“As you’ve all figured out by now, I’m not dead. Heck, I’m not even who I pretended to be. I could claim I created the Halloween Man to entertain you, frighten you, give you something to chat about with your friends. But that would be intellectually dishonest, right?”
Her chest shuddered.
“I lied for ratings. I realized the show lacked punch, that I needed something to put the podcast over the edge and draw new fans. So I made up a killer, figuring it was all in fun. What harm could it do? I wanted to be John Carpenter for one night.”
Slipping between the curtains, moonlight spread across the desk. It seemed to hunt her.
“I caused more harm than I ever imagined. And I lost someone I loved.” She bit back a sob and composed herself before continuing. “My best friend…and my new boyfriend, as of last night…played the Halloween Man. It was his voice coming through your speakers. That’s the last time you’ll hear his voice. Derek died last night. After we said goodnight and took separate paths home, someone leapt from the shadows and murdered Derek.”
A hundred fans dropped off the podcast after Valerie’s admission. She didn’t blame them. Who would believe her after the last show?
“You believe I’m crying wolf. Or just lying again. I’m not. Many of you probably read about the murder in Barton Falls. Derek Jordan was my boyfriend, and some maniac attacked and murdered Derek, mimicking our story.”
Valerie snatched a tissue from the box and wiped her eyes. She ignored the web counter. It no longer mattered how many people listened. The important point was everyone who remained—her loyal fans—recognized a killer walked among them.
“This morning, before the news broke about Derek, a man dressed as the Halloween Man followed me at school. Until tonight, I was convinced the killer was a teacher. I’ve since seen the error of my ways. The killer is one of you.” Valerie’s heart pounded. “And he’s listening now.”
Rising from the chair, Valerie paced the room. After she arranged her thoughts, she returned to the microphone.
“Who stole Derek from our lives? Was it you? This isn’t another skit, another ploy to grow my listeners. This is a warning. Not everyone you meet online is who he or she claims to be. Evil exists in the world, and it hides in chat rooms and on message boards, pretending to be your friend. A psycho took the role of the Halloween Man and murdered a beautiful person. And now he wants to kill me too.”
Removing the microphone from the stand, Valerie placed it close to her lips.
“I know you’re listening. When I figure out who you are, you’ll be the final victim in this story. I’ll make you pay for what you did to Derek.”
Valerie clicked out of the podcast. Lowering her head into the crook of her arm, she cried. Great, wracking sobs that burned her throat and chest.
Silence crept through the house. She no longer heard her father stomping through the downstairs. Her mother had gone to bed early.
The crying ended. She massaged the headache out of her temples and shuffled on dead legs to the window. When she peeked between the curtains, she saw his shadow staring up at her from the backyard.
The Halloween Man.
* * *
“This is ridiculous. I’m fine.”
Chelsey’s legs dangled off the table, the paper beneath her butt crinkling every time she wiggled. The doctor at the urgent care clinic ignored her as he threaded another stitch through Chelsey’s scalp. The man appeared a few years out of medical school with a bushy head of hair, a clean-shaved face, and kind blue eyes. When the needle pierced her scalp again, she winced and stiffened her legs.
“Sorry about that.”
“I thought you numbed my head.”
“It’s normal to notice a little pinch.”
“That’s more than a pinch.”
The doctor sighed and straightened his back. LeVar sat in the corner, skimming a magazine.
“Seven stitches. That should stop the bleeding. You want to tell me how this happened again?”
“I hit my head in the basement.”
“Hmm. Better move somewhere with a less dangerous basement. Keep the wound clean and be careful shampooing for a few days. I suggest just rinsing your hair in the shower. You don’t want to forget and yank a stitch out while scrubbing your head.”
“How long until you remove the stitches?”
“Ten days, if the wound heals properly. And it will, as long as you’re careful. Manage the pain with over-the-counter medication. Ibuprofen should be fine. Get plenty of rest. Don’t exercise or exert yourself before the stitches come out.”
LeVar cocked an eyebrow from across the room, a warning for Chelsey to heed the doctor’s advice.
“Can I go?”
“You may go now.”
LeVar helped Chelsey off the table. The first step felt unsteady, but LeVar supported Chelsey when her legs wobbled.
“How are you feeling?” The doctor asked. “Dizzy?”
“Never better,” she said, waving him off.
As LeVar led Chelsey to the door, the doctor nodded at Deputy Aguilar, who waited in the hallway.
“What’s the prognosis?” Aguilar asked.
“Seven stitches,” LeVar said. “If she infects the wound, he’ll need to sever her head.”
“Shut it,” Chelsey growled, leaning on LeVar’s broad shoulders for support.
“Now that you’re awake, I need a full statement.” Aguilar removed a pen and pad. “And an explanation. Why were you inside that house? I need your statement too, LeVar.”
Chelsey released a defeated groan.
“Where’s Benson?”
“We lost him outside Wolf Lake. Every law enforcement officer in the county is looking for him. He can’t run forever.”
LeVar sat beside Chelsey in the lobby. He asked, “What happened to Deputy Lambert?”
“He’s at the gymnasium with Darren and Raven.” She shot LeVar and Chelsey a pointed stare. “Someone has to keep you people safe. We can’t have Benson shooting another private investigator tonight.”
Chelsey removed a mirror from her purse and assessed the injury. It looked as if someone had run over her head with a riding mower. With
