“You got a few minutes?” Jill appeared beside Dennis in the Community Center office’s doorway—but not too close. “For both of us?”
“Oh, sure!” McGlazer couldn’t help but grin, assuming they were finally going to ask him to preside over their marriage ceremony.
He began the perfunctory and futile ritual of trying to straighten up the desk. The sagging particleboard furnishing was in use at any given time by any of at least eight people, from coaches to janitors. A wrinkled clutter of plans for the Devil’s Night party, poor replacement for the Pumpkin Parade that it was, had spread like kudzu in the two weeks since Mayor Stuyvesant suggested it.
“Oh, please,” said Jill. “We don’t care about the mess.”
McGlazer grew concerned. Jill’s voice didn’t carry the note of excitement he expected from a newly engaged young lady, even a cynical punker. “All right. Take a seat.”
There was only one, made of hard plastic, and it was hosting a net bag full of dusty kickballs. Dennis moved the bag for Jill, then leaned against the wall, well outside of her contact range. “Which thing first, Jilly?”
She regarded McGlazer earnestly. “You know me and Denny are supposed to keep our filthy mitts off each other for a few months, while he readjusts to sobriety.”
“It ain’t easy,” Dennis immediately added. “You gotta help us.”
“Oh. I understand…” McGlazer scratched his ear. “Well, I doubt you’re interested in…supportive bible verses.”
Dennis gave a wan smile. “Here’s where your counseling skills kick in, Padre.”
“Let’s hope. So—tell me how you were…handling it, before now?”
They both laughed. “I know you’re not going for double entendre,” Jill said. “You’ll have to look past our childish preoccupation.”
“I’ll try to meet you halfway.”
“We’re always under adult supervision,” Dennis began, “if you count Petey.”
“I try to dress down,” Jill offered.
“It don’t help,” said Dennis. “She’s still…her.”
“And he’s still him.” She locked eyes with him. The sexual tension was as palpable as they had said.
“How did you make it here today without…?”
“Pedro drove us. He’s waiting for us outside,” explained Jill. “Didn’t want any part of this conversation,”
“It was his idea we talk to you.”
“Says he wants to split the suffering with somebody else.”
“Well, give him my thanks.”
“So, you got anything for us?”
McGlazer took a deep breath, mostly as a stall, while he mulled an inventory of stratagems he might once have suggested. Praying with those struggling against temptation was usually the big go-to in the minister business. But McGlazer grimly realized that would be disingenuous these days. “I think I’m going to have to make a referral on this one.”
“Huh? Who?”
McGlazer just stared at them for several seconds.
“A therapist is out of the question, man.” Dennis’s frustration was obvious. “You’ve always done me right as my sponsor. So what gives?”
McGlazer’s inner dialogue made him feel like he was possessed by Conal O’Herlihy again, as if two minds were at war in his body. He fought his way back to the surface, past a rising tide of doubts he had been ignoring for months. “I know it’s time-sensitive,” he said, “but I think it’s best if I give it some thought and check with said referral.” He was thinking of the witches.
“I guess I can bite the bullet for one more day,” said Jill, making Dennis shake his head at the vague innuendo. “What about you, Den-Den?”
He slid down the wall to hold his head in his hands, mumbling, “You know what that nickname does to me.”
“Everything does that to you lately.”
He looked up at her and bit his palm comically. “Let’s move on.”
When Jill turned back to McGlazer, it was with a graver expression.
“Uh oh. You kids aren’t…the ‘P’ word, are you?”
“Not at present,” said Dennis. “Right now, we need to ask another big favor, which is…access to the church’s sublevels.”
* * * *
McGlazer recalled last November 3, going back under the church, with the terror he had just lived still fresh on his mind and nerves.
First, there was a closed-door meeting in the same Community Center office where he now sat with Dennis and Jill. Hudson, Yoshida, Dennis and Pedro, all bandaged and scarred from their own battle with a pack of werewolves, crowded together to listen, as he and Stella gave their account of the nightmarish events in the church’s hidden basement.
With his body under the control of Conal O’Herlihy, the reverend had taken DeShaun and Stella down into the subterranean chamber—unknown to him before then—where he force-fed them a rare mushroom that induced visions, mind control and a form of zombification.
Stella’s engineer husband, Bernard, drafted by Stuart Barcroft, had thought ahead, bringing several strips of classroom-grade magnesium with him when he and Stuart set out to rescue their wife and friend. Once ignited, these simple chemist’s wares vanquished O’Herlihy’s army of mushroom-covered ghouls and gave Reverend McGlazer a chance to eject the malignant spirit of O’Herlihy.
After the meeting, Hudson and Yoshida collected some chemical hazard suits from the local fire department as protection from the mushroom’s hallucinogenic spores. Bernard got his hands on more magnesium, and with Dennis along to keep him busy (not drinking), they entered the chambers. After a brief debate over preserving the stone caskets that contained O’Herlihy’s fungus guardians, all agreed it was best to destroy everything; all traces of the mushroom, the caskets in the anterooms, even the symbols painted on the walls were blasted off with a high-pressure hose after Yoshida took pictures.
