Red Harvest

by Patrick C. Greene

  “Exit doors!” Stella called, determined to save the youngsters, if not herself. “Go!”

  The kids ran across the hardwood floor to the doors—which refused to open, no matter how hard they kicked and shoulder-bashed them.

  The ghost was like a game master, pushing all the playing pieces toward each other for some sinister finish, Stella realized.

  “We’re trapped,” Candace said with strange calm.

  The cross painted in gold on the wall over the court blistered and peeled. The brick behind it crumbled like dried mud.

  Candace tensed, grim realization dawning on her face.

  What now? wondered Stuart.

  Chapter 44

  Hudson dashed to the truck and hauled out the thick hose, pointing it toward the melee. The tank’s capacity was a thousand pounds. Hudson hoped it was at least half-full.

  “Get down!” Hudson shouted to his crew.

  He secured a solid grip and a wide stance and opened the nozzle. A good kick—then the stream was smashing into the rioters like rocket thrusters, sending them off their feet and sliding backward.

  Hudson choked down on the pressure, maintaining just enough to keep the parade-goers off their feet once they were clear of his friends.

  “You’re the man!” Pedro shouted to Hudson, as he turned to check Dennis.

  Hudson said a quick prayer that Stella would be along soon—and that DeShaun and his friends were all right.

  * * * *

  At the church’s entryway, the crucifix that McGlazer had thrown at Ruth began to smoke—then twisted and contorted on itself, becoming a meaningless lump.

  In the sanctuary, the wooden cross over the pulpit creaked, then disintegrated to a pile of splinters.

  The cross on the roof broke off from its own weight and fell to the ground, where it exploded in a cloud of dust.

  * * * *

  Stuart and DeShaun watched Candace, fearing she had cracked from the strain.

  “She’s trapped too,” Candace murmured.

  Ruth came to the door and kicked its broken pieces out of the way. She stalked inside. “Silly sinners. Don’t you see? Yahweh is guiding my hand. He’s driving me.” She poked her crucifix again. “To destroy all of you blasphemers.”

  Stella pushed the kids together behind her. “Leave them alone, Ruth.”

  “Oh, no, no, Jezebel.” Ruth’s smile was rapturous. “I shall bash their heads against the rocks! It is the will of the Father.”

  Candace stepped from behind Stella, glaring up at Ruth without fear.

  “Candace, no!” Stella tried to restrain the little girl, but Candace pulled free and strode toward Ruth, stopping only when the zealot lowered the pistol to her face. “Ah, ah, ah!” mocked Rag Doll Ruth. “What’s your rush to die, little sinner?”

  Stella pleaded, “Ruth, please! Take me inst—”

  “You are no martyr!” Ruth screamed at her. “But you can be first, little witch.”

  Candace didn’t care about the gun. She just peered into Ruth’s eyes. “I tried.” She was sad. “I know I was too late, but I tried to warn all of you.”

  Ruth cackled. “What are you babbling about?”

  Candace lunged, her hand like an arrow, and snatched Ruth’s crucifix necklace, ripping it from her neck.

  Ruth pistol-whipped her to the floor—but Candace barely reacted. “He won’t ever stop,” she said.

  Ruth was perplexed by the strange girl’s enigmatic words. Then, perhaps smelling burned flesh and plastic, she spun, breathing the word no.

  In the doorway stood the silhouetted, devil-horned form of Everett Geelens, damaged child, Halloween enthusiast, and mass murderer.

  “You…you can’t be!” Ruth croaked.

  She reached for the necklace that was no longer there. Turning, she tried to take it back from Candace, who scooted out of her reach. Everett was behind Ruth, his hammer held high. “Trick!”

  He brought the hammer down, breaking the wrist of her gun hand.

  The gun clattered to the hardwood floor. Her hand went limp, hanging at a sickening angle. Ruth cried out as she fell to her knees, then rolled to a fetal position.

  “He doesn’t know dying is real,” Candace said, though no one could hear her over Ruth’s scream.

