How to Survive a Killer Seance

by Penny Warner

  The idea behind this: “To nurture warm feelings about the cemetery.”

  Weird, I thought, but why not?

  I made some calls and found San Francisco’s few cemeteries unreceptive to the idea. The City had been forced to move many of its cemeteries, due to rising costs of land and lack of space, and those that remained didn’t readily open their doors for entertainment purposes. But when I contacted the powers-that-be in neighboring Colma, I got lucky.

  While the historic town of Colma is quaint, with brickpaved roads, ornamental streetlamps, a railroad depot, a retro city hall, and ethnically diverse restaurants, Colma is better known as the final resting place for the who’s who of San Francisco’s dearly departed. Among its permanent residents—newspaper tycoon William Randolph Hearst, business magnate William Henry Crocker, San Francisco Chronicle founder Charles de Young, the infamous self-proclaimed Emperor Norton, and baseball legend Joe DiMaggio. Even Sheriff Wyatt Earp had come to rest in Colma. It’s now known as “the City of Souls,” and it’s also where many former deceased San Franciscans have been “relocated.” In fact, now the dead outnumber the living one and a half million to sixteen hundred.

  After Cruz paid a hefty rental fee, the city administrator agreed to let us host our party at Lawndale, one of the older, neglected cemeteries that had gone bankrupt, thanks to the plethora of the more prestigious cemeteries—sixteen, to be exact—that had opened in the area.

  Cruz had quickly found the spot in the cemetery he wanted—a large open-air mausoleum with a patio surrounded by acres of untended headstones. At the moment, production crew members from CeeGee Studios were working out the logistics of “vampire flight” gone wrong. Two men were trying to retrieve Jonas from the treetop, while others attempted to fix a glitch in the rigging that was supposed to lift the young star up and away in a dramatic disappearing act—but not up and into a tree. It looked as if Jonas, aka Count “Alucard” (“Dracula” spelled backward), was going to need more flying lessons and a better pulley system.

  Still, I was impressed, and I thought the party guests—the primary stars, select film crew, important media, and a few local dignitaries—would be at tomorrow night’s party. That was, if they weren’t too superstitious to enter a graveyard.

  I didn’t relish the idea of hosting a party in a graveyard—it seemed somewhat disrespectful—but Cruz had promised to make a large donation to the charity organization of my choice. That was something I insisted on when I hosted large parties for clients. This time I’d chosen the American Red Cross. Given the type of party, it seemed appropriate to help out an organization known for their blood drives.

  “Watch the trees, for God’s sake!” Cruz yelled, as crew members adjusted the young actor’s hidden flying gear. “I want him lifted up and over that whatchacallit—that monument there—not flung around like Peter Pan on crack. This is supposed to be thrilling, not embarrassing! Reporters and photographers from TMI, Gossip Guy, and Buzz Online will be here tomorrow night!”

  Cruz ran both hands through his thinning hair, a habit he had when he was anxious or upset. It was probably why he had thinning hair. He wasn’t the easiest person to work with, and I sensed I’d regret taking on this job, but in the past he’d helped me out with some of my parties that required unique lighting, background decor, or special effects. So, even though I’d been buried under a pile of party requests since I’d hosted the séance party at the Winchester Mystery House, I felt I owed him and couldn’t turn him down.

  Besides, helping one another is what we Treasure Islanders do.

  While Cruz and his crew continued to work on the “disappearing Dracula” glitch, I went over final plans for the party decorations with my own crew. Tonight we were setting up the lighting, unloading the larger props, and doing logistics; tomorrow we’d turn the old mausoleum into a mini-Transylvania.

  Delicia Jackson, part-time actress and my office mate on T.I., was in charge of the “vampire black” and “bloodred” helium-inflated balloons, and she was currently tying them to headstones and monuments in the designated party area. Tomorrow she’d dress for the theme, in a sexy “Vampira” costume. No wig needed: Her long black hair was perfect for the part.

  Berkeley Wong, my events videographer, had already helped Cruz’s crew with the atmospheric lighting—headstones with eerie backlights, indirect spotlights, and dozens of candles. He’d be back again tomorrow night to videotape the event.

  Duncan Grant—gamer, computer whiz, fan of extreme sports, and Berk’s office roommate on Treasure Island—was busy connecting wires behind some gravestones. He’d been thrilled when Cruz had hired him and a few of his friends as movie extras. At the moment he was hooking up the creepy voice recordings he’d made earlier on his computer, and placing tiny speakers around the party area. Each time someone walked past a headstone, a disembodied voice said, “I vant to suck your blood,” “What a long neck you have,” or

  “Bite me.”

