The Frighteners by Michael Jahn Page A

ornament. The Judge’s face looked as scrawny and funereal as the steer’s skull—especially since he was missing his jawbone.
    He was swiveling around, blazing away wildly with two rusty, ghost Colts. Bannister flinched as ghost bullets passed through his body and the wall behind him without leaving a trace. For their parts, Cyrus and Stuart peeked warily out of framed paintings.
    “Damn Rustler took me jawbone,” the Judge gurgled.
    “What?” Bannister asked in astonishment, though nothing much really surprised him anymore.
    “The dog stole his jaw, Frank,” Stuart yelled.
    “He’s all worked up about it,” Cyrus added. Their voices, coming across the room, could hardly be heard over the echoes of the shots, the gurgling of the jawless Judge, and the running and panting of the dog.
    Rustler was a mangy, transparent ghost mutt that in life had been red and about the size of a Labrador retriever. The dog raced tight circles around the Judge, the jawbone in question clenched firmly between his teeth. Frank dropped to his knees, trying to catch the dog.
    “Get me my damn jaw back,” the Judge yelled, firing a shot that almost nicked the dog’s tail.
    “You better do it, Frank,” Stuart yelled.
    Bannister grabbed at the flying dog. “Rustler,” he called. “Here, boy.”
    The dog ignored Frank and kept racing around the room. The Colts roared as the Judge kept taking potshots at his old dog. One of the ghostly shots ricocheted past Stuart’s ear, taking a nick out of it. The stunned emanation reached up and grabbed the side of his head as ectoplasm dribbled between his fingers.
    “I’m hit! I’m hit!” he yelled.
    Cyrus leaned out of his picture frame, the better to survey the damage. “It’s just a flesh wound, m’man,” he said.
    “For God’s sake, Frank,” Stuart yelled, “I could have been killed.”
    Bannister took a flying leap at the dog, bringing him down with a tackle. It was a move he clearly had made before. Rolling around on the floor with the animal, Frank tugged the ghostly jawbone out of his mouth.
    “Put your six-shooters away, Judge,” Bannister said, sitting up and letting the dog go.
    The Judge stepped over, snatched the bone from Frank’s hand, and rammed it back into his face. The aging ectoplasm flowed back over it, and soon the old emanation’s countenance was slightly less hideous than before.
    “Sneaky little sidewinder,” Judge said, flexing his jaw, his words not much easier to understand. “I’ll have the varmint stuffed.”
    Unafraid, Rustler licked the Judge’s hand, happily flicking a wet, rotten tongue.
    “I’m going to get a Band-Aid,” Stuart said, slipping out of the picture frame and back into the wall. Cyrus soon followed.
    Shaking his head, Frank went to the counter and made himself a cup of coffee. Soon he was sitting in the living room, smelling the coffee and staring at the shambles of his life. For the inside of his house was as unfinished as the outside. Paneling was missing in half the living room. Inside the smooth walls bare frames were surrounded by silver-foil-covered insulation. On the one finished wall, an antique oil painting shared the space with old photographs and a grungy lamp picked out of someone’s garbage. A stack of newspapers held up another lamp; a thirteen-inch black-and-white television sat atop an orange crate.
    Followed by Rustler, the Judge ambled into the room and sank into a large, old armchair—the twin of the one in which Bannister was trying to hide. It was dark in the room, which faced west, away from the morning sun. The Judge’s body glowed slightly in the soft folds of the ancient chair.
    “Frank, when a man’s jaw drops off, it’s time to reassess the situation,” he said after a long silence.
    Bannister looked at the Judge with concern in his eyes. “What are you talking about? You’re in great shape.”
    The emanation shook his head. “I’m falling apart,” he said. “My joints are getting