Ghost Walk
Page 15
Hand in hand, they double-checked the cornstalks one more time.
“Perfect,” Russ said. “No way will people see behind them as they walk down through here.”
“Whose hiding place is this?”
“Doug’s. He’s going to be dressed as a werewolf. He’ll hide here and let folks walk by, unchallenged. Then, Shane’s going to be hiding a little way up the trail. Doug will creep out behind the last person in the group and follow them. Then, when Shane jumps out, Doug will scare them from the rear. It’s gonna be—”
Tina held up her hand, abruptly silencing him. Frowning, she tilted her head and listened.
“What’s wrong?” Russ asked.
“I heard something.”
“Russ? Tina? Somebody help me!”
Tina gasped. “That sounds like Rhonda!”
“Come on,” Russ urged. Still clasping her hand, he led Tina forward, off the trail and into the woods. Their quick pace turned into a run as Rhonda called out for them again. Low-hanging branches tugged at their clothes, and Russ almost tripped over a root jutting from the soil. They followed Rhonda’s shouts until they found her.
“Jesus,” Russ breathed. “She doesn’t look very good.”
Rhonda leaned against a tree. Her clothes were tattered and dirty. Her face and hands were caked with mud. Dried blood covered one cheek, directly beneath a shallow, untreated cut. The most shocking aspect of her appearance, however, was the tremendous amount of weight that she’d apparently lost in the last twelve hours. Her arms and legs were rail-thin. The flesh hung off them like sallow curtains. Her face was sunken. Much of her hair was missing, revealing raw, glistening red patches on her scalp.
Then she raised her head and they glimpsed her eyes: two black holes full of swirling darkness.
“Rhonda!” Tina ran to the sickened girl. “Are you okay, honey? What’s wrong?”
“I need help.”
“It will be okay,” Tina soothed, stepping closer. “Just calm down.”
“I’m glad you both found me. Is there anyone else with you?”
“No,” Russ said. “It’s just us. Everyone else is up in the field. What’s wrong with you, Rhonda? You look like you’ve been exposed to radiation or something.”
“Russ,” Tina snapped, glaring at him.
“I need help,” Rhonda repeated.
“We’ll get you some help,” Russ promised. “Can you tell us where Sam is? Do you know?”
Rhonda smiled. “Sure. I can tell you where he is. He’s right behind you.”
“What?”
Russ turned in time to see Sam and a man he didn’t recognize step out from behind a tree. Both men were obviously suffering from whatever malady Rhonda had. The stranger was especially gaunt, almost skeletal. Their eyes were like Rhonda’s. Russ held up his hands as the man pointed a deer rifle at him. Sam clutched a machete. Russ recognized the weapon. It belonged to Cecil Smeltzer, one of the volunteers for the Ghost Walk. The old man had been using it to cut undergrowth earlier this morning, between nursing cups of coffee. Russ suddenly realized that he hadn’t seen the old veteran since shortly after the cop had left.
“Hello, Russ,” Sam said.
Russ struggled to keep the alarm out of his voice. “What the hell’s going on here?”
Behind him, Tina whimpered. Russ whipped around again. Tina cowered against a tree trunk, flanked by Rhonda and Cecil. But that wasn’t what had her terrified. It was the coyote that stood in front of her, legs spread, haunches rigid, teeth bared. A low growl emanated from its chest. It turned briefly and glanced at Russ. The beast’s eyes were black, just like those of the humans. Although it wasn’t emaciated like the others, some of its fur was missing.
“Russ,” Tina sobbed. “Do something.”
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Russ whispered.
“No,” Cecil said. “Not even close.”
The old man’s eyes were black, but physically, he was in much better shape than the others.
“Cecil,” Russ pleaded, “that’s a coyote.”
“Once. Now it is us. Soon, you will be, too.”
“Come with us,” Rhonda commanded. “If you scream or try to run, Rich will shoot you.”
The coyote backed away, allowing Tina to step forward. She stumbled away from the tree, swooning. Russ hurried to catch her. They sank to their knees on the forest floor.
