Harvest Night

...one wild and exciting ride through a town possessed by evil. It was graphic and almost over the top sometimes, but the story is fantastic and I couldn't stop reading once I started.

- Richard Bate

s...beyond the insane violence and deviant sex and cannibalism and demons, there is a multilayered, complex, utterly gripping story that is part HP Lovecraft and part X-Files conspiracy, with a dash of Bentley Little thrown in. Probably my favorite book this year along with Weir's THE MARTIAN...

- The Rev. Dr. Richards

...this book was right up my alley. It's been a long time since I've read a real slasher horror book and it was a nice change with a splash of Satanism. - Zelda Wasser

...Definitely not for the faint of heart. If you can stomach the constant horror then you will be rewarded with a cleverly twisted tale. Recommended. - The Grim Reader

SENTIENT BEINGS ADVISORY:

This novel contains scenes that sane readers will find disturbing, including incredibly graphic descriptions of horrific violence and unimaginably depraved sexual acts. Obviously, this is a work exclusively intended for mature audiences.

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events in this book are either fictitious or used fictitiously. 

We hope.

~ ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS ~

Afew people – namely , Don Webb, Scott Shepherd, and Paul Bathrick – took a look at early drafts of this book and provided invaluable feedback, some of which I actually implemented. 

But no blame should attach to anyone but me for any bad writing you discover inside.

All contents of this book are copyright 2020 D.A. Madigan.  All rights reserved.  No portion of this book may be reproduced, in whole or in part, without the written permission of the author. 

HARVEST

NIGHT

An American Horror Novel

Deluxe Edition

D.A.

MADIGAN

map of Redhaven

This book is for Ben, Susan, Mark, Jimmy, the good Father, and Matt – fearless vampire slayers one and all.

And for Bram Stoker, who opened the first coffin.

The Deluxe Edition is dedicated to my wife, Tammy, who always makes it better

introduction

The basic idea for HARVEST NIGHT came to me one day out of the blue... what if there was a sort of Witness Relocation Program... for serial killers?

What if there was a place out there... an entire small town, say... where the most infamous, notorious, scariest serial killers... Bundy, Gacy, all those guys... all live, with new faces and new identities and nobody but a select few know who they really are?

What if, in fact, this whole town is run by relocated serial killers? Bundy is the Mayor, Dahmer is a doctor, Gacy is Fire Chief... all the cops are serial killers, too. BTK is the Chief of Police. How about that?

Once I had that idea, I kept turning it over in my mind. The concept was solid and pure, but it couldn't exist in isolation. It had to be made to make sense, to be plausible. Neil Gaiman did a brilliant SANDMAN story about a serial killer convention, but what I could never get around there was, how could this possibly happen? How could all these serial killers possibly communicate well enough to organize such a thing?

So I had to come up with some kind of plausible back story... if there was such a Serial Killer Relocation program, who would run it?

At first I thought it would be some top secret ultradark government program... some conspiracy theory thing, where the U.S. government was using serial killers to do domestic assassinations, and was relocating them when they got caught. But while that was a compelling idea, I couldn't make it work... serial killers are chaotic and unpredictable, and why wouldn't at least some of them spill the beans when they're caught, to try to make a deal? It just didn't seem feasible.

So that led to the whole idea of this Satanic cult that many serial killers are members of... a cult that would make an effort to break its own members out of jail when and if they got caught, simply to keep the 'unbelievers' from having power over its members. And from there, the whole idea of the town of Redhaven sprang up... a town founded, and still secretly run by, this cult of devil worshipping cannibalistic serial killers.

The Serial Killer Relocation Program became the congregation's Liberty Group, and the relocated serial killers became Mayor Halloway's 'illegal aliens'. The whole idea got folded into something much larger... but still, that heart stopping, blood freezing concept remained as a vital kernel in the foundation of Redhaven, and in the murderous, voracious rapacity of Harvest Time. Because it's not just obscure cult members hunting gentiles on the streets of Redhaven during Harvest Time... it's Ted Bundy and John Wayne Gacy and Jeffrey Dahmer and Richard Ramirez and Patrick Kearney and William Bonin and guys like that.

Then when I sat down to actually write HARVEST NIGHT, I had a few more things in mind. The primary one, though, was to write a horror novel very much grounded in the real world we all live in... one where the supernatural would be a very minimal element. Where most of the horror was drawn from actual things that real people do to other people, every day and every night, out there in the world we all actually live in.

Things that are done behind closed doors, in private... in lovely finished basement rec rooms, or garages, or even in the living room, when very select groups of friends are over, and all the curtains are drawn.

Things that are horrific because they are real... or they could be.

My idea was, what if our neighbors were all evil, and we just didn't know it? I'm not talking abstract, larger than life, 'we secretly worship Satan and we will sacrifice you to him if we get a chance' type evil, although certainly that's an element of the secret cult that controls my fictional town of Redhaven.

No, I mean, all your neighbors are serial killers, and serial rapists, with no more concern for you or anyone else than for a stray cat. They mind control their own children through torture and drugs and hypnosis and sexual abuse, so they can sell them as slaves to other evil assholes when the kids are in their mid teens. And they'll fuck your kids, too, if they can get away with it.

And they can.

They torture people to death... and then, they eat them.

So that's what I was going for... a horror novel about real world horror. Yes, vampires (of a sort) exist in the world of HARVEST NIGHT, and so do shapeshifters/werewolves (of a sort). But these are minor elements, just there to show that, as with the secret cult of demon worshippers that secretly runs Redhaven, so too are there other aspects of actual reality that regular people know nothing about. Our world is actually full of darkness we are unaware of; we live in the pools of light we have created for ourselves, and try to ignore the agonized screams... and the soulless laughter... we hear coming out of the blackness all around us... all the time.

And we try never, never, never to go into the darkness ourselves.

But what if, sometimes, we don't realize we're in the darkness, when it's actually all around us?

Right next door?

