Horror-Ween (Krewe of Hunters) Read online

  The young woman was shaking and incoherent, but her fear and purpose were very real.

  Just as they had been almost four years ago, when Keri had heard about the case, when she had written the book, hoping as well that . . .

  Her book could solve a murder?

  “Jillian, I’m still in the academy. Yes, I’m with these people, I consult right now because I’m not finished with the academy yet. Everyone here does their best to listen and understand—”

  “I was there! You know that! It could have been me. Four years ago, Massachusetts, Haunted Howling Halloween Theme Park. Four kids were murdered. And oh my God, there was a farm exhibit and the people killed, you know they were fed to the pigs or the hogs or whatever they were. Please! It’s going to happen again. It’s going to happen here. Mostly Ghostly World. It will be here . . . please . . . I heard about the place in Pennsylvania, what happened there with you and a Krewe member, or a bunch of Krewe members, and . . . please. I know that . . . that you can do something!”

  Angela was standing by the large screen with the computer input—close enough to see Jillian Murphy, but out of range to be seen herself.

  Keri looked at her, feeling a sickness in the pit of her stomach. Yes, she had written about the murders Jillian was remembering too clearly.

  She nodded gravely.

  The Krewe already knew about the case. It was the case Jackson had summoned her about; the case he was now briefing to Joe.

  Angela’s nod was a go ahead.

  “We’ll be there,” Keri promised. “Joe—he’s the agent you saw me with on the news—and others I’m sure. But Jillian, don’t go near the place, all right?”

  “I—you know I go to college down here.”

  “Yes. I need to know, though, Jillian, why you’re so convinced that this year, the killer is going to strike at a Louisiana theme park?”

  Jillian hesitated. Keri observed the room behind her. White shelves lined with books of all kinds, textbooks, graphic novels, paperbacks. Large posters advertising rock bands took up most of the leftover wall space. Jillian’s bed was behind her, covered with a comic-book hero spread and throw pillows of superheroes. She wasn’t the frilly type; she seemed to love the imaginative, the daring, and the brave.

  “Jillian?” she repeated softly.

  “You’re coming—no matter what I say. I swear to you, I knew before. No one wanted to believe me, but I knew before. That’s why I’m alive. And my friends. They left . . . to follow me out. I tried to tell security. No one wanted to listen to me. I . . . I know I’m right.”

  “Okay,” Keri said. “But . . .”

  “The soldier told me. He came. He came . . . all the way from Massachusetts.”

  She looked away from her computer camera even as she spoke. “I have to go; I have to go, someone is here. They can’t hear me. I’d be laughed right out of the sorority, and it’s my last year. But you’re coming, you’re coming, right, please, right?”

  “The Krewe is coming, yes. I promise!” Keri said.

  She wasn’t officially Krewe yet. She wasn’t even officially FBI. But Jackson got who he needed and wanted. She would be a consultant.

  “Oh, thank you! Thank you! I couldn’t bear . . . it must be stopped. Okay, I’m going to quit babbling. Thank you, thank you, and—goodbye. I’ll let you go. Goodbye.”

  “Bye, and don’t worry. And stay away from the theme park,” Keri said.

  The screen went blank. Angela was looking at Keri—studying her.

  “You’re all right with this?” Angela asked.

  “Yes, I’m . . . fine. I remember this kid, Angela. She had been scared out of her mind. She wouldn’t tell me then what had made her leave the park that night—gut instinct. Her friends told me she saved their lives. I don’t—hadn’t—done books on contemporary crimes that hadn’t been solved, but the story was so terrifying and bizarre. And I love Halloween myself, but I thought I could make people be more aware of the craziness that went on.”

  She thought she was rambling as much as the young woman on the screen. She smiled. “I don’t mind going to Louisiana. And as you are evidently aware, I know about the first case. If my knowledge helps in any way—along with, of course, the fact I know Jillian Murphy and interviewed her and her friends, I’m grateful.”

  The door to the conference room opened. Jackson Crow and Joe Dunhill entered, both looking at her as if they expected her to have information.

