Halloween Carnival Volume 1 Read online

  Dustin started to crabwalk backward, and he realized in his fall he had not lost his grip on the gun. He raised the pistol and tried to level it at the scarecrow’s chest, but he couldn’t seem to hold it steady. Still, at this close range, hopefully his aim wouldn’t matter as much.

  When the scarecrow took a step into the room, letting the door swing shut behind him, Dustin pulled the trigger.

  Or tried to. No matter how hard he squeezed, nothing happened.

  The safety, you idiot!

  He fumbled with the gun, but he knew so little about firearms he had no idea where to find the safety. The scarecrow kicked out with a large work boot, knocking the gun out of Dustin’s hands. It hit the floor and slid all the way across to the fireplace.

  Dustin moved quickly, scrambling to his feet and racing for the front door. He turned the deadbolt to disengage the lock and yanked the door open. Only when it jerked to a stop with an inch gap did he realize he’d forgotten to undo the security chain. He clawed at the chain, but the scarecrow grabbed a handful of his hair and shoved his face forward. His forehead collided with the door, more of those dots filling his vision. Still holding Dustin by the hair in one hand, the scarecrow grabbed the back of his pants with the other and tossed the writer aside. Dustin skidded across the coffee table, toppling it as he landed hard on his back.

  He tried to get up, but then the scarecrow was on top of him, straddling him with his knees pressing Dustin’s arms into the floor. Reaching into the bib of his overalls, the scarecrow pulled out a thin, sharp boning knife. The sight of it sent Dustin into convulsions of terror, and he began bucking beneath the scarecrow. He brought a knee up, hoping to nail the bastard in the balls, but the angle was all wrong and instead his knee planted itself in the scarecrow’s tailbone. It did send the man leaning forward enough for Dustin to free his left arm. He got it up just as the scarecrow slashed down with the knife.

  Instead of burying the blade in Dustin’s face, which seemed to be the intended target, the scarecrow instead rammed the knife straight through his forearm. The tip came out the other side, inches from Dustin’s eye. Blood dribbled onto his face.

  When he first heard what he thought was the sound of sirens, he felt relief, thinking the police must be on their way, but then he recognized the high-pitched shrieking that filled his ears as his own screams.

  The scarecrow tugged at the knife to get it free, but it was firmly stuck in Dustin’s arm. The pain was all-encompassing, filling all of his senses and obliterating the rest of the world. Acting purely on survival instinct, he reared up and smashed his face into the scarecrow’s. A classic head butt like he’d seen in countless action movies. What the action movies didn’t prepare him for was the fact that it was every bit as painful for the person delivering the head butt as the one receiving it.

  It did have the desired effect, however, as the scarecrow fell back, the straw hat tumbling from his head. Dustin pushed himself up despite the pain that burned through his veins, getting unsteadily to his feet and limping toward the swinging door. He’d almost reached it when the scarecrow lashed out with his feet, catching Dustin in the ankle. With a yelp, Dustin fell forward, actually pushing through the door so that he landed half in and half out of the kitchen. His left arm came down on the hilt of the knife, driving it deeper into his flesh.

  His vision grayed, and he felt consciousness slipping, but he held on with gritted teeth. If he passed out, he was done for. He tried to pull himself further into the kitchen, even as he scanned the area for Shawn. He saw no sign of him, only the shattered remains of the coffeepot and the sliding glass door standing open, letting in a breeze and a few errant leaves.

  He felt hands on his ankles, and he was dragged back out of the kitchen and into the living room. The scarecrow roughly flipped him over onto his back, and he found himself staring into the barrel of Shawn’s pistol. The opening seemed impossibly large, as large as the entire universe, a black hole ready to swallow him up.

  “Please,” he said in a watery voice. He wanted to make some eloquent plea for his life, but all he could manage was that one word. “Please.”

  At first he thought the scarecrow might have been moved by the simple appeal as he lowered the gun, but he stomped down on Dustin’s left arm, leaned over, and ripped the knife out. Dustin screamed again, his throat feeling ravaged as if he’d been gargling broken glass.

  When he looked up again, the gun was once more trained on him. He opened his mouth for another plea, but he never got to make even a single syllable. He heard a BOOM! and saw a flash…

  …and then nothing.

  —

  One Day After Halloween

  Shawn lay in his hospital bed, head turned to stare out the window at the dreary evening, raindrops running down the glass like tears. His right shoulder was covered with xeroform and kerlix bandages, the arm in a sling to keep it immobile against his body. When he heard someone enter the room, he moved his gaze to the door, expecting to see his night nurse. Instead, Officer Workman approached the bed.

  “Come to bring me a get-well-soon card?” Shawn asked in a weary voice.

  “No, Mr. Moore. Actually, I just have a few follow-up questions.”

  “No offense, but I’ve answered so many questions today that I’m on the verge of losing my voice. What more could you possibly want to know?”

  Workman took a seat by the bed, taking a notepad from his shirt pocket. “I want to clarify a few details, also get your impression on a few things.”

  “My impression? Want me to do the police work for you now, Officer?”

  “No, but you are a journalist. You have an analytical mind that could see some things I’m missing.”

  “Buttering me up with flattery, are you?” Shawn said. “Well, it worked. What do you want to know?”

  Workman sat studying the notepad, apparently rereading earlier notes. “You say you didn’t see your attacker, is that right?”

