A Horribly Haunted Halloween Read online

  A Horribly Haunted Halloween

  Heather Graham

  Copyright © 2020 Heather Graham

  A Horribly Haunted Halloween

  Copyright © 2020 by Slush Pile Productions

  All rights reserved. This publication may not be reproduced, in whole or in part, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, including electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior express written permission of the author. Unauthorized reproduction of this material, electronic or otherwise, will result in legal action.

  Please report the unauthorized distribution of this publication by contacting the author at theoriginalheathergraham.com, via email at [email protected], or at Heather Graham 103 Estainville Ave., Lafayette, LA 70508. Please help stop internet piracy by alerting the author with the name and web address of any questionable or unauthorized distributor.

  A Horribly Haunted Halloween is a work of fiction. The people and events in A Horribly Haunted Halloween are entirely fictional. The story is not a reflection of historical or current fact, nor is the story an accurate representation of past or current events. Any resemblance between the characters in this novel and any or all persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  Halloween is approaching

  And while it might be different this year, many homes are lavishly decorated. Jackson Crow thinks it’s fine that his adopted son, Corby, takes a walk down the street to see some of the ghoulish displays.

  Except Corby hurries back to him. One “creature” isn’t—or wasn’t—a creature at all. The bizarre costuming covers someone once real—a human corpse.

  He and his wife and partner, Special Agent Angela Hawkins, must join with the local police, other Krewe members, and all law enforcement. Victimology sends them on the hunt for a killer who is out for revenge—and using the holiday for his own ends.

  It’s a race against time for them as they seek out the man who is dead-set on his vengeance—lest he turn Halloween into an end-game that will turn the holiday night into a display of pure evil. It’s All Hallows’ Eve—and on such a night, there just might be a little help from the dead.

  A Horribly Haunted Halloween

  Prologue

  They didn’t see it.

  But they would.

  He was an artist.

  He smiled, looking at his handiwork and wondering how he would let the world know.

  The media, of course. The media loved to hop on anything. So much for their opinion of his talents! They would know. He would be Anonymous. Or the Effects Man. But they would see—they would see. And read and learn. He smiled and set his pen to paper again.

  The usual pen and the usual paper. Available in thousands of stores across the country—tens of thousands of stores maybe. He smiled again. And he wrote.

  “ ’Twas right before Halloween

  And all through the land

  Creatures were appearing,

  Gruesome and grand,

  Witches and goblins and scarecrows, oh, my!

  Skeletons, mummies, werewolves, no lie!

  And what to my wondrous eye should I see

  Blood and guts coming straight at me!

  And blood and guts coming straight at thee!

  So many ghastly ghouls on this night,

  How many to see before the light!”

  He started to laugh. So, he’d done a bit of mixing. It didn’t matter. They would get the point. It might take a bit, but then they’d see.

  He truly was a talent!

  Chapter 1

  Halloween. Great holiday. Tons of fun.

  And when the hell else could you hide a corpse in plain sight?

  For American children—and adults as well--It was supposed to be an entertaining time, no matter what else was going on in the world. Kids loved to dress up, and people loved to decorate. It was good for the economy—especially for candy makers and those who created costumes.

  Some kids—and adults--wanted to be superheroes, some wanted to be princes or princesses or fairies, and some wanted to be witches, zombies, skeletons, and other creepy beings.

  There were those deeply into the old Celtic concept, that it was the night when the dead could rise to join the living, and when great care had to be taken lest evil fill the darkness.

  Jackson Crow stared at the figure on the porch. It had a plastic pumpkin-jack-o-lantern for a head, and a body resembling a straw-stuffed scarecrow.

  And, of course, people had just walked by it grinning. There were store-bought spiderwebs all around the railings and the roof of the porch as well. And on the other side of the front door, there was a grinning mummy.

  The old Fillmore place had been abandoned for about twenty years; the city was still deciding what to do with the property.

  It had the reputation for being a haunted house. It was natural when some mischievous kid—or adult, since it appeared the thing had been professionally made—had thought it would be fun to decorate a “haunted” house for the season.

  People had passed by it for days, probably smiling and enjoying the fun and the artistry.

  It wasn’t until Jackson had been driving with his son, Corby, after taking him for his check-up. Jackson had stopped to run quickly into the pharmacy for milk, and while doing so he’d told Corby it was okay to walk down the street to see some of the cool Halloween decorations.

  And that was when his son had noticed something odd about the thing no one else had noted.

  Corby had hurried back to the car anxious to talk to him.

  “Jackson—Dad!” Corby had been adopted just after Christmas. He was a great kid, and he was comfortable with the adoption and living in his new home and sweetly grateful. He usually called Angela and Jackson Mom and Dad--except when he was unnerved.

  “Corby, what it is?” Jackson had asked.

  Corby grabbed his hand and run with him down the street to the old Fillmore house. He had seen the creature on the porch—and smelled it. Even with his mask.

  He had called 911 immediately. Local authorities had to come out, even if he was FBI.

