Courtney turned toward Bill. “And you," she said. “Mister ignore-those-blood-stains-I-heal-pretty-fast. You come with me."
Without another word, she turned and moved away from them, into the hall. Bill got up and followed, padding silently after her.
Jack watched, a bit taken aback, as Bill followed his sister into the hall. A moment later he heard Courtney's bedroom door open and close, and then the sound of soft music began to drift out to where he and Molly stood in the living room, gaping stupidly at nothing in the hall.
“Wow," Molly said at length.
“Yeah," Jack agreed. “I'd say we missed something."
Their eyes met then, and Jack felt his chest tighten. His breath caught in his throat, and it was as though something was tickling his stomach from the inside -
only he wasn't ticklish there.
“I don't think we missed anything, necessarily," Molly told him, a bit of a rasp to her voice. She swallowed visibly and her smile seemed uncertain. “I'd say it was there all along, like a puzzle somebody only built halfway. We just weren't paying attention when the rest of the pieces got put together."
With a tentative chuckle, Jack shrugged. “I guess. All the same to you, though, I'm going to try to block it out. She's my sister, y'know?"
Molly smiled sweetly. “Yeah. I know." With a tiny shiver, she stretched, and tried to stifle a small yawn. “I'm glad we're all back in one piece, Jack. And I'm . . .
I'm glad we went. It was the right thing to do."
I'm glad we went. Jack's mind swirled with images of horrible violence and bloodshed, and he shook his head in amazement.
“Yeah. Me, too."
For a moment, Molly searched his eyes. Her smiled faltered. “Well, good night."
“Night," Jack replied.
Molly paused, then started for the hallway. Just short of the open door, she stopped. As he watched her hesitate there, Jack held his breath. Molly half-turned toward him, eyes downcast, lips pouting slightly. Her mane of red hair fell across her face, partially obscuring her expression.
Then she lifted her head, chin raised, and strode toward him. Her step was determined, but her eyes were wide with fear. Molly reached up with both hands, grabbed Jack by the back of the head, and pulled him down to kiss her. Their lips met, and Jack felt as though they burned a little. It was a deep kiss; his heart thundered in his chest, and it seemed he had never felt so invigorated and yet so weak at the same time.
The kiss slowed, became softer, more gentle, as if they were merely tasting each other's lips.
Molly lay her head on his chest a moment. Jack caressed her upturned cheek. A sweet smile blossomed again at the edges of her lips. She stood back, shook her head as if in disbelief, and then turned to walk toward the hall again.
“Good night," he called weakly after her.
“Sleep tight," Molly replied almost in a whisper.
She hurried from the room and he stood and stared after her until he heard her door close softly down the hall.
“Oh, my God," Jack gasped. “What the hell do I do now?"
“What you have to do."
Jack spun, startled, and yet he was not truly surprised to see Artie shimmering there in the middle of the room. Through the spectral form, Jack could still see the television screen, and the canned laughter that filled the room made the scene even more surreal.
“You were watching?" Jack asked quietly.
“Just the last few seconds. I just got here," Artie explained. “Sorry. I wasn't peeping, though. Seriously."
As if slowly deflating, Jack sank onto the sofa. “What do I do now, Artie? This whole thing . . . you . . . Molly . . . it's too complicated. Before it was hard enough, but now I feel like you're this big secret I'm keeping from her. It feels wrong."
Artie nodded solemnly. “I know, Jack. But you know it's for the best. As for what you're gonna do now, you're gonna just keep doing what you've been doing.
Taking care of business, and taking care of Molly."
His black eyes flickered, and the ghost glanced away. “You should be with her, Jack. It's . . . it's harder for me to take than I thought it would be. I mean, I know it's the right thing, but . . ." Artie's entire form seemed to ripple, as though the air itself was folding in around him. Then he solidified again, and he stared at Jack.
“This is the way it should be. Let it play out."
Jack exhaled slowly, with a shake of his head. “I just . . . maybe, Artie. But can we change the subject? Not talk about this for a while?"
For the first time, Artie had turned to look at the television set. Onscreen, Dick Van Dyke was having a bad dream, restless in bed.
“Oh, I love this one," the ghost said excitedly.
As though he could still feel it beneath him, the spirit of Artie Carroll settled down on the sofa next to Jack. They watched television in silence for a few minutes.
In some ways it was wonderful for Jack, filled him with a nostalgia for simpler times with Artie. For those same reasons, it was also painful.
“What you did up in Buckton was really something," Artie said at the commercial break. “Lot of lost souls not so lost anymore, thanks to you."
Jack frowned. “They really have moved on, then?"
Artie nodded. “But why the long face? You should be happy for them?"
“Well," Jack said slowly, “no offense, but, we took care of what was keeping you here a long time ago, but you're still around. I just . . . I mean, why?"
The ghost smiled.
“Somebody's got to watch out for you, bro."
The wind whistled through the trees on Pine Hill, but aside from that, the mountain was dead silent. It was as though even the wildlife was afraid to move, afraid to
