by R. R. Banks
The warehouse she remembered from her childhood was a cold, grey structure that was filled with abandoned car parts and rotting lumber. The interior had been altered dramatically. The lumber and rusting metal had been removed and red and black velvet hung from the walls. The small rooms to the sides seemed to have been cleared. Eva gazed around, astonished. To her right stood an open doorway, revealing a small carpeted room. She walked toward it curiously.
Inside stood a desk and chair; nothing else. On the desk was an antique-looking lamp and piles of paper. Eva looked down at the papers. Horror made her blood pump faster. On each sheet of paper were photographs. Some had as many as six images, some only one. Thick black X’s crossed out some of the captured faces. Each face that had been blacked out was of one of the Hunter’s victims. There was another door behind the desk. Pushing aside instinct, Eva pulled open the door.
Her scream reverberated off the walls.
It was a trophy room; like that of a sport hunter. The walls were hung with plaques displaying heads. The floor was crowded with platforms of carefully posed human parts. Glass eyes stared at Eva from perfectly preserved faces as hers darted frantically around the room. On a table beside her, a severed arm held a sharp-tipped quill pen above a piece of parchment, un-writable words suspended in the drop of vermillion ink spattered on the cream expanse. To her other side two complete bodies sat in overstuffed chairs, leaning towards each other in silent conversation with teacups cradled in stiffened hands. The screams continued to pour unchained from Eva’s mouth, torn from her soul. She turned to run but was struck still at the sight of Daniel’s head on the wall ahead of her. Her breath became short and ragged. Where was his body?
Slowly Eva approached the plaque, her vision tear-blurred. Her fingers shook as they reached to touch his cheek. It was cold and hard, inhuman. Wax. Her eyes fell to the table beside her. A half-crushed skull sat beside a gilded frame that held a familiar-looking photograph. Daniel’s father. The door slammed behind her.
Eva whirled around, her fingernails digging into the wax head’s cheek as she turned.
“Daniel!”
He stood at the door, eyes like fire on her. She spread her arms and took a step toward him, forgetting her confusion.
“Why are you here?” His voice was low, growling in his throat. Eva stopped, her arms dropping.
“You’re...but…Daniel. I thought…”
“That I was dead? That was what you were supposed to think.”
“But I don’t understand. Why?”
“I didn’t want it to come to this.”
He stepped forward suddenly, Eva stumbled back, hitting the wall.
“But Daniel…”
“I love you, Eva. I always have. I didn’t want you to hurt.”
“But Aunt Tina. You?”
“Fate, Eva. Daddy died because of fate. So, did yours. I took pictures. I lined them up. It was fate.”
Daniel’s eyes were now coals beneath his black lashes. He hadn’t wanted to kill Eva’s aunt. It was just how it happened. His father always told him he would never make a name for himself so he worked hard to prove him wrong. Daniel lurched forward and grabbed Eva. His hand combed back through her hair and gripped it firmly. Daniel’s mouth crushed hers in an insistent kiss.
“I’m sorry, Eva.”
********************************
Daniel sat in a leather chair gazing out the window at the September day. Leaves fell in a kaleidoscope of shades, swirling in the wind as they headed to the ground. The sun spread rich orange and red light across his face, highlighting the shocking blue of his eyes. Loneliness hung heavy in the room. Without averting his gaze Daniel reached beside him and took Eva’s head into his arms, placing it on his lap. His fingers glided through her thick hair, satisfied by the glossy strands as he stroked it gently.
And the sun dipped below the horizon. The dance was over.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Bitsy
“What the hell is wrong with you?”
I stomped through the living room of my mother’s house and into the kitchen, slamming the newspaper down on the table in front of Roman. He looked up at me with sleep-blurry eyes and I realized that he was barely conscious. I let out a frustrated growl and slapped my hand against the newspaper again to wake him up and get his attention.
“What is it?” he asked.
“I could ask you the same fucking question. What is this shit?”
He looked down at the newspaper and then back up at me with confusion in his eyes.
“It’s the stories,” he said. “We talked about them.”
“No,” I said, shaking my head. “We talked about the idea of doing them. We talked about how you were going to rewrite some of Nia’s stuff and then we were going to put it into the newspaper.”
“Yeah,” Roman said. “That’s what I did.”
“Without even letting me read them?” I shouted. “You didn’t even give me a chance to know when they were going to come out so that I could be prepared. I had to steal the newspaper before Granddaddy could get his hands on it. He’s going to be pissed when he doesn’t have anything to read with his pipe this morning, but I really don’t think that this is the way that he should find out about the haunt.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t even think about that.”
“Apparently not. You should just be glad that Whiskey Hollow Day is over. That’s the only time of year when he leaves the house or talks to anybody but me, so at least there’s still a chance that he won’t find out about all of this until I’m ready to tell him.”
“Well, now that the stories are out, we should be getting responses soon and we’ll be able to really finalize the idea for the haunt. Then we can tell Benson all about it.”
