Halloween Spirits: 11 Tales for the Darkest Night Read online

  Uncertainty flickered in the vibrant blue of his brother’s eyes. “What are you talking about? What can we do? We’re just kids.”

  Chuck grinned inwardly. “I’m gonna go over and tell her she has no business knitting and scaring people if she’s supposed to be dead.”

  Joe grabbed his brother’s ankle. “No! She’ll—” He shrugged and gesticulated with his grubby hands but the words wouldn’t come.

  “She’ll what? If she really is a ghost then she can’t do anything to me, right? All she can do is say ‘Boo!’ “

  Joe tugged harder at his brother’s jeans and Chuck pulled away from him.

  “C’mon, Joe! Why don’t you come with me and we’ll both tell her to go back to wherever her body is?”

  Joe shook his head so hard and fast Chuck thought it would fly off. “I’m scared of her, Chuck. You should be too. It’s not right to mess with ghosts.”

  Chuck felt a pang of pity for his brother and considered forgetting the whole thing, but his own curiosity compelled him to introduce himself to the old lady, if for no other reason than to ask why she didn’t have any pumpkins out on Halloween.

  “I’m just going to go say, ‘hello’.”

  “Don’t,” Joe whispered.

  “Aw c’mon. Don’t you think ghosts have better things to do on Halloween besides sitting on old porches knitting?”

  The sky over their heads was a cold gray, the wind moaning high above them as if caught in a snare of clouds.

  Chuck sighed and tousled his brother’s dusty blond hair. “Okay. If you stay here and be my lookout, I reckon I’ll have nothing to worry about. You can holler if it looks like she’s about to change into a monster or something.”

  Joe blanched. “Don’t let her get you.”

  “I won’t. You got my back?”

  “Sure.”

  Chuck winked, straightened and stomped purposefully off toward the gap in the hedge a few feet away from his brother. He heard Joe muttering a silent prayer at his back and suppressed a grin. At the gap he paused and looked back. He could see Joe’s eyes peeking over the hedge, one eyebrow raised as if asking if he had changed his mind. Chuck sucked air through his nose and stuck out his chest in a dramatic gesture for Joe’s benefit.

  Chuck looked across the road.

  The old lady in the faded floral dress rocked slowly to and fro. The faint sound of clicking reached his ears.

  He began to walk.

  He knew he should be looking up and down the road to be sure there were no cars coming like they’d been taught but his eyes were fixed on the lady and the crumbling house.

  The porch looked as if it could collapse at any given moment, finally succumbing to the voracious appetite of the weeds and switch-grass that grabbed at its latticed framework. Next to the rocking chair an empty yellow egg carton flapped mutely in the breeze and Chuck guessed some kids had probably dumped it there after bombarding the house with its contents. The brownish scabs he saw on the mildewed siding confirmed his theory.

  Rusted paint tins clustered in the corner of the porch and the steps leading up to where the old lady sat gently rocking were splintered and broken.

  Not a ghost but not much of a housekeeper either.

  Chuck had reached the center of the road and suddenly the old lady stopped and looked up at him.

  And he knew he had made a mistake.

  Joe was right. He was a silly kid with a head full of silly notions but for once he was right. He knew it in that moment without a shadow of a doubt.

  It was as if he was standing before the open door of a freezer, his body wracked with a sudden inexplicable trembling. Oh no.

  There was a sound like long nails dragging down a chalkboard and the world dimmed as if an enormous shadow had swept across the sky above his head.

  He tried to move. Couldn’t. And she was staring at him.

  He was vaguely aware of the old lady getting to her feet. She made a curiously human gesture of gently laying her knitting down on the seat behind her. But she was far from human.

  Joe’s voice: Don’t let her get you.

  Chuck tried desperately to close his eyes before terror blurred his vision.

  He felt an odd tingling sensation as thin white rivers of electricity arced from his fingertips and vanished into the ground at his feet. Tingling, no pain. Joe was yelling but from oh so far away now.

  The old woman stared at him with a parody of sadness drawn on her wizened face.

