Ghost Walk Page 3

  The other downside was the fact that she had very few personal relationships and little time for socializing, other than with business contacts and peers she met on the Internet. Maria posted regularly on a few message boards for freelance writers, and had several friends she exchanged e-mails with, but she didn’t go out much. She couldn’t. There was no time. She spent her days and evenings working on the next assignment or trying to line up more. As a result, her social life outside of the Internet was almost non existent. Three years after college, she still had no serious boyfriends. Maria could count the number of dates she’d been on with one hand. And other than a drunken one-night stand with a guy she’d met on assignment six months ago, she’d slept alone.

  Yep, she thought, the thrilling, glamorous life of a freelance writer.

  Nuts…

  Two long hours later, the township officials finished their business and Hale adjourned the meeting. Maria turned off her digital voice recorder, put it in her purse along with her notebook and pen, and stood up. Her notebook was filled with doodles—cat and dog faces, a hexagon, and labyrinthine, concentric circles. She hadn’t taken any notes, confident that the important stuff was on the recorder. She’d play it back when she got home, transcribe it, and make sense of things. Boil two hours’ worth of discussion into a four-hundred-word news brief that would end up buried on the last page of the local section, right after the farm report and church worship schedules for the week. She’d e-mail it to her editor before her one a.m. deadline, and then get some sleep.

  Maria filed out with the rest of the attendees. Mark from the Daily Record smiled at her again. His pants legs were covered with dried boogers. She smiled back, and then looked away, pretending to be interested in some Halloween decorations hanging on the wall.

  Yeah, her life was really working out the way she’d planned.

  Maybe tomorrow she’d look into moving again. Try getting out of York. Search Craigslist for an apartment in New York or Philadelphia. And maybe she’d win the lottery, too. That was the only way she could afford to move, after all.

  Like it or not, she was stuck here. Alone.

  On her way out the door, she glanced back at Mark. His finger was in his nostril up to the first knuckle.

  So she wasn’t the only thing that was stuck.

  Maria finished her assignment half an hour before the deadline and e-mailed the attachment to her editor. Her little television flickered in the corner. Conan O’Brien was interviewing Canadian stand-up comedian Pete Zedlacher. The two were laughing at something, but Maria couldn’t tell what because she had the sound muted.

  Her apartment was small but comfortable—bathroom, living room, kitchenette, and two bedrooms, one of which served as her office. The place was furnished with a curious mixture of leftover dorm furniture from her college days and more recent purchases from Ikea and Target. A new couch. A used futon. The eggshell-colored walls were sparse—a framed Monet print, a montage of photos from high school and college, and a collectible spoon rack. There was only one picture of her parents in the whole apartment, subconsciously hung above the entertainment center where she didn’t have to look at them every day. Maria spent little time in the living room—when she was home, her evenings were spent sleeping or working. Her office wasn’t much. Two desks had been lined up in an L-shape in the corner. One held her laptop and the other her older desktop. A two-drawer filing cabinet contained her various clippings and bylines, as well as contracts, receipts, and financial records. Two bookshelves leaned against the wall. One overflowed with paperbacks and compact discs. A green vase sat precariously at the top. The other bookshelf held her television and more books.

  Conan gave way to an annoying commercial for a headache medicine. She was just about to turn the television off and go to bed when her laptop beeped, signaling a new e-mail. She clicked on Outlook Express and saw it was from Miles, her editor at the paper.

  It read:

  Got the piece. Thanks. Will run in the local section tomorrow. Meanwhile, how would you like a bigger assignment? Looking for a special feature on a new local Ghost Walk. At least one full page, plus pictures. Maybe more, if material warrants. One of the staff photographers has already made arrangements for pics. Just need someone to do the story. Normally, Hilary would cover this, but she’s still on maternity leave and the Ghost Walk’s own er, Ken Ripple, is adamant about coverage. The attraction opens the night before Halloween, so we’ve got to get hopping. Not a lot of time. It’s a rush job. You interested? —Miles

  She was surprised to see that Miles was still awake this time of night. But then again, judging by how often he complained about his wife and kids, maybe he was happier at work.

  Maria hit reply. Was she interested? A full-page feature? That paid a lot more than a sidebar item about local government. Hell, yes, she was interested, and she told him so. A few minutes later, Miles responded with Ripple’s contact information and a suggestion that Maria come in and go through the newspaper’s archives tomorrow. There was a lot of history associated with the haunted attraction’s location, and since she wasn’t a local, she’d have to brush up on it.

  Assuring him that she would, and promising to stop by the office in the morning, Maria logged off and went to bed. It was a long time before she fell asleep.

  When she finally did, she had a nightmare about her parents. They were displeased with the path she’d taken in life and had decided to talk to her about it—with knives.

  They were very angry, and the knives were very sharp.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Ken Ripple wiped the sweat out of his eyes. Then, hands on hips, he stretched his aching back. He let out a satisfied sigh as it cracked.

  “Getting too old for this shit?” Terry Klein asked.

  “No,” Ken said. “I was banging your wife last night and threw my back out.”

  “Well, at least one of us is getting some from her.” Terry pulled off his leather work gloves and flexed his fingers. “Damn, blisters.”

