Part 11 (2/2)

else. And then his mouth closed, and he turned away from my door and started across the meadow in his high-topped shoes. ”Mary?” I heard him call. ”Mary?” He started fadin' away as he pa.s.sed a Roman soldier sittin'

sprawled in the gra.s.s, and he was almost gone when a little boy in knickers ran right through him. The man who was searchin' for Mary faded away like a Polaroid left in the noonday sun too long, but the Roman soldier stayed where he was, and the little boy ran into the woods. There were maybe forty or fifty others out in the meadow, wanderin' around like strangers at a weird garden party. Or a Halloween party, it bein' October and all. Out on the edge of the meadow there was what looked like somebody from Revolutionary times, a skinny man wearin' a powdered wig and a three-cornered hat. Near him was a cowboy in a yellow duster. Over there on the other side was a black-haired woman in a long blue gown that trailed on the gra.s.s, and not far from her stood a man in a suit, lookin' around as if he was waitin' for the next bus. The blue mist of ghosts trailed from the trees like cobwebs and drifted over the meadow in an ankle-deep haze. Ghosts were all in the woods, and you hear 'em babblin' and calling' in a bedlam of accents and languages. ”Dan!” I heard one American-speakin' woman-ghost, I mean-shout from over on the edge of the woods. ”d.a.m.n it, Dan, where's my robe?” she hollered, as she walked buck naked across the gra.s.s. Not walked, actually. Kinda wobbled is more like it. The wind hit her and tattered her to pieces so we didn't have to look at her big, old flabby b.u.t.t anymore. Ben Junior was peekin' out beside me, and I shoved him back inside and shut the door.

Vera and I just stared at each other, there in the gloom, as the ghosts hollered and chattered outside. We heard an Indian war-whoopin', and somebody screamin' that she'd lost her cat, and somebody else raisin' a ruckus in what sounded like Greek to me. They were all searchin' for their own world, the one they used to be part of. But of course they couldn't get back there. They couldn't find anybody or anythin' that was familiar, because this wasn't their world anymore. It was our world. And that's the h.e.l.l of it. See?

I remember what Burt Truman said. I remember, because it seemed so right. Burt looked at me, his eyes huge behind those bottle-bottom gla.s.ses he wears, and he said, ”You know why this is happenin', Ben? Well, I'll tell you my opinion. You take the air and the water nowadays. Both so polluted you can't take a safe breath or a decent sip. And what happened on them beaches last summer, all that garbage and c.r.a.p was.h.i.+n' up 'cause the ocean can't take no more. He lifted up his gla.s.ses and scratched his nose. ”Seems to me heaven-or h.e.l.l-can't take no more either. And all the dead folks are gettin' cast back up on sh.o.r.e. Whatever that place is that kept the dead, it's full to overflowin'. The dead folks are was.h.i.+n' back up into our world, and that's G.o.d's truth or I ain't sittin' here in Clyde's barbershop.”

”Bulls.h.i.+t,” Clyde said as he clipped Burt's side burns. Clyde has a voice like a steam shovel with stripped gears.

”d.a.m.n ghosts are comin' through the ozone hole. That's what they said on Dan Rather yesterday.”

”G.o.d's shut with us,” Phil Laney offered. He's a deacon at the Baptist church, and he was gloomin'-and-doomin'

long before all this started. ”Only way for us to fix this is to get down on our knees and pray like we've never prayed before. I mean, serious prayin'. We've got to get right with G.o.d before this thing'll be fixed.”

”h.e.l.l, this thing's done broke to pieces,” Luke McGuire said. Ol' Luke's a big fella, stands about six foot three and wears raggedy overalls, but he's got the best farmland in south Alabama. ”Just like a machine,” he said as he rolled himself another cigarette. ”You bust a cylinder on your tractor, ain't prayin' that gets it fixed. You bend a blade on a tiller, you don't get on your knees and kiss the ground until it's straight again. h.e.l.l, no. The world's a machine. Thing's done broke to pieces, and the repair shop's shut down.”

This was the sort of conversation that could fill most of a Sat.u.r.day afternoon and evenin' and still leave you goin' in circles. But I mostly thought of what Burt said, about the dead overflowin' and was.h.i.+n' back up into our world. The tornadoes brought 'em back, of course, but I knew what he meant. Heaven and h.e.l.l were like busted pipes, and the ghosts were spillin' out.

