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“Gotta problem?”
“I’m just wondering what you want me to do. Where you want me to start.”
The big guy stared at him. “Over yon corner be good. Crowbar’s there.”
“But I’m an electrician, I don’t—”
“You wanting payment, aye?”
“Well, yeah, but—”
“Crowbar’s there.”
Five thousand dollars, he reminded himself, crossing the floor and picking up the crowbar; he felt the big guy’s eyes on him but didn’t turn around to look. Instead he put the flat end of the bar under the edge of a floorboard and pushed down.
For five minutes or so the only sound in the house was the tearing and clattering of floorboards as they were wrenched from their places, and the chatter of the guys in the next room as they worked. Even this late—it was close to eleven—Rick’s shirt was damp with sweat, his throat dry from rotten dust. Dead mice and insect skeletons littered the layer of wood beneath the floor.
He needed the money. He needed the money. His car payments were killing him—that fucking car Shelleywanted him to buy—and five grand would pay it off and give him a bit left over. Left over to buy presents for anothergirl, once he found one. A girl who would appreciate a more . . . cerebral man.
There were girls like that out there, right?
Of course. So a few nights of misery were worth it, because he could picture that the boards were Shelley’s new boyfriend’s face as he tore them to hell. And once the boards were up he’d get to do some wiring.
But good as the image of what’s-his-name’s terrified expression made him feel, he wasn’t going to kill himself for imaginary revenge, either, so he headed for the cooler by the doorway and grabbed a bottle of water. Vicious brutes like himself got thirsty some—
A scream from the other room. A horrible scream, a terrified one, made even worse by the fact that it was a deep voice, a man’s voice.
The big guy knocked Rick down as he ran past, sending him spi
Dust filled his nose and throat, stung his eyes and made it impossible to see. For one confused minute as he struggled to his feet he was only aware of thundering footsteps and the big guy cursing.
Then the others yelled, more yelling. Panic. Rick finally used his head and dumped water over his face, and saw them all backing into the hall, away from the ghost as it crossed the floor.
A ghost. A ghost. Holy shit.
He knew hauntings happened, of course. Ten years ago a family on his street had had one, and the resulting payout from the Church had moved them into a newer, bigger house somewhere else. Like any child growing up after Haunted Week he’d heard the half-serious laments of his parents, wishing they had a ghost themselves, just a small harmless one but one that would earn them a settlement, too, to pay for college for Rick and his sister.
But they’d never really wanted that—who in their right mind would?—and Rick had never seen one.
And now he had, and he was in an unfamiliar part of town where he doubted he’d survive ten minutes on the streets by himself, and he was about to get up close and personal with that ghost because he’d bought a too-expensive car to get into some gold digger’s pants.
Life sucked.
But he still wanted to hold on to it.
Barreltop and Delman didn’t seem to think this was the moment to get philosophical. They raced down the stairs so fast Rick wouldn’t have thought their feet touched the wood if he hadn’t heard the noise of it.
The big guy backed away from the ghost, his hands raised, and Rick jumped to his feet, realizing even as he did that it was too late. The ghost had almost reached the stairs. It would be blocking his way in another second, and he didn’t particularly rate his chances on getting past it. It would attack him, kill him, try to steal his life for itself . . . Every hair on his body stood on end. It was like he could feel each individual air molecule hitting them.
“Ain’t can hurt you less’n it gots a weapon,” the big guy muttered as he kept backing up.
The ghost’s hands were thankfully empty, but the chances of them staying that way were pretty impossible. Shards of wood littered the floor, and the ghost would probably spot them—and lunge for them—in about two seconds.
Fu
She stood there, looking back and forth between Rick and the big guy. Probably trying to decide which of them to kill first. And with Rick’s luck, it would probably be him.
Sure enough, she lunged for him. Rick stumbled in his haste to jump back, fell to the floor with a teeth-rattling thud.
She advanced toward him; he crawled back, an awkward crablike movement over the slippery pile of rotted floorboards. He didn’t want to die like this, didn’t want this dilapidated husk of a house to be the last place he saw—
Something black swung through the ghost. She shrieked—she didn’t shriek, no sound came out, but her mouth opened and her entire form wavered and expanded.
The big guy stood with a bar in his hands like a baseball bat. Not just a bar. It was the curtain rod from the window, and it must have been made of iron, because when he swung it again the ghost stepped back.
He glanced at Rick again. “Get up. Take this. Gotta make me a call.” A call? Like on the phone? Was he crazy? “Shouldn’t we just get out of here, I mean—”
“Think it ain’t go
The sweat on his skin didn’t help him grip the thing. Nor did the growing idea that if he slipped up the ghost wasn’t the only one in the room who might kill him.
“Don’t quit on the swingin’, dig? You quit swingin’, we both of us die.”
“No pressure,” Rick muttered, but he did as he was told, ignoring the frantic pounding of his heart.
Behind him the big guy started talking. “Hey. Naw, gots us a problem. Naw, naw, I’m right, but us got a ghost here. Guessing—aye. Aye, no worryin’. Got an iron bar, keeping it back. Aye.”
Rick’s shoulders had already started to ache by the time he heard the phone click shut. The ghost, infuriated now, grew bigger and looser, in some horrible way that he couldn’t let himself think about, every time the bar sliced through it. The bar itself started to burn his hands, heating further with each pass through the ghost.
“Got somebody comin’ help us out, dig. You need a rest-up?”
“What?” Swing. Swing. “No. I’m fine.”
“You sure? Them arms lookin’ shaky.”
“I’m sure.”
If he were honest, his shoulders were killing him, and the burning iron bar threatened to slip out of his grasp entirely. But nothing in the world could have induced him to admit it. Not yet, at least.
He didn’t know how long he kept at it. Ten minutes, fifteen? Long enough for the loud, clattery music from the street outside to change a few times. He found a rhythm; swipe at the ghost, wait until it almost re-formed, swipe again. But he couldn’t deny that his arms felt as if they were about to fall off, and finally when the big guy asked again if he wanted a break, he nodded.
Of course, the girl arrived about thirty seconds after that, just as Rick was letting cold water splash over his face and down the front of his shirt to rinse off the dust and sweat. Great. Who didn’t want to look like a drool-covered baby in front of women?
She was slim—almost too slim, as if she didn’t eat much—and pale, with thick black hair cut like a pinup model and thick black eyeliner to match. Despite the heat she wore ski