Kerchack saw dead people before it was cool to see dead people. He saw them all over the place, but it wasn't anything like that stupid movie. The dead weren't spooky. More annoying than anything else, but not any more than the living.

There were a lot of restless spirits in Rockwood. Something about the place kept a substantial population of the departed from moving on. As a boy, he'd assumed that the dead were everywhere, but he realized this wasn't true after taking his first trip outside town when he was ten. There were hardly any spirits across the county line. He didn't know why. Something just kept the dead in Rockwood, and that was just the way it was. Might've always been that way.

He wouldn't have been surprised to discover that the entire town was built on a Native American burial ground or an old forgotten spaceship had crashed a few thousand years ago and now lay under their feet, emitting strange fifth-dimensional radiation. He always meant to do some checking but never gotten around to it. In the end, Kerchack didn't mind the dead, and he even counted a few among his friends, family, and coworkers.

Clark had been Kerchack's partner in the Thunderdome Comic Shop enterprise from the beginning. His death two years ago hadn't changed that.

The chubby specter in the Green Lantern costume sighed. "Oh, come on. You're tellin' me that you think Batman could beat Superman? For real?"

Kerchack absently thumbed through a comic without reading it, just to give his hands something to do.

"The guy with no superpowers who runs around Gotham dressed like a bat," said Clark, "versus The Man of Steel. Invulnerable. Superstrong. Flies. Heat vision."

Kerchack nodded. "Mmm hmm."

Clark brushed his long hair from his eyes. Ghosts were like that, Kerchack had realized long ago, still burdened with the things they dealt with while living. Clark had it even worse, having died while at a costume party. He didn't really have the physique for tights, and now he was stuck with them for eternity. He was also always sweaty and out of breath. Stupid for a ghost to have asthma, thought Kerchack. He even pointed out that it all must be in Clark's head. Even read him the definition for "psychosomatic" out of the dictionary. Didn't make a difference.

Someone had eulogized with a level of honesty rarely displayed at funerals that Clark had died as he lived: gasping for breath, face down in a plate of nachos. A spot of ectoplasmic cheese sauce still remained on his cheeks. He could wipe it away, but it always came back.

He took a moment to take a puff on his spectral inhaler. "I suppose if Batman had some kryptonite."

"Fuck kryptonite," said Kerchack. "Kryptonite can't beat Superman. I mean, it's all over the planet. Every villain in the world has a chunk of it. None of them has killed Superman yet."

"But Batman doesn't have any powers," countered Clark.

"Yes, he does."

"No, he doesn't."

"Yes, he does."

"No, he doesn't."

"Yes, he does," Kerchack said in a sing-song voice. He very slowly turned the page. "Batman is the coolest sumbitch on the planet."

"Well, if he's so cool, how would he do it?" Clark smiled smugly.

"I don't know," replied Kerchack. "I'm not Batman. But he'd find a way."

He went to the door and flipped the 'open' sign to 'closed'.

"It's early," said Clark.

Kerchack glanced to the clock on the wall. The Dome wasn't supposed to close for another twenty minutes, but he didn't see what difference it made. Most business came on the weekends, when all the collectors in the surrounding counties made the drive for their weekly subscription picks. Really, Kerchack didn't need to come in at all on the weekdays, but he was paying rent on the place. It seemed a waste to just leave it locked up five days a week. Plus, Clark never left the store. Kerchack didn't know for sure if Clark was bound to the location, or just had no reason to leave. The 'Dome, for better or worse, was Clark's heaven. If there was a real heaven somewhere out there that didn't get the latest issue of Justice League, then Clark just wasn't interested in it.

"Want to play something?" asked Clark.

"Not tonight. I've got something I have to do."

"What?"

"Nothing."

"What?"

"Nothing. Why don't you do some stuff online? I bought that computer for you, didn't I?"

"You ever try typing with immaterial fingers? It's tiring."

"You're dead. You shouldn't get tired anymore."

"Yeah, and I shouldn't have asthma. But I do." Clark took another puff on his inhaler. "Plus the connection sucks. I hate dial up. What do you have to do that's so important?"

Kerchack sighed. He really didn't want to say, but it was just easier.

"I've got a date."

Clark's eyes went wide. "A date? Like with a girl?"

"Yeah."

"Who?"

Kerchack almost lied and said it was no one Clark would know, but everyone knew everyone in Rockwood, even if only by reputation.

"Denise."

"Denise? You aren't talking about Denise Calhoun, are you?" Clark leered and imitated cupping a pair of imaginary breasts in his hands. Although he had a B cup himself, making pretending unnecessary. "Denise with the tits," he added as if the gesture was not clear enough.

Kerchack nodded.

"I hear she's a total slut," Clark said. "I heard she used to give Jerry Russo a handjob for every touchdown he scored in his senior year."

"That was just a high school rumor," said Kerchack.

"All I know is that Jerry couldn't catch a football covered in superglue, then he started dating Denise and he carried us to State all by himself."

"That doesn't prove anything."

"Yeah, but it's strong circumstantial evidence."

"High school was a long time ago, Clark."

"Maybe for you." The ghost went to the racks and pulled out an assortment of comics he'd already read several times.

In a town like Rockwood, everyone knew everyone. They might not have shared more than a few words over the years, maybe just a nod or a smile to acknowledge the other's existence while passing in the crowded aisles of Rockwood General Supply or waiting in line at the post office.

Kerchack knew Denise better than that. When your entire high school consisted of one-hundred and fifty students, there weren't many cliques. There'd been the cool kids, the dorks, and the unclassified kids. The unclassified kids were above the dorks, but never were they deemed worthy of being cool. Kerchack had been among the unclassified.

Denise Calhoun had been cool though. It wasn't that she did anything particularly spectacular. But she was pretty, and she'd developed early. That was enough. He'd talked to her occasionally, but they'd never hung out. Like all the dorks and unclassifieds, he'd contented himself to admire her from afar.

Things changed. A chance encounter in line at the Second Bank of Rockwood (the First Bank had closed down before he'd been born) opened the first opportunity to talk to her since graduation. He couldn't remember what he'd said. All he could remember was concentrating hard to keep from glance at her breasts because he figured she had to be sick of guys doing that by now.

"We should get together sometime, 'Chack," she'd said, seemingly out of the blue. "Catch up, y'know."

"Yeah, we should."

Although, of course, she hadn't meant it. It was just something people said. A polite turn of phrase that meant nothing.

"Are you doing anything this Wednesday?" she'd asked.

He was too stunned to reply, and before his thoughts could reorganize, the teller called him over.

"You're up," said Denise.

Kerchack ran to the teller, threw the deposit at him, and tried to run nonchalantly back to Denise.

"Uh, yeah, I'm free," he said, struggling to spit the words out of his drying throat. "I mean, if you want to do something or whatever." He grimaced inwardly. Then he realized that it was pretty much impossible to grimace inwardly, which meant he must've grimaced outwardly and Denise must've noticed.

He stuck his hands in his pockets and lowered his gaze. It strayed to her chest, but that was purely coincidental.

"Uh, yeah," he replied. "Something or whatever, if you want."

"Cool." She put her hand on his arm. That was supposed to be a good sign, wasn't it? "Why don't you come by the house around seven?"

He'd agreed in a flash and quickly collected his deposit slip and dashed from the bank before she could think about it and change her mind.

Some things had changed since high school. Some hadn't. Denise was still a hot property. Since graduation, most everyone in his class had gotten hitched. It was just the way it worked in Rockwood. Most everyone married their high school sweetheart, usually because they didn't have any better ideas. Kerchack had watched the pool of available women shrink slowly around him and resigned himself to picking from the leftovers. And then, out of the blue . . .

Denise Calhoun.

He was determined not to blow it.

He picked Denise up at her house. She still lived with her parents. About half the adult population of Rockwood did. Kerchack wanted to make a good impression, so he'd gone home and changed into some slacks and his only shirt with a collar. He'd picked up some plastic flowers. Real ones might've been better but were hard to come by. He pulled into Denise's gravel driveway and checked his hair in the rearview.

The passenger door was thrown open, and Denise jumped into the bucket seat. "Hi, 'Chack."

Caught with his fingers wrapped around a cowlick, Kerchack tried to smoothly segue into adjusting the rearview.

