Emera sat up in her bed, confusion on her face. Candace smiled at the little girl.
“Hi Candace.” Mr. Dietrich entered and placed a white plastic audio baby monitor transmitter on the dresser between the girls. “This is just something we have to do. Just in case. Okay?”
Just in case what, Candace couldn’t understand. She was already restrained. “Do you know when my caseworker is coming?”
Mrs. Dietrich cleared her throat to fill the silence as she constructed her lie. “I called today and asked. They’re terribly backed up, sweetie.”
Mr. Dietrich, his sparse brown hair beaded with sweat, gave Candace an earnest, even kind expression, and said, “You weren’t the only one who lost their parents in the parade, you know.”
Candace lay there, strapped to her bed, trapped with her confusion as Mrs. Dietrich sang a rote lullaby to Emera. The little one didn’t seem to grow any sleepier, only more confused.
The house parents said good night and left the room, leaving the scarred Casper the Friendly Ghost night light burning and the door half-open.
Candace turned her head to see Emera staring at her. “Are you okay Emenememema?”
Emera shook her head.
“Don’t worry about this,” Candace held up the restraints. “I won’t ever hurt you.”
Even after Candace’s rage episode, Emera seemed to know this. The little girl’s worry was for Candace, not herself.
Candace closed her eyes and tried to relax, or at least to convince Emera she had fallen asleep, so the little girl would do the same. In her mind, she went over the family room drama, wishing to go back in time and make everything different.
Through a blood red haze of fury, she watched the brisk trip down the hall, relived her gaze sweeping across the counter and landing on the butcher’s block. She saw the knife slide from its slot and gleam under the overhead light. She saw it swim like a shark back to the family room. She saw the panic in all the young eyes.
And when she tried to shoo the incident away, she saw a flash of her brother Everett; grinning and soaked in blood from the twisted bodies of her stiffening housemates.
Chapter 6
Dark Echoes
The long morning spent going over the visions of whiskey in his desk drawer made his sobriety seem like a brief interruption until the whiskey inevitably regained control.
All that crawling around under his desk, tossing it, righting it had worn him out. Left him thirsty.
When Stella left, it seemed like a good time to get outside and walk the church grounds a bit to take in some fresh air.
The second he stepped out a strange thought came to him; everything had radically changed since he’d last set eyes on it.
A good many graves had been added after the parade calamity, but that was a year past. It seemed like the additions numbered in the hundreds.
The trees dotting the landscape seemed out of place. The parking lot was like some uncharted desert island.
It was as if he was seeing his familiar place of work and worship for the first time in years.
…Centuries…
His feet took him around the rear, past the gymnasium and to the far side of the sanctuary’s exterior. They stopped him at a wooden enclosure that had been installed to house a lawnmower and other equipment for landscaping, which was done by local contractor Guillermo Trujillo these days.
McGlazer knew that the little plywood structure predated him. But he couldn’t shake the weird feeling it was new.
He found the key on his ring and opened the lightless shed. There was no lawn equipment these days; Guillermo brought his own. Mostly just a pile of mementos left by mourners. Stuffed animals, plastic flowers, etc. Not many; every few weeks, Guillermo took them for recycling.
On the wall hung some tools—hedge clippers, shovels, a mattock.
A crowbar.
McGlazer thought he was standing still and trying to figure out why he had this sudden interest in the shed, unaware that he was gathering up the discarded mementos to get them out of the way. The iron of the crowbar was just cold enough to make him realize what he was doing. He hesitated. “Why would I need this?” he asked aloud.
“Put it to use,” said a voice. “Against the floor timbers.”
…Floor timbers? Who called them that?
He blinked, and when he opened his eyes, the crowbar in his hand was a bottle of Jefferson Select; sparkling with the reflected rays of a spring sun.
McGlazer beheld the bottle and then the floor, which he now somehow understood was covering a massive stock of the golden elixir. He needed to get to it, to see it. And, maybe, keep one or two around. As props. For when he told the story of this weird day. That’s all.
