An Evil on All Hallow’s Eve

 

Prologue

The Party

 

 

                A massive form rose out of the darkness of the night, a figure that was highlighted with its own strange light coming from within. It was an evil, leering ghost, one that seemed to stare back at them and beckon any who looked upon it toward the front door of the old Victorian house.

                The ghost wasn’t the only creature on the great lawn. All manner of monsters, life-sized, danced around a massive jack-o-lantern—prefabricated, of course. No real pumpkin got to be that size.

                And waiting on the porch, lining each side of the front door, was a flurry of what Jace believed to be banshees, eerily gray and white, beautiful creatures, but eerie as they seemed to welcome guests, softly creating singing sounds of sorrow that seemed to emanate from and around them.

                “Wow. Do you think we really want to go to this party?” Shannon murmured, standing by Jace’s side.

                He grinned at that. Yeah. It was all pretty creepy. But wasn’t that the point?

                “Oh, come on. Lots of people get really carried away with Halloween!” Jace told her in return.

                “Banshees?” she asked.

                He laughed at her. Shannon was decked out as a black-clad evil queen; her make-up was great, her costume was wonderful, a dress with a black, gauzy cape and an impressive headdress.

Maybe she didn’t realize it!

She was incredibly, creepily evil looking herself!  Still beautiful! She was a green-eyed, slim, lithe, brunette; and he was always amazed they were a duo and that they’d been together several years now. But . . . her costume was simply great. She might not see that it was as delightfully fun and creepy as the house they were about to enter.

                “Banshees?” she murmured again. “At the door?”

                “Cool. They know how to do it right! This little neighborhood was big-time settled way back in the 1840s after the Irish potato famine, and then again in the 1920s after the Irish War for Independence. We all know that while Americans truly embrace the holiday, it’s generally accepted it all began way back in Ireland with Celtic Samhain celebrations and—” Jace began.

                “But this is America, the twenty-first century,” she reminded him.

                “Yeah, different century, different cultures. The decorations are cool! But according to some dumb internet chatter, it seems there’s a ton of chatter this year about a thing called Samuevil. From what I’ve heard, Samuevil is a puca, an Irish demon, one who rose to the strength of the devil himself.”

                “There are idiots everywhere. Yeah, someone will always ruin simple fun. And once chatter gets started on the internet, well it can go anywhere. Wow, are we in a different century!” Shannon reminded him, laughing.

                “Yeah, but even your family is Irish! This is an Irish neighborhood. There were years and years when Chicago was a mass of Irish and Italian immigrants and then descendants!” he reminded her. “Your name is O’Neill,” he added dryly. “Shannon O’Neill!”

                She groaned softly. “And yours is Graziano!” she reminded him.

                “I rest my point,” he told her. They’d both grown up in Geneva, just about thirty minutes south of Chicago, and they’d been together since high school. Somehow their interests had even been similar, and thus they were both on their way to similar careers.

                Shannon wanted to practice maritime law and handle cases that involved Lake Michigan. She was fascinated by the history of shipwrecks in the lake as well. He wanted to go into corporate law. All the machinations involved intrigued him and studying for him was as fascinating as the old shipwrecks were for her.

                “Hey, we were lucky to get invited to this thing,” he reminded her.

                She turned to look at him with an arched brow. “Hm. Lucky, and . . . ugh!”

                “Brent Marlborough and his wife, Marlene, run one of the most prestigious law firms in the city,” he reminded her. “And we’re working on—”

                “Our law degrees, right. Yes, of course, we’re very lucky. I’m just a little . . . creeped out.”

                “It’s Halloween. You’re supposed to be creeped out!” he told her.

                “I guess we’re okay. I mean, actually, I was creeped out the minute I saw you!” she told him.

                He grinned at that. He loved Halloween. And he was glad his costume was good! He had decided on the Grim Reaper this year, and he’d gone all out.

                “Thanks!” he told her, grinning. “And I’m no creepier than you! Well, shall we?”

                “Okay!”

                They headed through the banshees, Shannon staying very close to his side; and as they reached it, he tapped on the door. Hard. Music played softly within, and he wanted to make sure that he was heard.  

                The door was opened by an evil clown. Indeed, it was a very well-done evil clown who opened the door.

                Brent Marlborough, Jace thought.

                “Trick or treat, trick or treat, give us something good to eat!” he said.

                “Welcome!” the clown told them, laughing and making a sweeping gesture with his arm so that the two might enter. “We’ve plenty of great things to eat. And I believe you two are the law students we’ve invited. I hear you’re both doing incredibly well and might be looking to intern with us soon.”