“What’s this all about?” Russ demanded. “This is crazy!”
“We need your help,” Rhonda explained, her voice calm.
“Help? What kind of help?”
Sam ran his thumb along the machete’s edge, drawing a thin bead of blood. He smiled as the blade parted flesh.
“We need you to move some rocks,” he said. “That’s all.”
Blood dribbled down the blade. Russ was mesmerized by it.
“Now get up.” The stranger, Rich, motioned with the rifle. “Follow us. We don’t have far to go.”
Russ got up and pulled Tina to her feet.
“Or what?” he challenged.
“Or we’ll kill you right here. The roots of this forest have drank much blood over the years. Yours will just be the latest to feed them.”
Ken pulled alongside one of the storage trailers that were parked at the edge of the field. He left the truck on while he got out to open the trailer door. The engine idled choppily. Waylon Jennings and Willie Nelson rumbled from the truck’s speakers, singing about a good-hearted woman in love with a good-timing man. Ken had been a metal-head when he was in school, but as he got older, he found himself gravitating more toward the country music of the seventies. Listening to it reminded him of when he’d been a kid. His father had always liked Willie and Waylon, along with the other outlaws, Johnny Cash and Kris Kristofferson.
The song drifted across the field and into the forest. If anyone heard it, there was no indication. There were other cars parked near the entrance to the Ghost Walk: Russ and Tina’s SUV, Tom’s Dodge Charger, Cecil’s old pickup truck, and Terry’s Jeep. Jorge’s truck was absent. Ken swore, wondering if Jorge had made it back with the bags of lime he’d sent him for that morning. But despite the vehicles, there were no signs of activity. The forest was silent.
Ken checked his watch. He had two more hours before the other volunteers arrived for the walk-through and staff meeting—and a shitload of things to do before then.
Grumbling to himself, he began unloading the costumes and masks, putting them inside the trailer. The interior was full of items for the Ghost Walk: gas generators, extension cords, lights, tools, spools of rope and wire, plastic sheeting, landscape fencing, dry erase boards and markers, propane bottles, and numerous other odds and ends. He cleared a space for the costume boxes and sat them down. Finished, he exited the trailer and locked the door behind him. Waylon was now asking, “Are you sure Hank done it this way?”
Ken started to hum along, but his song turned to a shout when a hand fell on his shoulder. He spun around, fists raised, and almost punched Terry in the face.
“Jesus Christ,” Terry laughed, scampering backward. “Didn’t you hear me calling for you?”
“I didn’t hear shit,” Ken said.
“That’s because you play this honky-tonk bullshit too loud, man. Hell, Ken, you’re worse than my kid.”
“Your kid likes country music?”
“No. But he drives around with that rap music playing loud enough to shake the goddamn windows.”
Ken turned his truck off and shut the door. “Better?”
“Much. My ear drums thank you.”
“So where is everybody? Jorge make it back with that lime?”
“Yeah. We got it spread. Then him and Tom took off to get something to eat before the staff meeting. They took Jorge’s truck.”
“Where’s Tina and Russ and Cecil?”
Terry shrugged. “Don’t know. Tom was working with Cecil for a bit. And Russ and Tina were way back in the woods, near the spot where the trail loops around and starts head
ing back up here. I haven’t seen them for a while. Probably still down there.”
“I wish cell phone coverage worked down here,” Ken complained, not for the first time. “It would be a lot easier if we could communicate with walkie-talkies or something.”
Terry grinned. “Ken, do me a favor?”
“What’s that?”
“Take a deep breath and calm the fuck down. You’re worrying about everything, and you don’t need to. It’s fine. This is gonna go off without a hitch. Russ and Tina and even old Cecil are good people and hard workers. If they’re not here, then that means they’re busting their ass somewhere along the trail.”
“I know,” Ken agreed. “You’re right. It’s just…I’ve got this feeling. Like something is going to go wrong.”
“That’s just the jitters. Only thing that’s going to happen is we’re going to make a lot of money for charity starting tomorrow night.”
