A Horribly Haunted Halloween

by Heather Graham

  “If he didn’t get out in the few minutes it took me to get it all going. The emergency entrance is open now; nothing else. And I have Bryan down there. No one goes past him.”

  “Video surveillance . . . it may show us who he turned into this time,” Jackson said. “I’ll get one of our people on it.”

  “And I will stand right here,” Bruce assured him.

  Jackson pulled out his phone as he headed out of the hospital and asked that the video surveillance be surveyed immediately. Then he called Angela to tell her he was heading back to Ghouls Parade, that once again, David Andre could be anywhere—and anyone.

  She answered quickly, to his relief.

  “No problem,” she told him. “We haven’t found anything yet—but the police are doing a thorough job. They’re combing through all the displays, character by character. I’m working with an officer right now. We’ll have this place ready to go by dusk. They use live actors at the candy give-away and at the photo op area. The creators have done a great job allowing for safety and distancing. You can take your time,” she told him. “I’m with a cop. Still concerned about tonight.”

  He frowned; he thought he heard her let out a little gasp. And her voice was odd.

  “Angela?”

  “Well, it is Halloween. And I’m still so afraid of what may happen by tonight. Jackson, hang on just a minute.” He heard her talking to someone nearby.

  Someone forcing her answers. She had taken his call—because not to do so would have given him warning she was in trouble.

  “Angela?”

  “Night. You know when it’s night. Anyway, just get here at your leisure.”

  She ended the call as he was passing by the officers at the emergency room exit. He had nearly reached the car when he heard his name called. It was Bryan McFadden, hurrying to the car.

  “Jackson, he’s out of the hospital—and he got out right after we checked on him after his suspicious behavior, not trusting he was a doctor.”

  “How did he—”

  “They found an officer on the floor in one of the storage rooms. Jackson, he’s heading out somewhere to kill again—and he’s dressed as a police officer.”

  He knew why Angela had sounded so strange. And why she had mentioned the police the way she had.

  David Andre was already with her.

  *

  “Don’t worry; I’m going to get help!” The ghost of Roger Newsome assured Angela. But he sounded desperate and worried. He was following her—and David Andre as “Officer Ridley” closely.

  Roger Newsome was dead, and only Angela could see him.

  It was oddly comforting he was with her.

  “Keep moving and keep smiling. The costuming for ‘Ghouls in Shining Armor’ is right ahead. One false move, and I will shoot you here and now,” David Andre told her. “It might make my work harder, but I’m afraid you won’t be all that could be anyway. I just won’t have the time to work on you the way I should. So, I know your kind. You’ll play for time. But this place is huge—I mean, you need to have some space for cars full of ‘ghoulish’ little kiddies to come through.” He paused to laugh at his own joke.

  That was all right; she was angry with herself. The search through the creatures had become so intense she and Roger had been alone when he’d joined them. And he’d appeared rushed and desperate and before she’d even thought to pull her weapon against him, she’d felt the nose of “Officer Ridley’s” gun against her ribs.

  “I will play for time, yes,” Angela told him. She stopped walking—despite the gun in her ribs—and turned to him. “But you know it’s over.”

  “I do. They’ll shoot me down—or I’ll walk away free and clear.”

  “You don’t think they’ll know they’re looking for a cop.”

  He laughed softly again. “They think they’re looking for a doctor. I have one regret. I’m not sure how I’m going to get that oh-so-special agent Jackson Crow. I’d wanted both of you—you ruined everything. You didn’t need to die. I was only going after cruel and stupid people—”

  “Roger Newsome wasn’t cruel or stupid,” Angela said.

  “Thank you,” the ghost murmured.

  “No! Don’t you see? I needed to make it appear to be random and you don’t understand. Roger would have died slowly and in agony—and I could make it swift and easy. You’d be amazed at how good you get with knives when you work in my field. It was over for him in seconds.”

  “That’s true,” the ghost said.

