Page 2 of Haunted Horror on Halloween

But for her . . .

She needed to suffer. And if they thought they were ghostbusters . . .

Well, they thought of him as the devil, surely. And just as ghosts littered the place, so did devils!

Images of a leering Satan here, there, and everywhere! He’d been able to do exactly what he wanted with the property. Clive Baker owned it, private land near the massive tangle of the forest, but . . .

Well, Clive was helping him.

Clive’s bloody body lay grotesquely strewn along with three other real corpses. He hadn’t hated Clive. He needed his property, and well . . . there was always collateral damage.

He smiled. Because once she was in, there was no way out. Trip wires would trap her.

And then the evil scythe bearing figure in black sheets and a ridiculous mask would prove not to be a mannequin or a corpse.

And she would join the litter of bodies on the ground, in a pile of blood, because yes, oh, yes . . .

The devil himself in human form was coming for her.

Satan! And he would have his own on the great pagan holiday that others had tried to turn into something to honor the dead.

She wouldn’t see any real ghosts.

Just Satan in the flesh.

She would bleed!

And join his incredible “haunted house” forest of eerie, creepy, creatures.

Now all he had to do was watch.

And wait . . .

And if he knew her and He-Man, it wouldn’t be long.

Chapter 1

“Of course, we’re in the final days before Halloween,” Jackson Crow said, staring at the phone he’d just set on his desk.

Angela perched on the corner of the same desk, looking at him, shaking her head.

“Well, we should expect it, you know. It brings out the fun in people, dressing up, having parties . . . and getting ghoulish if it’s in their nature. I don’t remember a Halloween when we weren’t called out for something in the days before or on Halloween . . . or even in the aftermath,” she reminded him. “So, what’s going on? I take it that call was from Adam?”

He smiled. “Adam Harrision, our illustrious founder, is one of those people who can just make friends anywhere and . . . people love him. In government, in law enforcement—those he runs into at a coffee shop, so . . .”

“Arabella Watkins. She walked into a coffee shop, and she never walked out,” Jackson told her. “Twenty-nine years old, an attractive blond schoolteacher. She and her husband stop at a local place every morning; she runs in, gets their order, he takes her to work, and heads on to his own job at a local bank.”

“Bank. There you have it. Someone thinks they can make Mr. Watkins get them tons of money for the return of his wife? I’m assuming the local police—”

“Of course. They’ve been on it. But apparently, no one saw anything. It’s busy there in the morning. And Nate Watkins was in the car, reading the paper. He saw it was busy, so he didn’t get worried right away. Anyway, you know Adam. No matter how good all our agents are at what we do—especially our ‘Crows’—he is anxious that we take on the case. And of course—”

“Are we heading to the coffee shop? Try to find witnesses—among the mortal folks buying brew and those spirits who might be hanging around?” she asked.

“It’s a start. We’ll get our tech teams out there investigating friends, enemies, business associates . . . anyone who might have a problem with either of them. But . . . someone had to have seen her leave the coffee shop. Alone—or with a gun-wielding enforcer. But what I’m afraid of is . . .”

“Halloween. Random,” Angela said gravely. “Crazies who make legitimate voodoo or wiccan practitioners look bad by twisting everything they do. We’ve dealt with it before—Samhain in the ancient Celtic tradition, costuming, giving food to the poor, maybe sacrificing a few cattle—but there’s always a modern whacko—”

“There were probably ancient whackos, too,” Jackson reminded her. “And I don’t think the Celts had anything like the wiccans and voodoo practitioners—they don’t believe in doing evil because it would come back at you three times.”