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actually drinking a life； swallowing it whole。 He felt himself borne up by the mindless； agonized convulsions of the thin body beneath him
and the churning guitar of the spiders from Mars。
The taste of blood meant the end of aloneness。
As Laine's movements became weaker； the others fell upon him。 Molochai and Twig nestled into the crooks of Laine's elbows； there was the sound of their mouths churning； then a long wet sound like the last drops of soda being sucked from a glass。 Zillah had pulled Laine's pants off and buried his face in Laine's crotch。 He fed with delicate licks instead of noisy sucking； but when he looked up at Nothing； his smile was red； and a pulpy shred of flesh was caught in the er of his mouth。
Soon Laine no longer struggled； but he was still alive。 A long continuous sound came from his open throat； a keening beyond pain or hope。 He had e away from home because Nothing had； he had followed Nothing； trusting him。 But Laine should have learned by now that when you have 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 glit