Hallow Be the Haunt: A Krewe of Hunters Novella

by Heather Graham

  “Hang on,” he told Jackson. “Ashley is with me. I’m going to speakerphone.”

  She smiled at him and scooted closer.

  Jake had a feeling his boss would welcome the help. Jackson knew Ashley well. And while she wasn’t Krewe, she was one of “them”—the gifted. Sometimes the cursed.

  “So, this thug—who saw Tink murdered and escaped, running like the wind—says in the end, there were three witches. Tink, he admits, meant to smash the witches to the ground. But after Tink approached one and turned back around, he was spurting blood from here to eternity. Bottom line, Isaac Parks is waiting for you in the city. Told him it would take you about an hour to drive in. He said to make sure you know the city is Halloween crazy. Hey, since you have a place known for vampires already, it’s going to be a Halloween heaven.”

  “All right. Parks. Isaac Parks,” Jake said. He hung up and lowered his head. “Ashley, I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be—it’s all right. So, this guy…the guy killed… He wasn’t the nicest man in the world?”

  “Apparently not. But there was a woman killed too. I mean, they may not be connected. She was a local woman, young—nothing bad that Jackson told me about, anyway. And the other… The medical examiner thinks they’re associated because it looks like the same weapon was used. On one hand, I hope there aren’t a lot of people running around the city with knives sharp enough to inflict that kind of damage. On the other hand… Well, I don’t really know anything yet.” He hesitated, looking at her. “I’m sure Jackson can get someone down here—I mean, I’ll just go in to see what…what I can see.”

  She was strangely quiet. Then she whispered, “I dreamed of a young woman walking down Bourbon.”

  Jake was silent. Those who were born to the place and those who worked here were all as much family to him as they were to Ashley.

  Yet, every time they came…

  He was just a little bit afraid.

  Yes, they saw the dead. Yes, the dead could whisper into one’s mind in dreams and nightmares beyond imagination.

  But he always worried about Ashley. She was honest and kind. Honorable—she did the right thing. And, he feared, that sometimes made her susceptible to those who weren’t so honest and kind.

  Or honorable.

  She smiled. “I’m fine. I’m not being made crazy by any ghosts of Donegal Plantation. Go. I’m going to help out with the haunted house stuff here. You know, I’ll go through the displays, check that no one has tried stealing a werewolf’s tail, or anything of the like.” He appreciated how she tried to lighten the mood. To ease his guilt at leaving her. “Go. Please, go. And keep me updated on this, okay? Louisiana, this parish, and then New Orleans… We’re from here. This area is dear to our hearts.” She gave him a soft kiss. “Go to work.”

  He sighed and rose, headed for the shower.

  He was dedicated to his work. It sounded funny, but since he’d been a kid, injustice had infuriated him—he’d always wanted to be there for the victims. And now, once again, he was leaving to answer the call to help someone else. But for some reason, he stopped and turned… Even though he wasn’t sure of what he’d been about to say.

  Ashley sat up on the bed, sheets slightly tangled around her, her eyes on him, her hair streaming around her in a provocatively messy torrent.

  He stopped and turned around, walking back to her.

  She arched her brows. “‘Truth, justice, and the American way’ are waiting for you,” she semi-quoted with a saucy grin.

  “They can wait for five minutes.” He kissed her just below her ear.

  “A quickie?” she breathed.

  “Sorry, but…”

  She grinned. “I haven’t a thing in the world against quickies.”

  And yet, neither of them really wanted quick. The passion and the fire were easy…

  She clung to him, and he held her tight, not wanting to let go.

  And he knew, somehow, that Jackson’s phone call had changed things. As if a knock on the helm had shifted a great ship out at sea.

  Maybe it had begun even before the phone had started ringing. Because Ashley hadn’t even heard it all, and still…

  She shoved him suddenly. “Go to work. I have ghosts and goblins and things that go bump in the night to deal with.”

  Real and unreal, he thought dryly.

  Halloween.

  What the hell had made them come at Halloween?

