Ghost Walk

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Evening rush-hour traffic was in full swing, moving at a crawl along Route 30, through the heart of York County. Construction signs substituted as mile markers. One of Maria’s first impressions upon moving from New Jersey was that orange traffic cones seemed to be Pennsylvania’s state plant and road workers were the state animal. They were everywhere. Drumming her fingers on the steering wheel, she crept by fast-food restaurants, run-down shopping malls, abandoned industrial complexes, shuttered factories, and dilapidated ware houses. Like the traffic cones, all were part of the natural landscape of this stretch of highway.

She watched, shaking her head in dismay as other drivers talked on their cell phones, applied lipstick and mascara, and in one particularly disturbing case, read a comic book—all while driving. Cursing, Maria gave the finger to no less than five different drivers, for offenses ranging from tailgating to cutting in front of her.

Despite the annoyance, she was actually glad that traffic was moving so slowly. Her head felt foggy from the lack of sleep, and her eyes were red and gummy. It wouldn’t do to fall asleep behind the wheel at sixty-five miles per hour. If it happened at the current pace, she could just gently bump into the car ahead of her.

Exhausted as she was, Maria was worried that if she went to bed, she might sleep through her alarm clock’s annoyingly shrill wail and miss everything. She still had her doubts that Levi could actually get them face-to-face with Adam Senft, despite everything she’d seen. But if there was a chance, then she wanted to be there. So when she arrived back at her apartment, instead of going to sleep, she made a fresh pot of coffee. While it was brewing, she stripped out of her clothes and took another shower. The combination of caffeine, hot water, and scented body wash stimulated her senses, waking her up. Wrapping herself in two oversized, fluffy towels—one for her body and another for her hair—she decided to log online and check her e-mail.

When she’d left that morning, Maria was certain that she’d hit a dead end as far as tracking down Ramirez, the police detective who’d been involved with the first Adam Senft– connected homicide, as well as the murders of several of Senft’s next door neighbors, one of whom had been found inside Senft’s home. To her surprise, a new lead on his whereabouts was waiting in her e-mail inbox. Maria subscribed to several different online services that were frequented by journalists and private investigators. For a nominal fee, they would track people when other avenues failed. While she’d been at the psychiatric hospital, they’d found something for her—a new landline phone number supposedly connected to Ramirez, with a Fort Myers, Florida, area code.

Maria checked the clock in the lower right-hand corner of her computer monitor. It was just after six. If Ramirez worked a day job, he should be home by now—if, indeed, this was his home number. Crossing her fingers, Maria snatched her cell phone off the coffee table and dialed. A man picked up on the third ring.

“Hello?”

“Hi. My name is Maria Nasr. I’m calling from—”

“I’m not interested. Take my name and number off your list.”

“Wait! Don’t hang up.”

“I said, I’m not interested.”

“I’m not a telemarketer,” Maria explained.

“You’re a bill collector, then. And I’ll tell you what I’ve told all the others. No, I can’t send you any money because I’m fucking broke. I can’t pay what I don’t have.”

Maria took a deep breath, trying to keep her tone patient and friendly.

“Sir, I’m not a telemarketer or a debt collector. If you’ll just let me speak?”

“Well, then who the hell are you? The only people that ever call me are bill collectors and salesmen. Or wrong numbers.”

“My name is Maria Nasr. I’m calling from York, Pennsylvania. I’m looking for Detective Hector Ramirez.”

There was silence on the other end of the line.

“Are you Detective Ramirez?”

“Not anymore. Nobody’s called me ‘Detective’ in a long time. What do you want, Miss Nasr?”

“Well, I’m writing a book about powwow magic and the murders associated with LeHorn’s Hollow. I was wondering if I could ask you some questions regarding Adam Senft, the mystery writer.”

“Don’t you ever call here again.”

Maria was so stunned by his vehement reaction that it took her a moment to realize Ramirez was no longer on the line. She glanced at the phone, trying to figure out if the call had been dropped or if he’d disconnected. She guessed the latter.

“Goddamn it.”

Maria redialed. This time, Ramirez picked up on the first ring.

“Hello?”

“Mr. Ramirez, I think we might have gotten disconnected. I just—”

“Hell, yes, we got disconnected. That’s because I disconnected the call! I mean it, lady. Don’t call here again.”

“Wait!” Maria shouted before he could hang up again. “Listen, I just want to interview you, sir. I respect your privacy. I’m not out to disparage you over how the case was handled or anything. I’m just curious as to what you believe really happened.”

“You want to know what I believe?” Ramirez laughed. “Okay, I’ll tell you what I believe. I believe that there are things in this world that don’t make a lick of fucking sense. Things that should not be—that we’re not supposed to know about. I saw it once during that bank robbery in Hanover, and—”

“Bank robbery?”

