The kind people were still tugging at him. He barely noticed. Just noticed that this woman was still grinning. Now tapping the shotgun against the little girl's hoodie.
Looking at him. Just like that little dead boy in the house had done. Just like no other ghost had done before.
The woman stepped toward him.
Ralph jumped back. He ran for his bike.
The dead had never touched him. As far as he could tell, they never touched anything.
But they had never looked at him, either. Until that little boy. And now this woman.
So things were changing. Maybe because he had seen the boy, maybe because things were changing generally. It wasn't like he got a manual or a rule book when he started seeing all this stuff.
Regardless, if things were changing, then how much were they changing? Would the good ghosts leave? Would the bad ghosts come ever closer? Would they try to touch him?
Would they succeed?
Would the one ghost he feared most of all finally show up to catch a final dreadful ride?
He raced away on his bike. He tried not to look at any of the blurs he passed. Most would be people, but he didn't want to take a chance. He hustled to R.I. and asked for another job. Ali said he didn't have one.
"I need one."
"Tough titties, Hickey. I just gave the last package on the boards to Lybeck."
Ralph ran for the front office. He passed the three people sitting at the desks –
(don't look at any of them because there are only two office girls, just Malia and Ariane, so one of those don't belong, Ralph, just get out of here)
– and found Lybeck, a guy so thin that the only thing holding him down when he rode was his pack and the massive beard he wore. The courier was just getting onto his bike, tucking an envelope into his bag.
"Lybeck! Hey! Bill!" shouted Ralph.
Lybeck started zipping up his pack. "Gotta jet, Ralphie."
"I need to take that package."
"Then ride faster next time. This is my fare." Lybeck smiled, clearly relishing the rare opportunity to be out in front of Ralph.
Ralph felt desperate. He could just get on his bike and ride, but he knew he wouldn't last. He had to be doing something. Just riding in circles would make him easier to find. It made no sense, but having a purpose kept him safer than just running blind.
He'd learned that over the years, too.
"I'll run it, you keep the fee," he blurted.
Lybeck grinned and handed over the small manila envelope he had been stuffing into his bag. Ralph ran for his bike.
"Business doing pleasure witcha!" Lybeck called.
Ralph ran ragged the rest of the day. Into the night.
Now Runners, Inc., was closed. And he was still driving. Aimless, nowhere to go. So the dead were getting closer and closer.
He passed a little old man with a walking stick. The man smiled at him as he passed, and tried to ram his cane into the spokes of Ralph's bike.
The cane went through. The spokes pierced it like smoke.
Or no… the front wheel seemed to cough ever so slightly. Like it had decided to stop, then in the next millisecond had changed its mind.
The old man ranted obscenities. Ralph left him and the curses behind.
He just rode.
Tomorrow he would go to R.I. and pick up more work. He would keep busy. That would buy him time until he could figure out how to get things back to normal – what passed for normal in his life.
He yawned. Sound tamped down as the motion closed his Eustachian tubes. When the noise of the world returned, he heard not just the sounds of a city – traffic, distant music, voices, the hum of electricity powering it all – but something thoroughly unexpected.
"Turn left up here."
The voice wasn't close. It was right in his ear.
Ralph looked over his shoulder.
The boy hanging to his waist, somehow perched on the sliver of seat behind him, was maybe thirteen. Crazed hair, even crazier eyes. Blue jeans. Black sneakers. No shirt, which let Ralph see the long gash in the boy's stomach and the intestines that drooped out.
The boy grinned widely. His teeth were beautiful, perfectly straight. But there was also a sense of sharpness. Ralph felt like he was seeing a hologram of perfection projected onto a background that was ragged and pointed as chewed glass.
"Turn up here," said the boy. "My brother said we could help him freak out some border bandits who live in a little house up ahead. Make 'em run back to Mex-I-Co." The smile got broader. "Or maybe you and I can just go back to where I live."
Ralph felt a hand squeeze him. Like the cane it was barely more than the implication of sensation. But it was more than any of the dead had ever managed before.
He screamed. Swerved the bike. Turned so fast that he felt his kneecap skid against blacktop, heard a car honk as he cut in front of it. Warm air from the car's engine blasted through the front grill and Ralph could feel that too, warming his cheek and right arm. He was cutting it as close as he ever had.
But when he looked back the dead kid was gone. Maybe because Ralph had knocked him off the bike. Maybe because he'd gotten bored.
Maybe because some other dead soul wanted a turn with Ralph.
They'd never looked at him before. Never touched him. Never caught a ride on his bike.
Now, since he delivered that package, saw that boy with his throat cut, they had done all three.
What would they do next?
Who would do it to him?
For a moment his tattoos all burned at once. He felt hot, burning, and at the same time smothered under an ocean's worth of water. None of it real, but all of the feelings alive in his mind.
He turned left. No intention of beating up illegal immigrants, but he needed to slow down. Needed to rest. He thought he knew a safe place to do it. Not comfortable, but safe.