Directing traffic at the corner outside the school? Teaching our kids?

Drinking coffee at our kitchen table with us, inviting us to a book club meeting?

That's what HARVEST NIGHT is about... the idea that the world is full of secret evil, really hideous, horrendous evil... that our smiling, pleasant neighbors may be vicious predators who look at us as little more than toys and food.

That the real monsters are real people that we know, and talk to every day, without ever suspecting what they truly are.

D.A. Madigan, Summer of the Plague Year 2020

HARVEST NIGHT

An American Horror Novel

15

Deluxe Edition Bonus Material

443

HARVEST

NIGHT

An American Horror Novel

PROLOGUE 1

In Redhaven, as in any other community of any size anywhere in the industrialized world, the big trucks roll, all day and all night. 

On this night, a particularly muggy night in late July, one truck in specific – a big red 1999 Kenworth T2000 sleeper that has seen better days -  has offloaded nearly all of its contents onto the local Burlington Coat Factory warehouse's back dock. 

Four large crates, however, remain within when the driver  slams the  trailer doors closed and climbs back up into the big cab to roll on out  again. 

The truck does not go far – back up Trim for three blocks, then left onto Ball for two more, and left again onto Ade Avenue.

Six blocks up Ade Avenue is the old Greyhound bus station.  The mouldering cinder block structure has stood empty with 'building condemned' signs on it for two decades now.  To all outward appearances, it is utterly abandoned. Normally on Sunday nights it is forlorn and deserted other than the night watchman in his tin roofed shed on the far side of the cracked and potholed expanse of ancient asphalt parking lot.  But tonight the night watchman is not there.  He's been given the night off by his boss... and his boss is there, at the old deserted bus station, along with three other men.  Men who are all Redhaven residents, three of whom number themselves among the town's most prominent citizens. 

All gathered together at fifteen minutes after two in the morning. 

Waiting.  Waiting, for the truck and its four remaining crates to arrive.

One of these men – the shortest one there, and by far the best dressed – smiles, back in the shadows near the building with the rest.  I just thought, Tommy, this cocky looking fella says.  Where's that wee little stupid chap  you hired as a security guard?

The fellow so addressed – 'Tommy', apparently – grunts.  Gave 'em the night off, he says. 

Tommy takes a final drag off the Marlboro cigarette he's working, drops the butt to the ground, and grinds it out underneath the heel of one of the expensive cowboy boots he's wearing. I'd guess he's back at his motel watchin' dirty movies and whackin' off.  If I fuckin' cared.

No doubt, the tallest man there says, the mournful tone in his voice a match for his lugubrious features, if only one could see them there in the dark.  And I been meanin' to ask about that, too, Tommy... you ain't never seen fit to have no watchman out here b'fore.  No need for it 's'far as I can  see. So what's up with Timmy the Dimwit, anyway?  He some retarded nephew o' yours or what?

Tommy, who is just exactly six feet tall, with a full head of dark hair that always looks as if he's just gotten out of bed no matter how he tries to comb it down, can be heard to chuckle.  He ain't yore business, Bunny, nor your'n neither, Todd.  Jest you tend to yore knittin' and leave me to tend to mine, both a'y'all.

Silence falls then, for a few seconds.  Todd Renfrew and Bunny Burgoo are both, in their own ways, powers in this town, but neither of them has the heft to fuck with Tommy Lovelace.  And both know it very well.

The fourth man, who lately goes by the name of Scott Edelman, doesn't say anything, just takes another drag off his own cigarette – a Dji Sam Soe 234, which he picked up a taste for when he was doing his last tour as a medic at the 46th Army Surgical Hospital in  Landstuhl, West Germany.  A lot of contraband runs through Redhaven, and Scott generally has no trouble getting a few cartons of the Indonesian cancer sticks tucked  into a monthly crate of Afghani smack or illegal Israeli machine pistols. 

In the reddish light thrown by the flaring coal at the end of Scott's cigarette, his face can be seen clearly.  It has no distinguishing features at all – like many in Redhaven, including the guy named Bunny who is standing next to him, Scott has been worked on by some of the finest plastic surgeons in the world, prior to his arrival here in town. 

Each of these men has come to this place tonight in separate vehicles.  One of these rides is a beautiful Cadillac Escalade SUV, this year's model, black as home made sin and so highly polished that the reflections of the distant streetlights shine out from its side panels like cold and distant stars pulsating within a particularly cruel and evil zodiac

Parked next to the Caddy is a Mercedes Benz E350 whose paint is a shade somewhere between blood red and rust. 

The other two cars are official  –  souped up CHP Ford Interceptor Utility Vehicles, bought out of the  town's Harvest Time slush fund, utilized by the  Redhaven Sheriff's Department for purposes of legitimate law enforcement... among other things.

The four cars are parked together near the far end of the hulking cinderblock building, along the side where once, decades ago, Greyhound and Trailways and Badger buses used to take on and discharge passengers around the clock.  And it is in the shadows near the cars that their four drivers stand, chatting and smoking... most of them, anyway.  Todd Renfrew does not smoke.  He thinks it's really quite vulgar.

Now, as the 18 wheeler carrying the four forlorn crates rolls into the neglected parking lot, jouncing and thudding over the cracks and potholes in the long untended asphalt, the four of them emerge from the shadows nearest the unlit building. 

Tommy flicks his cigarette away, at almost exactly the same time and with almost exactly the same motion as Burgoo and Edleman do.  Todd has no cigarette to dispose of... but had the four men only been able to stand outside their bodies and view themselves, they would see they are all wearing identically solemn... even grim... visages as they move forward.

Their eyes are all the same, as well.  In that starlit darkness, their eyes all have the glint of wolves gathering to feed... four alpha wolves, each veteran hunters and fighters, uneasy in each other's company... but united to pull down some common prey.