  He had to let go of her.

  Reluctantly, he did so. And hurried into the shower.

  * * * *

  Frazier Donegal sat tall and straight and completely dignified. He had a headful of snow-white hair, the epitome of a Southern gentleman.

  Ashley kissed her grandfather’s cheek as she joined him and Beth at breakfast, dressed for the day in jeans and a T-shirt.

  “Why? Why do we do this? We’re just flat out crazy,” he said, sipping his coffee.

  Ashley shook her head. “Sir, you know we do this for three reasons. A. Halloween is fun. B. We’re known as a fabulous attraction—people flock here for both the re-enactment and the Halloween festivities. C. The money we make during these times helps us maintain the house, the stables, the property—and the wonderful people we are so incredibly lucky to have working here.”

  “Oh, yes. That’s right,” Frazier said and smiled proudly as he looked out the window at his property. Cliff—their horse master—was rehanging a giant spider that had slipped down a rafter.

  Frazier shuddered, shook his head, and took another sip of his coffee.

  “Meeting of our cast of ghoulies in thirty,” Beth said, glancing at her watch. She grinned at Ashley. “We’ve got several new attractions this year. Wait until you see what happens at the smokehouse. You’re going to love it. Honestly, we have a great group of actors this year.”

  “Can’t wait,” Ashley said. “You never hire anyone but the best.”

  “Of course not.” Beth nodded. “Want to walk out now?”

  “Sure.” Ashley rose and kissed her grandfather on the top of his head. “Not to worry, sir. You can hole up in your room.”

  And he would, she knew. Frazier was not a fan of the plantation being turned into a haunted house. History was haunting enough, as far as he was concerned. But he did know the cogs on the giant wheel that was the plantation were expensive. And he did love his home.

  More importantly, he thought it was imperative to preserve history—be it noble or ignoble. Truth and learning, in Frazier’s mind, swayed the future. Lying about or hiding any event was wrong. Man could only learn through his mistakes.

  “Have fun, children,” he said as they headed out.

  The meeting would be in the office at the stables—a really nice, big space. Years and years ago, her father had seen to it that the office was completely modernized, that the air-conditioning system was upgraded and put on a maintenance plan. There was a large desk, which had been there since 1852, a Chesterfield sofa and a number of armchairs. The stables were in mint condition as well, the horses well-tended and loved. Frazier had always had an obsession with making sure his animals received the best treatment possible.

  They walked on behind the stables, though, to the smokehouse.

  “Wait for it… Wait for it...” Beth said, pausing before she threw open the door with a flourish.

  Ashley looked in. She tried to smile but inwardly, she winced. Through their own difficulties and Jake’s work, she’d seen too much real creepiness. She knew Halloween was supposed to be fun and spooky—but the smokehouse was positively sinister this year.

  Hooks that had historically held meat to feed the many mouths on the plantation now held mock human torsos and limbs. A butcher-block table was covered in blood, and a mannequin that had been partially disarticulated—as if the limbs and torso were being prepared for hanging in the smokehouse as well—lay haphazardly to the side. Blood spattered the wall, and on the ledge was a row of human heads—apparently the ones that had belonged to the mannequi
n bodies. They were male and female, young and old—with wide eyes and mouths open in horror.

  “Whoa,” Ashley said.

  “Jonathan Starling is the actor who works here,” Beth said. “You’ll meet him in a minute. We only open Wednesday through Saturday nights—but we’ve been paying our actors the same as they would be getting if they were working a full-time gig. We’ve been voted one of the best scare attractions in the area.”

  “That’s great.”

  “And we’re doing very, very well financially,” Beth said. Then frowned, looking at Ashley. “You okay?”

  “Sure.”

  “It is pretty ghastly,” Beth said, glancing around. “But it’s what people want.” She shrugged. “And it does bring in the money.”

  “Of course.”

  “Want to see the gingerbread house?”

  Ashley tried to focus on the odd comment. “We have a gingerbread house?”

