#MAKEHALLOWEENSCARYAGAIN
As he told the 911 operator what he’d found, a single thought repeated in his brain on a loop: I shoulda taken that job at Burger King.
—
Dustin had turned the back bedroom into his office, bookcases lining the walls and a large oak desk placed in the far right corner away from any of the windows to minimize distraction. Of course, he realized he didn’t need a designated workspace since he worked on a laptop and he could write anywhere. On the sofa, in the bed, at a coffee shop, in a lawn chair in the backyard, even on the toilet. And yet an old-fashioned part of him felt every writer needed an office. A sacred space in which to create and imagine and build worlds. Maybe it was just superstition, but he thought having an office would inspire him, make him feel like a real writer.
I am a real writer, he reminded himself as he sat at the desk, the glow from the screen bathing his face. On the top shelf of the bookcase to his left sat his three books, two novels, and one short story collection. He wasn’t exactly in the same league as Stephen King, but he was a published author.
Three books, but he hoped there would be a fourth. He was starting to wonder. His last release, the collection Shadows of the Other Side, came out over a year ago, and he hadn’t finished anything but a handful of short stories and poems since then. He’d started two novels in the past six months and abandoned them both when they weren’t working. He seemed to have lost his mojo.
But perhaps he was getting it back. Earlier in the month, he’d been at the BiLo on Wade Hampton and had passed a man wearing grungy jeans and a camo jacket in the parking lot who had seemed to emanate a sense of menace, almost like a stench that wafted from him along with the scent of stale cigarette smoke and cheap beer. Dustin had averted his eyes and hurried to his car. Nothing more had happened than that, and Dustin may have simply been imagining the malice he felt, but it had sparked an idea about a young man who had a supernatural sixth sense that could tell him if people had done horrible things. He’d gone straight to the office after getting the groceries put up that day and started writing.
And now he was five chapters into What’s in Their Hearts, a novel that had him excited again. He could possibly attribute this burst of enthusiasm and inspiration to the season. He’d loved Halloween since he was a child and had never outgrown that love. Instead, it only intensified. As a longtime enthusiast of horror novels and scary movies, a fact that usually earned him odd looks and sneers, he thought Halloween was the one time of year when the whole world shared in his passion. Or at least they used to.
Dustin was right in the middle of a gripping action sequence when the doorbell chimed through the house. He groaned but didn’t move. He rarely got visitors, so he imagined it could only be a UPS delivery or a kid selling candy bars or someone canvassing for their politician in the upcoming election. Whatever the case, he hated being interrupted when he was caught up in the flow.
When the bell rang again and was immediately followed by the pounding of a fist on the door, Dustin cursed softly to himself, saved his work, and pulled himself away from the story. After a short jaunt down the hall and through the archway to his left into the living room, he pulled the door open, ready to unleash his displeasure on whoever waited on the stoop.
He changed his mind when he found a police officer standing on the other side of the door.
“Hello, Officer,” Dustin said with a slight frown. “Can I help you with something?”
The officer was young, mid- to late twenties, his cruiser parked at the curb. He had been gazing at the Halloween decorations that littered Dustin’s front lawn, but now he turned back. “Are you Dustin Davis?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“My name is Officer Workman. Would you mind if I took up a few moments of your time with a couple questions?”
“Regarding what?”
“Some Facebook posts you’ve made recently.”
Dustin’s frown deepened. “What exactly is this about? Why would you care about my Facebook posts?”
“This is in conjunction with a homicide investigation.”
Without thinking, Dustin stepped back and aside, allowing Workman to enter. He couldn’t imagine what his Facebook posts could have to do with a murder, but his mind was definitely no longer on the novel in the back bedroom. He seemed to have a more intriguing story brewing right here in his own living room.
Workman took a seat on the sofa and Dustin settled into the armchair catty-corner to it. “Is this about the body they found at the park this morning?”
The officer pulled a notepad out of his shirt pocket. “You heard about that?”
