Halloween Carnival, Volume 3

by Brian James Freeman (ed)

  He stepped up behind her and leaned over her shoulder. His chiseled face reflected the pale blue light of the computer screen; he squinted his eyes as he read.

  “You don’t think that—?”

  “What would you think?”

  He pondered it for a moment. “It’s creepy, I’ll give you that. But knowing what you’ve been through, this seems…I don’t know, a bit counterproductive, don’t you think?”

  “Facing fears is a big part of my therapy. And frankly, I’m tired of hiding from it.”

  “Fair enough,” Evan said. “I’m no expert. I just don’t like to see you upset, that’s all.”

  Anne saw the genuine concern on his face and stood up, wrapped her arms around his lean, muscular torso. He wasn’t ready for all of this. She knew that. Better to keep her ideas to herself.

  “I’ll be okay,” she said. “I have you.”

  He smiled and kissed her tenderly. Then he said, “Speaking of which, I have business in Denver the week of Halloween, but I can make sure I’m home by the night of the thirtieth. We can hide out from the festivities and binge-watch some TV shows, eat buckets of ice cream, and have sex like wild, filthy animals. I’ll make sure to never let you out of my sight.”

  She kissed him back and smiled. “Sounds dreamy.”

  But the smile was forced.

  —

  The final weeks leading to October 31 were always the worst. Over the past twenty years, Halloween had become a retail juggernaut, with ghosts, ghouls, and goblins creeping into stores earlier every year.

  Anne had grown up in Los Angeles, where the pervasiveness of Halloween decorations, supplies, and paraphernalia was inescapable. This was one of the reasons she had moved to a small resort town in Colorado, where the commercialization of Halloween was easier to evade.

  After two years of therapy, which included exposure to Halloween imagery in a safe, controlled environment, Anne had moved past her panic attacks. The previous year was the first time she’d been able to view things like skulls, witches, and carved pumpkins with only minor discomfort.

  But now the ghost she’d seen on the mountain trail had sent her spiraling back into the same patterns of fear, and she’d avoided any stores that even hinted at traditional Halloween decorations.

  She wondered how Dr. Brody would try to explain away the correlation between the ghost she’d seen and the death of Peter Amerling. She even had a printout of the newspaper article in her purse. She was halfway to her next therapy session when she got the call.

  “Hello,” Anne said, putting her phone on speaker.

  “Hi, Ms. Hunnicut,” a woman’s voice said somberly. “It’s Karen, from Dr. Brody’s office.”

  “Oh, hi, Karen, I’m only about ten minutes away; is she running late?”

  There was a long pause, and for a moment Anne thought she had dropped the call. “Hello…Karen?”

  “I’m sorry to have to tell you this way, but Dr. Brody…Helen…she was in an accident today in our building. I’m sorry I don’t have any details yet—but she was pronounced dead at the scene.”

  “Wha—what?” Anne said.

  “I killed her, Anne,” said a disembodied voice from inside the car, seething with menace. “And I’m coming for you.”

  Startled, Anne lost control of the wheel. The Mercedes jumped a curb and plowed through shrubs and saplings.

  “No, no, no!” she yelled, as her car took down a mailbox. She jammed on the brakes just as the telephone pole came into view. There was a terrible squeal, followed by the crunch of the car colliding head-on with the pole.

  —

  Beyond an abrasion on her chin and a stiff neck from the impact of the deployed airbag, Anne had no physical injuries from the crash. However, the psychological trauma kept her housebound for several days.

  She lied to the police, the person whose front lawn she destroyed (though, of course, she offered to pay for the damage), and to Evan about the cause of the crash. It was a hell of a lot simpler to say a dog had run out in front of her than to try and explain the demonic voice.

  She hated deceiving Evan, but as much as he loved her, she also knew he was in no way prepared to deal with the full extent of her disorder. Lying to him was a better option than the risk of scaring him off. The thought of him abandoning her like the others was too terrible to imagine.