She picked up the flowers. "Hey, are these for me?"

"Yeah."

"Cool." She held them to her nose and inhaled their sweet, artificial scent. "Are you ready?" she asked.

"Sure." He glanced to the house. While it was nice to not have to meet the parents, it also made this seem like less of a real date now.

He glanced at her. She was wearing a red t-shirt and torn jeans. Her hair was tied back in a ponytail. The only makeup she wore was some soft pink lipstick. He felt self-conscious in his collar and slacks.

"You look real nice, 'Chack." She leaned over and gave him a peck on the cheek. "Are you hungry? I'm starving."

"Sure. Gil's sound alright?" he asked, as if there were any other choices. On Fridays and Saturdays, there were a few restaurants that stayed open late, but even the Dairy Queen closed at six otherwise.

Officially, Gil's All Night Diner was now Loretta's Place, but no one ever called it that. Even after the place had been practically demolished and rebuilt and a new sign installed in place of the old, it was still Gil's. Probably always would be. Rockwood had a long and stubborn memory.

The place was packed, meaning it had four cars in its spacious parking lot. No one had really liked Gil's when it'd opened, but after the renovations, everyone agreed it just seemed friendlier. There was still an air to the place, a sort of crackle. It'd always put Kerchack on edge. The entire building felt like one giant malevolent spirit. Still did. Now though the unease seemed muted, almost tamed. He wasn't exactly fond of the place, but it was the only choice in the county. He didn't feel like blowing the gas money to go all the way to Leeburn. Especially since he wasn't certain this was a date, and even if it was, he wasn't at all certain he'd be getting anything out of it.

Kerchack picked a booth by the door. The diner was big, cavernous except for the low ceiling, so they weren't near any of the other customers. Loretta, the giant proprietress and sole employee, lumbered over. She took their soda order, then left. Kerchack and Denise shared an awkward silence. He said something about the weather. She mentioned he looked nice again. Loretta returned with the drinks, took their food order, then left them to sit there quietly.

He struggled to find something to say, to find something in common. It shouldn't have been that hard.

She made a sound.

"What?" he asked.

"I was just clearing my throat." She patted her chest with her fist. "Sorry."

"No, that's alright."

More quiet. Kerchack struggled for a topic. The only one that came to mind was how dreadfully long they could go just half-smiling at each other and not saying anything. Morbidly, he began counting the seconds, and while it wasn't helpful, he couldn't stop himself. When he hit thirteen seconds, he noticed Denise was staring at the ceiling, counting the tiles, he assumed.

He noticed she'd gained a few pounds since high school, but she was fortunate enough to have a body that took the extra weight and put it in the right places. No longer in control of anything, he found his eyes fixed on her tight t-shirt. The rhythmic rise and fall of her bosoms transfixed him. He couldn't look away.He wasn't even that into tits. He was more of an ass man. Yet her chest, the most famous in three counties, refused to release him. And sure, there were bigger breasts in Rockwood, but none so pert and round and —

She was saying something.

He shook off her hypnotic breasts and raised his head. "Uh, what?"

"So why'd you ask me out?" she asked.

"Uh, I didn't. You asked me out."

Denise narrowed her eyes. "Are you sure?"

He nodded.

She made a strange noise which could not be translated via the most creative onomatopoeia. It was impossible to interpret, but Kerchack took it to mean that she was now wondering what had possessed her.

How could two people who'd grown up in the same boring patch of desert have nothing in common, he wondered. No longer self-conscious at all, he'd gone onto acceptance. Some things just weren't meant to happen, and Denise was obviously one of those things for him.

"Y'know, I always liked you, 'Chack," she said, throwing him for a loop. "Most the guys in this town are assholes. Like Jerry." She sneered. "God, what a prick."

"Uh, yeah."

"And Bobby, man, that guy was such a douche. Lousy lay, too."

"Uh, yeah." Grasping for any conversational strand, he went against his better judgment. "Bobby Reynolds or Bobby Simpson or Bobby Hanson?"

"Take your pick," she replied. "Although Bobby Hanson at least always bought me diner, so he was kind of cool." Idly, she began swishing the salt shaker back and forth across the table. "I'll tell you something, 'Chack. I haven't met a lousy screw yet who didn't think he was Casanova. And believe me, I've met a lot of lousy screws."

Unsure of the proper response, he elected to nod.

She grinned. "Wow, 'Chack. It's real easy to talk to you. Most guys, they hear this stuff, they start freakin' out. Not you. You're cool." She leaned across the booth and flicked his nose with her finger. "You're the kind of guy I need."

"I am?"

"Sure. Why not? I tried all the cool guys. And a couple of the dorks. But none of them were like you. Y'know what I mean?"

He had no idea what she meant, but he smiled and nodded.

Things went much better after that. Denise's revelations of the past dispelled the awkwardness between them. It also told Kerchack that this was in fact, an honest-to-God date which put him in solid ground, and he was fairly certain he'd score tonight since Denise had apparently been working her way through the county, and his number had finally come up. He wasn't complaining.

Denise was funny and laid back, and she seemed to think Kerchack was funny, too. She did most the talking, which was also fine by him. His conversational skills had never been very sharp, and having a comic book-obsessed ghost for a best friend had done little to improve them over the years.

After they'd finished their burgers, she checked her watch. "Damn, look at the time. I have to get up early tomorrow. It's my turn to open the garage. Plus, there's this carburetor I have to rebuild by noon. We better get going."

Kerchack's hopes fell. He'd seen the 'Getting up early' tactic before. She'd appeared to be having a good time, but he must've done something wrong. Desperately, his memory searched for the fumble. He couldn't find it. Which meant he couldn't correct it.

He might have not done anything wrong. Denise might have just decided it was time to be a "good girl." His timing, as always, was impeccable.

She dug in her purse. "So how much is my half?"

His heart sank. Paying half the check was the deathblow to this date and his hopeful libido.

"Shit!" Denise snapped her fingers. "I forgot to bring a change of clothes. Well, fuck it. I'll just wear these tomorrow."

Kerchack paused. The only reason she'd need a change of clothes would be if she wasn't going home tonight, but where was she going? One destination came to his optimistic imagination, but it seemed unlikely. She hadn't said anything about coming over to his place tonight or dropped any hints. He didn't want to assume, and he wasn't sure if she'd be offended if he asked.

Confusion set in, and Kerchack felt his heart beating faster. It was like facing a bear and not knowing what its plans for you were. If it was hungry, you should run. If it were curious, you should just stand still. Only the bear knew the right decision, and it'd only let you know after the fact.

Denise, however, was no bear.

"You got condoms at your place, right?" she asked. "'Cuz I've got a real strict policy on that."

"Yes!" he almost shouted. "Yes, I have condoms. Lots of them."

He winced. That probably came out wrong.

"Cool." She tossed a few dollars on the table. "But we better get going."

Kerchack threw his half of the bill on the table, plus a generous tip. Halfway to his car, he realized it was a bit too generous, but there was no way he was going back.

Kerchack lived in a small house on a half-acre of neglected, overgrown desert. The house itself was falling apart, a victim of his complete indifference toward it. It was all paid for, and he had neither the interest nor money to pay for its upkeep. The shingles were peeling. The walls needed repainting. The front window was broken and covered with a square of plywood. It resembled a dying thing, but some places, like some people, took a long time to die.

He tried the front door. It was locked.

"Damn."

Denise came up behind him. She wrapped her arms around his middle and pressed against his back. "What's wrong, 'Chack? Forget your key?"

He didn't have a key. He'd lost it a few years ago and never gotten around to getting a new one. There wasn't really a need.

He pounded on the door. "Gramps, damn it, open up!"

"Isn't your grandpa dead?" Her warm breath tickled his earlobe.

"He is." Kerchack turned. Denise held him close and now she leaned against his front. He tried to move his hips in such a way so as not to prod her with his boner. "I've got a few ghosts."

"How many?" she asked.

"Five."

"Five ghosts?" She whistled. "In that little place of yours? Must be crowded."

"We get by," he said.

"Who are they?"

"There's my Grandpa, Joyce, Tederick, The Guy, and The Attic Spook."

"Who's Tederick?"

"My dad's old cockatoo."