“It’s all over the Internet and television. Have you guys identified him yet?”
“I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to disclose that information at this time.”
“Well, can you at least tell me what any of this has to do with my Facebook posts?”
Workman consulted some notes scribbled on the pad. “Over the last four days you’ve made several posts ending with a hashtag that reads ‘Make Halloween Scary Again,’ is that correct?”
“Yeah,” Dustin said, his confusion absolute. He had come up with the hashtag off the cuff while making a post and had thought it pretty clever at the time. It expressed his disappointment with the way Halloween had become a nonevent these days, people not really getting into the spirit the way they used to. His neighborhood was a perfect example. His lawn, full of jack-o’-lanterns and cardboard tombstones and little white ghosts bobbing from the limbs of the maple, was the only one on the street decorated except for a few anemic gourds on the front steps of the Childers’ place three houses down. He’d hoped the hashtag would catch on and become an online trend. So far the only two people who seemed to have noticed it at all were his friend Henry and Officer Workman.
“Where did you come up with that particular hashtag? Did you see it somewhere else and copy it?”
“No, I made it up.”
“Hmm.” Workman grunted, scribbling something on the pad.
“I’m sorry, I’m not seeing what my hashtag has to do with any of this.”
“I can’t give you any specifics at this time, but there was evidence obtained on the scene that makes this line of questioning pertinent.”
“So you’re questioning me but you can’t tell me why you’re questioning me?”
Workman looked up at him and smiled. “I know this must be frustrating to you, but I’m really limited in what information I can give out to the public at this time.”
“Am I…I mean, I’m not a suspect, right?”
“Not at all. Just following up on a few things.”
Dustin tried to return Workman’s smile but struggled. Make Halloween Scary Again. Those words had to have been left at the scene, otherwise the police wouldn’t be interested in the hashtag. Workman said he wasn’t a suspect, but if Dustin did have to account for his whereabouts last night, he’d spent the evening alone at home watching Sleepy Hollow on Netflix. Not much of an alibi.
You don’t need an alibi. You’re not guilty of anything.
“I read the article about you in the paper earlier this year,” Workman said, flipping his notepad closed. “Greer’s very own celebrity.”
Dustin felt a blush creeping into his cheeks. He’d been flattered when the Greer Citizen had wanted to do an article on him, even though he knew it was only because it was a slow news week, but the end result had been only two paragraphs on the fifth page, accompanied by a grainy black-and-white photo. “I’m hardly a celebrity.”
“Do you have an office or something where you do your creating?”
“Actually, yes, I converted the extra bedroom.”
“I’d love to see where an author makes the magic happen. Would you mind if I took a peek?”
Dustin almost said, “Do you have a warrant?” but stopped himself seconds before the words passed his lips. That was the type of thing a guilty character would say in one of his novels. He
wanted to sound innocent.
You are innocent. Stop acting like a crazy person.
“Um, sure. Follow me.”
Dustin led Workman back to his office. The laptop was still open, but the screensaver of Michael Myers stalking Laurie Strode down a darkened hospital corridor played on a loop. Workman stepped up to the desk, staring down at the computer. “Working on some new horrific masterpiece?” he asked.
“Trying to.”
“I’d imagine someone in your line of work, who writes the kind of fiction you do, probably gets a lot of people who wonder if you have a few screws loose, huh?”
Dustin thought he was beginning to understand this visit. The age-old prejudice that someone who wrote horror stories must have a twisted mind. “I think most people realize that it’s just imaginative fiction,” he said. “I mean, no one thinks that Stephen King is a serial killer or anything.”
“Yes, but you’re no Stephen King.” Workman turned away from the computer to face Dustin again. “I’m sorry, I didn’t intend that as an insult. I only mean that you don’t make a living from your writing, right?”
Dustin didn’t want to admit how much the comment stung, but he suspected the heat in his face gave him away. “No, I’m exclusively publishing in the small press right now. We’re talking advances of two to five hundred dollars. I don’t even have an agent yet. Still working the day job to pay the bills.”
