Dark Hallows II: Tales from the Witching Hour

by Mark Parker

  Growing up on a pumpkin farm, Corey had explored this barn many times. He’d learned every nook and cranny of the ground level and the second-story loft. But for all the times he had spent inside this barn, he never knew that it had a basement.

  A trap door in the floor was now open, and flickering candlelight glowed from beneath the wood floor. The last thing he wanted to do was to go down there, but the killer had his sister. Corey would die before he’d abandon her. His sweaty palm gripped the knife. His heart beat wildly as he followed a set of wooden steps underground. Built of flaking concrete walls, the basement was damp and covered with mildew. Spider webs clung from the rafters. At the bottom, candlelight danced in the carved eyes and mouths of a dozen jack-o’-lanterns perched on crates and metal shelves.

  Corey rounded a corner and wasn’t surprised to find Uncle Malcolm sitting in a chair. He was dressed in wet, muddy farm clothes. His eyes held Corey’s gaze a few seconds before going catatonic. Paige sat in another chair, soaked to the bone and frozen in a state of shock. Corey ran over and hugged her tight. “Thank God, you’re alive!”

  Furious, he spun and faced his uncle, holding out the knife. “You...you killed Mom and Dad.” Corey raised the knife, ready to drive it down into Malcolm’s chest.

  “Don’t hurt him!”

  Corey stopped and turned when he heard the voice.

  From the shadows stepped his father, wearing green trousers and muddy workman’s boots. He removed a pumpkin mask from his head.

  Next to Dad stood Mom, her face and nightgown covered in blood. “We’re not dead, Corey. See?” She peeled prosthetic knife wounds off her cheeks. “Mommy’s all right.”

  The knife fell from Corey’s hand as he stared at his parents with shock and disbelief. Everything that had happened tonight, all the adrenaline and terror, hit him all at once and he started crying. His mother placed a hand on his cheek. “It’s okay, honey. It’s okay.” She looked back at Dad in anger. “Robert, I told you the kids are too young for this. We should have waited another year.”

  “They’re old enough,” Dad said. “You and I were their ages when we found out.”

  Corey didn’t understand. “Found out what? Why did you scare us? I thought we were gonna die.” He felt ashamed that he was crying so hard, but this Halloween prank was the cruelest thing his parents had ever done.

  “Tonight was your initiation,” his father said. “Every member of the coven goes through it. Boys at around age ten, and girls when they turn six or seven. Come with us.” Dad took Corey’s hand and Mom took Paige’s. Corey felt numb as he was guided around a stone wall toward the back side of the basement. The room had a musty, rotting stink to it. Paige hid behind Mom’s leg and Corey squeezed Dad’s hand at the sight of what met them in the room. Sitting against three walls were skeletons dressed in tattered farm clothes. At least a dozen of them.

  “These are some of our elders,” Dad explained. “Coven members who used to farm the patch. That one over there was your grandfather. You two were probably too young to remember him, but Grandpa was a hard-working man who loved his family and would do anything to protect us. The night that Malcolm and I saw the Jack-O’-Lantern Man slaughter the family across the street, it was our father wearing the pumpkin head. That night was our initiation into the legacy of our coven.

  “And this man over here…” He led the kids and Mom to a wall where one corpse sat off the ground on a platform. The skeleton was tall with long bones wrapped in roots and vines, some of them still green with ivy. Its bony arms, supported with sticks and baling wire, were raised as if it were blessing the long-dead followers. Its hands were massive, the root-entwined fingers resembling claws. A large pumpkin atop its shoulders had blackened and molded around an enormous skull.

  Mom and Dad got down on their knees and encouraged the kids to do the same. With deep emotion in his voice, Dad said, “This is the Jack-O’-Lantern Man, the original leader of our coven, Hector Ravencroft.”

  Corey stared in awe at the legendary monster. Mason jars with candles burned around the skeleton’s feet. There were dried flowers there, too, and other little offerings. Corey spotted a blue rubber ball that he’d been missing since he was five, jars full of baby teeth, and one of Paige’s dolls, its pink dress and plastic face covered in dust.