  “No, no, no,” she said. “Please don’t look at me like that. You have the information about whatever is happening now. I have only had a conversation with an agitated young woman.”

  Joe slid next to her, striking as always in one of the suits he chose most frequently for work at the office; they usually dressed as if they belonged at the main bureau office. He was well-muscled but appeared slim, and still solid and a way of looking at someone that drew trust—but demanded truth.

  Just his being there always improved things. She had surprised herself—she was a good cadet at the academy, and she wanted her work to be with the Krewe. Oh, she’d still write, of course. But with Joe, and her experience—well, she wanted to be an agent. She had confidence in her own abilities. And while much of this was new to her; she’d never expected there could be someone in her life who was a partner in all things, work, play, home—and the strangeness that life had become.

  “Obviously, we’re in the process of checking out all of Miss Murphy’s associates and acquaintances,” Jackson said. “But your take on her?”

  “She is honest—and really distraught,” Keri said. “Just like she was four years ago. And, of course, the events were horrendous.”

  “And they occurred twice more,” Jackson said. “I wanted you to talk to Miss Murphy; she called here a day ago, right when Adam heard from a friend. Local FBI offices have been involved. This year, they want the Krewe.” He went on for a few minutes, repeating for her what he’d apparently told Joe.

  She wondered what Joe was thinking. Neither of them had known at first why they’d been called in. A case, of course, except that . . .

  She hadn’t thought she’d be called out until she’d graduated from the academy.

  It had been a surprise. And she couldn’t help but worry about how Joe might feel; she’d surprised him enough by wanting to go into the academy.

  And now . . .

  A case. And she had a connection to the case.

  He looked at her and grinned—maybe it was more of a grimace.

  “You are an evil doll,” he told her. “And I’m a count. A blood-drinking count. We’ll just be part of the cast at a place called Mostly Ghostly World.”

  “’Mostly Ghostly World,” she murmured. The Halloween theme park where Jillian was sure the killer was going to strike again.

  Joe looked at her, eyes narrowing slightly, a question in his arched brow.

  She smiled. “Yeah, I was a kid—with parents who liked holiday weekends at theme parks.”

  “Right,” Joe said. “So . . .”

  He and Jackson then explained a history of perverted nursery rhymes that had been sent to police across the country—and the deaths that had followed.

  “I know about the first incidence. Of course,” she told them.

  “And I do believe that will prove to be important,” Jackson said.

  “And the children’s rhyme was sent to whom this time?” Keri asked.

  “The parish sheriff’s office,” Jackson said. “We have other agents from the area. Ethan Delaney is just finishing up with a situation in Missouri; he’ll join you as soon as he can. But you two are the plants. I’ll get down there myself soon enough, with at least one other agent, maybe Angela. We’ll just be the spook-place-enthusiasts. But though this killer sends the notes with the rhymes to the police or law enforcement, I don’t want this guy spooked. A massive show could convince him he needs to kill elsewhere.”

  “You think he will?” Keri asked. “After all this, surely knowing he’s th
e one who alerted law enforcement himself, he’ll kill again? He’s going to have to know the law will be watching for him. He’ll be suspicious of workers, I’d imagine. Maybe it’s a ploy—and he intends to strike elsewhere.”

  “You know he’s coming to Mostly Ghostly World, don’t you?” Joe asked her quietly. “Because Jillian wanted to speak with you. For a reason. She knows the killer is coming there—for a reason.”

  “A Revolutionary War soldier,” Keri said.

  “In New Orleans?” Jackson asked.

  She grimaced. “He’s the reason she lived, or so she believes. The reason she and her friends left the park in Massachusetts. And apparently, he managed to get himself down to New Orleans.”

  “A hitchhiking ghost,” Joe murmured.

  “Stranger things,” Jackson said. “Who knows? But I believe the killer intends to strike again. And yes, at Mostly Ghostly World. You’ll embrace your parts. I have complete confidence,” Jackson said.

  “In me?” she asked. “You have something no other knows?”

  Joe was the one to answer. Looking her way—somewhat worried, she thought—he said, “Oh, yes. This year, his date is Halloween. I’m sure he’s planning a horrorfest like no other.”