                “Wow, yes, I’m Shannon O’Neill and this is Jace Graziano,” Shannon told him. “And thank you so much for having us. This is . . . your decorations! Wow. I mean, you have created a scenario way better than most movies manage!”

                “Thank you, and I’m Brent Marlborough,” the evil clown told them. “Come on it, let me get you a drink, and I’ll introduce you to my wife and some of our partners!”

                The house was old and beautiful—well, even with all the eerie Halloween decorations. It had been built back in the 1800s, and they entered through a “mud room” to a massive parlor that had a huge stone mantle at one end with a log fire burning brightly within it. The furniture appeared to be Duncan Fife or something else that was period furniture to the era of the house as well. Normally, it must have been a really nice home, both beautiful and comfortable. It hadn’t been done in an elegant style, just a handsome but livable one.

                Normally.

                Tonight . . .

                Skeletons seem to dance around by the walls. A decaying pirate mannequin sat next to an excitedly talking fairy tale princess.

Thankfully, the living princess wasn’t talking to the mannequin pirate, just the fairy tale prince at her left side.

                Others—some dressed as popular dolls, fairies, and pretty beings, some as creepy evil beings from popular horror movies—filled the room with drinks in hand, chatting and enjoying the night. It was just a party. It was Halloween, so . . .

                “Come on, dining room is this way—bar is set up there!” Brent told them.

                People smiled and nodded as they walked past them as they headed to the dining room where there was a large table, one that easily might seat twelve for dinner, and a bar at the end of the room that had a wall and a door to the kitchen, Jace presumed. A woman dressed as a Raggedy Ann doll was there, behind the bar, chatting with a man dressed as Beetlejuice.

                “Sweetheart!” Brent said, drawing her attention. “I’d like you to meet two prospects for the future. We have Jace Graziano and Shannon O’Neill!”

                “The Grim Reaper and his evil bride!” the woman said, offering them her hand over the bar. “I’m Marlene, welcome to our home.” She looked at her husband. “Okay, let’s be honest here, we’ve been studying your work. We often take our apprentices from the local universities! But with that out in the open, we hope you just have a great time tonight. As you might have noticed, we really love Halloween!”

                “Thank you,” Jace told her. “It’s a pleasure to meet you; and of course, we’re delighted to be here.”

                “And delighted that you’ve been looking into our school records. Being an apprentice with your firm would be great!” Shannon assured them.

                “Wonderful, but in a room full of ghosts, goblins, and zombies, it’s difficult to have rational conversations! What would you like to drink?” she asked them. “Chardonnay, I can mix up most cocktails—”

                “I would just love a beer, whatever you have,” Shannon said, “and thank you! I never expected to see you being your own bartender.”

                “I get to see everyone this way!” Marlene said, smiling. “And you, sir! Jace, what would you like?”

                “I will stick with beer, too, thank you!” Jace told her.

                “We have a keg, is that all right?” Marlene asked.

                “Of course!” Shannon said.

                The conversation in the room seemed to have died down; either that, or the rock music that had been playing softly had suddenly grown louder.

                “The calm before the storm!” Marlene murmured, pouring their beers and handing them their plastic glasses of brew. “Hm,” she murmured then. “Gotta grab more cherries! Go mingle, meet some legals, paralegals, clients . . . have some fun!”

                She turned to head for the kitchen. Jace looked at Shannon and shrugged.

                “See? Creepy, but good thing we came, right?”

                She smiled and nodded. “But where is everyone?” she asked.

                “Living room, parlor, whatever you call it here?” he suggested.

                She grinned and headed back to the door that would lead back to the expansive parlor. But she didn’t enter; she stopped dead still.

                “Shannon?” he hurried over to join her and stopped as well, puzzled.

                The music continued to play. Ironically, it was “Dead Man’s Party” by Oingo Boingo that was drifting through the room.

                And no one seemed to be alive in it. The princess who had been sitting next to the decaying pirate was now crashed into his lap. People were draped over the banister on the lower area of the curving stairway.

                They lay flat on the floor.

                Shannon shrieked as a clown did a swirl, a knife raised high in its hand.

                But the clown . . . wasn’t real. It was just a Halloween decoration. What was real was the fact that, right before him, Shannon let out a little gasp and began to sink to the floor.

                He went to catch her. And then . . .

                He fell with her, slipped to the floor, all vision darkening from his eyes, with only the memory of a knife-wielding clown imprinted on the darkened wall of his mind.

Chapter 1

                “Trick or treat, trick or treat, give me something good to eat!”

                Jackson Crow muttered the words as they walked down the street, looking straight ahead as he walked.

                And he looked like a man truly out for a Halloween party.

