Everfound (10 page)

Mikey knew the scar wraith legend. It was second only to scary stories about himself when he was the McGill. According to the legend, just the brush of an arm, the grip of a shoulder, the caress of a cheek from a scar wraith’s hand would “kill” an Afterlight. But worse than dying, the Afterlight would extinguish. No light. No tunnel. Nothing. The touch of a scar wraith meant absolute death.

“Well, well, well, what have we got here . . . ,” the scar wraith said, his eagle eye zipping back and forth in its socket as he examined them. His voice was both rough and almost musical, too. There was a resonance to it, like there were
two sets of vocal cords, one a little higher than the other; clashing dissonant tones like an air raid siren.

“Don’t touch me!” Mikey screamed. “Nick, stay away from the bars! Don’t let him touch you!”

The scar wraith circled the cage with a heavy chain that had crossed into Everlost, and locked it in place with a padlock.

Mikey tried everything to escape. He turned his hands into lobster claws, his fingers into tiny buzz saws, he filled his arms with muscles and tried to pry the bars apart, but he couldn’t. He might have been able to push down the sides of the spring-loaded cage, but the chain and padlock now made that impossible. He thought of squeezing through the small chain-link holes of the bed frames, but he knew that wouldn’t work either. Although Mikey could reform himself into all nature of monster, all his creations were big and bulky. He couldn’t fashion himself into a creature slim enough to slither through the narrow bars and chain-link holes of a bed frame.

The scar wraith reached out his Everlost hand, dangling the key to the padlock, taunting him. Mikey jumped back, terrified that the wraith might touch him.

“No way out of there,” the scar wraith said. “You’re mine now, both of you. Whatever you are. You’re stuck in there until I’m done with you . . . and then . . .” The scar wraith put the key in his pocket, then limped back to the dilapidated farmhouse. He dragged a wooden rocking chair from the porch, set it down in front of the cage, and was content to just sit there and stare at Mikey and Nick for hours. Mikey watched him, just as intently as the wraith watched them.

No one knew why a scar wraith’s touch could extinguish, but Mikey had a theory. The living world had its natural laws, its life cycle, its science. Everlost also had natural rules. True, the rules of Everlost followed the beat of a rather syncopated drummer, but the natural laws of Everlost were sensible and consistent unto themselves. . . . But a scar wraith flew in the face of both realities. It was perhaps the only truly unnatural thing in the entire universe. Was it any wonder, then, that its touch could destroy?

“So, are you going to tell me what’s going on?” the scar wraith finally asked, after much rocking.

“There’s a lot going on,” Mikey answered. “Be more specific.”

“Fine,” he snapped. “If you won’t talk, then you can just . . . you can just . . .” Then he grunted, and stormed back to the farmhouse.

Once the scar wraith left, the Ogre, who had been content to gnaw on the chocolate-coated ham bone said, “Can we go now?”

“No, you moron!” shouted Mikey. “We’re in a stupid cage!”

“Oh,” said the Ogre pleasantly. “Never mind.”

Mikey immediately felt bad for losing his temper, and for a moment he longed for the good ol’ days when he could lose his temper as much as he wanted and not have to feel sorry, or apologize for anything.

“I didn’t mean to call you a moron,” said Mikey. “I’m sorry.” But the Ogre didn’t seem the least bit bothered, and that just made Mikey feel worse about it. “Just make sure you stay away from that . . . that
thing
that captured
us. Trust me—you don’t want to know what happens if he touches you.”

Mikey shivered, which made his afterglow flicker like a failing lightbulb. To be extinguished. To not . . .
be . . .

In life, people feared it. In Everlost, souls denied the possibility—but it was always in the back of Mikey’s mind, lurking among thoughts of hell and the distant memory of pain. Mikey feared the light because he wasn’t ready to be judged, if indeed he would be. However,
that
was a fear he knew he would overcome when he was ready. . . . But the fear of not existing at all? He doubted he’d ever get over that.

A few hours later, after it got dark, the scar wraith returned with a broken flashlight that cast its beam only in Everlost. He shined it in their eyes. “Third degree,” he said. “Age-old technique of interrogation.” Then he sat down in the chair with a bucket of chicken, and ate it in front of them. “Hungry are ya? It’s like my grandma always used to say . . .” Then he went on eating without finishing the thought. The way he talked, one was never quite sure when he was done, because nothing he ever said was entirely complete. His words kind of trailed off, leaving a person waiting for more. It made Mikey just want to slap him—but he knew that slapping a scar wraith was not a good idea. He’d be extinguished in an instant.

