Praise for All Hallow’s Eve…
“Scary and smart, All Hallow’s Eve is perfect for anyone who wants to read a horror story that makes them think. From the intricate psychopathology of the serial killer, to the hair-raising tension, to the skewering of pop culture, All Hallow’s Eve is simply a great read.”
Your Need To Read
Book Reviewer
“Even in her horror novels, Carolyn McCray still brings her amazing ability to create believable characters that you love to root for. All Hallow’s Eve is no exception. Thank you, Carolyn, for writing such intelligent horror! Still scary, but so great to read.”
Amber Scott
Author
Fierce Dawn
“Beautifully written and masterfully executed. You will keep guessing until the end who could have planned such a horrific night! Do not read this while alone in the house!”
ParaYourNormal
Book Reviewer
“Carolyn McCray does it again. After her international best seller, Plain Jane, Carolyn brings to life another thriller that takes you to the edge and beyond. Not for the faint of heart, All Hallow’s Eve is macabre, yet still manages to be heartfelt. But with people dying in the manner of the saints, we knew the body count would be high, and Ms. McCray did not disappoint!”
ThrillersRockT
Book Reviewer
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Table of Contents
PROLOGUE
Father Marcus Gonzales knelt before the altar. From the cross, Jesus looked down upon him. Was that disappointment he saw in his savior’s eyes? Mottled light streamed through the stained glass windows encircling his church. The moon must be bright outside to so fully illuminate the darkened sanctuary.
He had let the staff go hours before. Having others around would not change the dire state of his parish’s financials. They had staved off cutting programs far longer than many churches. But in the end, the after-school athletic program would have to suffer, and they would need to abandon their before-school breakfast program altogether. Gonzales tried to keep a bright smile on his face for his board of directors and staff, but the situation weighed heavily upon him. He was glad for the peace of the empty church to allow his grief to finally run free.
A sound behind him forced Gonzales to choke back his tears. The church’s large oak doors creaked open. Strange. It was so late. It had been years since anyone had sought refuge in the church at such an hour. Perhaps if more did, they would not be in this financial predicament.
Gonzales turned to find three young street kids entering his church. He should have known. There would be no last-minute benefactor to save the programs he held so dear.
Still, he tried to be patient. “It is well past normal worship hours, my children.”
The tallest of them sneered. “We’ll worship whenever we want.”
Gonzales rose from the altar and straightened his cassock. The three were Hispanic. Kids from the barrio. These were exactly the youths he was trying to mentor with his programs. These were exactly the youth he used to be.
“That may be true, but you will need to find somewhere else to express your devotion.”
A steel chain swung from the leader’s belt as he swaggered up the aisle. His pants were so low that only by nearly crouching down did he keep them on. Gonzales noted the threadbare boxers underneath. He had to keep in mind these wannabe-gangbangers’ origins. Not unlike his own. Poor, hopeless, and desperate. Exactly the triad that gangs exploited.
“I think we’ll do it right here, Padre,” the boy who thought he was a man announced. “Especially after you open that donation box.”
Gonzales did not flinch. “Or?”
That seemed to confuse his would-be robber. He stuttered for a moment.
“Or,” the boy said, then pulled out a switchblade. “Or I’ll kill your ass.”
The father hated to tell the child that it would take a far larger blade to impress him. He had seen more dangerous toothbrush shanks in prison. Instead, Gonzales looked past the leader to the youngest member of the trio. Underneath that backward cap and bandana tied in gangsta fashion was a boy he once knew.
“Tomás,” he asked, “did you learn nothing from your brother’s death?” The boy shuffled his feet, looking anywhere but into Gonzales’ eyes. “You used to come to Sunday school together, did you not?”
He could reach Tomás. He had to reach Tomás before his life ended as tragically as Enrique’s did. “He’s in heaven, Tomás. Looking down upon you now.”
“Leave him alone!” the leader shouted, stepping between Gonzales and the boy.
Tomás seemed to gain strength, now that he was not under Gonzales’ eye. “He didn’t go nowhere but in the dirt!”
Gonzales smiled sadly. “As are the saints.”
“Shut the f— up!” the leader shouted.
But the angrier the boy became, the quieter Gonzales’ mind became, and the softer his heart felt toward these poor, lost souls. He knew the temptations of the street. He knew the strong draw of a gang and the feeling of power to hold another’s life in one’s hand. Gonzales needed to show these boys that there was another path. A righteous path.
“There is a saint for all. Even you,” he said to the leader.
“You better hope yours is gonna show up, ’cause I’m about to stick you.”
Gonzales chuckled. The boy thought swagger was bravery. Instead of retorting or retreating, the father opened his arms wide.
“Then do so, for the hour is late, and I am so very tired.”
The boy did not seem to know what to do. He looked at his gang-mates. The chubbier one goaded him on. “He’s bluffing!”