  “Dad—it’s a dead man, isn’t it?” Corby said, eyes wide with horror and sadness. “Someone . . . oh, Dad!”

  “I believe so, Corby, and I’m sorry—I’m sorry you’re the one who discovered the truth, but because you did, maybe . . .”

  He let his voice trail.

  “The sooner someone finds a crime, the better the chance it might be solved,” Corby said.

  “Right, and thank you,” Jackson told him. “I’m calling Mom; I need her down here. She can have Mary take you home now. You’ve done your work.”

  “Yeah, I have. There’s nothing . . .” Corby broke off and looked at Jackson and shrugged. “He’s not still here.” he said softly.

  Corby wasn’t just a great kid. Like Angela and Jackson—and all Krewe members—he had the ability to speak to the dead. If they remained.

  And if they chose to speak.

  “I don’t feel him—or see him—anywhere either,” he said.

  Police cars and an ambulance arrived. Thankfully, Jackson’s wife—Special Agent Angela Hawkins—arrived at the same time with Mary, another agent’s aunt who had come to live with them and care for the kids when Angela and Jackson were at work.

  Mary was like a gift from heaven. She might have been his own aunt or Angela’s, the way she had fit into their household and lifestyle so well.

  Jackson saw Angela arrive with Mary and turn the car over to her after giving Corby a hug, and Jackson believed, asking him to make sure he still did his schoolwork.

  She walked over to Jackson’s side on the embankment where he was standing. H
e’d flashed his badge to the first officers on the scene; they had nodded and cordoned off the house and yard with crime scene tape. A detective he knew well and had worked with before, Barry Armstrong, arrived and walked over to him shaking his head.

  “It’s a dead guy?” he asked Jackson. He didn’t wait for an answer. He drew a handkerchief from his pocket and covered his face. “Yep. It’s a dead guy—or a whole pack of dead raccoons. What the hell? I’ve driven by and seen this . . . this display a half a dozen times. It never occurred to me that . . . ah, man! I’ll never look at a decoration the same again!”

  “There’s Marty,” Jackson noted, “and her people.”

  The medical examiner who arrived was Doctor Martina Lopez, one of the best, and a tiny woman. And while she was a trained physician, she was also one of the best forensic experts—in Jackson’s opinion—in the country. She often surprised people; she was about five-feet-even, maybe ninety pounds, with steel gray hair and sharp gray eyes. She looked as if she might be the gentle, sweet granny knitting socks by the fire.

  She was anything but, Jackson thought.

  Except she had told him once she did like to knit.

  So maybe she was just that—with a zillion more talents.

  A good thing in the D.C. area, where “crazy” could be centered.

  She, too, shook her head as she approached the scene.

  “Hey, Barry,” she said, and then, “Jackson, Angela!” she continued, a small frown knitting her brow.

  There was one dead man; she was obviously wondering why FBI agents were there.

  Then her frown eased.

  “Barry, this is ours?”

  “Ah, yeah, our jurisdiction,” Barry said. “But . . .”

  His voice trailed. He didn’t mind the Krewe being on the case as well. This one was going to garner all kinds of publicity. Halloween was on the horizon. But with the pandemic and the world going a bit insane already, Halloween—as far as parties and trick-or-treating went—was going to be low-key.

  But that meant people had gone overboard on decorating. Who would have noticed this display? Skeletons, witches, pumpkins, zombies, and you name it were set up in yards across the country.

  “Leave it to you guys—which one of you found the body?” Marty asked.

  “Neither.” Jackson told her. “Our son was walking by and smelled . . . death. He called me here, and I called you all,” Jackson said.

  “You didn’t touch the body?” Marty asked.

  “I know better and you know I know better. Medical examiner touches the body first,” Jackson said.

  “Barry?” she asked the detective.

  “Hey, I know better, too.”

  “But you’re sure it’s human?” She asked, and then she shook her head, wondering at her own folly. “Yeah. Of course. You’re sure. You get to know that particular smell,” she said. “All right, well. You’re here. I guess you’re staying. Which is good. We just got word about a strange poem being sent to the paper. I don’t know if it’s associated, but . . . ah, hell. I used to love Halloween!” She shook her head again. “Can’t anyone decorate without a real corpse anymore?”

  She left them, making her way to the porch and the costumed body. “What poem?” Jackson asked Barry.

  “The paper called us; they received a weird poem. Postmarked three days ago. They said it was probably a Halloween prank, but they sent it to us anyway. May or may not be related. I’ll send it in an email to you both right away. And I . . . I’ll get the preliminary from Marty now.”

  Barry walked away and Angela turned to Jackson.

  “Neighbors,” she murmured. “I’ll start with them. Maybe Marty will find I.D. on him, or . . . is it a him?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t know.”

  “Great,” she said. “You get to start with the body. I’ll take the block.”

  She looked to the two houses next to the old Fillmore place. It was an affluent neighborhood and yards were big.

  And decorated.

  She glanced at Jackson. “Jackson—there could be more.”

  “Right. But the Fillmore place is empty. When people are living in houses, something set up in a yard would be noticed by the owners.”