  Ken grinned. “Too much jerking off.”

  “Like I said, at least one of us is getting some from her.”

  Both men laughed, and then turned back to the business at hand: rigging a pulley system to an out house door. When triggered, the series of cable and pulleys would open the door, allowing a dummy to lurch out at unsuspecting passersby. All they had to do was step on the hidden switch. The dummy wasn’t much—straw and plywood covered with some of Terry’s old clothes, and a rubber monster mask for a face—but in the dark, it would suffice.

  The Ghost Walk had been Ken’s idea. He’d always enjoyed haunted attractions. Central Pennsylvania was loaded with them—Field of Screams, Jason’s Woods, The Spook House, The Haunted Mill, Scream in the Park. But it wasn’t until last year, when Ken had attended a trade convention in Baltimore for haunted attraction operators, that he’d gone from an enthusiast to designer. He’d gone to the convention out of curiosity, hoping for a glimpse behind the curtain, some trade secrets, how the magicians pulled their rabbits out of the proverbial hat. Instead, he’d come away with a deep desire to build an attraction himself.

  And dedicate it to Deena’s memory.

  Two years ago, Ken’s wife, Deena, while suffering from a slight cold, had missed her period. A home pregnancy test showed a positive result. This was a joyous event. They’d been trying to have a child, without success, for the last three years. But the subsequent follow-up visit with the doctor brought grim news—her slight cold was anything but, and Deena wasn’t pregnant. Instead of a baby growing inside her, she had a tumor. The cancer had already spread. Four months later, she was gone, and Ken was alone again. He missed her more and more each day. His friends and family told him that it would get easier with time, but it didn’t. Yes, the emotional wounds healed, but the scars still ached.

  To honor his wife, Ken decided to build a haunted attraction, and donate the proceeds to women’s cancer research. The area around LeHorn’s Hollow seemed like the per
fect location. It was steeped in local folklore—ghosts and witches and all kinds of creepy phenomena. Murders, both solved and unsolved. The place was perfect. Sadly, he couldn’t construct his Ghost Walk on the LeHorn property, since the land’s own ership was tied up in a lengthy battle between the state and surviving family members. But the woods around LeHorn’s Hollow were vast, and a lot of it was untouched by the fires, which had consumed so much two years before. And the area that had been burned wasn’t suitable; it was ash and rubble—a wasteland.

  Ken decided to situate his attraction as close to LeHorn’s Hollow as was legally—and environmentally—possible.

  First, he approached the board of directors at the Gladstone Pulpwood Company, which owned some of the neighboring forest (the state and local governments, and several farmers and companies owned the rest). After several meetings and a lot of pleading, he secured the company’s support and the usage of their land. More importantly, he benefited from their insurance coverage.

  Then he took his idea to the township and got the proper permits and permissions. That had been a little trickier. There was a lot of red tape to cut through. Zoning wasn’t an issue, since the Ghost Walk was situated on Gladstone property and privately owned land donated by neighboring farmers. But he needed to apply for building permits, provide a site plan and all sorts of documentation, and fill out a seemingly never-ending pile of applications. Eventually, however, he got it approved.

  Finally, he put out a call for volunteers. Men and women from various local organizations and churches answered the call—students, youth groups, retirees, volunteer firemen and medical responders, and members of the Lions Club, VFW, American Legion, Rotary, Masonic Lodge, and Knights of Columbus. All donated their time and labor while Ken funded the undertaking and oversaw construction. He obtained some corporate sponsors. The local hardware store donated supplies, as did the lumberyard. Ken studied back issues of Haunted Attraction magazine and contacted some professionals via a message board for haunt enthusiasts, all of whom were very helpful. He’d been stunned and grateful beyond words at the kindness and enthusiasm the community had shown.

  Construction had started in August. Ken and a few volunteers had scouted the forest, marking trees to indicate in which direction the trail should go. Then they cut through the brambles and brush, clearing the undergrowth so that they could commence with the design.

  And here he was, just a few days from the grand opening—and there was still a ton of things to do. He’d taken his two weeks of paid vacation from his day job, and was using it to get everything completed in time.

  His only regret was that, because of the time the whole process had taken, he wouldn’t open until Halloween Eve. Most haunted attractions were open for the entire month; the Ghost Walk would only run from the night before Halloween to the first weekend in November. Still, if it was a success, maybe they’d be open sooner next year.

  Finished with the pulley system, the men tested it out. Ken stepped on the hidden pressure switch, which was hidden beneath dirt and leaves. On cue, the out house door banged open and the dummy lunged out. Then it leaned back inside and the door slammed shut again.

  “Perfect,” Ken said.

  “What’s next?” Terry asked.

  Ken sighed. “Too much. The guys from the VFW are almost done with the maze house, but we need to rig some strobe lights inside it. The trail needs to be raked again. We have to make sure we remove all rocks, roots, and anything else somebody could trip over. Last thing we want is someone taking a tumble and suing us. Someone with a pickup truck needs to make a run to Nelson Leiphart’s place. He’s got a field of dead cornstalks that we can use for camouflage along the trail.”

  “Camouflage?”