                Angela Hawkins Crow glanced at her long-time partner and husband, groaning softly.

They’d been called out to the Chicago area to aid in an investigation, and they had determined the way that they might find out who had abducted four college girls was by pretending to be among the Halloween revelers on the streets. Jackson had gone with his dad’s Cheyenne background and was in full “chief” regalia, buckskins, headdress and all.

“It is Halloween!” he reminded her.

                “Jackson—" Angela Hawkins Crow began softly.

                “I’m sorry! It’s just that . . . Halloween should be so much fun. And did you know, the idea of trick-or-treating really came from something good! Kids who needed food could go from house, seeking help from neighbors who might have been better off.”

                “Well, that part was true, but I also think some other things went on in the Celtic days, before Boniface IV created All Saints Day. The fellow was smart, turning old Roman temples into churches—and matching up a way to honor Christian saints who had come before with an ancient pagan holiday! But bonfires supposedly helped keep the evil spirits away, and it was a night when the dead could awaken.”

                “They only awaken if they’re already ‘awake;’ if they have a reason to remain,” he reminded her softly. “Same as any night.”

                “Yes, but that’s just us . . . and those like us!” she reminded him.

                “Right, and we’re in the United States; and it’s turned into a commercial holiday that is supposed to a lot of fun, kids dressed up like superheroes or . . .” he began to protest.

                “Oh, come on!” she argued, laughing. “I’ve seen you in some creepy costumes. And actually, the Samhain holiday was to honor the dead and to protect against evil spirits!”

                “Right. So, now this—or these—jughead idiots think it would be a great time to torture and kill a group of innocent girls!”

                Yes. And therein was the problem. What things could be turned into.

                They’d been called to the Chicago area when those four sophomores had disappeared from the same residential neighborhood. All four were students at a local college, and all supposedly on their way home when they’d seemed to vanish into thin air. The local police had feared something on the unusual side had been going on, because the girls had all been part of a group of stellar students who had been writing blogs condemning rumors that there was a “true” cult for a made-up demon called “Samuevil.” Since, officially, Jackson and Angela were the head of the unit that specialized in the occult and all things strange, they’d been asked to come out to the area themselves. And, of course, with Halloween . . .

                Halloween! A painful time to be away.

                Angela had been excited about going out with their kids, teen-aged Corby and grade-school-aged Victoria. But she’d become accustomed to being called away on what should have been a special occasion with her children. She’d planned ahead—even before their sudden and urgent invitation here—and had hosted a Halloween party last weekend. The kids were great as all the ages mixed well and gathered into their little groups. But still, the kids tolerated one another and even got into the games with a mix of ages.

                Halloween. The party had been great.

                But Halloween.

                Yes, while some played and enjoyed it by dressing up in costumes and having fun, others let the true monsters within themselves come to full light.

                Indeed.

                The world could go a little weird. Okay, even at their party, some of the kids had come as monsters, vampires, werewolves, zombies, witches, and skeletons.

                Thankfully, Angela believed they were moving well investigating the situation. She believed they were close to finding the girls. In this area, by watching the doors, seeing the decorations and following certain internet clues they’d discovered, they would—and must—find the girls. She just prayed they might find them alive. She’d been able to dig up emails between a group at that school that were cagey but suggested they’d been written by someone who was in on the action. Naturally, these college-aged boys were great at manipulating the internet—signals bounced all over the world; and they’d only been able to trace one player to the college library. They had a trace on the user, but he’d probably realized someone might be watching for him. And while an undercover agent had kept on watch in the library and some of the best techs were on, user “Jimmy the Pick” hadn’t gotten on the chat from the library again.

                The chat Angela had discovered talked about an ancient being called Samuevil, how’d he grown in strength through the decades, how many in the world knew nothing about him, but he was one of the most powerful demons that had ever existed.

                And come Halloween, he expected his due. He loved to have beautiful women. Young beautiful women.

                He survived by consuming blood and theirs was the best. When he didn’t receive his due . . .

                Well, others—those who should have served him—might well be made to pay. But those who served him well were due to go on and on in life, always excelling, getting the best in careers, in love, in everything that any man or woman might crave. While those who failed him suffered agonizing deaths themselves, allowing Samuevil to survive not just on their blood but by tearing out their hearts and consuming them with relish.

                The best she could fathom, the internet chatter had started a couple of months back, allowing those who might be seduced into believing falling into the grip of whatever human demon might have been pulling the strings.

                Of course Angela believed, as did Jackson, that might mean one of the young men involved might have a girlfriend, and he might have drawn her into the belief that Samuevil really did exist. And if they were to survive themselves, she needed to help draw others in—innocent others—so that they might be offered up to Samuevil.

