The call came in before Carter and Dart had a chance to get back to the station. They arrived at the scene – the Finch residence. Jasper Finch was sprawled out inside his living room, sopping wet with blood. There were muddy footprints all over the carpet, almost like the attacker had walked aimlessly in circles, then lead outside where they went from the porch, and ended in the grass.
Mud had been smeared all over the front door, the nearest walls, and mixed with the dark red blood on Jasper’s shirt.
“What is the deal with the mud?” Spencer Holland asked, hovering over the Sheriff and his Deputy in his freshly pressed suit.
“It’s an elaborate signature – obviously for dramatic effect.” Carter said, standing up. “Who ever is doing this obviously wants us to believe that Kelly Rodgers rose from her muddy grave and is committing these crimes.”
“You have some Halloween nut-jobs in your town, Carter.” Holland laughed. “Last year was a ‘legendary’ killer, this year it’s a ghost, or is it a zombie?”
“It’s all part of our history, Agent. We are known for our Halloween Festival, our fall foliage, our apple orchards – hell, there’re even old stories of witchcraft.” Carter said. “Halloween is embraced here.”
Spencer Holland started to chuckle.
Carter watched the unwanted Federal presence laugh at the town he loved. “What part of this do you think is funny, Agent Holland? I have three dead bodies in my town, midway through October, and the killer isn’t even done.”
Holland wiped the smile from his face. “How will you know when he’s done?”
“If my hunch is correct, unless we find him soon, it won’t be until the 31st.”
Holland looked back down at the slain corpse of the innocent youth. “What can I do to help?”
“You can stay out of my way.” Carter said, pushing him away and walking back outside. He quickly stopped and turned back to Dart, who was positioned in the doorway. “Dart, take a picture of the wall behind the door. There’s another Braxton Summers signature.”
Carter made his way through the crowd of police and emergency workers in the front yard. Dart pulled the front door back and saw the sloppy signature – this time in mud.
Holland was impressed. “He’s got a good eye.”
The sun broke the horizon in the east, and natures’ light trickled through Stewart Hollow, bringing all of the autumn colors to life. A cool breeze crept through the streets, gently pushing the fallen leaves around. The town was quiet.
A knock on Doug Roberts bedroom door woke him from a deep sleep. “Yeah?” He muttered with his eyes still closed.
The door was pushed open, and his mother stood there, dressed for a day at the office. Doug opened his eyes and saw her.
“What is it?” He asked.
His mother was hesitant, but she needed to tell him. “Did you know Jasper Finch?”
“Yeah, why?”
“He was found dead at his house last night.”
Doug sat up quickly. “What?”
“It’s all over the news. They actually cancelled classes today at the high school. They think more students might be in danger. Especially the ones involved in your play.”
Doug didn’t know what to say.
“I can’t get off work today, I have a series of important meetings. Just do me a favor, hun, and stay home today with the doors locked.”
Doug nodded.
“If you need me, call my cell phone.”
“Sure.”
“See you for dinner, Douglas.” His mother left, closing the door behind her. Doug sat in his quiet room, thinking to himself.
The high school was pretty much vacant from teachers and staff by nine o’clock, but Mr. Thomas Murdock walked heavily into Molly Bain’s office. He startled her at her desk.
“What are you doing to me?” He asked loudly and distressed.
“What on Earth are you talking about?” She responded, blindsided.
“First you pull the financing on the play, and I went through all the trouble of getting the money to keep it going, and now you cancel classes? I need my actors to rehearse.”
“Un-freaking believable!” Molly shouted, appalled by the drama teachers unsettling ego. “Students are dead, Thomas! Our students! Students that are in you’re precious play! And you want to continue it?”
“You don’t know how much this play will mean for my career and yours, Molly. Not to mention the fact that it’s a tribute play. People will come to it to pay respect and remember the deceased.”
“I can’t believe you, Thomas. You are honestly disturbing me right now.”
Thomas got quiet and stared at the Principal. His eyes were burning with a sort of suppressed rage. He began to breath heavily. Molly noticed this, and slowly made her way around her desk.
“Thomas, go home. I’ll let you know when I want school to resume.” She nervously said, slowly walking past him.
Thomas reached out with force and grabbed her arm.
“Let go, Thomas!” Molly yelled.
He looked into her eyes, and she saw something that she didn’t know was in him.
“You don’t know what your doing, Molly.”
Molly pulled her arm free, and quickly left the office.
Doug sat in his living room with a ham and cheese sandwich; simultaneously stuffing his mouth with candy corn. The TV was on and set to the news where he was watching the continuous coverage on the murders. They mentioned Kelly Rodgers’ body missing from the cemetery, school being suspended until further notice, and the murders of Noah Swan, Samantha Weber and Jasper Finch.
Charlotte must be a wreck. Two of her friends – her close friends – were killed. She’s alone now.
Doug pulled his phone from his pocket and scrolled through his contacts list to Charlotte’s name. He pressed ‘call’ and let the phone ring.
“This is Charlotte, leave a message!” Her voicemail said in a cheery voice. Doug smiled.
“Charlotte, it’s Doug Roberts. I heard the news. If you want to talk, please call me back. There’s…” He stopped for a moment. He didn’t mean to continue, but now he had to. “There’s something I’d like to tell you.”
Doug quickly hung up the phone and thought about the message he just left. It was time to tell her – especially with the status of the play. He was going to wait until opening night – Halloween – but it wouldn’t hurt to move it up.
KNOCK! KNOCK!
Doug jumped, startled by the knocking at his front door. He jumped up from the couch and dashed to the window. Pulling back the flower-patterned curtains, he saw Libby Hatcher standing on the front porch. He opened the door and was greeted with a pleasant smile.