And right about then, as Luke and Phil were arguin' hammer and tongs, a knight in tarnished armor walked past the window of Clyde Butler's barbershop. Walked right out in the street, he did, and Mrs. Beacham in her green Oldsmobile swerved the wheel and crashed into the front of Sammy Kane's Stag Shop for Men. Clothes dummies flew all over the place, broken arms and legs lyin' on the pavement. That knight just kept on goin', fine as you please, and he took a few more rusty steps before he vanished into the unknown. But he didn't go far. We all knew that. He couldn't go far, see. He was still stuck in the haunted world, like all the other dead folks. After all that commotion had died down, Luke McGuire picked his teeth with a splintered match and brought up the question: ”How come the ghosts are wearin' clothes?”

Not all of 'em were, of course, but most of 'em did. We thought about that for a little while, and then Luke went on in that thick drawl of his that always makes me think of mud simmerin' in the bottom of a ditch. ”Clothes,” he said. ”Ghosts of people are one thing. But are they wearin' ghosts of clothes?” We drifted into talkin' about what ghosts were, and that was a tangled thicket. Then Clyde brought up the next skull knocker. ”Thank G.o.d they're ghosts, that's all I can say.” He brushed hairs off Burt's shoulders. ”Not solid, I mean.” He glanced around at everybody, to see if we'd gotten the point. We hadn't. ”You can drive cars through ghosts. You can put your hand through 'em. They don't need food or water, and they can't touch you neither. Take that fella in armor just walked past here. Think you'd like to feel him slap you upside the head? I looked out my window this mornin' and saw the woods full of d.a.m.n ghosts, blowin' in the breeze like old newspapers. One of 'em had a long black beard and carried a sword 'bout as big as ol' Luke. Think you'd like to get stabbed a few times with somethin' like that?”

”Wasn't a real sword,” Luke observed sagely. ”Was a ghost of a sword.”

”Yeah, and thank G.o.d for that,” Clyde steam-shoveled on. ”What do you think would happen if every body who ever died in the whole world came back?”

”We might find out,” I said. ”Seems like that's happenin' right now.” I knew, like we all did, that this thing was happenin' not just in Concordia, Alabama, but in Georgia and North Carolina and New York and Illinois and Wyoming and California and everywhere else under the sun. Ghosts were roamin' the streets of London and Paris, and stompin' through Red Square. Even the Australians were seein' ghosts, so when I say haunted world that's exactly what I mean.

”Thank G.o.d, they're ghosts and not real,” Clyde said, as he finished up on Burt. ”There you go.” He handed Burt a mirror. ”Slicker'n owl s.h.i.+t.”

Luke switched on the barbershop's TV to catch the midday news. There was a report from Was.h.i.+ngton, D.C. It showed somethin' that looked like Thomas Jefferson, sittin' on the steps of the Capitol and cryin' his eyes out. It hit me then, as I was standin' in the gloom starin' at Vera and the ghosts were catterwaulin' outside. The power was out. How were we gonna see the TV show tonight? They'd been advertisin' it for a week. Tonight Tom Edison was supposed to be a guest on the Johnny Carson show. I'm talkin' about the Tom Edison who invented the light bulb, the genuine article. Seems Edison-his spirit, I mean-had been talked into appearin' on TV. Tonight was the night. s.h.i.+rley MacLaine was supposed to be a guest too, but she wasn't even dead yet, so what did she know?

Anyway, the power was off!

I went to the phone and called Clyde. ”They got the juice back on over here,” Clyde said, speakin' from eight miles away. The phone was hissin' with static, but I could hear him good enough. ”I just got a call from Phil, too,” Clyde told me. ”His TV's out. I reckon mine is at home too. You want to watch that show, come on over to the barbershop tonight. h.e.l.l, I'll get us some beers and we'll have a time of it.” I said that was a fine idea. Ben Junior was tuggin' at my sleeve, and Vera was starin' out the window again. I hung up the phone and walked over to see what had been roused up this time.

More Roman soldiers were out in the meadow. I guess they were Roman, but I'm not sure. There were about a hundred of 'em, and they had s.h.i.+elds and swords. Ghost s.h.i.+elds and swords, I mean. And there were about a hundred or so Chinese-lookin' fellas too, half-naked and with long braids in their hair. Well, the Romans and the Chinese had taken to fightin'. Maybe they were tryin' to finish up an old battle, or maybe all they knew was fightin'

and that was their job. The Romans were swingin' their ghost swords, and the Chinese were kickin' with their ghost legs, and nothin' but mist was bein' hit. From out of the woods swarmed other ghosts: cowboys, musketeers, guys with bowl-shaped haircuts and long robes, women in lacy dresses, and black Africans with animal-skin s.h.i.+elds and spears like in that English movie Ben Junior and me watched one Sat.u.r.day. All the ghosts swirled around each other like they were part of a big churnin' whirlpool, and I'm tellin' you that the noise they made-hollerin' and screamin'

at each other was somethin' fearsome. No doubt about it: Even when people were dead, they still couldn't get along. Then a few dogs were even runnin' around out among the ghosts-ghost dogs, snappin' at ghost ankles. Maybe there was a horse or two out there, but I'm not sure. Anyway, it looked like Animal Heaven had started overfiowin'

too. ”Lord save us!” Vera said, but Ben Junior said, ”Neat!” and I saw he was grinnin'. Boy's got a strange sense of humor. Takes after me, I reckon, because I was kinda fascinated at the sight of all those ghosts tanglin' and whirlin'. Vera turned away from the window, and that was when she screamed.