"Birds can be ghosts?"

"Apparently."

"Who's The Guy?"

"Just some guy. Came with the house."

"Are they going to be cool with me spending the night?" she asked.

"Oh, yeah. No problem," he lied. It wasn't a big lie. Only Joyce would have some trouble with it.

He kicked the door with his heel. "Goddamnit, Gramps! Open the door!"

He put his arms around her, moved his hands down to her butt. His mind swirled with thoughts. Foremost among them: I'm touching Denise's ass. While technically not much of an accomplishment, considering the many hands that had been there before him, he still felt as if he'd achieved something spectacular.

"Sorry. He's probably waiting for a commercial."

"The ghost of your grandpa watches TV?"

"All day, every day."

The door opened. "Keep your pants on, son. Not like it'll kill you to wait for five — "

Gramps spied the young woman in Kerchack's arms, and his eyes went wide.

"Goddamn, boy. Is that a girl?"

Kerchack ignored the question and pulled Denise inside.

"Well, ain't that sumthin'?" said Gramps. "I thought you was gay."

Kerchack stopped. "I've brought girls home before, Grandpa."

"Only two and neither of them were nuthin' to look at. Thought you was just puttin' on an act."

Denise laughed. "Your Grandpa thinks you're gay?"

"You can hear him?" asked Kerchack.

"Naw, just pieced it together from your half of the conversation. Anyway, I thought you were gay for a little while, too. In high school you were the only guy who didn't stare at my chest when you talked to me."

Kerchack frowned. "I was being polite."

"Holy Jesus, boy, what's wrong with you? When a girl's got a rack like that, it's a compliment to notice it." Gramps ogled Denise thoroughly and licked his lips. "Little more junk in the trunk than I like, but I could work with it."

"Junk in the trunk?" Kerchack immediately regretted saying it.

Denise twisted to try and check her own ass.

"What?" asked Gramps. "Ain't that what the kids say now?"

Something thumped the ceiling hard, and a low moan chilled the air.

"Attic Spook?" asked Denise.

"Attic Spook," Kerchack confirmed.

"Oh, that little shit has been in a mood tonight." Gramps sat in his recliner and focused on the television. "Think he does it on purpose. Knows X files comes on at eleven."

Denise glanced around the room. "Wow, your place is really neat."

"Joyce does it," said Kerchack.

"Maybe I should get a ghost of my own."

The Spook thumped again and howled.

"Maybe not."

Denise leaned in and kissed Kerchack, lightly this time. She turned her attention to the television. "Hey, is this the one where Cancer Man kills Kennedy?"

"Yeah, it's a good one," said Gramps.

"It's a good one," echoed Denise.

"Hell, boy, don't you lose this one. I like her."

Gramps glanced from the TV to Denise's ass and made kissing noises. He'd been dead a long time now. Manners had never been his strong suit and being invisible hadn't improved them.

"Where's Joyce?" asked Kerchack.

Grunting, Gramps waved down the hall. Kerchack left Denise to watch TV and be invisibly ogled.

Joyce was in the kitchen, scrubbing the already gleaming sink. The restless dead were generally driven by one or two passions. Clark had comic books. Gramps had television. Joyce was a cleaner. That passion defined not only their activities, but there particular talents. Clark could touch comics. Gramps could manipulate the TV just by willing it. Joyce had cleaning supplies and mops. It was a bit of a vicious cycle. A ghost could only interact with the world in a limited number of ways, and what usually started as a hobby while living soon developed into an obsession. Ghosts had a lot of time to pass, and only so many options for passing it.

"Kerchack, you're home," she said. "How are you, sweetie?" She set down her sponge and kissed him on the cheek with her cool ectoplasmic lips. Her other passion, other than cleaning, was Kerchack himself. Joyce wasn't technically his mother, but she was close enough. She'd been his dad's girlfriend just before his father left town, never to return. She'd raised him since ten, and she remained to take care of him even beyond the pale of death.

More than just seeing ghosts, he also attracted them. He had no proof, just a feeling. People around him who died tended not to move on. Most did, of course, but it was still an anomaly. Many families in Rockwood had ghosts, but none had collected as many as Kerchack. He felt bad about that. He wasn't doing anything consciously, wouldn't have minded if Joyce and Gramps one day decided to move on, leaving behind their earthly desires. He still felt responsible, if only indirectly.

"What's that on your face?" Joyce ran a thumb across his cheek. She drew a spectral handkerchief from her apron, spat on it, and scrubbed his face. The icy spit of the dead made him shiver. "You're a mess. What is all this?"

He gently grabbed her hand. "It's lipstick."

Her brow furrowed. "How on earth did you get lipstick on your face?"

"The usual way, Joyce. Y'know? A woman."

The most puzzled expression fell across her face. "A woman?"

He rolled his eyes. "Yeah, a woman. Long hair. Breasts. Vagina."

She frowned.

He sighed. "Vagina is not a dirty word. It's a medical term."

"Doesn't mean I have to like it." She shrugged. "Let me see this young woman."

Kerchack tried to stop her, but she was already through the wall. He waited for her to return. The Guy sat at the kitchen table where he always sat, reading the ectoplasmic newspaper he always read. The Guy looked up from his paper and nodded at Kerchack.

"Hey," said the ghost.

"Hey."

"Girl, huh?"

"Yes, a girl." Kerchack bit back his resentment. Was it really that unusual an event that he should bring a woman home? Well, yes, it was, but they could have had the courtesy to not mention it.

"I always thought you were a gay," said The Guy.

Joyce walked back into the kitchen. She wasn't happy. "Is that the girl who wore the witch costume? The one who wasn't wearing the bra?"

The Halloween Costume Incident, while minor to everyone else involved, had burned itself indelibly into Joyce's memory. To Joyce, there was nothing more scandalous than a busty sixteen year old in an Elvira costume, firm bosoms on display, escorting a group of nine year olds on Trick or Treating rounds. Joyce had talked about it for weeks, and still occasionally brought it up as the archetype of all women of weak and unwholesome character.

"She's very nice," said Kerchack. "Really, she's cool."

"Yes, yes." Joyce snarled as she repeated the word, "Nice. I'm sure she's very 'nice' indeed. Just the kind of 'nice' girl all the boys love."

"You don't even know her."

"I know her type." She picked up a mop and started running it vigorously across the tile. "Easy girls who trade favors for anyone who will buy them a dinner and a movie."

"I didn't have to buy her dinner."

"Oh, good. Then I suppose she's not a whore, after all. Just a slut." She turned her back to him. "Much better, isn't it?"

He almost agreed with her that it was a whole of a hell of a lot better.

"Come on, Joyce — "

"Oh, don't mind me. Just do whatever you want. You're an adult. You should live your own life."

"Joyce — "

She cut him off with a soft grunt. He tried twice more and got the same response.

"You've got a girl in the other room, and you're staying in here to argue with your dead caregiver," said The Guy. "Maybe you are a gay."

Kerchack almost argued, but The Guy had a point. He left Joyce to mop and sulk. He joined Denise in the living room couch. He put his hand on her thigh, and she ran her fingers through his hair.

Denise said, "There's something wrong with your television. It won't stay on any station."

"Grandpa's a channel flipper."

"I wish I could see ghosts," she said.

"No, you don't."

"But it's gotta be kind of cool."

"Hold on."

Kerchack went to the hall closet and found the shovel. The metal was rusted and dull, and the handle was cracked. It'd always looked this way as long as he could remember, as if it might fall apart in your hands. Strange symbols were carved in the wood and metal.

He returned to the living room. "Here. You want to see ghosts . . ." He held out the shovel. "While you're holding this you can see and hear ghosts. Be careful of the splinters."

Denise took the tool, and Kerchack stepped aside to reveal Gramps.

"Get out!" Denise jumped and punched Kerchack in the shoulder. "This is awesome!"

Gramps nodded to her, but he didn't look away from the TV. "Hey, honey, sweet ass you got there."

"So this is . . . what . . . like a magic shovel?" She punched him in the shoulder again. "You had a magic shovel, and you never told me! Where did you get it?"

"I don't remember," said Kerchack.