Mikey was thankful that it was living-world chicken, because he couldn’t smell it, and even if the wraith threw it to him, he wouldn’t be able to eat it, or even catch it—it would pass right through him like everything else in the living world. Still, watching him eat it all right down to the
bone was a little bit torturous. Third degree, indeed.

“Are you going to tell me what’s going on?” the wraith said, his mouth full of food. “Because if you don’t . . .”

Mikey wasn’t sure if anything he could say would win their freedom, but staying silent on principle would definitely not help the situation. The wraith took another bite of chicken and washed it down with whiskey straight from the bottle. It made Mikey wonder if the man’s liver had also crossed.

“There was a train,” Mikey said.

The wraith leaned forward, the rocking chair reaching its limit. “Go on.”

“It was heading west. We were chasing it.”

“Why?”

“To rescue someone.”

“Do you expect me to believe that?”

“Why would I lie?”

“Because it’s what ghosts do,” the wraith said. “Ghosts are the best liars. You have to be if you’re gonna lie to death, and to yourself, making yourself think you’re still alive.” He pointed an accusing chicken bone at him. “But I know what you are. You’re all demons, up to no good. And you know what they say about demons. . . .” But apparently he didn’t know, because that’s all he said.

“We can’t be both demons and ghosts,” Mikey pointed out. “We’re either one or the other.”

“You’re whatever I say you are, so you can just shut up about it.”

And then Mikey realized something. “You’re not convinced we’re real, are you?” Mikey smiled in spite of himself.
“They’ve been telling you that you’re crazy, and you still wonder if maybe they’re right!”

“Now you’re making me angry,” the wraith said. “And you know what I do to ghosts that make me angry!”

Mikey took a step away from the bars just in case, then said, “No, what do you do?”

The wraith stood, took a long swig from his bottle, and eyed Mikey in that sideways way with his Everlost eye. The moon came out from behind a cloud, and it made that crossed side of his face glow—almost like the glow of an Afterlight, but not quite. “You’re a wise guy,” he said. “I don’t like wise guys.”

“Mooooon!” said the Ogre. “Tranquility . . .” Then he pointed at the full moon. “Neil Armstrong walked in a Sea of Tranquility.” Then he added, “It’s made of cheese. But you have to take off the plastic before you put it on your burger.”

Mikey sighed.

“What’s his story?” the wraith asked.

“He’s chocolate,” Mikey said.

“I can see that,” snapped the wraith.

“Why is he chocolate?”

“Because it’s all he can remember of himself.” Mikey thought that the wraith would ask for more, but he seemed satisfied with the answer.

“You boys got names, or do you just . . . ?”

“I’m Mikey. This is Nick.”

“Clarence,” he said. “Can’t say that I’m pleased to meet you.”

“No,” said Mikey. “The displeasure is mine.”

That made Clarence laugh. He sat back down, drank some, ate some, rocked some, and finally said: “If you’re
real—and I think you are—you’re gonna tell me how to make other people see you.”

“We can’t do that,” said Mikey.

Clarence didn’t seem bothered. “Guess you’ll stay in there forever, then. . . .”

Mikey rattled the cage in frustration. “We can’t do everything!”

“But you can do
some
things. You can make yourself look like a monster. All those claws and bulging eyes, like you did when I first caught you.” He leaned all the way back in the chair. “Do it again.”

“No! I’m not a circus monkey.”

“Well, seeing as you
are
in a cage,” said Clarence, “maybe that’s exactly what you are. . . .”

“I wanna see the monkey!” said the Ogre, thrilled at the prospect. “Mikey, be a monkey, aw, pleeeeze!”

Mikey ignored him. Not just because he didn’t want to be a monkey, but also because he couldn’t. Like a kid doodling in a notebook, Mikey was great at monsters, and twisted miscreations, but drawing up something real was beyond him. A monkey-faced lizard-thing was probably the best that he could do.