He licked his lips and resolved to pulling up those “floor timbers” so he could get to the treasure waiting beneath. He stabbed the blade into a joint, forced it deep and started prying. The corners soon popped loose. The nail hit the wall with a mute ping. A familiar scent wafted from the blackness; a warm, pleasant, enticing scent.
McGlazer pried loose more nails along the crosspiece. With the first slab removed, he could easily enter. Just a few steps, and crate upon crate would lay open before him, liquid riches made to electrify and satisfy his craving.
He tossed the crowbar against the shed wall with an angry roar. “I’m not doing this again!”
Still, the thirst.
McGlazer dropped to his knees and threw his head back, stretching his clasped hands so high his shoulders burned. “God give me strength! Temptation is upon me like locusts, O Lord!” Even his words of prayer seemed chosen by someone else.
Before he could continue there came a reply. “You keep His holy name out of your filthy drunkard mouth!”
McGlazer shuddered at the familiar voice. Undercurrents of serpentine hiss and grave dirt musk lay over its tiny hint of humanity.
It was the voice of Ruth Treadwell.
Ragdoll Ruth.
But it was also the voice of a giant. It came from everywhere—except the just-opened cellar.
His gaze was drawn to the nearest grave, less than a couple of yards away. The grassy earth violently pulsed, as if preparing to vomit up its rotting contents.
A bass-filled impact shook the earth, like a ten-ton boulder falling somewhere just out of sight. Then another, the footsteps of a titan.
McGlazer’s gaze darted to the high corners of the church. He thought of the Night Mayor; the stilt-legged mascot of the Pumpkin Parade, whose oversized head and cartoon-insane eyes would appear above the roof tops of Main Street, always preceded by the same kind of amplified footfalls that now left his heart hammering, his throat arid and desiccated.
“I will carry you to hell myself…Reverend!” The last word dripped with gallons of disdain, like a sickening syrup strained from tumors.
McGlazer trembled, skin crawling—something like the feeling of DTs—at the thought of facing an incarnation of Ragdoll Ruth that held such immense power, the power to see her limitless hate satisfied.
From the blackness of the cellar the scent bloomed, not of decay or earth, but of sweet whiskey. “She won’t find you down there,” the inner voice told him. “Do as I say, and you’ll be safe.”
McGlazer knew it wasn’t the voice of God, but the next crashing footfall was ten times louder, twenty times closer. “You will burn in my hell!” raged the ragdoll colossus.
McGlazer squeaked and skittered into the musky mousehole to escape the hulking harpy.
* * * *
Frowning, Deputy Yoshida handed Hudson a cup of coffee before the chief deputy was barely through the station door. “…What?” Hudson asked. “Did you spit in it?”
“No.” Yoshida handed him a bulletin from the state patrol.
“Ah, hell.”
The memo contained frustratingly sparse deta
ils about the crashed prison transport that had carried Nico Rizzoli—now missing.
“Yep,” agreed Yoshida. “Took ’em a while to sort through all the body parts. But Rizzoli’s gone. He expressed a pretty extreme hatred for you on his way to the pen, I recall.”
“Me and every other black man, cop, and law-abiding citizen on planet Earth.” Hudson focused on the key words. “‘Wild animal attack’? ‘Torn to pieces’?”
“They’re saying Rizzoli was probably dragged away and eaten.” Yoshida jabbed the bulletin with his finger. “You believe that?”
“Hell no.”
“Me neither. Which means he’s out there somewhere.”
“Yeah, but—Mother of God. What is all this animal attack business?”
“Right. And they’re pretty sure.”
“Which means…both could be right.”
Yoshida held out his arms. “This never happened in L.A.”
“If you’re planning on moving back, you damn well better wait till after Halloween.”
* * * *
Not far behind Hudson was Deputy Sean Shavers.
The nine-year veteran thought of a time when he’d relished the morning drive in his El Camino to the station during autumn, through wispy fog, brisk air, leaves rolling across the road like colorful waves.
