Free Ghostcountry's Wrath by Tom Deitz Page B

liver without a struggle, he had no idea.
    But one thing he did know was that if he could see that mask-face just a little more clearly it would show the same angry/hurt expression he’d seen on that final holiday.
    Fortunately, he couldn’t quite get it to focus—yet didn’t dare look away. Vainly he tried to think of some formula to banish such things, even as his more rational aspect told him that something which had no substance could wreak no physical harm; that he was master of his mind, and no other.
    And yet those eyes bored into him—accusing, almost pleading—and now, it seemed, beckoning; as though his dad’s shade was trying to convince him that if he would only slip out of bed and come closer, they could reconcile all the guilt that lay between them and give them both peace.
    But then Calvin saw something that made him shiver so violently he could actually hear the bed frame creak.
    His father was not alone! Another shape accompanied him, a smaller one, whose face had begun as knotholes in the paneling. More shadowy than his father it was, and yet clearer. A boy, he thought: blond, early teens, solidly built and intense. The expression—what Calvin could make of it—could only be described as haunted.
    Michael Chadwick! It was Mike Chadwick!—one of the three boys he’d met in south Georgia during the Spearfinger Affair. And the one thing this kid had in common with Calvin’s dad was that they had both been killed by that monster!
    But Spearfinger was dead herself, and Calvin had been absolved of the blame…
    Or had he?
    Assorted law enforcement agencies had backed carefully away (or been backed away) from a situation too outré to bring to hearing, much less trial. And Uki had told him that while he had done wrong by admitting Spearfinger to this World, he’d balanced that by removing her again.
    Except that, apparently, two…ghosts…? shades…? spirits…? thought otherwise.
    Which didn’t make sense either, because Spearfinger had killed four people. Present company excluded, she’d also done in a redneck housewife in Jackson County and the ten-year-old sister of Chadwick’s best friend, Don. Which, beyond the obvious difference in sex, just didn’t jive.
    Abruptly, a clock chimed in the greatroom, announcing 1:00 A.M. And with that, the visitations faded, in reverse of how they’d formed, with his father’s eyes going last. But as the last echo drifted into silence, he heard a voice, faint but clear, whisper, “Help us, my son, only you can.”
    Whereupon reality reclaimed the night.
    For a long time Calvin lay there, flat on his back, staring at the ceiling, watching the shadows of the rafters slide as the moon continued its march. More than once he thought of phoning Sandy at her hotel and trusting to her solid good sense to set him a course that was true. And far more than once he considered making a pot of coffee and sitting up the rest of the night. Surely he could find something to distract him until daylight and temporal distance dulled his memory to the point where he could dismiss tonight’s occurrence as a dream.
    But still the words gnawed at him: “Help us, my son, only you can!”
    But how could one help the dead? Shoot, what kind of help did the dead need ? Where did one go? What did one do?
    What was Michael Chadwick doing with his father’s shade?
    And, drat it, what about his promise to Brock, that was rapidly approaching zero hour?
    Well, nothing could be resolved here, and at least two problems had to be resolved, one of them quickly.
    But waiting until daylight to leave would increase the odds of Sandy catching him at home (she was an early riser and had a tendency to make check-in calls over her morning coffee). And if that happened, he’d have to lie, which he wouldn’t do. Or else there’d be discussions, and more delays, and explorations of options he’d already explored in his own mind ad nauseam. And of course she’d want to come along, when he didn’t