Halloween Carnival Volume 1

by Brian James Freeman (ed)

  As if sensing her stare, he suddenly turned, then smiled when he spotted Sabrina. “Well, looky what we got here. Shouldn’t you be on your way to school to fill your little head with knowledge?”

  “I think I’ve had about all the knowledge I can stand. I’d rather hang out with you. Maybe you can teach me a thing or two.”

  Jeff gave her a sly grin, showing off those dimples that made her feel a tingle down below, and leaned on the rake like a cane. “What kind of lesson you looking for, little girl?”

  He liked to call her “little girl” even though she was only a grade behind him in school, but she didn’t mind. She liked everything about Jeff, to the point that she was seriously considering letting him be her first. The most she’d ever done was give Patrick Brandt a halfhearted hand job in his car last year, but when she was with Jeff she felt like she was ready to go further. All the way. If she were completely honest with herself, that was why she’d skipped school and come here.

  “I sent you a text saying I was coming over,” she said, tracing circles in the grass with the toe of her right shoe. “You didn’t answer me.”

  “My mom confiscated my cellphone for the duration of my grounding.”

  “Oh, shit,” Sabrina said with a nervous laugh. “If she reads my message, then I’m busted.”

  “Don’t worry about it, my phone is password protected. She just locked it up in her bedroom closet so I couldn’t use it, along with the keys to my truck.”

  “Under house arrest, huh?”

  “Not so much,” he said, pulling a key out of the front pocket of his jeans. “She doesn’t know I had an extra key made. She gave me a long list of chores she wants done before she gets home this afternoon, but I’m powering through them so that by ten I can get out of here for a little while.”

  Sabrina crossed the yard until they were in arm’s length of each other. “Where you planning to go?”

  “Thought I’d head on out to Lake Robinson. This time of year and on a weekday, figure it’ll be deserted.”

  “Maybe I could go with you.”

  Jeff dropped the rake and wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her close as he planted a rough, aggressive kiss on her lips. The tingling grew into a fire, and she drew back from the kiss, breathless.

  “If you help me with my chores, we can be out of here by nine.”

  She stuck her lower lip out in a faux-pout she hoped was sexy, or at least cute. “What am I, your slave labor?”

  “Sooner my chores are done, sooner we can get to those lessons you came here to learn,” he said, pressing tight against her so that she could feel his hardness on her thigh.

  She was about to respond when from the woods came the sound of leaves crunching and twigs snapping. They both turned as a scarecrow stepped out of the tree line and into the yard.

  The guy was tall, probably a little over six feet if Sabrina had to guess, dressed in overalls and work boots. A burlap sack covered his head, eyeholes cut out so he could see, and the mouth a stitched grin. A straw hat perched on his head completed the ensemble. One hand was behind the scarecrow’s back, the other covered with a blue rubber glove that looked like the kind Sabrina’s mother wore when she did the dishes.

  “Hey, dude,” Jeff said, and Sabrina could hear the uncertainty in his voice, “it’s a little early for trick-or-treating. Halloween’s still a few days off.”

  The intruder said nothing, but he advanced slowly toward them.

  Jeff bent down and snatched up the rake, putting his body between Sabrina and the scarecrow. “Get back to the house.”

  Sabrina didn’t move, felt momentarily paralyzed. Surely this was just someone’s sick idea of a Halloween prank, probably one of Jeff’s buddies on the football team. They loved to do stuff like this.

  And yet she found herself thinking about the murder, the homeless guy found with his throat slashed at Greer City Park yesterday morning.

  “You’re trespassing on private property, dickweed,” Jeff said, holding the rake like a staff. “I suggest you turn around and—”

  Jeff’s words cut off abruptly when the scarecrow pulled his hidden hand from behind his back, revealing a wooden baseball bat.

  Sabrina grabbed the back of Jeff’s shirt and tugged. “Let’s get out of here.”