  Shawn sighed. As he suspected, he would be reiterating the same information all over again. “No. I went into the kitchen to make some coffee, I’d just picked up the coffeepot when I felt a breeze. Before I could turn, someone grabbed me from behind, wrapping an arm around my throat. All I saw was an arm and a glove. Then he brought the knife around, stabbed me in the shoulder, then threw me to the floor. That’s the last thing I remember until I came to in the ambulance on the way to the hospital. I guess I passed out from the pain, and the sonofabitch who stabbed me must have thought I was dead. I’m lucky he didn’t take the time to check for a pulse or anything.”

  “Lucky indeed,” Workman said, glancing at his notes again. “Funny thing is there’s no sign of forced entry on the sliding glass door.”

  “I guess Dustin must have forgotten to lock it.”

  Workman fixed him with a pointed stare. “The two of you were there anticipating the possibility that a killer might show up, but Mr. Davis wouldn’t make sure all the doors were locked?”

  Shawn shrugged his good shoulder. “I don’t know what to tell you. We can’t exactly ask Dustin, can we?”

  “Unfortunately not,” the officer said, turning to stare out the window himself, his face pensive.

  Shawn softened his voice when he said, “Look, I know you’re probably beating yourself up because you thought Dustin was the killer. I carry my own burden of guilt since he was killed with my gun. We can’t let—”

  “Why do you think the killer burned his costume in the fireplace before leaving Davis’s house?” Workman said abruptly.

  “I can’t pretend to be able to understand the motivations of a deranged killer, but my analytic mind says he probably didn’t want to be seen running around a town crawling with cops in the costume everyone was keeping an eye out for.”

  Workman leaned back in the chair. “The killer went to great pains to get me away from Dustin’s house last night. The boys in the crime lab have determined what caused the explosion in the Grahams’ storage building.”

&nbs
p; Shawn leaned forward as much as his wounded shoulder would allow. “Really? What was it?”

  “This has to be off the record.”

  After a brief hesitation, Shawn nodded.

  “It was a homemade pipe bomb equipped with some kind of crude timer. I believe he purposely planted it there near my house to get me out of the picture before he made his move.”

  “But how could he know for sure you’d be the one stationed outside Dustin’s house?”

  “Perhaps he couldn’t know, but if he was aware of my suspicions regarding Mr. Davis, he might have made a reasonable deduction.”

  “So you’re suggesting the killer is someone who knew Dustin?”

  Workman said nothing for a moment but stared intently and unflinchingly at Shawn. Shawn returned the stare in kind. Finally, the officer said, “Yes, I’m suggesting perhaps it’s someone he knew very well.”

  “Well,” Shawn said, leaning back against the pillows, “I wish I could be more help. I’m feeling pretty wiped out, they have me on some serious pain medication. I’m starting to fade.”

  Workman put the notepad back in his pocket; he hadn’t taken a single new note. “We’ll talk more later, when you’ve had a chance to recuperate.”

  Shawn nodded, but then his chin continued to droop toward his chest, his eyes blinking slowly. He stayed that way until the officer left the room, then snapped back to attention. He could smell Workman’s suspicion; it was as pungent as the cheap cologne the man wore. Still, that was all he had…suspicion.

  On the table next to the bed, Shawn’s cellphone began to vibrate. He snatched it up and glanced at the screen. Phillip Guffey calling…again. Shawn let it go to voicemail…again. He must have called a dozen times today. Shawn had listened to a few of those messages. They all started with insincere expressions of concern that sounded like they were being recited off of notecards, followed by pleas for Shawn to call him. Shawn wasn’t stupid, he knew that Guffey didn’t give a damn about his well-being. He only wanted the story. Shawn could almost respect that, though not enough to actually return any of the calls.

  He had a hell of a story to tell, and he wasn’t going to waste it on small potatoes like the Citizen. He’d already received phone calls from several national news outlets. Not CNN yet, but he was holding out hope. Even more exciting, three literary agents had been in touch. Each of them believed interest in a book on the events that had landed him in the hospital would be huge. One predicted a bidding war among the big New York publishers. They’d all offered to represent him, and he was sure they wouldn’t be the last.

  Truth was, he’d already written the first two chapters of what he hoped would become a best-selling true crime tome. He had the makings of an explosive and enthralling tale. He wouldn’t be surprised if Hollywood came calling as well. In his mind, he was already casting the part of himself.

  His thoughts turned to Workman and the policeman’s sharp questions. He told himself again the man had nothing but suspicion, and he had lost credibility when his number-one suspect turned out to be the Hashtag Killer’s final victim. Let him harbor his suspicions and ask his pointed questions. Nothing would come of it. And even if Shawn was wrong…

  Either way, his name would be immortalized because of this story.

  A contented smile curling his lips, he snuggled his head into the pillow and fell asleep, dreaming of fame and fortune.

  For Ray Bradbury, whose kind words to a young fan made all the difference in the world…

  With special thanks to Norman Prentiss for his editorial assistance and to Sarah Peed, Matt Schwartz, and the entire Hydra team for going above and beyond to make these anthologies everything they could be

  About the Editor

  BRIAN JAMES FREEMAN is the general manager of Cemetery Dance Publications and the author of several novels and novellas, including The Painted Darkness, The Suicide Diary, The Echo of Memory, and The Halloween Children (with Norman Prentiss), along with his short-story collection Walking with Ghosts. He is the coeditor of the Dark Screams ebook anthology series and the editor of Detours and Reading Stephen King. He is also the founder of Books to Benefit, a specialty press that works with bestselling authors to publish collectible limited edition books to raise funds and awareness for good causes.

  brianjamesfreeman.com

  Facebook.com/​BrianJamesFreeman

  Twitter: @BrianFreeman

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