The truck comes up with a huge screeching hiss of air brakes.  The driver, whose name is Wallace Kowalski (Wally to most people, Big Ski to his two brothers)  stays behind the wheel and does not look out.  Wally is well paid to make these special trips to Redhaven's abandoned bus station, and he has heard enough rumors about the town to carefully exhibit no curiosity whatsoever about the cargoes he carries here every few months.  He just hits the button on his dashboard that releases the latches on the trailer's back doors, and then waits for whoever may be taking delivery to offload the four crates.

At the back of the truck, Bunny and Scott, who are both wearing black and grey uniforms bearing the shoulder emblems of the local Sheriff's Department, throw open the back doors and lever themselves up into the trailer, each of them displaying an easy, lithe grace that bodes ill for the drunk and disorderly of Redhaven.  There are tools fastened to the inside of the trailer's walls, among which are several crowbars.  Within five minutes, all four of the crates have been broken apart... and the four people who were inside them are standing up, knees popping like muted cannonfire, groaning as they stretch cramped muscles after 11 claustrophobic hours being shipped covertly to Redhaven.

The two cops hop back down from the truck lightly, without making the slightest effort to help the four people who have emerged from the crates... or so much as acknowledge their existence.

Todd Renfrew, however, calls pleasantly to the four newcomers: Let's show a little motivation, people... we haven't got all night here.

The four people still inside the truck each grimace, but then move to the open rear doors to get down.  Three of them – one a male in his late teens or early 20s with longish blond hair, one a completely hairless Caucasian man of indeterminate age, and one an older, grizzled fellow with olive skin whose neatly trimmed, conservative haircut is already growing wild around the edges – jump down, the first two easily enough, the third stiffly and with little obvious grace.

The older man then turns and  holds out work-callused hands to the fourth person from the crates – a very pretty young woman indeed.  She lets him help her down, and then kisses him on the mouth and murmurs thanks, honey.

All four of the men who have been awaiting these newcomers exchange looks of obvious impatience, perhaps mingled with no little disgust, at this display of affection.

Finally, the tallest man there – Bunny Burgoo, the one wearing the Sheriff's badge on his chest  – snorts and says Todd's right.  We ain't got all night.  Let's get this fuckin' show on the road.

The eight of them, townies and noobz together, all turn then and walk into the abandoned bus station, through a dark opening at least two car lengths wide, yawning beneath a rolled up steel garage door.

Behind them, Big Ski breathes a sigh of relief, puts his rig in gear, and rolls on back out to Ade Avenue.  He can't quite put his finger on why, but these special delivery runs have always given him the creeps.

He got a look, just once, more than a year back, at one of the guys waiting to take delivery of a special shipment.  Just a normal looking guy with kinda messy hair, standing easy with his thumbs through his belt loops, watching as someone else Big Ski couldn't see had done the unloading.  Just a normal looking guy... but when Ski had kept looking at him for longer than a second, he'd turned his head and looked right back at him.

Met his eyes, with a look like you'd give to an old stray dog you came home one night from work and found  shitting on your front porch. 

And Ski had thought to himself That guy would kill me as soon as buy me breakfast.  Sooner.

Big Ski had dropped his eyes, and he's never made the mistake of looking out of the side window of the cab again, while making one of these deliveries.

Still.  He doesn't like this shit.  Not at all.

He does like the brick of cash in the brown envelope he's already found under his truck seat, though.  That's just fine with him. 

But it's behind him now, for another month or two, at least.  Big Ski breathes a sigh of relief as he heads up the exit ramp to the highway, leaving the quiet, but inexplicably creepy, little town of Redhaven... maybe for the last time? 

Maybe.  The money's been good, and Ski needs a new truck, that's for damn sure.  But maybe... yeah, maybe, from here on out, he doesn't need this crazy off the books business any more. 

Maybe.

Behind him, Todd Renfrew watches the truck pull away pensively, his eyes vaguely troubled.  He taps his lips twice, thoughtfully... and then, firmly, turns away and moves further into the darkened building.

Once Todd is inside, Sheriff Burgoo reaches over to a wall plate and flips several switches.  Up above, a strip of fluorescent lights flickers on, shedding a bright glow over this section of the cavernous open space within.

At the same time, Deputy Edelman points a remote control and presses a button on it, and the double wide steel garage door rolls down with a humming crash, shutting the night  outside... if not the darkness.

No, there is darkness everywhere in Redhaven.  All day and all night, and all through the town... and now, within this abandoned-looking bus station, as well.

The hairless new arrival looks around with interest.  The inside of the building is not what anyone would expect from looking at the exterior.  What was once doubtless a very large open room where hundreds of people at any given time stood, or sat, or shuffled their feet in line to buy tickets or claim luggage, or simply milled about waiting for a loved one whose bus had not yet arrived, or for their own bus that would carry them out of Redhaven... now, there is only an empty floor, perhaps thirty yards wide by sixty long. 

There may have been tiles here, once, but if so, they have all been torn up, revealing the rough concrete underneath.  Along with the tiles have gone any traces there might once have been of benches or chairs or banks of coin operated  storage lockers. 

All is emptiness, now... albeit a strangely waiting emptiness.  An expectant one.

Almost a hungry one.

The central interior area is fenced off on both sides by eight foot high chain link barriers topped with coils of razor wire.  These barriers run from one end of the building to the other.  Behind the chain link on either side are metal bleachers, rising in stepped tiers to the cinderblock walls – nothing fancy, but certainly serviceable and fully capable of seating an audience of a few thousand in relative comfort, if not style.

At the far end of the floor there are two more double wide stainless steel garage doors, gleaming faintly in the light from the one bank of fluorescents that is currently lit.

I've heard of this place, the noob with no hair says, real pleasure evident in his voice.  This is where you hold the Greyhound Games.

Shore is, Tommy Lovelace agrees.  But dontchew worry 'bout that jest yet.  We got other business here tonight.

His eyes, which in this light  seem oddly old in his tanned and unlined face, gleam as he speaks.

