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I say, “Did you hear that?”

“No. What?”

“I don’t know. Let’s get behind some cover.”

There’s a wrecked armoire leaning against a palm tree nearby. We get behind them.

The street is dim, lit only by the couple of functioning streetlights.

Halfway down the block, a glowing pinpoint spins in the air. Soon it becomes a spectral rip that hovers just above the street. The rip expands, turning bright and hot, running down onto the pavement like molten glass. When the rip has dilated to the width of a bus, Little Cairo’s dead explode out in a mad, furious rush.

There are a lot of different kinds of ghosts. Some are hard to tell from regular people until they pull their heads off or vomit maggots all over you. If those things happen you know you’re dealing with a ghost—or possibly a parole officer. Anyway, these ghosts aren’t the subtle kind. They’re the kind that are dead and know it, barely here at all. Very pale and a little transparent, like people-shaped fog. But don’t let that fool you. These see-through fucks have destroyed a dozen streets and emptied a whole neighborhood. Don’t waste your pity on them. Save it for the poor assholes who are going to come home and find their secret porn stashes thrown all over the house. Then hubby or wifey gets to explain to the other what pony play is.

I throw a glamour on Candy and me. It makes us fuzzy and indistinct, kind of like the foggy ghosts. We follow the running horde to the edge of Little Cairo, where they slam headfirst into the wards. Some linger, clawing and gnawing at the barrier, while others run through the streets to continue wrecking the place.

Two even stranger things happen. We both notice an odd rhythmic murmuring coming from the direction of the spooks. Neither one of us can figure out what it is until Candy says, “It’s singing.”

I stare at the ghosts. None of their mouths are moving.

“It’s not them, but there’s definitely a sound coming from somewhere.”

The other strange thing is even stranger.

One of the last ghosts is a tall black woman in seventies Stevie Nicks drag. Long flowing faux-Gypsy dress and beads. As she exits the spectral rip, she casually raises her hand in the air. Stars are visible above the dim streets. As her hand rakes over them they tremble, like I’m looking at the stars reflected in water.

I say to Candy, “Did you just see that?”

“Yes. What the hell was it?”

“I don’t know.”

I put a hand up to tell Candy to stay put and creep out into the street.

“Stark!” she whispers.

I look back and put a finger to my lips to quiet her. With my head down, I trot slowly to the edge of the spook parade. The glamour must be working because they don’t do anything.

The ghosts who left the barrier spread out across Little Cairo, disappearing through walls and shattered windows. In no time, the street is full of the sounds of things breaking, being pulled off walls and out of closets and systematically destroyed. One house at the end of the block is just about gone. Doors off. Windows ripped out. Part of the roof collapsed. It doesn’t look to me like there’s much left to destroy there and the spooks seem to agree. Instead of going inside, a few of them get together and flip a Prius sitting in the driveway. These fuckers are stronger than I expected.

Candy creeps up beside me and holds on to my arm. Together, we follow several ghosts to different houses. It looks like she was right: one or two spooks run inside the house and tear the place apart—but selectively. Heading straight for bloodstained photos, paintings, small things on bedside tables, but leaving most of the other furniture alone.

“See? I told you,” Candy says.

I nod and put up my hand again for her to be quiet.

When I look back, there’s one lone ghost in the middle of the street by himself. He’s short but handsome. Like Tom Cruise good-looking. He doesn’t run like a maniac, just stands there trembling like he’s cold or having some kind of seizure. A minute later he stumbles forward right under a streetlight and I get a good look at him.

“Holy shit. I know that guy.”

“Is he a friend?”

“I mean, I don’t know him know him, but I know who he is. He’s Christopher Stein. An actor in the fifties and sixties. Mostly did B movies, but he was in a couple of big ones at the end. He was being groomed for the big time, but something happened and he dropped off the map.”

“This is a hell of a place for a matinee idol to end up.”

“He looks lost. Like he’s not sure where he is.”

“I don’t know,” says Candy. “That shaking could mean there’s something wrong with him, but it could also just be rage. I’ve seen Jades get paralyzed like that before they change.”