“Shut up! It’s got nothing to do with your book or the hollow. But it’s got everything to do with what I’m saying. I saw it then and I put it behind me. But it fucked with my beliefs—in God and in mankind and in what was real and what wasn’t. And then Shannon and Paul Legerski went missing and I canvassed the neighborhood, interviewing potential witnesses and I met Adam Senft. If it hadn’t been for that…”

Maria stayed quiet, jotting notes while the man rambled. She hoped he’d begin making sense. His cadence was short and clipped. Forceful. It was obvious that this had been festering inside him for quite some time. She got the sense that he wasn’t even talking to her anymore.

“That night—the night of the fire. I’ll never fucking forget it. How could I? When Senft and his buddies came marching across the field, armed to the teeth with shotguns and spell books, like some blue-collar Van Helsing. Even his dog was in on it. And I helped them. What was I supposed to do? People were dead. Their wives were missing. So I went out there into the woods. Me and Uylik. We went with them. And I was responsible…for that officer’s death. The trees…”

His words turned into unintelligible sobs.

Maria stammered, unsure of how to proceed.

“Um…Mr. Ramirez? Hector? I’m afraid that I don’t understand.”

“The trees were alive! Don’t you understand? They fucking moved around. They killed Uylik. And Senft’s friend—Swanson. A lot of people died that night. All because of Senft and his goddamned Goat Man.”

“But, sir, your own investigation concluded that Adam Senft wasn’t involved. The State Police and the district attorney agreed with your determination. Those murders were committed by the LeHorn’s Hollow witch cult, of which Paul and Shannon Legerski were members.”

“There was no cult. It was a fucking monster! Half man, half goat. And I’m not talking about those murders, anyway. I’m talking about belief. What was I supposed to do after I saw all of that? Magic spells and devils and men ripped apart like soft marshmallows. I damn sure wasn’t raised to believe in that. So how was I supposed to react? How could I do my fucking job when I knew what was really out there? You asked me about my beliefs? I had them confirmed and then shattered that night. At the same time. Senft, too. Isn’t any wonder he killed his wife. He saw her there, around the fire in the woods, rutting in the dirt with that…thing.”

Confused and frustrated, Maria threw her pen down on the note pad and sighed. Ramirez started crying again.

“I’m afraid I don’t understand,” she said softly, trying to sound sympathetic.

“You want to understand? You want to believe? Tell you what. Go on down there to the hollow and have a look around. Even now, with it all burned up. You don’t even have to go to the heart of it. Just walk around the woods for a bit. You’ll believe. And then you’ll have that belief sucked away, along with everything you’ve ever felt. Love. Hate. All your thoughts and emotions and feelings. It will suck them all away and leave you with just darkness inside.”

“Mr. Ramirez, what about—”

“Just darkness.”

He hung up again. This time, Maria did not call him back.

Depressed, she had the sudden urge to call her mother, but she resisted. Instead, she poured herself another cup of coffee and got ready for the night.

“And over there,” Ken said, pointing to a part of the field where a makeshift stage had been constructed, “is where the bands will play. We’ll have a local rock band and a hip-hop group from Baltimore here tomorrow night for the afterparty. Subsequent nights will feature country, pop music, and the Red Lion High School marching band. We’ll also use the stage to make announcements and such to the crowds while they’re waiting to enter the trail.”

He paused, surveying the assembled crowd of volunteer staff members. There were over fifty of them, along with private contractors, concession stand operators, a representative for the emergency medical specialists who would be on duty at the site, the farmers handling the hay rides, and dozens of others. He’d never spoken to a crowd this big before and he found it daunting. He’d never been much of a public speaker.

There was still no sign of Cecil, Russ, or Tina. No Sam or Rhonda, either. He searched the crowd, trying to distinguish their faces. Instead, he saw Terry, who smiled at him from the front row, nodding in encouragement to go on.

“Here’s how it will work,” Ken continued. “When they come in from the road, we’ll park them in the designated sections of the field. That’s where you folks parked tonight. We can hold up to five hundred vehicles at one time. Hopefully, we won’t run out of room—although that would be sort of nice, from a financial perspective.”

The crowd laughed, filling Ken with more confidence.

“Those of you on flag duty will collect your orange safety vests and flashlights tomorrow night. Then you’ll take your positions. You guys are lucky. You’re the only volunteers that get walkie-talkies, because radio and cell phone signals don’t work in the forest. So use them to stay in contact with each other. Figure out who has empty spaces and who’s full.

“Over here,” he pointed, “is where we’ll have our concession stands and merchants. I see that some of you are set up already, which is good. The rest of you will want to get here early tomorrow, and take care of your preparations. We’re happy to have Bricker’s French Fries, Porky’s Barbeque, and other local vendors. I’m sure you’ve seen them at the state fair and local carnivals, so you know how good their food is. All you have to do is look at my waistline to know.”