  Jeff shook her off and started forward. She could see he was trembling, but he did not back down. She wondered idly if he would have run if she hadn’t been here. Was he trying to be a tough guy for her, the kind of macho showmanship that she usually responded to?

  “Okay, you don’t want to leave, I’ll make you leave,” Jeff barked, then swung the head of the rake at the scarecrow.

  The intruder ducked the tines easily, as if he’d been expecting the jab, and brought the bat around like he was going for a home run. The wood smashed into the side of Jeff’s head, the sound of impact startlingly loud in the still morning, and the boy crumpled to the ground. He landed in a pile of recently raked leaves, sending them twirling into the air like a mini-cyclone.

  His screams were so loud and high-pitched that Sabrina covered her ears but still couldn’t muffle them. She looked at Jeff lying there, eyes closed and blood already pooling around his head. She called his name, but he did not move.

  She looked up as the scarecrow jogged toward her. She turned, screaming for help as she fled for the house, hoping Jeff had left the backdoor unlocked. She made it only three steps when pain exploded in her left knee and she fell face-first onto the grass, skidding along like a baseball player sliding into home. She realized the scarecrow had hit her in the knee with the bat, and she tried crawling away, gritting her teeth against the pain, adrenaline flooding her system as her survival instincts kicked in.

  He grabbed her left ankle and started dragging her backward, toward the woods. This caused the pain in her knee to quadruple, pain more total than anything she’d ever known. Spots appeared in her vision, and she thought she might lose consciousness. She prayed she would.

  For a moment, she thought she might be hallucinating as snow began to fall around her. Large, square flakes. Distantly, she recognized these were not snowflakes but business cards. The scarecrow was tossing business cards on the ground even as he dragged her along.

  She screamed again. Cardinal Drive was a quiet street, but there were plenty of nearby houses. The scarecrow wrenched her leg hard to the right, and the white-hot agony was enough to answer her earlier prayer.

  As he pulled her out of the yard and into the trees, Sabrina lost consciousness.

  —

  Dustin rolled the empty cart out of the stacks after he finished shelving books in the nonfiction section to find Officer Workman standing by the checkout desk, talking with JoAnn Thomas, the head librarian.

  “Dustin,” she said when she spotted him, “this officer would like a word with you.”

  Dustin felt as if everyone in the library was staring at him. Of course that amounted to only three people, but he thought he detected faint murmuring and suspected word would spread all around town by the time his shift ended. Such was life in a small town.

  “What’s this about?” he said.

  Workman glanced around, perhaps having the same thought about the small-town rumor mill. “Is there somewhere we could talk privately?”

  “You can use my office,” JoAnn said. “Dustin, show him where it is.”

  Pushing the cart over against the wall, Dustin led Workman around the desk, through the back area, and into JoAnn’s office. Dustin closed the door behind them and was instantly assaulted with a sense of claustrophobia, as if he’d sealed the two of them up in a coffin.

  JoAnn’s office was close and cramped, more of a walk-in closet, really. A desk took up almost the entire back wall, with barely enough room to squeeze by on the right to get behind it. A single metal folding chair for visitors sat between the desk and the door. Against the side walls were boxes and stacks of books. It was hard enough to breathe in here, let alone move.

&n
bsp; Workman planted himself on the edge of the desk, looking casual and comfortable. Dustin gripped the back of the folding chair and felt sweat dribbling down the sides of his face.

  Get a hold of yourself. You’re only making yourself look guilty.

  The silence stretched out until Dustin could stand it no longer. “So, what do you want? Need to know my whereabouts on the night of the twenty-sixth?”

  Workman’s expression was serious and grave. “This isn’t about the homeless guy.”

  “What, then? Did something else happen?”

  “I’m afraid so. This morning a teenager was seriously injured and another apparently abducted.”

  Dustin’s legs felt weak, so he stepped around the chair and allowed himself to fall into it. “Jesus, what happened?”

