Ghost Hand Read Online Free PDF Page A

head was bent, looking at something in his hand—a phone or an iPod maybe—so I couldn’t see his face. But I knew the moment I saw him that I didn’t know him. He wasn’t just a tall man in dark clothing taking a brisk stroll through a quiet rural town at night. He was a strange man.
    That in itself wasn’t so alarming. Out-of-towners did occasionally show up in Greenfield. Relatives. Tourists. People just passing through. This man didn’t look particularly threatening. He wasn’t even looking my way. But with every step he took, the buzzing of the blades grew sharper and louder and more insistent, as if they were trying to warn me of something.
    The Dark Man lifted his head, his face cast in shadows by the overhanging trees, but I felt the moment he noticed me. I felt myself become seen .
    He quickened his pace.
    And I knew he was coming for me.
    I threw my backpack over my shoulder. Thankfully, it didn’t zap me again. The blades wouldn’t shut up though, rattling at my back. I turned to the cemetery gates and pushed my ghost hand through the satin glove, straight into the rusty old padlock. It was a trick I’d used before to help kids open their lockers. My PSS pulsed against the metal workings inside the lock until it clicked and released.
    I fumbled to pull the lock off the chain, at the same time looking over my shoulder.
    He was halfway up the hill.
    The lock came loose in my hand, and I tugged at the hard loops of the chain, hoping for enough slack to make a gap in the gates I could fit through. One more tug and I slammed my shoulder against the right gate, turning my body sideways and jamming my knee against the left gate, widening the gap. I pressed myself between them, ducking my head under the chain, but I only made it halfway. I’d forgotten to factor in the backpack. It was stuck. I was stuck.
    I pushed, metal digging into me, not caring if the backpack tore or the blades spilled out. He was coming. I could hear him, the thud of his footfalls contending with the wild thumping of my heart. I pushed again, straps biting into my shoulders, and then the backpack gave way, slipping through the bars, and I was on the other side. Instinct screamed at me to run, but I didn’t. I forced myself to reach between the gates, slip the lock back on the chain, and snap it closed with a satisfying click. He wasn’t going to make it through that gap; he was way bigger than I was.
    If I took off down the narrow, paved road of the cemetery, I’d be out in the open. Instead, I scurried to the side where the gates were hinged into an old stone wall and ducked down, crouching behind a bush. The wall was massive, with tall shrubs and hedges growing so close to it that it was green and frilly with moss. But the cemetery caretaker, Mr. Jackson, worked very hard to make sure nothing grew directly against the wall to dig roots into old mortar and pull away stone. Because of this, there was a thin, dark gap, almost like a deer trail, running along the entire inside perimeter of the wall. I knew I could follow it all the way to the south gate because I’d done it just for fun when I was ten.
    I sat, huddled in the dark, the backpack still buzzing angrily between my shoulder blades. Would he be able to hear that from outside the gate? It wasn’t that loud. More like a sensation even, than a sound. It just felt loud to me because it was right against my back. Maybe he wasn’t even following me. Why would he? Why would anyone? When he’d looked up at me, I’d been so sure. But suddenly, it seemed ridiculous.
    If he walked past the gate, if he kept going, I’d know. Just a strange man out for an evening stroll. No reason to get freaked and go tearing through the cemetery. From where I was I couldn’t see much outside the gate, but I’d know if he tried to open it.
    I waited, the evening breeze brushing my face, the quick intake of my own breath punctuating the night.
    Suddenly two pale hands slipped through the gate,