Halloween Carnival Volume 1

by Brian James Freeman (ed)

  “Hell, no. I’ll do both.”

  “I don’t get it. If you’re still covering the murders, why bother doing a story on me?”

  “Three reasons,” Shawn said, then counted them off on his fingers. “One, it’s the right thing to do. Two, it’s great exposure for me. Three, this could be my ticket out of the small-time.”

  “So a combination of selflessness and selfishness all rolled together.”

  “That’s what journalism is. I have big dreams, and working at the Citizen is not going to make them come true. Print journalism is all but dead, anyway. I need to do something big that’ll get me noticed, then maybe I can move to TV journalism or even start my own news blog. These days, people don’t get their news from traditional outlets. If I can make a name for myself, I can get some sponsors and be my own boss. This story has the power to get me precisely the kind of attention I need to make that happen.”

  “Sounds like you’ve got it all figured out.”

  “It’s a plan that would be mutually beneficial for both of us.”

  Dustin considered the proposal for a moment, then said, “Okay, you’ve got a deal.”

  —

  David Graham decided this would be a good time to pack up the family and go visit his sister up in Flat Rock. She’d been asking them to come stay for the past year, and the autumn colors would be breathtaking in the mountains right now.

  Of course the real reason he’d decided to make the trip had nothing to do with any of that. He simply didn’t want his family in Greer this Halloween, not with that maniac on the loose. He’d already killed two people, put one in the hospital, and had promised he wasn’t done yet. Everyone in town knew about the flyers, even those like David, who hadn’t seen them firsthand. One house that wasn’t decorated would be chosen and everyone inside slaughtered on Halloween night.

  David and his family never decorated for Halloween. They were good, God-fearing Christians; they didn’t celebrate such pagan traditions. One of the things that had kept him from visiting his sister for so long, even though she was only an hour and a half away, was the fact that she did not share his religious convictions and her house was sure to be decked out with symbols of wickedness. He loved his sister but mourned for the condition of her soul.

  But given the current circumstances, he found himself willing to overlook her lack of faith in order to make sure his family was safe.

  As he finished packing the suitcase in the bedroom, he called to his wife in the adjoining bathroom: “Diane, you almost done?”

  “I think I got everything,” she said, coming out with two travel bags full of toiletries.

  “Daddy?”

  David turned to find his seven-year-old daughter, Becca, standing in the doorway. “What is it, sweetheart?” he asked, trying to keep any sense of panic out of his voice so as not to spook her more than she already was.

  “If we go up to see Aunt Pauline, I’ll miss the Trunk’r’Treat at the church.”

  “I know, but you can go out trick-or-treating with your cousins.”

  “Really?” the girl exclaimed, actually clasping her hands together under her chin. She’d never been allowed to go trick-or-treating before.

  “Yes, just this once. Now go make sure you have all the stuffed animals, storybooks, and games you want to take with you.”

  “But what about a costume? I don’t have a costume to wear trick-or-treating.”

  “We’ll stop and find you something on the way,” his wife barked. “Now do as your father says and go get your stuff together!”

  The little girl turned and bolted back down the hallway. David considered chastising Diane for the tone she’d taken with their daughter, but he knew she was only reacting to his own sense of urgency and anxiety. He didn’t like to admit to being afraid of anything—the Lord looked over his family, after all—but he was afraid now.

  “I’m going to take all this stuff out to the car,” he said, lifting the suitcase in one hand and taking the travel bags in the other. “You go help Becca pick out what she wants to take. We don’t have time for her usual hour-long waffling on which toys she can’t stand to part with for a few days.”

  Diane nodded, pecked him quickly on the lips, then headed out of the bedroom.

  David carried the bags outside to the car, popping the trunk and stowing them inside. He started back toward the house but a loud bang made him skid to a halt. It came from around the back of the house, and the sound was familiar enough that he recognized it right away. The sound of the door to the storage building caught in the wind and banging against the wooden frame.