The bald man shrugs. 

As you say, he replies, with a smile that never reaches his own eyes.

You're just trying to scare us, the exceptionally pretty young woman says, looking reproachfully at the four townies, reserving a glare of especial ire for the two cops.  And it isn't right.  We're all devotees here.

It's all right, sugarplum, the older man says, tightening the arm he has around her shoulders.  I'm sure there is a good reason for all of this.

Sheriff Burgoo turns his head and spits on the concrete floor... some kind of chewing tobacco, which he replaced his cigarette with when the group came inside, because Tommy doesn't allow smoking down here  on his killing floor. Like scarin' you four idjits ain't a good enuff reason all on its lonesome? he drawls.

Todd Renfrew sighs.  Can we please put all these oh so very manly dominance displays to the side for a moment and get through this?  Some of us would like to get a few hours of sleep before work tomorrow.

The younger man with the longish blonde hair grins.  No problemo, man, he says, his voice a low near-whisper.  Let's get to it. 

His eyes drop to the dapper townie's shoes, which are obviously hand stitched and made of a very expensive leather, and exquisitely well cared for.

Love the shoes, by the way, the blonde youngster observes.  Anyone you knew personally?

Renfrew shakes his head dismissively.  Reaching over to a battered metal stool he has positioned himself next to, he picks up the first of three large manila envelopes lying on it.

Cincaid, he says.  Your ID papers are in here, along with a deed and keys to the house we're providing for you.  You have a job starting tomorrow at...

The blondish young man's face goes flat and affectless. 

Job? he says, his voice utterly uninflected.  Dude.  I was told there would be a stipend.

Todd smiles.  There is a stipend, honey ducks.  It goes to the town, for providing you and your friends with sanctuary.  You still need to work for a living, so you have a job starting tomorrow at one of the Prescott auto garages... the one on Ball Street, I believe, but all that's in the envelope.  You are a skilled mechanic, yes?

The blonde youth – Cincaid – just stares for a few seconds, without saying a thing.

Then he steps forward and takes the envelope. 

Steps back again.

Todd Renfrew smiles once more, a reflexive spasm of his facial muscles that means nothing, and picks up the next envelope.  Castor and Antonia.  You requested that your new identities be as husband and wife.  We've done that for you.  Cards and papers are inside, along with keys to your new house.  We've found you each jobs working at the Wal-mart.  You both start tomorrow.

That's fine, the older man says, a somewhat fawning tone in his voice.  My wife and I are both very appreciative of everything the congregation has done for us.  I mean that.

Yes, the woman clinging to his arm says, really.  We really appreciate it. 

The look she now gives to each of the townies is considerably softer and warmer than her previous ones.

The bald man steps forward and takes the last manila envelope before this effete fuck in his hand stitched shoes can pick it up off the seat of the stool. 

Don't tell me, he says, with the same hard, humorless smile he flashed before, let me guess. I'm working as a bag boy at the local Kroger's.

Todd Renfrew smiles.  He's a smiley man, is our Todd.  Anyone who knows him would tell you that... and many who know him would tell you that the more he smiles, the more you absolutely do not ever want to take your eyes off him.  Not even for a second.  Not if you want to keep your guts where God put them, anyway.

Well, Todd says, in the first place, darling, we don't have a Kroger's here.  In the second place, my angel,  your very special skill set drew the Mayor's attention immediately upon opening your file. You will be performing special tasks, under the direction of Mr. Lovelace.

Here he nods to Tommy.

The bald man rolls the envelope in his hand into a cylinder, then taps it once... twice... three times... into his left palm. 

Well, then, he says, after a few seconds, looking up at Tommy.  Good to meet you, boss.

Tommy just nods.  He's bored, and wishes he could light up another cigarette, but he made the fuckin' rule about no cigs down here on the floor, and both Renfrew and Burgoo will give him no end of shit if he breaks it.  Plus, there ain't no ashtrays down here... that's why he made the rule, so he wouldn't have to be bothered emptyin' a lot of fuckin' ashtrays down on the fuckin' floor here.

Although he may need to talk to Bunny about that nasty gob of chewin' tobacco he just spat, too... later.

There is a long pause, then, as if no one can think of anything to say.

Finally, the blonde kid mutters, Well, if we've all gotta work tomorrow, I could use some sleep.

Todd Renfrew smirks.

Sheriff Burgoo and Deputy Edelman will run you all to your houses in a moment, he says.  Before that, though, there are a few points to go over.  Number one – you all understand how it works here in Redhaven, correct?

The four stare back at him, somewhat truculently.

Finally, the older man says, his voice hesitant, as if he fears correction, I think we do.  No... erm... extracurricular activities... you know... congregation type hobbies... here in town, except during Harvest Time.

Todd nods, rewarding the old fuck with a sweet smile.

Exactly, he says.  "We do not, to use a coarse expression, shit where we eat.  If the thrill of the hunt sounds its clarion call somewhere deep within your heart, mon frers or sor,  you take yourself somewhere else to follow it."

The bald man smiles unpleasantly, and says I understand the rule, but it seems strange.  The congregation runs this town, right?  I mean, you're the, what, the Executive Administrator to the Mayor?  And Jowly Joe there is the Sheriff.  All the cops are devotees.  So...

And that is what allows us to conduct ourselves with such gay abandon during Harvest Time each year, the dapper man responds.  But there is a limit to how much even an extremely friendly local authority structure can cover up, Mr. Birken.  And even as efficient as we are at doing so, still... there are always rumors.  Should those rumors increase, we might find it difficult to attract new residents... and then, what fun would any of us have, during the most wonderful time of the year?  Hence...

We understand, the older man interjects hastily.  It's fine.  It is.  Really.

Yeah, the blonde kid says.  We understand.  Absolutely. 

He pauses. 

So, he goes on, very deliberately, staring at the dapper man intently, that's as regards special activities with gentiles.  Suppose two devotees take a dislike to each other?  Still have to wait for Harvest Time?