Unless that had changed, too.
A FAMILY'S NEEDS
Blake could tell that Alyssa was suffering, and suffering alone, under some terrible burden. And knowing that crushed him.
He couldn't tell what the problem was, and that made him feel even worse. Because that was another one of his jobs: to see what his wife needed, to help her with it, to help her in general. What was the point in being married if you didn't help each other?
But he couldn't help if he didn't know what was going on.
And he couldn't ask, either. He had been married long enough to know many of her moods. Not all of them – she was a mystery in some respects. And that was a good thing. Blake suspected that some people married mirrors: people they fell in love with because they had all the same likes, shared all the same interests. And those people probably got divorced as soon as life warped them a bit apart, as life always did.
He had married Alyssa: neither a mirror nor an echo chamber. She was kind, but firm. She had her own mind. If she thought he was being an idiot, she generally told him so. Nicely, but she told him. And if she needed to be angry she got angry. She wasn't a mannequin, she wasn't a "dream girl." She was better than that. He called her his "better than dream girl," because if he had to dream up a wife he likely would have thought of something completely different, and utterly stupid.
She was what he needed. She was no dream. She was challenging, she was scary, she was loving, she was smart. All the things a friend and lover and wife should be.
And that meant that once in a while she didn't want to talk about whatever was on her mind. So she wouldn't. Early in their marriage he had tried to wheedle her thoughts out of her. Mistake. He ended up still not knowing anything she was thinking, but with the added bonus of a very irritated wife.
Now he just let her work through it. She would talk about what was bothering her. She would just do it in her time. Until then, it was best to pretend that all was business as usual.
Besides, he was actually feeling good for the first time in a few days. He had worried when he got to this old place that it was just one mor
e turd in the crapstorm that had been raining on them. And with the clock and the weird music box and the general weird vibe of the place –
(Don't forget the way that courier took off like he was looking into the pits of Hell itself.)
– he just got that much more concerned.
And that book. Those children. It had nearly been the straw that broke the ol' camel in two.
But for some reason it didn't bother him that much anymore. Didn't people make those dead picture things back then? Blake seemed to remember they were normal-ish. People made them to remember loved ones. Not to be creepy.
Some of the pictures had been artistic. Beautiful.
Full of… love.
He didn't know why everything felt better. Maybe it was dinner. Having that pizza – even pizza they couldn't afford – had been the right move. Sitting there with Mal and Alyssa and Ruthie. He'd been nervous going in, but about the time they found Ruthie's rattle, everything just started to feel… right.
Like things were falling into place.
Everything would be better soon.
The family would have what they needed again.
He would give it to them.
He looked at Ruthie. She was sleeping in his hands. That was good. Because –
(little bitchlet screams too much cries too much sees too much)
– she needed her rest. She hadn't had any attacks, but that could change at any time. Best she sleep. Stay hydrated, stay calm.
He kissed her cheek, then bent over to put her in the playpen. Alyssa had moved it into their bedroom and he could tell from the look on her face that there would be no discussion: the baby would be sleeping with them from now on.
He remembered trying to keep a secret from his father once. He read a science fiction book. His father didn't like science fiction. Didn't like books. His father suspected something was happening, something was being kept from him.
Blake told him the secret after only one strike with the bamboo cane his father kept for serious offences. But the rest of the strikes – the punitive ones – kept him out of school for two weeks. To say nothing of the softer and more terrible strikes of flesh against flesh.
He glanced at Alyssa. She was sitting on a plush chair in front of a vanity against the opposite wall. Drawing a brush through her long, blond hair.
He wondered absently if she would tell her secrets after a single strike of the cane. Probably. Most people would.
He lowered Ruthie into the playpen. Put a blanket over her. She sighed. Beautiful sound.
He smoothed the blanket over her.
As he straightened up, his hip twinged. It felt like it was about to go out on him, as though when he sat on Ruthie's toy during dinner he had really bumped into some deadening agent. He slid to the side, barely managing to right himself without hitting any of the walls of the playpen.
Then the moment passed. His hip felt fine again. He straightened.
He heard the low clink of plastic. To the side, Ruthie's mobile was moving slightly. He must have grazed it with his elbow when he fell.
How? You fell the other way.
But that was what must have happened. Ruthie couldn't have done it, that was certain. And there was no one else around.
He glanced over his shoulder. Alyssa was looking at him, minor concern on her face.
He smiled. Winked.
Damn, he felt good. His hip didn't hurt. Just warm now. Almost pleasant. He'd check it out later.
For now, he was going to chat with his wife. She needed that.
He was going to give her what she needed.
He would give them all what they needed. That was his job.
RING AROUND THE ROSIE
Alyssa brushed her hair.
The smooth motions were familiar and hypnotic and comforting enough to drive back the emotions that tore at her. At least, they drove them far enough that she felt like she might be able to think straight. Before, she had been feeling so many different things that she couldn't concentrate on any of them. It was overwhelming, and that didn't lend itself to clear thinking or good decisions.
