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too much faith in something； it is bound to hurt you。 Too much faith in anything will suck you dry。 In this way； all the world is a vampire。
Nothing held Laine close and drank his life； lost in the slowing pulse； in the taste of blood and salt。 He never realized that most of the tears he tasted were his own。
Chapter 18
Heavy rains came to Missing Mile during the night and turned the weather cold； turned the sky leaden。 The last sprays of goldenrod withered and died under a coat of rime； and people shovelled last year's ash from their fireplaces。 It would stay cold now。
Sometime in the dull gray afternoon； somnolent and weary of silence； Ghost put down the map he was drawing with crayons and said； 〃I'm gonna bike to town。 I want some wine。〃
Steve looked up from his book。 〃Shit； Ghost； it's freezing。 I have to go to work in half an hour。 I'll drive you in。〃
〃I don't need a ride。 I'm dressed warm。〃 Ghost pulled his drab layers of clothing around him。 〃I like the wind in my eyes。
〃Suit yourself。〃 Steve unfolded himself from the couch and pushed the straw hat more firmly down over Ghost's head。 〃Call me if you get icicles on your balls。 I'll e pick you up。
As Ghost rode； the wind sluiced over his face； froze the winter…tears in his eyelashes； whistled through the spokes of his bicycle wheels like a lonely song。 His hair whipped across his face； pale and cold。
The grocery store was painfully bright after the dark day。 Ghost wandered among the shelves； studied candy bars and magazines； finally chose a bottle of scuppernong wine。 It took most of the change in his pocket…Ghost hated to carry cash； hated buying things at all…but the wine was forty proof； good and high。 Wino wine； the kind he always drank； even though Steve ragged him to hell and back for it。
He put the bottle in his saddlebag and walked his bike down Firehouse Street； looking into dusty shop windows； stepping over the cracks in the sidewalk。 Outside the hardware store he stopped to talk to the old men who congregated there； playing checkers with orange and grape Nehi bottle caps and a beat…up checkerboard。 The men were as dry and tough as hard nuts and would not move their gatherings inside until snow flew。 The grape team was winning today。
Ghost greeted the old men by name。 〃Hey； Mr。 Galvin； Mr。 Berry； Mr。 Joe。〃
〃Hey there； Ghost。 How you？〃
〃I feel bad times ing on；〃 he told them。 He hoped one of them would know something about it。
But the old men just laughed at him。 〃You and your long…haired friend been smokin' that dope out at your place； Ghost？〃
〃Naw； he's Miz Deliverance's grandkid。 If he says bad times in'； then there's bad times in'。 Mebbe we'll be dead by the time they get here。〃
The oldest； most wrinkled man shot a stream of brown spit into the gutter。 〃Shit…fire； save matches。〃
Ghost took the long way home。 It was twilight now； and the streets of Missing Mile were deserted。 The hills were checkered with the yellow light of faraway houses。 Steve would have gone to work by now； but Ghost hoped he had left a light burning。 He rode past the town…limits sign。 The fields that stretched away on either side of the read were bare and dry； already stripped of their harvest。 Across the furrows a window glimmered on the dusk。
He thought of the twins he had seen up at the hill； the twins who should have been shrivelling in their graves but were instead vibrant and alive。 He hoped the bad times that were ing didn't have anything to do with them。 He was pretty sure they had been nothing but shades； things only he could see； maybe even brought to brief life by the dream he had had about them。 But they had terrified him for no good reason。 And they had known about the little boy dead on the road； had even implied in the sly manner of spirits that they had killed the boy。
At the corner where Burnt Church Road met the highway； a tall figure sat hunched behind a sign that said ROSES。 The flower…seller the same one he had seen on the way back from Miz Catlin's。 He was sure of it。 A few huge frothy bouquets shivered in the wind。 Some stunted pumpkins and gourds were piled around the base of the stand。
Ghost tried to ride past without seeming to notice the flower…seller； but as he drew close； the figure got to its feet and spread its arms wide 。 。 。 wider 。 。 。 immensely wide； stretching。 The sleeves of its long dark cloak billowed。 Ghost slowed his bike。 Everything in him screamed danger； but be had never been one for turning away from things that seared him； or running from them。 He would talk to this person； try to figure out what the sick feeling and the worry were about。