“Let’s hope so. Speaking of which…” Ken climbed back into his truck and grabbed a stack of newspapers. He exited the vehicle, smiling proudly. “Check it out.”
“That the article?” Terry took a copy from Ken and flipped it open.
“Front page of the local section, and then it continues on page four. And they’ve got a photo on the front page of the main section, too.”
Terry whistled. “Nice! And look there—she mentioned my name, too.”
“Yeah,” Ken replied, his tone dry. “Seeing your name in there will really sell tickets.”
“Fuck off.”
Laughing, they walked toward the entrance to the trail.
“I think we’ll have everybody gather right here,” Ken said. “That way, everybody can hear me. Then we’ll do the walkthrough.” He glanced up at the sky, and then added, “Might have to do it by flashlight. It’s getting darker already. Weird.”
“Not really,” Terry said. “It’s late October. It gets dark early. The days are growing shorter.”
Nodding, Ken zipped up his jacket and shivered.
Not only are they getting darker and shorter, he thought. They’re getting colder, too.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Evening rush-hour traffic was in full swing, moving at a crawl along Route 30, through the heart of York County. Construction signs substituted as mile markers. One of Maria’s first impressions upon moving from New Jersey was that orange traffic cones seemed to be Pennsylvania’s state plant and road workers were the state animal. They were everywhere. Drumming her fingers on the steering wheel, she crept by fast-food restaurants, run-down shopping malls, abandoned industrial complexes, shuttered factories, and dilapidated ware houses. Like the traffic cones, all were part of the natural landscape of this stretch of highway.
She watched, shaking her head in dismay as other drivers talked on their cell phones, applied lipstick and mascara, and in one particularly disturbing case, read a comic book—all while driving. Cursing, Maria gave the finger to no less than five different drivers, for offenses ranging from tailgating to cutting in front of her.
Despite the annoyance, she was actually glad that traffic was moving so slowly. Her head felt foggy from the lack of sleep, and her eyes were red and gummy. It wouldn’t do to fall asleep behind the wheel at sixty-five miles per hour. If it happened at the current pace, she could just gently bump into the car ahead of her.
Exhausted as she was, Maria was worried that if she went to bed, she might sleep through her alarm clock’s annoyingly shrill wail and miss everything. She still had her doubts that Levi could actually get them face-to-face with Adam Senft, despite everything she’d seen. But if there was a chance, then she wanted to be there. So when she arrived back at her apartment, instead of going to sleep, she made a fresh pot of coffee. While it was brewing, she stripped out of her clothes and took another shower. The combination of caffeine, hot water, and scented body wash stimulated her senses, waking her up. Wrapping herself in two oversized, fluffy towels—one for her body and another for her hair—she decided to log online and check her e-mail.
When she’d left that morning, Maria was certain that she’d hit a dead end as far as tracking down Ramirez, the police detective who’d been involved with the first Adam Senft– connected homicide, as well as the murders of several of Senft’s next door neighbors, one of whom had been found inside Senft’s home. To her surprise, a new lead on his whereabouts was waiting in her e-mail inbox. Maria subscribed to several different online services that were frequented by journalists and private investigators. For a nominal fee, they would track people when other avenues failed. While she’d been at the psychiatric hospital, they’d found something for her—a new landline phone number supposedly connected to Ramirez, with a Fort Myers, Florida, area code.
Maria checked the clock in the lower right-hand corner of her computer monitor. It was just after six. If Ramirez worked a day job, he should be home by now—if, indeed, this was his home number. Crossing her fingers, Maria snatched her cell phone off the coffee table and dialed. A man picked up on the third ring.
“Hello?”
“Hi. My name is Maria Nasr. I’m calling from—”
“I’m not interested. Take my name and number off your list.”
“Wait! Don’t hang up.”
“I said, I’m not interested.”
“I’m not a telemarketer,” Maria explained.
“You’re a bill collector, then. And I’ll tell you what I’ve told all the others. No, I can’t send you any money because I’m fucking broke. I can’t pay what I don’t have.”