“Hi.” She said.
“Hey.” Doug responded, curious about her company.
“I was just going for a walk and thought maybe you’d like to come with me.”
Doug thought for a moment. “Uh, I’ll pass.”
Libby’s smile disappeared. “Why?”
“Because, I’m just going to hang out here for today. It’s not really safe out there, you know, with a killer picking us off.”
Libby stood there for a moment, anxiously shifting her feet. “Then, can I come in?”
She’s insistent. Doug smiled. “Sure.”
The smile returned to Libby’s plump face and she walked in, instantly making herself at home.
“So this whole thing is creepy, huh? The murders I mean.” She said, plopping down on the couch, right where Doug had been sitting. He sat down in the chair, which was across from her.
“Yeah.”
“What’s even more eerie are the similarities between the play and what’s actually happening. You know, the whole ‘returning from the grave’ aspect.”
“Yeah, that’s really weird.”
“Do you think someone read your play, and decided to do this?”
“Why would they? It’s just a play.” Doug said. “Do you think it’s someone involved in the play?”
“Could be. After all, the three people who are dead were connected to it. And poor Charlotte – two of her friends are dead.” Libby quieted down for a moment, in thought, and then looked up at Doug. “What do you see in her anyway?”
“Uh…” Doug didn’t know how to respond. “She’s popular, beautiful, well respected. She’s every high school guys dream.”
Libby nodded. “What about me?”
Doug’s brow contorted. “What do you mean?”
“Would you date me?”
“I…don’t know.” Doug said, feeling uncomfortable. “We’ve lived next to each other since we were kids. To me, your more like a friend, or, just a girl that’s…just…there.”
Doug knew it came out wrong, but he never expected to see her cry. She stood up and waddled to the front door. She glanced back at him once last time before leaving.
Doug sat alone in the living room, where the news continued to show live shots of Jasper Finch’s house.
Harper Cole looked up from her desk as a young woman in her mid-twenties entered the station. She wore her bleach blonde hair back in a ponytail, and was dressed in a pair of skinny jeans, and wore a dark coat. She smiled at Harper, who was instantly jealous of her beauty.
“Is Sheriff Carter around?” the woman asked with a smile.
“Yeah, sure.” Harper snapped back, picking up the phone. “Sheriff, there’s a girl here to see you.” She covered the speaker with her hand and looked at the girl. “Are you Riley Little?”
Riley nodded.
“Yeah it’s her. Okay.” Harper hung up the phone. “He’ll see you now. Down the hall and to the right.”
“Thank you.” Riley smiled as she headed for Carter’s office. Once inside, she looked around at all of the Beatles memorabilia. A framed Abbey Road poster hung above a small shelf, which displayed John, Paul, Ringo and George bobble heads.
“A Beatles fan? I like it.” Riley said. Carter stood up from his desk and shook her hand.
“Thanks. Are you a fan?” He asked.
“Sure am. That’s all my parents use to listen too, so obviously, it grew on me.”
“Please, Mrs. Little, have a seat.” Carter said. They both sat down. “I’m going to get right to it. You’ve heard about the murders here in town, I’m sure.”
Riley nodded.
“How you came to be involved in quite puzzling to us actually. At each of the crime scenes, the killer left a signature – an autograph. Braxton Summers.”
Riley was confused.
“We looked into your history and found out that your name use to be Summer Braxton. Do you know why a killer would be using a variation of you’re maiden name?”
Riley shook her head. “No, sir.”
“Upon further investigation, we found a website that sells independently published books, and Braxton Summers is a registered author on that site. He wrote a book called ‘Bloody October’, which is basically a retelling of the massacre that happened here last October.”
“Oh my God.” Riley was stunned.
“We think the killer is writing a sequel. ‘Bloody October’ sold very well, at fifteen dollars a pop. The writer – the killer – made a ton of money off of it.”
Riley hung her head, like she had something to say, but didn’t want to.
“Mrs. Little, what is it?” Carter asked.
“I grew up here. I actually use to live on Baker Street. I wrote Halloween themed poetry and short horror stories. I never published them,” she explained with a slight quiver in her voice, “but I did use to perform the poetry at the Halloween Festival each year until I moved after high school.”
Carter looked at her more closely. “Ah, yes. I do remember some of that. It was pretty good if I recall.”
“Thanks.”
Carter proceeded to ask her about her whereabouts the dates and times of the recent murders, and every answer was either “With my husband” or “Taking care of the baby.”
Tentatively satisfied with the questioning, he cut her loose.
Night consumed Stewart Hollow. The streets were empty and silent. A cold wind howled lightly through the neighborhoods, kicking up leaves, and teasing the flames that illuminated inside of freshly carved pumpkins. The night was calm, but unusual.
A dark figure walked down a dimly lit neighborhood street.
His confusion was building and he jerked his head from side to side, trying to pinpoint every little sound that he thought he heard. He blinked rapidly and groaned aggressively at himself; angry with the man he was forced to be.
A flickering pumpkin on a front porch caught his eye and he slowly approached it. He stood on the porch of a home that kept a family warm and safe - for now. He bent over and picked up the crudely carved pumpkin. It was certainly the work of a child.
He remembered the news: the murders, the missing corpse – there was a ghost haunting the October nights. The thought sent a chill down his spine. With his free hand, he frantically felt the inside breast pocket of his long black coat. He sighed in relief when he felt the knife was still there – hopefully still as sharp.
He took the pumpkin in his arms, held it to his chest, and continued to walk alone in the night, hoping to do the old woman proud. The first warning was coming.