Renfrew cocks his head. 

Well, gorgeous, he says, his tone very casual, "if one of those devotees were moi, and the other of those devotees was your fine self, then I would say, bring it..."

And here he pauses, for just a beat, before continuing:  "...bitch."

And he smiles. 

Very sweetly.

And once again, for a very long moment, all is quiet and still inside the apparently abandoned bus station.

One last point, Renfrew says, finally.  I am sure you have been told but it is important so I shall reiterate it:  for your first five years in town, you are all considered to be on probation.

Yeah, they told us, the young woman says.  Her eyes are big, peering out from under the little girl bangs she affects.  But... what does that mean, exactly?

Tommy Lovelace speaks up at this point.

It means, he says, that if the Mayor decides you're any kinda problem... or even a fuckin' annoyance... then there ain't no kinda sit down needed.  No permission hasta be given.  The Mayor gives the word, and...  He points a finger at each of them in turn, miming a gun firing.  Bam.  Bam.  Bam.  Bam.

Todd Renfrew rolls his eyes. 

Dear Tommy, he says.  Always so... straightforward.  Well.  If that's all, then...

I had a special request, the blonde kid says, his tone rather freighted with an emotion that if Todd Renfrew did not know better, he would very nearly identify as petulance.

Renfrew sighs.  Indeed you do, dollface.  Indeed you do.  Yes, the Mayor is aware, and we are currently reaching out to find an appropriate mentor for you to facilitate your request.  But these matters are not simple.  And, as I am sure you have been told...

Yeah, Cincaid says. It can't happen in Redhaven. I heard.  You guys don't allow that kinda shit around here.

Todd smiles again.  You have grasped the very root of it, sweetness.  But we are working on it, and when we have all of our semi-aquatic fowl in their correct geometrical sequence, we shall see to it that you are relocated to a region more salubrious to the granting of your heart's desire.

He pauses.  Assuming, of course, that you behave yourself in such a manner as to keep your throat whole until such time as said arrangements can be made.

The blonde kid snorts.  Whatever, dude.

Deputy Edelman, who has not yet said anything, clears his throat.

Kid, he says, trust me when I say... we're all gonna miss you terribly when you're gone.

PROLOGUE 2

The Master of Halloway House stares out into the darkness, thinking about mortality.  How mortals perceive things... and fail to perceive things. 

And how easily mortal perceptions can be molded and shaped by one who is practiced at the art of deception...

The Master of Halloway House presses his forehead to the cold, wet window glass, between his flattened palms, and stares into the shaped and sculpted darkness that makes up his town. 

It is raining – now.  Rain is unusual for this late in the summer, but common for early autumn – and autumn is Redhaven's natural season. 

Regardless of what the calendar may say, autumn is now here – it has swept in on tenebrous wings of cold air and black cloud and falling water.

The Master of Halloway House smiles a rather ghastly smile as he stares out into the mother night that he personally owns and operates.  Everything is happening exactly as he has conceived it.  The four new arrivals to town will all play a part in his plans, although at this point, none of them even know of his existence.

Some of them will not survive very long, but as long as their brief lives, and, especially, their deaths serve his purpose, then this is not something that troubles him. 

At the end of this year's Harvest Time, he will not merely be the most powerful individual in Redhaven... which by most standards, he already is, although no one else is aware of this.

No, by the end of this year's Harvest Time, he will be the most powerful entity anywhere on the surface of the Earth...

Part One

Hell Town

U.S.A.

Text of a proclamation by Mayor Sharon Kendrick of Redhaven, on September 7 of this year, mailed out to all registered voters and announced on the Mayor Sharon's Shout Out program on Channel 9, Redhaven's Local Access station:

MY FELLOW REDHAVENITES!

WELCOME TO ANOTHER great autumn in Redhaven, the awesomest little town in the whole U.S.A!

We've got a great line up of fall festivities for you this year.  In addition to our usual Concert On The Common over in the park in front of Town Hall, which this year features Huey Lewis and the News along with Lipps Inc and the rockin' Thomas Dolby, we've also got a solid two weeks of Harvest Time festivities, starting with our famous—or maybe I should say 'infamous'—Scary Kids Haunted Hunt through Old Man Halloway's Fearsome Forest on Hallowe'en!  And all the brave little explorers who make it through the forest get to come back to the Town Hall for our official Kiddie's Halloween Party, complete with plenty of Tricks and Treats!  All the kids in Redhaven are welcome to participate, and everyone enjoys it every year!  And remember, what happens on Hallowe'en stays on Hallowe'en, so don't expect your little darlings to tell you everything they get up to at the party!  Ha ha!  Just kidding folks!

Then for the first three weeks in November we've got fun fun fun scheduled every weekend!

November 4th, 5th, and 6th we've got our Town Council throwing open the doors of the old Halloway mansion—a National Historic Site, no less  —for an evening of old fashioned dancing and dining and general celebrating! This is not the farm house that our town's founder built for himself when he first settled this area, this is the big old mansion over on Halloway Square, right here in town!  Get dressed up in your old fashioned finery and come on down for a glass of wine or rum or vintage spirits (locally brewed root beer and spiced cider for the young'uns!), a delightful meal of honey glazed  ham with all the trimmings, and a special evening wandering the wonderfully decorated and luxurious halls of this spectacular home, which we open to the public only once a year!

November 11th is our town's annual Day of Remembrance, and we'll have a children's pageant in the common, where all our adorable little boys and girls will dress up as settlers and Indians and have a celebratory feast from noon to three!  After dark there will be one of our famous Magic Lantern shows, and fireworks!  Bad weather will see the event moved into the Town Hall itself, but we've always been lucky with the weather on our Day of Remembrance and we can hope and pray to our higher powers that our good luck continues!