That kind of belief, cult belief . . .

In Angela’s mind, and she knew Jackson supported her belief, it also meant that there was surely someone—that human demons, or human demons—much older than the boys were really calling all the shots.

Some of the “chatters” on the internet who were talking about Samuevil mentioned a coffee shop. There was one near that college. And in their investigation, they discovered the coffee shop happened to be the one where two of the girls had last been seen. Jackson had met a barista who had told him about a couple of young college-aged men who had been talking about a “grand finale” on Halloween. He’d headed there before her, dressed for the holiday, and she had met up with him—in pure Cheyenne princess/warrioress mode—pretended they’d never met, that they were stunned by their matching outfits, that they were just flirting . . .

They had talked as if they’d just discovered one another and were having an exceptional time . . .

While they watched.

And then they subtly followed when one of the young men the barista had managed to discretely infer to them with a nod as being an individual he had heard talking about the occasion of Halloween and “the cuties who deserved a little more for their superior, online mocking of things that could be very real.”

And now they were following him. Carefully.

Angela had been able to dig up chatter statements that were cagey but suggested they’d been written by someone who was in on the action.

Someone who frequented the coffee shop and wouldn’t be noticed there. 

“Strange, isn’t it?” Angela murmured, walking along, smiling at the little kids in costume that they passed.

But even the little ones . . .

Some were dressed as adorable prince and princesses, superheroes, gorgeous dolls that were out on the market.

But even among the younger crowd, many were evil clowns, movie murderers, legendary monsters and more.

And even if the kids had gone with sweet costumes, the older siblings or parents who were out with them were dressed as deadly creatures and macabre beings.

“Well, it’s a matter of taste, right? Spooky can be fun!” Angela said.

“And spooky. That is one dark wig you’re wearing,” he told her.

She laughed and shrugged. She’d opted for dark braids over her naturally blonde hair. It had just seemed right!

“Hey, I’m trying to compliment you!” she protested. “Chief Crow!”

“You always complement me,” he said softly, and she smiled, lowering her head for a moment. Now, they’d been partners for years and married almost as long. They were parents who spent their days balancing work and home . . .

And she loved him as much as ever.

“This is a nice neighborhood that ‘clown’ is taking us through,” Jackson said.

They were in a middle to upper-middle class neighborhood. Many of the owners of the homes they walked by had decorated to the nines. There were, of course, many of the inflatable creatures that tended to be reasonably priced, and then others such as creepy mannequin scarecrows, witches, skeletons, and more. There were a few pretty things out there, too. One house had mannequin prince and princesses, and one a plastic pumpkin serving as a carriage with plastic horses to carry it along.

“And he’s still ahead . . . right over there!” Angela responded, pointing as she saw the man they were following take a turn off the main street.

“Trick or treat, trick or treat, give me something good to meet. We need to pick up the pace for just a minute,” Jackson said.

“Yep!”

They moved faster, taking the same turn. This way, heading down off the main street, many of the homes were large with massive lawns and even woodsy areas in the back of their well-manicured and often heavily decorated lawns.

“He’s slid into the trees on the side of that old Georgian house up on the little hill,” Jackson said.

The young man they’d been following wasn’t looking back, and Jackson dead-stopped to watch the young man’s movements.

“Checking the address,” Angela said, pulling her phone from her left pocket.

“Back-up would be good. But I don’t want to wait. I’ll go around back,” Jackson said.

“So, I’ll take the front,” she murmured, studying her phone. “The house belongs to a Charles Harrison. He’s a salesman—”

“That’s the Chicago Harrison house?” Jackson asked, frowning.

“Well, it’s owned by a man named—”

“Yeah, it’s been in the family for decades,” Jackson said.

“What?”

He turned to her as they walked and told her, “Sorry, I know some of the history of the area. It’s supposed to be one of the most haunted houses in the city and environs. Look it up. Apparently, a Theodore Harrison was friends with the notorious serial killer H. H. Holmes, pseudonym for Herman Webster Mudgett, the fellow who had the infamous “murder castle” and took in lodgers to eliminate during the World’s Columbian Exposition in Chicago, 1893—among other things. Harrison took a few cues from his friend, creating a torture chamber in his basement—along with a heavy-duty incinerator. It was said that he had cannibalistic traits, drank blood . . . and was captured and executed. Apparently, he was nowhere near as talented at scam murders as his friend. Holmes went on carrying out murders for at least a decade, but police at the time attributed five deaths to Harrison.”

“Wow! And they didn’t burn the house down?”