"Your pop got it at that yard sale of that there Egyptian archeologist feller," said Gramps. "Real nice feller. Came here with this mummified princess intending to bring her to life or some fool thing. I told him it were a stupid thing to do, what with all the obnoxiousness of all the women I'd ever known, and none of them were even princesses. But he said it were destiny, that the stars were right and he knew she'd love him."

"Did he do it?" asked Denise.

"Must've. About a week later Ms. Hulke found him dead with that dry ol' princess's hands wrapped 'round his throat. He drags her all the way from Cairo, raises her from the dead, then the ungrateful bitch strangles the poor bastard. Ain't that just like a woman?" He snorted. "No offense, young lady.

"Anyways, that shovel is supposed to have powers over the dead 'cuz of them hieroglyphics."

"What kinds of powers?" asked Denise.

"I can't remember them all," said Gramps, "but if I recall rightly, if you use it to draw a circle in the dirt under the half moon and say a dead person's name three times, it can summon their spirit."

She went over to the window and checked the night sky. "Damn. New moon tonight."

"Too bad," said Kerchack. "Are you ready to . . . uh . . . y'know?"

"What?" she asked.

He jerked his thumb toward his bedroom door. "Y'know. Do it."

She laughed. "Do it? Are you thirteen?"

"You know what I mean."

"Let's try that dirt circle thing first."

"It's not a half moon. It won't work."

"Can't hurt to try."

"I thought you had to get up early," said Kerchack.

"Oh, relax. We have plenty of time." She sashayed over, grabbed him by the belt, and pulled him toward the backdoor.

Kerchack made a note to remind himself that the next time he brought a woman home to wait until after the sex to show her the magic shovel.

"Do you think we can call up Elvis?" she asked.

"It's not likely. The King is what we call a 'High Demand' spirit. It's easier to summon spirits that have a personal connection."

"I love Elvis."

He smirked. "You and fifty million other women. If you had one of his belt buckles or capes you might have a chance."

She cringed. "Yuck, I don't want old Elvis."

"The rule is only one spirit can be summoned a night, and an unanswered call still counts as your shot. So if you want to try for Elvis, go ahead. It isn't going to work anyway, not with a new moon."

He drew the circle, making it big enough for three people to stand in on the off chance it actually worked. He always tried to give the ghost some pacing room.

"Have you done this before?" asked Denise.

"Couple of times. Sometimes, it works. Sometimes, it doesn't."

He sat on the porch while she mentally ran through a list of candidates. Most were dead celebrities, and Kerchack knew the odds of summoning any of them were practically nil. He didn't discourage her because he just wanted to get it over with.

She snapped her fingers. "I know. Remember Sam Haney?"

"The science teacher?"

"And home ec. And metal shop. And auto shop."

"I remember him," said Kerchack. "He was a cool teacher."

"The coolest. He got me into cars, and I never got the chance to thank him for it. Do you think he'll show if I call him?"

"There's one way to find out."

Kerchack held out the shovel to her. She took it and held it over her head. She didn't need to do that, but he let her have her dramatic moment.

"Sam Haney, Sam Haney, Sam Haney."

A wind whipped up, stirring a vortex of dirt around the circle. Disembodied shrieks, sounding as if coming from very far away, filled the air. The new moon grew full and red, and a leering face appeared on it like a jack o'lantern carved on a blood drenched pumpkin.

"Is it supposed to do that?" she asked.

The moon drained. The shrieks faded. The air grew very still.

"Is it supposed to do that?" she asked again.

"It never did it before." He took the shovel from her. "It's probably nothing big. See, it didn't even work." He gestured toward the circle.

There was something in it.

It didn't resemble any ghost Kerchack had ever seen before. Ghosts tended to resemble people, but this was nothing like a person. It was humanoid, at least. Tall and thin with a body made of intertwined thorny vines and a head like a red pumpkin with two black eyes and grinning slash of a mouth filled with sparkling white teeth.

"You're not Sam Haney," said Kerchack.

The spirit spoke, and its voice was soft and pleasant. It was the voice of an accountant or possibly an actuary, with a hint of a hiss behind it.

"Indeed, I am not. I am Samhain, Prince of the Fleshless Dead, Lord and Master of Earthbound Souls, King of the Immaterial Legions."

"Yeah, sure. That's terrific, great for you," said Kerchack, "but we were trying to summon Sam Haney."

The spirit moved to the edge of the circle. For a moment, Kerchack feared it might cross the mystical barrier, but it stopped just at the edge. Samhain chuckled, and distantly, the shrieks and moans resumed.

"Close enough."

There was something wrong about Samhain. He wasn't just another ghost, but something else. For one thing, Kerchack couldn't see through Samhain. While Kerchack saw ghosts clearly, they were at least a little bit transparent. Samhain appeared as solid as flesh and blood.

"Now that I'm here," said Samhain, "how may I be of service?"

"I'm sorry," said Kerchack. "This is all a mistake. We didn't mean to bother you."

"No bother. No bother at all."

Denise said, "So you're really the king of ghosts?"

"Among other things." Samhain chuckled, and the temperature dropped ten degrees.

"Cool."

She took a step forward, but Kerchack grabbed her arm.

"Can you excuse us for a moment?" he asked.

Samhain nodded. "Certainly, young masters."

Kerchack pulled Denise back into the house. He closed the backdoor. A glance through the kitchen window confirmed the dark specter was staring at the house with his unblinking eyes. His sinister smile remained.

Kerchack locked the deadbolt on the backdoor. He set down the shovel, then decided he felt better holding it.

"What's wrong?" asked Denise.

"We have to send him back."

"Why? He's just a ghost, isn't he?"

"No, he's something else."

"What?"

"I don't know."

The Guy said, "He's a spirit, not a ghost."

Not currently holding the shovel, Denise couldn't hear him. Kerchack handed it to her as he asked The Guy to explain.

The ghost never took his eyes from his newspaper. "Though the terms "ghost" and "spirit" are usually used interchangeably, there's actually a difference. Ghosts are ectoplasmic embodiments of bodiless souls. Spirits are supernatural manifestations of otherwise intangible concepts."

"What's that mean?" asked Denise.

"It means that thing in the backyard, whatever it is, was never a human being. It's a cosmic force in anthropomorphic form like the Grim Reaper or Cupid or Mickey Mouse."

"That's it," said Kerchack. "We're sending it back."

He took the shovel from Denise. She was disappointed, but it was his magic shovel and his call. They went to the backyard, where Samhain waited patiently.

"Thanks for coming out," said Kerchack, "but this has all been a misunderstanding."

He held up the shovel and said, "Return whence you came."

Samhain was supposed to disappear, but he didn't.

Kerchack waved the shovel. "Begone! I command you!"

The spirit folded his arms and laughed.

Kerchack thrust the shovel forward and summoned his most authoritative voice. "Go away! Now! Get gone!"

Samhain leaned forward. Creaky wings of gray wood sprang from his shoulders and spread as far as the containment circle would allow. The ground cracked under his feet, and a red fog spilled forth. It didn't cross the circle. Kerchack thought he saw things moving in it.

"Uh, please?" said Kerchack. "Sir?"

"I'm not going anywhere." Samhain wrapped his wooden wings around himself like a cloak.

"Then you'll just have to stay in that circle," said Kerchack. "Forever."

"Oh, I don't think I'll be in here too long. Of course, you could do me a great favor if you released me." Samhain grinned. His sparkling white teeth had become yellow fangs. "I assure you, I would be most grateful."

Kerchack looked into Samhain's eyes. At a glance, they were black, but deeper within were two crimson glints.

"You will release me, boy. One way . . ." --His grin faded, and veins throbbed on his pumpkin head.-- "Or another."

"Ah, this is boring." Denise turned and went into the house.

"Damn it."

Kerchack followed her. He glanced at Samhain. The spirit's smile was back, as bright and shiny as ever. Somehow, Kerchack missed the fangs. Whatever Samhain was, it was something bad. Something that shouldn't be let loose. Kerchack had no plans of releasing the spirit, and he knew Samhain's threat had been idle. The circle was unbreakable except by someone holding the shovel.

Denise was searching through the refrigerator. "Damn, 'Chack. Don't you have any beer?"

"Sorry. Joyce doesn't approve of beer."

She pulled out a soda. "You have a ghost telling you what to do?"

"It's just easier."

