“What’s going on?” Tyrell demanded to know. “Who’s screaming?”
Everett spun, swinging the ax in a high wide arc.
Tyrell’s head spun off his shoulders and landed in Maynard’s hands.
The bull-like bully blinked at the head and looked up at Everett, meeting eyes that were far too gleeful. “Choppy trick!” Everett said, pointing at Tyrell’s spurting neck, as the body dropped to its knees.
Maynard turned to run away, trailing a scream.
His legs pumped like pistons as he tucked Tyrell’s head under his arm and made for safety, hitting a spin move off the corner of the house but never stopping—until something caught him across the neck, snapping him horizontal. Suspended like a balloon, Maynard only had time to realize he had gained no meaningful yardage before he fell spine-first onto the unforgiving ground.
He attempted to catch his breath, trying to believe he had just been pranked. Struggling to focus, he saw that it was a rope of some kind that had leveled him, stretched from the corner of the house to the trees at the edge of the yard, with leaves or something stuck to it.
Oh—those were little bats and skulls and ghosts. It was a homemade Halloween banner.
And the rope was coming out of a fake body propped against the tree behind it.
No…
It was that kid Del, with a messed-up construction paper kitty cat mask stapled over his face, glasses in place over it. He was tied to the tree by his own intestines, which were strung back to the house’s gutter pipe.
Maynard tried to sit up, to cry out, but was too breathless to do either. Sensing something behind him, he whipped his head up and saw his ax—the one he had loaned to Norman—silhouetted against the dim sky, just before it sliced into his skull.
* * * *
At twenty-four, Ruth had seen more than her share of good times—many artificially induced—and the bad times that resulted.
Thanks to a libido as formidable as her personality, she had wound up with Nico Rizzoli, whose sex drive was almost as insatiable as hers. His growing addictions were an added bonus. To Ruth, Nico was the doorway to both worlds, and in the end, with most of her bridges burned, dealing with Nico’s arrest left Ruth as something like a war orphan.
Seeing she had nowhere to go, a judge took pity on Ruth and sentenced her to a rehabilitation program, payable in work hours. There, she met new friends from opposite ends of a bleak spectrum.
Many of Nico’s former customers had wound up in the same program as Ruth. There were no hard feelings though, as most of these were more interested in Ruth’s connections—namely, Nico—and how they could score again.
But there was a minority of users who had dug right through rock bottom and were determined to stay clean. Ruth’s roommate, Vickie, buttressed by the Holy Bible as viewed through the harsh filter of fundamentalism, was one.
Vickie witnessed to Ruth, and the girls prayed together for Ruth’s salvation, which she declared to all who would listen. The program’s overseers were impressed. Soon, Ruth was out of the system and nestled in the Lord’s embrace, into which she intended to bring every soul who crossed her path.
There were no fundamentalist churches near Ember Hollow. But Reverend McGlazer of Ember Hollow Unitarian Chapel, a volunteer at the center, had gained Ruth’s attention.
His educated, regal bearing, with his veneer of flawed conscience, appealed to her need for both a father figure and a bad boy. As a recovering alcoholic, he could topple into relapse any time—and might need a strong woman. Sexually, she would remain loyal to Nico, of course—unless the Lord led her otherwise.
* * * *
Everett pulled the ruined executioner’s hood from the mush of Maynard’s head and held it up to the moonlight. Satisfied, he tore off his eye mask, leaving a few staples in his flesh, then drew the cloven hood over his pasty face. He stapled the eye mask onto what was left of Maynard’s head, where eyes once were. “Swappies!”
* * * *
The warehouse space just outside of town was donated by Bruner Heavy Equipment every year for PR and good will among Ember Hollow’s farmers. Ruth had written and called the company numerous times, hoping to convince them to withdraw their support. She was always rebuffed.
Unlike conventional parades, whose display conveyances were usually small cars with themes built around them, Ember Hollow’s were motorless platforms pulled by tractors from local farms or tricked-out high-end hot rods. Far from just street racers, these were serious club cars painted with thematic art, babied and blessed by their hardcore rockabilly owners and drivers. For Ember Hollow’s car enthusiasts and those in the outlying counties, the Pumpkin Parade was the highlight of the season, an excuse for competitive rodders to show off their dedication and artistry.