  Everett knelt beside Ruth. He raised the steak knife he had used to kill Cordelia just minutes before and drove it through Ruth’s ruined wrist, pinning her to the polished wooden floor. The pitch of her wail became higher, harsher. With the hammer, Everett drove the knife deeper.

  Ruth reached across to remove it, but Everett sat on her torso, grabbing her good hand to pin it as well. He took

  another long knife from his bag, then hammered it into her left hand. Ruth’s cries filled the room with anguished madness.

  Everett took off his devil mask, hissing as it pulled melted plastic from his burned flesh. He positioned it on Ruth’s face, then drove in tiny finishing nails, his rasping laughter growing louder.

  Everett drew from his pocket the bag of orange-and-black-wrapped candy that Angelo had left for the Outlines at the spooky old house. He unwrapped one piece “AND treats!”

  He stuffed the candy in her mouth, then another piece, and ten, twenty more, till her cheeks were swollen, her cries of horror reduced to muffled gasps.

  Chapter 45

  Dennis was dimly aware that the crushing, swirling blackness of the battlefield around him had collapsed, beaten down by a shocking blast of arctic wind.

  Not wind—water.

  Somehow he had fallen into some black ocean full of mermaids and mermen who were determined to rip the Outlines limb from tattooed limb.

  One of ’em must have put a boot to his head. It throbbed with the pain of a thousand Carolina moonshine hangovers.

  Oh, yeah—not a boot but a bottle. And not an ocean—Main Street, in the midst of a freezing freak typhoon.

  But there was Hudson down the street, blasting the gnashing attackers—addled townies, not merfolk—with a fire hose. A few still had mean hands on his bandmates, though.

  He had to clear his head, get in the game. Jill was feral and Petey was strong, but neither was all that quick, and that was where he came in.

  He rolled himself to a stand, wiping the blood from his eyes. He swayed, left, right—and back to center. Took a breath, gave Hud a high wobbly thumbs-up, raised his fists.

  * * * *

  Candace buried her head in Stuart’s chest. He hugged her tight and turned his back to hide her from the sight of…whatever the hell was happening to Ruth.

  The rag-doll-clad killer convulsed, orange foam erupting from her mouth like the ol’ Coke-and-Mentos gag. She vibrated like a jackhammer, her eyes growing, inflating like balloons. Her ears curled in on themselves like wilting rose petals.

  Blood shot from her nose in high-pressure streams that painted the floor some twelve feet away.

  Bubbling foam rose from her mouth and flew toward the ceiling, turning to thick clouds of orange smoke, like a parachutist’s signal. Her hair waved around her head, as if she were underwater.

  Her ballooning eyes burst, splashing black ichor. Then the back of her head banged and bangedandbangedandbanged on the hardwood floor at an impossible speed, until the staccato sound was a sustained note, something like a D note.

  The opening in the back of her skull crumbled away enough for her brain, reduced to a mushy glop, to fall out and be flattened by her last flailing smash—and she was still.

  Everett squished his feet in the gooey mess, having enjoyed the evening’s grand finale.

  Stella hugged the kids, whispering to Everett, “Stay away from us. Please.”

  Candace pulled away from Stuart and turned to face her brother. She cleared her throat and took three slow steps toward him.

  “Candace!” called Stell
a.

  Candace had no fear in her eyes. “ Shh!” she said. “This is family business.”

  Everett drew the crumpled alien mask from his pocket. “Canniss.” He reached toward her.

  Candace closed her eyes. Everett dabbed blood from his bullet wounds on the back of the mask, then stuck it to Candace’s face, saying, “I luh…luh…love you.”

  Candace opened her eyes. “I love you too, Everett.”

  Everett rocked on his feet, fighting some urge.

  “Candace,” Stella whispered. “I think you should come to me, baby.”

  Candace took a leery step back—and Everett followed.

  Stuart made a move toward them, but Stella, with the strength and quickness of maternal instinct, pulled him back.

  Everett’s gaze fell to the hammer on the floor. Then his gaze rose to the ceiling.

  Following him, the others saw a white mist descending.

  It settled to a stop between Candace and Everett, then sharpened, gaining definition.