  “I want it to be that way for you—even though you and Crow destroyed everything I had planned. But I’m going to be merciful because you’re not bad people. You thought you were doing the right thing. But I was killing those who were mean and hurtful.”

  “Everyone doesn’t get every job they go for. You might have gotten a great job if you had given it more time. Your work is good.”

  He laughed. “You saw that. But you saw it—because I proved it. Okay, here we are at costuming. Strip. Oh, not your underwear—I’m not a sexual predator. Just get into that princess costume—now!”

  He wasn’t going to leave her. And doffing her suit for a princess gown was the least of her worries.

  Being forced to leave her Glock and holster behind was not good.

  She had to change slowly while appearing to do so as he directed. She pretended to be nervous, trying to step from the pants of her suit while tripping over her shoes, then struggling to get them off and the pants off without appearing to be doing so on purpose. Then her jacket and shirt. And she could hope while he was zipping her into the purple princess costume she could get to his gun.

  She did manage to take time; she didn’t manage to get his gun. He held it on her despite her request for assistance.

  “Are you kidding me? You’re a trained agent. I’m not taking any chances with you. You get that zipper up—and quit stalling.”

  “If you want me to help you turn me into a princess before you kill me, you need to give me the time that I need!”

  Of course, she could get the zipper.

  “Shoddy, shoddy, shoddy!” he said, shaking his head. “A medieval gown would never have a zipper—if it was for a ghoul princess or not!”

  She pretended to struggle, but eventually had to get the zipper. He wagged the nose of the gun toward a dressing table.

  “Big make-up,” he told her. “Blood red cheeks—that’s funny, isn’t it? Blood red cheeks. Anyway, big eyes! Darken them up. White base.”

  She knew how to do make-up—krewe spouses and significant others included several who worked for an historic non-profit theater Adam Harrison, their philanthropist creator, owned.

  She worked as slowly as she dared, doing her best work.

  “Hurry it up!”

  “Hey, I’m not you, and you’re not really creating this work, but I’m doing my best to be as good as possible!” she snapped back.

  He surveyed her through the mirror as she worked. “Not bad—beautiful and creepy. Just what I want!”

  She worked with the mascara on the dressing table, taking all the time she could—and hoping Jackson had gotten the message she had given him.

  “I’m going to create a distraction,” Roger Newsome said. “I have to . . . I need to be able to push something . . . to rattle some chains. I don’t have any chains. But . . .”

  “That’s good enough!” David Andre snapped. “Time for Ghouls in Shining Armor!”

  “Should I go for Jackson?” Roger’s ghost asked.

  In reply, she looked at David Andre.

  “Jackson will find me,” she said.

  “Right, of course. You gave him a clue as to where this wretched excuse for humanity plans on taking you,” Roger said.

  “That’s part of my point. Not my original point, but . . . I’m working on it. Maybe I can find a way to make one of you kill the other—now, that would add directing to my credits! Then again, this is a big park. May take him far too long to find you. At any rate, Pr
incess Ghoul, it’s time!”

  He shoved the gun in her face. She stood. And walked ahead of him.

  The ghost of Roger Newsome hurried on before her, looking desperately for a way that a ghost with no substance could save a living woman.

  Chapter 8

  Night.

  Jackson was grateful for the relationship he had with his wife; they were best friends, lovers, and partners.

  He talked to Ken Kendall as he drove.

  “Yes, she’s been with one of the officers—” Kendall began.

  “No, she’s with David Andre, wearing a uniform he stole from a cop he smashed in the head at the hospital,” Jackson said impatiently.

  “We are going to bring him down—”

  “No, listen to me. I need you to get people out to the Ghouls in Shining Armor area,” he said. “But without being seen. They’ll need to be careful. I’m getting there as soon as I can.”

  “But how—”

  “Trust me; I know where they’re going,” Jackson said. “They can’t be seen; he’ll kill Angela right away if they’re seen.”

  “So, through the back—”

  “No, David Andre will have had her at costuming—”

  “He must know the place is crawling with real cops!”

