World's Scariest Places 2

ACCLAIM FOR

JEREMY BATES

Will remind readers what chattering teeth sound like. —Kirkus Reviews

Voracious readers of horror will delightfully consume the contents of Bates's World's Scariest Places books.

—Publishers Weekly

Creatively creepy and sure to scare. —The Japan Times

Jeremy Bates writes like a deviant angel I'm glad doesn't live on my shoulder.

—Christian Galacar, author of GILCHRIST

Thriller fans and readers of Stephen King, Joe Lansdale, and other masters of the art will find much to love.

—Midwest Book Review

An ice-cold thriller full of mystery, suspense, fear.

—David Moody, author of HATER and AUTUMN

A page-turner in the true sense of the word.

—HorrorAddicts

Will make your skin crawl. —Scream Magazine

Told with an authoritative voice full of heart and insight.

—Richard Thomas, Bram Stoker nominated author

Grabs and doesn't let go until the end. —Writer's Digest

BY

JEREMY BATES

Suicide Forest ♦ The Catacombs ♦ Helltown ♦ Island of the Dolls ♦ Mountain of the Dead ♦  Hotel Chelsea ♦ Mosquito Man  ♦ The Sleep Experiment ♦ The Man from Taured ♦  Merfolk ♦ The Dancing Plague 1 & 2  ♦ White Lies ♦ The Taste of Fear ♦  Black Canyon ♦ Run ♦ Rewind ♦ Neighbors ♦ Six Bullets ♦ Box of Bones ♦  The Mailman ♦ Re-Roll ♦ New America: Utopia Calling ♦ Dark Hearts ♦ Bad People

Free Book

For a limited time, visit www.jeremybatesbooks.com to receive a free copy of the critically acclaimed short novel Black Canyon, winner of Crime Writers of Canada The Lou Allin Memorial Award.

World's Scariest Places 2

Helltown & Island of the Dolls

Jeremy Bates

Copyright © 2016 Jeremy Bates

All rights reserved

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

ISBN-13: 978-1988091150

Contents

Free Book

Title Page

Copyright

Title Page

Helltown

Prologue

1987

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Epilogue

Island of the Dolls

Prologue

Xochimico, Mexico

Jack

1950

Jack

1952

Jack

1954

Jack

1955

Elizaveta

1956

Elizaveta

1957

Elizaveta

1957

Jack

1957

Jack

1957

Jack

1957

Elizaveta

Jack

Elizaveta

1957

Elizaveta

Jack

Elizaveta

Jack

Elizaveta

Jack

Epilogue

About The Author

World's Scariest Places 2

Helltown & Island of the Dolls

Helltown

Prologue

Abby doesn’t need a man anymore. The Devil is her lover now!

Abby (1974)

Inside the mold-infested abandoned house a brass Chinese gong reverberated dully, followed by liturgical music minced with electronically produced effects. The door at the far end of the room opened and a large woman emerged clothed in the customary habit and wimple of a nun. She held a cased ceremonial sword in one hand, a black candle in the other. The deacon and sub-deacon, both clad in floor-length robes, black and hooded, appeared next. The high priest came last. Unlike the others, his face was visible, the top of his head covered with a skin-tight cowl sprouting horns made of animal bones. He wore a black cassock and matching gabardine cape with scarlet lining. His eyes were dark, shimmering, though his long bushy beard was far from Mephistophelean.

The procession congregated a few feet in front of the altar, the high priest in the middle, the mock-nun and deacon to his left, the sub-deacon to his right. They all bowed deeply, then looked down at the naked woman who lay atop the holy table. Her body was at right angles to its length, her arms outstretched crucifix-style, her legs spread wide, each limb secured in place with ropes anchored to iron eyelets on the floor. Her pale white skin contrasted sharply with her brightly made-up face and ebony hair. The number of the beast, 666, was scrawled in blood across her bare breasts. On the wall above her, painted in red, was the Sigil of Baphomet: a goat’s head in an inverted pentagram within a circle. A large upside -down cross hung directly before the face so that an eye peered ahead from either side of it.

The organist switched to The Hymn to Satan, a perversion of Bach’s Jesu Meine Freude. The deacon rang a deeply toned bell nine times. Then the high priest raised his hands, palms downward, and said: "In Nomine Magni Dei Nostri Satanas, introibo ad altare Domini Inferi."

The black mass had begun.

◆◆◆

The car in the driveway was the first in a string of bad omens for Darla Evans. It wasn’t a pickup truck or even the rusted Ford Thunderbird that Mark’s friend Henry Roberts drove. It was a little red Volkswagen Beetle. It occupied most of the small driveway, so Darla pulled up to the curb, bumper to bumper with Mark’s aging Camaro. She got out and retrieved her suitcase from the Golf’s trunk, breathing in the crisp autumn air.

Seeing her recently purchased home, Darla felt a burst of nostalgia, even though she’d only been away in Akron at the career fair for two days. The house was a quaint turn of the century, three bedrooms, two baths, with a large backyard—a perfect place to start a family.