November 18th, 19th, and 20th we will be gathering once more, this time in the LaVey Auditorium in Redhaven High School for our Annual Harvest Auction.  It's all for charity, folks, so don't let the local Redhaven Children's Home  down!  You can auction anything you want, from an old stereo you've had in your attic for ten years to a big stack of your kids' comics or sci fi novels you don't think  he should be reading or even the time and energy of one of your friends or family members!  You get half the proceeds and the other half goes to kids without parents at the Children's Home!  And you can bet the community will put any time you auction off to good use!  There are always projects that need to be handled around town!

...and then, of course, November 23rd is the day before Thanksgiving, and you all know what that means—Harvest Night!  Oh, the parties and celebrations that will go on!  The food and drink, the fine fellowship, the fun and laughter will last all night!

The only official Town Celebration on Harvest Night is, of course, the Annual Hounds and Hares event that begins just after sundown!  Some of our newer residents have already agreed to participate as Hares; they'll gather in the Common just before nightfall wearing good running shoes and clothes they can move well in, and we'll give them a half hour head start before our veteran Hounds are set loose to catch them!  Any who manage to escape capture for a full two hours get all town taxes remanded for the next three years!  And if you get captured... well, nothing TOO drastic, just a few fun Harvest Night forfeits at the house of whoever manages to throw a lasso over them!

Everyone remember, though, to party responsibly!  Our town's good reputation  has never yet been blemished by anything that happens during a Harvest Time celebration, and we all know how important it is to keep it that way!  So be safe, be smart... and above all else, Obey The Law!

Then we close out Harvest Time on a more solemn note. The evening of the Friday after Thanksgiving, when people everywhere else will be shopping til they drop, the good folks of Redhaven will all gather in the Common once more, around our traditional Bonfire of the Vanities, with each family bringing some item of household furnishings to throw on the fire!  Oh, to you new residents I know it sounds a little strange,  but it doesn't need to be anything expensive, maybe just an old chair or cabinet or barrel you buy at a yard sale specifically to throw on the bonfire.  We gather around the fire and burn our offerings and sing songs of thanksgiving and praise to whatever powers we may believe in, and enjoy each other's companionship, marking our neighbors as friends going forward into the holiday season!

But, remember, Jim Cramer our local tax assessor will be there to keep track of each family's offering and give appropriate town tax credits!  Remember, the more its worth, the more credit you get!

A happy and joyous season of celebration and fulfillment to all my devoted town members!

Sincerely,

MRS. SHARON KENDRICK

Mayor, Town of Redhaven

It's autumn, and an early dusk is creeping over Redhaven like a grayish-purple caul.  On the eastern horizon, stars are already twinkling like cruel cat eyes in the newly reborn tapestry of night, and the pine trees on the sharply rising hillsides look like blood blackened fangs stabbing into the only slightly lesser darkness of the sky.

Within the town itself, where the remains of the recently deceased day linger in the form of a gloomy blue twilight for a few moments longer, a man carrying cards in his wallet which identify  him as Glenn Sanford Stanislaw rakes leaves in his expansive front yard while he waits for Mrs. Stanislaw  to return from the local supermarket. 

From the other side of the yew hedge twenty feet to his left, he hears the sound of footsteps and a rustle, and then a lilting female voice says MISter Stanislaw!

The man so addressed turns towards the hedge, rake still in his hands, and smiles, showing white, even, expensively cared for teeth.  MISSus Kendrick.  How may I be of service?

Well, the cheerfully pretty brunette says, hands parting the hedge so she can peek through flirtatiously, first, it's Mayor Kendrick, not Mrs. But never mind that, I try never to bring the office home with me.  She smiles sweetly.  When I heard the rake going I admit I was hoping for your lovely wife.  I wanted to invite her over to our Book Club meeting tomorrow night.

It passes through Stanislaw's mind in a fraction of a second that the Mayor Mrs. Kendrick is being insulting with her implication that his  might allow his  wife to rake leaves instead of him.  In character, though, he probably wouldn't notice it, and Mary wouldn't be insulted by it, so he lets it go.

Men, of course, don't read, he merely remarks, as if to the very air.

Well, a few of you do, at least, at a rudimentary level, the dark haired woman allows, but it's usually something silly about sports or football or car engines.

"Football is a sport, Stanislaw intones.  I mean.  Just saying."

Oh, I'm sure, the woman responds, with a tiny tinkle of decorous laughter.  Well.  If you'd tell Mary to give me a call when she gets in?

Mary would like to give you a shuto strike to the larynx and watch you choke out, you cunt, Stanislaw thinks.  But what he says is:  What books will you be discussing?  I'm sure Mary will want to know.

Oh, the lovely Mayor says, putting a perfectly manicured nail to her pursed, bee stung lips in bemusement, "honestly, I'm not sure.  Probably The Bridges of Madison County.  But maybe one of those Sookie Stackhouse vampire things." 

She laughs again, another silvery tinkle of amusement. I don't even know if Mary reads, honestly.  But it hardly matters; some of my girlfriends, frankly, are just as dumb as dodo birds. Book Club is mostly just an excuse for us all to get together and just have some strictly girl time.  Eat a little snack.  Let down our hair.  You know.

Mary likes to read, Stanislaw advises.  I do, too.

That's just adorable, Mayor Kendrick says . Well, toodles!  She eases backwards out of the hedge, which obligingly closes up behind her. 

Toodles, Stanislaw murmurs, too low for anyone but himself to hear. 

When the six year old Chrysler Town and Country minivan pulls into the driveway twenty minutes later, the freshly raked front lawn is a sea of darkness.  Stanislaw sits on the front porch steps in a yellow pool of light cast by the faux iron lantern mounted just to the right of the Georgian front door.  The woman driving the minivan sees  him and beeps the horn once, lightly, in greeting. Stanislaw gets up and ambles over to the vehicle, big, callused hands in his cardigan pockets—the evening air has a slight chill to it.