Once it was all over, there was nothing but stone rubble and empty space.
They decided to shutter the building and keep the mushroom monsters a secret while maintaining close watch to ensure the threat was truly over.
To be extra sure, they would wait through the coming Halloween, of course.
Hudson and Yoshida, though frequently griping about how much of their job was off the books these days, were nonetheless vigilant in making regular patrols of the chambers. McGlazer, always joining them, was nevertheless unsettled by those first few steps, even with the high-powered hunting lights the deputies used.
Dennis’s request seemed reasonable enough on its surface.
“Why the catacombs?” McGlazer asked the musicians.
“I explained to you about the new sound…” Dennis began.
“For now, anyway,” Jill contributed. She had made it clear she was far from sold on the idea of going pure death rock, as opposed to the punk/psychobilly fusion that was their basic sound.
“At least for this demo,” conceded Dennis.
“Sure.”
“It’s gotta be deep. Dark. You know, foreboding.”
Dennis produced a mini-recorder from his back pocket and played a snippet from “Is Everything Real?” by The Frozen Autumn, then fast-forwarded to Ghosting’s “Disguised in Black.”
McGlazer nodded. “Yes, I see what you mean.”
“So what do you think?”
“It is close to Halloween, you know.”
“I know,” Dennis said, “and you wanted to wait till after to figure out whether to reopen or not. But the thing is, we’re on a tight schedule to get this into the studio guy’s hands. And with the joint’s history and all…it would just be perfect.”
Dennis’s gaze was too imploring, so the minister looked to Jill—and immediately understood why Dennis was having such trouble keeping his hands off her.
“We’ll make sure Hud, or Yosh, or somebody i
s there to babysit the whole time. Keep the doors opened, have Bernard stand by with his weird science.”
“Well, you’ve given me a lot to consider,” McGlazer said.
“Take the night, Rev,” said Dennis. “Whatever you can do is great. On either deal.”
“We better go,” Jill said as she rose. “Or we’re gonna have one hungrumpy meathead bassist on our hands.”
“‘Hungrumpy’,” McGlazer repeated with a laugh.
“Feel free to work that into your next sermon.”
* * * *
Stella parked in the Grand Illusion Cinemas’ massive lot, which hadn’t filled to anywhere near capacity for a year now. It was the most convenient spot for the Riesling family to meet after Candace’s session. “We’ll walk down Main Street,” Bernard said as he took Emmie’s little hand. “We’ll find something fun.”
A light, musky breeze caressed their hair as Stella and Candace walked the block to the little beige building that housed Dr. Lanton’s office. Though the single-story structure was surrounded by azaleas through the summer, its autumn sparseness made it appear abandoned.
Stella watched Candace to see if she would raise her face into the wind, as she, Stella, did when she was the same age. But Candace only stared ahead.
“Candace, baby…are you nervous?”
“Not really. Doctor Lanton is nice. I like her.”
“Is there anything you want me to bring up?”
“Just remember to tell her the pills are working. Okay?”
In the waiting room, Candace stared at the four placid abstract pastels on the wall, going from one to the other repeatedly until she was called.
“How are you sleeping, Candace?” asked the pixie-faced therapist.
“Well…”
Stella found Candace’s uncertainty perplexing. The girl always made a point of saying how glad she was to be sleeping again, how grateful she was for her new life.
Dr. Lanton examined the girl’s face closely, then asked a series of questions that were vague and pointless to Stella’s ears. “How about just Candace and I talk for a few minutes? Would that be fine?”
Stella excused herself and returned to the waiting room, where she went over the exchange, fearing she had done something that might endanger her hopes of adoption or, worse, hurt Candace.
Chapter 8
Ghost Town
“Jakka-lannern!” called Emera, stopping her bunny-hop to point at the decoration in the window.
The pumpkin was only a sun-faded cardboard cutout taped to the window of Calloway’s Exotic Pet Supply. Bernard wondered if it had been there, untouched, since last year. Or the year before.
The pet store was locked, blinds down, leaving him to wonder if, like so many local businesses and farms, the proprietors had up and left.
“Zat where the fishes an’ turtles are?” asked Emmie.
Bernard’s heart sank at the idea of letting his daughter down. “Well…I don’t know.”
Father and daughter went to the window. Bernard tried to peer between the blinds for a clue. The window decal was intact, and the business-hours sign, though coated in dust, remained in place.
“Maybe they had to go somewhere,” Bernard told Emmie. “We’ll check back in a few minutes.”
“Okay!”
Bernard feared he was just delaying the little one’s disappointment.
Bernard remembered walking along the sidewalk this time of year in previous autumns, even well into the evening hours, and finding himself jostled by people coming and going to prepare for Halloween at all the mom-and-pop shops that sold every conceivable kind of Halloween-related merchandise, often handmade.
Preparations for the annual Pumpkin Parade, Ember Hollow’s long-standing claim to tourism fame, would be in full gear, with every shop sign, window and door, every fire hydrant, parking meter and bike stand subject to trick-or-treatment, as the town, and particularly Main Street, transformed into Haunted Hollow, a family-friendly, autumnal Mardi Gras.