Oh, but Gonzales was not. Even though the leader brandished the knife, the father walked forward until the tip of the knife pushed up against his coat.
“Oh, man!” Tomás exclaimed. “He is freaking me out!”
“Me, too!” the other agreed, then, despite his earlier words, he turned and ran out of the church with Tomás.
The door slamming shut behind them echoed through the church. The leader’s hand shook as he tried to keep the knife up and against Gonzales.
“Goddamn it!”
“Choose your words carefully, my son,” Gonzales said. “You never know when the Lord might be listening and grant your wish.”
The boy tried to act brave, but his eyes darted from the door, to the tip of the knife, and back to the door.
“Screw it!” the leader yelled, as he ran down the aisle. He grabbed a fistful of bills from the collection plate on his way out the door. Given the state of the economy, the poor boy only snatched a few ones for his trouble.
Gonzales sighed heavily as the door closed behind the thief. He took a moment to gather himself as his own hands shook. Clearly, after all these years, he had lost much of his swagger as well.
Slowly, he walked to the door and bolted it shut. To live in such times that a church had to lock its doors at night. He leaned against the stout wood, closing his eyes in prayer.
“God, grant these children safety through this dark night…and from themselves as well.” He peeked an eye open. “And I wouldn’t mind an alarm system while you’re at it.”
He chuckled to himself. God seldom answered prayers in such specific ways.
Gonzales knew that he should call the police, but as he said, the hour was late. Besides, he did not want to have to bring the law into the matter, if possible. He would visit Tomás’ mother in the morning. F
rom her, he felt certain that he could discover the identities of the other boys—and speak with their parents as well. Although the youth center was closing down, he still counseled those who had lost the path.
A clang came from behind the altar. Had the boys circled around to the back of the church? Had he misjudged their intent? Then some loud, dark, rock music blared from the confessional.
“Hello?” he called out, but no answer greeted him.
Cautiously, Gonzales made his way to the far side of the church. This was not the type of music Tomás and his friends listened to. They were mesmerized by the allure of rappers, with their pimps and hos.
The throbbing music and screeching singer sounded nothing like that.
“Feel him tonight. Call upon his dark strength. Allow his power to course through your veins. Lucifer calls. Lucifer calls.”
Demonic lyrics? Was this some kind of strange prank?
Perhaps a different type of initiation?
He came alongside the confessional. The foul music was definitely coming from inside. Frowning, he jerked open the door to find a boom box on the seat. He hit the Stop button. The CD slowly spun to a stop.
Gonzales stood for a moment, his hand shaking a bit. Why this small electronic device unsettled him more than the knife-wielding gang member, he did not know. An evil emanated from it.
“How does it feel to be so saintly, Father?” a mechanized voice asked from the other side of the confessional screen.
Steadying his voice, Gonzales replied, “I wouldn’t know, my son.”
This must be some new sort of gang initiation, Gonzales decided. Scare-the-priest-ha-ha-ha. Gonzales would not give them the satisfaction.
“Do you have something to confess?” he asked.
The tinny voice answered back. “Nope… Give me a minute, though.”
“Excuse me?”
When no answer came, Gonzales backed out of the booth. He felt a call to the police was overdue. He turned toward the rectory, but was blocked by a figure dressed in a full Spanish Inquisition uniform. From the long, flowing robes to the hideous birdlike mask, the figure looked as though it had stepped straight out of a very dark period of history.
“Surprise!” the mechanical voice announced.
This was no gang member who stood before him. This was evil given human form.
Dark eyes twinkled behind the gilded mask, clearly enjoying Gonzales’ fear. The father turned on his heel, trying to flee deeper into the church. If he could reach a phone, or if one of his loyal staff had lingered…
“Help!”
Gonzales called out as he ran, but he had been very clear in his instructions. His staff was nowhere to be found. He was but a few feet away from the rectory door when something hit his back. He stumbled trying to keep his feet, but he couldn’t. Gonzales cried out as his knees hit the floor. Twisting around, he found a huge cross—tapered like a spear—sticking out from his back. He coughed up blood and slumped to the floor. The figure leapt toward him.
A very modern tennis shoe kicked him in the chin.
The world spun as Gonzales, in one last effort, tried to crawl away.
“Tsk, tsk, tsk,” the mechanical voice chided as he kicked again. “I guess being a saint ain’t what it’s cracked up to be.”
CHAPTER 1
Cecilia Knight pulled her pillow over her head, trying to block out the worst goth-rock song in the history of goth-rock songs. Her bedroom walls did little to dampen the music as the singer kept going on and on about Satan. Like they were BFFs or something.
Then the infernal guitar riff.
That was it!
She sprang out of bed and headed down the darkened hallway, arriving at her younger brother’s door. Cecilia used the side of her fist to pound on the door.
“Jeremy, how many times have I told you to keep it down?” When she got no answer, she yelled even louder. “It’s the middle of the night!”