The woman, almost as tall as Stanislaw and long legged with it, steps with a dancer's grace out of the van.  The two exchange a brief but friendly kiss and then Stanislaw slips his arm about Mrs. Stanislaw's waist as they turn (she casually hip checking the driver's side door to a chunking close as she does it) to walk to the back of the van.

The Mayor wants you to call her, Stanislaw says, letting go of Mrs. Stanislaw so he can open the van's back hatch and lift it outward. 

Dear God, that woman, Mary Stanislaw says, tossing her head to get her long darkish blonde ponytail situated on her back where it won't hang forward as she bends in to get the groceries.  She never lets up.  What's her excuse this time?

Has she been bothering you a lot?  The question is for public consumption; Stanislaw would have been very surprised if their petite brunette Mayor hadn't been standing silently on the other side of the hedge listening to every word he and Mary say.  I didn't know.

She's relentless, Mary says, handing her husband a gallon of milk and a 12 pack of Pepsi, one for each hand, I mean, I get it. She's the queen bee around here and we're the new kids.  I doubt she cares much about you, but new girls have to pay court and kiss the ring and all that stuff.  And I've just been too busy for the last month to get over there and genuflect before her awesomeness and acknowledge her divinity.

Stanislaw very carefully does not look in the direction of the hedge, but he is very nearly sure he hears a muted snort of indignation from just the other side of it. 

He raises his voice a little:  I suspect she's secretly bisexual and wants to seduce you.

He tucks the gallon of milk into the crook of his right arm  while holding the 12 pack with his right hand in the carrying slot on top of the box, allowing him to slip his left hand down to Mary’s delightfully round, firm, and fully packed slacks for a quick grope.  Not that I blame her a bit.

Only in your delightfully filthy mind, husband mine, the woman who shares his bed responds, wriggling her ass to settle it more firmly into Stanislaw's hand.  If anyone is straight as an arrow, it's Sharon Kendrick.  At Women's Church Group last Sunday she could not get over the Switzen kid coming out as gay, and her parents not immediately throwing her out of the house or sending her off to some kind of Christian heterosexual brainwashing camp, or something.

Hmmmm, Stanislaw says, as he leads the way through the side door nearest the driveway into the kitchen, four or five grocery bags now hanging from his left hand.  Well, you know what they say about the rabidly homophobic.

I do, his wife agrees, setting the bags she has carried in down on the large antique maple dining table next to where her husband has set his, "but even in my carefree campus days of casual erotic exploration, I wouldn't have fucked Sharon Kendrick with your dick, my darling."

Stanislaw shrugs.  She's pretty enough, he says. 

His wife turns, put her arms around his neck, and kisses the corner of his mouth.  Pretty as a coral snake. And I'll bet she bites, too.

Stanislaw kisses her back, taking his time, enjoying himself. After nearly a minute, he says Well, if she bites me, you'll have to suck the poison out.

"I'm sure you'd like me to suck something," Mary teases him, pressing up against him, letting him feel her breasts through both their sweaters.

Nrm, Stanislaw says, agreeably, lips still pressed against her delicious mouth. Can I stand in the open doorway facing the Kendricks' house while you do it?

Mary grabs a handful of Stanislaw below the belt and squeezes, gently. Our lovely Mayor would probably have us arrested, she whispers, but we can go upstairs and turn on the lamp and make an entertaining shadow show on the window shade for her...

Sounds like a plan, Stanislaw growls, bending to abruptly sweep Mary up into his arms.  Off to the tower with you, wench, where I shall ravish you for hours.

Big talker, the woman murmurs as she snuggles against Stanislaw's chest.  She always enjoys it when he picks her up.  Mary Mackenzie Stanislaw is a dedicated feminist—it says so, right in the psych profile section of the file—and she can certainly take care of herself, but being carried like this in a man's strong arms... somehow, it's very sensual.  And seductive.  Where is it written she can't enjoy feeling powerless in the comfort of her own home?

You'll find out, Stanislaw promises.

In a beautifully appointed second floor bedroom on the other side of the hedges to the north, Sharon Kendrick takes a very expensive stereo headset off her beautifully coiffed dark hair and sets it on her dressing table.  The mini-satellite dish on the Kendrick roof is actually a very sensitive parabolic microphone which can tune itself to the separate MAC addresses of each and every listening device planted throughout Redhaven.  Right now, it is tuned in to the one in the Stanislaw bedroom. 

That's it, she says, they're fucking.

At the Starbucks on Hennard Avenue, Jenny Prescott has just finished her three hour after school shift.  She has tossed her green apron into the dirty laundry bin, grabbed her book bag from under the counter, and yelling See ya tomorrow at the kids still working the register, is walking across the shop floor towards the front door.  Beyond the big plate glass window she can see her dad's Audi A6 idling at the curb.  She lifts a hand and waves to him as she catches his eye through window and windshield; he smiles and toots the horn back.

Jenny Prescott has the great misfortune to be an unusually beautiful young girl.  Her light brown  hair falls naturally into curls and ringlets where it hits and seems to bounce back up off her shoulders.  Her face has the natural regularity of feature combined with a fairy dusting of almost ethereal beauty that could easily make her a sought after commodity for a Disney or Nickelodeon TV show.

Yet Jenny is a simple girl and even as she gets into the car with her father and gives him a peck on the cheek somewhere between dutiful and genuinely affectionate before reaching back for the buckle to her seat belt harness, her thoughts go no further ahead than the studying she needs to do for the 11th grade geometry test she will be taking in school tomorrow.

Jenny's grades are not particularly great.  She studies hard every night (well, nearly every night) but somehow at school she tends to go all fuzzy (her own words, or so she believes, anyway) and this results in her leaving a lot of questions unanswered on tests.  Her homework is frequently haphazard, too.  It doesn't really matter.  Jenny wants to go to college—to the extent that she wants anything—but the desire is oddly unfocused, and carries with it the same level of emotional urgency that accompanies a desire for, say, a dream date with a favorite movie star.

