Ghost Story

by Peter Straub

She read my face and said, “I’m not in it myself. I just know them.” “What is the name of the order?” “X.X.X.” “But—” I leaned forward, scarcely believing that I had heard correctly. “It can’t be X.X.X.? Xala . . .” “Xala Xalior Xlati.” I felt disbelief, shock; I felt a surprised fear, looking at her beautiful face. X.X.X. was more than a group of California screwballs dressing themselves in robes; they were frightening. They were known to be cruel, even savage; they’d had some minor connection with the Manson family, and that was the only reason I had read about them. After the Manson affair they were supposed to have gone elsewhere—to Mexico, I thought. Were they still in California? From what I had read, Alma would have been better off knowing button men in the Mafia: from the Mafia you would expect the motives, rational or not, of our phase of capitalism. The X.X.X. was raw material for nightmares.