  “Yep—just like the one from good old Hansel and Gretel.”

  “Um, cool.”

  “It’s in the old kitchen… We’ve got time. Come on. As you know, we always do the haunted hayride thing, and we have some setups out in the old slave quarters. But I think the two features here are the scariest.” She glanced over her shoulder. “Depends on what you’re afraid of.”

  Ashley followed Beth out to the old kitchen. It had been painted in shades of beige and tan that gave the illusion it was actually made out of gingerbread. Dotted with candy around the windows, it looked completely realistic. It even smelled of gingerbread.

  “We’re giving out cookies on the porch at tour’s end this year,” Beth said. “Along with iced tea. No alcohol… A few years back, your granddad’s old chum Herman from Natchez was running a haunted house and people were drinking quite a bit. One girl got scared and socked a scare actor. Poor guy ended up in the hospital. After that, your granddad says iced tea—and that’s it.”

  “It’s kind of dangerous for the scare actors, huh?” Ashley said.

  “I like being the hostess on the porch,” Beth said. “No danger there—other than if a cookie freak were to go crazy, but… Anyway, inside.” She proudly threw open the door to the “house.”

  It had once been the outdoor kitchen—designed so that in case a fire should start, the kitchen could burn without the main house going down in a pile of ash as well. Donegal now had a nice, modern kitchen inside, but the old kitchen outdoors had been an integral part of the plantation in the old days, and as such was important historically and architecturally.

  The hearth took up the entire back wall. There was a giant cauldron set over the center where the fire would burn.

  A comfortable bed and a few chairs were set up on one side of the room.

  On the other, there were…cages. Some were filled with mannequins. The others, Ashley realized, would be filled with actors.

  “The wicked witch wins?” Ashley asked.

  Beth laughed. “No, she’s here with her sisters. Our visitors are menaced by them—from a distance. Then one is allowed to set the children free. And one lucky person gets to push Aria—the head witch—into that stove. It empties into a small shed in the back, where she screams and cackles as she bakes. The actress is Lavinia Carole. She’s from Biloxi—you’re going to love her. We take people in groups of twenty, so they all get their own, slightly unique, experience.”

  “You all have really taken it a step further this time.”

  “You don’t mind?”

  Ashley laughed. “I’m thrilled. It’s all wonderful. We do the books together, so, just like you, I’m thrilled.”

  Beth nodded, hiding a smile. “As you know, we own most of the decorations. Just in case you want them for the wedding.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “I see that the cast of actors seems to be arriving. We can head for the stables.”

  “Sounds good. I have to say hello to the horses too. Nellie, Jeff, Varina, all of them. I miss them so much.”

  Being afraid of horses, Beth waited for her while she paid her respects. The horse master, Cliff, always saw to it that each animal was given plenty of attention, though Ashley had a special relationship with Varina, who was considered hers. But going through the stables, she showered some attention on each of the twelve horses the plantation kept.

  The animals always made her feel good. They were so solid and real—and normal.

  She wondered why she was so worried about normal.

  But she knew.

  The bizarre and eerie trappings on the house didn’t bother her at all. Nor did the artistry of the cemetery or her family’s tomb, or the tombs and graves of those who had lived and died at Donegal.

  She felt haunted.

  By her dream.

  “Hey, time’s a wasting,” Beth called to her.

  “Onward to the meeting,” Ashley replied, and they headed to the office together.

  * * * *

  Jake met with Detective Parks on Broad Street.

  Parks was a lean man of medium height with slightly graying hair and eyes that matched the color to a T. He shook hands with Jake, appearing genuinely glad to see him as they went to an empty conference room. Sitting down, he told Jake, “I happen to have met your Jackson Crow a few years back. Nasty business with a serial killer taking off on a ship. I was just one of a task force. Thing is, I don’t think my main people wanted to call in the FBI.”

  Jake shrugged. Sometimes local authorities wanted federal help. Sometimes they did not.

  “We try to assist local police,” he said.