  “Unless the owners are . . . well, we might find more,” she said quietly. “Jackson, it’s just today and then it is Halloween.”

  “I know. And there could be . . . more.” He winced. They were both silent for a minute; watching as the police and a woman from the forensic team took pictures of the body as it was found, and then every step of the way as it was moved per Marty’s direction, the pumpkin head removed, and then carefully laid flat on the old porch flooring.

  “We need to get D.C. police, Krewe, and everyone out on this. Jackson, we need an army to check out every Halloween creature mannequin out there,” Angela murmured.

  “This is horrible, and we will get an army out there,” Jackson agreed. “For now,” he added softly, let your nose be your guide.”

  She grimaced in return and then asked worriedly. “Jackson, do you think Corby is . . . going to be okay?”

  “I think Corby is exceptional, and yes, he’s going to be okay.” He smiled at her. Through the years, since they had met and worked the first Krewe case in New Orleans, they had been through a great deal together. Much of it hard. But Krewe members knew they could make a difference. They could save lives.

  “He’s young; we’re going to hope he has a great life. But he is one of us,” Jackson said.

  He loved his wife. She had her blond hair queued back and was wearing a simple pantsuit, and she was still a striking woman. More. She could handle their work, their adopted son, and new baby daughter without being overwhelmed.

  Of course, Axel Tiger’s Aunt Mary had made life easier for them both.

  She smiled. “Yes. I guess we all went through something at one stage or another. And maybe it’s best when we start young.”

  She smiled and headed off.

  Jackson watched her walk away then made his way up the steps to the porch, keeping a distance to allow Marty and her people and the forensic team to work. He stood next to Barry.

  “Emailed you,” Barry said. “You’ll have the poem the papers got.”

  “Thanks,” Jackson said. Then he turned to Dr. Lopez, “Marty—”

  “Male Caucasian, forty-five to fifty years old. No I.D. that I can find on him, but we’ve got his prints. Cause of death exsanguinations. Method—knife wound straight into the heart. Obviously, I can tell you more after autopsy and when all . . . this!” She paused, indicating the scarecrow costume, the jack-o-lantern headpiece, and the straw. “When all this has been analyzed.”

  “Obviously, he wasn’t killed here, right? Knife wound to the heart—where’s the blood?” Jackson asked.

  “No, he wasn’t killed here or dressed here,” Marty said. “There’s very little blood on the clothing or the costume.”

  “And how long ago was he killed?” Jackson asked.

  “Well, we all know there’s decomposition,” Marty said, wincing bleakly as she looked at him. “I’m going to say he’s been dead five to ten days, but again . . . temperature has been on the chilly side, so . . . I will hopefully know more. Barry, Jackson—I’m going to take him in now unless . . .”

  She had been down by the body.

  Jackson hunkered down by the body himself.

  Decomp hadn’t been kind. The man’s face was a strange mottled color, insects still crawled over the face.

  And even so . . .

  “What is it?” Barry asked Jackson.

  “I’ve seen this man. Somewhere.,” Jackson said. He pulled out his cell phone. There would be hundreds of crime scene photos—such was the digital age.

  But he wanted one himself of the man’s face.

  Because something about it—despite bloating and gnawing and all else that had befallen the man since death—he felt a nagging sensation.

  He had seen him before.

 
; “You know him?” Barry asked.

  Jackson shook his head. “No, but . . . there is something familiar. I think he’s been in the news or on a magazine cover—or I’ve passed him at the grocery store. Anyway, we’ll hopefully have an I.D. soon enough.”

  “That face,” Barry murmured, shaking his head. “Yeah, well, happy Halloween. That face is sure as hell going to be haunting me.”

  “We’ve had to work cases with "display" killers before, and, of course, Halloween always brings out that kind of "crazy." Jackson stood, ready to join Angela in her door-to-door quest for information. Maybe she would recognize the man.

  Chapter 2

  Angela approached the door of the neighbor’s house while noting the yard display.

  There was a hearse in the front yard, driven by a skeleton, carrying a skeleton. It was surrounded by pumpkins.

  The good thing was it would have been impossible to hide a human body in the plastic bones, and she had recently seen the exact display at the hardware store when she and Jackson had picked up a new area rug for the baby’s room.

  An older man in a soft blue fall sweater answered the door. She smiled and produced her badge, introducing herself. He told her his name was Josh Greenburg, and he had bought the house from his parents thirty years ago.

  “Sir, I’m sorry to tell you this, but there was a dead man among the characters in the display next door. People have gone by him for days. We need to know if you saw anything—when the display was put up.”

  “A dead man?” He seemed confused at first. “It is almost Halloween. I saw the display when I woke up—I don’t know who did it. I just thought it was cool—someone finally did something with that the property. City owns it. I’ve been at them for years to do something with it. But you’re saying—you mean a real dead man?”

  “Yes. The scarecrow with the pumpkin head.”

  “Oh, my God.”

  “We really need your help. Do you know when the display went up?”