Last Halloween (The Deadseer Chronicles Book 2)

by Richard Estep

  “So what?” Jessica shrugged, shooting me a look that seemed to say so what’s the big deal, dude? “It’s just one of the others. They’re probably figuring out where they’re going to be tonight.”

  I wasn’t buying that for a second. Those footsteps were too big, too heavy, too downright menacing to belong to one of the kids that worked here. Those were adult feet, and they were heading our way.

  “I don’t think it is,” Becky backed me up quietly.

  “Why are you both whispering?” Planting both fists on her hips, Jessica managed to look amused and annoyed both at the same time, which is no mean trick to pull off, let me tell you.

  “I…” I couldn’t finish. This was getting awkward. And the footsteps were still getting closer.

  “There’s nothing out there to be scared of,” she laughed, her voice the loudest thing in the room. I winced. Yes there is, I thought to myself. More than you have any idea about.

  “Jessica—” Becky began, but before she had a chance to finish, Little Red Riding Hood was gone, her bright red cape flashing behind her as she went out into the still-dark maze.

  “I’ll show you!” her voice said, echoing from the walls. “Like I said, there’s nothing to be—”

  She screamed, shrill and piercing. It went straight through me like the wind on a really cold day goes straight through your clothes and chills you to the bone.

  “Jess!” Becky ran to the doorway, but hesitated before stepping out into the maze. “Stop messing around! This is so not funny!”

  I couldn’t have agreed with her more. If this was a joke, then it was in pretty bad taste, but something told me it wasn’t: the goth girl hadn’t seemed to have much of a sense of humor, though I realized that I might be being unfair to her by thinking that…stereotyping her because of her clothes and makeup.

  “Danny, we have to help her!” Becky said, her tone full of indecision.

  “I know, but what if…” I couldn’t finish the sentence. What if the dark man’s out there? That was what I wanted to say, but didn’t know how to. How did I admit to Becky that I was afraid of him? No, not just afraid — terrified. That was it. I was terrified. Something about him scared me stupid.

  “Danny!” she snapped, her anger starting to show now. She bit off every word. “We. Have. To. Help. Her!”

  Then she was gone, out into the mirror maze.

  Out into the darkness.

  I hesitated, torn between fear and the wretched, gut-wrenching shame of allowing the girl that meant everything to me in the world to go out there and face who knew what dangers alone.

  Screw it. I knew that I would rather die than see even a hair harmed on Becky’s head.

  I followed her into the maze.

  I couldn’t hear the footsteps any longer. The sound of mine drowned them out. I could just make out Becky, maybe ten feet in front of me, and she looked like she was moving fast. Amazing what adrenaline can do.

  “Becky, wait up!” I called. It came out as more of a croak.

  “Move yourself, Danny,” she fired back. “Jessica’s in trouble. Jess! Where are you?”

  A light suddenly appeared up ahead, white and blinding as it reflected off all of the mirrors. It spun round in a circle crazily, as though somebody had moved a lighthouse into this cramped enclosed little space. Then I realized what must have happened: Becky had turned on the light on her phone, and was using it to try and guide her.

  The light dimmed suddenly, as Becky turned a corner in the maze. I picked up the pace just a bit, wanting the security that being within arm’s reach of her would bring. This place made you feel so freaking alone, and I hated that feeling with every fiber of my being.

  “Jess, where are you?” She was still calling out for her cousin when I caught up with her around the next bend, looking frantically all around her but seeing nothing other than her own reflection.

  “If this is your idea of a joke…” I mumbled, but shut up when Becky shot me a pair of daggers from her eyes.

  What answered us both was totally unexpected.

  It was a laugh.

  Not the kind of laugh that came from the mouth of a young tween girl, either. This was throaty and hoarse, and it had more than a little craziness running through it. I’d also heard it before, and I knew exactly where.

  It was the Dark Man.

