The Reluctant Shaman and Other Fantastic Tales

"It would, only this burglar wasn't sentenced for murdering me. He killed one of his fellow-felons."

"I could have this house torn down," Conroy said thoughtfully.

"Deary me," said Phony. "You wouldn't do that, sir?"

"If I couldn't stop the haunting otherwise."

"But it wouldn't do any good. All the other houses in the block are built to the same plan as this. Practically speaking they are the same as this. So we'd have to haunt one of the others."

"You could tear down all the houses in the block," Kalesky said.

"Ow! Do you know what it costs to build, with crooked contractors and lazy workmen?" Conroy moaned. "It would ruin me! They're practically new, too; only twenty years old."

"I see your point of view, sir," said the ghost. "I wish I could help—"

"You can," broke in Ekstrom. "All we have to do is merge you with Bogus. The combined ghost would be a fine, well-balanced character who wouldn't give any trouble."

"What, merge me with that uncouth buffoon?" shrieked Phony, fluttering his transparent hands. "Horrors! A thousand times no!"

"Aw, come on!" wheedled Kalesky. "It won't be so bad."

"You want to do the right thing, don't you?" said Conroy.

"Trust me to know best, old chap," said Ekstrom.

After a prolonged argument, the ghost gave in. "Hurry and get the horrid business over with," it wailed. "To think of my being submerged in that crass boor whom I despise!"

Ekstrom got to work with his flashlight, and soon had Phony stiff and stark like his twin. Then the psychiatrist said:

"You and Bogus are really parts of the same man. You must merge yourself with him. Each of you has virtues that the other lacks. You're only half a ghost as you are. Phony, go merge yourself with Bogus, to make a complete Melvin Pye."

Phony drifted dreamily over to where his double sprawled. He moved into the same position in the same place, whereupon there was but one ghost to be seen.

"Wake up, Melvin Pye!" cried Ekstrom.

The ghost of Melvin Pye awoke.

"Say, that's quite a trick, Doctor Ekstrom," he said, with a grin. "I remember everything that either of my former selves did."

The ghost stood up. He seemed a little larger and more substantial than either of his former components.

"Ha," he said. "Wish I'd been this way before. No telling what I'd have accomplished."

This was neither Melvin Pye, the mama's boy, nor Melvin Pye, the irresponsible roughneck. It was Melvin Pye the Man of Destiny.

"But I can still accomplish a thing or two. You! You're that tightwad landlord, aren't you?"

"I—" began Conroy.

"Shut up! You know I can empty your houses just like that, don't you?"

"I—"

"Shut up! From now on you'll do as I say."

"I'll get the swami—"

The ghost scowled.

"Shut up! I know enough about Giuseppe. He won't dare bother me. First, you've been letting these houses run down disgracefully. You'll have three oil burners, two stoves, six refrigerators, and four plumbing systems in this block fixed, and no slipshod job either!"

"But—"

"Will you do as I say, or must I get tough?" snarled the ghost.

"Okay. But I—"

"Shut up! Then there's that tenant who used to live here, Rigoulot. He lost his job. You'll give him one."

"But I don't need a full-time draftsman!"

"Shut up! Then there's that Miss Winston who comes around to. cook dinner for you. She loves you, God knows why. Marry her."

"What?"

"You heard me! No excuses, unless you want to have to tear down all your houses. I'll be back tomorrow, to see how you're doing. I'll have thought of some more tasks by then. Good night, gentlemen." The ghost bowed briskly to Kalesky and Ekstrom, and vanished.

After a few seconds of silence, Ekstrom spoke.

"A very interesting experiment, gentlemen. The final result wasn't quite what I anticipated. I thought the united Pye would combine the timidity of Phony with the stupidity of Bogus and be easy to handle. Instead he combined the intelligence and moral fervor of Phony with the aggressive belligerence of Bogus. So you'll have to play ball with him, old man—ha-ha—unless you want to lose your houses."

Conroy made a choked sound. Ekstrom got up and looked at his watch.

"Ho-hum! I can just make the train back to town. A most interesting evening, gentlemen. I wish I dared write it up for the journals. Conroy, old fellow, where shall I send my bill? Your office—why, what are you looking at me like that for? You can't threaten me! Don't you dare touch me, Conroy! Kalesky, stop him! Help! Ouch!"

Seconds later, a tall, silver-haired man sprinted along the dark streets, while after him pounded, with clutching hand and bloodshot eye, the blocky figure of George Conroy. Ekstrom ran faster than Conroy—or the suburb would have had on its hands another ghost, doomed to haunt the site of its murder until suitably avenged.