Predator and Prey Prowlers 3 by Christopher Golden

knew.
    Slowly, she rose up from the water and stared at that spot where she thought the ghost must be.
    Jack touched her arm and she flinched.
    “Molly. I . . . I need to . . .”
    She turned away from him and waded through the low waves toward the shore. As though she had broken through some barrier, the moment she set foot on the dry sand the world seemed to rush back in all around her. The flap of the wind against an umbrella. Splashing and laughter and voices.
    But even out of the water, beneath the sun, she still felt cold.
    The ghost shimmered above the water like heat rising off pavement. As Jack swam parallel to the shore, there were moments when the sun shone down at a strange angle that made the specter seem to disappear completely for just a moment before reappearing. Artie’s too-long hair had been blond in life, but with the halo effect of the sun shining through it—through him—it looked almost white.
    Though he knew how foolish the thought was, Jack could not help but imagine that everyone on the beach was staring at him. Self-conscious, he swam a little farther out from shore, past a pair of twelve- or thirteen-year-old boys who were bodysurfing.
    Waves rolled by underneath the hovering spirit, their tips just cresting white, and the higher ones almost seemed to blend with the strange vapor that comprised the ghost from the knees on down. Jack glanced back to the shore and saw Molly sitting on her towel, knees drawn up in front of her, hugging herself and staring at him. A sickly sort of flutter began in his stomach, and he forced himself to turn away, to look back at the ghost.
    “What the hell are you doing here?” Jack asked.
    Artie was not looking at him, however. The ghost’s black eyes, like holes torn in some endless night, were instead turned toward the beach.
    “Why did Molly take off like that?” Artie asked, and his voice had a tinny echo, as though he were speaking through some cheap microphone.
    “I said your name.”
    Those black eyes turned upon him now, and though Jack knew that this dead soul was his friend, for the first time since the night the ghost had first appeared, Jack was a little bit afraid of Artie.
    “Whaddaya mean, you said my name?”
    Jack glanced around to make sure there were no swimmers nearby, and he shot an angry look up at the hovering phantom.
    “Don’t blame me, Artie. You were the last thing I expected to see today. You show up like this, in the middle of the day, when I’m on the beach with a couple thousand of my closest friends, and you expect me not to be a little surprised? It just came out, man. Besides, I think she probably caught on a long time ago.” The ethereal substance that comprised the ghost wavered. Artie seemed about to chastise Jack again, but then he just lowered his head, a sad expression on his face.
    “It wasn’t supposed to be like this,” Artie said, and he began to sink down into the water, parts of him disappearing as they touched the waves. “She wasn’t ever supposed to know, Jack. I don’t want her looking over her shoulder for me the rest of her life. That’s not fair.”
    “There’s a lot that isn’t fair,” Jack replied, keeping his voice low. “You’re dead, for starters. And you know what else isn’t fair? Having you around, talking to you, knowing that Molly might have been able to get some closure if you’d just talk to her, through me. I’ve gotta wonder, Artie, if you’re avoiding adding to her pain, or your own. ’Cause Molly? She can live, start again. But you’re done. That’s not fair, is it?”
    “But if she’s in pain now, don’t blame me, all right? I don’t think I can take that.”
    Dark shadows spilled from Artie’s empty eyes, and Jack wondered if that was what the tears of ghosts looked like. For a long moment Artie said nothing more, and Jack just floated there, feet extended toward the bottom, rising and falling with the waves.
    “You’re sure she heard you?”
    “Take another