Drat! He’d forgotten to pay special attention to the initial feel of being dead. Then he realized it was not too late, for looking over his shoulder he discovered his body was still in the process of settling to the ground. It was as though “he” had simply walked on while “his body” had stopped its forward movement and slowly begun to crumple.
Freedom was the word that popped up first regarding his temporary state, yet that single word fell just short of perfect. Mr. Wodenhaus searched for an appropriate analogy and conjured up a somewhat too vivid picture of a snake slithering out of its skin — then discarded it for the more pleasant image of a butterfly, flitting with capricious abandon from its cocoon. Ah, yes. A butterfly. That was much more to his taste. A yellow butterfly.
Mr. Wodenhaus continued to regard his body, which was still involved in its slow-motion slump. It lent a certain graceful symmetry to his angular frame. Mr. Wodenhaus smiled, seeing himself through new eyes and liking what he saw. Death wasn’t so bad. It smoothed the creases, rounded the edges, eased the pace—
For just a moment, something scratched at a door in the back of his mind, something cold and ghoulish. Mr. Wodenhaus tightened his lips and bolted the door firmly shut.
Mr. Wodenhaus looked around at the world he would inhabit for the next twenty-four hours. Right off, he could detect no major changes. The trees were still trees, their budding branches at rest now in the absence of the earlier breeze. The path continued on its winding way through the park. The crickets — wait a minute, what had happened to the crickets? Only moments before, the night air had been filled with their raspy songs. In fact, their chirring was not the only sound Mr. Wodenhaus now realized was missing. He no longer heard the muted rumble of the evening traffic over on Fifty-fourth Street... nor the soft strands of guitar music coming from the young man seated on a bench farther back along the path... nor the occasional twitter of an awakened bird... nor a dog barking... nor... big deal. Noise could be so distracting to one’s peace of mind — yes! yes, of course — that was it! Peace. Quiet. That was part of death, wasn’t it? “The Silence of the Grave” and all that rot (uh, no pun intended). Something to enjoy. For twenty-four hours.
Mr. Wodenhaus glanced over his shoulder once more, only to be a bit disconcerted now by the sight. His body seemed suspended... immobile... one knee slightly bent, the foot turned sideways and pointed inward ... an arm just beginning to act upon orders from the brain to prepare for an impending fall... head tilted back, eyes staring... staring... dead eyes... dead, dead eyes...
Should be closed, thought Mr. Wodenhaus, repressing an involuntary shudder, zeroing in on a point he could deal with and, for the moment at least, disavowing knowledge of the cold thing tapping on the door in the back of his mind.
Resolutely Mr. Wodenhaus approached the body, intent only on closing the gaping, sightless eyes. He pressed thumb and forefinger to the lids — and immediately recoiled. There was no sense of touch. He put his hand out toward, then through his body.
Mr. Wodenhaus walked through his body.
He did it again.
He went over to a tree and mimicked the act.
He waved his arm through a bush.
He scooped his hand through the ground.
But Mr. Wodenhaus could not close his body’s eyes; and for some reason, at the moment, this was the only thing Mr. Wodenhaus really wanted to do.
Mr. Wodenhaus shrugged. Apparently certain norms were in effect here, just as in the real world. There were a million things one could do, and a million things one couldn’t. Just different things. Adjustments could be made and Mr. Wodenhaus would make them. After all... it was only for twenty-four hours.
The best thing to do, decided Mr. Wodenhaus, was to branch out a bit and see what other new accomplishments he had acquired. This was going to be fun. Mr. Wodenhaus chuckled merrily. It was like being invisible. Who hadn’t pondered the possibilities of such a state? He headed toward Fifty-fourth Street. First a little snack, then — wait a minute ... he couldn’t eat!
Never mind, never mind. He didn’t need to eat. He was dead — temporarily dead, he amended — and there were infinite... uh, lots of other things to do. Mr. Wodenhaus’s agile mind flicked over a wide range of activities: from such trivialities as playing fiendish tricks on some of his cronies to more serious endeavors such as altering bank records and property titles. But how was he to do any of those things when his fingers wouldn’t hold a pen?... when his hands passed through solid objects?... when he had no substance, no effect, no—
Stop it! This would not do. It would not do at all! There was no real problem. Maybe it wasn’t turning out so well after all, but it would soon be over. Nothing could go wrong, the Wish Peddler had assured him of that; and besides, it was all neatly spelled out in his contract. Mr. Wodenhaus patted his pocket. Right there in the fine print just above the line where he’d signed his name (in blood, of all things, but the Wish Peddler had been a stickler on this point, no pun intended). Mr. Wodenhaus always read fine print, particularly read fine print, so he knew that in exactly the specified time his contract would become null and void — without exception!
Mr. Wodenhaus was ashamed of himself. His twenty-four hours was just beginning and here he was already allowing emotionalism to replace logic. He’d never done so in life, why should he in death? Temporary death, he quickly amended. He must simply get his thoughts in order, adjust his thinking. Mr. Wodenhaus resumed walking. So what if taste and sound and touch were denied him during his tenure here. He could see, couldn’t he? And there was so much to see.
Oof! Mr. Wodenhaus staggered backward. He’d walked into something solid. He didn’t see anything — Mr. Wodenhaus put out a tentative hand — but there was something in his way. He moved his hand up and down, left and right. There was an invisible barrier of some sort. Mr. Wodenhaus drew back his hand. He glanced around him, looked above him, suddenly recalling one of those “venerable prophecies” — something about restless spirits doomed to spend eternity within the spatial limits of their earthly passing. Could this barrier possibly extend—
Something cold started pounding on the back door in Mr. Wodenhaus’s mind. It was the ghoul. It wanted out. It had something to tell him.
No no, not now, thank you. Not now. Don’t want to know now, thank you very much. Not now...
Mr. Wodenhaus moved back from the barrier. He didn’t look at his body again. He sat down on the ground instead, his back toward it. He couldn’t feel the ground, but that didn’t matter. He had to make plans. There were other things he could do, he was sure of it. Mr. Wodenhaus glanced at his wristwatch. Eight P.M. on the dot. He must not waste any of his precious time. After all, he only had twenty-four hours...