“And what do you do?”
“I work at the public library.”
Workman tilted his head and cast a skeptical look Dustin’s way. “That pays for this house?”
“Well, no, not exactly. My mother passed away a couple years ago, and she left me this house and a bit of money.”
More than a bit of money, really. He’d been surprised at the reading of the will to discover his mother had managed to put away so much money over the years, leaving him close to seventy-five thousand dollars and a life insurance policy that covered the funeral expenses. At the time, he’d been working at the library and as a part-time barista at Starbucks and could still barely afford the duplex apartment in which he’d been living with a roommate he didn’t even like. His mother’s death had created a confusing mix of emotions. Grief and loss, obviously, as he and his mother had always been close, but also a strange sense of elation that came with a lifting of financial pressure. Now he could cut back to just one job, the one he actually enjoyed, and focus more time on his writing. He had a five-year plan to get an agent and a publishing deal with one of the major New York publishers. He was two years in, and while he still hadn’t snagged an agent, he was proud of the small-press books he’d released, even if the monetary compensation for them was minimal.
Workman moved over to the bookshelf and ran a finger down the spines of Dustin’s three books. “I have to admit, I haven’t read any of your work. Not a real horror fan. I guess I see enough horror in my line of work.”
Dustin stifled a laugh. This was Greer, South Carolina, not some major metropolis with rampant crime. He imagined the worst things Dustin saw on a regular basis were break-ins and teenagers smoking dope and fooling around at Century Park.
Except someone was murdered at Greer City Park last night. That’s why he’s here.
“I guess it must be hard for a writer at your level to get the word out about your work,” the officer said, returning to the desk to riffle through the pens and pencils Dustin collected in a Mason jar. “Promotion can be a tricky business.”
“Maybe, but with the Internet it’s easier to promote than ever.”
True, but not true at the same time. In the cyber age, there were a million ways a writer could get the word out, but that didn’t make it any easier to attract new readers. In fact, in some ways it made it harder. There were so many choices now, especially with the glut of self-published works flooding the market, and it was harder to stand out.
Workman didn’t seem to even be listening to him, instead, had pulled out a couple pens and was examining them. “Bic your pen of choice, huh? I prefer Sharpies myself. You ever use Sharpies?”
Dustin’s head was swimming from the bizarreness of the whole conversation. “Sometimes, I guess.”
“Hmm,” Workman said, placing the pens back in the jar. “I suppose I’ve taken up enough of your time. I appreciate you talking with me.”
“Sure. Not a problem.”
Dustin walked the officer back to the door. On the threshold, Workman turned and said, “I’ll be in touch if I have any follow-up questions.”
“Okay. Do you want my cell number?”
“Thanks, but I already have it.”
Dustin watched the officer walk back to the cruiser, and only after he drove away did Dustin close the door. He felt dazed and disoriented, like he’d suffered a blow to the head. He had no real idea what any of this was about or exactly why he’d been questioned, but he did know one thing for certain.
Despite Workman’s assurances to the contrary, Dustin was a suspect.
—
Shawn Moore knocked on his boss’s door, then entered without waiting for an answer. Mr. Guffey looked up and sighed, his usual reaction when Shawn popped into his office. Shawn knew he was a pain in the ass, but he also knew that was how you got ahead in this world. Especially in the world of journalism.
“What can I do for you?” Mr. Guffey asked in a weary tone.
“I wanted to ask if I could cover the body that was found in Greer City Park this morning.”
“I already assigned that story to Chad.”
Shawn crossed his arms across his chest, leaned against the wall next to the potted palm, and gave Mr. Guffey what he thought of as his Death Stare. His boss tried to ignore it, fussing with some papers on his desk, but lasted only a minute before barking, “What?”
“Chief, I don’t mean to be a pest or anything, but I’ve been a field reporter for the Citizen for almost a year now, and all I’ve covered so far are talent contests and raffles and the openings of downtown restaurants that typically close within a month.”