  Everett clapped his hands with delight—it was a really real ghost!

  It was the shade of a man, imposing and regal, wavering between degrees of distinctness.

  Stella felt something familiar about it, something powerful.

  The face of Wilcott Bennington formed. He had maneuvered her—used her.

  He had endangered these children, and her.

  Bennington floated toward Everett, who was even more pleased than he had been with Rag Doll Ruth’s spectacular demise.

  The ghost opened a shimmering maw. “Die now,” the town father intoned in a commanding voice.

  Everett’s smile faded. He touched one of his bullet wounds and inspected the blood with understanding.

  Candace sat on the floor Indian style, and Everett eased himself down to lie his head on her lap. She stroked his burned and bloody head and said, “Happy Halloween, Everett.”

  “Hap……” Everett trailed off.

  The ghost became vague, almost imperceptible, as the exit door, immovable just minutes ago, clicked with an echo and creaked open. Bennington, fading to mist, floated toward it.

  Stella followed, wishing she would see the mist settle into the massive obelisk. She had helped to complete this night’s work. She needed that symbol of closure.

  As soon as she set foot outside the door, a large shadowy figure met her head-on.

  Stella shrieked, prompting the others to as well.

  The lights came back on and the dark figure, Reverend McGlazer, stumbled into Stella’s arms, issuing a cough.

  The kids went to help hold him up, Stuart saying, “Rev?”

  “I’ll live,” he rasped. “Just beat to hell. But Dennis…” He paused for another cough. “Get down to the street. Go now!”

  Everett lay still, peaceful. Candace gave his empty vessel one last look.

  * * * *

  Hudson and Pedro squatted on either side of Dennis, who sat on the grass propped on his elbows, smoking a cigarette while Jill dabbed at his head with a bandana. The wet street bounced firelight across their grim, tired features.

  The crowd, shocked to their senses by the cold water, wandered about, recovering from their hallucinatory rage, sitting, shivering, and holding one another.

  As Stella and the kids limped forward, Stuart spotted his bloody brother and ran to the scene. Jill pulled Stuart into an embrace with his brother, saying, “Oh, sweetie! So glad you’re all right.”

  “I knew something would happen to you without me around to babysit your sorry ass!” Stuart said to Dennis.

  “Yeah, yeah, good to see you too, loser.” Dennis winced. “How ’bout we don’t mention this to Ma?” he said. “She worries.”

  “Yeah, good luck with that,” Stuart replied. Dennis took the cigarette out of his mouth and flicked it away. The night’s worries were over.

  Stella appeared, taking over the bandana and applying pressure to Dennis’s wound. “Looks like it just skimmed you,” she said.

  “Lady,” Dennis said, “please tell me you brought some aspirin.”

  DeShaun ran to Hudson and they hugged harder and longer than they had since DeShaun was a toddler. “Man, am I glad to see you,” said the boy. “Same here,” Hudson said. “’Cause you’re grounded starting right now.”

  Candace was happy for them all, for their places in loving families. She didn’t want to think of herself and all she had lost. She wanted to feel the way young girls were supposed to feel on Halloween. She wanted magic and safety and meeting people and having fun with friends.

  She sat with her back against one of the Indian laurel planters, ready to close her eyes for a second, maybe even cry—when she was startled by a familiar sound. Something emerged from the shadows and barreled toward her and she got to her feet—to welcome it.

  Bravo, her best friend ever, jumped up to put his big paws on her shoulders and lick her face. His paws were cold with mud, his coat was a matted mess, and he stunk to high heaven—but he had found her.

  She did have family still, and she knew she could always count on him.

  And she knew, somehow, that they would need each other, very soon.

  There were still dark things in Ember Hollow, waiting, festering, focusing on her and her friends—and her town.

  Grim Harvest

  Don’t miss the next chilling novel in the Haunted Hollow Chronicles . . .

  Coming soon from

  Lyrical Press, an imprint of Kensington Publishing Corp.