  The first sign of his approach was the laugh, rippling and echoing along the glass-filled hallways. We couldn’t tell which direction it was coming from, because the acoustics were so messed up. The second sign came through the mirrors themselves: my hand was resting on one, the fingertips brushing lightly against its surface like so many people must have done before, and I suddenly noticed that they were burning…no, not burning, freezing. The glass was becoming ice cold. I turned my head to look and saw that the mirror was starting to frost over; actually, all of the mirrors were starting to ice up, looking like the windshield of Mom’s car on a winter morning when she made me go out there and scrape it off for her before she went to work.

  We could see the breath in front of our face, fogging up the air in a fine mist every time we exhaled. It had felt fine just a minute ago, but now it was turning as cold as a meat locker. Becky began to tremble, but it wasn’t fear — she was shivering. I put my arms around her protectively, and that was when I figured out that I was shivering too. The sweat on my body was turning ice-cold too. It felt as if somebody had poured a glass of ice water down the back of my shirt.

  Then the footsteps started up again.

  “Danny, is this…”

  I nodded, then realized how stupid that was. “Yeah,” I said. “This is the one. It’s him.The Dark Man.”

  Becky shrugged off my embrace, standing tall at her full height and taking up a kickboxer’s stance, her fists bunched and ready to lay down some hurt. Damn, but she was impressive. I don’t think I’ve ever been prouder of her, not even up at Long Brook when everything was turning into a nightmare and all I wanted to do was get the hell out as fast as my legs would carry me.

  She was standing between me and the corridor that we’d both come along, like a bodyguard getting between her client and some psycho stalker. How had I ever let myself get on this girl’s bad side? More to the point, how had I ever been stupid enough to treat her the way I had?

  Those footsteps were so close now, just around the corner on our left. It felt as though, if I just leaned out over Becky’s left shoulder, I could reach out a hand and touch him…not that I wanted to.

  “Come on then,” Becky said, sounding as brave as anybody could under the circumstances. Her voice cracked a little, but who could fault her for that? I knew that deep down, she had to be as terrified as I was. And cold. Oh man, this freaking cold… “Bring it!”

  There was that laugh again, that grating, mocking laugh.

  “Very well,” came the reply, and this time I recognized the voice straight away. It sounded as though it came from different vocal cords than the laugh, if such a thing was possible, but also coming from exactly the same place, as though two people were speaking through one mouth. But there was no mistaking that silky, oily little purr, and suddenly my teeth were set on edge from more than just the chattering. It was Malachi freaking Falconer.

  The English turd stepped slowly around the corner — at least, his silhouette did — with both arms held out palms-upward on either side of his body in an I come in peace gesture that all three of us knew was complete bullshit. Slowly, he leaned forward and bowed low at the waist.

  “Why Rebecca, my dear, whatever is the matter?” The man practically oozed insincerity from every pore. Unfortunately, it worked. Only for a second, but a second was long enough; taken off guard by his faux-polite douchebag move, she dropped her fists just a little, doubt creeping into her body language. She’d been brought up to be polite, after all, and nobody did polite better than the English.

  That’s when he struck. It was fast, like a snake uncoiling and lashing out. Suddenly he had batte
d her arms aside with his own and was crushing her in some weird kind of…I don’t know, bear hug, for lack of a better word, wrapping his long, spindly arms around her and stopping her from struggling somehow.

  I saw red and threw out a fist with as much force as I could muster, which wasn’t much even on a good day. This really wasn’t shaping up to be a good day, but the punch connected anyway, scraping off the cloth of his suit jacket. I’d been going for his face, but this was the best that I could do in the dark. Falconer laughed again, and this time it was more of a harsh and guttural bark, the type of voice they give to aliens and demons in the movies. I think I did pretty well not to just pee myself on the spot. Falconer looked up at me from over Becky’s shoulder, and I could see that his eyes were glowing in the darkness, burning a cold, spectral blue fire. They didn’t blink either, just stared at me, and then I was thinking about snakes yet again, and the way their lidless eyes looked at you without breaking eye contact.