“Listen to me,” said Mikey, trying his best to keep his temper under control. “The girl we’re trying to rescue is a skinjacker. That means
she
can prove we’re real. She can possess anyone, and that will make people believe you.”

Clarence looked doubtful. “You’re making a joke, aren’t you? Having a laugh at my expense. You watch out, because . . . because . . .”

“Because what?”

Clarence stood up, hurling the bucket of chicken and his bottle far into the living world. “
Because I don’t know what!”
Then he started pacing back and forth, almost tripping over his own half-dead foot as he did. “Now that I got you, I don’t know what to do with you! All I know is that I can’t let you go—not now and not ever.” Then he looked off toward the moon, like it held some answer. “I can’t go back to panhandling, and benches, and all those eyes that won’t look at me. I can’t go back to being what the living people see. You’re my ticket . . . my ticket to . . . to . . .” Then Clarence collapsed back into the chair, buried his head in his hands, and began to sob. “I don’t know where, I don’t know . . . I don’t . . .” He sobbed to himself for a while, like he forgot they were even there. Then the sobs faded into snores. The wraith was asleep.

“Can we go now?” the Ogre asked.

Mikey couldn’t get mad at him anymore. “No, Nick,” he said. “I’m sorry, but no.” He gently patted his hand on Nick’s soft shoulder. When he took his hand back, it was covered in a thin layer of chocolate

. . . soft shoulder . . .

The moment the truth dawned on Mikey, he realized what an idiot he had been—how narrow his own thinking was. If Allie were here, she would have thought of it right away. Even Nick would have figured it out if he were his old self.

“Yes!” said Mikey. “Yes, Nick, you
can
go. You can walk out of this cage right now!”

“Okay,” said the Ogre. Then he stepped forward, then took another step, pushing himself up against the bed frames . . . then forced himself through, like fudge pushed
through a screen. For a moment, he stood there halfway in, halfway out with the brass and steel of the cage right in the middle of him. “Feels funny,” he said. Then he took one more step and he was outside the cage, leaving chocolate dripping from the frame.

“You did it!”

“Yes. Your turn now!”

But Mikey knew he couldn’t squeeze through any more than he could become a circus monkey.

That’s when Clarence woke up and panicked. He stood, the chair flying out from behind him and tumbling to the ground. “What? How did you? Don’t you . . .”

Mikey leaned as close as he could to Nick and whispered, “Don’t let him touch you.”

But Clarence seemed more afraid of the Ogre touching
him
. “Stand back! Stand back or I swear I’ll . . .” Then Clarence turned and ran back to the farmhouse.

“Go,” said Mikey. “Go and find Allie. You can do it. I know you can. Just follow the tracks.”

“Follow the tracks to Allie,” repeated the Ogre.

“Think about her,” Mikey told him. “Think about her as much as you can. It will help you to remember!”

“Allie,” said the Ogre. “We met in the dead forest. Only it wasn’t dead.” For a moment, there was more shape in the Ogre’s face, cheekbones and a firmer chin. A different shade of brown in his eyes. It lasted for only a moment, but then it was gone. “Find Allie,” the Ogre repeated. “Follow the tracks.”

The door of the farmhouse banged open again, and Clarence came out holding a sawed off shotgun—which was only sawed off in the living world. In Everlost the barrel
was hard and solid and pointing right at the Ogre.

“Don’t move . . . don’t move or I’ll . . . I’ll . . .”

If the touch of a scar wraith could extinguish you, could the blast of the scar wraith’s shotgun do the job too? Mikey didn’t want to find out.

“Run, Nick!”

Nick did what he was told. He ran, and although Clarence aimed at him, he didn’t fire. In a moment the Chocolate Ogre had disappeared into the night.

“Damn it all to purgatory!” shouted Clarence and aimed the shotgun at Mikey, who put his hands up.

“If you shoot me, you’ll never know.”

“Never know what?”

“Everything,” Mikey said. “All the things you want to know.”

Slowly Clarence lowered the weapon. “Tell me,” he said. Then he went to get the toppled chair, set it upright and sat down again, laying the half-dead shotgun across his lap. “Tell me.”

“Okay,” said Mikey. “What do you want to know?”

“Everything, just like you said. Everything there is to know from the very beginning. And if I don’t like what I hear, well, let’s just say . . .” Then he stroked the shotgun like a favorite pet sitting in his lap.