by Ani Gonzalez
He grabbed the flimsy bit of paper. It screeched "Party Tonight!" in an exaggerated Gothic font.
"The Guinness Book of World Records people will be there," the cat girl explained, her feline eyes sparkling with excitement. "We're trying to make it the biggest Halloween costume party in history so make sure you register."
She winked at him, and turned to a spindly young man on stilts. He was wearing large grey wings and red-tinged goggles.
"Hey, Mothman," she shouted. "Great costume. We're really excited about the latest sighting." She waved an orange flyer. "Do you know where to register for the party?"
They walked off, leaving Mike behind. He looked at the throngs of people lining Main Street. He counted three Elves, eleven princesses, and a platoon of naughty nurses.
He'd forgotten it was Halloween.
More to the point, he'd forgotten it was Halloween in Banshee Creek, Virginia. The Fall Equinox was no laughing matter in the Most Haunted Town in the U.S.A.
Well, that accolade wasn't official yet, but his Army buddy, Cole Hunt, had been certain that his hometown would win the coveted title. Cole and his friends had been diligently documenting the local hauntings so as to convince the powers-that-be that their town could be the premier paranormal destination in the United States.
And Mike had heard all about their plans, ad nauseum infinitum, in fact. Cole stayed in touch with his Banshee Creek buddies all through his two-year deployment to Afghanistan. He'd supervised the investigations from afar and edited the documentaries in his free time. As a result, Mike had sat through endless hours of night-vision footage and had spent many days listening to static trying to discern what Cole described as "electronic voice phenomena."
Oh, yes. His friend had a plan. Cole intended to come back to Banshee Creek, marry his fiancée and turn the town into the ghost capital of the United States.
But Cole didn't get to come back.
He died in Afghanistan, and Mike, who had no plans, no family, and no home, survived.
The irony was inescapable. The guy with no future made it out alive, but the one with the plan, the one with the loving family, the one with the devoted girlfriend.
That guy didn't make it back home.
Mike hoisted his duffle bag, avoided a laughing foursome dressed in Star Trek uniforms, and walked up the cobblestone street. He didn't have a life plan like Cole, but right now he was a man on a mission, a mission to find 12 Hooded Owl Road, Banshee Creek, Virginia.
He looked down Main Street, assessing the town he'd heard so much about. Banshee Creek was laid out like a typical small Virginia village, with one main road lined with shops and Colonial row houses. An auto repair shop with a neon 1950's sign that read "Virginia Vintage Motors" sat on a corner. The shop's small parking lot was full of restored cars and a couple of kids in ghost costumes were taking pictures around a black 1967 Impala. The car was nice, but Mike's eyes kept drifting towards a late-model Jeep Wrangler with an elegant black paint job. Sure, it didn't qualify as "antique" or even "vintage," but it looked cool and the price was very affordable.
Which was probably due to the stagnant local economy. Most of the stores had "for sale" or "for rent" signs. Sheets of plywood covered the windows of the local bookstore. A small movie theater held pride of place in the center of town, but its marquee was broken and the last movie featured seemed to be Close Encounters of the Third Kind.
Yet there were a few signs of life. A real estate sign in front of a dilapidated mansion with the sloping roof of a stereotypical haunted house had a sold sticker. The row houses had small gardens in front, many of them covered with weeds, but an enterprising soul had put out planters with purple and orange flowers in an attempt to spruce up the sidewalk.
And the town still attracted visitors, in spite of its ramshackle state. The streets were full of costumed partygoers and a couple of businesses, including a pizzeria and a bakery, were busy with customers. The hardware store had a table in front filled with Halloween paraphernalia and the glowing red goggles worn by the—what was the name, again?—Mothman, that's it. The Mothman goggles seemed to be quite popular. A bunch of kids in black capes were trying them on and taking pictures. The crisp fall air carried the scent of apples and cinnamon and he experienced a sudden craving for cider and...candy corn?
