All Hallows Eve: A Krewe of Hunters Novella (1001 Dark Nights) Page 5

  Jenna stopped by the memorial with its stone benches, each dedicated to one of the victims.

  “John Proctor spoke out, and he died for it,” she said. “I always think about that. He threatened Mercy Warren, his servant girl, with a beating if she didn’t stop with the fits, and it worked once.”

  “You believe all of this has something to do with the witchcraft trials and the modern Wiccans?” Sam asked.

  She shrugged. “The case that Devin and Rocky worked up here had to do with someone who’d been murdered before she could be tried. And, according to Elyssa, John Bradbury’s ghost mentioned something about witches.”

  “I actually heard a woman back in the bar mention to her husband that John Bradbury had supported Tandy Whitehall against Gloria Day.”

  “May mean nothing.”

  “But could be everything. Another guy told me about finding chicken heads by his house. His neighbors, the DuPont family, practice Santeria or a religion that considers chickens to make good sacrificial offerings.”

  “Maybe they just like fresh meat at dinner?”

  “At least we’ve got the feel for Halloween in Salem,” he told her, slipping an arm around her shoulders as they continued to walk. “I want in on the autopsy. It’ll take place tomorrow. Adam Harrison is going to work with the governor, who will call the mayor. I also want to get to the Mayberry Mortuary. It was closed once the body was found. The police and forensic people probably haven’t finished with it just yet.”

  “If they suspect just a suicide,” Jenna murmured.

  “I don’t know what they suspect. The lead detective on the case is a guy named Gary Martin. I don’t know the man. I hope it’s someone Devin or Rocky might know.”

  Jenna shook her head. “I don’t know the name either.”

  “I should be able to meet with Martin in the morning and get into the autopsy.”

  “I’ll head to the Mayberry Mortuary,” Jenna said.

  They came to the cemetery and Sam stopped. He could see the old tombstones with their death’s heads, cherubs, angels, and other decorations, opaque and haunting in the moonlight. The main gates were locked at this time of night and it was, of course, illegal for anyone to enter. He thought for a moment he saw movement by one of the gnarled old trees.

  “What is it?” Jenna asked.

  He shook his head. “Nothing. Let’s get back and get some sleep. It’s been a long day.”

  She agreed.

  The crowds had thinned, a few groups here and there, less as they left the cemetery and some of the major attractions behind and headed down the street that led to Uncle Jamie’s house.

  As they turned a corner, Jenna said, “There’s another one, or the same guy on a costume bender. Another boo-hag.”

  She was right. Across the street, a group in costume was walking toward the wharf, heading back to one of the new hotels near the water. And there was someone in the same costume that had jumped onto their car.

  A boo-hag.

  Sam had been born and raised in Salem and he’d never even heard of a boo-hag before. Now he’d seen two in as many days.

  The group was walking with their backs toward Sam and Jenna. Suddenly, the man in the boo-hag costume turned, stared their way for a moment, then headed off.

  “That was eerie,” Jenna said. “Movie monsters and most creatures seem almost ho-hum around here, but that costume gets to you.”

  “A boo-hag,” Sam said. “Definitely creepy.”

  He didn’t mention that there was something more. The way the eyes seemed to focus on them, the way they seemed to burn, even at a distance, as if they were formed of fiery red-gold, burning like the flames of hell.

  Chapter 4

  Sam knew that they often dealt with terrible things. That was the occupation he and Jenna had both chosen. Partly because of their “gifts,” and partly because they wanted to make a difference. But this situation seemed more personal. He’d intended to give Jenna all the space she needed. But alone, in the darkness of their room at Uncle Jamie’s, she turned to him with a sweet and urgent passion. The warmth of her naked body next to his, flesh against flesh, and the fever that seemed to burn in her became electric. No words, just her moving against him, touching, a feather-light caress at first, then a passionate love, both tender and urgent. He held her afterward, naked and slaked against him, and he thought that they both would sleep well.