And yes, she did realize that it was slightly counterproductive to yell a statement like that, but she had to be up early for a test. Jeremy had gotten on her last frayed nerve.
Still, there was no answer. Cecilia jiggled the handle. The door was locked. Pulling out a bobby pin that helped wrestle her curly blonde hair in place, she jimmied the tract home lock faster than P. Diddy changed names.
Bursting into her brother’s room, she found… nothing. No one.
Then the little punk crawled in the window.
“What in the heck are you doing?” she asked, jerking him in by his hoodie.
“What? I was just listening to my music.”
“Out on the roof?” Cecilia asked, brushing off the dirt and pebbles from Jeremy’s back. “At midnight?”
“Yes!” her brother exclaimed, ducking out from under her hand. “This is when Diana Dahmer tells us the music is at its zenith, and that we must listen to it under a full moon!”
Cecilia rolled her eyes. If goth-rock star Diana Dahmer told her brother to jump off a bridge … Well… she feared he might just do that. She glanced around Jeremy’s room. Posters with demonic symbols announcing each of Diana Dahmer’s releases punctuated the black walls. They looked smeared with bright red blood.
Her brother looked the ultimate goth fanboy as well. His hair was dyed raven black, making his pale face seem nearly translucent. His green eyes were hidden under dark contacts. For someone who proclaimed he didn’t care about life, he certainly spent a lot of time looking good for it.
“Get down with the devil. Get down. His is our only true salvation, so get down with the devil.”
“Okay. That’s it,” Cecilia stated as she hit the Off button on Jeremy’s MP3 player. However, her younger brother simply hit the On button, and the song continued right where it left off.
“Fine.”
Cecilia reached behind the dresser—painted black, of course—and pulled the power cord.
“You know, Cecilia, you are seriously dope challenged.”
Jeremy grabbed the MP3 player and took off across the room. Cecilia was right behind him.
“So help me, if you are smoking—”
“No!” Jeremy shouted as he jumped onto the bed, holding the player above his head, just out of her reach. “Jeez, Sis, loosen up.” He ducked and dove as she swiped at him with a pillow. “Get out on the street and learn our generation’s vernacular. Dope means ‘hip,’ ‘cool,’ ‘phat.’ ”
Finally, Cecilia swung the pillow with both hands, right at her brother’s knees, knocking him down off his perch. She grabbed the MP3 player, trying to wrestle it from his hands. For such a scrawny goth guy, he had a pretty tight hold of the darn thing.
“Just get to bed,” she said, as she finally gave up on the struggle. “It’s a school night.”
“Gawd. Sis, do you ever chill?”
“Do I chill?” Cecilia hissed as she backed away. She squinted, trying to see how the two of them could ever be related. Didn’t they live in the same house and deal with the same crap every day?
“You know what?” she said. “I will chill when the mortgage is paid.”
She glanced in the mirror, not recognizing herself for a moment. What used to be nice, tousled curls were now more of a rat’s nest pulled on top of her head. Her normally stark blue eyes looked gray and dull in the low light. Dark circles made her face seem nearly bruised. To think that a year ago she had dreamt of being voted the prom queen. Those days were long over.
Even more angered, Cecilia turned to her brother. “You know what? I will get ‘phat’ when we have money left over to buy makeup, and I’ll be ‘doping’ with my ‘homies’ when I’m not cleaning up after you and Mom!”
Jeremy’s lower lip trembled, reminding her that he was a full two years younger than she was, and in many ways even more tender than she. Taking a deep breath, Cecilia tried to rein in her anger. He was just a kid. Really, both of them were kids. Adding drama like this wasn’t going to make their life any better.
“So, I don’t think it is
asking too much of you to get to bed on time.”
Her younger brother wouldn’t look her in the eye, so she just shut the window and left the room. No sooner had she closed the door, and the damned song started again.
Tears sprang to her eyes. She just couldn’t take his belligerent, selfish attitude anymore. She didn’t care what the therapist kept telling her. She didn’t care that he was acting out and handling his grief differently than she was. She didn’t even care that the MP3 player was one of the last things that their dad had given him. Cecilia was going back in there and smashing the player—and the speakers—just for good measure.
The only thing that stopped her was her name being called from downstairs.
“C.C.?”
Closing her eyes, she hoped her mother would stop there, so that Cecilia could pretend she didn’t hear her.
“Cecilia, I can’t find my glasses,” her mother slurred.
That was more than likely because she had left them in the dishwasher when she was looking for a clean glass for her vodka, which she had put in the freezer along with Jeremy’s academic probation paperwork. Exactly what her mother planned to read at midnight, Cecilia had no idea.
But it did about as much good to voice those thoughts as it did to ask Jeremy to help out around the house.
Instead, she wiped the tears from her eyes, put on her “good girl” smile, and shouted back, “Don’t worry, Mom. I’ll find them.”
* * *
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