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:
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 perfect 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.