  “Sure. In addition to the buildings and scenarios, we’re gonna have volunteers in masks or makeup hiding along the trail. When people walk by, they’ll jump out and hopefully scare the shit out of them. So we need to camouflage their hiding places.”

  Terry frowned. “Shouldn’t we use tree branches and leaves? Would look more natural. Or plywood sheeting, maybe?”

  “Sure, but part of the fun is knowing there’s something up ahead. People see the cornstalks and they’ll be dreading taking another step. But at the same time, they’ll have no choice. Helps to ramp up their fears. Plus, cornstalks are suited to Halloween. It’s all about the ambience.”

  Smiling, Terry shook his head.

  “What?” Ken asked. “What are you laughing at?”

  “You, man. It’s amazing. I’ve known you since high school, but I’ve never seen you as fired up about something as you are this. I mean, just listen to you talking about this—I’m impressed. By day, you hang drywall. But after work, you become an expert at this shit. I’ve got to hand it to you, Ken. When you first came up with this idea, I figured you’d lose your shirt. But you’ve really pulled it together.”

  “Well, I could still lose my shirt. It’s all for nothing if nobody shows up on opening night.”

  “They’ll come.” Terry put his hand on Ken’s shoulder and gave him a squeeze. “Deena would be proud of you.”

  “Thanks.”

  Ken’s voice was thick with emotion. They stood in awkward silence for a few seconds. Then Terry cleared his throat and removed his hand.

  “Okay,” he said. “Where do you want me next?”

  “Can you give Sylva and Clark a hand unloading those bags of lime? We need it to outline the trail.”

  “Sure. What are you gonna do?”

  “Walk the trail. Check up on everybody. See if I can spot any last-minute things we might have missed. And later, I’m supposed to meet with some reporter. Trying to get a write-up in the paper. They’ll probably do a hatchet job.”

  “Better you than me.”

  “Yeah.”

  Terry gathered his tools and then strolled back up the trail, vanishing around the bend. Ken turned around and walked the other way, following the trail deeper into the forest. He inspected various locations along the way, making sure they were functional. The guillotine, whose dummy had a removable head. The spider’s grove, an area of the trail overrun with gauze “webs.” A pit in the earth, made up to look like a flying saucer crash site, complete with bits of twisted metal and several “alien” bodies. Scattered hiding places, small sheds that housed generators and first-aid stations.

  The sound of hammering greeted him as he approached the maze house. It was a ramshackle construct. Low-hanging branches scraped against the corrugated tin roof. Various grades of plywood and weathered planks made up the outer walls. It looked exactly as Ken had wanted it to—like something out of a backwoods horror movie. House of 1,000 Corpses or Texas Chainsaw Massacre or Cabin Fever. He pushed past a sheet of plastic nailed over the doorway and stepped inside. The interior was far different. Black plastic covered the walls, floor, and ceiling, blocking out all light. Three different passageways led off into the darkness. The center hall glowed dimly. Ken followed it to the source of illumination: a string of work lights hanging from the ceiling. Four retired VFW members were putting another dead end into place, driving nails into the thick plywood.

  “Hey, guys.”

  The men stopped hammering and turned to him.

  “Howdy, Mr. Ripple.” The speaker, Cecil Smeltzer, pulled a red bandanna from his back pocket and wiped his brow. “It’s coming along good. Darned if we don’t get lost trying to find our way back out.”

  Ken laughed. “Let’s hope not. Wouldn’t want to send a search party in here after you.”

  “No, we wouldn’t.”

  “It looks good, guys. I really appreciate your help. You’ve done a great job.”

  “No need to thank us,” Cecil said. “It’s for a good cause.”

  The others murmured their agreement.

  “And besides,” Cecil continued, “it ain’t like we’ve got much to do during the day anyway.”

  Ken allowed them to show him all they’d done, and nodded with satisfaction
. Then he exited the maze and continued down the trail. The work sounds faded, and silence enveloped him. The forest was still, the quiet noticeable. Ken supposed that all the activity had scared off the wildlife, but the absence of even the birds and insects was a little unsettling.

  He reached the end of the trail, which opened up into a barren field. Stubs of harvested cornstalks jutted from the rocky soil. When the Ghost Walk was up and running, hay wagons and tractors would be positioned in the field to transport the customers back to their cars. There were supposed to be two teenaged volunteers working here. They’d been tasked with roping off the trail’s end and clearly marking the exit. Since they were seniors, the high school allowed them to leave school in the afternoon and help out with the Ghost Walk; all part of the workplace credit program. The idea was that they’d learn valuable skills that could be applied in the job market after they’d graduated. But reality was something different. Instead of working for him, they’d apparently played hooky.

  Ken swore under his breath. The rope lay on the ground, along with the exit signs. There was no sign of the teens.

  “Hey,” he hollered, trying to remember their names. He searched his memory, to no avail. “Hey, you kids!”

  His voice echoed through the forest. He paused, listening. Then he remembered their names.

  “Sam! Rhonda!”

  They were good kids, for the most part. Except for now, when he needed something done. He called out again but there was no answer.

  “Goddamn it. Want something done right, you’ve got to do it yourself.”