  Parks nodded, a small smile curving his lips. “Well, we’ve been besieged down here over the last few years. This is my home, and God help me, the good, the bad, the crazy, I love New Orleans.”

  “I love the city, too.”

  “So I understand. You happened to be here because you’re basically a local. And you’re getting married, I hear. Out at Donegal Plantation.”

  “Yes, next month. After Halloween,” Jake told him.

  “Lucky man. Donegal is… It’s history.”

  “Ashley would be happy to hear you say that,” Jake said.

  Then the pleasantries were over. Parks flipped open his notebook and presented a picture to Jake. “Artist’s rendering of the ‘witches.’”

  Jake studied the drawing. There were three individuals, all exactly alike. Dressed in black, something light flowing around the more fitted costumes. The faces were green with very large noses. Whoever had created them had evidently been a fan of The Wizard of Oz.

  “That’s a bitch,” Jake said, looking at Parks. “It’s Halloween—the city must be crowded with characters dressed like this.”

  Parks nodded. Then he pulled out some photographs. “Here’s what I’m not understanding. We’ve looked into the first victim, Shelley Broussard. She was a good kid—well, twenty-five-year-old, if that’s a kid. Her parents divorced when she was young, but she made it through high school and then college and she worked in an art shop on Magazine Street. By all accounts, she was a nice person.”

  Jake looked at the picture of the young woman as she’d been found at the crime scene. Head bowed low. Seated cross-legged. The sign Traitor around her neck, and a coffee cup by her side. Money in the cup. Ironic.

  Parks flipped to another picture. It was an autopsy photo. The victim lay on a steel table, a sheet resting over all but her shoulders, neck, and face.

  She had been a pretty girl in life. Nicely crafted face, long, blonde hair.

  “We’ve interviewed the people she worked with. She left the shop on Magazine last Saturday night. Her father is in the wind. Her mother remarried and lives in Texas with a passel of new kids. She hasn’t been able to get here yet and, sad to say, she wasn’t as horrified as a parent should be. Apparently, her new life is more important than her oldest child.”

  Jake nodded, not sure what to say to that. How a mother could be so enthralled with her new life that she didn’t care about her daughter
he couldn’t comprehend. He was glad that, at least, Parks really seemed to care. And now he did too.

  “Did you check her residence?”

  “Yes. She lived with a few other girls in a loft above the shop where she was working.”

  “And?”

  “And nothing. Clean as a whistle. There are two or three young women there at any given time. But, trust me, no blood. Nothing that indicated any kind of a struggle. And she was seen leaving. By several people—the owner of the shop and his wife. A few of the salesgirls.”

  “She’s dead, and this Tink is dead. But you don’t know if it’s the same killer.”

  “That’s the thing. She was a good kid. The man killed last night—Tink, or Thomas Aldridge—had a record a mile long, including burglary and assault. He was charged with murder once, but we had to drop the charges. The D.A. didn’t have enough evidence to take the case to court.”

  “So, one victim a sweet girl, another victim a thug. And there was an eye witness to the second murder who gave a police artist an image of three witches.”

  Parks nodded gravely. “I think there’s something at work here. I mean…” He paused, staring at Jake. “I called Jackson Crow on purpose, rather than trying to reach someone in the main behavioral science units. Some of the guys here scoff at the BAU to begin with, but you already know that.”

  “I know many officers don’t believe in profiling, yes. And I know many call us the ghost busters.”

  “But you always get your man. Or woman. Or both. Or… Well, you have a solve record that’s incredible. Thing is, Special Agent Mallory, I know you’ve been with Crow since the beginning—when your unit had six members and you started out solving that case in the Quarter. And I know about the murders at Donegal. And I know, too, this is just the beginning. These witches are going to terrorize NOLA. At Halloween.” He sighed. “I need your help.”

  “Sir, you’ve got it.” Jake sat back. “I’d like to see your eye witness. Then I’d like to interview Shelley Broussard’s friends at the art shop myself.”

  “The first you can do right now. I’ve asked that David Henderson be brought to a conference room.”