  “He doesn’t care. We’re on end game,” Jackson said. “They can’t be seen. I’ll be there within minutes. That’s the most important; they can’t be seen.”

  “I’ve got it,” Kendall promised him quietly.

  Jackson used his light and siren until he neared the theme park. At the gate, he got out of the car, and he started to run. He wouldn’t slow until he had neared his objective.

  David Andre was clever.

  But he couldn’t be everywhere at the same time.

  He knew the ghost of Roger Newsome would still be with Angela, not leaving her side. But even experienced ghosts had difficulty “haunting” people—moving objects, making things rattle.

  Adrenalin could give people extra strength. He hoped it could work with ghosts.

  *

  Ghouls in Shining Armor had been set up with the façade of a castle. Grotesque knights lumbered up steps to save a princess from a wicked witch.

  A young prince led the army of ghouls. In the strange mix of the moon’s glow and the night lights, the place was eerie indeed.

  A princess stood by a throne. The witch figure had created a swirling black pit—and there were several of the zombie-knights lying dead in the pit, having failed in their quest against the witch to save the princess.

  “See—you get to be the princess.” David Andre said, pushing the princess figure into the pit. She crashed down at the bottom. The “pit” was an underground work area, she could see from her place on the steps by the throne.

  “Great. But I don’t understand this,” she said. “I’m the princess, but I’m not your work. I put on the costume, and I did my own make-up.”

  “At my direction!” he snapped angrily.

  “Still, my work.”

  They both jumped when one of the zombie-knights crashed to the ground.

  David Andre started shooting at the thing—assuming someone else had been playing at costuming. Then he aimed the gun at her as he walked toward that direction. He kicked the metal that had been the zombie-knight, doing so until it fell into the pit. “These things have motion sensors!” he said.

  “They might—but I did that!” Roger’s ghost cried proudly.

  “These stupid people. Everything here is shoddy work!”

  “No, look!”

  Angela waved an arm, and it seemed all the knights shifted.

  “Everything here is for people to get to enjoy Halloween,” Angela told him.

  “But even then, the work should be better! Special effects and make-up are what make movies great. I mean think back about Rick Baker and ‘An American Werewolf in London.’ The hydraulics used! Brilliant. But not enough people get respect.”

  “Artists get respect,” she said. “But—art is something you love, too.”

  “I do love what I do! And aren’t you lucky—I’m going to get to prove it with you tonight!”

  *

  Jackson prayed he’d made the right moves.

  He knew David Andre would simply shoot Angela in front of him if he was confronted. Or he might pretend he was going to make a trade, get him to relinquish his gun . . .

  If he even sensed he was going down, Andre would kill Angela first.

  There had to be a way to get close to him.

  Ken Kendall had met him at the gate, telling him officers could see David Andre and Angela, but they didn’t have a clear shot. In fact, they didn’t have any shot; Andre knew someone would eventually be coming.

  “I know. That’s why I need to move—fast!” Jackson had told him.

  He moved fast.

  And now . . .

  Now he just had to make the right movement at the right time.

  *

  “It’s now,” David Andre said, looking at Angela and then around the area again. He smiled at Angela. “You have to be real. You know you must be very real. Or not real. I thought that jerk of a husband of yours would be here by now, but . . . well, you win some, and you lose some.”

  They heard a subtle sound, metal against metal.

  It sounded as if another knight had moved.

  “These stupid things must have some kind of motion sensor,” he muttered.

  Roger Newsome murmured, “That one wasn’t me.”

  “Here!”

  To Angela’s surprise, David Andre produced an apple.

  “You’ve been carrying that around? I admit, you’re good. You went to the hospital to kill Veronica and Ray—figuring that managing to be a doctor would be a good disguise. You knocked out a cop to steal his uniform and gun—and you had a poisoned apple on you all the time?”

  “I’m really good at what I do. And tonight, I am proving it!”

  “A poisoned apple?” she asked. “Aren’t you mixing up your fairy-tales, or . . .”

  “Take a bite,” he said.

  “I can’t.”

