Concerning the Ghost Boy

    He didn't get very far before the Ghost Boy found him. The old town was deserted by all but the occasional roaming cat, still, cold and stretched taut as though waiting for something to break. The dismal strains of someone turning Bye Bye Blackbird into a lament slunk along the stairwells with the sickly, rhythmic streetlamps, born out of the night. And then, suddenly he was there, materializing from the shadows. Hoell almost screamed. Keyes reached the palm out again. Hoell flinched, then swung.
  The right cross flew just shy of Keyes' face, the ghost bot languidly rolling his face from it. An arm shot out, grey fingers curling around Hoell's throat. Hoell struck to the stomach, felt his fist connect with all the response of punching a pillow. He tried to pull the arm off, Keyes' hand trying to rifle in his coat, Hoell trying to reach the revolver in his pocket even as purple swam in his vision. Then the pressure released and Hoell tumbled to the street. He heard the guttural roar of a bear, scrambled to his feet to see Savannah, face sclerotic with rage, gripping Keyes in a massive bear-hug. The ghost boy squealed like a wounded rabbit, thrashed impotently.
  "Go!" Savannah shouted. Hoell turned and fled, leaving falsetto shrieks bouncing off the empty canyon walls in pursuit.



. . . . to be continued. . . . .