〃Roses？〃 asked the flower…seller。 〃Or a jack…o'…lantern to light your path？〃
Ghost pulled his hair in front of his face。 He had seen people who looked a little like this； their pale gauntness and loose black clothes vaguely similar。 Such people had sometimes visited his grandmother； bringing her mysterious powders and oils in murky bottles or buying herbs from her。 They had scared him； sometimes he saw the skulls beneath their faces； long pale orbs； or the bones of their hands as clear and luminous as an X ray。 Sometimes he felt their thoughts focusing on him for an instant with a flicker of cold interest like a flame in a dark tunnel of wind。 But none of those had worn sunglasses and gloves in hot September weather； none had sold roses and pumpkins at the side of the road。 And none had had eyes quite so cold 。 。 。 or so desolate。
〃I don't have any money；〃 he said； 〃or I'd buy a pumpkin。 But you ought to pack up for tonight。 It's too cold to sit out here。〃 Even as he spoke； a night wind seemed to be whipping up； carrying the russet smell of autumn in from the fields。
〃Pity？ For pity you may have a rose。 And I was just packing up。〃 The figure stepped closer and tucked a deep red bud into the lapel of Ghost's army jacket。 When one of those long thin hands brushed the bare triangle of skin at the base of his throat； Ghost shivered。 Even through his gloves the flower…seller's fingers were as cold as bone； as loneliness。 Ghost looked up into the flower…seller's face。 Those cold eyes glittered somewhere deep in shadowed sockets。 Ghost looked quickly down at his own torn white sneakers。
But it was too late： all at once he caught a rush of images； not words but feelings。 The first thing he sensed was age and dark wisdom beyond his ability to measure； he knew this was no man。 The second was a terrible； resigned loneliness； a longing for someone he thought might never e。 The flower…seller's mind was like a sentient void； too empty even to be sad； colder than the night。 Without thinking； Ghost said； 〃You'll be warm when your friends get here。〃
The pale face snapped up。 〃What friends？ Have you news of Zillah？〃
Ghost stumbled backward。 〃No…I mean； I only know somebody's ing…I mean； somebody must be ing to pick you up。 Or I guess maybe you live around here…〃 He shut his mouth before his words could get any more tangled。 Ghost seldom had to make excuses for the things he knew。 Not everybody wants his heart looked into； his grandmother had told him when he was very young。 So look if you have to； but learn to keep your mouth shut。 Since her death six years ago； he spoke of such things only to Steve； or to no one at all。 But sometimes things just materialized in his head； and he said them out loud before he could stop himself。 As soon as he felt that emptiness pouring out of the flower…seller； he had known that friends were ing； already on the way。 And as much as he feared to wonder what sort of friends they might be…the resurrected dream…twins； or worse？…he had had to say it。 fort might warm those cold eyes。
But the eagerness glittering in those eyes put a stupid panic into Ghost； panic like a moth beating itself against a window； panic that made him want to hide anything he might know； hide his own head。 This is the bad times ing； he realized。 The start of it； anyway。
〃You don't know them；〃 the flower…seller said flatly。
Now Ghost was no longer afraid。 Now he felt only a terrible empathetic loneliness。 He might have been as hollow as a gourd。 What if nobody in the whole world loved you？ What if you were alone？
〃I'm sorry； I'm sorry；〃 Ghost said wildly。
The flower…seller leaned across his wooden stand。 His eyes met Ghost's； and his tongue darted out over his pale lips。 The long thin hands trembled。 Then that cold gaze darted toward the moon； and the flower…seller drew himself up and knotted his fingers together。 〃Get away from here；〃 he said。
〃What…〃
〃Go。〃 Now there was a light of desperation in the deep…set eyes。 Hungry desperation； it looked like。 〃Go now if you want to live。〃
The last light of day disappeared from the sky。 The flower…seller's face was partially obscured by the growing dark； making it look pointed； feral。 He made a half…despairing； half…starved sound deep in his throat； and seemed about to lunge right over the stand。 But Ghost was already straddling his bike； shoving at the kickstand； reaching up with one hand to steady his hat and pedaling as hard as he could。 After a few minutes he stopped and looked back over his shoulder。 But the fl