  I’m frozen in the middle of the road. I’m frozen because she put a spell on me and a car’ll come along and kill me and—

  The paralysis broke, sound rushing back into his ears, lancing his brain and he cried out, fell to his knees on the white line in the center of the road.

  The line began to glow.

  And still the old lady did not move.

  “Chuck!” Joe screeched in a voice choked with panic and Chuck turned to look at his brother. Joe was miles away; nothing more than a speck seen through a revolving tunnel of thorns but one thing was clear as day. The witch was making him glow too. He appeared almost angelic, glowing from within like so many of those images he’d seen in the Good Book.

  White sparks flickered around Joe’s head like lightning bugs.

  Chuck looked back at the old lady. Her eyes were a milky white and he was struck by what he read in them. Unbearable agony.

  Her voice came to him like the dry rustle of dead leaves. “Chuck, come home.”

  He could sense the urgency in her, ethereal hands attempting to lock their fingers around his own. She wanted him.

  Company for the dead.

  “Nnnooo,” he grunted through teeth that refused to open.

  She wanted a boy, a soul, anyone.

  Someone to carve the pumpkins.

  He screamed and spun, the white line flashing, blinding, searing as Chuck and his soul ran toward the gap in the fence, to Joe who was screaming, screaming, eyes wide as his brother dove through the fence.

  The gap swallowed them.

  *

  I have no memory of what it felt like to live by time. To have my days and nights governed by something beyond my control.

  I stand on this old porch and watch, listening to the dying screams of terror the breeze will soon carry away. And I wait.

  They will come again, I know. They always come back, just never all the way.

  I hate that I am a stranger to them. It shreds my heart that death has erased the familiarity from their fragile little minds. Now, they fear me. What kind of a symbol have I become to them? I’m sure I’m better not knowing.

  I sit back in my rocking chair, my toes holding me still as the breeze runs its fingers through my hair but no amount of sympathy can make it better. The breeze can only assist in drying my tears.

  I go back to knitting and whisper a silent prayer to whoever listens that Chuck will be brave again someday and find the courage to reach the steps. Close enough to see the love in my eyes.

  The love I have kept for Chuck and Joe.

  My darling children. Taken from me by a stranger and buried out there in some unknown place beneath the October sky.

  Come home…

  Come home to mother.

  CARRION MAN

  Joseph Nassise

  Sheriff Tom Donaldson couldn’t put off making the call any longer, especially with the press and the town council breathing down his neck. Never mind the threats from the missing children’s angry parents. The time had come and that was that. There wasn’t anything else he could do.

  If this didn’t work, they could have his job. And good riddance, too, he thought with a snort of disgust.

  Picking up the phone, he dialed Grayson Shaw’s number from memory.

  *

  “I understand, Sheriff. The car will be here for me in half an hour. Yes. I’ll see you then.”

  Grayson hung up the phone and sat back in his chair with a weary sigh. The call had finally come. He wasn’t surprised, consideri
ng all that had happened in the last several weeks, but he had hoped that this one could have been solved without his assistance. He’d been summoned for all manner of catastrophes in the past; earthquakes, floods, even the occasional murder investigation where the body had gone missing. But nothing like this. This one was different.

  Fifteen children.

  Jesus!

  He glanced heavenward, silently mouthing an apology, but damn if that wasn’t how he felt about the whole mess. He had momentarily been tempted to tell Donaldson no. After all, the sheriff had sworn to the press that he wouldn’t use any “hocus-pocus bullshit or psychic mumbo-jumbo” in solving this investigation. Shaw knew that particular public comment had been directed at him and he had received the message loud and clear.

  But that had been after number two.

  With little James Newton now missing for over forty-eight hours, the official victim count was about to reach sixteen.

  Considering the circumstances, Grayson had about as much a chance of saying no to Donaldson as he had of getting up out of his wheelchair and walking. It just wasn’t going to happen. Not in this lifetime, at least. Which meant he was stuck with saying yes and getting involved in a case that he fervently wanted nothing to do with.

