The Everlasting by Tim Lebbon Read Free Book Online

closing his eyes, uttering those strange words.
    The street scene was completely normal, but that was beyond the garden. It could have been a whole world and thirty years away. Scott closed his eyes and, as that long-ago scene played out in his memory, he matched the words and tune Papa had uttered word for word. It felt strange, twisting his lips and tongue and throat in strange shapes, making it feel as though he had something in his mouth, something alien that did not belong there, but which he himself had deigned to swallow.
    He opened his eyes. And screamed.
    The garden was full of dead people.
    Helen shouted something, came at him with hands held out and eyes wide, but for those first few moments Scott could not hear her. Perhaps in her terror at his sudden cry she could not form words. That, or the blood pounding in his ears had stolen his hearing.
    It was still his front garden. He recognized the plant pots in the shape of Wellington boots, the inexpertly trimmed bushes, and the gate with one broken hinge. And beyond the garden the world was still there; Mrs. Hacker was in the distance now, and Scott could still see her casually wild brunette hair farther along the street, and neighbors’ cars sloping into and out of the gutter.
    But standing in the garden were monochrome images of people he had never known, and none of them were alive. He would have known that even if it were not for the evidence of their deaths: fractured skulls, ruptured chests, pale, drawn faces still twisted with the pain of their final moments. A few of them looked almost serene, but their eyes always bore the truth. These ghosts were haunted.
    None of them were completely motionless. A few wavered in his sight, as though distorted by heat haze. One or two swayed where they stood, like drunks at the end of a long, dark night of obsession and addiction.
    Others were moving slowly toward the house.
    Scott gasped and tried to scream again, but his throat had dried and it came out as a pained rasp. Helen grabbed him and he jumped, pulling away from her and searching her eyes for life. He found it and gave in to her hug. She pulled him close, squeezed tight, and her body warmth was welcome.
    â€œWhat is it?” she asked, still a whisper.
    Scott could barely shift his gaze from the garden. They were all looking at him.
    â€œScott?” Louder this time, as though his shock were fading.
    â€œIn the garden,” he said, though that explained nothing. He tried to pull away, but Helen had him tight. “In the garden!”
    â€œThere’s nothing there,” she said.
    One of them—an old woman—had raised her hand, leaning forward for support as she took hesitant steps across the lawn. She wore a shawl that should have been multicolored, but death had grayed it. A young man was one of those shimmering in Scott’s vision, features uncertain, leather clothing catching a weakened dusk, the wound on the side of his head obvious even through distortion. His eyes were wide: terrified or angry.
    â€œDead people,” Scott said. “Ghosts.” But these were nothing like the time he had seen Lewis days after Papa’s death. He had been solid, tactile,
there
. “Wraiths,” he said, and that seemed to suit better.
    â€œThere’s nothing out there, babe.”
    Scott closed his eyes for a few seconds, hoping he could refresh his vision. When he opened them again something had changed, and it took him a few seconds to make out what: that shimmering, heat-haze effect had transferred to a few more of the wraiths.
    He shut his eyes again, fighting every second to keep them closed against the idea that the wraiths were advancing, using his momentary lack of vision to close in on the house and Helen and him, and perhaps while he was not looking their bearing would change, anger overcoming lethargy, and violence born of anger—
    Helen tried to pull him out of the living room, and he looked again. They were