered too close to that memory it burned.
“This can’t happen,” Kyle said, holding a ghostly guitar case against his chest. “My wife—”
“Can’t ever be ready.” Martin laid a hand on what would have been Kyle’s shoulder.
I knew that touch. It wasn’t the same as if we were alive, but Kyle would feel it.
He stared at the ghostly hand before he screamed.
Ghost Shadow (Moon Shadow Series Book 4) Page 3