I can’t believe how long it took me to realize what the ghosts in the “Ghost Road” were. I was pretty much trusting my subconscious to get me out of that one. And lo! It did.
I screamed, and drove the tricycle into the underbrush by the side of the road. For the third time. Wilkinson had only done it twice, but he didn’t look very eager to sneer at me. I swear, we had probably both sweated away five pounds apiece by now.
And anyone reading this would have done the exact same thing. Don’t believe me? Fine: what do you think of when you hear the words ‘Ghost Road?’ Ghosts, right? You can see through them, maybe they’re moaning, or got glowing eyes and chains; and they’re hovering there, being all spooky. Or maybe they’re reaching out to chill your bones and feed on your life force, because some ghosts can do that. But the thing is you’re imagining human ghosts — or elvish ones, sure. That’s what ghosts are, right?
No. Not on that God-damned road, they’re not. They’re giant blurs of light and sound that run roaring through you at, if you believe the few remaining signs on the sides, sixty or seventy miles an hour. It doesn’t matter that they’re intangible, because the monkey part of your brain doesn’t believe in ghosts. All it knows is that a monster just showed up; and since the monkey brain does believe in monsters, it does the smart thing, and makes you hide.
Hence, the underbrush. I glared at Ilbrin, who had politely paused his own tricycle to wait while we pulled ourselves out of the woods. “How do you do this?” I yelled.
“Practice,” Ilbrin said dryly.