  Forget the Lord, it’s the American justice system that works in mysterious ways, Grayson thought ruefully, as he wheeled himself down the hall toward his bedroom in order to get changed, since showing up for a meeting with the Sheriff in his bathrobe wasn’t the best way for him to get back into the man’s good graces.

  *

  Grayson was waiting at the bottom of the ramp that led to his front door when the police van arrived thirty-five minutes later. The driver got out, opened the rear doors, and helped Gray use the Tommy-Lift to get himself and his chair situated. The Sheriff himself was waiting for him inside. Once the driver got back behind the wheel, they wasted no time getting underway.

  “Do you know why you’re here?” asked the Sheriff.

  Gray nodded, “The children.”

  “Right. The children.” A quick grimace of pain crossed the Sheriff’s face at the thought, but he quickly suppressed it and got back to business. “The public is unaware of it, but for the last several weeks we’ve suspected that this is the guy.”

  The Sheriff handed over a photograph of a middle-aged, heavyset man with long, greasy hair dressed in a tuxedo studded with rhinestones. Gray looked the picture over carefully, but he did not know the man. He told the Sheriff as much.

  “No reason you should,” answered the Sheriff. “His name is Jasper Michaels. He’s the owner of the Great and Glorious Traveling Carnival and Circus, a roadshow that set up shop just outside of town about three weeks before the disappearances began. We’ve got a stack of circumstantial evidence a mile high that indicates this is our guy, but we don’t have anything solid enough to charge him, never mind hold him. That’s where you come in.”

  “I don’t think I understand,” said Gray.

  “We’ve tried everything to catch this guy in the act, but he’s good. He hasn’t made a single mistake. Despite this, I’ve managed to talk Judge Stevens into giving us a search warrant for the carnival grounds. Because what we’ve got is so shaky, he’s only given us a four-hour window though. If we don’t find anything in that time, we’re out of there.” Donaldson shook his head ruefully. “It’s crazy, but you’re pretty much all I’ve got left. I need you to go in there, do that thing you do, and find the evidence we need to bust this guy. Understand?”

  Gray nodded, “Yeah, I get it.” He didn’t mention the fact that his talent wasn’t 100% reliable when it came to this kind of thing or that Donaldson was grasping at straws in hoping Michaels was the culprit. He figured the Sheriff had enough to worry about, without adding to the mix.

  The ride took less than a half hour and they arrived to find several other squad cars parked alongside the carnival’s front gates. The officers themselves were slowly evacuating the park, directing the crowds out the various exits. The driver parked the van behind the other cars and Donaldson got out to talk with his men.

  It took more than two hours to clear the grounds of the carnies and their guests. Gray sat in the back of the police van the entire time, waiting it out at the Sheriff’s request. The police department apparently didn’t want his involvement on the six o’clock news just yet.

  Once the carnival was cleared, Gray used the Tommy-Lift at the rear of the van to lower his chair to the ground. Rolling off the lift, he turned in time to see Donaldson coming toward him from the passenger side of the vehicle.

  “Remember, we’ve got the entire park to ourselves for the next four hours,” Donaldson said. “That’s all the time the warrant gives us. The only thing that can allow us to stay is if we uncover evidence that implicates Michaels. My men are tearing through the place as we speak and if they find anything, they’ll let us know ASAP. How do you want to handle your end?”

  Gray had already considered his approach while waiting in the van. “Let’s go down each of the main thoroughfares first, stopping at the most popular rides. From there, if we have time left, we can examine the booths and anything we think might deserve a second look.”

  “Fine with me. Let’s get started,” replied the Sheriff.

  Before they could do anything, a large, hulking man dressed in an ill-fitting suit rushed out of the crowd, shaking his fists and yelling. Gray recognized him from the pictures the Sheriff had showed him on the drive over; Jasper Michaels.

  “I’ll have your badge for this, Sheriff! I’ll sue you and the town for every single dime I lose over the next four hours. You can bet your ass on it!” Michaels hollered.