  Mom said, “The Jack-O’-Lantern Man makes sure that every year we have a good harvest, and he protects our family from the evil people of Millcreek.” She pulled both kids into her arms. “We expect you kids to always respect our protector and to never, ever mention him or this place to anyone. This is our family secret.”

  Dad knelt beside Corey. “In order to keep receiving his protection, we must make blood sacrifices. As children of his coven, it is our duty to carry on the curse against this town.”

  Corey swallowed hard as he looked at his father. “What do you mean, Dad?”

  Dad smiled. “It means you never have to fear the dark or the bogeyman again.” He pulled a freshly-carved jack-o’-lantern from the platform and placed it over Corey’s head. He stared through the triangle eyes as Dad handed him a machete and gave him the look of a proud and loving father. “Son, from this night forth, you and I are the bogeymen.”

  SIX

  Stuart Keane

  Katrina Beckett stared through the windshield, her weary gaze oblivious to the patter of light rainfall that bounced and trickled down the exterior of the misted glass. The thrumming sound was subtle on the humid air, almost rhythmic in its candor, and added an improvised, natural soundtrack to the sinister thoughts spiralling around inside her head.

  But her gaze wasn’t on the heavy rain, or the toughened glass as it sparkled in the vivid beam of a nearby streetlight—or even on the flickering shapes that passed the car in eerie silence, their almost-spectral activity drowned out by the savage downpour.

  No, her eyes were on the vast, dark shadow that stood before her, central behind the windshield, dominant with its array of obtuse angles and contours. She couldn’t see the entirety of the horizon right now, a familiar scene that greeted her during the dawn of every morning, but she knew it was there, and the shape was splicing a large silhouette into it, signalling its ever-foreboding presence.

  Even now, Katrina could see the high, steady curve of the rollercoaster, the spindly eye of the Ferris wheel and a tall structure constructed of metal girders she knew to be the Whisper Plunge, the infamous drop tower. In her mind's eye she pictured stalls and amusements, lavish games designed to take your money with little reward for your eager participation.

  She imagined the greasy smell of fresh doughnuts, the sugary tang of cotton candy, the cool essence of Mr Whippy ice cream, all fond memories from her childhood that were now tainted with abject terror. Beyond the wide strip of food stalls and game tents stood the plethora of deserted rides, structures that would remain abandoned for the evening, quiet and isolated, backlit by the white moon beyond.

  Katrina swallowed.

  She hated this place.

  The theme park that haunted her dreams.

  Whisper World.

  Katrina chewed her bottom lip.

  She didn’t want to go back there, to return to the lights and laughter of Whisper World. She wanted to start the car, turn around, and get out of Dodge. Katrina didn’t want to walk across the multi-colored threshold, or nod to the familiar cashier with that eerie lopsided face, or feel the cold steel turnstile caress her exposed hip as she entered the grounds. She didn’t want to look at the plethora of rides within, or feel a sudden familiarity as she wandered its empty paths. She didn’t want to remember the tragic past, one that risked putting a smile of fond remembrance on her face.

  Not again, she thought.

  Please, don’t make me do this…

  She glanced down and sighed, and noticed that she was inappropriately dressed in a revealing blue tank top and white jean shorts. She tugged at the base of the flimsy material, but it pinged back up, leaving a strip of bare, toned stomach.
She felt the uncomfortable dampness on her thin shoulders, the slicked hair on the nape of her lithe neck, and the prickle of goose flesh on her forearms. She hadn't escaped the rainfall when climbing into the car, one that continued to drum repeatedly on the roof, and for some reason, she never could escape it. She always wore the same clothes, always parked in the same spot outside Whisper World, and always forgot the seventeen minute journey that brought her here.

  She never remembered the downpour.

  But then, she never remembered climbing into the car, either.

  Never, on five separate occasions. Thus far, anyway.

  This was the sixth time, the third in October alone.

  And, in her eyes, the final time.