“A house doesn’t kill. Men—and women—kill,” he reminded her. “And theaters are still standing from gangland murders. And of course, the Tower of London is still standing; and most of the so-called executions there were murders, I mean, take a look at the poor wives of Henry VIII!”

“In the eyes of the beholder, but this Samuevil thing sounds like it has a following, and that makes it something of a cult. And of course, he comes out at Halloween!” Angela murmured.

“Theodore Harrison told the cops at the time he had to do what he did, because there was a demon alive inside of him.”

“Oh! Um, well,” Angela murmured, studying her phone. “I mean . . . I’m guessing that was well over a hundred years ago. The current Harrison, James Michael Harrison, works for a tech company and is currently in London where he’s supposed to be for another month.”

“Wife? Children?” Jackson asked.

“Wife died of cancer about two years ago. One son. Ethan,” she said, still reading information from her phone. She looked up at Jackson, wincing. “And what a surprise. Ethan goes to college with the rest of the victims and ‘chatters.’ I’m texting Detective Benton at the local station. I don’t think we should be doing any kind of a SWAT entry, or the like; but it might be good to have someone sneaking around the perimeter if we wind up inside.” She finished while returning her phone to her pocket. She looked at Jackson. “I’ll give you a minute. I’ll do the old trick or treat bit, draw someone’s attention to the front door. But Jackson! If these kids are following in the wake of an ancestor, and if the demon Theodore Harrison believed was in him was this Samuevil, these poor girls could be dead already or . . . speed now might be everything!”

                “Check our transmissions,” he told her.

                She tapped her earbud and hit the button that allowed them to hear one another wherever they were.

                “On?” she asked.

                “On. You?” Jackson asked.

                “We’re good.”

He nodded and then he hurried down the street and into the cover of the trees.

Angela waited. She stared at the yard. James Harrison was working for the holiday, but that didn’t mean that he hadn’t gotten into the spirit. There was a massive kettle on the one side of the lawn with a seating around the fabricated fire beneath it. The basic situation made it appear as if it was a campfire with a group just talking and having fun.

Except that the group was made up of a swamp monster, two decaying zombies, a witch, a Yeti, and a vampire.

The other side of the yard was no less spectacular. A giant scarecrow was climbing down from his pole, ready to greet a pile of evil straw friends brandishing pitchforks.

“This guy does get into it!” she murmured to herself.

She’d given Jackson the time he needed to get around to the back of the house.

“You can reach your Glock in that get-up—” he began through her earpiece.

“Jackson! How long have you worked with me?” she demanded. “Here’s the thing, though. If you can get in, there may be nothing to see. That place has a basement. I’m assuming they’re holding their sacrifices where they won’t easily be seen by a delivery man, or anyone who comes to the front door.”

“Keep ’em busy,” Jackson said. “You have a plan. I’m around back. I found a door in the ground here; I figure it might have basement access.”

“All right. I’m almost at the front,” Angela told him.

She made it through the yard and the eerie decorations and stood at the entry. She estimated that the house was old, possibly close to two-hundred years old. The entry was a grand double-door affair, and there was a heavy brass doorknocker on it.

She hit it hard, thinking someone should have added a bell by the twenty-first century.

Nothing.

She knocked again.

The door was opened by a man who stood about six-feet even. She wasn’t sure about much else regarding him because he was completely dressed as a goblin or a zombie or something in the evil-creepy-creature category. He was wearing a torn and ragged striped suit, a straw wig, and body and face paint in stripes and ripples in white, red, and black.

“Trick or treat, trick or treat, give me something good to eat!” she said, adding quickly, “no, really, I know I’m not a kid and I’m sorry to bother you. But my phone is dead, and my car broke down. I was just hoping  you wouldn’t mind letting me borrow a phone.”

“Come in, come in!” he told her. “You’re all alone? Such a beautiful Indian maiden driving about all alone? Of course, you must come in!”

“Thank you helping me and thank you for such a great compliment!” she told him sweetly.

“A beautiful Indian princess!” he said. “Why, you’re more than welcome to join the party. It will be great if you’re here when we really get started!” he told her. “Come on in, meet some of my friends and I’ll find my phone. We’re you going to call a friend, or do you have a roadside assistance number, or—”

“A friend!” she told him. “Patty Drake. We’re supposed to be going to a party ourselves later. I was going to be doing the driving, but since the night is getting on, I’ll let her drive. My car is safe so I can come back for it in the morning.”

“Great! Let me introduce you to Matt, David, Jon, and Stuart!”

“And you are?” she asked.

“Ethan!” he told her.

Ethan. Ethan Harrison. And . . .

She smiled and slid her hand along her side, feeling the security of her Glock there.