  The Sheriff waved his hand and several officers moved onto an intercept course with Michaels. Prevented from reaching the Sheriff, the other man went on yelling. “You’ll be on the street before morning, Sheriff! Mark my words! You and the damn Carrion Man both!”

  Hearing the carnival owner shout his old nickname, Gray winced and ducked his head, doing his best to keep a low profile. He’d been the center of attention during a media blitz several years ago, when he’d had been called in to help find several drowning victims after a flash flood. The papers had not been kind, particularly the supermarket tabloids. They’d called him a natural dowsing rod, one with a powerful talent. But unlike others with similar gifts, who could locate useful things like water or oil, Gray’s affinity was for the dead. He was the human equivalent of a cadaver dog; he could locate a corpse from over fifty feet away, even if it was underwater or buried beneath the earth. The Weekly World Press, one of the worst offenders on the tabloid scene, began referring to him as the Carrion Man, and the name quickly stuck.

  He thought the public had forgotten about him, but he was clearly wrong. At least the press never dug any deeper. If they ever learned the truth about what I can do, they probably would have burned me at the stake instead of just hanging me with a nickname.

  Michaels was led away, still yelling, by the officers who’d intercepted him. The Sheriff called for three of his other men to join them and the little group moved into the fairgrounds with Gray in the middle, surrounded by the officers. The men seemed slightly uncomfortable in his presence now that they knew who he was. They kept back several feet and repetitively cast furtive glances in his direction when they didn’t think he was looking. Clearly agitated by Michaels’ outburst, Donaldson wasn’t talking any more than was necessary either, so the only noise that issued from the group as they moved onto the property was the sound of their footsteps against the hard packed earth and the electric whine of Gray’s wheelchair.

  Their first stop was the Ferris Wheel. It was an old ride, its paint cracked and peeling, its brightly colored lights dimmed from the dirt that had long accumulated over the bulbs. Its framework rose into the sky, reminding Gray of a mechanical skeleton looming high overhead, ready to drop and crush them beneath its bulk at a moment’s notice.

  Gray rolled up close to the machin
e, leaving the others behind. The smell of stale popcorn and machine oil invaded his nostrils. Closing his eyes, he reached out with one hand and touched the metal structure. He held his other hand over the dirt to the side of his chair, palm pointed at the earth. Closing his eyes, he cast outward with his power, looking for the remains of the missing children.

  He was careful, extending his senses slowly, doing his best to detect even the slightest trace, but after several moments he put his hands back in his lap and opened his eyes.

  “Anything?” asked the Sheriff from where he stood several feet off to the left.

  Gray shook his head.

  “All right, boys, let’s keep moving. Time’s a’wastin’.”

  And so it went.

  They stopped at the Tilt-A Whirl.

  The Bumper Cars.

  The Viking Longship.

  Up and down the dirt thoroughfares, one ride after another, and each time it was the same.

  Nothing.

  For a moment he thought they had something at the carousel, but it was just the echo of an old death, a knife fight between two arguing carnies that had ended in tragedy. Gray shook his head and the group moved on again.

  Ride after ride, with nothing to show for their efforts.

  Until they came to the circus tent.

  The minute Gray rolled inside he heard the dead calling out to him.

  Begging.

  Pleading.

  Telling him all the awful things that had been done to them.

  The barrage was momentarily overwhelming and Gray felt the world start to spin around him. He fought back against the din, using his power to block out the voices, building a mental wall to protect his sanity while he sorted it all out.

  When at last he had regained control, he took a deep breath and slowly let the voices seep inside his mind once more. They were here; fifteen in all. Fifteen murdered children. He listened to them whisper in the back of his mind, felt their phantom touch scurry up and down the length of his spine, and learned all he needed to know about the events of the last three weeks. Of how they had been beaten, raped, and tortured. Of how they had been tricked into thinking they were going to be released, only to be forced to dig their own graves there in the center ring. Of how the dirt floor had grown stained with their blood, stark in the bright lights under the big top.