  Home was wonderful.

  But home was also a place where nightmares could be rekindled.

  He didn’t want her facing any demons in her mind. But that night Sam was the one to dream. He saw something coming toward them out of a strange and misty darkness. Red, with shimmering golden eyes that seemed to burn with evil.

  Then he realized that the thing wasn’t coming at him.

  He wasn’t next to Jenna anymore. She was some distance away, sleeping, laid out on the bed, eyes closed, a half smile on her face.

  And the thing was going for her.

  He tried to run, to block the horrible menace from reaching the woman he loved. No matter how hard he tried, he was slowed down by the thick red mist.

  The thing was now on Jenna, leaning over her, stiffening, inhaling, as if prepared to suck the life from her. The red mist became thicker and thicker. He realized he was fighting, straining, trying so hard to reach her. But it was no longer red mist that held him back. Instead, the barrier had become a sea of blood.

  He woke with a start.

  Morning.

  His phone ringing.

  An aura of fear stayed with him and he fought it; reaching for the phone and checking on Jenna, who was just beginning to rouse.

  Jackson was calling. The right people had talked to the right people, and the FBI had been officially asked into the investigation. While suicide in the death of John Bradbury was a valid theory, the media had gone wild over the whole situation. Whispers of foul play ran rampant. He thanked Jackson for the assist and hung up.

  “That’s perfect,” Jenna said, when he explained the call.

  “I have to get to the autopsy,” he told her.

  “And I’ll head to the mortuary.”

  “Maybe you should come with me,” he said, recalling some of the dream.

  “Don’t be silly. We need to move fast on this. There are so many people we’re going to have to interview, so much we have to find out. We have to divide the load. I know the mortuary, but we need to know the layout, how someone might have gotten in. That can only come from a visit.”

  She was right and he knew it.

  He still didn’t want to be away from her.

  “Devin and Rocky will be here—”

  “We can’t wait on them,” she said, frowning then smiling. “Sam, I’m a good agent. I was an agent before you were an agent, remember? I’ll be careful. I promise.”

  He hesitated. “I had a nightmare,” he said.

  “You did?”

  “A boo-hag was after you.”

  She smiled. “Sam, boo-hags aren’t real.”

  “The one in the street was real. So we have to watch out.”

  “I swear, I’ll be careful.”

  “Maybe—”

  “Sam, I’m good at what I do. And when you’re back from the autopsy, we’ll meet up and go together from there.”

  He rose.

  She was already up, heading to the shower. He started to follow her. She laughed, paused, and told him, “No time for that. I’ll be right out. We need to move this morning.”

  “So you think you’re that irresistible?” he asked her.

  She grinned. “In a shower, you’re irresistible.”

  And she closed the door on him.

  “Nice lip service,” he told her through the door.

  “Lip service is later,” she said.

  He grinned at that, stared at the closed door for a minute, and then gathered his clothing for the day. He couldn’t be unreasonable. He’d had a nightmare. Part of coming home, perhaps. And yet, in t
heir world, nightmares could be real or, at a minimum, whispers of threats to come.

  * * * *

  “Hauntings and Hallucinations rents the space from us for the event,” Micah Aldridge told Jenna.

  It was just nine in the morning but she’d arrived at the Mayberry Mortuary to meet with Micah. Sam had headed for the autopsy and his meeting with Gary Martin. Adam Harrison had performed his usual magic. The FBI wasn’t taking lead on the investigation—the situation didn’t warrant it yet—but they were to be given access to information and leave to investigate. She hadn’t met Martin and hoped that he didn’t intend to dismiss the death as a suicide with no possibility of foul play. Things were always easier when everyone cooperated with everyone else. Most of the time it worked that way. But every once in a while they hit a local law enforcement officer who was more proprietorial, not wanting federal interference.

