something in there, something that smelled good, and he wasn't sharing." The homeless man frowned and rubbed the scabs on his chin. "Turned out it was him cooking."
Anya's stomach turned, remembering the bacon smell from Bernie's house. She couldn't imagine what it would be like to be that hungry.
"Things burn in here a lot," he said.
"What kinds of things?"
"George wasn't the first person caught fire since I been here. One dude caught fire while walking the tracks... his bag went up like a sack of firecrackers. 'Nother time, a preacher-man came down to 'save' us." The man made air quotes around the word and giggled. "He brought some candy bars, so we listened to him sermonizing. Didn't have anything else to do. His jacket caught fire and he ran out, swearing like a sailor about hellfire and Satan."
"Do you remember their names?"
"I'm not good with names."
So much for interviewing additional witnesses. "What do you think happened?" Anya tried another approach.
The man shrugged, spat some noisome phlegm on the ground. "I think this place is haunted. I think the ghosts burn shit every once in a while."
Anya looked up at the dark ceiling. "I could see this place being haunted."
"There's always strange sounds here. Things moving in the shadows, to and from the tracks. Sometimes you can still hear the trains at night." His eyes burned. "It's like this decrepit old joint is still alive, you know what I mean?"
"Yeah. I do know."
"At least the lady in pink is getting rid of some of 'em."
"Lady in pink?" she echoed.
"There's a woman that comes around here once every couple of weeks. She brings a lot of bottles and jars. The ghosts disappear into the bottles and jars."
Anya's heart quickened. "Can you describe her?"
"She's short, got some meat on her bones. Early fifties, blond hair. Always wears a pink suit and minces around in ridiculous high heels." The man glanced at Anya's feet. "She manages to keep the shit off her shoes, though."
Anya blinked. That sounded like Hope Solomon. "Did she ever tell you her name?"
"She acts like she's too good to talk to us, but she talks to the ghosts. Sweet-talks 'em until they get close enough to the bottle. Then... whoosh! In they go." The homeless man pursed his lips, extended a filthy hand. "I gave you all the information I got. Hold up your end of the bargain."
"Thanks," she said awkwardly. She reached in her pocket, fished out a twenty-dollar bill. It was all she had in cash, but it felt like a pathetically small amount.
The man snatched at it, his hand as fast as a cobra striking. He plucked the money from her fingers and melted back into the shadows.
Anya sighed. Maybe it would be for the best if this place was torn down. She spun on her heel, scanning for more evidence of scorch marks. Her flashlight shone on graffiti, some crude and some elaborate. In several places, she saw red depictions of flames, and one rudimentary sketch of a devil with horns.
For people like the homeless man, this could very well be hell.
Shadows boiled in her peripheral vision. They seemed to flow in an unusually ordered fashion, like water. She reached out with her Lantern senses, could sense the shapes and movement of something otherworldly--of ghosts.
"Hello?" she breathed.
But they ignored her. Anya suspected they were part of some subtle, residual haunting, some darkness playing over and over again like a stuck record. Perhaps the images of passengers were indelibly recorded in the bones of this grand old structure, moving toward their destinations as they had in life.
She walked through a puddle on the floor, lit from above by the copper frame of a ruined skylight. She followed the flow of the shadows, moving down through a tunnel to the broad brick expanse of the train platform. Her shoes rang loudly against the brick, and Sparky scuttled on point before her. His glowing amber light cast some relief from the gloom.
The platform itself was crumbling onto the tracks, exposing rusted
Anya's stomach turned, remembering the bacon smell from Bernie's house. She couldn't imagine what it would be like to be that hungry.
"Things burn in here a lot," he said.
"What kinds of things?"
"George wasn't the first person caught fire since I been here. One dude caught fire while walking the tracks... his bag went up like a sack of firecrackers. 'Nother time, a preacher-man came down to 'save' us." The man made air quotes around the word and giggled. "He brought some candy bars, so we listened to him sermonizing. Didn't have anything else to do. His jacket caught fire and he ran out, swearing like a sailor about hellfire and Satan."
"Do you remember their names?"
"I'm not good with names."
So much for interviewing additional witnesses. "What do you think happened?" Anya tried another approach.
The man shrugged, spat some noisome phlegm on the ground. "I think this place is haunted. I think the ghosts burn shit every once in a while."
Anya looked up at the dark ceiling. "I could see this place being haunted."
"There's always strange sounds here. Things moving in the shadows, to and from the tracks. Sometimes you can still hear the trains at night." His eyes burned. "It's like this decrepit old joint is still alive, you know what I mean?"
"Yeah. I do know."
"At least the lady in pink is getting rid of some of 'em."
"Lady in pink?" she echoed.
"There's a woman that comes around here once every couple of weeks. She brings a lot of bottles and jars. The ghosts disappear into the bottles and jars."
Anya's heart quickened. "Can you describe her?"
"She's short, got some meat on her bones. Early fifties, blond hair. Always wears a pink suit and minces around in ridiculous high heels." The man glanced at Anya's feet. "She manages to keep the shit off her shoes, though."
Anya blinked. That sounded like Hope Solomon. "Did she ever tell you her name?"
"She acts like she's too good to talk to us, but she talks to the ghosts. Sweet-talks 'em until they get close enough to the bottle. Then... whoosh! In they go." The homeless man pursed his lips, extended a filthy hand. "I gave you all the information I got. Hold up your end of the bargain."
"Thanks," she said awkwardly. She reached in her pocket, fished out a twenty-dollar bill. It was all she had in cash, but it felt like a pathetically small amount.
The man snatched at it, his hand as fast as a cobra striking. He plucked the money from her fingers and melted back into the shadows.
Anya sighed. Maybe it would be for the best if this place was torn down. She spun on her heel, scanning for more evidence of scorch marks. Her flashlight shone on graffiti, some crude and some elaborate. In several places, she saw red depictions of flames, and one rudimentary sketch of a devil with horns.
For people like the homeless man, this could very well be hell.
Shadows boiled in her peripheral vision. They seemed to flow in an unusually ordered fashion, like water. She reached out with her Lantern senses, could sense the shapes and movement of something otherworldly--of ghosts.
"Hello?" she breathed.
But they ignored her. Anya suspected they were part of some subtle, residual haunting, some darkness playing over and over again like a stuck record. Perhaps the images of passengers were indelibly recorded in the bones of this grand old structure, moving toward their destinations as they had in life.
She walked through a puddle on the floor, lit from above by the copper frame of a ruined skylight. She followed the flow of the shadows, moving down through a tunnel to the broad brick expanse of the train platform. Her shoes rang loudly against the brick, and Sparky scuttled on point before her. His glowing amber light cast some relief from the gloom.
The platform itself was crumbling onto the tracks, exposing rusted
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