As Darla wheeled her suitcase up the front walk, her hand absently touching her barely noticeable baby bump, she glanced at the Bug. She wondered who it belonged to. Not the construction guys. They wouldn’t be caught dead in anything so dainty. Someone to do with the wedding? Darla and Mark’s mother Jennifer were taking care of most of the preparations, but Mark had been tasked with organizing the photographer.

Darla didn’t bother fishing her keys from her handbag. Mark never locked up when he was home. Sure enough, the front door eased open, and she stepped into the small foyer. Stairs on the left climbed to the second floor; the living room opened to the right. The entranceway to the latter was sealed with transparent plastic. Through it she could see a jumble of masonry, a few scattered tools, and a gray coating of dust on the floor, marred with a zigzag of booted footprints. She and Mark were refinishing the original redbrick fireplace mantelpiece, which dated back to the 1920s.

Mark’s loafers rested at the base of the cast-iron radiator, next to a pair of black pointed-toe sling-backs with high heels. A work associate? Darla wondered. She tilted her head, expecting to hear their conversation. She heard nothing. She thought about calling out, announcing that she’d returned from the career fair early, but given the silence she decided Mark and his guest were likely out on the back patio.

She left her suitcase standing upright and followed the hallway to the kitchen. She frowned at the two empty fishbowl wine glasses on the counter, next to an empty bottle of Merlot. Confusion stirred within her and, hovering beneath that, like a dark shadow, alarm. She told herself a perfectly innocent explanation existed as to why Mark would be sharing wine with someone who wore pumps and drove a red Bug. Of course there was. She and Mark had the ideal relationship. Everyone said so. They’d just bought the house, were expecting a baby. There was no room in that scenario for what the whisperings in her head suggested. She felt ashamed to be considering such a thing.

She continued to the rear of the kitchen and looked through the sliding glass doors. Plastic patio set, old barbeque, sagging shed—nobody anywhere in the yard. Darla thought about calling out again, but this time she kept quiet for a different reason. Because you might disturb them? Because they might have time to—to do what? Get themselves decent? She returned the way she’d come, her head suddenly airy, her stomach nauseous.

Back in the foyer Darla stood at the bottom of the stairs, hesitating. She thought she heard a faint something, maybe someone speaking at a low volume. She started up the steps. Ten to the landing, right turn, six more. Carpeted, they didn’t creak. The plan was to toss the carpet and restore the original hardwood hidden beneath.

When she reached the second floor, she confirmed what she’d thought she’d heard. Voices, murmurings, coming from the master bedroom. She started in that direction, floating now, disconnected from herself. It was as though her body had flooded itself with a cocktail of potent chemicals to numb her from the inevitable pain lurking very close. She knew that men and women cheated on each other. It was a fact of life in a monogamous society. She just never imagined Mark doing it to her.

It can’t be him in there, she thought irrationally. It has to be someone else.

◆◆◆

Halfway through the third segment of the black mass, the Canon, the sub-deacon fetched a chamber pot from the shadows and presented it to the nun, who urinated into it, smiling beatifically, while the organist played a low-pitched, rumbling hymn. The high priest said, "In the name of Mary she maketh the font resound with the waters of mercy. She giveth the showers of blessing and poureth forth the tears of her shame. She suffereth long, and her humiliation is great, and she doth pour upon the earth with the joy of her mortification. Her cup runneth over, and her water is sublime. Ave Maria ad micturiendum festinant."

When the nun finished urinating, the sub-deacon retrieved the font and held it before the high priest, who dipped a phallus-shaped aspergillum into the fluid. He turned to the four cardinal compass points, shaking the aspergillum three times at each. In the name of Satan, we bless thee with this, the symbol of the seed of life. In the name of Lucifer, we bless thee with this, the symbol of the seed of life. In the name of Belial, we bless thee with this, the symbol of the seed of life. In the name of Leviathan, we bless thee with this, the symbol of the seed of life. He raised the phallic aspergillum breast-high in an attitude of offering to the Baphomet, kissed it, and placed it back on the altar. Then he uttered the purported last words of Jesus Christ upon the cross: "Shemhamforash!"

Hail Satan! the assemblage replied.

◆◆◆

Darla stopped on the other side of the bedroom door. She could hear a woman’s voice purring, the words punctuated with throaty laughter. She wanted to turn around, leave, pretend this wasn’t happening, but she couldn’t do that. Steeling herself, she opened the door—and everything inside her collapsed at once. Her lungs, so it was hard to breathe. Her nervous system, so she became numb. Her heart, slit in half, emptied, hollow.

Mark lay on his back on the queen bed, his well-toned body naked except for a pair of blue briefs. A tanned peroxide blonde straddled him, groin to groin. She wore nothing but a black frilly thong. In one hand she held a pink feather duster, in the other, a red candle, which she was using to drip scalding wax onto Mark’s chest.

Mark turned his head toward Darla as if sensing her presence. Seeing her, he threw the woman off him and sat bolt upright. Jesus! he said, and for a moment he appeared furious, as if outraged that Darla would have the gall to walk in on him while he was getting it on. Very quickly, however, he adopted a suitably ashamed and worried countenance.

