Ghost Town (35 page)

“But if Jenn's at the bookstore . . .” Trevor began.

“We don't know that for sure,” Drew said. “Just because we suspect that's the locus of the Dark Lady's haunting doesn't mean Jenn's being held captive there.”

“It's the most likely place,” Greg said. “Jenn's lived there for years. Her spiritual energy is bound up with that of the building.”

“You mean she's part of the locus?” Amber asked.

“Possibly,” Greg said. “If so, that means there's a simple way to sever the Dark Lady's connection to this world.”

“What's that?” Drew asked.

“Kill Jenn.” Greg spoke these words without any emotion, as if he were merely suggesting that they stop by a drive-thru on the way over to pick up something to eat.

Trevor turned to look at Greg so swiftly that he jerked the steering wheel, causing the Prius to swerve and throwing Drew against Amber. Moving with a nonchalant, almost inhuman speed, Greg grabbed hold of the steering wheel and steadied the vehicle.

“Careful, Trevor. I'm not sure the three of you are ready to join me in the Great Beyond just yet.”

Trevor got a solid grip on the wheel once more and looked forward, but when he spoke, his voice was tight with tension. “No one is going to hurt Jenn, not for any reason. Got it?”

“Of course. Just thinking aloud. I'd never
dream
of harming Jenn. As Norman's mother said, I'd never hurt a fly. Of course, the good news is that your girlfriend's connection to the Dark Lady makes her the safest person in town at the moment.”

Trevor seemed mollified by that, and he kept driving, although he did ease up on the gas.

Drew and Amber exchanged glances. It seemed the tension was getting to all of them, even Greg, despite the aloof veneer he affected. Considering that they were racing to confront the Dark Lady without anything even remotely resembling a plan, Drew supposed it was only natural. But bickering among themselves would only distract them, and if they were to have any hope of stopping whatever fresh horror the Dark Lady had planned—and live to tell about it—they needed to stay focused.

“How close to the bookstore can we get?” Drew said. He rubbed his sore ribs. They didn't hurt as much as they had back at the library, but being thrown against Amber hadn't done them any good.

“If we're lucky, within a couple of blocks,” Trevor said. “Forgotten Lore is right on the main parade route. Thousands of people gather to watch, and when the official parade is over, anyone in costume can take to the street and walk the route. Hundreds usually
do. Because there are so many people on foot everywhere, the police block off all the streets leading to downtown. They'll reopen them after the parade.”

“But it'll be too late by then,” Amber said.

“Speak of the devil,” Greg said.

A trio of wooden police barricades stretched across the street ahead of them, blocking the way. No one was standing guard.

“It appears the Exeter PD are trusting sorts,” Greg said.

“It's the same every year,” Trevor said. “Even after hiring additional security, the police are spread too thin to watch everywhere.”

They were driving through the residential section of town close to the main business district. The sidewalks there were full of people in costume—adults, teenagers, children, toddlers—all heading toward the parade route. On the other side of the barricade, people walked down the middle of the street, most of them moving quickly so they wouldn't miss any of the fun. Trevor had the driver's-side window cracked, and the sound of drums and trumpets drifted into the car.

“That's the high-school band,” Trevor said. “Sounds like they're still warming up. That's a good sign.”

He slowed as they approached the barricade.

“What are you doing?” Greg asked. “This is an emergency, isn't it? Gun it, and break through the barrier!”

“There are too many people,” Trevor said. “I can't—”

“Oh, for Oblivion's sake, that's why cars have horns!”

Greg wasn't wearing his seatbelt, and he slid close to the driver's seat, raised his left foot, and jammed Connie's shoe down onto Trevor's foot. Trevor swore as the Prius lunged forward. Amber let out a yelp of alarm and gripped Drew's leg.

“Better get to work with that horn,” Greg said, sounding insufferably pleased with himself.

“Damn it, get off—shit!”

The barricades rushed toward them, and Trevor's only option
was to break through or swerve off the road, which would mean hitting pedestrians on the sidewalk. Drew knew which option he would take, and he told Amber to hold on.