  He had practically doted on her for three days following the accident, but when it became clear he was going stir-crazy in the house, she told him to get lost and get back to his clients.

  Throughout those three days, she’d maintained a brave face for Evan’s sake, but the mask was cracking. The shock of Dr. Brody’s death and the demon’s return were never far from her mind. Was the voice real or had it been a figment of her imagination? It sounded different than in the past. She couldn’t pinpoint what it was. Angrier?

  More important, was Dr. Brody’s death an accident or did the demon somehow gain the ability to kill before Halloween?

  Maybe she was just going insane.

  The local paper had a brief news item, in which Anne learned that Dr. Brody had fallen down a stairwell in the office building. And just like that, the brilliant, compassionate woman who had changed her life was reduced to an accidental death statistic.

  Guilt over Brody’s death followed Anne throughout the day like a beast tracking its prey.

  Was her husband next? She feared this even greater than her own death. God knows Evan hadn’t signed up for any of this shit. He was a good man, deserving of a normal, balanced, loving partner, and she desperately wanted to be that. She kept telling herself they just needed to get through October 31, just two more goddamn days, and things would get better.

  It was times like this that his career demands were a blessing and a curse. On the one hand, it kept him on the road a lot, so she didn’t have to hide behind a false smile all day. On the other hand, being sequestered at home alone this close to Halloween wasn’t ideal. Dr. Brody had often warned her of the dangers of social isolation, as it is both a cause and effect of mental distress.

  But she didn’t have much of a choice. Evan was on the cusp of negotiating the biggest acquisition of his career, and Anne didn’t want to impede his progress by demanding his presence at home. She didn’t need to work, so she holed up in the house and found things to distract herself from the loneliness and fear.

  Unfortunately, friendships had never come easy to Anne, and when she moved to Colorado, she’d started from scratch. Sure, she had a few acquaintances she’d met through a local hiking club, but none that were close, and none she could confide in about her fears.

  Tomorrow was Halloween, and Evan had promised to be home tonight by 7:00 p.m.—just three hours away. I’ll be fine when he gets here, she thought. I always feel safe when he’s near.

  The phone rang, startling her. She sat up in bed and reached for the phone on the nightstand. “Hello?”

  “Hey, babe,” Evan said. “You’re not gonna believe this shit—but my car just died on me. About thirty miles out of Denver. I’m stuck on I-70, waiting for a tow.”

  Anne felt a sick, oppressive crush of dread wrap tight around her chest. But she kept her voice as calm as possible. As always, she didn’t want Evan to hear the panic rising, to know just how close she was to losing it. “Oh…do you know what’s wrong?”

  “No clue. Might be the alternator, I’m not sure. Worst-case scenario, I’ll see if I can get a rental—but it’s getting ready to storm out here, so it’s not looking good right now.”

  Anne heard a vehicle swoosh past him on the highway, which made her wince. “Okay, just keep me in the loop, and stay back from the road.”

  “I’ll get home as soon as I can, I promise. I’m sorry about this.”

  “It’s fine,” she lied. “I’ll be fine. Just get here as soon as you can. I’ll wait up for you.”

  “I’ll call you when I know more. Hang in there. Love you.”

  Her voice broke as she said, “Love
you, too.”

  She stared at the phone for a long time, until an odd sound caught her attention. That sounded like someone moving in the house.

  She climbed out of bed and moved toward the main entrance to the room. Beyond the windows of the west wall, the sunset drained away like blood.

  Beyond the door, shadows lay like dangerous things across her path.

  From somewhere, muffled laughter. She froze.

  She squinted to see what looked like a large figure at the end of the long hall. It was the silhouette of someone—or something—crouched on the floor.

  “I’m coming for you,” it whispered.

  Anne’s scream sliced through the darkness like an ax.

  She ran.

  Out through the second entrance to the room, down the stairs, into the living room, and to the front door.

  It wouldn’t open. She unlatched the three locks and yanked with all of her strength. The door wouldn’t budge.

  “I’m coming for you,” the demon called again from the darkness.