Jenny might go to college, if those who are in charge of such decisions decide that will be the best place for her to do whatever might be required (or desired) of her at that time in her life.  Her abnormal personal beauty, however, has almost certainly marked her for a different destiny.  Jenny has no idea this is so, but it is.

Tomorrow, Jenny will go to school, as always.  Her memories of the night before will be vague and dreamlike.  Should she try to think back, to focus on some segment of them, to specifically recall  something that has occurred at some exact moment or in some precise place, she probably will not be able to do so.

As Jenny and her father pull into their driveway, Jenny's dad, Randy Prescott, reaches over and gently touches his daughter's cheek.  She smiles at him sweetly as he whispers 'seventeen million forty zen cerulean blue' to her.  Then he and his daughter remain outside in the parked car for another ten minutes.

Gary Dawlings is not homeless—not exactly.  He has a job—night watchman at the site of the long abandoned Greyhound terminal on Ade Avenue.  He has an address—a room at a cheap motel on Gibbet Street, which is only a few blocks away from the old Greyhound bus station, which is fortunate, because Gary doesn't have any transportation except a pair of pretty worn around the edges work boots.

His weekly paycheck covers the rent on his room, buys him some groceries, and usually stretches to a bottle of cheap wine every couple of days.  More than this, Gary generally does not ask for.

Had Gary been told that through his veins flowed the blood of kings, he would probably have looked at the speaker with incomprehension... or, possibly, laughed.  Yet arduous research has confirmed it – Gary is indeed of the line of Merovingians, and those who believe in such things believe that Gary's particular blood, descending as it does from Joshua bar-David, otherwise known as Jesus the Christ, last known living avatar of the god Yahweh to walk this mortal earth, holds great power within it indeed.

Now, as Jenny Prescott is spending some quality time with her dad in the front seat of his Audi, Gary is walking across what was once a large parking lot towards the small metal and glass booth where he clocks in for his shifts.  There is a small heater in the booth but Gary hasn't needed it yet. In fact, for the last three months since he took this job, what he's really wished for is a small air conditioning unit, what with the summer heat and humidity. But Gary isn't inclined to complain about shit. It's one reason people like him.

Gary starts as a shadow steps out from the booth while he is still ten feet away from it.  He does not know why, but a bolt of sheer terror whistles through him—a sudden, sharp strike of fear that immediately takes him back to the Middle East, to Iraq, to riding patrol in a Humvee down Mutanabbi Street, asshole clenched airtight as he waited for an IED to go off or some crazy fucking towelhead to pop up with an American made LAW rocket on his shoulder...

And then Gary is snorting and calling himself a moron, because it's only his boss, Tommy Lovelace, walking forward with his hand extended.  Tommy is big on shaking hands; the only person Gary has ever met who likes to shake hands more than Tommy is the Mayor's husband Gus.  But Tommy is nearly as much a hand shakin' fool as Gus Kendrick.  And that's saying something.

Hey, Gary, good to see you, Tommy says, seizing Gary's right hand in both of his own and pumping up and down hard.  Everything cool?

Gary is a little bewildered now and a little bit nervous, the way anyone is when their boss drops by unexpectedly, but he lets his hand be pumped and responds Sure, Mr. Lovelace, everything's great.  Is there a problem?

Oh HELL no, Tommy says with a big twinkling grin that Gary can see even in the dim light near the guard booth (the only illumination, until Gary goes inside and turns on the single fluorescent bar mounted on the ceiling of the booth, comes from a street lamp almost a hundred yards away on the other side of the empty expanse of cracked and potholed paving in front of the abandoned, boarded up bus station).  Not a thingarino, ol' buddy, ol' pal!  Just, you know... it's the big weekend coming up and I like to come by and  make sure...

Gary nods, abruptly remembering.  Yeah.  Big weekend.  One weekend a month, the parking lot fills up with cars... most of them local, but some from out of town, or even out of state.  One weekend a month, Tommy runs the Greyhound Games here at the abandoned bus station.  Gary isn't sure what it is... something not quite legal is his understanding, although, Tommy had been at pains to tell him, it was a 'not quite legal' that is not only tolerated but enthusiastically approved by pretty much the entire town, including the Mayor, the Town Council, and the Sheriff's department... whose cars are often if not always among those filling the parking lot on Games weekends.

Probably dog fighting, Gary thinks, like that one NFL quarterback had gotten into trouble over a while back.  The thought doesn't bother Gary much... nor, for that matter, interest him all that much.  It is mildly more interesting to him that even when the parking lot is crammed full of cars one weekend a month, you can't hear any noise from the old bus station, nor can you see any lights.  Someone has spent beau coup bucks sound and light proofing the place.

Yeah, Gary responds.  I remember.

And Tommy puts his arm around Gary's shoulders.  I wanna tell ya, Gary, you've been doing great work here.  Everybody's talkin' about it.  And you've probably heard a few things about the town's Harvest Time celebrations, right around Thanksgiving?  Well, it's comin' up, ol' buddy, just a few months away now, and when it comes up, we're gonna show our appreciation.  Yessir.  Gotta invite for you to the Harvest Time Greyhound Games, my friend, and that's a ticket that's more sought after than box seats at the Super Bowl.  And you're gonna be the guest of honor.

And Gary, for a long moment, doesn't know what to say.  Except that the survival instincts he remembers acquiring over  two long years in Iraq are screaming at him to ready his weapon, to start shooting, to prime a grenade...

...or to run like hell.

But this is just Tommy Lovelace, his boss, telling him he's doing a good job.  Where's the bad news there?

Gary shrugs it off.  That sounds cool, Mr. Lovelace, he says, resolutely shoving his obviously crazy first reaction down into his subconscious.  I'm already looking forward to it.

And Tommy Lovelace's huge grin does the impossible, and becomes even larger.  That's my boy, he says, giving Gary's shoulders a friendly squeeze.

Freddie Gowan has to