  Roller coasters, mirror-houses, and the inevitable haunted hayride. She remembered the different “horror” mansions, particularly the “Butcher’s Mart,” where Buford the Mad Butcher had supposedly lived, and where bloodied limbs hung from chandeliers and drapery cords.

  Halloween. What should be a great holiday, filled with dress-up and treats for little ones.

  Halloween . . .

  Horror-ween. That’s what it might well become.

  “There’s a chance this year,” Keri said. “Poem received on time and taken seriously. Jackson Crow on the case—and Jillian, certain we know where he’s going to strike. Joe, this time is going to be different. This time, he’ll be stopped. Police . . . FBI. We’ll figure it out; we won’t let him get away with it. We can’t,” she added softly.

  No, they couldn’t.

  Horror-ween. That’s what it would truly prove to be.

  ***

  Night. Sweet night.

  Darkness, and the embrace of something wonderful.

  But during the hours the park was open . . .

  Neon lights blazed. There were shrieks of terror that were quickly followed by laughter.

  How he hated the fair goers! Laughing, teasing, walking hand-in-hand. Stopping here and there at the food vendors for corn on the cob, little pumpkin pies, boudin specials . . . soft drinks and beer. Cotton candy, popcorn, ice cream to delight little tykes.

  He didn’t hate the little ones so much. They had no choice; they were brought.

  But those of a certain age who did nothing but mock the day, mock fear, mock those who lived with a strange sense of that fear all the time . . .

  It wasn’t silly skeletons nor actors who walked like zombies. It wasn’t darkness and spiderwebs, and it wasn’t eyes that burned red in the night.

  Death stalked the soul by daylight, and they were too stupid to know.

  No, death stalked his victims by day, and only used the cover of darkness and the night to claim them.

  Chapter 3

  Joe couldn’t help but dread the situation they were getting into.

  The killer was experienced. And while Joe had come to terms with the fact he needed to accept Keri wanting a dangerous vocation, he hadn’t really been ready to test his confidence in her.

  Yet.

  But at least, their transportation was good.

  They had the private plane Adam Harrison had personally donated for his Krewe of Hunters—all to themselves.

  Except for the pilot, Aaron Hamer, an old and trusted friend; and Gil Statler, the attendant who always had the plane ready to go at a moment’s notice.

  Gil was sleeping. Keri had insisted since there were just two of them. She and Joe were reading and working, they’d already eaten—and Gil should rest when he could like the rest of them. The flight down to Louisiana wasn’t a long one, and she was perfectly capable of brewing coffee or opening a bottle of soda.

  They were seated across from one another at the plane’s dining table/desk. He was reading everything he could about the events at the different parks—gathering info on employees who had worked at two or more of the theme parks and were now working at Mostly Ghostly World.

  Keri spoke softly aloud, “Halloween. Oldest origins, Samhain, celebrated by the Celtics, and not without logic. It celebrated the end of the harvest season and prepared them for the harshness of winter to come. Then you do have the thing where they believed the night was the night when that fragile line between life and death might be crossed, when the wise might forecast the future, and a time, naturally, when one has to be careful. That’s when the veil between the living and the dead is thin and passable, and the Celts believed that any evil creature might also slip through.” She grinned. “Or so the legend goes—some scholars believe the holiday just totally made sense. It was the end of the growing season, or life, and the beginning of the winter’s dormancy, death.”

  Joe looked over at her. “I can’t guarantee no creatures, real or imagined, which doesn’t matter. We all know that human beings are perfectly capable of being monsters.”

  “We do,” she agreed. Then continued with, “So, Celts, Picts, and an assortment of early tribes--ancient Britain. The Romans arrive, and by 43 AD they’ve pretty much so conquered most of the British Isles—some of those wild Celts and Picts were just so wild they built walls instead—and they had added to the mix. You know—put festivals together. Make them one. That way, you must kill fewer people for not conforming by trying to create something for anyone and everyone. Anyway, the Romans had the holiday ‘Feralia’ in late October—that also celebrated or honored the dead. They also had Pomona, a goddess of fruit and trees, and her day was in there, too. Fast forward several hundred years—to six-hundred-or so A.D., and the Pope dedicated the Roman Pantheon in honor of Christian saints and martyrs. That celebration had been a bit earlier, in May, but as the years had gone by, the honoring of the saints and martyrs was moved to November 1st –the same day the Celts had used for their Samhain celebration. Nice. Everybody all together, a holiday for the dead whenever and wherever those dead might have . . . become dead.”

