Read Online Poppy Z. Brite - 1992 - Lost Souls by Poppy Z. Brite - Free Book Online
Authors: Poppy Z. Brite
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lashes.
Again
Steve wondered what manner of things lived in that pale head, what Ghost was
made of, of what substance were his visions. Steve had heard nothing back there
on the hill, nothing but the wind and the power plant’s faraway hum. He had
seen nothing but the old scarred oak tree, wild against the sky. But he
believed that Ghost had seen a pair of twins long dead, the twins that had died
in his dream and come back to life in his waking hours. Steve no longer even
considered disbelieving the things Ghost saw and heard, the things Ghost knew without
knowing.
Steve’s
faith in the high omniscient gods of his childhood —Santa Claus, the Easter
Bunny, and an eccentric creature apparently designed just for him, the Haircut
Fairy—had been blasted by older, more worldly friends who advised him to stay
awake and see whether it wasn’t his dad spiriting away the carefully wrapped
package of dark and unruly hair clippings, whether it wasn’t his mother
delivering all those mystical goodies. The Easter-morning chocolate never
tasted quite se wondrously creamy after he found out that it wasn’t brewed and
molded under the roots of a tree deep in some enchanted forest, in the vast
subterranean workshop of a gl -ant rabbit he had
pictured as bearing a strong resemblance to Bugs Bunny, but with bright pink
fur.
Years
later, when his aunt and cousins took him to church, he suspected that this was
more of the same magical gobbledygook updated for grown-ups. With the cynical
hope of an eleven-year-old he prayed for the successful flight of the
hyperspace machine he and his friend R.J. were building in the Finns’ garage.
But the motors they had salvaged from hair dryers, refrigerators, and one
precious wrecked motorcycle left them stranded on earth, no matter how many
adjustments they made, how many dials they twisted, no matter how many times
R.J. pushed his glasses up on his nose and checked the spiral notebook from
Walgreen’s that contained his calculations, no matter how bitterly Steve cussed
and kicked at the mess of machinery.
Steve
thought his belief in magic might well have died there, at the hands of a God
who cared nothing for a hyperspace machine built by the labor and thievery and
faith of two skinny, sweaty boys who had hoped all through a long summer.
Steve’s faith might have been shattered beyond salvation, might have died right
there on that garage floor, along with the snips of wire, the scraps of metal,
the broken drill bit that his dad whaled him for.
He
might never have believed in magic again. But a few weeks later—right around
this time of year, he realized, twelve years ago to the month—he met Ghost, and
everything changed forever.
It
was near the end of his eleventh summer, when the season was about to turn,
when Steve was poised at the last reach of childhood. The passions and
excitements of children no longer seemed so heady to him. He felt faintly silly
for having tried to build a hyperspace machine, or indeed for doing anything
that was not dictated by the realm of the practical. He cringed now to think
how different he might have been. He might never have picked up a guitar, might
have graduated from N.C. State with a bachelor’s degree in advertising or some
such deathsome thing. If he hadn’t met Ghost.
The
locusts were still singing in the trees and in the long weeds by the side of
the road, but their song grew sad, the harbinger of another summer’s end.
School was in session. The days would be relentlessly hot and sticky for
another month at least, but some new coolness in the night air signalled the golden mantle of fall. As at the beginning of
every school year, there Was a new kid. This year the new kid was a pale,
frail-looking boy whose hair was a little too long to meet the current
standards, who came to
Again
Steve wondered what manner of things lived in that pale head, what Ghost was
made of, of what substance were his visions. Steve had heard nothing back there
on the hill, nothing but the wind and the power plant’s faraway hum. He had
seen nothing but the old scarred oak tree, wild against the sky. But he
believed that Ghost had seen a pair of twins long dead, the twins that had died
in his dream and come back to life in his waking hours. Steve no longer even
considered disbelieving the things Ghost saw and heard, the things Ghost knew without
knowing.
Steve’s
faith in the high omniscient gods of his childhood —Santa Claus, the Easter
Bunny, and an eccentric creature apparently designed just for him, the Haircut
Fairy—had been blasted by older, more worldly friends who advised him to stay
awake and see whether it wasn’t his dad spiriting away the carefully wrapped
package of dark and unruly hair clippings, whether it wasn’t his mother
delivering all those mystical goodies. The Easter-morning chocolate never
tasted quite se wondrously creamy after he found out that it wasn’t brewed and
molded under the roots of a tree deep in some enchanted forest, in the vast
subterranean workshop of a gl -ant rabbit he had
pictured as bearing a strong resemblance to Bugs Bunny, but with bright pink
fur.
Years
later, when his aunt and cousins took him to church, he suspected that this was
more of the same magical gobbledygook updated for grown-ups. With the cynical
hope of an eleven-year-old he prayed for the successful flight of the
hyperspace machine he and his friend R.J. were building in the Finns’ garage.
But the motors they had salvaged from hair dryers, refrigerators, and one
precious wrecked motorcycle left them stranded on earth, no matter how many
adjustments they made, how many dials they twisted, no matter how many times
R.J. pushed his glasses up on his nose and checked the spiral notebook from
Walgreen’s that contained his calculations, no matter how bitterly Steve cussed
and kicked at the mess of machinery.
Steve
thought his belief in magic might well have died there, at the hands of a God
who cared nothing for a hyperspace machine built by the labor and thievery and
faith of two skinny, sweaty boys who had hoped all through a long summer.
Steve’s faith might have been shattered beyond salvation, might have died right
there on that garage floor, along with the snips of wire, the scraps of metal,
the broken drill bit that his dad whaled him for.
He
might never have believed in magic again. But a few weeks later—right around
this time of year, he realized, twelve years ago to the month—he met Ghost, and
everything changed forever.
It
was near the end of his eleventh summer, when the season was about to turn,
when Steve was poised at the last reach of childhood. The passions and
excitements of children no longer seemed so heady to him. He felt faintly silly
for having tried to build a hyperspace machine, or indeed for doing anything
that was not dictated by the realm of the practical. He cringed now to think
how different he might have been. He might never have picked up a guitar, might
have graduated from N.C. State with a bachelor’s degree in advertising or some
such deathsome thing. If he hadn’t met Ghost.
The
locusts were still singing in the trees and in the long weeds by the side of
the road, but their song grew sad, the harbinger of another summer’s end.
School was in session. The days would be relentlessly hot and sticky for
another month at least, but some new coolness in the night air signalled the golden mantle of fall. As at the beginning of
every school year, there Was a new kid. This year the new kid was a pale,
frail-looking boy whose hair was a little too long to meet the current
standards, who came to
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