Free Five Days of the Ghost by William Bell Page A

anything.
    John led the way, peering at his compass and then heading into the trees. We walked slowly in the dark bush, twisting and ducking and stepping over fallen logs. After a long while John’s breathless voice hissed that the clearing was just ahead. We crept to the edge of the trees. All the night noises had faded away.
    â€œHang on,” Noah whispered, “I wanna get a shot of the whole place.”
    He knelt and panned slowly across the graveyard. The place looked the same as it had two nights before—the moonlight making the leaning gravestones glow and throwing gloomy twisted shadows across the clearing. “Okay, done.”
    Noah lowered the camera. He switched on the tape recorder and whispered, “Where do we find your ghost?”
    â€œThis way,” John said.
    He began to move to the left through the trees, counting his steps. He stopped and dropped to his knees. Without thinking, I did too. The three of us crawled slowly to the edge of the trees. Then we peered into the clearing.
    At the far end of the graveyard, sitting on the same new headstone, was the Chippewa man, staring into the trees to our left. He was dressed the same way, he was sitting the same way, ankles crossed, hands on his knees, looking relaxed—and he was just as terrifying. That strange light showed every detail of his clothing and his face. Luckily, we couldn’t see his eyes at that angle.
    Out of the comer of my eye I saw Noah bring the camera up again. “This is great !” he whispered as he began to shoot. When he brought the camera down again John talked, his voice trembling.
    â€œMaybe … maybe we should just take his picture and get out of here.”
    â€œYeah,” I whispered, holding the cross in front of me.
    â€œNo way I’m leaving without checking that guy out!” Noah said in hushed tones. “Besides, we agreed you’re going to give back the bag.”
    â€œWell,” I said, “we could just leave it here.”
    â€œOr toss it to him and run,” John whispered.
    Instead of saying anything more, Noah got to his feet and stepped into the clearing. He stopped dead.
    â€œWow!” he said out loud. “It’s freezing !”
    John stood and followed. I didn’t intend to wait for them alone, so I went too.
    Noah led us slowly, step by step, toward the man on the gravestone. Our feet swished through the damp grass. The man seemed to be sleeping or dreaming. He didn’t move a muscle.
    We kept walking over the cold uneven ground, side by side now. Noah held the camera at chest level, shooting. I held the cross in front of me, feeling silly. And scared.
    When we were about twenty feet from the old man his head slowly turned and he faced us.
    Close up, his craggy mask-like face was almost inhuman. His long hair was pulled back from his wrinkled face and held tight by the leather headband. He had thick eyebrows and broad cheeks. His mouth was a hard straight line under his large flat nose.
    It was his eyes that got to me, though. Deep black wells with tiny red fires at the bottoms under the heavy brows. Eyes that seemed to nail me down, or stab through me. When he looked at me I felt trapped.
    We stopped. Nobody said anything.
    My heart was pounding. My breath clouds were coming faster and faster. So were John’s and Noah’s. But the Chippewa man had none.
    â€œThe bag,” Noah hissed. “Give him the bag.”
    I switched the cross to my left hand. My right hand slowly unzipped my track top and unbuttoned my shirt pocket. I drew out the bag and held it out in front of me.
    Nothing. The red light glowed on the camera—Noah was still shooting. I couldn’t take the tension anymore so I quickly walked forward and shook the bag. I heard feet swishing in the grass behind me.
    â€œUmmm, John and I found this the other night.We think it’s yours,” I said in a cracked voice. I waited, half expecting a blood-freezing