She had finished dinner with Mal and Blake, and it was a good one. Mal loved the pizza – like he always did. He would have polished off the entire pie if they'd let him.
And Blake….
Tears pushed at her eyes. She resisted the urge to wipe them with the back of her hand, blinking them to oblivion instead. She didn't want Blake to see her cry. Didn't want to wreck whatever spell had fallen over him.
Dinner had been more than just good. Because Blake had seemed like himself. Like the version of him she fell in love with, the man who ran away from abuse, but who never ran away from challenges or his own fear of the future. The man who struggled with self-worth, but could always find it in himself to value others.
The man he was when they married, the man who fathered Mal and raised him up.
The man whom she had lost in recent years. Who had lost himself.
Blake smiled and laughed during dinner. Tickled Mal, and Mal laughed, too. Not just smiles, but laughter. The last few days, the bugs and the fleeing and the fear, disappeared from their little boy's eyes.
Alyssa watched it and enjoyed it and filed the images away in her mind where they could be viewed and savored whenever she wished.
She herself remained silent. Loath to break the mood. Enjoying the sight of father and son playing.
Fighting the fears that still gripped her.
There are events in life that can never be properly explained. The moment when you look in a person's eyes and realize you love him. The first touch of your child in your arms. Curling up in a warm bed with a lover while a winter storm rages outside. Moments so sublime that words fail and only feelings have the depth to contain them. Unexplainable, and so merely relatable by those who have gone through those same moments.
But Alyssa knew there were also dark mirrors of those moments. And she had known it for years: ever since the first time Blake told her what his childhood had been like, and her own realization that as much as he told her, as much as he dared open up and she dared listen, she would never comprehend the fear he lived with, and his longing for an existence without that fear.
These last few days, they were like that. The centipedes, the flight to an alien home. The book of dead children. The things she had seen – or perhaps hadn't.
She didn't know how to explain them. So she was alone. Because what could she tell Blake that would make him understand what she was feeling?
She kept brushing her hair. Brushing, brushing. Repetition a substitute for action, motion without thought that had become a final refuge taken up in the darkest parts of the mind.
She looked at herself in the vanity mirror sometimes, but mostly she looked beyond herself: Blake, the playpen, the open door and the hall beyond it. As though by seeing as much of her world as possible, she might be able to control it. To keep it safe.
That's impossible. A lie.
Blake put Ruthie in the playpen. He stumbled suddenly, nearly fell, and her heart stopped because –
(what if he drops her what if she falls and hits her head and her skull cracks and her blood splashes across the floor and
oh my dear Lord we're going to die
going to die
going to die
GOING TO DIE)
– Blake had never stumbled before. Never. He moved like a man carrying spun glass whenever he held the children, especially when putting them to bed. But for a moment it was as though he had lost control of himself.
And not in the way that most people said it – "He lost control of himself" meaning "he fell" or "he got angry." No, Blake moved like he had suddenly ceased being the owner of his body. Like something else had stepped in and in the split-second of the change his muscles relaxed and he nearly fell.
Alyssa turned around to see him righting himself, the mobile swinging.
Blake winked at her. And that was strange, too. She didn't know w
hy: he had winked at her before. But there was something in his eyes….
She turned away from those eyes. From that look. Back to the mirror. To the world beyond herself. And she saw in the mirror: a reflection. A shadow flitting past the door. Low, small. Headed toward the stairs.
She sighed. At least this was a moment of normalcy: Mal had always had a habit of sneaking out for snacks, for drinks of water. Anything to eke an extra five minutes out of his day.
"Mal's out," she said. She put the brush down and got up from the vanity.
"I thought you put him down," said Blake. He sounded annoyed. Tired and almost angry.
"I did," she said.
Metallic notes drifted into the room. The music box playing its tinkling, lifeless dance.
Blake was moving toward the door, and Alyssa followed him. Frowning. Because snacks and water were Mal's go-to device for staying up. Not playing with antiques.
And she'd gotten the distinct impression that the old box disquieted her son.
No, it doesn't disquiet him. He's scared of it. Scared.
Blake stumbled again.
Alyssa almost said something, but then her husband was out of sight, padding into the hall. She crept out behind him, both of them swerving slightly aside to miss the accent table that sat in the middle of the corridor. Alyssa was wearing loose sweats and one of Blake's t-shirts, and she pulled the cloth tight against her as though afraid she might contract some disease if she touched the table.
It was where that book had come from.
The music box kept playing. Singing the old, staccato song that men and women waltzed to once upon a time.
But the dancers are all dead, and the box should be still.
"Mal?" Alyssa called. Blake twitched in front of her, and that was strange, too. He should have expected that she would call their son.
He shook himself visibly, then shouted, "Bud?" as they continued moving toward the stairs.
The music played.
No voice called back.
"Mal, answer us!" Alyssa shouted.
The music box stopped. She heard the solid thump of the top closing, the mechanism shutting off.
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