Free Goodlow's Ghosts by T.M. Wright Page A

apparently think nothing of it.
    What was the protocol here? Who was supposed to acknowledge whom? Would there be times when he— Samwould be unable to see him—Ryerson? Or did it work only one way? Were the living usually unable to see the dead? Did the dead have perfect vision and ultimate wisdom? But clearly they didn't. At least he didn't or he wouldn't be asking these questions of himself.
    Maybe there were people in the house even now and he couldn't see or hear them. Maybe they were looking at him and wondering what sort of creature he was.
    The idea made his skin crawl.
    And then he was in the third seat of Ryerson's 1948 “Woody" station wagon.
    ~ * ~
    It was the twin of a car that Ryerson had owned two years earlier. He had totalled that car and replaced it with this one, because his parents had owned a Woody, and going places in it had been among the happiest and most secure times of his life.
    This new Woody was gray, it sported real wood siding, its motor hummed as well as any forty-five-year-old motor could hum, and Ryerson drove the car badly because it was all but impossible for him to ignore the barrage of psychic input that came his way from other drivers.
    Creosote sat beside him, buckled into a toddler's seat. It had taken a while for Ryerson to teach the dog to stay put, but he sat well in it, now, and Ryerson thought the dog might even be aware that it -was for his own good.
    Ryerson was not aware of his other passenger.
    ~ * ~
    Sam Goodlow was aware only that he was in a car on a narrow country road, and that the car was moving much too slowly.
    ~ * ~
    This is what the cop saw: an ancient Ford station wagon in mint condition; a driver and passenger (who was sitting very stiffly in the wagon's third seat); a long line of cars, baring angry drivers, behind the wagon.
    The cop waited for the last car to pass, pulled out, and rode the narrow, sloping shoulder until he was to the right of the Woody. He honked his horn. Ryerson appeared to pay no attention. He turned on his siren. Still, Ryerson appeared to pay no attention.
    The cop swore under his breath and pulled in front of the Woody, but—not wanting to be rear-ended—did not stop.
    Cop , Ryerson thought.
    Stupid son of a bitch! thought the cop.
    Angry cop , Ryerson thought.
    "He's pulling us over," said Sam Goodlow from the third seat.
    Ryerson snapped his gaze to the rearview mirror. He saw the same bizarre face there that he had seen looking up at him from his desk chair and he screamed again, swerved the car into the left lane, lurched back, and jammed his foot into the brake pedal. The Woody—its brakes kept in good repair—stopped almost at once.
    The angry driver just behind Ryerson, who had been following at half a car-length, slammed into the rear end of the Woody. The other cars, following at more prudent distances, stopped in time.
    The cop kept going for several seconds, unaware of what was happening behind him.
    "Dammit!" Ryerson whispered.
    "Sorry," said Sam Goodlow .
    The cop looked in his rearview mirror, saw what had happened, cursed again, stopped, backed up.
    "Dammit, I can see through your head," Ryerson said to Sam Goodlow .
    "I don't understand," Sam said.
    "Your brains, dammit, and your—What are those?— your sinus cavities, your damned sinus cavities. And your optic nerves—"
    "You're kidding."
    Ryerson heard a loud knock at his window. He ignored it. He said to Sam Goodlow , "It's why I screamed. I'm not used to seeing people the way I'm seeing you."
    "Roll down the window," said the cop.
    "What do they look like?" Sam asked. "My brains, I mean. Are they like fat worms?"
    The cop tapped harder on the window.
    "Can't you see them for yourself?" Ryerson asked. "Look in the mirror."
    Sam shook his head. "It's not the same. When I look in the mirror I . . . it makes me cringe. I don't see any brains, like you do."
    "Open the goddamned window," the cop demanded, "or I'll break it open!"
    Creosote, sitting primly in the