  Anne spun to face her attacker, but the room was empty, save for the furniture and the art hanging from the walls. A painting of her parents above the fireplace bore silent witness, looking even more somber than usual.

  Then, a disembodied voice: “We both know what you want.”

  “What?” Anne screamed. “What do I want?”

  “To be with your family. They’re waiting for you.”

  Anne glanced around but saw nothing. Tears spilled from her eyes. “That was before. I don’t want that now. I have Evan!”

  The demon’s laugh rang out like the report of a shotgun. “He’ll leave you like the others. When he finds out how sick you truly are.”

  “No, he won’t!” she shouted back. “He’s not like the others.”

  “You’re lying to yourself, Annie. This should have ended five years ago with the noose. End it now…or I’ll end it for you.”

  Suddenly, the logs on the grate, in the large marble fireplace, burst into flames. Anne shrieked as if the house were burning down around her. She ran back through the living room and headed toward the garage.

  The door was jammed shut. She shook the knob, to no avail.

  She rushed for the dining area but stopped in her tracks when the lights began to flicker. There was a rattling noise and she realized the table in the dining room was shaking as if there was an earthquake. All four dining-room chairs fell to their sides with a loud crack.

  Anne’s heart thundered in her chest, she tried to catch her breath. Call for help, she thought. I have to call the police—somebody.

  She made it to the kitchen and grabbed the wall phone, frantically dialed 911.

  Through the phone came a familiar voice: “I’m coming for you.”

  She flung the handset away as if it had burned her hand.

  It’s not going to let me leave this house.

  Anne remembered the gun hidden in her room and started back toward the master suite.

  She looked for any sign of the demon; it was nowhere to be seen, or heard.

  She moved up the stairs, quiet as a silent prayer. She’d hated the idea of a gun in the house, but Evan had insisted. He even made her take a gun-safety class. Now she was grateful. Though whether a gun would do any good now was anyone’s guess.

  As she entered the sunless room, the double doors for both entrances slammed shut, causing her to jump. She ran for the large walk-in closet, where the nine-millimeter Glock was hidden in a shoebox on the top shelf. She flipped on the light, found the box, and reached inside.

  The door slammed behind her. The light flickered…then went out.

  No!

  Muffled laughter. It was inside the closet.

  She fired the Glock in the direction of the laughter. The explosion inside the confines of the small space was deafening.

  Through her ringing ears she could make out the derisive laughter of the demon.

  Wild-eyed, Anne threw her body against the shuttered closet doors and smashed through, tumbling onto the carpeted floor beyond. She accidentally fired the gun, and the bullet disappeared into the plaster of the far wall.

  Leaping to her feet, she swung the gun back and forth, ready to fire at her tormentor. For a brief moment, she hoped some neighbors might hear the gunshots, but then she remembered how secluded the land was around her house.

  An elongated shadow moved across the wall nearest the bed. She spun toward it, fired the gun twice more. The acrid smell of smoke burned her nostrils.

  A similar shadow appeared on the opposite wall. She blasted a hole into that one, too.

  The demon voice called out, “Last chance, Annie. Above you.”

  At that moment, the lights came back on. Hanging from a ceiling beam was a noose.

  Waiting.

  “Do it now, Annie. Or I’ll do it for you,” said the demon.

  “Go away, you’re not real…I’m going insane!”

  “I’m coming up the stairs now, Annie,” it said. “And you’re going to see how real I truly am.”

  There was a terrifying finality to those words. An eddy of fear swirled around Anne, like dust spiraling off the floor of some desolate, drafty place.

  She sprinted into the bathroom and locked it, throwing her back against the door. She slid down into a sitting position as tears leaked from her eyes at the futility of it.

  It’s not Halloween yet. How can this be happening? How?

  She stiffened at the sound of footsteps beyond the door. Yet the voice she heard next came from inside the bathroom. “You’ve only got one bullet left, Annie.”

  She glanced frantically in every direction, but there was no sign of the demon. She counted the shots she’d fired in her mind’s eye. Five shots. She’d fired the gun five times. Once by mistake. It was a six-round magazine.