A 1966 Olds Toronado from all the way up in Point Pleasant, West Virginia, with a sparkling purple paint job airbrushed with leering pumpkins and tombstones, would take the lead in this year’s parade, followed by East Coast Killer Kustoms’s HellHearse, the Carolina Corpsemobile, and a good forty more mechanical beauties.
St. Saturn Unitarian’s Cemetery Terrorium display was to be pulled by a battered rust-brown 1941 Chevrolet COE truck, the roof of which was cut out for McGlazer to wave and toss candy crosses from it as he boomed his well-practiced baritone laughter. He would be dressed as pagan priest Lord Summerisle from the cult film The Wicker Man, as portrayed by Christopher Lee. Few would catch the reference—which delighted McGlazer to no end.
Gathered outside the Bruner open warehouse where the Halloween parade mobiles were built and stored, the drivers and mechanics could not resist some wide-open revving of ear-crushing, eight-cylinder brawn.
The rich smell of a petroleum grade far purer than typical square fare greeted—and offended—Ruth as she struggled through a bay door, arms loaded with a box of diner food and a bushel of apples. She wrestled her load to a long table of pumpkins, then dropped off the apples and searched for Reverend McGlazer.
He and Hudson Lott watched burly workers raise a Volkswagen Beetle-sized plywood-and-metal-tubing spider on a cable web over its display float.
Spooky stereophonic cackling rose and fell from a trailer fashioned into a huge casket, with blood painted like running streams at the coffin lid’s edge. Someone inside adjusted the volume.
Ruth whispered to herself. “Oh…Oh, Holy Father. This truly is a demonic blasphemy.”
She strode toward McGlazer, stopping to frown at a fortune-teller-themed covered wagon with arcane-looking symbols and poster board tarot cards pasted to the sides.
Stella, sporting a wig of long grayish hair, came around from the front of the float, almost colliding with Ruth. She emitted a yelp. “Ooh, that was a good one!” she said.
“This is your contribution to the parade?” Ruth asked.
“Yes! Watch this!” Stella reached inside under the carriage’s cloth cover, felt around, then hit a switch that caused an animatronic ragged cackling corpse to emerge from the rear of the carriage, startling Ruth.
“Ha!” Stella exclaimed. “I guess we’re even now!”
“Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord,” grumbled Ruth, as she walked away in a huff.
* * * *
Blood-soaked boots trudged across the dusty, stripped pumpkin field, stopping at a lonesome pumpkin that had been skipped over during the harvest.
Everett reached down and lifted the gourd, breaking it from its brittle stem. Raising the pumpkin, Everett placed two bloody fingers on spots where eyes should go. “See all the Halloween!”
He dropped it into his bag and peered off toward the chocolate-colored, tree-lined horizon, beyond which he knew was the fishing pond where his playmates had gone.
Chapter 18
“—need to make a new spider, that’s all. That thing weighs a ton,” noted Hudson.
“Yes, but it’s just s
o gruesome, don’t you think?” McGlazer said. He took in the creature’s blood-dripping mandibles, mirrored eyes, and grasping legs.
Ruth cleared her throat to interrupt.
“Hello there, Ruth,” greeted Hudson.
“Deputy Lott,” Ruth said.
“You can call me Hudson, you know.”
“I believe formalities with regards to authority are a safeguard against hooliganism, if you don’t mind.”
Hudson raised eyebrows and hands in resignation.
“What do you think, Ruth?” asked Reverend McGlazer.
“I’ve explained my feelings.” Ruth fingered her gold cross necklace as she gestured toward the table behind her. “I brought you some dinner and apples from Peterson’s farm.”
“Oh! Ruth, you’re the best. Thank you so much!”
“Mm-hm. I’ll go attend to some church matters now.”
“Nice to see you, Ruth,” Hudson said, adding, “Er, Miss Treadwell.”
