weird,
irritating logic that sometimes possessed him. He was going to ask how come the
couple had the radio on while they were fucking, or why the psycho killer would
have reached to open the car door with his hook when he could have used his
hand. But then the moon sailed out from behind its cloud and flooded the hill
with cold white light, and Ghost sucked in his breath, sharp and scared.
Steve
followed Ghost’s gaze to the oak and saw nothing at all. But he knew Ghost saw
something there. And somehow that was scarier than seeing it himself.
Ghost
felt his feet moving. He hadn’t told them to move. He wasn’t even sure he
wanted them to move. He took several steps toward the oak, and when he got
close enough, the outline of the twins grew clearer, more solid.
They
were balanced on a low branch, their legs swinging, their hands climbing like
delicate white insects along the trunk. Closer still, and Ghost could smell
them: their strange, heady bouquet of strawberry incense, clove cigarettes,
wine and blood and rain and the sweat of passion. All the things they had loved
when they were alive, the things that dragged them down, drove them to live
upon each other’s essence until they ran dry. But here on this midnight hill,
in the pallid moonlight, the twins were beautiful still. They wore colored
silks, silks that caught the moon and threw it back in a thousand shades of
iridescence. And Ghost could see no spiderweb tracery
of age on their faces. He saw only their dark lips, their brittle,
false-colored, silken hair of lemon-yellow and cherry-red, their eyes like
silver pearl, filmy and pupilless .
But
they were looking at him, he knew that, and when he was close enough to touch
the trunk of the tree, one of them spoke to him. It was only his name, whispered
through the branches, “Ghost,” but it was like a wind blowing from across a
strange sea, like an unseen rustle in an empty room. Ghost put his hand on the
trunk, near a slender silk-clad leg so tangible he wanted to stroke it.
Why
was he seeing them now, these creatures from his dream? He had thought they
were pitiful, but now they frightened him. He found himself wondering what they
had become after their death, how death had changed them. If they were somehow
alive even now, what allowed them to be? And why had he dreamed of them in the
first place?
Ghost
was used to asking himself such questions. He had been visited in his dreams by
the dead; he had dreamed the future as clearly as a story in a book; he had
been able to pick up the thoughts and feelings of people he was close to—and
other people if he concentrated—for as long as he could remember. But he had
never been visited while awake by creatures from one of his dreams.
“What
is it?” Steve called from across the clearing.
“Hello,
Ghost,” said the crimson-haired twin, smiling down at him with rouged lips.
Those
lips were too dark in that pale, peaked face, and there was no warmth in that
smile, only a spasm of muscles long forgotten, a memory of a smile. But Ghost
looked up into those flat silvery eyes, and he was not afraid for his own
safety. Not yet. These twins had been dead a long time, if indeed they had ever
lived outside his dream.
“Of
course we haven’t,” said the first twin, catching Ghost’s thought. “We’re just
your dream.”
“We
don’t go around killing little niggerboys on lonely
roadsides long past midnight just to suck their lives out.”
“He
didn’t taste exquisite, did he, love, at the moment of death? No, we didn’t
suck out that little boy’s life, Ghost.”
“ Nooo , not us, not so we could stay beautiful. We’re just
your dream….
irritating logic that sometimes possessed him. He was going to ask how come the
couple had the radio on while they were fucking, or why the psycho killer would
have reached to open the car door with his hook when he could have used his
hand. But then the moon sailed out from behind its cloud and flooded the hill
with cold white light, and Ghost sucked in his breath, sharp and scared.
Steve
followed Ghost’s gaze to the oak and saw nothing at all. But he knew Ghost saw
something there. And somehow that was scarier than seeing it himself.
Ghost
felt his feet moving. He hadn’t told them to move. He wasn’t even sure he
wanted them to move. He took several steps toward the oak, and when he got
close enough, the outline of the twins grew clearer, more solid.
They
were balanced on a low branch, their legs swinging, their hands climbing like
delicate white insects along the trunk. Closer still, and Ghost could smell
them: their strange, heady bouquet of strawberry incense, clove cigarettes,
wine and blood and rain and the sweat of passion. All the things they had loved
when they were alive, the things that dragged them down, drove them to live
upon each other’s essence until they ran dry. But here on this midnight hill,
in the pallid moonlight, the twins were beautiful still. They wore colored
silks, silks that caught the moon and threw it back in a thousand shades of
iridescence. And Ghost could see no spiderweb tracery
of age on their faces. He saw only their dark lips, their brittle,
false-colored, silken hair of lemon-yellow and cherry-red, their eyes like
silver pearl, filmy and pupilless .
But
they were looking at him, he knew that, and when he was close enough to touch
the trunk of the tree, one of them spoke to him. It was only his name, whispered
through the branches, “Ghost,” but it was like a wind blowing from across a
strange sea, like an unseen rustle in an empty room. Ghost put his hand on the
trunk, near a slender silk-clad leg so tangible he wanted to stroke it.
Why
was he seeing them now, these creatures from his dream? He had thought they
were pitiful, but now they frightened him. He found himself wondering what they
had become after their death, how death had changed them. If they were somehow
alive even now, what allowed them to be? And why had he dreamed of them in the
first place?
Ghost
was used to asking himself such questions. He had been visited in his dreams by
the dead; he had dreamed the future as clearly as a story in a book; he had
been able to pick up the thoughts and feelings of people he was close to—and
other people if he concentrated—for as long as he could remember. But he had
never been visited while awake by creatures from one of his dreams.
“What
is it?” Steve called from across the clearing.
“Hello,
Ghost,” said the crimson-haired twin, smiling down at him with rouged lips.
Those
lips were too dark in that pale, peaked face, and there was no warmth in that
smile, only a spasm of muscles long forgotten, a memory of a smile. But Ghost
looked up into those flat silvery eyes, and he was not afraid for his own
safety. Not yet. These twins had been dead a long time, if indeed they had ever
lived outside his dream.
“Of
course we haven’t,” said the first twin, catching Ghost’s thought. “We’re just
your dream.”
“We
don’t go around killing little niggerboys on lonely
roadsides long past midnight just to suck their lives out.”
“He
didn’t taste exquisite, did he, love, at the moment of death? No, we didn’t
suck out that little boy’s life, Ghost.”
“ Nooo , not us, not so we could stay beautiful. We’re just
your dream….
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