Back in Afghanistan, Cole's plan to paranormalize his hometown sounded silly and far-fetched. But here in Banshee Creek it was starting to make sense.
"Looking for a haunted house?"
A teenage boy in jeans and a yellow t-shirt with a large letter X handed him a piece of paper. Curiosity piqued, Mike took it, carefully avoiding the kid's makeshift metal claws.
It was a homemade map, made by someone with a talent for drawing and an excessive fondness for horror movie fonts. The title was "Banshee Creek's Haunted Houses" and there was something very familiar about the style of the illustrations.
He identified Main Street and the Scooby-Doo house, but what was that strange dark line that crisscrossed the town? A river? Railroad tracks? He squinted at the complicated script, making out the words "geomagnetic fault." Upon closer inspection he realized that several of the buildings were marked with cartoon ghost symbols. He turned the paper to read the map legend, which described the various ghosts and other critters that supposedly infested the town. One of them identified as a brownie, but wasn't that a dessert? Or a uniformed child that sold cookies? At the bottom of the page there was a hand drawn copyright symbol and the author's name.
Cole Hunt.
He quickly looked away from the name, and focused on the map, tracing the streets with a finger. There it was, right off Main Street, Hooded Owl Road. According to the map, number 12 was two blocks down, turn left, and keep going.
He hiked up his duffle and walked down the street. The sooner he got this done, the sooner he could get back to his life.
Except he didn't have much of a life right now. He had no family, his closest contacts were now scattered across the country, and his best friend was dead. But he had a fancy new title and, thanks to his commanding officers, a new assignment at the Pentagon. He was going to find an apartment in Arlington, get settled, and...
Things got hazy after that. Maybe he'd get a motorcycle...and a girlfriend, definitely a girlfriend, a smart girl, with a nice smile, maybe a blonde or a redhead.
An image popped into his head and he shoved it away. Not a brunette. And absolutely not a brunette with warm brown eyes, freckles on her nose, and the voice of an angel.
So, the plan was simple—job, apartment, motorcycle, girlfriend. It wasn't as interesting as Cole's plan, that's for sure, but it gave Mike direction, a sense of purpose. He liked that.
Job, apartment, motorcycle, girlfriend, but first, there was 12 Hooded Owl Road.
He crossed Main Street, walking towards a battered white bungalow with a large Argentinean flag and a dilapidated neon sign that read, strangely, "F anco Pizza." He squinted at the sign. No, the letter r was defective, and, when it flickered on, the sign actually said "Franco Pizza." The pizza smelled pretty good though. Maybe he'd have a slice after completing his mission.
The house at 12 Hooded Owl Road was an attractive Victorian house, with a small porch, white gingerbread trim and green fish scale shingles. It was old, but well kept, looking a bit like a dignified elderly mermaid. A small pot of yellow flowers sat on the steps.
Mike smiled. The house was bright and colorful.
Just like its owner.
He shook the thought out of his head. He didn't want to think about the owner of the house. He was going to knock on the door, make his delivery and leave Banshee Creek.
He walked toward the house, but, as he reached the porch, he noticed a group of people walking down the street. The leader of the group was a tall, redheaded man dressed in jeans and a biker's vest. His companions were all similarly attired in stereotypical biker gear.
Mike tensed. Two guys from his last unit belonged to motorcycles clubs, and he w
as very familiar with the subculture. These guys weren't wearing costumes, although the biker wear featured a couple of unusual decorative touches, like tentacles, UFOs, and several "trust no one" tattoos in typewriter font.
The bikers were teasing a young man with an arm in a cast who was dressed in plain jeans and a t-shirt and did not seem to be part of the gang. At least, Mike had yet to meet a biker who'd wear a Berklee School of Music t-shirt.
One of the bikers slapped the musician in the back, and the young man stumbled.
Mike's eyes narrowed, his body tensed and he felt a sudden adrenaline rush. He automatically noted the number of bikers, assessed their strategic positions and evaluated the situation's potential for violence.
But the young man just laughed and made a rude hand gesture. The bikers returned the gesture with a couple of catcalls, and then kept walking towards Main Street chatting and laughing.
