Game of Cages

I threw my ghost knife at him.

He must have seen movement because he threw himself back. The ghost knife struck the shotgun, shearing off the front of the barrel and the pump, too. The cut part of the weapon fell through the window into the basement.

I called the ghost knife and it zipped through the open window into my hand. It still worked on dead things, at least.

Fat Guy held up half of his weapon. “Well, I’ll be damned.”

“What could have done that?”

“I don’t know, but I will soon. Gimme your shotgun.”

The other Fellow didn’t like that suggestion, and both men moved away from the window to talk about it. The other man eventually agreed to stand guard.

I inched forward, peering around the edge of the window jamb. The Fellow stood about ten feet away, the shotgun against his shoulder as though he was about to shoot skeet. He was the one dressed in biking clothes.

“Hey in there!” he yelled. “Come out with your hands up, and I won’t shoot.”

He snapped the barrel of the gun to the right, then left, looking very trigger-happy. I didn’t want to throw my ghost knife directly into the path of a blast of buckshot. I moved toward the front of the house. The garage offered more cover, but it was too far away. Had they posted a new guard at the front door? I’d have to risk it.

Heavy footsteps clomped overhead. The Fellows were coming—with guns—and I didn’t have time to wait around. My only real hope was that they were all coming after me, leaving the area outside unguarded.

I banged my head against something that made a solid wooden thunk. I laid my hands on it—it was smooth and curved, but I had no idea what it was. What I could tell was that it completely blocked the path. I had to turn back.

Footsteps stumbled down the stairs somewhere to my left. By the echo, I judged they were coming from the center of the room.

I crept back the way I’d come, keeping low so they wouldn’t spot my silhouette against a window.

One of them said something in another language. Russian, maybe. Another answered: “Just one, I think. A guy.” The Russian-speaker answered. He didn’t sound confident. Someone flicked a light switch several times. Nothing happened.

Damn. I wished I could pinpoint where they were.

“I don’t like it down here,” another one said. The Russian-speaker said something that seemed like agreement. “I mean, what was that thing outside? We didn’t try to buy something like that, did we?”

“Shut up, Gregor,” another said. I recognized his voice. It was Fat Guy. “You’re gonna talk yourself out of the Fellowship.”

“I’m just saying,” Gregor continued, ignoring the other man’s advice. “You saw that old woman die. You saw her spirit, or whatever that was, float away into the woods. What if it comes for us? Are we supposed to use shotguns against it?”

“Then let’s find this guy,” a new voice said, “so we can go home.”

They were spooked. I just wished they’d been spooked by me. I sure as hell didn’t want to fight all of these guys. One at a time, without guns, was bad enough, but like this it was too chancy.

Then I had an idea. I threw the ghost knife into the darkness.

I waited, feeling it move away from me. No effect. The Russian-speaker was talking, and the others were listening quietly. I called it back and threw it again in a slightly different direction.

This time I was rewarded by a loud crash across the room. The spell had cut part of an unsteady stack somewhere.

“Christ!” Gregor shouted. There was a barrage of gunfire. I dropped to the ground, but I was pretty sure it wasn’t aimed at me. After a few seconds, the shooting stopped. I called my ghost knife back, my ears still ringing.

“Goddammit!” Fat Guy yelled. “I’m standing right here!”

The trigger-happy one was breathing hard. So was I. The ghost knife settled into my hand.

“Reload that weapon,” Fat Guy said. “And if you shoot one of us, I’m going to kill you and your mother, too. Get me?”

“Sorry,” Gregor mumbled.

I slowly got to my knees. My shoe scuffed against the floor, but the Fellows were breathing too hard to hear it.

“We should fan out,” Russian Accent said.

“We’re not fucking fanning out. Not with this crew. I’d prolly bump an old mirror, and Gregor here would empty a clip of soft-points into me. Stick together and cover each other.”

One of them flicked on a flashlight, and I knew just where they were. I sidestepped to get a clear shot.

“What do you think is down here?” Gregor asked.

I threw the ghost knife at them. Please work. Please.

One of the men screamed. It gave me chills—he sounded like I’d cut off a body part. I heard someone fall and a clatter of breaking glass. The flashlight beam swerved around and pointed at the floor. Shapes moved in the