Laws of Nature -2 by Christopher Golden (i can read books txt) 📕

I mean, I thought you only saw them if they appeared to you."

"Not necessarily. Let's experiment."

Molly bit her lip and turned to lean against the Jeep, beside him. Jack closed his eyes and thought about Artie, and Father Pinsky, the priest the Prowlers had killed in Boston, and the other ghosts he had seen. He tried to force himself to feel that frisson of fear that always ran through him when his vision changed and he was able to see the Ghostlands.

"Hold my hand," Jack whispered, fingers reaching for Molly's. Something seemed to be tugging on him, and he wanted to hang on to her, as though she were his anchor.

"Hey," he whispered. "Anybody there?"

After a long moment he opened his eyes. Everything looked exactly as it had before. His mouth twisted with disappointment, and he glanced at Molly.

"Nothing."

"You can try again later. Let's have some lunch and maybe talk to some of the living instead," she said, trying to cheer him. "If we're casual enough, maybe it won't seem out of place."

Jack nodded. He pulled out his keys and jangled them in his hand for a second before he dropped them. They struck the pavement, and he bent to pick them up.

When he straightened up, he saw a battered old postal van rumbling along Route 31 to the intersection with 219. The van only paused a moment at the stop sign before starting across. A car came flying along 219 well above the speed limit, and passed right through the mail truck.

Through the postal vehicle, Jack could see the trees beyond. The thing was as insubstantial as smoke, even more so than most of the ghosts Jack had met.

Behind the wheel was a man in his mid-forties who seemed nervous about driving that particular stretch of road.

"Garraty," Jack whispered to himself.

"What?" Molly asked.

He glanced at her for a moment, and when he turned back, the world seemed to invert. Jack's stomach lurched and he felt bile rising in his throat. His skin tingled, as though insects were crawling on him. Suddenly the world around him had become completely insubstantial, the Jeep, the trees, the road, even Molly herself were only specters of themselves, a phantom world.

The postal van that rolled toward him was completely solid. And Jack now saw that there were two passengers inside it. A U2 song, "Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For," pumped from the stereo inside the van. Jack took a step forward and raised his hand, flagging down the van. Somewhere nearby he could hear Molly talking to him, but barely understood the words.

The van's brakes squealed as it came to a stop. A forty-something guy with a grim expression on his face stared at Jack as though he were a monster.

"You can see me?" he asked.

Jack nodded. "You're Phil Garraty?"

The postman blew out a breath. "Yeah. I just . . . I can't . . . how come you can see me?"

Jack didn't really have an answer to that. "A friend opened my eyes," he said. "But the way I've heard it, anyone can see the Ghostlands if they really want to."

Garraty shuddered. "That what it's called? The Ghostlands?"

Jack was barely listening. His gaze was on the figure in the passenger seat, an elderly man who sat with his limbs pulled in toward him, like a child who feared getting hit. The old man's expression was sad, yet somehow vacant.

"Wait. You're him, aren't you? The kid told me about you, the kid who talks all the time," Garraty said.

"Artie," Jack reminded him, happy that Garraty seemed to have at least begun to come to terms with his death. "I'm Jack. I want to find the Prowlers, Mr.

Garraty. They're the things that did this to you. My friends and I want to stop them from ever doing it again. To do that, we have to find their lair."

Garraty's forehead creased and the edges of his mouth twitched with anger as he thought of his own savage murder. "Love to help you, son. Don't know what I can do for you though."

"This book that was stolen - "

"I'm no thief. Foster told me about the monsters, the Prowlers, but I didn't believe him. I carried the mail, that's all."

Jack perked up. "But who did you carry it to? Who did Foster send letters to?"

Garraty scowled. "Who didn't he? The man was a notorious crank. Always badgering people about painting their houses, keeping their dogs from crapping on the sidewalk. He acted like the whole town was his. Not many people were fond of Foster."

In the passenger seat, the old man began to whimper in a high voice, almost like an injured dog.

"Sorry I can't be more helpful," Garraty said.

"Maybe you can," Jack said quickly. "There are a lot of . . . souls around here, a lot of lost spirits whose lives were taken by the Prowlers. Hikers and people from out of town. I need to talk to them, or ask you to talk to them, tell me exactly where they were when they were killed. Show me on a map. It might help us find the lair."

A sparkle appeared in the black orbs that were Garraty's eyes. He sat up straighter now that he had a purpose. "I can do that, son. Nobody knows this area the way I do. I was the postman, you know."

"Any help would be appreciated." Jack stared past him again, at the old man, whose whimpering had risen in volume.

Suddenly the old man began to sing in that high, frightened voice. At first Jack didn't recognize the song, but after a moment he realized it was the theme from the old Road Runner show.

". . . if he catches you, you're through . . ." the insane ghost sang madly to himself.

"Who is he?" Jack asked, a pang of sorrow for the crazy old man spiking into his heart.

Garraty glanced at him as though he had not been aware the other ghost was there.