Mike relaxed, relieved to find he'd misjudged the situation, and gave himself a good scolding. This was ridiculous. He had to leave his war-zone reflexes behind, this was small town Virginia not Afghanistan. But he turned back to the house and immediately tensed.
A willowy girl was locking the door. She was tall and slender with medium-length brown hair, styled to curl at the ends in an old-fashioned way.
Mike wasn't looking at her hair though. He was looking at her costume, a skin-tight black leather cat suit that outlined every single curve. His fists clenched and he swallowed hard. He tried to walk towards the house, but his feet wouldn't move.
He couldn't bring himself to approach her.
He'd faced enemy fire, ambushes, and IEDs. He'd trained himself to overcome his fears. He'd walked through nightmares and survived.
But he couldn't bring himself to face this girl.
Time to retreat and regroup. He'd continue on his way to Arlington and figure out a different way to make his delivery. Maybe he could hire a courier, or a parcel delivery service.
A group of costumed partygoers blocked his way as he turned to walk away. He tried to push his way through what appeared to be a werewolf punk rock band, but had to swerve to avoid the fur-bedecked subwoofers.
"Mike?" The throaty, sexy voice was unmistakable. "Is that you?"
There was no fighting the siren appeal of that voice. He sighed in resignation and turned.
The girl ran down the steps of her house and her smile was as enthralling as her voice. Mike forced himself to smile back as he greeted the girl he'd loved for the past five years.
Abby Reed. Singer, songwriter, enchantress.
And his dead friend's fiancée.
Buy links for this book can be found here.
***
Hex Marks the Spot
(A Light Urban Fantasy Novel)
(Drop Dead Witchy #1)
Going to Hell is easy. Going back home is a different story.
They say you can never go back. I wish that was the case.
Returning home is complicated when you're a necromancer and your hometown is the Most Haunted in America. It doesn't help that your pet hellhound chihuahua thinks the place is a dump, and it gets worse when your high school crush is still there and still dead sexy. Literally, as he's now a ghost.
Oh, and did I mention that I have to save the world? Yeah, again.
HEX MARKS THE SPOT EXCERPT
Home Sweet Home
But I was staring at a house that looked anything but sweet.
It was a dilapidated Victorian structure with a Second Empire mansard roof, peeling pink paint, and broken stained glass windows. It also had a large square turret, which caused it to resembled the house in that San Francisco television show with the three witches. However, this building had several missing shingles and a lopsided front porch. It was missing a few windows too.
If the Halliwell sisters' house had suffered a regretful encounter with Godzilla it would look like this house. Fortunately my house didn't have a gate to hell in the basement. It did, however, have a scary-looking statue peering out of the second floor ledge.
"The period detail is amazing, isn't it?" a syrupy voice chirped beside me.
I turned to look at my depressingly cheerful real estate agent, Elizabeth Hunt, and she gifted me with her trademark movie star smile.
I stifled a groan. Elizabeth used to work in the horror film industry before moving back to Banshee Creek to help out in her family's real estate business. She used to fight murderous critters in the big screen, but now her job was to move her hometown's extensive collection of haunted houses.
That's what happened when you moved to the Most Haunted Town in America, as I was now in the process of doing. When I last lived here, this had been a run-down Virginia town with a lot of ghost stories. Now, it had rebranded itself into the country's number one paranormal destination, beating even Salem, Massachusetts. The prospect of living in a spooky version of Disneyland did not amuse me, but Elizabeth, unlike me, was almost preternaturally optimistic about our hometown's transformation.
"The gargoyle," I said. "Is particularly impressive."
Elizabeth gave a nervous giggle. "That was a relatively recent addition. They took it upon themselves to add it. You know how people are around here."
Yep, you learn a few tricks when you grow up in this town, like how to protect yourself against the monster next door. A monster which, from what I'd gathered so far, was no slouch.
"Oh, what am I doing here?" I muttered, sounding, I had to admit, quite whiny.