Wha…? The woman turned and saw Darla. Her eyes widened in surprise.

Get out, Darla told her evenly, venomously.

Hey, sorry, we should have gone somewhere else—

Get out! she screamed.

Okay, okay, like chill out. Her casual tone was infuriating. She would walk away today and likely gossip about what happened with her friends. It wasn’t her life abruptly in shambles.

Darla marched over and grabbed the slut by the blow-dried hair and yanked her off the bed. The woman yelped.

Hey, Dar, hold on, Mark said. Take it easy. Let’s talk.

Ignoring him, Darla dragged the woman—bent over, shrieking, bare breasts flopping—across the room, shoved her into the hallway, slammed the door shut.

Then she whirled on Mark. She wanted to hurl every curse word she knew at him. But she could articulate nothing. She bit her bottom lip to keep it from trembling.

Listen, Dar, he said, scratching the back of his head, it’s not what you—

"Don’t give me that! Don’t you dare give me that!"

He closed his mouth and seemed at a loss for what to say next.

How long? she said.

He got off the bed, pulled on his acid-wash jeans.

How long? she demanded.

Banging at the door. Mark! I need my clothes.

Mark started toward Darla, thought better of it, kept his distance. A few weeks, he said.

Who is she?

It doesn’t matter.

"Who is she?"

He shrugged. Someone from the ski resort.

Hey! the woman persisted. I’ll go. I just need my clothes.

Let me send her off, he said, and we’ll talk.

Get out.

What?

Get out of this house.

Dar, you’re not thinking straight. Let me get rid of her—

Get the hell out of this house, Mark, or I swear to God I’m going to hit you.

Dar—

Go!

He frowned, angry again, undecided. Then he scooped up his yellow Polo shirt with the embroidered logo of his auto repair business, a black bra, and a red tartan dress. He left his socks, inside out, on the floor. On his way to the door he stopped in front of Darla and tried to touch her on the shoulder. She slapped him across the cheek. He recoiled in shock. More anger, then weary resignation. He left the bedroom.

Hey, thanks, the blonde said, taking her dress. And sorry about this—

Not now, Mark snapped.

Darla remained where she was, arms folded across her chest, beginning to shake. The front door opened and closed. A car started. Then another. Moments later the sound of the engines faded, and she was alone.

◆◆◆

The high priest removed the black veil that covered the chalice and paten. He lifted the latter in both hands, on which rested a wafer of turnip, and said, Blessed be the bread and wine of death. Blessed a thousand times more than the flesh and blood of life, for you have not been harvested by human hands nor did any human creature mill and grind you. It was our Lord Satan who took you to the mill of the grave so that you should thus become the bread and blood of revelation and revulsion. His voice became harsher, more guttural. I spit upon you, I cast you down, because you preach punishment and shame to those who would emancipate themselves and repudiate the slavery of the church! He inserted the host into the woman’s labia, removed it, and raised it to the Baphomet. Vanish into nothingness, thou fool of fools, thou vile and abhorred pretender to the majesty of Satan, the true god of gods! Vanish into the void of thy empty Heaven, for thou wert never, nor shalt thou ever be! He dropped the host into a small bowl and pulverized it with a pestle. He mixed what remained with charcoal and incense and set it aflame with a white candle. While it burned he picked up the Chalice of Ecstasy, which was filled not with blood or semen but his drink of choice, Kentucky bourbon. He raised it to the Baphomet and drank deeply. He replaced the chalice on the altar, covered it and the paten with the veil, then bowed and gave the blessing of Satan, extending his left hand in the Sign of the Horns: the two outermost fingers, representing the goat, pointing upward in defiance of Heaven, the two innermost pointing down in denial of the Holy Trinity. "Shemhamforash!"

Hail, Satan!

◆◆◆

Darla returned to the Golf with her unpacked suitcase and drove. She couldn’t stand to be in the house any longer. Every room reminded her of Mark. The kitchen where they’d spent so many mornings in their housecoats making each other breakfast, the den where they’d snuggled up on the sofa together in the evenings to watch TV. Certainly not the bedroom. God, the tramp had been in her bed. How could Mark have allowed that? How could he violate the sanctity of the place where they’d conceived the baby that was growing inside her?

With this acid in her head, Darla tooled aimlessly around Boston Mills. She felt lost and confused as if half her identity had been torn away from her—and in a sense she supposed it had. She’d been with Mark for ten years, ever since he’d asked her to their high school prom. He’d been the only stable fixture in her adult life.

Despair filled her. The house was Mark’s. He’d paid the down deposit with his savings, and the bank loan was in his name. So she couldn’t stay there. She was homeless. Not only that, she had less than a hundred dollars in her bank account, no job, and a baby on the way. There had been a couple of jobs at the career fair she’d thought she might do okay at, but even if she was hired for one tomorrow, she likely wouldn’t start for a few weeks, and she wouldn’t be paid for another few weeks after that.

