Got Thrills? A Boxed Set (A McCray Collection)
Read Got Thrills? A Boxed Set (A McCray Collection) Online
Authors: Carolyn McCray
Praise for
All Hallow’s Eve…
“Scary and smart, All Hallow’s Eve is perfect for anyone who wants to read a horror story that makes them think. From the intricate psychopathology of the serial killer, to the hair-raising tension, to the skewering of pop culture, All Hallow’s Eve is simply a great read.”
Book Reviewer
Praise for
Rook…
“Any book that has angels, vampires, and giant attack lizards is okay with us! This book takes urban fantasy to a whole new level. Exciting, yet with some truly heartfelt moments. We cannot recommend Rook enough! Can’t wait for the next in the series.
Reviewer
Praise for
Dark Lullaby
…
"This book is so creepy. I made the mistake of starting in one night before bed. Not only did the story line keep me turning pages, it freaked me out to the point that I didn't want to turn off my light.”
The Book Goddess
Book Reviewer
Reviewer
Praise for
The Rush
…
“Buckle up! From the depths of the ocean to the reaches of outer space, this outrageously clever tale, auspiciously set in the year 2049, has an unlikely band of quirky memorable characters and a plot that will blow your mind!”
Taylor Lee
Author,
Aces Wild
Main Menu
Got Thrills? Box Set
All Hallow’s Eve
* * *
PROLOGUE
Father Marcus Gonzales knelt before the altar. From the cross, Jesus looked down upon him. Was that disappointment he saw in his savior’s eyes? Mottled light streamed through the stained glass windows encircling his church. The moon must be bright outside to so fully illuminate the darkened sanctuary.
He had let the staff go hours before. Having others around would not change the dire state of his parish’s financials. They had staved off cutting programs far longer than many churches. But in the end, the after-school athletic program would have to suffer, and they would need to abandon their before-school breakfast program altogether. Gonzales tried to keep a bright smile on his face for his board of directors and staff, but the situation weighed heavily upon him. He was glad for the peace of the empty church to allow his grief to finally run free.
A sound behind him forced Gonzales to choke back his tears. The church’s large oak doors creaked open. Strange. It was so late. It had been years since anyone had sought refuge in the church at such an hour. Perhaps if more did, they would not be in this financial predicament.
Gonzales turned to find three young street kids entering his church. He should have known. There would be no last-minute benefactor to save the programs he held so dear.
Still, he tried to be patient. “It is well past normal worship hours, my children.”
The tallest of them sneered. “We’ll worship whenever we want.”
Gonzales rose from the altar and straightened his cassock. The three were Hispanic. Kids from the barrio. These were exactly the youths he was trying to mentor with his programs. These were exactly the youth he used to be.
“That may be true, but you will need to find somewhere else to express your devotion.”
A steel chain swung from the leader’s belt as he swaggered up the aisle. His pants were so low that only by nearly crouching down did he keep them on. Gonzales noted the threadbare boxers underneath. He had to keep in mind these wannabe-gangbangers’ origins. Not unlike his own. Poor, hopeless, and desperate. Exactly the triad that gangs exploited.
“I think we’ll do it right here, Padre,” the boy who thought he was a man announced. “Especially after you open that donation box.”
Gonzales did not flinch. “Or?”
That seemed to confuse his would-be robber. He stuttered for a moment.
“Or,” the boy said, then pulled out a switchblade. “Or I’ll kill your ass.”
The father hated to tell the child that it would take a far larger blade to impress him. He had seen more dangerous toothbrush shanks in prison. Instead, Gonzales looked past the leader to the youngest member of the trio. Underneath that backward cap and bandana tied in gangsta fashion was a boy he once knew.
“Tomás,” he asked, “did you learn nothing from your brother’s death?” The boy shuffled his feet, looking anywhere but into Gonzales’ eyes. “You used to come to Sunday school together, did you not?”
He could reach Tomás. He
had
to reach Tomás before his life ended as tragically as Enrique’s did. “He’s in heaven, Tomás. Looking down upon you now.”