  Only he was positive he’d closed and latched the door after raking the yard yesterday.

  He crept around the side of the house, staying close to the wall, and peeked around the corner into the backyard. The sun was setting, but golden light filled the yard and he had a clear view of the storage building. The door was unlatched, and as he watched the wind sent it slamming shut again, only to rebound and swing wide. The doorway was dark and he couldn’t tell if anyone was inside or not.

  He decided he didn’t care. He rushed back around the house to gather his family and hit the road.

  —

  Charles Goodwin reached for the last Halloween decoration on the rack. Paper bats connected at the wings that you could spread out like a paper-doll chain. Just as his hand closed on the cellophane packaging, another hand grabbed it as well.

  “I’m sorry, this is mine,” Charles said, turning to the man who also grasped the package. He recognized him. John Huston, his mailman.

  John tightened his grip. “Have you paid for it?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Then it isn’t yours.”

  “But I got here first,” Charles said, trying to yank the package out of the other man’s hand.

  John held on firmly. “Says who? I’m pretty sure I touched it first.”

  “I need this for my family.”

  “So do I. You’ll have to go somewhere else.”

  “There is nowhere else,” Charles said, a desperate whine threading through his words. He’d been all over town, and this Dollar General on Gap Creek Road was the only place he’d found any Halloween decorations left, and now this sonofabitch wanted to swoop in and take that from him.

  John’s lips, which had often smiled and greeted Charles and his wife as he delivered their mail, now twisted into a vicious sneer. “That’s not my problem.”

  John tugged hard on the package. Charles almost lost his grip but managed to hang on and he tugged back. A childish game of tug-of-war between two men in their forties in the middle of a discount store. John lashed out and punched Charles square in the chest, causing him to let go of the package and fall back into a wire paperback rack. The rack clattered over, paperbacks skittering along the floor. John tried to rush past with the bats clutched to his chest, but Charles recovered quickly and tackled the mailman around the waist. They fell into a display of coffee cups, many of them shattering. Charles and John writhed around on the floor, throwing punches and kicks. Charles bit into John’s forearm at one point, drawing blood. The cashier and the manager ran over to try to break up the melee.

  During the commotion, a young woman snatched up the paper bats and ran out the door with them.

  —

  Rhonda Praytor waited until it was full dark outside before she drove to the Gaulden house to steal some of their Halloween decorations.

  She didn’t think of herself as a thief. She had been raised not to take anything she didn’t earn. Yes, she got food stamps right now, but it wasn’t as if she were unemployed. She’d been a cashier at Walmart for almost six months now, but she still needed a little extra to get by.

  Just like she needed a little extra to get by this Halloween. She had no decorations and had not planned on getting any. She couldn’t afford the candy to give away to the little beggar children, anyway, so her Halloween plans consisted of turning out all the lights and pretending that she wa
sn’t home.

  But now, with the threat of the Hashtag Killer—the moniker the paper had given him—looming over the town, it would be suicide not to put out decorations. The only problem being that she couldn’t afford any, and she didn’t get paid again until the day after Halloween.

  Which was why she was headed to the Gaulden house. Ricky and Lindy Gaulden were an older couple who lived in a large home out near the Greer Country Club. Every holiday, they always decorated extravagantly. Christmas, New Year’s, Easter, Saint Patrick’s Day…and Halloween. People from nearby cities traveled to Greer for the express purpose of seeing the ostentatious displays, but Rhonda had often thought it was just their way of showing off their wealth. She found it tacky and wasteful.

  Of course, some may say she was experiencing sour grapes, and there might be some truth to that. Right now she was certainly envious of their decorations.

  She parked a few blocks from the house and went the rest of the way on foot. Even before she could see the house around the curve, she saw the refracted glow from the lights and hear the music. The soundtracks to the movies Halloween and The Exorcist blended in a discordant symphony, punctuated with classic horror sounds, such as doors creaking, cats hissing, thunder rumbling, and cauldrons bubbling.