Family, she thought. She still had family. Her parents had moved to Florida several years before, and her older brother was teaching English in Japan or South Korea or China—somewhere too distant to think about. But her sister, Leanne, was only forty minutes away in Cleveland. Darla could crash there for a bit, maybe even look for work in Cleveland.

Then again, that meant Darla would have to deal with Leanne’s husband, Ray. He was a smug white-collar bank manager who’d always thought of Darla and Mark as uneducated country bumpkins. No, she couldn’t show up on his doorstep pregnant and single and broke. It would be humiliating.

Darla began running through a mental list of her friends—and realized she didn’t even know who her friends were anymore. They would have to take sides, wouldn’t they? How many would choose her over Mark? Likely not many. It didn’t matter that Mark was a cheating slime ball. He’d been the extrovert in their relationship, she the introvert. He had an easy way with people she didn’t. He’d come out of this scandal unscathed, while she would end up ostracized, an outcast in the very town where she had grown up.

Suzy, she thought. Yes, Suzy. She was single, had just been through a brutal divorce herself. She would sympathize with Darla’s predicament. She’d make some strong coffee, they’d sit down, she’d listen to Darla bawl, she wouldn’t judge or take sides.

Suzy lived ten minutes away in Sagamore Hills. It would be fastest to travel north on Riverview Road, then east along West Highland. But Darla decided to detour through Cuyahoga Valley National Park. It would give her a bit more time to get herself together.

She crossed over the Cuyahoga River, then turned left onto Stanford Road. Soon the trees of the national park closed around her—oak, ash, maple, walnut, hickory—and she began to feel calmer. Nature had a way of doing that to her, as she supposed it did for most people. Also, she enjoyed the isolation the park offered, the idea of being on her own. She felt free. And now I am free, she thought defiantly. Mark’s gone, out of my life. And maybe that’s for the best. Better to find out about his cheating ways now than later on. I’m still young, only twenty-six. I’ll meet someone new, start over again…

Darla had been so preoccupied with her new-life fantasy she didn’t realize it was nearly dark. That was the thing with October in Ohio: you had the day, and you had the night, and you had about ten minutes of dusk in between.

She clicked on her headlights—and in the rearview mirror noticed a car behind her do the same. She’d had no idea anyone had even been there.

The car seemed to be accelerating toward her. Darla watched it approach, waiting for it to overtake her. It didn’t. Instead it came right up behind her and sat on her tail.

What was the idiot thinking?

Darla was about to pull over to the shoulder, to give the car more room to pass her on the narrow two-lane road, when it rammed her back bumper. She cried out in surprise. The car rammed her again, harder. The steering wheel jerked dangerously in her hands.

The lunatic was trying to run her off the road!

Was he drunk? On drugs?

Heart racing, Darla stomped on the gas, pushing the speedometer needle past fifty, past sixty. The car stuck behind her as the road angled upward steeply. Then the car rammed her once more. This time it remained glued to her ass, pushing her. She had to fight the steering wheel to keep it straight, and just as she thought she was going to lose control, the vehicle fell back.

Darla cried out in triumph a moment before the road disappeared in front of her—and she realized her mistake. This stretch of Stanford Road was nicknamed The End of the World because the hill culminated in a brief summit that dropped off sharply on the other side, creating the temporary illusion that you were driving off a cliff—or the end of the world.

Darla had breasted the summit at eighty miles an hour and shot clear into the air.

When the Golf crashed violently back to earth, the front bumper tore free in a fiery display of sparks. The vehicle wrenched to the left, plowed through the smaller shrubbery lining the verge, into the forest, and struck the trunk of a large tree, coming to an abrupt, bone-crushing halt.

◆◆◆

With the human sacrifice now at hand, the organist began to play deep, furious chords, while the gong-ringer struck the instrument with the heavy mallet rhythmically, continually. The nun handed the high priest the ceremonial sword. He held it aloft with both hands and recited Lovecraft in a loud, commanding voice, "Oh, friend and companion of the night, thou who rejoiceth in the baying of dogs and spilt blood, who wanderest in the midst of shades among the tombs, who longest for blood and bringest terror to mortals—Gorgo, Mormo, thousand-faced moon—look favorably on our sacrifice and win forgiveness for me and for all those for whom I have offered it. Tuere nos, Domine Satanus!"

Shield us, Lord Satan! the assemblage cried.

"Protege nos, Domine Satanus!" he shouted.

Protect us, Lord Satan!

"Shemhamforash!"

Hail Satan! Hail Satan! Hail Satan!

The high priest sank the sword into the woman’s belly.

◆◆◆

Mark’s infidelity, detouring through Cuyahoga Valley National Park, the maniac in the car behind her—these were the first thoughts Darla had entertained, or at least the first ones she could recall, since the crash. But with each passing second she felt herself becoming more lucid, more self-aware. It was as if she’d been in a black abyss deep underwater, and now she was floating upward toward the surface, to the world of the senses. Indeed, she could hear voices, she could smell some kind of incense, she could feel…oh God, the pain! Her body throbbed, nowhere and everywhere at once. Still, she held onto the pain, she wouldn’t let it go, because where there was pain there was consciousness.