She twisted the cap off the bottle and took a drink while giving him a disapproving look.

"You don't understand," he said. "I'm not like you. I can't just put down the shovel and ignore them."

"Guess you got a point there." She leaned against the counter. "So what are you going to do about that spirit in the backyard?"

"I don't know." He deliberately moved to a corner of the kitchen where there was no angle Samhain could be seen out the windows. He still felt like he was being watched. "It's probably easiest to just ignore him until he gets bored and goes away on his own." He leaned the shovel against the wall. "So are we still going to do it?"

"I don't know. It's pretty late."

"It's not that late," he replied.

"The Great Pumpkin out there kind of ruined the mood for me."

Kerchack muttered.

"What's that?"

"Nothing."

She glared. "Something wrong, 'Chack?"

"No."

He drummed his fingers against the wall while she gulped down the rest of the soda.

Kerhack thumped his fist hard enough to put a slight dent in the wall. "No, y'know what, Denise? There is something wrong. You said that I'm the kind of guy you need, and you're right. Because I'm not the kind of guy to try and get in your pants no matter what. I'm not going to beg, and I'm not going to feed you a bunch of lines, and I'm definitely not going to be a smooth talker."

"Definitely," agreed The Guy.

"And because of that, we aren't going to have sex tonight. You'll say that you respect that about me, and that we'll go out soon. But you won't really mean it. You'll just find some guy who is willing to do whatever it takes to screw you, and you'll forget all about me."

"Really?" asked Denise.

"Yeah, really. I'm not saying we've really got much here yet. Odds are we probably won't go out again ever, but just because I'm a good guy doesn't mean I shouldn't get some sex. Sex which I was clearly promised."

She nodded. "Mmm hmm."

"Not that I'm saying I don't believe a woman has a right to change her mind. That's your call, but it just seems unfair that women always sleep with the jerks and leave guys like me with blue balls. Then you all wonder why there are so many assholes. It's because you're giving them all the sex. You're encouraging them."

"So let me see if I get your argument here. You're saying I should have sex with you because you're not the kind of guy to try to get me to have sex with you though you kind of are that kind of guy right now because you're trying to get me to have sex with you."

"Yeah. I think that's it." He shrugged. "I'm not really sure anymore."

"Well, if it's really that important to you, I suppose we might be able to work something out."

"Oh no. I don't want a pity handjob or just some half-hearted thing." He folded his arms across his chest. "I want sex. Full-blown sex. The real thing."

"Y'know, a lot of guys prefer — "

"I'm not a lot of guys."

"Alright, tiger." Denise got up, tossed her soda in the garbage, and walked over to him. She grabbed him by the waistband of his slacks and pulled him toward his bedroom. "But you gotta promise me that you'll be quick."

"Oh, I guarantee I'll be quick," he said. "In fact, we might have to do it twice."

Smiling, she glanced over her shoulder. "Don't push your luck."

"Shit, what time is it?" Denise tumbled from the bed. "Is that clock right?"

"Last time I checked," Kerchack mumbled.

Denise flicked on the lights. Kerchack groaned.

She picked through her discarded clothing until finding her watch. "Damn, it is right. I'm gonna be late. Shit, I hate it when the sun doesn't rise."

He covered his head with the sheet. "Maybe it's just running late."

It was always possible. Dawn was not something you could count on in Rockwood. Thirty-six hour nights could be expected once or twice a year.

Denise yanked the cover off him and tossed him his pants. "Get dressed. You gotta drive me to the garage."

Yawning, Kerchack pushed himself upright. He noticed his morning boner and smiled. "Hey, since you're already running late maybe we could — "

"What did I tell you about pushing your luck?" She leaned over and kissed him once. "Get dressed. Now."

"Yes, sir."

He pulled on his slacks and a random t-shirt and went to grab something to eat while Denise fussed with her hair. He said hi to Gramps but didn't get a response as was expected while "Good Morning, America" was on. The Guy was at the kitchen table, and this was also expected. But Joyce was sitting beside him, and that was a bit odd. She usually was up and cleaning by now.

"Have fun?" she asked with annoyance.

He ignored it. "Could you maybe make me some toast or sumthin'?"

She fixed him with a hard stare. "I'm not your personal cook, y'know."

Kerchack was stymied. "What?"

"Make it yourself."

"Make it myself?"

"You heard me, you lazy little shit." She stormed from the kitchen.

"What's with her?" wondered Kerchack aloud.

The Guy shrugged.

Kerchack hadn't expected her to be this mad about Denise, but she'd just have to get over it. Life was for the living, after all. He had a right to score every now and then. While he waited for two pieces of stale bread to toast, he went to the backdoor and looked out its window.

Samhain was still there. The grin remained spread across his pumpkin head.

Kerchack opened the door but didn't step into the yard. "You might as well go home."

The evil spirit said nothing.

"It's your call," said Kerchack, "but I'm not letting you out."

Samhain chuckled very, very softly. It was more of a rasp than anything else.

Kerchack's toast popped up, and he shut the door and spread some grape jelly on it. Denise appeared, and he handed her a piece.

"You ready?" she asked.

He went to the hook by the door where he kept his car keys. They weren't there.

"Gramps, have you seen my keys?"

Gramps mumbled.

"They're not on the hook where I always leave them."

Gramps glared and muttered.

"What?"

"I said, don't bother me while I'm watching TV!" shouted Gramps. "Not like I hid your car keys or nuthin'!"

"I never said you hid my keys."

Kerchack and Denise combed the living room. It took ten minutes of searching before she found them beneath the potted fern in the corner. They couldn't have fallen under there.

"Gramps, you didn't hide my keys, did you?"

Gramps glanced away from the television with a strange look in his eyes and a bit of a scowl on his face. "Why would I do sumthin' like that for, boy?"

"Are you ready yet?" asked Denise.

"Almost. I just need to find my wallet."

Gramps laughed.

"Forget the wallet," said Kerchack. "Let's just go."

They exited the house, and he paused before getting into the car. The night was not only long but filled with stars. More stars than he'd ever seen. Dark clouds, visible only as blackness against the starry night, rolled overhead.

"Anytime you're ready, Kerchack," said Denise.

"Sorry." He climbed and started the car. "Did Gramps seem weird to you?"

"I couldn't see him," she said. "I wasn't holding the shovel."

Kerchack glanced at the house. Joyce and Gramps stood at the window, staring out at him. It wasn't unusual for Joyce to watch him go. Gramps might be disinterested enough in a commercial to possibly come to the window.

He waved at the ghosts.

They didn't wave back.

The garage was clear across town, which made it at a seven minute drive. Neither passenger said much. Denise spent most the ride trying to get her hair to lay right and borrowing the rearview mirror to apply makeup. Kerchack was too busy ignoring the dead.

There seemed an awful lot of them today.

There always were, but this morning, the restless dead appeared even more restless than normal. Though Rockwood was teeming with ghosts, and he was used to seeing them all over the place, he wasn't used to all of them watching him. The living were usually too preoccupied to pay much mind to the dead. The dead usually returned the favor. This morning, the invisible, immaterial citizens of Rockwood raised their heads as Kerchack's car passed. This was pretty normal from the ghostly hitchhikers, of which Rockwood had more than its fair share, but that didn't account for the others. Front yard ghosts and graveyard ghosts and even house specters stared out from their windows and doorways. Cold, bitter stares from unblinking, ectoplasmic eyes. Stares exactly like Gramps and Joyce.

"Something bothering you, 'Chack?" Denise asked.

"No, I'm fine." He decided not to mention it to her. They were just ghosts, nothing to really worry about. "I had a real nice time last night, Denise."

"Me, too." She playfully scratched the back of his neck. "We should do it again sometime."

"Yeah, we should."

"How about tonight?"

"Sure. I'm free. We could head over to Rowling and catch a movie."

"Sounds nice."

Rowling was a forty minute drive. While it wasn't much bigger than Rockwood, it had at least a movie theater and a Burger King that stayed up past nine. More importantly to Kerchack, it had a lot less ghosts, and hopefully, by the time they drove back into town, things would have returned to normal.

He dropped her off at the service station. She leaned over and kissed him before running inside. She stopped and blew him a kiss, and Kerchack nearly missed it. He was distracted by the ghost in grease-smudged coveralls standing by the pumps who fixed him with that uniform cold glare.

