Read Online The Master by Melanie Jackson - Free Book Online

said. He sounded unusually testy.
    â€œCan you just be quiet until we get through the mountains?” Nick muttered. “I’m not dead yet and I need to watch the road.”
    The ghost nodded sadly.
I’ve seen corpses with more Christmas spirit than you have. Your soul is shriveling, boy. It’s nearly dead—starved to nothing. You had best wake up before it’s too late.
    Nick didn’t say anything; he just stared out at the wet road beyond the windshield. Usually he liked the rain, at least the sound of it. He liked it mostly because it was something he didn’t have to respond to—not a voice, not a beep, not a siren. There was nothing he could or should do about the weather. Listening to the rain was as close to feeling lighthearted and irresponsible as he came these days.
    And that is sad, sad, sad.
The ghost shook its gold-tinseled head.
    â€œPlease shut up.”
    A couple of hours before dawn, a lightning storm broke over the Sierra Nevada mountains, bringing with it Ping-Pong–sized hail and thick sleet that clogged his Jag’s wiper-blades.
    â€œMerry Christmas, everyone,” Nick muttered to the heavens. “Great joke on the holiday travelers, God. Rates right up there with food poisoning.”
    It isn’t a joke—it’s destiny.
The ghost sounded suddenly cheerful.
I was hoping that this would happen. All signs pointed this way. Say hallelujah! We are saved.
    â€œSaved from what? You
would
want this. Look, just be quiet for a bit longer. I really need to concentrate. The road feels greasy.”
    Nick spared an unkind thought for the bastards at the weather bureau who had sworn the night would be fair. On their advice, he hadn’t bothered to pack chains for the car. Fortunately, the road was deserted, so he was able to crawl along at a turtle’s pace for a mile or so, but soon even that became impossible. His tires could barely gain traction on the ice-slick road. Nick began looking around for a place to stop.
    There’s something just ahead. Slow down just a bit more or you’ll miss it.
    â€œQuiet, damn you. Unless you want to drive.”
    But the excited ghost was right. Quite fortuitously, just as the storm reached blizzard conditions, a small dirt road suddenly appeared, leading off into the greater darkness of the forest.
    This is it.
Then, almost like a prayer:
This
must
be it.
    â€œI see.” Nick eased the car into something slower than a crawl.
    Normally, he would not have risked the Jaguar’s paint on such a narrow tunnel of spiky branches. His motto was: If it isn’t paved, men don’t need to go there. But as the hail was a greater threat than the dirt path and the somber evergreens offered shelter, he quickly steered to the right and followed the trail into the blackness.
    â€œIf you go into the woods today—better not go alone . . .”
    â€œShut up,” Nick replied. But he said it almost absently. He didn’t actually mind the ghost’s singing, as long as it wasn’t Christmas carols, and the specter had been completely silent for the last forty-eight hours while Nick was at work.
    Probably it was too much to hope that anyone actually lived out here in the wilds. The state of the road certainly discouraged any such optimistic thoughts. He’d be more likely to find an old abandoned miner’s shack, or a logger’s shelter. Or a moonshine still. Or an illegal marijuana garden. Those littered the area. Still, any structure where he and the Jag might find shelter until the storm passed would be welcome; the hail was ruining his paint, and the road was turning into an impassable river of mud.
    Don’t worry, my boy! I think someone’s at home and expecting us. I can see the fire from here.
The ghost’s voice was filled with a smug satisfaction that bothered
    Nick more than he liked to admit. He had always assumed the ghost was benign—just a manifestation of his