The surface drifted closer. She could almost reach out and touch it.

Darla’s eyes cracked open. She made out several men hovering over her, their faces lost in the shadows of their cowls.

A fireball exploded in her abdomen, far worse than the pain that had lured her from the void, and with wide, glassy eyes she saw that the blade of a sword protruded from her navel, blood pooling around the wound, coloring the surrounding flesh a blackish red.

She screamed.

1987

Chapter 1

Groovy!

Evil Dead II (1987)

The headlights punched ghostly tunnels through the shifting fog. Birch trees stripped bare of their fiery Autumn colors and towering evergreens lined the margins of the two-lane rural road. A cold rind of moon hung high in the starless sky, glowing bluish-white behind a raft of eastward-drifting clouds.

Steve slipped on his reading glasses, which he kept on a cord around his neck, and squinted at the roadmap he’d taken from the BMW’s glove compartment. We’re on Stanford Road, right? he said.

Yup, Jeff said, one hand gripping the leather steering wheel casually. He was eyeing the rearview mirror, either making sure their friends were still following behind them in the other car or admiring his reflection.

Steve wouldn’t be surprised if it were the latter. Jeff was about as vain as you could get. And Steve supposed he had the right to be. Not only was he tall, bronzed, and blond, but he was also athletic, successful, and charismatic—the proverbial stud every guy wanted to be, and every girl wanted to date.

Steve himself wasn’t bad looking. He kept in shape, had neat brown hair, intelligent brown eyes, and a friendly manner that girls found attractive. However, whenever he was hanging out with Jeff he couldn’t help but feel more unremarkable than remarkable, intimidated even.

I don’t see this End of World road anywhere, Steve said, pushing the glasses up the bridge of his nose.

No duh, genius, Jeff said. The End of the World’s a nickname.

For Stanford Road?

Yup, Jeff said.

Why’s it called The End of the World? Mandy asked from the backseat. Does it just end?

I’m not walking anywhere, Jenny said. She was seated next to Mandy.

Will you two give it a rest? Jeff said, annoyed. I have everything planned, all right?

Mandy stuck her head up between the seats to study the map herself. Her wavy red hair smelled of strawberries and brushed Steve’s forearm. "Hey, the road does just end, she said. What gives, Jeff? Can you tell us what we’re doing out here already?"

Sit your ass down, Mandy, he told her. I can’t see out the back.

Noah’s still behind you, don’t worry.

Sit down!

Jeez, she said and flopped back down. She mumbled something to Jenny, and they giggled. They’d been doing that all car trip: mumbling and giggling with each other like they were schoolgirls. Steve found it hard to comprehend how they could be so comfortable with one another, considering they had met for the first time only a few hours before.

Jeff glared at them in the rearview mirror, but said conversationally to Steve: You know, legend has it that cutthroats and thieves hang out along this road and rob anyone driving through.

That’s bull, Mandy said. How do you rob someone in a car?

With a giant magnet, Jenny said, pulling her blonde hair into a ponytail, which she secured with an elastic band. It drags the car right off the road, like in the cartoons. Pow!

Right, just like that, Jeff said. And you’re in med school?

So how? Mandy asked.

Because the road doesn’t just end, Jeff told them. Part of it was closed down, yeah. But you can still go around the barricade and drive on the closed-down part. You have to go super slow though because it’s narrow and twisting. That’s how the cutthroats get you. They just slip out of the woods and— He hit the brakes. Inertia slammed everyone forward against their seatbelts. Mandy and Jenny yelped.

Laughing, Jeff accelerated. Behind them, Noah blared his horn.

God, Jeff! Mandy said. You’re such a dick!

A small dick I’ve heard, Jenny added, and the two of them broke into more giggles.

Jeff scowled. A small dick, huh? he said. You’ve never had any complaints, have you, babe?

Mandy rolled her eyes.

Well? he demanded.

No, hon, she said. No complaints.

◆◆◆

Mandy turned her attention to the haunting black forest whisking past her window. It really did look like the type of woods that would be home to a ruthless band of cutthroats. The shadowed maple and oak and elm had already shed all of their foliage, leaving their spindly branches denuded and shivering in the soughing wind. They stood interwoven with the larger pine, spruce, and cedar, the great needle-covered boughs sprouting from the trunks like dark wings, masking whatever may lay behind them.

What if Jeff was telling the truth? she wondered. What if when they eventually got to this closed-off road and had to slow down a deranged man—worse, a pack of deranged men—swarmed the car, dragged her out by the hair, and slit her throat?

What if—

No. Mandy banished the what ifs from her mind. No  cutthroats were living in the forest. She was safe. They were all safe. Jeff was full of it. Not only that, he was full of himself too. You’ve never had any complaints, have you, babe? Who said stuff like that? The answer, of course, was Jeff. His ego was so big it couldn’t see its shoes on a cloudy day.