The highlight of the journey had always been radio deejay Dee Mentia. With a husky Mae West affectation, she spouted PG-rated innuendoes and played fun Halloween music ranging from classic horror movie soundtrack cues to psychobilly songs to cornball-spooky parody numbers.
The radio station’s management, having shrewdly acquired the call letters WICH, milked the hell out of the Halloween season. The station was located at the far end of Cronus County. Barely within Ember Hollow listening range, they nonetheless vaunted themselves as Ember Hollow’s hometown favorite, tying in to the annual Halloween Pumpkin Parade at every opportunity.
With the arrival of autumn, WICH always amped up the holiday spirit, with deejays assuming (i.e. becoming “possessed by”) different personae, bringing a campy vibe to the broadcast, like a cable access television show with a hammy horror host.
There was “murdererologist” Voodoo Vinnie, who always took credit for causing the weather, whatever it was.
Abel the Weird, who took the afternoon shift, was as straight edge as they come but played up a burned-out stoner, issuing incoherent philosophical anecdotes and non sequiturs.
Just as Ember Hollow itself became “Haunted Hollow” for the fall season, the station took to re-naming local businesses and folks by Cryptkeeper-style pun names—anything related to spooks and scares.
Shavers didn’t pay much attention to these on-air personalities throughout the year, leaving the radio volume down unless something by Fleetwood Mac or Lynyrd Skynyrd came on. But when green leaves changed to yellow and DeDe Kenner became Dee Mentia—well, that was something special.
Dee took on her character full-bore, just like Elvira, firing off harmless innuendo meant to fly right over the heads of pre-teens and make its way unfailingly to the groaniest part of the grown-up funny bone.
Shavers often told the boys at the station that her characterization hit him in a different bone; just as groany. He always raised the volume and laughed aloud when she spoke, be it to deliver traffic reports or kooky spooky voiceover for whatever local farm supply outlet had ponied up for her endorsement.
Shavers wasn’t attracted to the real DeDe Kenner at all, and he was decidedly not into goth or alt girls. But he was wildly and lustfully smitten with Dee Mentia.
Through the year, he would sometimes see DeDe at public appearances and give her a wave, then move on. But come late August, when she donned full Dee Mentia regalia…
A purple Medusa wig sprouting ruby-eyed rubber snakes from curly tresses.
Matching purple glitter eye shadow surrounding Meg Foster-blue eyes.
Form-fitted black leather vest over a generously-stuffed spiderweb lace corset.
Fishnet stockings under a studded pleather mini-skirt.
…That was a different story.
Shavers occasionally worked security at farm equipment fairs or store openings for extra cash, especially if he knew Dee would be there doing promotions. He would sidle up to her and initiate some flirty fun, fishing for personalized silly sexy banter to take home with him. She was all too happy to oblige.
What was the harm? Great God of Earth and Altar, couldn’t a single virile man have himself a corny, tawdry little fantasy here and there? Of course he could!
Except, he couldn’t anymore.
On duty at the fated pumpkin parade, Shavers had been right in the middle of town when Ragdoll Ruth’s killing candy had kicked in, sending everyone who’d consumed it into fits of horrific self-mutilation or cannibalistic murder.
He had witnessed what could only be the very end of the world happening all around him. He had been helpless to do anything about it.
In his terror and despair, he had heard himself sobbing like an infant violently seized from its mother. To shut off the cries, he’d raised his service revolver to his head and cocked the hammer.
It was one of the afflicted who had saved him.
The woman, dressed like a “sexy cop” coincidentally enough, had seized his gun hand to claim the weapon for her own maddened purposes. There could be no doubt—if she’d gotten a hold of it, she would’ve immediately killed him. Strangely, that flipped a switch.
Though she was freakishly strong, Shavers had kept control of the pistol and shoved the woman to the ground. Fully aware of what he was doing, he’d shot and killed his would-be killer. No one had seen.