Ruth turned to leave but slowed when she heard Lott say to McGlazer, “Oh! About that piece of candy you brought me…”
She went to the table to unbox the food as she eavesdropped.
“I really don’t think there’s anything to it, but I did take it over to Charlie Plemmons at the drugstore,” Lott said.
“Ah! How is Charlie?” McGlazer asked.
“Busy. Holiday sales and all. He said he would take a look at it after closing.”
Ruth’s heartbeat quickened.
“Please give him my thanks when you see him.”
“Yeah, I’ll be heading over in an hour or so,” Hudson said.
Feeling panic rising, Ruth stroked her little cross. She hurried away—only to be stopped at the bay door by Kerwin. “Well, hello, O Ruthless One!”
Ruth suppressed most of her irritation. The rest, Kerwin ignored. “Excuse me, Kerwin. I’m in a hurry.”
“Just a sec.” Kerwin’s smile morphed into his cartoon conspiracy expression. “We need to talk biz.”
“What is it?” Ruth asked.
“Your, uh, little operation going all right?”
“We’re finished.”
“Oh?” Kerwin craned his neck to see what Hudson was doing. “So…your boyfriend’s moving out of the basement?”
“He wasn’t—he’s not my boyfriend.”
“Oh?” This brought a light of lascivious hope to Kerwin’s face. “Didn’t know you were single.”
“I have a boyfriend.” Ruth imagined calling down lightning to burn Kerwin to a pillar of smoking ash. “Just not here.”
“You, uh…” Kerwin pointed up. “You’re not talking about the Lord, are you?”
“I have to go.”
“I just need to make sure you guys are cleared out by tomorrow, like we agreed. The band’s gonna be moving around in there and I don’t want—”
“I promise,” she interrupted. “Now please…”
“If”—Kerwin’s face grew the Lon Chaney Phantom of the Opera grin he thought was charming—“you’ll have dinner with me. After the Outlines get signed. You know.” He hung an arm on the door frame just as he surely thought James Dean might do. “I’ll need a plus one for the celebration.”
“I don’t…” Ruth realized there was only one way to end this conversation. “Okay, of course.
“It’s a date then!” Kerwin rubbed his hands together.
She shoved past him, feeling his gaze on her.
* * * *
With only the Trans Am’s headlights and a lone streetlamp over the pond providing light, Angus and Trudy sat at the end of a small pier over the isolated fishing spot, passing a bottle. They had graduated to liquor: Diamante’s Deep Dark.
Helga and Ryan had stripped to their underwear upon arrival, but Angus, citing the cool temperature, was still in costume. Trudy remained clothed too. “Well?” she cooed.
“Well what?” Angus imitated.
“Are you warm enough to get in yet?”
“Hold on.” Angus took a huge guzzle.
“Easy!” Trudy jerked the bottle away, spilling a good bit. “You’re not supposed to drink and swim!”
Angus watched the other couple cavort in the dark water, and he patted his inflatable muscles. “That’s why I’m wearing my floaty!”
Trudy stood and put her hands on her perfect hips. “What? You mean those muscles aren’t real?”
She unzipped her body suit and stepped out, presenting to Angus a body he found even more fantastic than he had spent many showers imagining. All he could say was “Uh…”
“Ooh! Chilly!” She said with an almost innocent smile. “Have fun with your play muscles.” She jumped in.
Angus set down the bottle and followed, feet-first.
Helga and Ryan held each other, treading water together. Ryan craned his head and got a good eyeful of Trudy. “Great ghosts of Mars!”
Helga forced his face toward her. “Huh-uh, bad boy. You only have eyes for me. Remember?”
“Yeah, but you’re not naked.”
“Yeah, and maybe I won’t ever be if Trudy is what you want to see.”
“Aw, babe! You’re killing me here! Give me something!”
She blew bubbles at him. “I’ll give you something.”
“Really?”
“But first”—she swam back from him—“you need to get me a beer.”
Ryan swam for shore like a school of piranha was after him, splashing Trudy and Angus on the way. He climbed out at the pier and trotted toward the Trans Am.