“Oh! And don’t even get me started on these stories of yours.”
I was so angry I could feel myself shaking and the heat from outside seemed to be radiating off of me.
“What do you mean?” Roman asked. “What’s wrong with them?”
“What’s wrong with them?” I asked, my voice getting higher and louder the longer we spoke. “You’re seriously asking me what’s wrong with them? They are the most disgusting things I have ever read in my entire life. They are entirely too gruesome, and if you didn’t notice, both of them involve women getting murdered and dismembered. I’m sorry, let me correct that. Teenage girls. They both involve teenage girls getting murdered and dismembered. What the fuck is all that about? Do you have some sort of sick fantasy about young girls getting tortured? Is that why you were so attracted to me? Because I’m small and young and was wearing a mask?”
Roman suddenly stood up, his chiseled face stony with anger.
“That’s enough,” he said sternly. “I don’t know where you get off talking about me like that and suggesting those things about me, but you are going to get over it, and you are going to get over it fast. I was attracted to you at that party because you looked hot as fuck in that tiny little dress and those heels, and yes, the mask, but not because of some twisted little girl fetish. If that was the case I wouldn’t be here right now trying to save your ass. I already had a piece of it, remember? Whether you like it or not, these stories are the kinds of things that haunts are based on. That’s the point of them. They are supposed to be horrible. They are supposed to be grotesque. They are supposed to scare people and push them to the limits of their minds and their emotions. That’s what these stories will do.”
“You’re trying to steamroll me,” I said. “You’re trying to take control of everything. You published those stories without even consulting me, you brought in crews without even telling me. Now they’re out there clearing corn and building things, and I don’t even know what’s going on.”
“These haunts can take months to build. Some take years. We have a matter of weeks. We don’t have any time to waste. I’m paying those crews to get the basic structure of the attraction up so that we can fill it in with the t
heme when that’s ready.”
“What am I supposed to tell Granddaddy if he asks what’s going on out there?” I asked.
I was seeing another side of Roman now, a side that I had always suspected was there, but didn’t want to accept it. The unavoidable arrogance and sense of superiority that came along with his exorbitant wealth and power was evident now and I was sickened by it. I could feel myself bucking against it, wanting to resist it, if only so that he would know what it was like for someone to say no to him.
“I’m sure that you can avoid the question. You seemed to do pretty well at not telling him that I’m Lorelei’s father.”
My jaw tightened and I felt my teeth gritting against each other.
“That’s different,” I growled.
“How?” he asked. “How is either one more or less the truth?”
“How dare you?”
I stalked back through the house and out, feeling tears searing my eyes and burning my cheeks. What Roman said had cut through me and my heart ached. It reminded me of Gregory and I remembered the advice that Nia had given me about not letting him control me any longer because I was worth more. She couldn’t have imagined that that very advice would drive me into her cousin’s arms, or give me the strength to walk away from him even though, despite the anger that I was feeling and the fact that I liked him far less now than I had, I still felt crushed and disappointed as I closed the door behind me and returned to my house.
Chapter Twenty-Three
The Holler Holler
August Volume Two
Reminder to Respond to Bitsy Galloway’s Stories of Terror
It’s getting to be that time. The deadline to respond to two terrifying tales of blood and betrayal and tell Bitsy which you think she should use for her haunted attraction is fast approaching. This is your time to have your voice heard and let them know how you would like them to scare you into November and make you thankful it’s all over. So, grab a card, write a letter, and let them know what you think.
Have a favorite of the two stories?
Tell them!
Have an idea for how they could take that story and turn it into a haunted attraction?
Share it!
Think you can do better than those stories and want to suggest a different theme for the attraction?
Go away. These stories were sick enough and I don’t like the idea of the Hollow getting overrun with these warped minds.
Once the theme is chosen, Bitsy tells this publication that building of the haunt will go into full force and be ready to open on October 1. It will stay open all the way through the month, with a special extra-intense celebration on Halloween night.
Families with little ones and those who are faint of heart are reminded that the farm will still be open during the day for tame, not-scary autumn fun with pumpkin picking, a hay pile for romping, the non-haunted version of the corn maze and much more. Bitsy has even hinted at the return of her grandma’s famous doughnuts.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Bitsy
The woman standing at the counter of the post office that also served as the headquarters for the newspaper when I walked in was angry enough that I nearly turned around and left. But I needed to talk to Coy and get the responses from the stories, so I ended up kind of hovering near the door, pretending not to listen in that way that left me looking around the sparse lobby as if engrossed with what I was seeing around me.
Well, would you look at that…stamps. Oh, damn…envelopes. Holy hell…newspapers.
As hard as I was trying to not be a part of everything that was happening, though, I couldn’t help but pick up on what was going down at the counter. It had taken me a few seconds, but now I recognized that it was Rue, a girl who had been a few years ahead of me in school and had left the Hollow years before. I had heard that she returned a few months before surrounded by a bit of scandal, but frankly I was far too invested in my own scandal to really get into the gossip about her. This was the first time that I had actually seen her and it seemed that this was not the best of reunions.