“Leave him alone!” the leader shouted, stepping between Gonzales and the boy.
Tomás seemed to gain strength, now that he was not under Gonzales’ eye. “He didn’t go nowhere but in the dirt!”
Gonzales smiled sadly. “As are the saints.”
“Shut the f—up!” the leader shouted.
But the angrier the boy became, the quieter Gonzales’ mind became, and the softer his heart felt toward these poor, lost souls. He knew the temptations of the street. He knew the strong draw of a gang and the feeling of power to hold another’s life in one’s hand. Gonzales needed to show these boys that there was another path. A righteous path.
“There is a saint for all. Even you,” he said to the leader.
“You better hope yours is gonna show up, ’cause I’m about to
stick
you.”
Gonzales chuckled. The boy thought swagger was bravery. Instead of retorting or retreating, the father opened his arms wide.
“Then do so, for the hour is late, and I am so very tired.”
The boy did not seem to know what to do. He looked at his gang-mates. The chubbier one goaded him on. “He’s bluffing!”
Oh, but Gonzales was not. Even though the leader brandished the knife, the father walked forward until the tip of the knife pushed up against his coat.
“Oh, man!” Tomás exclaimed. “He is freaking me out!”
“Me, too!” the other agreed, then, despite his earlier words, he turned and ran out of the church with Tomás.
The door slamming shut behind them echoed through the church. The leader’s hand shook as he tried to keep the knife up and against Gonzales.
“Goddamn it!”
“Choose your words carefully, my son,” Gonzales said. “You never know when the Lord might be listening and grant your wish.”
The boy tried to act brave, but his eyes darted from the door, to the tip of the knife, and back to the door.
“Screw it!” the leader yelled, as he ran down the aisle. He grabbed a fistful of bills from the collection plate on his way out the door. Given the state of the economy, the poor boy only snatched a few ones for his trouble.
Gonzales sighed heavily as the door closed behind the thief. He took a moment to gather himself as his own hands shook. Clearly, after all these years, he had lost much of his swagger as well.
Slowly, he walked to the door and bolted it shut. To live in such times that a church had to lock its doors at night. He leaned against the stout wood, closing his eyes in prayer.
“God, grant these children safety through this dark night… and from themselves as well.” He peeked an eye open. “And I wouldn’t mind an alarm system while you’re at it.”
He chuckled to himself. God seldom answered prayers in such specific ways.
Gonzales knew that he should call the police, but as he said, the hour was late. Besides, he did not want to have to bring the law into the matter, if possible. He would visit Tomás’ mother in the morning. From her, he felt certain that he could discover the identities of the other boys—and speak with their parents as well. Although the youth center was closing down, he still counseled those who had lost the path.
A clang came from behind the altar. Had the boys circled around to the back of the church? Had he misjudged their intent? Then some loud, dark, rock music blared from the confessional.
“Hello?” he called out, but no answer greeted him.
Cautiously, Gonzales made his way to the far side of the church. This was not the type of music Tomás and his friends listened to. They were mesmerized by the allure of rappers, with their pimps and hos.
The throbbing music and screeching singer sounded nothing like that.
“
Feel him tonight. Call upon his dark strength. Allow his power to course through your veins. Lucifer calls. Lucifer calls.”
Demonic lyrics? Was this some kind of strange prank?
Perhaps a different type of initiation?
He came alongside the confessional. The foul music was definitely coming from inside. Frowning, he jerked open the door to find a boom box on the seat. He hit the Stop button. The CD slowly spun to a stop.
Gonzales stood for a moment, his hand shaking a bit. Why this small electronic device unsettled him more than the knife-wielding gang member, he did not know. An evil emanated from it.
“How does it feel to be so saintly, Father?” a mechanized voice asked from the other side of the confessional screen.
Steadying his voice, Gonzales replied, “I wouldn’t know, my son.”
This must be some new sort of gang initiation, Gonzales decided. Scare-the-priest-ha-ha-ha. Gonzales would not give them the satisfaction.