As the smoke had cleared, Shavers understood he would never find the “himself” that had existed before the shooting. The crisp mornings, languid mist, scary songs—even Dee Mentia—would always be tainted for him.
In DeDe’s appearances and on-air demeanor, she seemed to feel the same.
Shavers had to give the WICH on-air personalities a lot of credit for keeping up the spirit their home office required of them, the formula that had succeeded for years. Like Shavers, the deejays, engineers and programmers would do their duties. But no one could make them—or Shavers—feel it.
The secret followed him everywhere. And he could never tell anyone. Bad enough he would lose his job. Chances were he’d wind up in prison as well, alongside criminals he had busted, or who just hated cops.
Sometime around mid-autumn, Shavers had experienced a moment of clarity. He’d decided to just get through this first anniversary of the tragedy. Then he would figure out how to exorcise the hidden demon, if possible. But as Halloween grew closer, the pressure worsened, the beat of his personal tell-tale heart growing louder.
Shavers feared that, soon, he would rip up the boards that hid the secret heart—give himself away somehow—with only despair and expanding isolation to mark the rest of his days.
Chapter 7
Beyond The Door
Mayor Stuyvesant placed her hands behind her back like a soldier, twisting her knit cap into a tight cylinder. All the signs of stress that had carried her through her privileged childhood—huffing, shaking her head, rolling her eyes—had been trained out of her when she’d begun her political career. Even her assistant Hollis was only rarely privy to expressions of discontent.
Whisking from car to office after the latest headache-inducing town council meeting, the mayor was half-relieved to see none of the town paper’s cub reporters waiting to grill her about the status of the Pumpkin Parade. Yet she also felt a little let down. The back-and-forth with inexperienced journalists was invigorating.
“Call Bruner,” she ordered Hollis. “I want a breakdown of who is still staging floats there and who is waffling.” She sipped gingerly from her espresso like a person with no worries. The Bruner Company, second largest farming
equipment manufacturer in the nation and the Pumpkin Parade’s biggest sponsor, owned a massive hangar off the highway which they had donated for participants to store their float displays and general parade setup needs.
“Will do,” answered her assistant. “But my friend at the paper tells me they had another three ads for the parade supplement pullout this morning.”
She shot a warning glance at Hollis. No one was there to see the poor optics, and he was used to it anyway. “You could’ve mentioned that.”
“You specifically told me not to bother you with bad news today.”
“Then why did you?”
“I…don’t…”
“I’m sorry Hollis.” She placed a hand on his arm, and found it tense. “You understand. Between the parade, the election, and…”
“Your brother Kerwin,” Hollis acknowledged. “I know. It’s a lot.”
“I’ll have to go see him at the rehab center soon,” she lamented. “Or I might appear negligent.”
“Yet, he’s an…unattractive reminder of the parade.”
“Yes. Not that that’s the only reason to go.”
“I’ll have flowers sent.”
“That’s becoming a cliché I’m afraid.”
“Well, any kind of edible arrangement is out of the question.”
She shot him a glance. His expression didn’t indicate a cruel joke.
Her dear brother Kerwin, in one of his grandiose get-rich(er)-quick schemes, had finagled his way into managing the town’s local band The Chalk Outlines, arranging for a record company rep to come see them play atop The Grand Illusion as the parade centerpiece. Then Everett Geelens had shown up, murdered the suit, and inflicted an even worse fate upon Kerwin, tearing the gabby con man’s lower jaw off with the hook of a claw hammer.
Early on, Mayor Stuyvesant had scheduled visits to her convalescing sibling on Saturdays and Sundays. The optics were good; many constituents would be visiting their loved ones as well. She did not consider the timing opportunistic, just practical. Regardless, many of these loved ones were also victims of the parade—burned, stampeded or worse when it had all gone to hell. These people had questions, and resentments, and frustrations. Weekend visits became more troublesome than helpful. The staff asked her to aim for quieter times to visit Kerwin, helpfully offering a suggested schedule.
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