More polite laughter.

“The Golgotha Lutheran Church Ladies’ Auxiliary will have a bake sale booth, and the VFW, American Legion, Knights of Columbus, and Lions Club will also be on hand. All of these groups have been kind enough to donate their profits to our cause, so please be sure to thank them. We’ll also have some games for the kids, along with a petting zoo and a dunk tank.”

“Who gets in the dunk tank?” Tom shouted.

“You do, Tom.” Raucous laughter greeted this. Ken grinned, amused. Shielding his eyes against the glare of multiple spotlights, he went on. “No, in all seriousness, we’ve got a fine slate of volunteers. The principals from Kennard-Dale, Red Lion, and Spring Grove High Schools have all volunteered, along with the chief of police for Windsor Township, the mayor of Wrightsville, and a few other elected officials. Again, all proceeds will go to the charity.”

“That’s good,” a man called, “because I’ll spend a hundred bucks to drown the mayor!”

Ken chuckled along with everyone else. When the commotion had subsided, he continued, the last of his nervousness fading.

“People can mill about in the concession area for as long as they like. We’ll have a row of portable toilets at the rear of the area. But to actually enter the Ghost Walk, they’ll have to line up at the ticket booth. We’ll have stanchions and ropes to keep the line orderly and to prevent folks from cutting in. Hopefully, we won’t have too much of that sort of thing. Our big concern is people sneaking in through the woods, and to counteract that, we’ll have spotters positioned at strategic points along the trail. Their job is two fold. As I said, they’ll watch for people who try to get in without paying. But they’re also there to protect you. They’ll be very easy to recognize—each of them will be wearing a baseball cap that says ‘Ghost Walk Staff’ in glow-in-the dark letters.”

“Yeah,” a fat woman yelled, “but then the people sneaking in without paying can see them, too.”

“Maybe,” Ken conceded, “but we’re more concerned with the safety of our staff and volunteers. So if any of you get into trouble—be it an unruly attendee or a bunch of kids messing things up or a medical emergency—find the nearest security spotter and let them know. They’ll get a message back up here to operations and we’ll help you out. As I said, communications are spotty in the woods, but we’ve got runners who will do that very thing—run messages back and forth all night long. They’ll also bring you coffee, hot chocolate, water, or spot you while you go on a bathroom break.”

“What about beer?”

Ken couldn’t see the speaker. They were hidden in the glare of the spotlights.

“No alcohol,” he said. “We’re not going to let people in if they’re intoxicated, and we ask the same of our volunteers. You can drink all you want at the afterparty tomorrow night, though. Just make sure you’ve got a designated driver.”

Ken paused, running over his mental checklist to find his place again.

“Once they’ve bought their ticket and are cued up in line, the hay wagons will bring them down in groups of twelve, with five-minute breaks between groups. That will give all of you on the trail a chance to catch your breath, adjust your costumes, and things like that. It will also help cut down on congestion. As you’ll see when we do the walk-through here in a moment, the trail loops around. The exit is about fifty yards from the entrance. We’ll have wagons waiting there as well, ready to bring folks back. To walk the entire trail from beginning to end, including a stop at each attraction, will take the average person about forty-five minutes. So although we’re going to try to give you breaks in between groups, stay on your toes. I’m sure there will be stragglers.”

His cell phone rang, but Ken ignored it.

“A few thoughts on scaring people. Obviously, people who attend a haunted attraction like this enjoy being scared. But we want it to be fun for them, and we want to keep safety in mind. So absolutely under no circumstances should you touch an attendee. Scaring them is fine. Physical contact is not. And be mindful of who you’re scaring. If it’s a little kid, and they are obviously terrified—not in a good way, you know what I mean—then consider making them feel better. Maybe be funny instead, or act like you’re scared of them. Where’s Christopher Jones at?”

“Here!”

“Chris, you’re playing Leatherface, right?”

“Hell, yeah!”

“Make sure you take the chain off of your chainsaw. The last thing we need is you cutting somebody or tripping over a tree root and hurting yourself. Some of us here remember how you almost cut your finger off field-dressing that spike buck two years ago.”

“You just had to bring that up, didn’t you, Ken?”

“Well, we made fun of Tom earlier. Gotta spread the love, brother.”

The throng laughed again, but Ken could tell by watching the first few rows that they were getting restless. He decided to wrap things up and get on with the walk-through, before he lost them.

“Okay!” He raised his voice a little, commanding their attention once more. “That’s about all I have. Any questions before we begin the walk?”

A dozen hands shot up.

Ken sighed. It was going to be a long night.