Maria took a deep breath, trying to keep her tone patient and friendly.
“Sir, I’m not a telemarketer or a debt collector. If you’ll just let me speak?”
“Well, then who the hell are you? The only people that ever call me are bill collectors and salesmen. Or wrong numbers.”
“My name is Maria Nasr. I’m calling from York, Pennsylvania. I’m looking for Detective Hector Ramirez.”
There was silence on the other end of the line.
“Are you Detective Ramirez?”
“Not anymore. Nobody’s called me ‘Detective’ in a long time. What do you want, Miss Nasr?”
“Well, I’m writing a book about powwow magic and the murders associated with LeHorn’s Hollow. I was wondering if I could ask you some questions regarding Adam Senft, the mystery writer.”
“Don’t you ever call here again.”
Maria was so stunned by his vehement reaction that it took her a moment to realize Ramirez was no longer on the line. She glanced at the phone, trying to figure out if the call had been dropped or if he’d disconnected. She guessed the latter.
“Goddamn it.”
Maria redialed. This time, Ramirez picked up on the first ring.
“Hello?”
“Mr. Ramirez, I think we might have gotten disconnected. I just—”
“Hell, yes, we got disconnected. That’s because I disconnected the call! I mean it, lady. Don’t call here again.”
“Wait!” Maria shouted before he could hang up again. “Listen, I just want to interview you, sir. I respect your privacy. I’m not out to disparage you over how the case was handled or anything. I’m just curious as to what you believe really happened.”
“You want to know what I believe?” Ramirez laughed. “Okay, I’ll tell you what I believe. I believe that there are things in this world that don’t make a lick of fucking sense. Things that should not be—that we’re not supposed to know about. I saw it once during that bank robbery in Hanover, and—”
“Bank robbery?”
“Shut up! It’s got nothing to do with your book or the hollow. But it’s got everything to do with what I’m saying. I saw it then and I put it behind me. But it fucked with my beliefs—in God and in mankind and in what was real and what wasn’t. And then Shannon and Paul Legerski went missing and I canvassed the neighborhood, interviewing potential witnesses and I met Adam Senft. If it hadn’t been for that…”
Maria stayed qu
iet, jotting notes while the man rambled. She hoped he’d begin making sense. His cadence was short and clipped. Forceful. It was obvious that this had been festering inside him for quite some time. She got the sense that he wasn’t even talking to her anymore.
“That night—the night of the fire. I’ll never fucking forget it. How could I? When Senft and his buddies came marching across the field, armed to the teeth with shotguns and spell books, like some blue-collar Van Helsing. Even his dog was in on it. And I helped them. What was I supposed to do? People were dead. Their wives were missing. So I went out there into the woods. Me and Uylik. We went with them. And I was responsible…for that officer’s death. The trees…”
His words turned into unintelligible sobs.
Maria stammered, unsure of how to proceed.
“Um…Mr. Ramirez? Hector? I’m afraid that I don’t understand.”
“The trees were alive! Don’t you understand? They fucking moved around. They killed Uylik. And Senft’s friend—Swanson. A lot of people died that night. All because of Senft and his goddamned Goat Man.”
“But, sir, your own investigation concluded that Adam Senft wasn’t involved. The State Police and the district attorney agreed with your determination. Those murders were committed by the LeHorn’s Hollow witch cult, of which Paul and Shannon Legerski were members.”
“There was no cult. It was a fucking monster! Half man, half goat. And I’m not talking about those murders, anyway. I’m talking about belief. What was I supposed to do after I saw all of that? Magic spells and devils and men ripped apart like soft marshmallows. I damn sure wasn’t raised to believe in that. So how was I supposed to react? How could I do my fucking job when I knew what was really out there? You asked me about my beliefs? I had them confirmed and then shattered that night. At the same time. Senft, too. Isn’t any wonder he killed his wife. He saw her there, around the fire in the woods, rutting in the dirt with that…thing.”