Kerchack hadn't taken a shower and his hastily selected t-shirt had a dime-sized hole in the shoulder, but he didn't go back home to take care of his morning hygiene. He stopped over at Mrs. Vanderbeak's, who earned a little extra income baking in the morning since her husband had passed on. Her front door was open, as it always was, and a selection of hot cinnamon rolls, muffins, and donuts were laid on a tray on her coffee table.

Mrs. Vanderbeak poked her head out of the kitchen. "Mornin', Kerchack. Little early today, aren't'cha?"

"Never too early for one of your cinnamon rolls, ma'am."

He grabbed a roll and plopped down on her couch. She appeared with a glass of milk and patted him on his head. "If you need anything else, I'll be in the kitchen."

"Thank you, ma'am."

He leaned back and downed the pastry in several generous bites.

"You enjoying that, you little prick?" asked Mr. Vanderbeak.

Kerchack glanced at the old chair where Mr. Vanderbeak had lived most his life in and, appropriately, died in. The withered old specter had a harsh, hateful look in his eyes.

Kerchack struggled not to choke as he swallowed a sizable lump. Though it might seem like it sometimes, not everyone who died in Rockwood became a ghost. Most went to Heaven or Hell or whatever other place the departed were supposed to go. Mr. Vanderbeak had been one of those. At least, Kerchack had never seen his ghost before.

"Mr. Vanderbeak, you're not supposed to be here. I mean, you're dead."

"No shit. Thanks for tellin' me."

"No, I mean, you're . . . like . . . gone. To The Other Side or sumthin'."

"I was. Now, I'm back."

"Why?"

"You know why, you stupid little dipshit." Mr. Vanderbeak jumped out of his chair and kicked the tray of pastries in the air. He stood over Kerchack. The ghost's eyes were tinged with red, and his breath smelled of pipe smoke and rot. He spoke, but it wasn't his voice. It was Samhain's.

"Release me."

Mrs. Vanderbeak appeared. "Oh dear, oh dear, what happened, Kerchack?".

"Sorry, ma'am. I hit it with my foot, I guess."

"Oh, don't worry. These things happen."

"Yeah."

Kerchack stared into the spectral eyes of Mr. Vanderbeak. They were black, but deeper within were pinpoints of red. Kerchack stood, shivering as he passed through the angry ghost. He dug out a ten dollar bill and dropped it on the counter. Mrs. Vanderbeak would've protested it was too much, but she was too busy gathering up the scattered muffins and donuts. He uttered a rushed "Thank you, ma'am", and then ran out of the house. He deliberately didn't look back.

On the way to the Thunderdome, Kerchack passed one of Rockwood's cemeteries. It had five. Three more than necessary for a town its size. A lot of folks died in Rockwood in mysterious ways. Most these folks were out-of-towners and passers through, often unaccountably unidentifiable and so buried by the decent citizens. There was even a special tax to help pay for all the charitable funerals. For whatever reason, Rockwood seemed to have a less fatal disposition toward those who called it home. The Sheriff had put up signs at the county line. They read "Rockwood, A Nice Place To Live But You Wouldn't Want to Visit" or words to that effect. The signs always disappeared.

Kerchack pulled beside the graveyard. It was crawling with ghosts. Dozens of them. Some he didn't recognize. Others were folks who had died and moved on, like Mr. Vanderbeak had. Except now they were back, and there were a lot of them. They weren't doing anything except standing there. They were just ghosts, he told himself. There was no reason to be worried. Ghosts might hide car keys and knock over trays, but they couldn't do any real damage.

Several turned their heads in his direction, each with the same eyes as Mr. Vanderbeak. The same as Samhain.

"Shit."

He needed some time to sort through this. Someplace free of ghosts where he could think. That was never an easy thing to find. With the exponential grown of the invisible dead, it seemed less possible than ever. He couldn't go home, couldn't go to the Thunderdome, couldn't go anywhere. Places that were relatively ghost-free were bound to fill up quick. There were a lot of dead people, and if they all came back from the Other Side, there wouldn't be room for them all, even if they were immaterial.

It was an invasion. That was the only word for it, and Kerchack was beginning to suspect that this many angry ghosts in one place could only be trouble.

He drove over to Sheriff Kopp's office. The Sheriff's cruiser was gone, but Kerchack figured it couldn't hurt to file a report. Kopp handled problems like this on a regular basis. He'd averted the apocalypse at least twice in the last seven years, which was why he'd clinched the last election. There was a thin line between Rockwood and madness. Sheriff Kopp was that line.

Billy was Kopp's deputy. Billy had been the previous sheriff. One night, a succubus had gotten hold of him and sucked fifty years of his life away. Now he looked and moved like an eighty year old man. He wore the uniform, had the gun, but rarely left the office. The sheriff kept him around to man the radio and phones and help with the filing.

"Mornin', Kerchack," said Billy. "Sheriff's not here right now."

"Yeah, I know, but I need to file a report."

"Let me guess." Billy held up a clipboard with a form already pinned to it. "You're missing some stuff."

"No."

"Really? Well, that's the first today."

"A lot of stuff gone missing today?" asked Kerchack.

"Yep. Also, a lot of petty vandalism. Fences being opened and cattle scattered, walls drippin' blood, and a mess of chain-rattlin', levitatin' furniture, and disembodied moans. Sheriff said sumthin's got the ghosts worked up"

Kopp could see the dead, too. In fact, it wasn't a very unique talent. Kerchack knew fewer folks who could touch their nose with their tongue.

The phone rang, and Billy answered it. "Yes, Mr. McCloud, I told the sheriff about the ghost breakin' your dishes, but I don't see how you can expect him to do much about it. Can't exactly slap handcuffs on a poltergeist, now can you?"

Billy rolled his eyes at Mr. McCloud's reply.

"Well, hell, I don't know. Don't sound like a job for law enforcement to me. You try the Padre? Uh hmm. Uh hmm. Got exorcisms booked until the end of the week, huh? Well, how about Father Roy?"

Mr. McCloud growled something harsh, and Billy winced.

"Hate to split hairs, but I don't think Episcopalians are officially affiliated with the Church of Satan. And if'n they were, I gotta figure that would only mean they'd have a special way with evil spirits."

Mr. McCloud launched into a tirade. Billy set the phone on his shoulder. "So what was it you needed, Kerchack?"

"Nothing. Forget it. Marshall's got enough to worry about. I'll take care of it myself."

"Would'ya now? Greatly appreciate it, Kerchack." Billy put the phone to his ear and recoiled almost immediately. "Now, Mr. McCloud I ain't sayin' you're lyin', but don't you think that perhaps you might be mistaken when you say you saw Father Roy doing the foxtrot with the Dark Prince in your pasture? Mm hmm. Mm hmm. Well, I suppose it's possible, but I'm sure it weren't nuthin' serious. Everyone knows Father Roy does love a good foxtrot."

Kerchack returned to his car. He sat there a minute. There was only one thing to do. He'd summoned Samhain, so he had to send the evil spirit back. That should fix everything. All he had to do was go home, get the shovel, and find the instructions that came with it. They were in the house somewhere.

He turned the key, but the car didn't start. Not as much as a sputter. Lousy time for a battery to die, but wasn't that how it always worked?

He leaned back in his seat and sighed.

"Release me," said someone in the backseat.

Kerchack jumped, slamming his elbow into the steering wheel.

Clark spoke up from the backseat again. "Release me."

Kerchack grumbled some half-hearted profanity and got out of the car. "Clark, what are you doing out of the 'Dome?"

The ghost stepped out of the car. Clark's skin had never been very pretty, but his ectoplasmic flesh was now splotchy and drawn. His fat cheeks almost looked normal.

"The age of the living is ended. Now begins the reign of the dead." Hands outstreched, Clark lunged for Kerchack. The ghost slipped through his prey, tumbled, and fell flat on his face.

"Clark, you're immaterial."

Kerchack shivered and rubbed his sore elbow. He popped his hood and saw his battery had been disconnected.

"Damn it, did you do this?"

Clark sat up. Wheezing, he puffed on his inhaler, then spoke with Samhain's voice, though he still retained a hint of Clark's nasal quality.

