Page 5 of Haunted Horror on Halloween

“And we’re here,” Jackson announced.

They had reached the little town area of Northern Virginia near the forest. He saw the local coffee shop and shook his head slightly.

Halloween. The sign announcing “Carlton Coffee and Cakes” had been decked out with all manner of Halloween apparel, from grinning pumpkins to ever popular spider webs and even large ornamental spiders themselves. A scarecrow adorned the front door, as if ready to open it for anyone who came by.

Trent slid on through.

Jackson opened the door for Angela.

The counter was equally decorated with little plastic ghosts and goblins and witches. A sign advertised “The best pumpkin pie this side of a pumpkin!”

And, of course, one could buy a special pumpkin latte.

There was a waitress at the cash register and several diners scattered over the ten or so tables that stretched across the front of the shop.

He and Angela quickly approached the counter.

Trent headed straight back to the kitchen and offices that appeared to stretch down a hall at the end of the counter.

The waitress at the cash register was young, maybe in her early twenties, tops. She smiled at them. “Something pumpkin?” she asked.

Jackson pulled out his badge. Her face paled.

“The police have already been in here,” she said quickly. “We . . . I mean, it’s not our fault no one saw her leave.”

“Surveillance cameras prove she didn’t come out the front of the shop,” Jackson told her. “And from what I understand, your inside cameras cover the cash register and little else.”

“Well, as you can see,” the girl told them, “our dining area is right there. The outside cameras see where people are—”

“Partially,” Angela said. “The area one can see ends at the end of the counter. So, if someone came in or out via that passageway, they wouldn’t be seen. I’m sure the police asked about that.”

“Yes, of course, but . . . well, we were busy. It was early, crack of dawn. And I thought that an adult had to be missing twenty-four hours before people went all crazy.” the waitress complained. “People come here for their coffee and buns or croissants before going to work—it’s the busiest time of the day. If someone was in that hall, I didn’t see them. And, if she did go out that way and was ducking her husband, maybe he’s a jerk, maybe she didn’t want to go back to the car.”

“There’s no alarm on the back door?” Jackson asked.

“Well, of course, but . . .”

“But?” Angela inquired.

“But we’re not a high crime zone, you know. When we come in each morning, we try to remember to lock it back up, but . . . and. It doesn’t matter. It’s not a coded lock—it’s a bolt You can’t get in that way, but if you want out, you unbolt it.”

Angela pulled out her phone; she already had the security tape on her phone. She started playing it, showing Arabella Watkins where she stood before the woman at the cash register, paid for her coffee—and moved down the counter and disappeared.

“You did see this woman,” Angela said.

“Of course! You see me behind the cash register.”

“Where did she go from there?” Jackson asked.

“How the hell do I know? You can see that the next customer is talking to me! I don’t have eyes in the side of my head,” the waitress protested.

“No, but you might have noticed a woman walking down the hallway,” Jackson noted. He leaned forward, reading her badge. “Yes, Genie Appleby, I can see the police did interview you and I guess they were a little frustrated too by the fact that while you may not have eyes on the side of your head, you probably do have peripheral vision and might want to admit it if you saw someone take off. Especially if they weren’t alone!”

Jackson realized the spirit of Trent Fielding had finished his search of the back and was standing just behind him.

“You need to see something,” he said.

“We’ll be back,” Jackson told the woman. “We’ll need to speak with your boss, too. But if he was in his office, I don’t expect he can see through doors.”