  Today. Today was the day.

  Halloween. The date seemed apt.

  This couldn’t continue.

  She had to face her fear.

  And deep in her terrified eyes, two wide orbs flecked with the color of beautiful emerald, she made the difficult decision. The green may have ebbed and faded away over the years with the tragedy and pain of it all, but she didn’t care anymore. She was finally in a place to do something about it. The mysterious, amnesiac excursions from her home had to stop.

  She knew what she had to do.

  You will get Abby back.

  Now. Tonight. Somehow.

  And no one will stop you.

  ***

  Moments later, Katrina climbed from the car and shut the door slowly, forcing it closed with her palm. For some reason, slamming the door filled her with a queasy dread, and the thought of hearing it thunk in the silence of the eerie evening terrified her.

  The air was chilled, still fresh and cool from the heavy downpour. She could still hear the pitter-patter of rainwater running off rooftops and splashing down unseen guttering. It eased her a little to know that normal natural sounds still existed in this strange world. She shook her head while rubbing her temple, and for a second, the image of Whisper World blurred, distorted, and scratched back and forth across her hazy view, like an old VHS tape on pause.

  She looked around.

  The flickering shapes, no longer silent and blurred by the drenched glass, were people—couples and parents and children exiting the theme park after an exciting day, their exhausting experience all but over. She watched as children reluctantly climbed into vehicles, observed as parents partook in the routine theatre that had probably interrupted their lives on numerous occasions. One child refused to climb into the vehicle until his father scooped him up underarm and thrust him into the backseat. Katrina heard his whining cries as the door slammed shut. One guy on his lonesome walked to the back of his car and forced several bobbing balloons into the trunk of his Vauxhall. After a battle that saw the rubber ovals bop him in the face several times, he came out the winner.

  Katrina jumped, then shivered. She rubbed her arms, and felt the gooseflesh pimple.

  And was knocked aside by someone.

  "Oh, dear God. I'm so sorry!"

  Katrina stumbled and regained her balance, leaning against the car. She looked up and came eye to eye with a thin, excitable woman. Her pale face was lined by fluffy brown hair, her expression youthful but tired, the skin smooth but pocked with the odd line here and there. As Katrina straightened up and took a small step back into her own personal space, she realized the woman had her arms wrapped around a little girl. The girl was hiding her face behind her gloved hands, shy, the obvious culprit of the unexpected collision.

  "I'm so sorry," the older woman repeated. "It's been a fun but long day. The kiddo is a little excited."

  Katrina smiled and nodded, an expression which required all of her effort. For a moment, she took her eyes off the theme park, losing focus. "It's no bother, really."

  "My little girl does enjoy coming to Whisper World."

  "Well, it’s a great place. Lots of fun and rides," Katrina said, her contempt barely hidden.

  The little girl lowered her hands, and said nothing.

  "Seven-year-olds, eh? The woman continued. "I made the mistake of giving her a Pepsi this morning. Amateur hour, am I right?"

  Katrina nodded, looking at the mother. I always get them, don’t I? Stop talking to me.

  After a second, she nodded again. "Yes," she answered. "My little…yes, it's not good for the kids. I bet she tried the cotton candy too, right?"

  The woman smiled, her brow furrowing. "Yes, how did you know?"

  You said it yourself, amateur hour. Plus, Whisper World makes their own, it’s the best for miles around, you'd be a fucking numbskull to pass it up. Katrina coughed. "Educated guess," she said.

  The woman smiled. "I'm so sorry for the intrusion. Amy, say sorry to the lady."

  "Amy?" Katrina continued to smile, and dropped to one knee. She didn’t want the kid to be scared of the mean old lady in the parking lot; she had enough to cope with in her mother. "That's a nice name."

  Amy nodded. Said nothing.

  "It's okay, you don’t need to be sorry," Katrina said. She started in on another sentence, and then fell silent. Her gaze looked at Amy for a little too long, and her eyes began to wobble.