Mandy and Jeff had been at a party a short time back, a model party, or at least that’s what everybody called it. It had been hosted by Smirnoff vodka. The models had been hired for the glam factor. There were no Christy Brinkleys or Brook Shields in attendance. The models all hailed from the no-name talent agencies that dotted the backstreets of New York City. They were the D-list hired out for photo shoots in obscure magazines or low-budget cable TV commercials. Not that you’d know this by talking to them. Everyone Mandy had mingled with had a tale about brushing shoulders with Burt Reynolds or Christian Slater—and missing out on their big break by inches because of some unfortunate reason or another.

Anyway, they did have their looks going for them. Mandy knew she was attractive. She’d been told this her entire life. People often said she resembled a red-haired Michelle Pfeiffer, even though Mandy thought her eyes were a little too close together, her nose a bit too pointy. Yet the no-name models made her feel positively average. They were all taller than her, had the flawless, thin bodies of fourteen-year-old boys, although with breasts, and most importantly, they knew how to flaunt their sex appeal.

At the end of the evening, while waiting for a cab, Jeff, tipsy, said, Did you see that guy? The one with the long hair?

They all had long hair, Mandy told him.

White shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest.

Mandy had seen him. He’d been gorgeous. What about him?

You think he was good-looking?

Ha! You’re jealous, she said.

Hardly. But I’ll tell you this much. He’s probably the first guy I’ve ever seen who’s better looking than me.

Mandy stared at Jeff, thinking he must be kidding. He wasn’t. Up until that point in his twenty-six years of existence, Jeff had seriously considered himself to be the best-looking man on the planet.

Mandy blinked now, and instead of the trees and the blackness beyond the car window, she saw her glass-caught reflection. It was vaguely visible, transparent, ghostlike. It gave her a case of the creeps.

Shivering, she faced forward again. No one had spoken since Jeff had challenged her to find fault with his love-making.

Mandy didn’t like prolonged silences, they made her uneasy, and she said, Complaints, huh? She wrapped a lock of her hair around a finger. Do we have time? This could take a while.

Name one, Jeff said.

She leaned close to Jenny—who she’d been happy to discover shortly after they met shared a similar goofy sense of humor—and whispered: He has a hairy butt.

Grody! Jenny whispered back.

And he likes to be spanked—it’s like spanking a monkey!

They broke up in laughter, and when Mandy’s eyes met Jeff’s in the rearview mirror, she stuck out her tongue at him.

Real mature, Amanda, he muttered.

Whatever, she said and continued laughing.

◆◆◆

Jeff clenched the steering wheel tighter. Mandy could be a real pain in the ass sometimes. He wondered why he put up with her. He was a securities trader clearing a hundred grand a year, for Christ’s sake. He could have any woman he wanted. Didn’t she realize that?

He needed someone smarter, someone more on his level, someone, well, like Jenny. She wasn’t only a long-legged blonde bombshell; she was a medical school student to boot. He visualized the two of them on paper: Wall Street Trader and Cardiovascular Surgeon. It was certainly more impressive than Wall Street Trader and Makeup Artist. And was that all Mandy was going to aspire to in life? How much difference was there between a makeup artist and a carny face painter? He chuckled to himself, considered mentioning this comparison out loud, but decided not to sink to her childish level.

Jeff focused on the road ahead. The occluding fog was as thick as pea soup, as his grandmother had been fond of saying, and he needed to pay attention. The last thing he wanted was to run into a deer or a bear. The 1987 BMW M5 was less than a month old, in pristine condition, and he would like to keep it that way. Did he need the car? No. He took cabs to work every day and rarely left the city. The same went for the prewar Tribeca co-op he’d been renting since last July. It was far too big for just him, he rarely set foot in the two spare bedrooms, but they were good to have to show off when people came over. Success, he had learned, was more than earning a six-figure salary. It was cultivating an image that people envied and respected.

And Mandy wasn’t jiving with that image, was she? They’d been together for four years now, and she was still as clueless about business and politics and world events as when he’d met her. What was it she’d said to Congressman Franzen the other week while he’d been discussing with Jeff the recent armistice reached in the Iran-Iraq war? Why don’t they call it the Middle West? Good God, she was becoming an embarrassment.

Jeff’s thoughts turned to Jenny again. He visualized her wearing a white doctor’s coat, a stethoscope around her neck, and nothing else. What a fantasy that would be! Of course, that’s all it was: a fantasy. Steve was his good friend. He wasn’t about to hijack his girlfriend, even though he was sure he could if he wanted to. No, there were plenty of other smart, successful women out there.

Through the mist, a bridge appeared ahead of them.

Hell yeah! Jeff cried out. There she is! He crunched onto the gravel shoulder just before the bridge and killed the engine.

What’s going on? Steve asked, looking up from the map and removing his glasses.

Crybaby bridge! Jeff announced.

Are you for real? Steve said.

Crybaby bridge? Mandy said, poking her head up between the seats once more. Why have I heard of that?

It’s an urban legend, Steve told her. A baby gets thrown off a bridge, it dies, you can hear its ghost crying in the middle of the night. Crybaby bridges are all over the country.

Yeah, but this one’s different, Jeff said.