  Everything was going to be perfect, I promised myself.

  “Those are awesome!” I called to Brad, my . . . whatever. I refuse to call him “boyfriend.” The hunky crime scene cleaner, who also rented office space on the Island, had volunteered to help out. At the moment he was setting up Styrofoam tombstones made by graphic artists at CeeGee Studios. Each marker had been hand-painted to look cracked and crumbling, then lettered with funny epitaphs, such as, “To follow you, I’m not content, How do I know, Which way you went?” and “Here lies a man named Zeke, Second-fastest draw in Cripple Creek.”

  “As long as I don’t find my name on one of these . . .” Brad said, securing a fake headstone to the front of a real one with duct tape.

  I opened a box and began sorting through the “necklaces” that I’d be placing on the portable party tables, soon to be covered with black tablecloths. I’d ordered dozens of little wooden crosses and small rubber bats, which I planned to set at each place, along with plastic vampire fangs that doubled as napkin rings. But it was the centerpieces that would catch the eyes of most guests tomorrow night. I’d had mini-coffins made out of Plexiglas that would be filled with red-tinted water and topped with a floating black rose candle.

  I hummed as I worked, probably because I found most cemeteries serene and relaxing, with their expansive lawns, color spots of flowers, and statues of weeping angels. While the lawns had turned brown and the flowers had long ago died here at Lawndale, the headstones were still intriguing, documenting lives often taken prematurely by complications of childbirth, disease epidemics, or wars. Lawndale also had a pet section called “Pet’s Place,” reserved for burying animals. Not to be confused with Stephen King’s Pet Sematary, where the pets actually came back to life after they were buried, this one was filled with tiny headstones featuring names of well-loved cats and dogs, interspersed with the occasional parakeet, gecko, or monkey.

  I suddenly sensed someone standing behind me. Halfexpecting Brad again, I turned around and came face-to-face with a grizzled old man in a frayed Forty-Niners baseball cap, dirty overalls, and a plaid flannel shirt. His tattered brown boots were caked in mud, his beard caked in bits of dropped food. Backlit by the work lights the crew had constructed, the man seemed to loom larger than life.

  “What the hell is going on here!” The man spat, then grimaced, revealing a row of crooked yellowed teeth. He swung the beam of a heavy flashlight around the crew. Everyone stopped working and stared at the man—and at the large shovel he held in his other hand.

  I was about to explain when Cruz bounded over, nearly tripping over a cord. “I should ask you the same question, buddy,” he said to the man, who was nearly twice his size. While Cruz might have had a big bark, I had a feeling this guy had a bigger bite. Those creases in his aging face weren’t made by lots of smiling.

  “I’m the owner and manager of Peaceful Kingdom, and you’re on private property.” He spat again, and I realized his lower lip was filled with chewing tobacco.

  Reluctantly, I stepped up t
o take over from Cruz, who had a short fuse. While the big old guy held a menacing flashlight and shovel, I still had some garlic bulbs in my hands, and I knew how to use them if it came to that.

  “Hi.” I reached out a garlic-free hand. “I’m Presley Parker, from Killer Parties. We’re hosting a wrap party for a recently completed film, and we have permission to be here.”

  “A what party?” he asked, ignoring my hand—thank God—and aiming the flashlight right in my eyes. He reeked of alcohol, tobacco, and dirt.

  I shaded the glare. “A wrap party,” I said, enunciating. “To celebrate the end of—”

  “I don’t care if it’s a crap party—you cain’t have it here!” He gave his shovel a menacing shake.

  “I’m afraid we can,” Cruz said. The flashlight shifted to his face. “I don’t know anything about your Peaceful Kingdom or whatever, but you don’t own this place. We have documentation from the City of Colma allowing us to rent Lawndale Cemetery for our event.”

  “Listen, you maggot, and listen good. My name’s Otto Gunther. Me and my wife, Carrie—God rest her soul—we own this here cemetery, and you’re trespassing. So git.”

  “We’re not going to ‘git,’ Otto,” Cruz continued, “but we are going to call the police and have them settle this.” He turned to me and pulled out his cell. “Right, Presley?”