"I know" Elizabeth exclaimed, clapping her hands for emphasis. "What are we waiting for? Let's go look at the inside."
Uh, my complaint was more along the lines of "I hunt ghosts, not interdimensional quasi-deities." Why couldn't my ancestral home have an ordinary paranormal pest, like a poltergeist or a Lady in White?
But my real estate agent did not register my dismay. She hurried toward the house in a cloud of blonde hair and expensive perfume with the unforced cheer of someone who had just unloaded a hard-to-sell property on an unsuspecting mark.
Or not so unsuspecting, in my case. I should be able to handle whatever inhabited Delacourt Manor. After all, my mundane job was to go around haunted places and make funny videos about them. That was reconnaissance for my magical job which whatever inhabited those spaces, or, at least, render them harmless.
So this should be a breeze, no?
"Don't look so glum, Claire." The voice came from the general direction of my right ankle. "Just ignore the epic remodeling bill, and focus on saving the world."
I glanced down. Pookie, an ornery black Chihuahua with beady amber eyes and a sparkly purple collar was looking up at me. Despite the conspicuously adorable adornment, the eerie eyes hinted as to the dog's otherworldly origins.
Great. Even my stupid hellhound thought I was dragging my feet. I wiped my sweaty palms on my dark wash jeans, and took a deep breath. Pookie was right.
C'mon. Claire. You are a mean, lean, badass witch. A freaking necromancer for crying out loud. You just defeated a spectral disco-dancing prom queen. You can't be scared of a dinky little house and whatever is inside.
A cloud passed, casting ominous shadows over the building's crumbling facade.
Yes, I can be.
Like Pookie said, this was no mere haunting. Joy.
Hello, Delacourt Manor. We meet again.
The thought made me giggle, although it was thoroughly inaccurate. I, Claire Delacourt, have never lived in Delacourt Manor.
Until now. Now I was buying it and whatever was inside.
Which could be seriously bad news because the house had a long an consistent history of being dangerous to my family. It had been since the eighteen hundreds, which is why I was raised in a nondescript condo building near Main Street. No moldings, no period details, and no nasty, dark creatures trying to kill you.
"Hey, chillax," Pookie muttered. "No reason to get dramatic just because most of your ancestors died here a hundred years ago or so. Quit being a diva."
; I rubbed my arm, suddenly noticing the goosebumps. "I'm just cold. I should have brought my jacket."
"I love it," Pookie said mercilessly. "Big, bad necromancer scared to a little house."
"I'm not—"
Elizabeth turned around with an uncertain smile. "I'm sorry, did you say something?"
"Just talking to myself," I explained quickly.
Para-typicals couldn't hear Pookie speak, thankfully, but the Banshee Creek residents were not exactly psy-null. The town was located on top of one of the continent's most powerful ley lines. This feature attracted supernatural entities and general weirdness. The effect was so strong that even the para-typical had found a reason for it; they called the ley line a "geomagnetic fault." Thanks to its influence, the townsfolk were a bit more sensitive than the regular joe.
I had to keep that in mind, if I was going to live and work here. Keeping info away from the normals was going to be hard. I added that to the list of "seventy thousand things I hate about my hometown."
Elizabeth gave me a kind glance. "You're wondering why the house never sold? Don't worry, we are a full disclosure event. A very tragic event occurred in the house."
See? That's what I meant. How had she known that?
With no Delacourt heir to claim it, the house eventually reverted to the Commonwealth of Virginia for nonpayment of real estate taxes. It had been owned by the government for decades. Ever so often, the house was put up for sale, but there were never any takers.
Until now. Until me. You had to be crazy to live here.
And I fit the bill. The thought gave rise to a bitter laugh.
"But," Elizabeth added with only the smallest pause. "That's not unusual in this town."
"I bet," Pookie interjected.
Elizabeth frowned and looked around, as if searching for the sound of the voice. She finally aimed a narrow-eyed glance at the dog. "Did you cough, sweetie?"
