So it was with Archie. He had paused only briefly before scaling the fence that walled off the cemetery from the street. It was two in the morning, a time that downtown was devoid of tourists and safe to attempt a quick snatch and grab. Having worked the same location on several previous occasions, there was no reason to suppose anything would go wrong. This time something had. A concerned citizen objected to him absconding with the loose change.

A citizen who happened to be very dead.

There was nothing dormant about the deceased’s outrage, however. As a frantic Archie scooped up the last of the scattered coins, sending pennies and nickels bouncing and rolling across surrounding gravestones, a rapidly expanding humanoid shape writhed and coiled itself right up out of the grave that lay beneath the last forlorn dime. Ashen and angry, heavily bearded and clad in the tattered clothes of a bygone age, it howled curses in English and screams in banshee as it chased a terrified Archie back over the fence. Which is to say that Archie went over the fence. His pallid pursuer went right through it, shades of the dead being able to pass through solid objects with little difficulty.

In contrast to its ghostly owner, the heavy cane the angry specter swung at Archie possessed a disconcerting solidity. Descending in a potentially lethal arc, it connected painfully with his right shoulder and nearly brought him to the ground as he continued shoving the purloined coins deeper into his pockets. For the life of him Archie could not imagine what he had done to provoke the horrific response from the usually indifferent earth. Why now, why on this night, had one of the long-buried chosen to rise up and come after him? What aspect of his early morning theft had transpired differently?

None of that would matter if the phantasm, or boogeyman, or ghost, or whatever kind of horror it was that was hot on his heels, actually caught up with him. His throbbing shoulder was testament to that. If that flailing spectral club came down on his head . . .

A sensible person might have considered giving up the money. But a sensible person did not filch coins from national monuments in the middle of a chill November night. Archie needed to live, yes, but in order to live he needed to drink. He needed to drink more than he needed to eat. He hung onto the pocketful of coins and kept running.

Not many people chose to stroll the streets of downtown Philadelphia at two in the morning. Those who did and happened to encounter the hysterical Archie saw a young man older than his years, unkempt and cheaply clad, running pell-mell down Church Street toward the river while constantly looking back over his shoulders. Presuming him to be afflicted by some possibly dangerous variant of the DTs, the other nocturnal walkers understandably gave him a wide berth.

“Give me back me money, y’no-good thief! I’ll break yer bones, I swan I will!’’ Cane held high, the outline of the ethereal specter feathered slightly as it rounded a corner before collecting itself once more.

Not in the best of health to begin with, Archie raced on. In the absence of wind, muscle tone, or conditioning, he could only rely on fear to give strength to his pounding legs. Now even that was beginning to fade.

A light gleamed just ahead, the warm inviting glow of a bar, open even at this hour. Another time Archie might have wondered why any bar stayed open so late. Now he saw only a potential refuge from the cold, forbidding streets and the inexorable wraith that was steadily closing the distance between them. But even if he ducked inside, what was there to prevent his pursuer from following? He would find himself cornered. Worse, any barkeep working at this inhospitable hour would be in no mood to give shelter to an obvious drunk. He had to make a decision fast: run on past or go inside?

The figure standing just outside the doorway settled the matter for him. Puffing away on a fat cigar, the smoker’s attention was understandably drawn to the fleeing Archie. Sizing up the situation, the portly figure straightened. His voice was somewhat grating and his words oddly drawn out, but it was their content rather than their context that persuaded Archie.

“Over here, boy! Get in behind me!’’

Archie did not have to be told twice. Completely out of breath as well as options, he stumbled to a halt behind the hefty figure and tried to shrink himself into invisibility. In the event of catastrophe he could still try hiding inside the open bar.

Confronted by this unanticipated interposition, the ghostly figure of Archie’s pursuer slowed to a halt, his cane still held threateningly high in one half-skeletal fist.

“What manner of interference is this?’’ he hissed. “This be no business of yours, sor, and I’ll thank ye t’mind yer own business and stand aside so that justice may be done in this matter!’’

“All in good time, my good man, all in good time.’’ The cigar migrated from one corner of the smoker’s mouth to the other. He glanced briefly back down at the malnourished youth cowering behind him. “Now then, what’s this pitiful young man done to merit such blatant hostility? Not that I’ve any inherent objection to the deliverance of a good beating, but there ought to be cause.’’

“Cause?’’ Grimacing, the hovering shade revealed ragged, broken teeth, the consequence of some hundred plus years of slow disintegration. “ ’Tis cause ye want, is it?’’ Lowering the cane, he angrily shook the tip in the direction of the cowering Archie. “Stole money that were given t’me by the good people of this city, he did! Helped himself to it without so much as a by-your-leave!’’

Again, the stout smoker looked back at the younger man trembling behind him. “Is what this memory of a man says true, m’boy?’’