Steve looked at him. How so?

He grinned wickedly. ’Cause this crybaby’s genuinely haunted.

◆◆◆

Steve undid his seatbelt, stuffed the map back into the glove compartment, and got out of the car. The night air was cool and fresh and damp, the way it is after a storm. It accentuated the raw scent of pine and hemlock. Fog swirled around his legs, sinuous, amorphous, reminding him of the dry ice used in horror movies to turn a mundane graveyard into a hellish nightmare crammed full of the shuffling dead. He tilted his head, looking up. Directly above the bridge the canopy had receded to reveal a patch of black sky framing a full moon.

Steve howled. It was a mournful, lupine sound, the effect of which turned out to be surprisingly eerie and realistic.

Nice one, Wolfman! Jeff said, tossing his head back and joining in gleefully.

Boys will be boys, Jenny said, sighing with put-upon melodrama.

Mandy said, You know they’re going to be trying to scare us all night?

Let them, Jenny said. I can handle a werewolf or vampire. I have a black belt in judo.

Steve’s lungs faltered. His howl cracked. He looked at Jenny and said, You have a black belt in judo?

I trained with Chinese Buddhist monks.

Nice try. Judo’s Japanese.

What do Chinese monks practice? Mandy asked.

Kung fu, Steve said.

Well, maybe the Chinese monks that Jenny trained with also practiced judo too.

Jeff’s wolf howl sputtered into chuckles. He began shaking his head.

What? Mandy said, planting her fists on her hips.

No comment, he said, shooting Steve a this-is-what-I-deal-with-everyday look.

Hey, Mandy said. Shouldn’t we put our Halloween costumes on?

Everyone agreed and went to the BMW’s trunk. Steve scrounged through his backpack for the white navy cap he’d brought, found it at the bottom of the bag, and tugged it on over his head.

He heard a zipper unzip behind him. He started to turn around only to be told by Mandy to stop peeking.

Peeking at what? he said.

I’m changing, Mandy said.

Right there?

Hey, bro, stop perving on my girl, Jeff said, eyeing Steve up and down: the white navy cap, the red pullover, the pale trousers. Who the hell are you supposed to be?

Gilligan, Steve said.

Jeff guffawed and turned his attention to Jenny, who was slipping on a pair of cat ears to go with her black eye mask and bowtie. Come on, help me out, he said to her. A dog? Wait, a mouse? Hold on—someone who is completely fucking unoriginal?

What are you? Steve asked him.

Jeff shrugged out of his pastel blue blazer and yellow necktie—he had come straight from work to pick Steve and Jenny up out front of NYU’s Greenberg Hall—and exchanged them for a black leather jacket. He held his arms out in a ta-da type of way.

No idea, Steve said.

"Michael Knight! You know, from that Knight Rider show. He whistled. Sexy mama!"

Steve turned to find Mandy adjusting her boobs inside a skintight orange bodysuit with a plunging neckline. Accentuating this were shiny orange boots, yellow tights, and a feisty yellow wig with black highlights. In the center of her chest was the ThunderCats logo: a black silhouette of a cat’s head on a red background.

Cheetara, she said, smiling hopefully.

Noah, Austin, and Cherry were approaching from Noah’s green Jeep Wrangler, appearing and disappearing in the swiftly morphing clouds of mist. Austin, carrying an open bottle of beer, was in the lead. He’d shaved the sides of his head and styled the middle strip of hair into a Mohawk a year or so ago. With his satellite ears and angular face, however, he looked more like Stripe from Gremlins rather than a punk rocker. A flock of crows, tattooed in black ink, encircled his torso, originating at his navel and ending on the left side of his neck, below his ear. Now only a couple of the birds were visible, seeming to fly up out of the head hole cut into the cardboard box he wore. Condoms were taped all over the box, some taken out of the packages and filled with a gluey substance that surely couldn’t be semen.

You get one guess each, Austin told them, tipping the beer to his lips.

A homeless bum, Steve said.

A total jackass, Jeff said.

Homework, Mandy said.

Austin frowned at her. Homework?

That box is a desk, right?

Right—I dressed up as homework.

Don’t keep us in suspense, Jeff said.

A one-night stand, mate!

Steve and Jeff broke into fits. After a moment Mandy laughed hesitantly. Then she said Oh! and laughed harder.

Gnarly, hey? Austin said, smiling proudly. So, how the fuck is everyone?

Not as good as you, apparently, Jeff said.

This is my first beer. Right, Cher?

I’ve lost count, Cherry said. She was perhaps five feet on tiptoes, though her teased hair gave her a couple more inches. Jeff called her Mighty Mouse, which always ticked her off. She’d grown up in the Philippines but moved to the States to work as a registered nurse a few years ago. She had nutmeg skin, sleepy sloe Asian eyes, a cute freckled nose, and the kind of sultry lips that would look good sucking a lollipop on the cover of Vogue magazine, or blowing an air kiss to a sailor shipping off.