Because even before seeing the eerie decorations along with the strange cross-section poles that had been set up in the expansive living room or parlor, she knew that they were in the right place.

In the minds of these young men, she thought . . .

They had been twisted into believing that this was, indeed,  the haunted home of the demon Samuevil.

 

Interlude

                Jace could open his eyes.

                Just barely. But he could open them.

                He tried to move the rest of his body. Any part of his body!

                He could not.

                But he could see.

                The room remained strewn with bodies, some that were human and living—if just barely—and some that were mannequins, Halloween displays, all manner of creatures, those that had been set up as decorations.

                But someone was moving . . . two people were moving.

                If they were people!

                Because they were different. Different from anyone—or anything—he had seen there before that night.

                They were . . .

                Masked. Wearing horrible masks, those that offered horns, twisted faces with evil, curling grins. They were in a terrifying tangle of colors, black, gold, and red. And the beings were wearing capes, swirling capes, encompassing them as they were moving about, stepping gingerly between all those who had collapsed on the floor.

                Then . . .

                His heart slammed hard against his chest.

                Because the beings were dragging one of the guests through to a stretcher or a cot that had been set in the middle of the room, covered with a cloth, a cloth that was as blood red as the color of the capes that were worn. The woman was dressed up as a medieval princess. She wasn’t moving. But he saw that her eyes were open, that she was terrified, but that she couldn’t even open her mouth to scream.

                She was set on the cot or stretcher. Jace saw it could be raised once she was tied to it with straps around her chest and waist and hips.

                Then the two caped creatures stood together. The one bowed deeply to the other and began to speak.

                “Thus, we begin. To you, the great personification of our deity, Samuevil! Thank you, that you have come to us. And we, your human servants, obey, and give you what you seek, what gives you the power to rule us all! And thus! As she gives her blood to you, she will live on in the great region of the air and sky, survive into the eternity of the netherworld!”

                No!

                It couldn’t be happening. It had to be a . . . dramatic piece of entertainment!

                No, no, no, no, no!

                But it was happening. The one figure threw out his arms and spoke in a thick and guttural voice.

                “All will be honored! Let the ceremony for the bloodletting begin!”

                No, no, no . . . !

                Shannon! At least Shannon still lay at his side. Someone had to come! Someone had to come, to stop this! Before . . .

                Before the blood began to flow!

 

Chapter 2

                Jackson glanced toward the house, grateful that it seemed that the brush at the back would hide his entrance down yard steps to the basement. He was also certain Angela would have used a great smattering of conversation at the door, drawing all the curious from within.

                He paused for a split second, staring at the house. At least five people had been murdered within it. Perhaps a friendly spirit might be hanging around, someone to give them a heads up.

                On the other hand . . .

                He hoped anyone who had met such a fate had found peace in the afterlife.

                He gave himself a little mental shake and quickly found the latch and lifted the heavy iron door, one that stretched about four feet by four feet.

                As he had expected, there were steps leading downward. And equally as he had expected, the steps led to darkness.

                He moved down the steps carefully, holding the heavy door until it closed to eliminate the banging noise it might create.

                He was in. And when the door had closed, he saw that there was a light coming up from below—a very dim, soft light.

                As silently as he could, he moved down the steps, wishing that—despite the fun and flirtation it had afforded them to allow them to watch and then follow the young man from the coffee shop—they’d chosen slightly easier costumes.

                It was what it was.

                With great care, he came at last to the bottom step. There, with the wall from the steps and the darkness to keep him hidden, he looked around.

                Far across from him were the steps that would lead up to the house and probably to the kitchen area.

                Naturally, the basement was the foundation of the home with heavy structural columns dotted about in synchronization for the necessary support. But to his left, he could see the water heater, laundry machines, and the bases for heat and air conditioning. To the center of the basement, in a large, free space, there was a pool table.

                Music was playing upstairs; of course, it was a Halloween party. He could also hear voices, and he knew that Angela had made her way inside, pretending to need help with her car, most probably, and needing a phone.

                But willing, of course, to meet all the hosts of the party first.

                There were doors to the rear of that pool table, one to the left, and one to the right.

                Then he heard something . . .

                Something that wasn’t coming from the house, rather . . .

                It was coming from the door to the left past the pool table. And he thought that it was a soft cry or a moan perhaps.

                Angela was evidently keeping the keepers of the house busy. He scanned his surroundings again and hurried toward the door. He quickly undid the old latches and opened it.

                He’d found the girls. All four of them.

                They were lying on the floor in the little room. Just lying there.

                He saw that they were trying to move, but they could not.

                Drugged.