Archie hesitated, then found himself nodding miserably. “Yes—yes, I took some coins. I’ve been doing it for a long time and nothing ever happened, ever!’’ He peered out from behind his protector. “I don’t know what I did different.’’

Adjusting the high hat he wore, his sapient shielder nodded sagely. “Well then, m’boy, just give this decrepit dozer his money back and be done with it, yehz? If it’s just food that you need, or shelter . . .’’

Abandoning himself to confession, Archie did something remarkable. He told the truth. “I can’t—I can’t do that, sir. I—you see, I haven’t had a drink in days.’’ He licked his lips to emphasize his discomfort. “I’ve got the shakes real bad, and I just—I can’t.’’

His protector’s eyes widened slightly. “A drink is it you need? Ah, yehz. Why, that changes everything.’’ He turned back to the floating, and increasingly impatient, eidolon. “Have you no sympathy for the lad, then, my good man? Have you no understanding, no compassion? Why, what we are confronted with here is nothing less than a crisis of the human spirit! Why, not to assist the lad would be to deny the very essence of his humanity, yehz!’’

The cane threatened. “I want the money he took off me grave!’’

“Is it not better to . . .’’ The smoker paused. “Wait just a moment now. Off your grave, you say?’’ He looked back at the wretched figure crouched down behind him. “M’boy, did you plot to steal coins off this man’s plot?’’

“I always take money off Franklin’s grave,’’ Archie protested reluctantly. “It’s mostly pennies, which are supposed to bring the thrower luck, but not everybody knows that. Lots of times they throw dimes and nickels, and sometimes quarters.’’ His expression brightened ever so slightly. “Sometimes you can scrape together enough for a bottle!’’

His interlocutor nodded understandingly, then raised a hand and pointed at the waiting wraith. “I ask you now, m’boy: does this desiccated rag of suppurating, degraded flesh in any way resemble the noble Franklin?’’

“Hey, just a minute now . . .’’ the apparition began angrily.

Peering out from behind one of the older man’s legs, Archie regarded his pursuer hesitantly. “Uh, no. No, he doesn’t.’’

The cane shook violently in their direction. “My name is Thaddeus James Walker, you young fool! Mayhap old Franklin doesn’t care about the coins that the credulous fling onto his gravestone, but I care about the ones that come my way. You’ve no right to take them!’’

“Ah yehz,’’ Archie’s savior muttered under his breath, “Saving for a glorious spending spree in the hereafter, are we? Planning to open an account at the Philadelphia Savings and Loan for the Long Demised?’’

“Well . . .’’ The drifting phantom looked suddenly confused. “That be beside the point. Theft is theft!’’

“Yehz, yehz, I do not question your overall analysis of the situation, my friend. But can you not make an exception for this poor lad you see shivering behind me, of whom I suspect he is about to pee in his pants? Take it from one who knows, sir, his need is dire as it is true. Can you not leave him free to indulge himself this one night? You have my personal assurance the offense shall not be repeated.’’

The flickering, cane-wielding shadow hesitated. Then he lowered his weapon. “Well—all right. But just this one time.’’ He shook the heavy stick in Archie’s direction and Archie flinched, drawing back behind his protector. “I’ll do it on your word, William. But only this one time. If I ever see him stealing from me again I’ll cave his skull in. You can be assured of that!’’

Having delivered those final words of warning, the shade of the long-dead and much desiccated Thaddeus James Walker whirled about and did not so much stride off into the darkness as evaporate into the night.

Shaking as much from need as fear, Archie slowly straightened. “I—I don’t know how to thank you, sir! I—was that a real ghost?’’

An arm swung around Archie’s shoulder as his new friend guided him toward the beckoning doorway. “What’s real and what’s imaginary, m’boy, often stumble across one another in a burg as old as this. As for thanking me, why, you can buy me a drink. Have your illegitimate nocturnal perambulations garnered you enough for that?’’

Archie licked his lips. All he had were the coins he had managed to scrabble together. But—he owed this man his life. “I’ll make sure there’s enough.’’

“Excellent—yehz!’’

They entered the bar. Though well-lit, it was deserted and silent save for the clink of glasses as the bartender cleaned and stacked. He eyed Archie briefly, then smiled at the older man, who was obviously a regular.

“What’ll it be tonight, Bill?’’

“Something celebratory, yehz, to wish this young man well. Whiskey, as good as you can muster. In other words, dispensed from a bottle with a label.’’ Beaming behind a bulbous nose that Archie could now see was rosy as the blush on a Catholic high school girl’s cheeks, the man set his cigar aside. “And you, m’boy—what’ll you have to celebrate your survival to drink another day?’’

“Whiskey also. Straight up.’’ Digging into a pocket of his worn jeans, Archie pulled out a handful of coins and dumped them on the counter. The alert bartender kept any from fleeing.