"Release me."

"Yeah, yeah. Heard you the first time." Kerchack pushed the connection back in place and slammed the hood.

There were more ghosts coming up from behind the car. Eight of them, all with splotchy complexions and black stares. There were even more on the horizon, heading this way.

"Release me," they said as one. Their spectral voices kicked up a cold wind. The clouds overhead cracked with thunder, but there wasn't the slightest spark of lightning.

"Shit."

The car started up, and Kerchack floored it, kicking up a cloud of dust.

The ever growing army of the cranky dead surrounded him. He soon realized they weren't after him in particular, but they moved in the same direction.

His house.

Years ago, after being visited by one restless spirit too many, Kerchack had used the shovel to draw a protective circle around the property line. He hadn't planned on using it as a bulwark against an invisible army, but it seemed to be doing the trick. Though there were hundreds of ghosts around his house now, none appeared capable of entering this half-acre.

Kerchack's car plowed through the immaterial legion. All those ghosts lowered the temperature enough that the windshield fogged and ice formed on the fender. He shivered and rubbed his hands together.

"Release me," chanted Samhain's army. "Release me. Release me."

Kerchack ran to the front porch and stopped. Though the ghosts outside were held at bay, there were five more in his house. He wasn't betting that any of them would be any friendlier. Still, five ghosts couldn't be much of a problem.

He knew something was wrong as soon as he opened the door. The TV was off, and Gramps wasn't sitting in his chair. The living room was quiet as a tomb. Quieter, actually, considering Kerchack's general experience with tombs.

"Gramps? Joyce?"

No one answered.

He checked the closet. The shovel was still there. He grabbed it and a jacket, which he quickly slipped on as he checked the kitchen.

The Guy was still sitting at the table, reading his newspaper.

"Uh, hi," said Kerchack.

The Guy nodded.

"Do you know where Joyce and Gramps went?"

The Guy motioned toward the backdoor. Kercheck peeked out the window. Samhain was still there with a great big smile spread across his gourd-like face. Gramps and Joyce and Tederick, out of his cage now, stood before their king.

"How are you feeling?" he asked The Guy.

"Other than being dead, I've been worse." He glanced over his shoulder. His ectoplasm wasn't the splotchy mess of the other ghosts.

Kerchack sat at the table and tried to think. The Attic Spook howled through the ceiling directly above Kerchack. It thumped and stomped loud enough that he thought it might break out of its prison. He hadn't actually seen the Spook up close. It always hid away in the darkened corners on those rare occasions Kerchack had ventured up to the attic. He wondered if it was another spirit, like Samhain, something that had never been human.

The Spook struck the ceiling hard enough to send particles of dust raining on Kerchack's head.

"Hungry," it moaned. "Soooo huuungry."

It had never spoken before, and Kerchack didn't consider this a good sign.

"You probably should do something about that," said The Guy.

"Any suggestions?"

"How should I know? You're the one with the magic shovel."

"Foooood," hissed the Spook.

While Kerchack wondered just what he was supposed to feed a spirit, he turned the shovel over in his hands. It'd come with an instruction manual (a hand written notebook) but he couldn't remember where he'd left it. Joyce would've known. Too bad she was under the thrall of ancient evil.

"Release me," said someone.

Kerchack jumped at Samhain's voice. It wasn't the King of the Immaterial himself, but Gramps, Joyce, and Tederick who had snuck their way into the kitchen. Kerchack jumped to his feet and held the shovel before him.

Gramps and Joyce looked like hell. Their ectoplasmic skin wasn't just splotchy now. It was moldy, drawn, and decayed. Their clothes were rotting away. Gashes raked across their faces and arms as if they'd been gouging their own flesh with their fingernails. He'd been bald, but now whole pieces of flesh had either been torn or fallen away to reveal a crack blackened skull. Joyce's always perfect hair was now a tangled knot. Several strands fell across her face. The ghostly cockatoo on Gramp's shoulder looked worn and gray. Half his ectoplasmic feathers had fallen away. Kerchack couldn't decide if they resembled zombies or burnt out addicts, but he figured both were probably on the mark.

Ghosts were rarely dangerous to the living. They were, at most, a source of inconvenience. But as long as Samhain was in his backyard, Kerchack wasn't so sure the rules were the same anymore. He was reluctant to turn his back.

All three ghosts stared at the tool in Kerchack's hand.

"What'cha plan on doing with that shovel, boy?" asked Gramps.

"I'm going to use it to send Samhain back to wherever he came from."

"Now why would you want to do something like that for?"

"Gramps, you're not yourself. You'll feel better when he's gone."

Gramps's eyes narrowed. "And what makes you think you know how we feel? You call yourself alive, but all you are is flesh and bone. You're smothered in it, rotting away from the inside without even realizing it. What's the virtue in being alive when all it does is corrupt your thoughts and fill you with distraction? All you do is piss and shit and eat and screw. The only difference between you and us, you little bastard, is that we've shed our worthless skins."

Joyce said, "You think you're better than us, but life is just temporary. It always ends. Death is inevitable. Death is forever. This world was never yours, and now it returns to us."

The Attic Spook howled, "Foooooooood!"

Then quiet fell on the kitchen again. The ghosts stared at Kerchack, and he stared back. No one made a move. Kerchack was painfully aware of his rapidly beating heart.

The ghosts took a step forward.

"Stay back," Kerchack said. "I'm not afraid to use this."

The ghosts laughed. "You can't bury us. Not anymore."

Gramps lunged at Kerchack, who reflexively lashed out with the shovel.

The rusty blade sliced through Gramps's ectoplasmic wrist. His ghostly hand fell to the floor and twitched. He clutched the stump of his forearm. Clouds of steaming ectoplasm billowed from the wound.

"You little — "

Kerchack smacked Gramps between the eyes with the flat of the shovel. The blow crushed the ghost's face and knocked him on the tile. Tederick fluttered around Kerchack's head until a lucky strike from the shovel cut the cockatoo in half. The bisected bird hit the floor. It squawked while its wings fluttered madly. Gramps, dazed and moaning, floated a few inches off the floor.

Joyce stayed back. Her eyes were full of rage and hate. And fear.

"Back off, Joyce."

He thrust the shovel at her, and she moved aside.

"Good luck, kid," said The Guy.

"Huuuuungryyyyyy," wailed the Spook.

Joyce didn't follow him into the backyard. Samhain's red eyes burned into Kerchack. "Come to release me, have you, young master?"

Kerchack clutched the shovel tighter. "I'm not afraid of you."

"Oh, really?"

The King of the Immaterial Dead spread his twisted wings. All behind him, the ghosts of Rockwood stood on the edge of the property line. They chanted Samhain's name in a whispering chorus.

"You're trying to scare me, but you're the scared one." Kerchack held up his weapon. "Because I've got this."

It was difficult to read Samhain's face, but his sneer faded. "No earthly power can defeat me. I am the embodiment of oblivion, the unstoppable lord of the hungry graves."

The smoke billowing around Samhain bubbled and hissed.

"You have courage, young master. But it is the courage of the living, as fragile and fleeting as the breath in your lungs and as easily drained as the blood in your veins." Samhain lowered his wings and bared his glittering teeth in a wide smile. "If you think the trifling magics in that shovel can do any more than irritate me, then by all means, try it."

"You're bluffing."

"Am I?"

Kerchack hesitated at the edge of Samhain's circle. Up close, he could see that scarlet color of the spirit's throbbing veins.

"Go to hell."

Kerchack raised the shovel and swung the blade down into Samhain's pumpkin head. It passed through the spirit like a smoky illusion.

Chuckling, Samhain snatched the shovel from Kerchack and backhanded him. Kerchack fell, tasting blood. The thorns in Samhain's hands had sliced open Kerchack's cheek.

"I'm no earthbound specter, young master. Your mortal magics mean nothing to me. And now that the shovel has violated this barrier, I am free to claim what was always destined to be mine."

Frost spilled across the backyard, spreading from the spirit's feet like an unliving thing. Skeletal phantoms and shadowy wraiths rose from its curling depths. Samhain threw aside the shovel and advanced on Kerchack.

Kerchack jumped to his feet, dashed into the house, and slammed the door shut.

"Oh crap."