  When the house came into view, she slowed her steps, overcome with the spectacle before her. The Gauldens had gone even more over-the-top this year. Orange and purple lights trimmed the entire house on all sides. The usual decorations that could be found in most yards filled theirs in greater numbers, but also more elaborate and expensive pieces took up most of the attention. Life-size animatronic figures from the Universal Horror films—Frankenstein, Dracula, the Wolfman, the Mummy—moved and spoke through tiny speakers in the mouths. A dummy dangled from a noose tied to a branch of the elm out front, and every five minutes it would jitter and jerk. More dummies were propped in almost every window, horrific visages of terror screaming out at all passersby.

  Which weren’t many. Not as many as there had been in years past. A few cars still drove slowly by, taking in the gaudy exhibition, but no groups gathered on foot on the sidewalk out front. This was unusual, as the Gaulden house this close to the actual holiday once drew such a crowd that it looked like a spontaneous street fair had sprung up. She wasn’t surprised to see the street so deserted, however. The Hashtag Killer had everyone scared to leave their homes after dark. Hell, most people didn’t want to leave their homes during daylight.

  Rhoda scanned the night, her skin tingling with the sensation of being watched. She told herself it was all in her head, and it probably was, but she still wanted to get this over with as quickly as possible.

  She waited ten minutes, the hanged dummy performing St. Vitus Dance two more times, before the traffic on the street thinned out enough for her to feel confident running at a crouch into the side yard. She pulled the black trash bag from her front pocket and shook it out. She still felt bad about stealing, but it wasn’t like she was going to wipe them out. They had more than enough; they likely wouldn’t even miss the little she planned to take. She just needed something in her yard to keep the killer away.

  She started grabbing things indiscriminately and tossing them in the bag. Nothing too large. Phosphorescent skulls stuck into the ground on tiny spikes, severed hands and feet made of rubber, shrunken heads that dangled from tree limbs like ghastly Christmas ornaments. She crept around to the front, hunkered low to the ground. Jack-o’-lanterns of decreasing size descended down the six steps from the porch, the largest on the top step and one about the size of a grapefruit on the bottom. She snatched up the smallest one, blew out the tealight candle inside, and tossed it in as well.

  She was reaching for a stuffed raven when the porch lights came blazing to life. She didn’t freeze but instantly turned and bolted across the lawn toward the street. Behind her, she heard the front door open and someone start shouting at her, but she did not slow or glance over her shoulder. She sprinted all the way to her car, praying it wouldn’t give her any trouble, cranking the way it did on particularly cold mornings. Luck was with her, and the engine caught on the first twist of the key. She peeled off toward home.

  —

  At eighty-seven years of age, Sissi Brandon had survived a lot. Two husbands, one of them abusive and the other a cheating louse; the second World War, in which her father died; breast cancer in her forties; her only child going to prison for vehicular manslaughter after plowing into a group of kids and killing three while he was high on meth. She’d somehow managed to make it through all of that without being broken. She considered herself a strong, fearless woman.

  The Hashtag Killer had her afraid. She’d paid the Moseley boy next door to run to the CVS and pick up a few decorations and put them out around her yard. It wasn’t much—the Social Security she lived off left her little disposable income—but the few items she’d been able to afford did put her mind at ease somewhat.

  But not completely.

  As she sat in the living room, all the lights in the house on, trying unsuccessfully to focus on the episode of Law & Order playing on the television, she found that for the first time in more than a decade, she wished she didn’t live alone. The house was too quiet, even with the volume of the TV turned up to the max. She glanced at the clock, the creepy cat with the metronome tail and the eyes that ticked back and forth. It was a quarter past eight, but she thought she might get settled in bed with the new Nicholas Sparks.