  The mother took the hint. "Well, we’d better be going. Looks like the rains coming in. That cloud there sure looks like a doozy. Say goodbye to the lady, Amy."

  "Bye," the little girl uttered.

  The two of them began to walk away. Katrina opened her mouth, thought about it, and then refrained. She nodded. "Take care."

  Rains coming in? You just missed it, love.

  Katrina wiped her shoulder, the trembling fingertips caressing the collar bone, and felt the slick wetness there. The skin felt slippery beneath her gentle touch. She brushed the back of her hand against her sodden hair and groaned. Then, she remembered the woman's hair had been dry, fluffy, untouched by any foul weather. She narrowed her eyes, confused. She watched the woman go, Amy trundling along beside her, and realized that the concrete around her was bone dry.

  But I was just…

  She scuffed her shoe on the concrete. The crunching sound of dry, dusty asphalt rattled in the air, obvious for all to hear. Katrina looked at several nearby trees. No water dripped from the leaves or branches; there was nothing to suggest that a heavy shower had just passed. She strained to hear the water sluicing off rooftops and down guttering, as before, but heard nothing.

  What is going on?

  Was I imagining it?

  Katrina placed her small hands on the roof of her vehicle, realized the roof was also dry, and pushed. She felt the muscles of her back flex, pushing against her tank top, and the tendons in her forearms erupted on the tanned skin, bulging beneath the surface. She groaned, forcing her tired gaze down to the dry concrete.

  This is one of its tricks…her tricks.

  Another one. You should be used to this now.

  I'll never get used to it.

  If you're going to come out of this alive, you need to get used to it yesterday.

  "I know," she said aloud. "I know."

  She pushed away from the car, pulling her tank top down over her stomach. She adjusted her waistline and rubbed her arms one more time.

  I wish I'd brought a jacket, and put on some actual jeans.

  That's not how this works, you don't make the rules.

  You wear what you wore that day, and nothing else.

  And you never remember getting here.

  But, on the other five occasions, you never climbed out of the car either.

  She might not like that. You're meant to spectate, to suffer.

  You know this.

  She might not like it.

  "Who gives a fuck what she likes," she said, speaking to herself. "It's time to finish this."

  Katrina walked to the trunk of her car, opened it, and retrieved the green gym bag that sat there. She hefted it, the contents clonking against one another, its weight reassuring. After the fourth episode of travel, she thought it might come in handy, and had packed it just in case.
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br />   I don’t make the rules, but I can sure bend them.

  Let's see what you make of this, bitch.

  Closing the trunk, Katrina walked past her car and headed toward the entrance of Whisper World.

  ***

  The first thing Katrina noticed was the complete isolation.

  Mere moments ago, before the small girl had bumped into her, the car park had been thriving with the bustle of people and moving vehicles, alive with the constant thrum of departing activity. She remembered the bizarre balloon man, the impatient father, the multiple families who looked exhausted from their days exploits.

  Now, the parking lot was empty, deserted.

  An eerie silence settled on proceedings. Katrina spun on the spot, the gym bag arcing out a little, and she realized that not one vehicle shared the vast space with her own. She saw rows of seemingly endless pale lines stretching out before her, each indicating an empty space, the occasional tire mark piercing the faded whiteness. The daunting outline of Whisper World's gates loomed ahead, high and wide in the silent evening, the gloom adding an air of menace to the protective structure. Katrina walked toward it, her bare thighs swishing against one another.

  Off to the left sat World Motel, the attached establishment for customers who travelled from afar. The eighteen-room motel was also deserted. Not one light shone in any of its multiple windows. The reception door was firmly closed, all of the curtains were pulled shut, and even the Pepsi machine at the edge of the building was turned off, the rectangular monstrosity almost lost in the deepening shadows.

  Is this really happening, or is it part of her tricks, her games?

  Katrina kept silent, milling the prospect over inside her mind. Seconds later she passed the motel, paused to compose herself, and slipped through the open gates. Taking a few steps and staring ahead, she saw six ticket booths, all lined up and exact, each the replica of the next.