Chapter 9

It was a downright spooky town, Blake decided, folding up his map and stuffing it into the pocket of his too-large navy blue jacket. Really spooky.

Of course, he knew that was the whole intention of Lavender Town, but it still didn't shake the feeling that his mortal soul was going to be sucked out of his body just by looking at a tombstone wrong. All over the place psychics with flowing white hair had set up little booths or mats selling macabre souvenirs for the tourists—not that there were any. Some of these included headless Pokemon dolls, a photograph of the legendary Pokemon Tower with silvery words penned below—"It's To Die For!"—and what looked terribly like dried blood in glass phials.

Yep, he thought. This place is just weird.

Pulling his backpack on a little tighter, Blake began the long trek over to the Pokemon Center. Most places had their Centers very near to the wild pathways where trainers would be coming from long, hard hikes. Not Lavender Town. Their Center was shoved way in the back, a bit in front of the haunting tower that jutted up from the north like a death spike. It also looked pretty run-down and desolate.

Blake walked by an old, abandoned well and happened to glance in. he caught his reflection in a brown wooden bucket and paused. Jesus, he thought, when did I get so pale? His normally fair skin was parchment-white—probably from staying indoors so freaking much, he berated—and his strange, silver-shot black hair was disheveled and dark, which only served to set off his countenance even more. It didn't help that his eyes were two black pools of lightless, colorless depth. Dismally, Blake wondered if he fit right in at Lavender Town.

Unfortunately, he didn't get a chance to pursue that thought much further, for a bony white hand fell upon his shoulder, and before he could even exclaim in shock he was whirled around to face rolling eyes and sheet-white flowing hair. The woman appeared to be in her eighties or so—and also appeared to be having an epileptic fit.

Blake froze. For a faltering second he was afraid his voice would fail him. And then it unstuck, and he was shouting for help, waving his free arm to catch someone's attention.

"This woman's in trouble!" he shouted, gasping as she leaned her weight upon him suddenly, clutching fearfully to his shirtfront. She hardly weighed anything at all, but had taken him by surprise, and his knees buckled. He tipped back against the well and felt his tailbone collide with the stone. Stars exploded in his vision, and he wondered somewhere in the back of his head how large the bruise would be.

That little back-burner in his mind was indeed a strange phenomenon—he could be in the most dire, upsetting, terrifying situation, and while 98 of his conscious mind would be focused on daunting at the task at hand or the danger before him, pulsing beta waves and preparing for fight or flight, the other 2 or so percent would be calmly wondering what he'd have for breakfast the next day if he lived through the ordeal.

Right now, Back Burner Blake was wondering vaguely if all the psychics wore their hair ash-white and hip-length, if they actually held "creepy psychic" meetings and discussed what kind of morbid fortunes to tell people. He wondered if they ever changed their accepted hair policy, maybe rotated it monthly and decided to stylize themselves in hot pink Mohawks, just to shake things up a bit.

Irritated at his irrational train of thought, Blake pushed the woman up to stand on her feet, partly because he wanted her to get a grip on herself, and partly because he was worried about tipping backwards into the well. The woman still seemed to be seizing, and then, all at once, she stood straight and tall. Blake cringed, peering at her out of the corner of his eye.

The woman's wrinkled finger lifted to point at him. What she said next he would always remember, and often look back on with a shudder. It sent a jolt of shock and utter dread through him, in spite of how much he tried to convince himself that he didn't believe in psychics.

"Death," she shrieked. "The mark of Death is all over you, child! I see Death in your eyes; I see Death beneath your skin! You will see Death wherever you go, in your family, in your friends—in everything you love! Beware, child!"

And suddenly, "Gastly!"

The woman threw a pokeball at the ground. The button triggered, and red lasers outlined an incandescent, shapeless blob. A moment later Blake's eyes had adjusted, and there was a Ghost type Pokemon, a hazy black orb the color of Blake's eyes with a wide, blood-red mouth with white fangs and an even hazier aura of white fog misting around and through it.

Shocked, Blake reached for the pokeball at his waist. "Doduo!" he called, jabbing the button once with his thumb to enlarge the device, and again to release the Pokemon within.

Doduo cocked its heads up and regarded Blake questioningly as he was backing up from the woman and her Pokemon, circling around the well to stand as far from her as he could. He knew that he was now in a Pokemon battle—but he wasn't sure what kind of battle this would be. The woman didn't seem all that sane… and he wasn't sure if she really wanted to fight him, or if she was merely bringing out her Pokemon randomly to show off or just because she felt like it.

Back Burner Blake mildly wondered if she would dance the Cha Cha if she felt like it.

The woman seemed to go lax all at once, and, against his better judgment, Blake shot forward and caught her before her head cracked against the stone ledge. Stumbling under her weight and falling, he took the brunt of the slip and grunted as his palm split open on a rock. He also seemed to have been biting his lip, because the sudden impact caused his tooth to split through it. A blossom of blood curled into his mouth, and as he swallowed it down reflexively he wondered if it would become a canker sore.

The woman blinked mildly and looked around, seeming bewildered. She caught sight of Blake then, and exclaimed.

"Oh, dearie, I'm so sorry! Did I startle you?" she pulled herself up and helped him up as well—or, grabbed his arm while he pulled himself up. Blake didn't think she looked strong enough to lift his backpack, let alone him. He frowned and regarded her warily.

"Are you okay now?" he asked, unsure what else to say.

"Oh, yes, dearie. It only happens sometimes, when I come across someone with a very strong destiny." Blake opened his mouth to tell her exactly what she'd said to him—and maybe ask for an explanation—but she cut him off with a sharp sound and a hand in the air. "No, no! Dearie, you must never tell me what I say when I am under the influence of a spirit! It is for the better, dearie… it keeps my mind's eye unclouded. Now, I must be on my way… I am terribly sorry if I startled you or caused you distress…"

Blake blinked, and she was already twenty or so paces away. Wow, he marveled. For an old coot, she can book it.

Yet he was still mildly—no, incredibly disturbed. Shaking the dirt out of his jeans and returning Doduo to its pokeball, he meandered the rest of the way to the Pokemon Center to heal his team and get himself some gauze for his split lip.