  The demon slammed against the door and Anne shrieked, sending her scrambling up off the floor. She aimed the gun at the door.

  “One bullet left, Annie. Are you going to waste it trying to kill me…or finally give yourself the peace you deserve?”

  She watched as the doorknob turned, testing the lock. “I’m coming for you.”

  Her body went cold, like swimming in the darkest pocket of a deep lake.

  The lights when out.

  There was a smashing sound at the door. A flash of gunfire. And the thump of a body hitting the floor.

  —

  It was 5:00 p.m. on Halloween when Evan arrived back at the house. Everything had gone as planned.

  He’d played the long game with Anne and it had paid off. Big-time. After a ten-month investment he would inherit millions. The best con of his career.

  So far anyway.

  Everything had been set up from the beginning, starting with Anne’s flat tire when he’d stopped to help her in the parking lot. As well as their spontaneous marriage in Vegas, the fake ghost on the mountain trail, and Dr. Brody’s fall down the stairs. And for the coup de grâce, the demon voice that tormented his batshit-crazy wife.

  A con this elaborate was a two-man job, of course. His partner, Bryce, had handled all of the technical effects: the props, wiring, makeup, sound effects, hidden cameras, moving furniture; anything haunting-related fell under his purview.

  The man was a goddamned genius.

  That genius cost a fortune, however. Forty fucking percent of the take. But, hell, it was worth it. After this one, Evan wouldn’t have to work for years.

  But he would anyway. He enjoyed the cons too much to give it up. As long as his luck and good looks held up, he would continue courting wealthy women under different identities and killing them with various poisons and other rigged accidents to inherit their riches. The elderly were the easiest to swindle, but he had to admit Anne had been a nice reprieve from the usual romancing and fucking of old hags.

  It had certainly been the most creative con of his career. He’d rather enjoyed it.

  He opened the contacts on his phone and tapped a name. Afte
r two rings, Bryce answered.

  “It’s all clear,” said the familiar, raspy voice. “Come on in.”

  Evan ended the call and pocketed his phone. He’d considered killing Bryce several times. It was a liability for anyone to know his business so intimately. And yet he also knew he couldn’t have pulled off the last three cons without him.

  Evan was the front man for the band, but Bryce wrote all the songs. And they both knew it. It was Bryce who had hacked Dr. Brody’s patient files without anyone being the wiser. And it was Bryce who had identified Anne as their mark.

  The files had told them everything they needed to know about Anne’s bizarre past and phobias—and how to exploit them. Down to the smallest detail. Such as her childhood fear of a demonic voice that said, “I’m coming for you.”

  Anne had a long history of clinical depression, anxiety, panic attacks, hallucinations, and, most important, attempted suicide—things that Evan would tearfully mention to the police when he was questioned.

  He’d hoped his Annie had put all of that behind her, he would say. But Dr. Brody’s death had sent her into a downward spiral. And despite his best attempts to get her the help she needed, she’d clearly lost it on the eve of Halloween, unable to cope with facing another October 31 alone.

  He’d offer more tears then, damning the shitty luck of his car dying on the way home from Denver. But of course that was planned as well, and now he had a tow driver, a mechanic, and a rental car clerk to place him a hundred and fifty miles away from the scene of the crime.

  He pulled his rental SUV into the garage and parked. Bryce was waiting inside, but he wouldn’t kill him. Not yet. The money was just too damned good.

  Inside the house, Bryce sat at the bar of the kitchen working on his laptop and drinking a beer. He was a bear of a man, with shark-gray eyes and a wolfish countenance. The stool under him looked as if it might collapse under his weight.

  He nodded at Evan. “Happy Halloween.”

  Evan offered a knowing look. “My new favorite holiday. You about wrapped up here?”

  Bryce’s laptop screen showed multiple camera angles of the house. “Yeah,” the big man said and grunted. “All the gear is packed up ’cept for the cameras. We need to break into the bathroom with the body to get the last one.”