“I gave you the profile on that local author not long ago.”
“Some nobody whose annual book sales are probably in the double digits, which you cut to bits and buried near the back of the paper.”
Mr. Guffey leaned back in his chair, which groaned like something alive and in pain, and threw his hands up in a helpless gesture. “What do you want from me? You’re still the new kid on the block; you have to pay your dues.”
“Chad has been here only three months longer than me, and I have a bachelor’s in journalism from Clemson University. Chad has an associate’s in communication from some dinky technical college. I deserve a chance to cover a story with some meat on it. Come on, I’ve been patient.”
Mr. Guffey cocked an eyebrow.
“Okay, so maybe I haven’t been patient, but think of it this way. Maybe I’ll get off your back if you finally assign me a good story.”
Mr. Guffey sighed again, but this time it turned into a chuckle. “I’ve got to hand it to you, son, you’re a persistent sonofabitch. Reminds me of myself at your age, full of piss and vinegar and ambition. Okay, I give in, you can do the story on the murder.”
“Really? You’re not just messing with me?”
“Go see Chad, get his notes. Tell him to come talk to me if he has any questions, though he’s pretty laid-back about what stories he gets assigned. You’ll need to contact Sheriff Hammett.”
“Not my first day at the rodeo, Chief,” Shawn said, cutting a comical salute. “I’m on the case.”
As he walked down the short hall to the big open office he shared with four other reporters, he congratulated himself. He’d expected Mr. Guffey to put up more of a fight, actually, but he’d been determined that he wouldn’t back down until he got this story. Shawn had big dreams, and working in print journalism in the Internet age was no way to make them come true, but if he could be part of a big story, that might get him noticed and on the path to bigger things.
And as far as he was concerned, this had the potential to be a big story indeed.
THREE DAYS UNTIL HALLOWEEN
Sabrina LeClaire didn’t know she was going to cut school until she bypassed the bus stop and kept walking. It was a beautiful fall day, sunny, with a brisk crispness to the air that invigorated her, vibrantly colored leaves cascading down, catching in her hair, still more scurrying before the breeze to scratch across the street like a tiny stampede. She simply couldn’t be cooped up at Riverside High on a day like this.
Besides, this would provide her with the perfect opportunity to spend some alone time with Jeff Saeger.
Jeff wasn’t her boyfriend, but they’d been hanging out lately. She’d even let him get to second base when he took her to the movies last week. Her parents didn’t like him, but she didn’t care. In fact, a self-aware part of her even recognized that was part of his appeal.
She knew he’d be home today because he’d gotten suspended the day before after pulling the fire alarm to get out of an algebra test. That stunt earned him a three-day vacation from school. He’d told her once that his father had split when he was a baby and that his mother worked in Spartanburg and therefore had to leave around six a.m. He should be all alone at home and possibly in need of a little company.
As Sabrina walked the few blocks to Cardinal Drive, where Jeff lived, she sent him a text telling him she was coming over. He didn’t respond, but she didn’t change course. He had to be home. Where else would a suspended seventeen-year-old be at seven o’clock in the morning?
She made it to his house in only five minutes. Jeff’s pickup was in the driveway but not his mother’s hybrid. She rang the bell and waited, but like with her text, there was no answer. She pressed the button again, but then suddenly realized that he was probably still sleeping. Since he didn’t have to be at school, why would he be up this early?
She turned and started back down the steps when she heard a rustling and a cough from the backyard. She walked around the side of the house to find Jeff, dressed in jeans and a Riverside High sweatshirt sporting the logo of a capital R with an arrow stuck through it, raking leaves near the back of the property, right where the yard gave way to a wooded area thick with pines and oaks. His back was to her and he didn’t seem to be aware of her presence. She stood for a moment, watching him, admiring his muscular frame and that thick head of dark hair. His butt was mouth-watering in those tight jeans.
Halloween Carnival Volume 1 Page 9