  Falconer grinned, two rows of unnaturally-straight, perfect white teeth. I know what he was trying to do: he wanted to terrify me with it, reduce me to a spineless puddle of goo with that I’m the predator and you’re the prey move of his, but you know what? It didn’t exactly have the desired effect, or anything even close to it…because he was holding Becky, and I loved her, damn it, and there was no way, no freaking way, that he was taking her anywhere.

  I balled up my right fist as tight as I could, keeping it down low at my waist while I worked up the nerve to plant it right on the tip of that smug beaky nose of his.

  My back was to the wall, pressed up hard against the freezing cold glass, and that was my first big mistake: for just a few seconds, I’d forgotten that the spirits in this godforsaken place moved through the mirrors. I only remembered it again when a pair of shadowy arms suddenly wrapped themselves around my head, then closed on my throat and began to squeeze. I gasped and choked, spit flying out of my mouth. I could feel my windpipe spasm, pinched off by vice-tight forearms. Falconer was laughing again, cackling so hard that he put The Joker to shame, and began to drag the still-struggling Becky back out into the main corridor.

  Still struggling myself, I reached up and swatted at whoever it was that was holding me, but their grip wouldn’t give — not surprising really, because the best I could do was feebly swat and slap at them. It wasn’t dark in here any longer, or so I thought at first, but then I realized what was really going on: there were bright lights dancing in front of my eyes, drowning out the darkness, and I started to feel suddenly faint, as though my head was full of smoke or something. This must be what being drunk feels like, a part of my brain said in amazement, and then the dancing lights were replaced by a deeper blackness that had nothing to do with the outside world. My knees gave out, and I felt my legs buckle underneath me, my back sliding down the ice-cold mirror until I finally lay slumped on the floor. Whoever was choking me out must have squatted to follow me down, because the grip hadn’t eased off one iota.

  And then Falconer was back, just standing there right in front of me. Unless you’re hallucinating, I thought, spitting froth out as I struggled futilely to get a breath in. But then he confirmed it, bending down and sticking those glowing blue eyes just inches away from mine, the condescending-but-still-predatory smirk still there as well.

  “I’m afraid that young Miss Rebecca is no longer your concern, Mr. Chill,” he tut-tutted, the smile stretching from ear to ear now. “But rest assured, I shall take the very best care of her.”

  I spat, which was pretty much all that I could do now. My body refused to move, and it felt as if I was drifting away on a warm, soft water-bed, while somebody went around the room and turning out the lights one by one.

  “Now,” Falconer went on, “let me tell you a story…”

  The last thing I felt was the chill of his bone-cold hands taking hold of my temples. Then my whole world turned to black.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Have you ever seen some — really seen something — without ever opening your eyes? Let me tell you, it’s the weirdest thing.

  Like pretty much every seer out there, my spirit body has left my physical body while I’ve been asleep and traveled to the spirit realms; in fact, that’s how I usually meet up with Lamiyah, my spirit guide (usually in some far-off fantastic place that I’ve never quite figured out is a mental construct or a real, actual alien planet or something). Anyways, this wasn’t that. I had traveled somewhere outside my body, or at least it sure felt like it, but something about this place just felt…I don’t know, off somehow.

  I was standing in the middle of a…well, I guess that you could call it a street, even though there was no real road or sidewalk: instead, when I looked down, I saw that I was standing in dark brown mud around the soles of my sneakers. Well, that was a relief at least — I was still the inhabitant of my own body, and not somebody else’s. When I had spirited-traveled to Long Brook Sanatorium the night before we actually drove up there, I had looked in the mirror and seen somebody else’s face staring back at me, the face of a young boy. Creepiest feeling in the world. But this time, even though there wasn’t a mirror handy, I could see my own shoes, pants, and shirt, which meant that if I did look in a mirror, I would probably see my own face. Whew.

