Ghost Story by Jim Butcher Page A

what’s your purpose? Looking out after this loser?”
    â€œHey, I’m sitting right here ,” Mort complained.
    â€œI help other lost spirits,” Sir Stuart said. “Help them find some sort of resolution. Help teach them how to stay sane, if it is their destiny to become a mane. And if they become a lemur, I help introduce them to oblivion.”
    I turned to frown at Sir Stuart. “That’s . . . kinda cut-and-dried.”
    â€œSome things assuredly are,” he replied placidly.
    â€œSo you’re a mane, eh? Like the old Roman ancestral ghost?”
    â€œIt isn’t such a simple matter, Dresden. Your own White Council is a famous bunch of namers,” he said. “Their history is, I have heard, rooted in old Rome.”
    â€œYeah,” I said.
    He nodded. “And, like the Romans, they love to name and classify and outline facts to the smallest, permanently inflexible, set-in-stone detail. The truth, however, is that the world of remnant spirits is not easily cataloged or defined.” He shrugged. “I dwell in Chicago. I defend Mortimer’s home. I am what I am.”
    I grunted. After a few moments, I asked, “You teach new spirits?”
    â€œOf course.”
    â€œThen can I ask you some questions?”
    â€œBy all means.”
    Mort muttered, “Here we go.”
    â€œOkay,” I said. “I’m a ghost and all now. And I can go through just about anything—like I went through this car door to get inside.”
    â€œYes,” Sir Stuart said, a faint smile outlining his mouth.
    â€œSo how come my ass doesn’t go through the seat when I sit down on—”
    I was rudely interrupted by the tingling sensation of passing through solid matter, beginning at my butt and moving rapidly up my spine. Cold snow started slamming into my rear end, and I let out a yelp of pure surprise.
    Sir Stuart had evidently known what was coming. He reached over, grabbed me by the front of my leather duster, and unceremoniously dragged me back up into the car and sat me on the seat beside him, back in the passenger compartment. I clutched at the door handle and the seat in front of me for stability, only to have my hands go right through them. I pitched forward, spinning as if I were floating in water, and this time it was my face plunging toward the icy street.
    Sir Stuart hauled me back again and said, in a faintly annoyed tone, “Mortimer.”
    Mort didn’t say anything, but when I was once again sitting down, I didn’t fall right through the bottom of the car. He smirked at me in the rearview mirror.
    â€œYou don’t fall through the bottom of the car because on some deep, instinctual level, you regard it as a given of existence here,” Sir Stuart said. “You are entirely convinced that illusions such as gravity and solidity are real.”
    â€œThere is no spoon,” I said.
    Sir Stuart looked at me blankly.
    I sighed. “If I believe in an illusory reality so much, then how come I can walk through walls?” I asked.
    â€œBecause you are convinced, on the same level, that ghosts can do precisely that.”
    I felt my eyebrows trying to meet as I frowned. “So . . . you’re saying I don’t fall through the ground because I don’t think I should?”
    â€œSay instead that it is because you assume that you will not,” he replied. “Which is why, once you actively considered the notion, you did fall through the floor.”
    I shook my head slowly. “How do I keep from doing it again?”
    â€œMortimer is preventing it, for the time being. My advice to you is not to think about too much,” Sir Stuart said, his tone serious. “Just go about your business.”
    â€œYou can’t not think about something,” I said. “Quick, don’t think about a purple elephant. I dare you.”
    Sir Stuart let out a broad laugh, but stopped and clutched at his