                But their eyes were open, and they could see. See him. And it was obvious that his presence was terrifying to them.

                They must, naturally, think he was among their captors.

                Well, there was no possibility of hurrying them up the stairs and out; and he had no idea of just how much time Angela could buy him and just how quicky the back-up they had requested might arrive. No way out of this except to hope the group was indeed garnered together, and they respected the Glocks that he and Angela were carrying.

                “Sh! Sh! It’s all right!” He said quickly, seeking his badge from the faux deerskin bag that slung from his shoulder. “I’m with the FBI, police are coming, too. We’re going to be getting you out of here as quickly as possible. I realize you haven’t much choice, but stay quiet, please.”

                They couldn’t even nod. He wondered what the hell they’d been given.

                He hoped that he understood. He turned quickly, stepped out, and closed the door—he didn’t relock it. Because he was certain Angela would know his intent the moment she saw him.

                He walked as silently as he could to the stairs to the house.

                As he had expected, the door opened into a large, expansive kitchen, obviously updated through the years. A door on each side led out to a massive dining room and parlor combination. From where he stood, he could see that the room had been strangely set-up—not just with macabre decorations—but with poles that had crossbeams.

                Much like those used for crucifixions.

                What the hell were these boys planning?

                And the kitchen itself was disturbing. Lain out on the large island counter were all manner of tubes, vials, and knives.

                Instinctively, he felt for his Glock. He sure as hell didn’t want to have to kill anyone.

                Neither did he want the girls—or Angela or even himself—to die.

                He heard her laughter. Angela was keeping the group entertained. Keeping them talking. He could see four young men. They were dressed as various forms of monsters. But one was wearing an encompassing red cloak.

                Were there others in the house? Possibly upstairs.

                “Oh, wow! What was in that shot?” Angela asked. “Wow, guys, I’m afraid I might wind up being an overnight guest!” she said loudly, laughing all the while.

                But he knew her. She hadn’t imbibed anything in that house. She was playing the game; they had intended for her to pass out.

                Another suitable gift for their great demon Samuevil.

                And she would play it out, knowing he was there. She would wait out this game in case he hadn’t found the missing girls; she’d wait for his appearance.

                “I’ve got her!” Someone shouted.

                It was a guy who, Jackson thought, was supposed to be a zombie?

                He adjusted his position so that he could see what was happening; he was right. The zombie was easing her to the ground.

                “And it is time!” the boy in the cape declared. “Time to get our sacrifices, to prepare to offer up our great gifts of blood to Samuevil!”

                That was it. His cue, more or less.

                Jackson drew his Glock and stepped out of the kitchen.

                There was a dining table before him, filled with little sandwiches, salads, and more. Empty plates lay strewn on it; the would-be demon followers had been snacking for their celebration ahead of time.

                All around the walls and windows, decorations abounded. Vampires, werewolves, zombies, gross creatures from many nations.

                Even the table offered an eerily grinning jack-o-lantern for adornment, but it was in the center, far from the plates of food.

                He guessed dryly that human boys still needed different sustenance.

                The group turned to stare at him.

                “Who the hell—” one began.

                “Hey, Geronimo, you weren’t invited!” the young man in the cape informed him. “But I can take care of that!”

                He produced a switchblade and smiled, staring at Jackson.

                Jackson lifted his Glock.

                “Never bring a knife to a gunfight, kid. My name is Jackson Crow, and I’m with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. I’m afraid that your ceremony isn’t happening, and you and your friends are under arrest.”

                “Gregory!” the man raged. “You want a gun; you’re going to get a gun!” the caped fellow raged at him.

                And from the top of the stairs, another young man appeared, aiming a pistol at Jackson’s head.

                “Shoot!” the caped one screamed.

                And there was a shot.

                But it didn’t come from the fellow at the top of the stairs.

                Angela had rolled over, aimed, and caught the young man on the stairs in the right shoulder, causing him to shriek and scream in deadly pain, falling back, his gun rolling down several stairs.

                “I’ll get that,” Angela said calmly, rising and heading over for the gun. “You keep your eyes on the idiots here. I take it you found the girls?”

                “We need a truckload of EMTs,” Jackson told her, keeping his Glock trained on the others.

                “No, no!” the caped man shouted, except now, instead of sounding enraged, he sounded as if he was about to burst into tears. “No, no, no! You don’t understand! If we don’t get the blood to Samuevil, we’ll all die! All of us! You were in here, too. Now, you’ll die because we promised, we promised Samuevil!”

                “Then we’ll die, I guess. Oh, wait, no!” Angela said. “We won’t, because we know your Samuevil is just a human monster playing on all your minds! What, Ethan, he figured he could get to you because of your ancestor, because this is a haunted house?” Angela demanded.