Trevor laid on the horn, and people turned to look in their direction, alarmed. The Prius hit one of the wooden bars with a solid
thunk,
and chunks of wood went flying in different directions. Once the vehicle was through, Greg lifted his foot off Trevor's, and the Prius slowed. By this point, the people who had been walking in the street were now running like hell to get off of it, more than a few of them yelling in anger and flipping Trevor the bird. Greg waved as they drove past.

Drew turned around and saw that Erin and Carrington had followed. Carrington had his cell phone out, presumably trying to call one of them and ask what the hell they were doing, but none of their phones rang. The Dark Lady was still jamming their signals.

Even with Trevor honking the horn and Greg sticking his head out the window and shouting for people to get out of their way, they could only go so fast, and the crowd of pedestrians eventually became so thick that they had to slow to a crawl. People started kicking and hitting the Prius, and some hurled objects, mostly cardboard cups, plastic bottles, and cans. Soda, coffee, water, and beer splashed across Trevor's windshield, and he hit the wipers to clear it off.

“We keep up like this, and we'll start a riot,” Drew said. The crowd was already revved up from the excitement of the night's event, and wearing costumes gave them a sense of anonymity, which in this situation could be dangerous. Massed together like this, their identities concealed, people would be tempted to act on the aggressive impulses that they normally kept under control.

“Drew's right,” Amber said. “I can feel the anger building all around us, like a storm cloud ready to burst. Pull over and park, Trevor!”

“Pull over I can't do,” he said. “Not enough room. Park, however . . .”

He braked to a stop in the middle of the street, put the car in park, and turned off the engine. Behind them, Erin did the same. Without a word, the four of them got out of the car. As soon as they did, a man with a shaved head came toward them. He was tall and full of bodybuilder muscle, and he wore a skintight skeleton outfit with skull makeup on his face. He looked damned intimidating, especially with his features contorted in rage.

“What the
fuck
do you morons think you're doing?” he demanded. “There are people
walking
here! And a lot of them are kids!”

Before anyone else could respond, Greg stepped forward. “It's my little girl! She left home without her inhaler, and I don't know where she is! If she has an attack . . . Have you seen her? She's twelve, thin, with long red hair braided into pigtails. She was dressed as a witch. Please, I have to find her!”

The man's anger drained out of him instantly. “Uh, no, I haven't. But there's bound to be some cops up ahead somewhere. Maybe they can help you.”

“Thank you!” Greg said. “Thank you so much!”

Carrington and Erin joined them then, and Carrington stepped forward and put his arm around Greg. “It's all right, my dear. We'll find her.”

The two of them turned away from the man and started walking.

“Pippi!” Greg called out. “Pippi, where are you!”

Drew, Amber, Trevor, and Erin followed close behind them. Some in the crowd still gave them dirty looks, but no one challenged them.

“Thank God there weren't any theater critics in the crowd,” Trevor said.

“Jealous much?” Greg shot back.

They continued running down the street, weaving in and out of the crowd and ignoring the occasional shouts of “Slow down!
and “Where's the fire?” And from one kid, “No costumes? You suck!” After a few moments, they reached Sycamore Street and found the sidewalk in front of them jam-packed with costumed people standing shoulder to shoulder, waiting for the parade to start. From the looks of it, Trevor hadn't been exaggerating when he had said that thousands of spectators came to town for the parade.

Drew turned to Trevor. “Now what?”

“The bookstore is on the other side of the street, a block north,” he said.

“You couldn't get us any closer?” Greg said.

“Sycamore Street's blocked off, remember?” Trevor said. “This is the best I could do. Now, let's try to get across before—”

A thunderous cheer went up from the crowd, someone blew a whistle, and the sounds of a marching band playing “Funeral March of a Marionette” filled the air.

“The parade starts,” Trevor finished.

A moment later, the Exeter High School marching band began to file past. They were garbed in black uniforms, and they wore dark eye shadow and gray lipstick. Drew wondered if they wore that makeup all the time or just for the Dead Days parade. The latter, he hoped.