“Someone told me today that my engagement was featured in the newspaper?” Rue said, her voice rising higher with the last word.
“Well, yes,” Coy said, his voice much calmer and slower as he looked at her like he couldn’t understand why she was storming into his office so angrily. “One of our reporters was there for the happy occasion and snapped a picture.”
“Without my consent?”
There was that shrill inflection again.
“Freedom of the press, Rue,” Coy said, some of the unaffected calm replaced by a touch of a very special blend of pride and indignation. “Freedom…of…the…press.”
“I didn’t even know that the Holler was still being printed. An issue hadn’t been released in years when I left.”
“Well, that was a longtime ago, wasn’t it?”
Ooo, Hollow burn.
I knew that I had left Whiskey Hollow, too, but I hadn’t been gone nearly as long as she had before I crept my way back, and I had been living back here for more than a year, so on the scandal hierarchy, I was doing a bit better than her, which meant that as long as I wasn’t too enthusiastic about it, I got to enjoy at least a little bit of the public scrutiny and disdain. I felt bad about it, remembering what my first few months back were like, especially when people started to notice my belly swelling and the questions about the daddy started coming. But I was relying on these people to help me prove to Granddaddy that the farm was worth keeping, so if that meant that I needed to bear witness to a little bit of shade being thrown, I was just going to have to bring a flashlight and go with it.
“Wait, if the newspaper is suddenly going again –”
“It’s been going again for more than six years,” Coy pointed out.
“Wow.” Rue shook her head as if trying to get herself back into focus. “But that just underscores my point. If it’s going again, why haven’t I been receiving them? I haven’t gotten a single issue. I haven’t gotten any mail at all since I’ve been back.”
“Of course, you haven’t.”
“What do you mean of course I haven’t?”
“Your father put a hold on his mail.”
There was a pause.
“My father put a hold on the mail?” she asked. “I haven’t gotten any newspapers or mail since I moved back to Whiskey Hollow because my daddy put a hold on it?”
Coy nodded sharply.
“Yes. And you won’t be getting any of it until he requests the hold be taken off.”
Her voice had been slow and measured, but I held my breath as I waited for her response. There was a slight issue with Coy’s logic in this situation.
“My daddy has been dead for over a year!”
Yep.
Coy seemed unfazed by Rue’s explosion and continued to stare back at her from under the plastic visor that he always wore. The plastic cast a green haze over his skin and I had the sudden flash of the bank goblins from the movie that I had gone to see at the drive-in next town over years and years ago. Of course, none of those goblins had been green. They were all more of a Silly Putty kind of color.
Was I being prejudiced? Was that goblin-ist of me? Species-ist? Oh, dear lord, it was starting to happen to me. All of these rules were making life real hard these days.
“He put the hold on the mail, and he’s the only one who can take it off,” Coy told her.
“He’s dead,” Rue almost growled, leaning across the counter toward Coy.
“There’s a hold,” Coy growled back, leaning toward her.
The two stared at each other, locked in some kind of postal stalemate, and I worried that she might fling herself across the counter at him. Considering she had just had a baby and Coy was almost as old as the Hollow itself, this would have been a fairly messy turn of events. Fortunately, Rue finally pushed back from the counter. She glared at Coy as she walked backwards toward the door, shaking her finger at him.
�
��I’m going to get my mail,” she said like some sort of strangely coded threat.
“Just as soon as your daddy takes the hold off.”
I had to step out of the way to make sure that Rue didn’t steamroll me as she continued to make her way out of the office backwards, and I turned to watch her stomp out, the jingling of the ancient bells that hung from the door seeming far more ominous than when I had walked inside. She took a few steps out into the street and let out an exasperated scream, stomping her feet and flailing in a way that was just slightly less than dignified. Once that was out of her system, Rue smoothed her hair and started toward her car where it was parked somewhat haphazardly to one side of the building.
Coy had gone back to sorting the mail when I approached the counter. I stood there for a few seconds, giving him time to process through the stack of letters that he was meticulously distributing into piles. I figured he had been through enough in the last couple minutes. He deserved a few moments of peace.
When he finally looked up at me, I flashed him a wide smile. He smiled back and we stayed that way for just a few seconds longer than was comfortable.
Or sane.
When I came to the conclusion that he wasn’t going to be the one who was going to say anything first, I peeled myself back from my smile and spoke.
“She sure was upset, wasn’t she?”
Coy’s smile faltered and he glared at me.
“It’s the rules,” he said.
The rules go again making things difficult.
“I totally understand,” I said, nodding solemnly. “If we don’t have rules, what do we have?”
Coy looked at me sternly, his old face grey and serious. I imagined if I could see his eyes beneath the combination of the green visor light and the million wrinkles that were slowly reclaiming them like weeds taking over an abandoned parking lot that they would hold the tumbling storm of many distant memories.
