Everfound

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 u

“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 go

“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 go

“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 wa

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.”