People cheered and clapped as the band marched by, and they were followed by the first float, a stereotypical haunted house, weathered and falling apart, with fake bats, ravens, and rats attached in various places. At the base of the float, a number of children stood waving at the crowd. Some of the kids were dressed as ghosts and some as witches, and standing at the top, on the roof of the house, grinning and waving for all she was worth, was an adult witch. But she was far from a generic one. She stood twelve feet tall, her long midnight-blue gown concealing the platform she was standing on, Drew guessed. Her skin was painted a light blue, and she held a crystalline staff with a dragon head on top. A steady
stream of sparks shot forth from the dragon's mouth, to the crowd's delight.

“That's the mayor,” Trevor said. “She always leads off the parade in one gaudy outfit or another.”

“If gaudy is the goal, then I say mission accomplished,” Greg said.

Drew craned his neck to see over the top of the crowd. Coming up behind the haunted-house float was an old-fashioned funeral carriage pulled by a horse. Men dressed in black suits and top hats walked on either side of the carriage, waving, and behind it came six solemn-faced men carrying a black coffin. There was plenty of space between the float and the carriage, probably to make sure the horse didn't get too nervous, Drew guessed.

“We can cross right after the house float is past,” he said. “Let's get moving.”

Drew grabbed hold of Amber's hand, and together they forced their way through the crowd on the sidewalk. Trevor, Greg, Carrington, and Erin followed, and although they earned more than a few curses—and a couple of elbows to the ribs—for their efforts, they managed to make it through and onto the street.

They started running, but they weren't more than a third of the way across when Drew saw a security guard break out of the crowd on the other side of the street and start toward them. Drew was trying to think of an excuse that would persuade the guard to let them pass, when the air around them shimmered and a strange feeling of vertigo overtook him. When it passed, the air cleared, and the man coming toward them no longer looked as he had a second before. In fact, he no longer looked like a man. He had become a distorted parody of a human, with some features and body parts grotesquely enlarged, while others were shrunken and withered. He came at them with a spastic, lurching stride, the best speed his twisted body could manage, and his eyes—one the size of a basketball, the other the size of a marble—were filled with rage.

Drew shot Amber a glance. “Is it real?”

“Real enough!” she said.

Drew nodded, stepped forward to meet the crooked man's charge, and swung a hard right hook at his malformed jaw. As a psychologist, Drew favored a more rational approach to solving problems, but sometimes you just had to punch a monster in the mouth. His fist connected quite solidly, and the pain that flared in his hand confirmed Amber's analysis. Whatever transformation had befallen the guard, he was definitely real. The crooked man staggered backward, but he didn't go down.

“Try not to be such a nice guy for a change.” Greg stepped forward and delivered a savage kick to the crooked man's crotch. Breath whooshed out of his lungs, and he doubled over with a gurgling moan.

Before Drew could say anything about Greg's crude—if effective—tactic, he caught a flash of movement out of the corner of his eye. He turned toward it and saw that the black-suited men who accompanied the funeral carriage had become skeletons, bones bleached so white they almost glowed, the darkness within their eye hollows deep and endless. They moved with an eerie silent grace, their joints creaking softly as they came. The carriage driver had become a skeleton, too, as had the horse drawing the rig. The fleshless animal reared without making a sound, forelegs pistoning in the air, and when it came down on all fours again, it leaped forward, pulling the carriage after it.

Drew knew they couldn't fight their way out of this. There were just too many. He was about to yell that everyone should run, when Amber shouted, “Look!”

He turned to see that she pointed toward the haunted-house float. Except that now it wasn't a float; it was an actual dilapidated house sitting in the middle of the street. The children who had been standing at the base of the float had become actual ghosts and witches, although they remained kid-size. The ghosts looked
like semitransparent shreds of white gauze clumped into vague approximations of human form, and the witches were wrinkle-faced dwarves with jagged teeth and long nails. They flew through the air, circling the house, the ghosts leaving trails of ectoplasm in their wake, the black-garbed witches cackling as they rode broomsticks fashioned from human spinal columns. But worst of all was the monstrous thing standing atop the house.