I looked. I think Ben Junior let out a strangled squawk. It might've been my voice. Standin' in front of us, right in our pine-paneled livin' room, was a red-bearded man with a double bladed battle-ax. That sumb.i.t.c.h stood at least six foot six, taller even than Luke McGuire, and he had on some kind of ragged animal skin and a metal skullcup with bull horns sticking out on either side of it. His face looked like a lump of meat wrapped up in wrinkled leather. He had green eyes under red brows as big as scrub brushes, and he let out a holler that shook the room as he lifted that battle-ax up over his head.

What would you have done? I knew he was a ghost and all, but at a time like that you don't think exactly calm. I shoved Vera out of the way of that battle-ax, and I picked up the first thing that came to hand: a lamp table beside the couch. The lamp flew off of it, and I thrust that little wooden table up like a Vikin' s.h.i.+eld, my shoulders tensin'

for the shock.

It didn't come. The battle-ax, a misty thing, went right through the table. I swear I saw a glint of metal, though, and old blood on the edge. I could smell that sumb.i.t.c.h, sure enough; he smelled like a dead cow. He took another step forward, crowdin' me, and he flailed back and forth with that battle-ax like he really thought he was gonna hit somethin'. His face was splotched with red. Ever heard the expression, ”mad as a ghost”? I just made it up, 'cause he was mad as h.e.l.lfire sure enough. He chopped the ax back and forth a dozen times, and the rage on his face would've been terrible if he'd been flesh and blood instead of colored mist. I laughed, and that made him madder still. The ax kept whippin' back and forth, through the table. I said, ”Fella, why don't you put that toy away and get the h.e.l.l out of my house?”

He stopped choppin', his big chest heavin' up and down. He glared at me for a minute, and I could tell he hated me. Maybe for bein' alive-I don't know. Then he gave a growl and started to fade away. His beard was the last thing to go. It hung in the air for a few seconds, workin' as if it still had a mouth under it, and then it went.

”Is it gone? Is it gone? Ben, tell me it's gone!” Vera had scrunched herself up into a corner, her arms hugging herself and her eyes wide and starey. I didn't like the looks of them. Ben Junior was kinda dazed. He stood where the Vikin' had been, feelin' around in the air.

”It's gone, hon,” I said to Vera. ”Wasn't ever here, really. You okay?”

”I've never... I've never... seen anything... like that.” She could hardly get a breath, and I set the table down and put my arms around her while she trembled.

”They're not real,” I told her. ”None of them are. They're just... pictures in the air. They hang there for a while, and then they go away. But they're not real. Okay?”

She nodded. ”Okay,” she said, but she sounded choked.

”Dad?”

”Just a minute. You want me to go get you an aspirin? You want to lie down awhile?” I kept my arms around Vera, for fear her knees might give way.

”Dad?” Ben Junior's voice was a little higher. ”Look at this.”

”I'm all right,” Vera said. She had a strong const.i.tution. Livin' on a farm for over twenty years makes you that way. ”See what Ben Junior wants.”

I looked over at the boy. He was standin' there, starin' at the table I'd just set down. ”Dad?” he repeated. ”I... don't think this was here before.”

”What wasn't there before?” I walked over beside him, and I saw what he was talkin' about. On the table's surface was a single diagonal scratch. It wasn't much. The tip of a nail might've done it. Only Ben Junior was right, and I knew that at once. The scratch hadn't been there before. I touched it to make sure it was real, and ran my finger along its length. The lamp's base had green backing on it, to keep it from scratchin' anythin'. I looked at Ben Junior. He was a smart boy, and I knew he knew. And he knew I knew, too.

”Vera?” I tried to sound calm, but I don't think I did. ”Let's drive on into town and get some dinner. How does that suit you?”

”Fine.” She took my hand and wouldn't let go of it, and I walked with her to the closet to get her sweater. Ben Junior went back through the hallway at a cautious pace, stirrin' the air before him with his hands to make sure nothin' was there, and a minute later he returned with a jacket from his room. I got my wallet and the keys to the pickup, and we went outside into the gray-green twilight. The driveway was full of fightin' ghosts: Chinese, Romans, an Indian or two, and a husky fella wearin' a kilt. I backed the truck right through 'em, and none of 'em seemed to mind.