  Joe looked at her, slowly arching a brow and smiling skeptically. “Great.”

  Keri investigated everything. Why this killer was doing what he did could matter. That meant she would read not just about the previous cases, but everything she could about the date with which he seemed to be obsessed.

  He loved that about her.

  He loved everything about her.

  The FBI wasn’t a no man’s land where agents weren’t allowed to have relationships; they just weren’t accepted when agents were in the same working units. Understandable. An agent might be more prone to protect a beloved spouse or significant other while letting others suffer whatever consequences there might be. Bitter break-ups and suspicious minds could also lead to difficulties, so while those involved might both be FBI, they weren’t in the immediate work arena together.

  With the Krewe of Hunters, it was different.

  Because, of course, members of the Krewe of Hunters were different. When one happened to have the ability to speak with the dead—when the dead chose to speak—it was often almost impossible to have a relationship with someone who didn’t share that same talent, gift—or curse. With one another, they could honestly research any bit of evidence or information, without having to explain how they had come by it.

  Not that they didn’t follow the letter of the law—no one would ever want a return to the days when “spectral” evidence had been allowed in a courtroom. But there were bits and pieces that could be gleaned from those not among the acceptable witness list who could lead them to solid evidence or to a criminal—a killer.

  Joe looked forward to Jackson’s arrival. While he kne
w something about the area where they’d be working, it wasn’t really a place he knew well. Other agents were from close by, but he did understand that could make them far too obvious to fair-goers. Still . . .

  Help would be welcome. The Krewe had come together first in nearby New Orleans, just six members, and many cases had since taken place there. Jackson tended to know what he was doing, Joe knew.

  Joe hoped Jackson did this time.

  Keri was intent on her reading. She started speaking again, glancing at him, and then at the page of the book she’d purchased by one of her favorite historians.

  “Europeans brought their customs to America. The Native Americans also celebrated the harvest. In the late seventeen-hundreds and early eighteen-hundreds, it was about honoring the dead and acknowledging the harvest, and for many people that night was the night before All Saint’s Day—in truth, all hallows eve. By the middle of the eighteen-hundreds, the potato famine strikes Ireland, and immigrants swarm into the United States, bringing in those Celtic/Roman rites—and superstitions.”

  He smiled at her again. “Samhain. The Gaelic meaning was about the end of the ‘lighter half’ and the ‘darker half’ of the year.”

  She nodded. “While the old pagans had often dressed up with animal heads and furs to dance around the fire, the costumes at this time in the U.S. tended to be more colorful and fun. As the decades wore on, there were parties, and the concept of ‘trick-or-treating’ began with people asking at doors for money or food—possibly coming from years back when people would go door to door asking for money or food—in exchange for prayers said for those who had gone on across that veil—prayers for a family’s dead. By 1900, it was all about having a community gathering or a party. Superstition became more a thing of the past. Enter the 20th century, slowly moving from the holiday toward a child-friendly holiday, but come the 1920s, the acts of vandalism began. By the 1950s, adults and children were having fun—but deadly pranksters were out with razors in candy and poisoned apples and the like. As the decades went on through the end of the 20th Century, superstition came back—and horror-themed attractions became the rage. With the age of the Internet, people all over the world see the holiday in different ways. We, as in we Americans, top the list with cards and candy sales. And I believe, creepy stuff. And clowns. Evil clowns—they had trouble in South Carolina a few years back with evil clowns trying to lure children into the woods.” She grinned. “We are suggestable creatures—when the author who is arguably the premier horror writer in the country has created an evil clown . . . well, we have Halloween. And as we both know, great holiday, lots of fun, good for the economy—and possibly a dangerous time as well since the world is full of pranksters—and then truly evil psychopaths.”