  “Then you’ll take a bullet,” he said.

  “Look, either way, you ruin your whole purpose,” she told him. “A bullet in me, and I can hardly stand here. And if you poison me . . . well, I’ll gasp and gag and vomit all over everything.”

  He stared at her frowning. He didn’t realize the zombie-knight that had moved was now almost behind him.

  “Ah, that knight is Jackson! I got this, I got it!” Roger Newsome said, hurrying to the group of knights on the steps and pushing with all his power.

  Another crashed to the ground.

  David Andre turned to shoot at the sound.

  And as he did, Angela seized the opportunity, just as Jackson did. He knocked down David Andre’s arm, forcing his bullets to fly into the ground.

  And Angela pushed the man.

  He screamed as he fell into the pit, landing hard on the ground below, probably breaking several bones.

  And it was then police and agents burst out of the surrounding shrubbery from the areas in front of the display.

  Jackson looked down into the pit.

  “Game over!” he said, lifting the visor on the helmet he wore. He looked at Angela, shaking his head.

  “You do make a beautiful zombie princess,” he told her. “I really should have been the prince, but I couldn’t mingle in a prince costume as easily. I had to get up here once you were almost here, and I didn’t have time for make-up and the knight’s . . . well.”

  She smiled, listening to David Andre swear and moan below. “Always my prince!” she assured him.

  *

  They were exhausted, of course. Still, wrap-up, clean-up, and paperwork—they were home by five in the afternoon, not sure how to proceed with their private lives.

  They’d discovered, too, David Andre hadn’t really wanted to die. He’d been grateful to the paramedics who had come to get him out
of the hole.

  He’d admitted to Angela that prison was where he needed to be.

  They had been long days, but somehow, the case had ended.

  And they still had kids, and it was Halloween.

  The baby was too young to care about Halloween. But Corby was ten years old.

  Of course, they needed to tell him they’d been able to save other lives because of him—and the ghost of Roger Newsome.

  But still, it was Halloween, and he was still ten . . .

  “So, Corby,” Angela said cheerfully, sitting with Jackson, the ghost of Roger Newsome, her son, daughter, and Mary Tiger, “There are still some options this year. I mean, we can dress up . . .”

  She glanced at Jackson. At that moment, neither of them wanted to dress up. They’d had enough of Halloween costuming.

  “What would you like—”

  “Beetlejuice,” he said, grinning as he interrupted her.

  “Pardon?” Angela said, glancing at Jackson.

  “I’d love to stay home—eat some candy—and all of us watch a good movie that is silly and fun and not really spooky at all. Will that be okay?”

  Angela smiled at Jackson.

  They had a great kid.

  “You like movies, right?” Corby asked Roger Newsome.

  The ghost smiled at him. “Well, I have somewhere to go, I think. But . . . sure! I think I can stay for a Halloween movie!”

  “And our deepest thanks!” Angela said.

  “Happy Halloween!” he said, and they echoed the words all around.

  About The Author

  Heather Graham

  New York Times and USA Today bestselling author, Heather Graham, majored in theater arts at the University of South Florida. After a stint of several years in dinner theater, back-up vocals, and bartending, she stayed home after the birth of her third child and began to write. Her first book was with Dell, and since then, she has written over two hundred novels and novellas including category, suspense, historical romance, vampire fiction, time travel, occult, sci-fi, young adult, and Christmas family fare.

  She is pleased to have been published in approximately twenty-five languages. She has written over 200 novels and has 60 million books in print. Heather has been honored with awards from booksellers and writers’ organizations for excellence in her work, and she is the proud to be a recipient of the Silver Bullet from Thriller Writers and was awarded the prestigious Thriller Master Award in 2016. She is also a recipient of the Lifetime Achievement Award from RWA. Heather has had books selected for the Doubleday Book Club and the Literary Guild, and has been quoted, interviewed, or featured in such publications as The Nation, Redbook, Mystery Book Club, People and USA Today and appeared on many newscasts including Today, Entertainment Tonight and local television.