On the drive to Concordia I turned on the radio, but all the stations were screwed up with the most G.o.d-awful static you ever heard. I switched it off real quick, because the noise sounded to me like the whole world was screamin'. Vera touched my arm and pointed off toward the right. Another tornado was movin' across the hills, blowin' red leaves' before it and leavin' ghosts in its wake. The sky was green and low, shot through with pearly streaks. Half-formed, misty figures swept past the truck. I turned on the winds.h.i.+eld wipers. We pa.s.sed Bobby Glover's pasture. There were so many ghosts wanderin' and staggerin' around that field it looked like a spirit convention. Things that looked like pieces of filmy cloth were hangin' in Bobby's barbed-wire fence, and they were growin' arms, legs, and heads. An old woman dressed like a Pilgrim was walkin' in the middle of the road, and she saw us comin' and made a noise like a cat gettin' skinned as the truck went through her. I looked back in the rear-view mirror and saw blue mist floatin' in the air where the Pilgrim lady had been a second before. Somethin' occurred to me real strange just about then: Somewhere in the world my own father and mother were wanderin'. Vera's mother, too; her father was in a rest home in Montgomery. Somewhere all our ancestors were out in the haunted world, and the ancestors of everybody who'd ever drawn a breath. I hadn't seen any ghosts of babies yet. I hoped I wouldn't, but you never knew. Peculiar thoughts whirled through my brain, like those red leaves thrown by the tornado: My father had died six years ago, and my mother had gone on a year later. They could be roamin' the jungles of Brazil or the streets of Dallas for all I knew. I hoped my father didn't come back in Tokyo. He'd fought the j.a.panese in World War II, and that would be pure h.e.l.l for him.

About three miles from Concordia, we came upon a station wagon that had gone into a ditch. Both the front doors were open, but n.o.body was around. I stopped the truck and was gonna get out to take a look, hut I heard what sounded like Indian war whoops off in the woods somewhere. I thought about that scratch on the table, and I swallowed hard and drove on.

I took the next curve pretty fast. Anyway, we were on him before we knew it. Vera screamed and her foot plunged to the floorboard, but of course the brake pedal was on my side, and I sure as h.e.l.l wasn't gonna hit it. He looked more ape than human, really. He was monstrous, and he wore a tattered lion's skin that still had the lion's head on it. He bellowed and charged the pickup, his fangy teeth showin'. I tried to swerve, but there wasn't much use, and I sure didn't want to go into a ditch. The caveman lifted a club that had sharp rocks embedded in it, and he swung that thing like it weighed a feather.

The club turned to mist an instant before it would've hit the fender. I heard the caveman bellow again-right up next to my head, it seemed like-and I gave the truck all the gas she could handle. We sped on down the road, the engine poppin' and snarlin'. I guess that caveman-ghost of a caveman, I mean-must've thought we were somethin' good to eat. I looked in the rearview mirror, but he was gone.

”It wasn't real, was it?” Vera said in a quiet voice. Her gaze was fixed straight ahead. ”It was just a picture that hung in the air, wasn't it?”

”Yeah, that's right,” I answered. I thought about the scratched table. My fingers were clenched real hard around the steerin' wheel. That table hadn't been scratched before the Vikin' sumb.i.t.c.h had swung his ax at me. My mind was wanderin' in dangerous country. The Vikin' was a ghost, with the ghost of a battle-ax. Just a picture, hangin' in the air. So how come the table was scratched, as if the slightest edge of metal had grazed it?

I didn't care to think about that anymore. Such thoughts made the hair p.r.i.c.kle on the back of your neck. Concordia was a small town, hardly much to look at, but it had never been prettier. The sun was goin' down fast, into a lizard-skin horizon, and Concordia's street lights were glowin' in the murk. We went straight to the Concordia Cafe. It was crowded, I guess because a lot of folks had the same idea as us. Bein' with real people was a comfort, though the food was as bad as usual. You can be sure that ghosts were the prime topic of conversation, and every so often somebody would holler for everybody else to look out the windows and you could see spirits on Main Street. The sky flashed and flickered, blue lightnin' jumpin' from horizon to horizon, and we all sat in the Concordia Cafe and watched the parade of ghosts. Here came a fella dressed up in a tuxedo, his hair gleamin' with pomade, and spats on his shoes, and he was callin' for somebody named Lily in a broken voice, ghost tears runnin'

down his cheeks. Then a n.a.z.i soldier ran past, carryin' a ghost rifle. A little girl in a nightgown, her hair red and curly, staggered along the street callin' in a language I couldn't understand. Some of the women wanted to go out and help her, but the men blocked the door. It was a ghost little girl, and the h.e.l.l if we wanted her in here among the livin'.

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