  “I have to admit,” Micah said. “I kind of loathed the idea of having something so schlocky here when we are trying to do real research. But bills have to be paid and we make enough from the Halloween rental to carry us through the year.”

  She nodded. “Makes sense.”

  She studied the beautiful old building. By daylight, the skeletons, spiders webs, and jack-o-lanterns all appeared to be just nicely arranged paper and props, nothing more. By night, with special lighting, the place appeared eerie, especially the cemetery surrounding it. When it wasn’t Halloween season, the place still cast a certain melancholy about it, a poignancy that perhaps reflected the shadows of lives gone by.

  “You’ve been here before, haven’t you?” Micah asked.

  “I took an historic tour when I was about fifteen,” Jenna said. “It’s been a while. But I would like to take a look inside.”

  They entered through the foyer. Double doors led into a massive living room and to the ornate stairway that led up to the second floor. The living room was filled with creatures, spider webs, a giant tarantula, and other oddities. On one wall a painting had flesh when first looked at, but turned skeletal from a different angle. A grand piano, complete with a skeleton player, sat by the windows to the porch. By night, the interior lights would show him in an eerie symphony.

  “They do a good job,” Jenna said. “Where are the stairs down to the basement?”

  “John made it all possible,” a female voice said.

  She turned to see a young woman entering from the foyer. Attractive, with a wealth of long dark hair and a pretty face, but her eyes welled with tears as she approached.

  “I’m Naomi Hardy.”

  “Jenna Duffy.”

  “Naomi and John Bradbury worked hand in hand,” Micah said. “His death has been hard on her.”

  Concern filled Micah’s voice.

  “John was a true visionary,” Naomi said. “He went to shows across the country, always looking for the newest innovations in creepy, chilling, fun scares. But he insisted we keep some real history too, to go along with all the whacko legend and scary movie stuff. He was so good. Head of the artistic branch, and every year at Halloween, he managed this place himself. I still can’t believe he’s gone.”

  “I am truly sorry for your loss,” she said.

  “Jenna is with the FBI.”

  “You’re here over a suicide?”

  “Elyssa Adair, who found the body, is my cousin,” Jenna said. “I’m really here to help her through this.”

  The explanation seemed to satisfy Naomi.

  “John had the best job in the world. But then he’d had such a horrible divorce. His wife should have been shot. He’d had some drug problems as a kid and she dragged every bit of that into court, destroying his reputation. He had a hard time getting over it. All his success, and he could barely see his own children.”

  Which made the ex a definite suspect.

  “Is the wife still around?” Jenna asked.

  “No. That was the first thing the police asked. But she was nowhere near here. Home with the kids and she hadn’t seen John since their last court date, months ago. She went on TV. Blamed his past, his drug problems, everything on him.”

  Tears welled in Naomi’s eyes, which she brushed aside before asking, “What are you doing here at the mortuary?”

  “Tying up the loose ends.”

  Naomi shrugged, as if uninterested. “If you’ll excuse me, we’re reopening tonight and now it’s all on me. Micah, I’ll be down at the ticket booth if you need me. Jenna, a pleasure to meet you, even under these circumstances.”

  She and Micah walked upstairs. Without darkness and actors, all of the haunting paraphernalia seemed worn and sad. Micah pointed out what was usually the tarot card reading and séance room. Another bedroom was used for psychic testing. She was interested in the entire layout, but really wanted to get to the basement to see if she could sense or feel anything. Elyssa wasn’t lying. John Bradbury had appeared to her. But it would be helpful if that ghost would speak with her or Sam.

  “Is there only one entrance to the basement?” she asked.

  Micah nodded. “From the house, yes. The stairs are in the back of the kitchen. There’s also an entrance from the back driveway that slopes down to a door. I guess it made for easy deliveries when the place was used as a funeral home.”

  Micah seemed fine about going down to the basement, but then again, he’d been alone here when she arrived. If the place was haunted in any way, Micah certainly didn’t care.