It saddened him that Emera might never experience that infectious air of excitement and anticipation.
Now, memories of the parade two years past were inextricably tied to Ragdoll Ruth, the notorious demented doll-costumed domestic terrorist, raining on the parade with her tainted candy, distributing it indiscriminately to anyone unlucky enough to cross her path.
Thanks to her, the parade had quickly devolved to a full-scale riot that night, with costumed revelers becoming a horde of senseless, raging savages.
Many lives were lost. Some, like Bernard’s friends Reverend McGlazer, the members of The Chalk Outlines, and his own Stella, somehow survived, with scars to show for it.
The next Halloween, last Halloween, was just as harrowing.
A gang of bikers, snarkily described by Chalk Outlines bassist Pedro Fuentes as “volunteer werewolves,” arrived to avenge Ragdoll Ruth. Turned out she was the gang leader’s “ol’ lady.”
At least half the businesses here on Main Street had since closed down, the owners moving on to greener, less “cursed” pastures.
Shops and offices on the outlying streets seemed to be shuttering at an even faster rate. Farther out in the county, many of the farmers whose pumpkin crops were intended to go out into all the world were cutting their losses and putting their land up for sale. The lucky ones had already sold. The others, it appeared, would soon be slashing their selling prices and applying for government relief.
The few folks who did walk past Bernard and Emera wore glum or disinterested faces. The only thing missing from this desolate picture was a rolling tumbleweed.
Bernard hoisted Emera and gave her a kiss. “How about some cookies for my pretty princess?”
“Yeah!”
Bernard internally scolded himself, realizing he should have made sure the Cookie Kitchen wasn’t closed as well.
A sparkling-clean Cadillac XTS appeared, cruising toward them at well below even the city speed limit of 20 mph. Spotting the rental plate, Bernard tossed up a welcoming wave, which Emmie emulated.
The Caddie stopped beside them, the driver’s window powering down. “Good afternoon!”
The strawberry-blond woman dressed in pricey casual wear was vivacious in a way that locals would describe as “uptown,” very much like the record-company executive with the British accent who had come to check out The Chalk Outlines a couple of years ago, God rest her.
“Hello and welcome,” Bernard said, and so did Emera.
“You two are the cutest couple in this town, I’d bet!” said the visitor.
Seeing their reflection elegantly framed in her Versace sunglasses, Bernard couldn’t argue. “Well, Emmie here counts for at least seventy-five percent. Looking for someone?”
“The Blue Moon Inn.”
Bernard always winced at the name, only because Stella had stayed there during their brief split right around the time of the werewolves on wheels. Bernard could not know how much this woman, Violina Malandra, could glean from his tiny wince, just as he would not have understood what she was doing if he’d seen her just fifteen minutes ago, looking out over a pumpkin field at the strange, charred trail left by Ysabella’s vomiting episode.
Bernard pointed to the high hill at the far end of the street. “Just drive in the direction of that old church up there. A series of increasingly large signs will guide you right to it.”
Emmie pointed too.
Violina smiled her thanks and waved two burgundy-gloved fingertips at Emera before motoring off.
Emmie wore a concerned look Bernard had never seen from her before. “Is she…another wolf monster, Daddy?”
“Hmm? Surely not. Why would you ask that?”
Emmie frowned deeper. “She feels kinda like one.”
* * * *
“We can talk about anything you don’t want you
r foster mom to hear.”
“She’s my Mom-mom. Not my foster mom.”
“Right.”
“It’s just, well…the sleeping pills don’t always work like they should.”
Dr. Lanton was incredulous. Candace’s dose should be doing the job well enough.
The doctor nodded and listened, remembering the girl’s history. Like the fact that her previous foster parents, in debt to The Fireheads motorcycle gang, had given Candace too much or too few of her prescriptions, both to control the troubled girl to their own ends and to sell or use the surplus.
“Why haven’t you told your fos—your mom and dad this?”
“I…I don’t want to worry them. They have a lot to deal with. With Emmie and me both.”
Candace’s body language indicated this was not the reason, at least not entirely.
“They’ll have to approve and oversee any med change, you know.”
“Oh.”
“You’re okay with that?”
“I just want to sleep without the nightmares.”
“What happens in the nightmares?”
Candace looked down at her shoes, turning her feet out and in.
“Why don’t you want to say?” asked Dr. Lanton.
“Because the dreams mean I’m not really getting better.”
“Maybe it’s just taking longer than you would like.”
“You don’t understand. They’re not just dreams.”
Dr. Lanton felt her skin crawl. She already knew what the girl was going to say.
“Everett will never die,” she said plainly. “And he’ll never stop killing.”
* * * *
When Maisie’s jaw began to ache, she realized she had been tensing it since the moment Violina arrived at the Blue Moon Inn.
After the biker’s de-transformation ritual, Maisie and Ysabella had plummeted into their beds and slept as deep as a sea, until Violina rang them from the lobby.
The wealthy witch had long been at odds with Ysabella. “Personal differences” was the cover Maisie had rehearsed in case any outsiders asked. The true reason behind their enmity would rightfully shake the confidence of everyone counting on them.
Demon Harvest Page 7