  “A young lady from Riverside High decided to skip school and go visit her boyfriend, who was on suspension. According to the boyfriend, they were in his backyard when someone dressed in a scarecrow Halloween costume came out of the woods and bashed him in the head with a baseball bat. Neighbors heard the girl screaming, but by the time they arrived on the scene she was nowhere to be found and the boy was unconscious.”

  “Is he going to be okay?”

  “Well, he’s conscious now, but has a severe concussion and a hairline fracture of the skull. He didn’t actually see his assailant take the girl, but there are signs that she may have been dragged away.”

  “Why are you here?” Dustin asked, hoping it didn’t make him sound as if he cared only about himself and was indifferent to the fate of the two teenagers.

  Workman reached into one of his shirt pockets and pulled out a clear Baggie, holding it out for Dustin to see. “These were found on the scene.”

  Dustin leaned forward, looking at the object inside the Baggie. A small white 3½x2-inch piece of paper, stiff like a business card, except the only thing printed on it in blue ink was #MAKE­HALLOWEEN­SCARY­AGAIN.

  “This was at the scene?” Dustin asked.

  “Dozens of them.”

  “Were they also found in the park where the homeless guy was murdered?”

  “No, but the phrase was printed on his forehead in blue Sharpie.”

  Now it made sense why Workman had been so interested in Dustin’s writing utensils yesterday. The officer had been so cryptic then, it made Dustin wonder why the sudden transparency. “Why are you telling me this now, when you wouldn’t before?”

  “All the neighbors who came running saw the cards. There’s no way we can keep it quiet at this point.”

  “When did this happen?” Dustin asked.

  “Approximately oh seven hundred.”

  “I’ve been here since six this morning, helping with inventory.”

  “I know. Your supervisor already confirmed that.”

  “But you still think I’m involved somehow?”

  “I never said I thought you were involved.”

  “Let’s cut the crap,” Dustin said, surprised by the vehemence in his voice. His nerves had been twisted in knots since Workman’s visit yesterday, and he found that frustration leaking out. “You obviously considered me a suspect. At least now I know why.”

  “I was simply following all possible leads.”

  “Be that as it may, I didn’t have anything to do with this.”

  “Maybe not, but the fact that whoever is behind all this seems to have taken your hashtag to heart certainly makes you a person of interest.”

  “What, you think I’m some kind of evil mastermind and I sent my minions out to beat up on some kid and kidnap the girl?”

  “This isn’t funny, Mr. Davis.”

  “I’m not laughing.”

  Workman sighed, stood up, turned as if he wanted to pace, but then sat back down. “Look, I don’t think you’re responsible for this, but the person who is obviously follows your posts on Facebook.”

  “You want my friends list or something?”

  “We already have it. Your profile is public, it was easy to get.”

  “Then I don’t know what you want from me.”

  “We checked out the comments and likes on the posts where you used the hashtag, and they didn’t seem to get a lot of traction.”

  Though Dustin knew the statement hadn’t been meant as an insult, he still felt it like a slap. If he posted about The Walking Dead or what he had for lunch, and particularly if he put up anything even remotely political, he could generate a lot of discussion, but when it came to anything horror-related or self-promotional, it was like the proverbial graveyard.

  “What I want to know,” Workman said, “is if you can think of anyone from your friends list that has said anything suspicious or strange, maybe not on your profile but in a private message.”

  Dustin’s gaze darted to the side, then back. “Um, not really.”

  “You just thought of someone,” Workman said, standing again. “I can tell.”

  “No. I mean, yes, someone sent me a private message about the hashtag, but it wasn’t anything incriminating.”

  “Who is it?”

  “Another writer, lives up in Cowpens with his wife.”

  “Name?”

  “Henry Hill, but he’s not a murderer.”

  “Do you know him personally, or only online?”

  “We’ve met in person a few times. He came to a book signing I did in Greenville last year. He’s a British guy, couldn’t be nicer.”