  She followed him to the ground floor landing and around the grand staircase to a door and more stairs that led down.

  “It’s a mess,” Micah told her. “The police moved just about everything. Naomi will be taking over as manager and she’ll see to it that everything is in order before tonight.”

  “Reopening already?” Jenna asked.

  He shrugged. “I’m truly sorry. I liked John. He was a great guy. But life goes on and we have to pay the bills.”

  “Yes, I guess so,” she murmured.

  “The stairs are fairly narrow,” Micah said. “In the old days, the dead came in through the back entry, and the coffins went back out that same way. Hauntings and Hallucinations carries some major liability insurance and we have strict rules about how many people can come through at one time. We’re not the responsible party here, just the lessor, but we don’t want anything bad to happen to anyone. Well, dead is bad, but the poor guy did himself in. You know, I saw John every day for the last couple of months and I had no idea he was so depressed.”

  Jenna didn’t reply or correct him. Better to stay silent.

  They’d reached the basement. The long stone embalming tables remained, each piled high with Halloween decorations. The police had indeed made a mess.

  Micah pointed. “In the nooks and cubicle areas we have motion-activated creatures and characters. You can see the giant alien there, the werewolf over here, the vampire and mummy. That crazed killer over there scares the bejesus out of most visitors. Over there is where it happened.”

  She studied the cubicle, empty except for a giant iron hook that had long been attached to the ceiling above. The rope by which John Bradbury had hung had been removed, but the black lighting set up by the haunted house company remained. She thought that the basement, with its stone foundation pillars, wooden beams, and strewn paraphernalia seemed not eerie, but sad. The soft lighting made if look almost as if surrounded by a red mist. She walked over to where Bradbury had died.

  “What were these crevices for?” she asked.

  “I really don’t know.” He paused. “Poor John.”

  She stood still and wished Micah wasn’t with her. Some alone time might be beneficial here.

  “The exit from the basement is over this way,” Micah said. “We have visitors leave the house via the basement and walk back up the path to the parking lot when they’ve finished the tour.”

  He walked toward the back door.

  Jenna hovered a moment, waiting, standing still, trying to imagine what had gone on when Bradbury had died.
>
  “Jenna?” Micah called to her.

  “Coming,” she said.

  She waited another few beats, then turned to join him at the exit.

  And it hit her.

  A movement in the air, a change in the temperature, the sense that they were not alone. She felt a brush against her cheek, and heard a whispered voice in the red mist aura.

  I did not die by my own hand.

  * * * *

  The autopsy happened down in Boston where the Office of the Chief Medical Examiner was located. Sam was pleased to discover that the medical officer on duty was Dr. Laura Foster, a woman he’d worked with several times when he practiced law in Boston. She was bright, determined, and good at her job. There was even a Salem connection. Laura was the descendant of a woman accused of witchcraft during the craze. Her ancestor wasn’t hanged. Instead, she died of the horrible conditions in the jail where she was held.

  Detective Gary Martin was there too. He was pushing fifty, with short-cropped steel-gray hair. When he’d shaken hands with Sam, Martin had expressed surprise that the FBI had interest in an apparent suicide, but seemed to accept Sam’s explanation that they were involved only because of family.

  “If there’s one thing I’ve learned,” Martin said. “It’s that you can never be sure of anything. With John Bradbury, it certainly appears he killed himself.”

  “It could have been made to look like suicide,” Sam said.

  Martin appeared skeptical. “Like I say. Anything’s possible. Maybe the autopsy will tell us something we don’t know.”

  They stood off to the side while Laura Foster went through the preliminaries, then made a Y incision in the chest and dictated her notes. Death appeared to have come from a broken neck. Otherwise, John Bradbury had been a healthy, forty-five-year-old man, with a strong heart and clear lungs. The last meal remained in the stomach. Clam chowder, white fish, greens. Everything was recorded.