  I glanced at the others, who had gathered to watch the real-life drama. No one looked particularly frightened, but they did seem eager to find out what would happen next. Except for Brad, who was nowhere in sight. I looked back at Otto. His angry expression was easily visible in the party lighting.

  Or was that an expression of fear I saw behind those bloodshot eyes and rigid grimace?

  Otto’s hand shook as he held the flashlight on Cruz. “You’re trespassing on hallowed ground, people, and you’re disturbing the dead. The owl portends that if you’re not gone by midnight, Death will follow.... Death will follow. . . .”

  He turned and vanished back into the darkness.

  Cruz looked stunned at the man’s own special effect of appearing and disappearing, then shook his head. “ ‘ The owl portends?’ That’s all I need. A nutcase in a cemetery . . . and a flying monkey in the trees. What else can go wrong . . . ?” He was still muttering as he returned to the problem at hand—fixing the vampire’s own disappearing act.

  I looked into the dark recesses of the cemetery where Otto had disappeared, and wondered about the unkempt giant of a man. Where had he gone? And why had he claimed to be the owner of Peaceful Kingdom, whatever that was? At the moment, his kingdom didn’t look so peaceful.

  Great. I was just starting to relax and now this. Cruz was right: What else could go wrong at our upcoming vampire party? If it was anything like some of my other events—everything.

  By midnight, the decorations were in place, the vampire was able to disappear without a glitch, and rough cuts of the film were ready to be viewed on the side of the large mausoleum. In spite of the fact that I kept looking over my shoulder, I’d seen no more signs of Otto Gunther. At this point I should have been eager for tomorrow night’s party. But the threats the old man had made—or implied—had unnerved me. These days it seemed as if every crazy person was ready to shoot a gun for any reason. I’d read in the online news yesterday that some guy had killed another guy over a parking place in the City.

  Of course, in a city like San Francisco, that might have been justified. But still.

  “I’m pooped. You ready?” came a voice from behind.

  I jumped. “Brad! Don’t sneak up behind me like that! Especially in a cemetery.” I checked the new Mickey Mouse watch that Brad had given me after I’d hosted a surprise party for his brother, Andrew. “Where have you been?”

  “Loading stuff into the SUV.”

  “So you didn’t see that ginormous old guy who stopped by to threaten us?”

  “What guy?” He scanned the area.

  “Never mind. Just don’t sneak up on me again. Don’t you watch horror movies?”

  “Nope. Just crime dramas and police shows. Horror movies give me nightmares.”

  I felt my tension melt away with him standing next to me. “You’re kidding, right? I didn’t think anything scared you. Except the maggots you sometimes clean up at your crime scenes.”

  He crossed his muscular arms over his muscular chest, almost causing me to have a muscle spasm. “I’m not afraid of maggots. I just hate them.”

  “Horror movies are only make-believe, you know,” I said, teasing him. I happened to love them.

  “That doesn’t stop Freddy from invading my dreams, the way he does in those Nightmare on Elm Street movies.” He shivered.

  It could have been that the cold was seeping into the cemetery. Or not. I was sure Brad could take down Freddy, Jason, and Michael Myers quicker than a kiss from a vampire, but it was fun to see this vulnerable side of him.

  “Well, let’s get out of here before that old guy comes back with a killer backhoe,” I said, referring to the mysterious Otto. “We’ve done all we can here tonight, and it looks like everyone else has packed up and left. We’ll finish the rest tomorrow.”

  “You got somebody watching over all the stuff we’re leaving behind?” Brad asked.

  “Oh yes. Cruz brought a couple of his security guards, and I hired Raj for extra security. He’s around here somewhere. . . .” Scanning the darkness, I spotted my favorite T.I. security guard shining his trusty flashlight into the dark recesses of the cemetery, no doubt searching for illegal gravediggers from Dr. Frankenstein’s lab.

  “Who’s there?” Raj suddenly called out from several yards away.

  I followed the beam of his flashlight as he swung it back and forth through the rustling eucalyptus trees, trying to penetrate the darkness.

  Uh-oh. Was Otto back?

  I spotted a small circle of light in the darkness, about eight or ten feet up in the air. The tiny, intense beam seemed to hover over a headstone, as if suspended in midair, then seemingly bounce to the next, defying gravity.

  This was not Raj’s flashlight beam. Not unless he’d learned to levitate.

  For a moment, I thought it might have been one of Lucas Cruz’s special effects. But Cruz and his gang had already left.

  And this wasn’t in my party plan.

  Neither was the scream that followed.