  “May I see the message?”

  Dustin hesitated. Could the police get a warrant or court order to look at his private messages if he didn’t cooperate? “I’m telling you, there’s nothing there.”

  “Let me take a look. Time is of the essence. The girl could still be alive, but we have absolutely no clues to point us in the right direction.”

  “What about the business cards? Can’t you trace where they were purchased?”

  Workman barked a humorless laugh. “You watch too much CSI. This particular card stock is probably the most common in the country; it could have been bought in one of countless stores or even ordered online. The message was handwritten in generic blue Sharpie.”

  “Fingerprints?”

  “None. This guy is careful.”

  Dustin thought it over for another moment, then pulled out his phone, opened his Facebook Messenger app, found the message from Henry, and then handed the phone to the police officer.

  Workman read the message out loud. “ ‘Hey, Dusty, I couldn’t agree more about the whole Halloween thing. Ever see the Halloween segment in the movie MEET ME IN ST. LOUIS? With the kids running around on their own, throwing flour in adults’ faces to symbolically “kill them,” making a big bonfire right out in the street? That was when the holiday meant something, when people didn’t shy away from the darker aspects of it. I miss those days, too. Maybe it’s up to us horror writers to put the fear back into people, make them remember what it’s like to really be afraid. I’m with you. #Make­Halloween­Scary­Again!’ ”

  “He meant with our fiction,” Dustin said. “Scare people through our stories, that’s what he was talking about.”

  Workman handed the phone back. “I’m sure it is. Would you mind sending me a screenshot of that message?”

  “I don’t think I’d be comfortable with that,” Dustin said, putting the phone back into his pocket.

  “Of course not. Forget I asked. I want to thank you for taking the time to talk with me again.”

  Dustin stood. “Is that it?”

  “For now. If you think of anything else, or get any peculiar messages or comments, I want you to get in touch with me at the station right away.”

  “Yeah, okay. I hope you find the girl.”

  “I’m sure we’ll find her. I only hope she’s alive when we do.”

  Dustin led the way out of the office. In the main library, Workman thanked JoAnn before leaving. Dustin stood behind the checkout desk, and this time he was certain he wasn’t imagining things.

  Everyone in the library
was staring at him.

  —

  Dustin got off work at three that afternoon. He left the library and was almost to the edge of the parking lot when he heard someone call his name. He turned, half expecting to see Officer Workman, but instead a vaguely familiar-looking man, short and stocky with a mop of curly brown hair, leaned against the side of a GMC Acadia.

  “Can I help you?” Dustin asked warily.

  “I thought maybe we could have a chat. I’ve got a few questions for you.”

  Dustin was certain he knew this guy from somewhere, but he couldn’t pinpoint where. He wondered briefly if it could be someone he’d once hooked up with, but his sexual escapades were not so frequent or transitory that he wouldn’t be able to immediately place one of his past partners. “I really just want to get home. Maybe another time.”

  “You walking?”

  “Um, yes, I like the exercise. I don’t live far from here.”

  “Gallivan Street down on the Mill Hill, I remember.”

  Dustin opened his mouth to ask how the guy knew that, but then it finally clicked. The reporter from the Citizen who had interviewed him earlier in the year. It had been an uncomfortable situation, with the reporter giving off a vibe of total boredom and the impression that he’d rather be anywhere else, doing anything else.

  “It’s Shane, right?”

  “Shawn. Shawn Moore. Why don’t you let me give you a lift home, we can talk.”

  “That’s okay, I don’t mind the walk. Besides, I don’t have any new books out at the moment.”

  “This isn’t a follow-up interview. I want to talk to you about Don Morse and Sabrina LeClaire.”

  Dustin frowned. By now everyone in town knew the name Sabrina LeClaire, the teenage girl who was still missing, but the other name meant nothing to him. “Who’s Don Morse?”