Helga watched Ryan go, enjoying the sight of his brawny silhouette until he became lost in the headlights. She turned to watch Trudy and Angus play.
Helga grinned as Trudy took a deep breath and ducked underwater in front of Angus, who said, “Oh-ho ho! You naughty little mermaid.”
Helga swam to the pier and pushed herself up, propping her elbows on it, kicking her feet in the water languidly as she squinted toward the Trans Am, seeing nothing but glaring headlights.
Nearby, Angus felt around in the water for Trudy, a puzzled expression on his face. “Hey, where’d you go?”
Helga shielded her eyes. “Ryan!”
She heard movement from the Trans Am, then: “Got ’em! Getting the beer!”
She heard the trunk lid open and rested her chin on her arms, bored.
Angus was still searching for Trudy. “Did the Gill Man get you, Trood?” he asked. The question was supposed to be a joke, and yet, he didn’t sound very amused.
Angus called again. Helga met his gaze, and neither was comforted by the look they exchanged. Angus swallowed air and dove.
Something rose behind Helga like an amphibious jack-in-the-box, scaring a scream out of her. It was Trudy. Helga turned and splashed her friend. “Oh, you bitch!”
Trudy and Helga began to wrestle. Angus surfaced and watched, not even noticing the shadow that fell over them.
The girls turned toward the silhouette framed by the Pontiac’s headlights.
“Throw me one,” Trudy called.
Helga swam back to the pier, propping her arms on it as before. “Today, how ’bout?”
A heavy boot descended on Helga’s hand, pinning it to the pier. She emitted an angry yelp. “Stop it, you asshole!” Helga tugged at the foot with her free hand.
Behind her, Trudy squinted.
Everett’s ax descended, severing Helga’s arm. She screamed. Trudy joined in.
“Be a seal!” said Everett.
Angus rose from the water just in time to see the bizarre figure lopping off Helga’s other arm.
That demented giggling was unmistakable. It was the creep from the road, now wearing a ragged black hood.
Helga fell into the water and sank, red clouds blooming from her stumps.
Trudy swam t
oward Helga to help—but then saw Everett’s ax rise again in the glaring headlights. She could not swim closer.
Helga popped up, her bloody stumps flailing, her terrified eyes locked on Trudy. “Hel…hel…help…me!” She gulped water as she cried out.
Angus, making for the shore, called, “Trudy! Come on! You can’t save her!”
“Screw you, freako!” Ryan shouted behind Everett and smashed a beer bottle over the stalker’s head, sending him to his hands and knees.
Ryan jumped into the water to save Helga, as Everett shook off the effects of the blow.
“Hurry!” Angus shouted as he climbed out. “Hurry, Ryan!”
Trudy swam to the far end of the pond, as far away from Everett as she could get.
Ryan plummeted into the red water, torpedoing like crazy to reach Helga. She was just visible in the dark, cloudy water, but the moon and rising bubbles helped him stay oriented.
“Shit,” Angus muttered, as he scrambled toward the killer—who was rising to one knee.
In the lake, Ryan got his arm around Helga and pumped his legs to bring her to the top.
Angus dashed for the ax. Hoisting it, he pitched forward, surprised by its weight. He regained his balance just as Everett stood.
Angus swung the ax like he had his bat way back in Little League. Everett caught the handle just below the blade and seemed to find this development as humorous as everything else.
In his other hand, Everett held the neck from the beer bottle Ryan had shattered over his head. He thrust it into Angus’s throat. Blood poured from the bottle’s mouth onto the pier.
“Treat treat treat!” said Everett.
* * * *
Ryan popped up from the water and grabbed onto the pier, pulling himself up with one hand as he held the shock-addled Helga in the other arm.
Then he saw that Everett was back on his feet. “Ah shit.”
Everett arced the ax blade, lodging it in Ryan’s thick neck muscles with a thunk, then pushed the boy down into the bloody brine.
Angus, emitting horrid croaking sounds through the broken bottle, died at Everett’s feet.
Red Harvest Page 14