Noah joined Steve and took a swig from a bottle of red wine. He was the polar opposite of Austin: wavy dark hair, unassuming good looks, mellow, disciplined. Even more, he was an up-and-coming sculptor. His first exhibit a couple of months back had been well-received by critics, and he’d even sold a few pieces.

You a boxer? Steve said to him, referring to the black shoe polish he’d smeared around his left eye. He’d also drawn a large P in black marker on the chest of his white long-sleeved shirt.

A black-eyed pea, dude. Noah nodded at Austin and Cherry, who had gravitated toward Jeff and the others, and said, Those two are a nightmare together. He was speaking quietly so only Steve could hear.

Fun drive? Steve said.

How about I drive you and Jenny back? Jeff can deal with them in his car. We almost crashed into an eighteen-wheeler when Austin was getting into that stupid box. He took another swig of wine, glanced about at the trees and vegetation deadened by the mist, and said, So what’s the deal? Why’d we pull over here?

Steve shrugged. First stop on the haunted Ohio tour.

Can’t believe we agreed to this.

Hey, you never know—we might see a ghost.

Yeah, and Austin will get through the night without spewing.

I’d put my money on seeing a ghost.

He’s already had four or five beers in the car.

"Maybe he’ll puke on a ghost. That’d be something."

Jeff released Austin from a headlock, kicked him in the ass, and hooted with laughter when Austin whimpered. Then Jeff clapped his hands loudly, to get everyone’s attention. Okay, listen up, ladies and dicks, he said, immediately commanding attention the way he could. This bridge—it’s called Crybaby Bridge, and it’s the real deal.

Why do I feel like I’m being sold blue chip stock? Jenny said.

Snake oil, Mandy said.

I’m being one hundred percent legit, Jeff said. "Hundreds of people have verified that this bridge is haunted. Verified, pussies. And if you want to—"

How’d they verify it? Steve asked.

With those spectrometers the Ghostbusters use, Noah said.

Jeff darkened. Will you two twits listen up? He dangled his car keys in the air. This is my spare set. I left the other set in the ignition.

Why would you do that? Mandy asked.

’Cause the legend goes, you leave your keys in the ignition, lock the car, and take off for a bit—

How long? Mandy asked.

I don’t know. Ten minutes.

And go where?

Down the bank to the river, I guess. Fuck, Mandy, who gives a shit? We just have to be out of sight of the car. Then we wait ten minutes. When we come back, the car should be running.

You’re serious? Steve said.

As a snake. Jeff stuffed the spare keys in his pocket and started down the bank to the river.

Steve glanced at Noah, who shrugged.

As a snake, Noah said and followed.

Chapter 2

It’s Halloween, everyone’s entitled to one good scare.

Halloween (1978)

Thick colonies of blood-red chokecherries and bracken fern and other shrubbery overran the bank, so Steve couldn’t see where he stepped. He lost his footing twice on the uncertain terrain but didn’t fall. He called back to the others to be careful. A second later Austin stampeded past him, his arms pin-wheeling. Steve was certain his momentum was going to propel him onto his face. However, he crashed into Jeff’s back—on purpose, it seemed—which brought him to an abrupt halt, his beer sloshing everywhere.

Thanks, mate, Austin said jocularly, slapping Jeff on the shoulder and sucking on the foaming mouth of the bottle. Lately he’d been adopting a British accent when he was drunk because he got off on saying words like lad and mate and geezer.

Jeff scowled. I’m giving you the bill for the dry cleaning.

Fancy rich chap like you can pony up a couple of bucks.

Steve stumbled down the last few feet and stopped beside Jeff, who had produced a mickey of vodka from the inside pocket of his now beer-stained jacket. Jenny appeared next, emerging from the fog like a wraith. She was moving slowly, cautious of where she stepped. Her leather pants clung to her long legs, the black elastic top to her small breasts, outlining the triangular cups of her bra. She frowned at the vegetation as she passed through it and said, I hope there wasn’t any poison ivy in there. I got it once as a kid. It bubbles between your fingers.

Steve said, That’ll make gross anatomy interesting.

I know, right? No one will want us on their dissection team if we can’t hold a scalpel.

Yo, nerds, Jeff told them, check it out. He pointed to the bridge’s piers and abutments. That’s the foundation from the original bridge.

The original one? Mandy said, pushing through the last of the ferns. Then, higher pitched: Oh shoot! My tights! A good three-inch tear had appeared in the yellow Spandex high on her upper right thigh, revealing white flesh beneath. Stupid branch!

Are you wearing underwear? Jeff asked.

Jeff!

I can’t see any.

Stop it!

Anywho, Jeff said, the original bridge was an old wooden thing that washed away a while back during a flood. This one replaced it.

Isn’t that bad news for your ghost? Steve said, trying to ignore Mandy, who was fussing over the tear and inadvertently making it bigger.

What do you mean? Jeff said.

Ghosts haunt old places. Once something’s gone, they’re gone.

You’re an expert on hauntings now?

When was the last time you heard of a ghost haunting something new? You don’t go out and buy a new Ford and find it comes with a poltergeist in the trunk.

"You’re blind wrong there,