                “No! He’s real!” One of the young men answered.

He was in a strange evil clown or zombie clown get-up, Jackson thought. The kid who actually lived in the house.

There were tears in his eyes.

“Please!” Angela said, groaning.

“Stop it, stop it, stop it! I’m dying now!” the fellow on the stairs cried. “He already knows; Samuevil already knows, and he’s killing me and no one is helping me and . . . oh, man! I’m going to die!”

“You’re not going to die. I know how to aim,” Angela said.

“All of you, hands behind your backs. Don’t make us shoot anyone else!” Jackson said.

And conveniently, at that moment, the front door burst open.

Their back-up had arrived. Armed officers swarmed into the house.

“EMTS needed below; the college girls are down there,” Jackson said.

One of the officers spoke into a radio as his fellow officers handcuffed those in the room. The officer on his radio told them, “They’re heading straight down to the basement; they’ve been ready at the rear entry.”

“No!” the young man on the stairs screamed. “Me! I’m dying! That demon Indian princess shot me! I’m dying, I need them first!”

“He does need a medic,” Angela said. “But he’s not dying. I caught him in the shoulder. It will be a while before he’s pitching for his team, but he’s not going to die.”

“We’ll get to you, kid!” an officer shouted.

Angela walked over to Jackson as the officers secured the men.

“What the hell were they planning?” she asked him.

“I imagine the girls were going to be tied to the poles—and bled,” Jackson told her. “You should see all the stuff in the kitchen. Good job, by the way, keeping the flirting thing going.” He grinned. “And you’re no college kid!”

“Ouch, thanks!” she told him.

“Good shot, too,” he told her seriously.

“I only work with the best,” she said, smiling. But then she grew serious. “Jackson, we’ve got to find out what else is really going on. These kids don’t think they are Samuevil, but they believe there is one. And I think they believe that they were supposed to bleed these girls to death and bring the blood somewhere. Perhaps to some other real ‘celebration’ that’s supposed to be going on.”

He nodded, thinking about the few things that had been said.

She was right.

“Officer!” he called to the policewoman who was about to walk Ethan out. “Hold up, please.”

Ethan, his tears having ruined his elaborate make-up, turned to look at them, terror and misery in his eyes now.

“Where were you bringing the blood?” he demanded.

Ethan’s head hung low and he was silent.

“He will leave. Samuevil will move on; he gives any community just one chance, and he’s moving on . . . but he leaves his evil behind. This house . . . he loved this house. He said he could feel the power in it, that . . . that I was just right to do his bidding and to do it here and I did it, I did everything right, and now . . . we’re all going to die.”

“Not if we can rid the world of Samuevil,” Jackson assured him.

The kid looked confused at that. “You . . . you can’t. You can’t take down a demon like that. Samuevil is way too powerful—”

“He’s only powerful if you believe in him,” Jackson assured Ethan. “And I don’t!”

“But . . . but . . . no, I mean . . .”

“No. That’s the word—there is no real Samuevil. Think about it! What? You were going to tie those poor girls to the poles and bleed them dry? And then bring the blood to this pretender? See, there’s the truth. You would bring this person your great offering, and he’d leave—just like you believe—because he’d leave you and your friends to pay for all that has been done by human evil!”

“What? No. We wouldn’t have been caught—”

“Please!” Angela interjected angrily. “You wouldn’t have been caught? Feds, state, and local law enforcement are looking for these girls, and you wouldn’t have been caught? Well, you’ve been caught, and you are going to pay, I’m afraid, for allowing your minds to be so twisted! So, you want some mercy? Where were they bringing these offerings that you had for your Samuevil? Where, because God only knows what else he might be planning! And if you want to see the light of day before you’re in dentures, you need to help us! You need to give us something that we can give to the District Attorney in your defense!”

“Help me!” The kid on the stairs screamed. “Help me and I’ll—”

“EMTs on the way here now,” an officer assured him.

“You’re going to live,” Jackson told him. “How and for how long, well now, that’s going to be in your ballpark, so . . .”

It seemed that they all began to babble at once.

All wanting to save themselves now.

And at the end . . .

They still weren’t sure.

But they had one damned good idea.

“Bloodletting, bloodletting, bloodletting . . .” Ethan muttered as he was led out by the officers. “It’s the time; it’s come the time! And when it’s done . . . when it’s done, now, now that we’ve betrayed him . . . we’re all going to die!”

“No,” Angela assured him with one of her sweet smiles. “It’s time for the ‘Samuevil’ legend to die, and that is it!”

​