Ghost Story

by Peter Straub

nobody can protect anybody else from vileness. Or from pain. All you can do is not let it break you in half and keep on going until you get to the other side.” “I know that’s true,” Peter said, “but it just seems so hard to do.” “You’re doing it right now. Coming here and talking to me is part of getting to the other side.

Don tucked the knife into his belt and experienced a wave of love for everything mortal, for everything with a brief definite life span—a tenderness for all that could give birth and would die, everything that could live, like these men, in sunshine. He knew it was only relief and adrenaline, but it was all the same a mystical, perhaps a sacred emotion. Dear Sears. Dear Lewis. Dear David. Dear John, unknown. And dear Ricky and Stella, and dear Peter too. Dear brothers, dear humankind. “For a guy whose car is turning into salt rust, you look awful happy,” the guard said. “Yes,” Don answered. “Yes, I am. Don’t ask me to explain it.”