  Keep reading to enjoy a sample excerpt…

  An excerpt from Grim Harvest

  If not for the nature of his crime, Nico Rizzoli might not have been in the van, on his way to Hutchinson Correctional in Kansas, where his reputation and influence would theoretically carry less weight than the Craven County system in North Carolina, where he was practically a superstar.

  Upon learning that an associate had ratted out the Mid-Atlantic Fireheads motorcycle club for their meth business, Nico had eschewed flight for fury.

  He tracked down the informant and, using a length of steel pipe he had selected, measured, cut and taped himself, he smashed the poor bastard’s ribs to jelly right in front of his girlfriend and mother. Nico reasoned that healing from ruined ribs would be a long and agonizing process, versus head trauma, which potentially offered merciful blackouts and memory loss. As a bonus, his women would sob about that crazy shit to every square in sight, for years to come.

  He kept at it till the cops came, then fought all the way to lockup, cursing the boys in blue for not letting him finish. He had wanted to gelatinize the man’s legs as well, you see.

  But sitting here in the transport shuttle van amongst a bunch of morons doing time for possession and robbery and other pussy-ass bullshit, Nico wasn’t thinking about the past. He was more interested in the future; specifically—any minute now.

  Nearly midnight, and they had already been on the road for ten hours. The extradition agents would be getting bleary-eyed and slow.

  “You go’ stop at Boogie Burger, or what!?” inmate Georgie “The Juice” DeWitt asked Extradition Agent Higgins through the steel mesh partition, the shackles on his wrist and seat armrest making him stretch. “I’m ‘bout to starve my ass off.”

  Neither the driver nor his partner answered; they had been instructed to have minimal communication with DeWitt, as he was notoriously short-tempered and easily riled.

  “Huh!?” DeWitt persisted. “I need some goddamn food!”

  “Shut up,” Nico said.

  DeWitt turned with early stage rage on his face, which vanished when he realized it was Nico talking to him. DeWitt took his seat and proceeded to shut up.

  Normally Nico didn’t bother talking to lesser cons for any reason, but he needed distracting noise kept to a minimum, so he could hear the familiar roar of beef
ed-up Harleys driven by his brothers.

  Although intensely focused and purposeful—Nico Rizzoli might have made quite a politician if not for his violent nature—he was not above or beyond feeling something that could pass for love. His old lady Ruth, the most passionately devoted chick he had ever banged, undoubtedly had his heart.

  Now she was dead. On Halloween night, just trying to make the world a better place; trying to do God’s work. Ridiculous as that was to him, the bottom line was that something that belonged to him had been taken away, and that shit did not fly. Nico would find out the how and the who, and in the process, he would wipe this little jerkwater called Ember Hollow right off the map, along with the big deputy who had assisted in his arrest.

  Nobody takes what belongs to Nico Rizzoli. Not even God.

  Nico rubbed the tattoo on his forearm; the one he’d had inked just the day before. He liked the way it itched and stung. The inker -somebody had named him Mozart because they though the composer was a painter owing to the “art” in his name- had a picture of a ragdoll Nico had ripped from an encyclopedia in the library, and Mozart didn’t blink an eye when Nico told him that was what he wanted.

  Ruth had loved rag dolls for some reason. Had one from when she was a girl that she wouldn’t let him toss. To Nico, it came to represent her. She talked to the thing, and even brought it to lockup with her when she came to see him.

  He wanted to slap the tattoo, just to amp up the sting a bit, but that was for later.

  Or maybe sooner.

  The beautiful sound of a six speed 1690 cc engine—his bike—reached his ears before anyone else heard. Nico went ahead and gripped the armrests, bracing himself. He smiled at the doomed dipshit seated beside him, who cluelessly yawned and settled his head back to doze.

  The roar of two other bikes joined that of the Fatboy. Perfect.

  Agent Higgins looked in the side mirror, but he wouldn’t see them yet. They were riding dark; coping just fine in full-on blackness.

  “Funny,” Higgins said in his Georgia drawl. “Thought I heard hogs.”

  “Whut, you mean pigs?” asked his partner, Agent Dutton, a Detroit-born city boy.