There were a lot of quarters this time, and by the tail end of the third shot Archie felt comfortable enough with his savior to put an arm around him. Luckily he was by now too tired and too drunk to freak when instead of being halted by the expected bone and muscle his lowering arm passed completely through his new friend to emerge in the vicinity of his portly but decidedly insubstantial waist. Archie was not so inebriated that his eyes failed to widen slightly.

“Ah, c’mon—c’mon now! Don’t go telling me you’re a gheest—a ghost, too?’’

Raising his half-full shot glass high, his savior offered a salute. “William Dukenfield’s the name, m’boy, and I can’t deny that I’m little more than a shade of my true self. How else d’you think I succeeded in deterring the homicidal shadow that pursed you? Takes one to persuade one, yehz.’’ He gestured at their surroundings. “This present existence is my blessing and my curse, you see, because it’s nothing less than the very one I repeatedly asked for when I dwelt among the living. It was just a recurrent joke then. Well, the joke’s been on me ever since, yehz, but to its credit I have to confess it’s not been a bad one.’’ He downed the remaining contents of the glass in a single swig.

“Another one, Bill?’’ the bartender asked quietly.

W. C. Dukenfield studied the counter. “Alas, my noble dispenser of aged and purified grains, I fear that our young visitor here has at last exhausted his night’s takings.’’

“This one’s on the house,’’ the bartender responded, smiling. He eyed Archie. “You too, son.’’

Wavering slightly, Archie started to respond instinctively, pushing his shot glass forward—and hesitated. “Two ghosts in one neat—in one night. Tha’s two too many. Maybe—maybe I ought to cut back a little, y’know? I mean, the next time it might not turn out so well for me, y’know?’’

“Ah, my boy,’’ Dukenfield declared brassily, “it would be a shame to lose you to that stolid whore sobriety. Conversely, you’re a bit too young to be following in such footsteps as mine. Take it from one who knows, you really might consider drying out for a bit. Get a life first, so to speak, and then decide at your leisure how much cleansing lubrication it really requires.’’

Archie stared at his empty shot glass for a few seconds, then released it and took a step back from the bar. “I—I’ll do it! I’ll go to the shelter tomorrow and sign up for counseling. I’ve been meaning to, for months. All I needed was a reason.’’ He shook his head, as if trying to return to reality. “Ghosts—two ghosts. No more for me. No more. I need to . . .’’ his eyes came up to meet those of his savior, “I need to get a life, yes.’’

“An occupation much overrated, in my opinion,’’ his spectral and slightly sloshed friend declared with conviction, “but then no one ever paid much attention to my opinion. Only to my jokes, yehz. Good luck to you then, m’boy, and if you should ever find yourself in the neighborhood again, be sure to drop by to share a tipple. You’re buying.’’ He turned away as the barkeep set a freshly filled shot glass down in front of him.

Suffused with unexpected resolve, Archie turned away. He needed no stiff-necked counselor to tell him that if he found himself being pursued by a ghost, much less spending a convivial evening with one, it was time to get off the bottle. His life hadn’t always been like this. He just needed something to kick-start conviction again. Something as elemental and convincing as being chased down dark streets by an angry ghost, and then finding himself sharing drinks with one.

At the door he paused to look back. “You said—you said that this existence was one that you asked for.’’ Raising a wavering but slowly steadying hand, he gestured at the interior of the establishment. It struck him then that the décor was—period. 30s or maybe 40s, he decided. “How does—how does one die and end up in a place like this? In a bar.’’

“A bar?’’ Taking a short slug from his freshly-filled glass, Archie’s rescuer focused beady but intense eyes on the younger man standing in the doorway. “Why, it’s not just the bar, m’boy! I roam where and when I please. Otherwise I’d not have known your intemperate pursuer. There are quite a lot of us in this town, you know. After a while one gets to know many of one’s own kind. Franklin now, he tends to keep to himself. Taking apart a computer, I understand. But on the right nights some of the rest of us often get together and have a little party, yehz.

“What happened to me, not that you need or deserve to know, was that for years people kept asking how I felt about death and dying, so in a little piece I wrote for Vanity Fair back in ’25 I declared, more or less, that on the whole, I’d rather be in Philadelphia. Yehz.” For a second time he raised his glass in salute.

“And do you know what? When I shuffled off this immoral mortal coil on Christmas Day back in ’46, I found myself not in heaven, not in hell, not even in Los Angeles, where they interred the sodden remains of yours truly. And it’s here I’ve been ever since. Good luck to you now, m’boy, and remember one thing always: keep well clear of children and dogs.’’

“I’ll do that, sir, and—thanks.’’

With that, Archie went out of the bar. But not into the Wilderness. And he was forever thereafter a happy man for never forgetting the advice.