The Guy didn't raise his head from his paper. "So how did it go?" he asked, as if the thick ice forming on the wall and the rejoicing howls of a thousand ghosts didn't make things rather obvious.

"Huuuuungryyyyyy." The Spook pounded cracks in the ceiling. "Huuuuuuungryyyyyy."

Kerchack glanced out the window. Samhain, a sinister smile across his face, moved toward the house. The gates to the underworld had been thrown wide, and specters poured from the spreading fog.

Cold fingers seized Kerchack by the shoulder and dragged him across the kitchen. Joyce wasn't the only one who could touch him now. Gramps, now recovered, had hold of him too. They threw him against the sink and held him there.

Samhain entered the house. Though his body appeared solid and Kerchack had the sore, bloody jaw to prove it, the King of the Dead passed through the wall like a phantom. He leisurely approached Kerchack, but hesitated and turned toward The Guy, who had set down his paper for probably the first time in fifty years.

"Pardon me?" asked Samhain, "but do I know you?"

"Don't think so." The Guy shrugged.

Samhain tapped a long finger against his rounded chin. "Oh, but you look quite familiar."

The Guy pulled his newspaper up again. "Oh, I get that a lot. Just have one of those faces."

Samhain said, "Well, I just know we've met somewhere. Oh well. Guess it's really not important."

"Guess not," agreed The Guy.

The Attic Spook bayed loudly enough to crack the ice on the walls. Samhain seemed genuinely startled by the sound, but he quickly recovered.

Madness gleamed in Joyce's eyes as she dragged Kerchack before her king. "Let me kill him, master."

Gramps punched Kerchack in the gut. He slumped to the floor, curled into a ball, and gasped for breath. They kicked him a few times.

"Bet'cha wish you'd bought me that big screen now, you stupid little shit."

The Spook's thumping became violent enough to knock chunks of ice and drywall from the ceiling. Samhain's brow furrowed.

The fog filled the kitchen, crawling up the walls. Sprawled on the floor, Kerchack shivered in its icy touch. It wasn't just cold. It was numbing, draining. There were things in it, ghosts and things that weren't quite ghosts that he couldn't describe. They were all around him, caressing his flesh, and he couldn't really feel it. He just knew. From his vantage point, he noticed that while the fog covered the walls and spread across the ceiling, it seemed not to like the spot where the Spook had pounded cracks in the ceiling directly above Samhain's head.

"Shall I kill him now?" asked Joyce.

Samhain brushed her aside. "No, this mortal has given me my kingdom. The least I can do is usher him into its loving embrace myself."

His right arm uncoiled and seized Kerchack by the shoulder. The powerful grip and thorny hand made Kerchack grateful for his numbness. He was pretty sure without it, he would've been screaming his head off.

Samhain flashed his glittering grin. "Now, young master, it is time to go the way of all moldering flesh."

Kerchack hadn't meant to end the world, but somebody was bound to do it eventually. In his final moments, he tried to find comfort in that.

The ceiling exploded, and a shimmering ectoplasmic something (kind of like a huge clawed hand, but not really very much like it at all) reached into the kitchen. It swiped at Samhain, who moved back just in time to avoid being grabbed.

Samhain's eyes, so full of malevolence moments ago, were now wide with some new emotion.

Terror.

Apparently, some fathomless horrors were more fathomless than others.

The Spook tore away more of the ceiling. Several wispy tentacles snaked toward Samhain, who wasted no time dropping Kerchack and fleeing through the wall. The Spook retreated into the attic, and Kerchack thought it might've given up the chase. But it roared, and he heard a terrible crash as the thing smashed through the attic wall in pursuit of its meal.

Kerchack, Gramps, and Joyce, all went to the window to see what was happening in the backyard. By the time they got there though, it was already nearly over.

The Spook was a hulking thing of bubbling liquid ectoplasm. It was big. So big that Kerchack had a hard time imagining it could fit in the attic. But he supposed it was usually immaterial, so that wasn't a problem. But Samhain's presence must've done something to it, awaken long dormant appetites. It held him in one massive hand as Samhain struggled to free himself. The Spook didn't really have a throat as far as Kerchack could tell so it just shoved Samhain into itself.

It was transparent, and the entire digestive process was visible. It didn't take long, just a few seconds to dissolve Samhain into nothing.

The Spook turned around, though it was difficult to tell its front from its back. It had a lot of eyes scattered all over the lumpish thing that was its head. Each was a window to another world, another place that was beyond such pale things as mortal flesh and spectral ectoplasm. Kerchack felt his mind starting to fall into them, but he couldn't look away. Fortunately, the Spook slipped like a shadow into the air and back into the attic a second before madness swallowed Kerchack whole.

The lingering fog dwindled, and the numbness in him faded, reminding him of the bloody gashes on his face and shoulder. He was never so glad to feel pain in his life.

"Oh, Kerchack." Joyce hugged him. "Oh my goodness, I nearly killed you."

"Ouch."

She released him. She was herself again. There were still a few splotches on her ectoplasm, but these were fading fast.

"You alright, boy?" asked Gramps.

Kerchack shrugged, and it hurt like a son of a bitch. "I'm okay." He wasn't really sure though. He might've been bleeding to death, but he didn't feel like peeling his shirt away to check right now. There was one more thing to do.

He went into the backyard and picked up the shovel. Then he went to the assembly of ghosts at the edge of the property line. Shock and confusion covered their faces, but they didn't seem nearly as dangerous now.

"Okay, folks, nothing to see!" shouted Kerchack. "Go onto your homes or graves or whatever! Sorry for the inconvenience."

The phantom army began to disperse. Most just faded away, back to the other side where they belonged. The others headed toward their old familiar haunts.

Kerchack studied the hole in his house and knew he would never get it fixed. Maybe he'd just throw some plywood up there to let the Spook have some privacy. He went into the house and had a seat at the table. Gramps was already back in his chair, watching television. Joyce had gotten some antiseptic and bandages and started tending Kerchack's shoulder. Tederick, whistling and occasionally reciting a line from one of the dirty limericks Gramps had taught the bird, sat atop the refrigerator.

The fog had faded, taking the chill and the ice with it. Except for his wounds and the hole in the ceiling, everything was back to normal.

The Attic Spook moaned, but there was a contented quality to the sound for once.

"You got lucky," said The Guy.

"It's better to be lucky than good," replied Kerchack, although he wasn't sure he believed that. But the world wasn't destroyed, so he wasn't complaining.

Joyce had just finished bandaging Kerchack's shoulder and putting band-aids on the cuts on his cheek when there was a knock on the door. It was Sheriff Kopp. He glanced at the shovel that Kerchack held (though he hadn't realized he was still carrying it).

"I think we got some things to talk over, son."

Kerchack tried to play things cool, but Denise couldn't help but notice his wounded face when she climbed into the car. "Jeezus, honey, what happened to you?"

He smiled despite himself. It hurt because of the gashes on his cheek, but he was just so happy to hear her call him 'honey'.

"Oh, it's no big thing," he said. "Cut myself shaving."

She flashed him a skeptical look but leaned in and gave him a hug. He yelped.

"How did you — "

"Shaving," he said, then quickly segued before she could recover. "Ready for the movie?"

"Sure. And I was thinking afterward we could go back to your place and try to use the shovel again."

Kerchack started the car and pulled onto the dirt road leading to Rowling. "Sorry, but the Sheriff confiscated it."

"He can't do that."

"We're better off without it," said Kerchack. "Trust me."

"It's bullshit. First, they take your shovels. Then, they take your guns. Then, the next thing you know, we're all communists."

"Yeah, well, what are you gonna do?" he said.

The next five minutes passed in silence as Denise silently fumed.

"Denise, uh, baby." The words sounded strange attached to his voice. "I know this is kinda dumb question, and maybe I shouldn't ask it, but you didn't like me just because of the shovel, right?"

She laughed. "Damn, 'Chack, you are one insecure guy. C'mon, I'm not going to sleep with a guy just because he has a magic shovel. I mean, what kind of girl do you think I am? I let Gary Hinkley feel me up a few times because he had that sweet convertible, but it was strictly under the shirt, over the bra."

She kissed him on the cheek. "I think I really like you, 'Chack."

He grinned, not even noticing the pain.