Poppy Z. Brite - 1992 - Lost Souls by Poppy Z. Brite

greeting it most likely. Steve stood watching, one
hand on the warm hood of the T-bird. He ran his other hand through his hair,
shoving it back behind his ears, trying to tame it. Finally, against his will,
he said, “What killed that kid?”
                 Ghost
shrugged, pulled his hair over his face. “Something bad. Something really bad.”
                 Steve
started to say no shit, then thought better of it. Sometimes you didn’t want to
say such things to Ghost. They walked to the fence and looked out over the
pastures toward the power plant. Steve curled his fingers around the barbed
wire. It was cold, colder than the night air, as cold as dead flesh. He
shivered. “A psycho,” he said.
                 “A
dog. Maybe that Doberman the lady had. You suppose there’s any wolves left
around here?”
                 Ghost
tossed his hair back and slowly shook his head. “It wasn’t any wolf or dog.
                 How
could they suck him dry like that? And if you think it was a psycho, how come
you’re not scared to be up here? He would’ve taken off. He could be anywhere.”
                 “Probably
across the Virginia border by now.” Steve saw again the cavernous throat, the
sad brown hand with road dirt ground into the creases of its palm. He was aware
of the cool air against his eyes, drying and chilling them. He squinted at the
power plant, making the lights run together fuzzily, dazzlingly … and then Ann
was in his head again.
                 He
remembered the last time he’d come up here, months ago. With her. They had made
love on a blanket in the backseat of the T-bird, hot and sweaty, but the clear
cool air of the hill had blown over them, and the lights of the power plant had
run together in just the same way.
                 Steve’s
shoulders drew up and he clamped his arms across his chest, ready to say Let’s
leave, let’s get the hell out of here . . and then Ghost was offering him a
green apple. Distracting him. It worked; Steve had to wonder where in hell the
apple had come from. He took a big bite and handed it back, chewing slowly,
letting the golden-tasting juice run over his tongue: crunchy, sweet. The taste
made him feel better. “You remember the Hook?” he asked after he had swallowed
the mouthful. “That old spook story?”
                 “Uh-uh,”
said Ghost, eating the core of the apple. Steve watched to see whether Ghost
would spit out the seeds. When he didn’t, Steve spoke again. “You know, that
story about the kids out at Lovers Lane. They’re fucking in the backseat, and
all of a sudden this bulletin comes on the radio about a crazy man escaped from
the asylum outside of town. A psycho killer with a hook instead of a hand.”
                 Steve
looked at Ghost. Ghost was leaning against one of the fence posts, head tilted
back, staring at the sky. The moon had gone behind a cloud. Ghost’s face was
shadowed, his eyes dark.
                 He
might have been listening; then again, he might have been receiving messages
from an agrarian collective civilization somewhere near Alpha Centauri.
                 “So
they hauled ass out of Lovers Lane,” Steve went on anyway, “and when they got
home, the boy went around the car to open the door for the girl. And what do
you think he found? A bloody hook, hanging from the handle of the door!” He
leaned over and spoke the last words right into Ghost’s ear.
                 Ghost
jumped, almost fell over. He stared at Steve for several seconds, then grinned.
                 “Out
at Lovers Lane?” he asked. Both of them turned to look at the T-bird parked in
the clearing.
                 It
sat large and dusty, its engine giving an occasional metallic groan as it
cooled.
                 “How
come—” Ghost began, and Steve knew Ghost was about to exhibit the