Free Ghost Trackers by Grant Wilson Jason Hawes Page A

and in need of trimming. But there was something familiar about his ice-blue eyes, and a name whispered through her mind:
Greg
.
    He smiled as he crouched down and placed both the lantern and the flintlock on the ground. He remained in that position, keeping still as if he were a hunter and she were an animal he didn’t wish to startle with any sudden movements. He spoke then, taking care to keep his voice gentle, but any reassurance his tone might have given her was spoiled by the cries of fear and sorrow coming from the women in the houses around them.
    “This is a dream, Amber. Don’t get me wrong. It
did
happen, back during the French and IndianWar in the 1700s. The massacre took place on the site where the Lowry House would one day be built, as a matter of fact. But what you’re experiencing now is nothing more than a . . . well, a dramatic re-creation, as they say on reality TV. A band of British traders and hunters took it into their heads to attack Native American villages in the Ohio Valley. They figured the fewer Indians there were to fight alongside the French, the better. This is pretty much the way it happened, though your mind reshaped some of the details.” His smile widened. “Just like Hollywood, you couldn’t resist making a good story even better. The attack originally took place before dawn, and there was no confrontation between the chief and the leader of the British raiders. The British snuck into the village while everyone was sleeping and started killing. Once the men were dealt with, they
did
take their time with the women, though.” His smile took on a darker edge. “And some of the children. You got that part right.”
    Little Eyes’ mind was reeling. On the one hand, this white man—this
killer
—was speaking nonsense. But part of her, a part that thought of itself as Amber and not Little Eyes, seemed to understand his words.
    “This place may be a dream memory, but
you’re
real.
I’m
real.” The man—
Greg
—scooted closer to her. He continued to smile, but a hungry look came into his eyes. That look made her want toflee, but she couldn’t move. His gaze fixed her in place, as if he were an approaching predator and she were the prey too terrified to do anything but remain frozen and wait for death.
    “I can’t tell you how good it is to see you again, Amber. To be close to you. To . . . touch you.”
    He reached out with his right hand and brushed his fingers along her cheek. His flesh was ice-cold, and his touch burned. She gasped in pain and surprise, and without thinking, she lashed out with her hand and raked her fingernails across his own cheek, tearing bloody furrows in his skin.
    If the wound hurt, Greg gave no sign of it. Instead, he laughed as a black tarry substance began to ooze forth from the scratches she’d made. It wasn’t blood, it was
darkness
, and as it trickled forth, it formed a mass of tiny tendrils that writhed in the air as if alive. They grew longer and thicker and stretched toward her. She tried to draw back, but the tendrils were fast, and they wrapped around the back of her head and held her fast.
    Greg continued to smile, but now his eyes had been replaced by orbs of pure black.
    “How about a kiss?” he said.
    She felt herself pulled forward as Greg opened his mouth. A mass of ebon tendrils slid over his teeth and between his lips, thicker than the ones protruding from his facial wound, darker, too, and coated with a sheen of viscous slime. The tendrilsplunged into her mouth and forced their way down her throat, choking off her screams. She thrashed and struggled as Greg’s darkness poured into her, and in her mind, she heard the sound of his laughter.
    Amber woke gasping for breath. She threw back the covers, jumped out of bed, and ran to the bathroom. She made it to the toilet just in time, and she spent the next several minutes throwing up. When she finished, she flushed, made her way to the sink, and held on to the counter with a death