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are you?” Memphis pivoted, staring directly at one of the ghosts, though it terrified him to do it. The creature’s opalescent eyes showed Memphis’s reflection.
“Mi… chael,” the ghost answered with considerable effort.
“Michael. You’re Michael,” Memphis repeated. The ghost’s eyes edged the slightest bit toward brown. The outline of a scar appeared across a faint chin.
“Michael Donelly. I died in the gutter, stabbed through, with no one to mourn me.”
The mood of the Forgotten shifted, as if it were a person at war with himself.
But then, one by one, they began to speak:
“My name was Josiah Stelter. I had a family, but they didn’t look for them, just buried me alone in this cold, hard ground, as if I were no man a’tall but an animal.…”
“Thomas Kincaid. I couldn’t give up the drink. Died in the inebriate house with my guts bleeding…”
“Old Bess, they calls me—and they calls me to midwife. Consumption put me here, in the refuge. Died there, too. But the babes I delivered, most grew up fine and strong.…”
“… My crime? ’Twas to be poor…”
“… Worked for that family till my fingers bled and what did it get me? Nuttin’ but…”
“… Erased…
“Erased…
“Erased…
“Erased…
“Erased…
“We have been erased, erased, erased…”
The ghosts were becoming much more distinct. A touch of bloom on a cold cheek. Wire spectacles perched at the end of a nose reddened by drink. Faces thinned by constant hunger. Skin bruised or pitted with smallpox scars.
Names filled the night:
“My name was Emily Cousins…”
“… Raphael Munoz…”
“… Anthony Esposito…”
“… Rebecca…
“… Charlotte…
“… Big Sal…”
“… They called me Silver Tongue, for I could charm any lady I fancied.…”
“… They called me No-Name, for I was stolen from my people.…”
“… Was was…
“… Was was…
“I am…