  The sky was grey and overcast with fat and swollen clouds, which were drizzling down rain into the mud. Little pools and puddles were forming, and I could see people stepping carefully around them so that they didn’t get their feet any wetter than they already were. The road seemed pretty busy; looking from one end to the other, I could see maybe nine or ten people going about their business. One, a tall man wearing a black felt hat, was carrying a struggling chicken under his arm. His expression was somewhere between determined and annoyed as he trudged towards me through the mud, and as he came closer I got a better look at his outfit. He was wearing what looked like some kind of long green smock, and threadbare brown pants that had holes at the knees. The pants were tucked into the tops of some leather boots that had also seen better days — the left one’s sole was flapping every time he took a step, and had to be letting in a ton of water.

  When the big man splashed past me, I looked down; the mud splatters that he kicked up went straight through me without leaving a mark, just as you would expect if you were a spirit traveler in some other place where the people weren’t aware of you. But where exactly was I? Along one side of the long street was a huge stone wall, maybe fifteen feet high, that ran in both directions as far as I could see. On the other was a bunch of houses that looked like they had come straight out of a historical movie. Wherever we were, the local people liked to build stuff out of wood. One of the bigger buildings had a sign hanging from a wooden arm just above the entrance. I went over to have a look. It was a painted picture of a gold crown and two crossed swords, along with the words King’s Arms. Was this some kind of military armory then, I wondered?

  Curious, I took a few steps inside. My hand passed straight through the door handle, which told me that I was in some place that my spirit body couldn’t physically manipulate anything (that was a new one), but that meant that all I needed to do was walk straight through the thick wooden door…into what I thought, at first, was a building on fire.

  Smoke was everywhere. The last time I’d seen anything like it was on the roof at Long Brook, when the whole building really had been on fire; dark black smoke had been pouring out of every window below us, and we couldn’t see more than a few feet in front of our own faces. This was different, though. The smoke was lazier, more comfortable, and nobody was panicking or running around like headless chickens in here. Through the occasional gap in the drifting smoke, I could see a low ceiling with wooden beams running across it. I went further in, and now it all started to make sense. That had to be a bar over there, complete with a fat, scowling innkeeper leaning on it. He was pouring a tankard of something for a skinny little man who was dressed like a farmer…from five hundred years ago.

  Was that it
— had I traveled back in time somehow? It sure looked like it. From what I could see of the other drinkers at the inn, they were all dressed in a similar way, as though they were extras from Vikings or some similar TV show. There were a few really epic beards on show, long enough to put ZZ Top to shame. Everybody looked totally miserable. The inn was busy though, and people were gathered around tables, talking in hushed tones over their drinks. This isn’t what an inn is supposed to be like, I thought to myself. Not that I’d ever been in a bar or a pub for real, but I’d seen plenty on TV. They were always loud, noisy places, with lots of laughing and joking around going on. This place looked as though somebody had just died.

  The front door slammed open against the wall behind me, and I turned to watch as a big, muscular man — he must have been six and a half feet, at least — was framed in the doorway for a second, before taking the steps down into the inn with a confident swagger that screamed I’m the alpha dog around here, and you’d better not forget it. He passed straight through me, which seemed like it should have felt weird but didn’t, and stood in the center of the room, ducking his head to keep from hitting it on the ceiling. I noticed that he was carrying a pair of heavy iron shackles, the sort that looked like they belonged in a dungeon.

  The innkeeper, just finished pouring the drink for his customer, looked up and said respectfully, “Constable.”

  “Tom,” the big man nodded. Constable. Wasn’t that what the British called their cops? He looked around the inn. Every conversation had stopped. Every man was giving him their full attention. This dude obviously commanded a lot of respect. He took a breath, ignoring the smoke, and said, “It’s time, lads.”

  Now the murmuring started up again. Time, I wondered…time for what?

  “I’ve been to the magistrate this morning.” The constable took out a piece of paper that had been rolled up into a scroll, and held it up in the air for everyone to see. The drinkers looked up at it as though it was the most precious, valuable thing they had ever seen. “This makes it all proper and legal, like. It’s time to get the job done and be rid of him, once and for all.”