  Turning off the TV, she became aware of a scratching sound coming from the front door. She froze halfway to a standing position, leaning on her walker, glancing at the door. The scratching came again, louder this time.

  “Who is it?” she called out.

  No answer but the scratching.

  She turned, trying to move quickly toward the phone. One leg of her walker got caught on a fold in the rug and she went toppling over. She tried to get her hands out to break her fall, but the walker got in the way. Her head collided with the corner of the heavy oak coffee table. There was pain, then only blackness as she lay sprawled on the floor, her blood fanning out around her.

  Outside, the stray dog she sometimes fed continued to scratch at the door, hoping for a treat.

  —

  The Hashtag Killer drove slowly through town, taking in all the decorations, many for which he could claim responsibility. He wore regular clothes tonight, not his scarecrow costume; that was stashed away for just the right moment. The police presence around town was noticeable, again thanks to him. Near the country club, he passed two police cars parked in front of the Gaulden residence, decked out in delightfully over-the-top fashion. Apparently the scene of some criminal activity, but he couldn’t take credit for that, whatever it was.

  He drove to the rural outskirts of town, taking back roads where the houses were set far from the road, often hidden by trees, mailboxes planted at the ends of the dirt drives. On long stretches where he could be sure there was no other traffic coming, when the lights from the houses were dim enough that he was sure he would be obscured from sight should anyone be looking out a window, he pulled onto the shoulder in front of those mailboxes and inserted some of his calling cards and flyers.

  He wanted to make sure that the folks who lived out in the boonies didn’t think they would be left out of consideration on Halloween night. He wanted everyone afraid.

  As he circled back around to the heart of town, he turned up the radio as Dusty Springfield’s version of “Spooky” came on the local classic-rock station. Singing along in an off-key voice, he headed home.

  ONE DAY UNTIL HALLOWEEN

  Workman found his wife standing in the living room, staring out the front window. She wore her thick flannel nightgown and the central heat blasted from the vents, but she had her arms wrapped around her body as if she were cold. He stepped up behind her and placed his own arms around her, kissing her neck. “Good morning, beautiful.”

  “Maybe we should get more decorations for the
lawn,” she said, her posture remaining stiff.

  Workman sighed and pulled away. “Wanda, we have more than enough decorations.”

  “I don’t know, I was thinking I could run out this afternoon and pick up a few more.”

  “I defy you to find a single Halloween decoration left in this town.”

  “I could try the Walmart over in Taylors.”

  He turned her around to face him, placing his hands on either side of her face. “We don’t need more decorations. We’re fine.”

  “I’m scared, James.”

  “I know, but you don’t have to be. I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”

  She nodded, but he could see in her eyes she still wasn’t convinced. He kissed her on the lips, the tip of the nose, then on each of her closed eyes. A ritual since their first date.

  “I don’t want you to work tomorrow night,” she said, placing a hand over her protruding stomach. She was seven months pregnant. “Stay home with us.”

  “You know I can’t. Every officer on the force is going to be out, looking to nail this lunatic.”

  “Just promise me you’ll be careful. I don’t want to be a single mother.”

  “Cross my heart. Now you go lie down.”

  “I’m not an invalid, James.”

  “No, but you are carrying another human being inside your body. I want you taking it easy as much as possible.”

  She seemed ready to argue but finally nodded, kissed him again, then toddled off toward the bedroom. Neither of them wanted to speak of it, but last year Wanda had miscarried in her third trimester, and they were both terrified of it happening again. She was already stressed out because of the murders, so he wanted her relaxing every second that she could.

  He whipped up some scrambled eggs and toast for breakfast, served it to Wanda in bed along with a cup of decaf coffee. She seemed in better spirits when he left the house to head to the station. Behind the wheel, he found his mind turning back to the writer, Dustin Davis.

  He knew the man had airtight alibis for the two sightings of the Hashtag Killer, but Workman’s instinct told him Davis was involved somehow. His instincts had rarely steered him wrong.