Ghost (The Halloween Boys #1) (5)

I vowed to wear something cuter to my next appointment with Dr. Omar, hoping I’d run into Dr. Cove again. Here I was, in an old couple’s basement, fantasizing about the first man to acknowledge me in years, and I didn’t even know his first name. I groaned. Dr. Cove. Blythe Cove. Blythe Pearl Cove. Sitting up, I puffed an annoyed sigh and pulled a bag of tortilla chips out from under my bed along with my phone from the pocket of my jeans. I searched Ash Grove Hallows Fest and waited for the page to load. The Moores didn’t have wifi so my little track phone struggled like an old dial-up computer to access any sort of data. The tenth salty triangle crunched between my lips when pages of results displayed on the screen. Articles and headlines galore. “Why Hallows Fest Should Be Banned,” titled one local article. “Man Responsible For Several Murders Found Dead Outside Hallows Fest,” “Hallows Fest: The Month-Long Halloween Dance Party. Do You Dare?” Skipping the less savory and more scary sounding links, I clicked the latter and snacked more while waiting for it to load. Why would Dr. Cove suggest I go to something so . . . controversial? He was a bit odd for a mental health professional. Maybe his casual style of practice was some sort of genius tactic. Maybe the flirtatious attitude was a part of it too. I’d probably fallen right into his trap. Repositioning to a cross-legged stance on the bed, I stretched, removing my hair clip, and laughed at myself. I was most definitely overthinking the entire interaction. That was how socially awkward I’d become. I’d started making theories on how every person who spoke to me was either some mastermind working for my stepfather or was in love with me. Truly, I probably should have taken a break from talking about my childhood with Dr. Omar and mentioned these delusions instead. I should have told her about the way growing up isolated in an abusive household and thrown into an adulthood on the run had left me inept at human interaction. My brain was dysfunctional. For some reason, the reality of that felt more shameful than spilling about my abuse and fears. Like not being able to carry a real conversation was somehow more taboo than being hunted across the country by your criminal ex-family member. Or maybe that was just in my head too. And, obviously, my head wasn’t a very reliable place to spend time in. Even Dr. Dreamy Cove had mentioned my mind had evolved to keep me safe and was misfiring. Making me jump at every noise and question every stranger’s glance.

The prospect of putting on a mask and dancing my ass off for a month was sounding better and better. I considered the costume I’d peered at in the window of the spooky local shop. It was late September, yet the whole town was transforming into some sort of Halloween village. Every shop window was adorned with bats and cobwebs. Bright orange pumpkins lined the sidewalks flanked by hay bales and skeletons. I’d never seen a town so serious about their Halloween decorations. It was eerie but homey in a way too. And the costume I saw in the window . . . It was as hard to get out of my mind as Dr. Cove’s Adam’s apple was . . . .

The article loaded and I scrolled greedily, already sold on the idea without the journalist’s opinion. This article was recent, written only two days ago.

“Hallows Fest: Ash Grove’s Trick and Treat Dance Party for Adults.”

By Wolfgang Jack

Something wicked this way comes . . . To the delight of masked ravers and to the horror of local killjoys, the fiftieth annual Hallows Fest is underway. If you’re new here, Hallows Fest is a month-long, Halloween-themed masquerade dance party. The bands are always a secret, and only the costumed-beyond-recognition are allowed entry. Insiders claim it’s harmless fun, while some local Ash Grove residents have expressed concerns for, well, fifty years that the event is a stain on our picturesque mountain town. But the festival isn’t just a grown-up trick-or-treat or excuse to party. Its roots go beyond that to our town’s unique and some would say haunted history.

The Brew Pump, where the event is held, is claimed to be the most haunted and spiritually charged spot in Ash Grove. I mean, I thought it was just an old ass gas station, like the other dozen in this town, but who knows? The stories vary and each festival goer will give you a different account of its significance. All this lowly journalist could find was old newspaper clippings from the first event where it’s noted as an event to honor the town’s ghostly ancestors by confusing October’s evil spirits. Some say the monsters come out to dance and play, too, at Hallows Fest. Others say the event is just an excuse to dance and get wasted. To each their own, yeah?

I wouldn’t know, because my job here at the Ash Grove Gazette forbids my attendance. I am to represent our great city and its newspaper at all times and would never do anything to jeopardize my career. I’d never, say, sneak in abiding by Hallows Fest rules and conditions in a mask and costume. That’s not something I would ever consider doing, folks, sorry. Anyway, if you go, be sure to shoot me an email and let me know how it went.

Article details:

Ash Grove’s Hallows Fest is an eighteen and up masquerade dance festival spanning the whole of October. Begins when the sun goes down and ends when it ends. Come hidden, come spooky, come ready for tricks and treats. If you see a ghost, don’t scream. Or do. No one will care.

Wolfgang Jack is lifelong Ash Grove resident, chief journalist at Ash Grove Gazette, and law-abiding citizen

A snicker escaped my throat and I dusted off my hands on my jeans. I was sold. I’d be hidden and masked, no one would know me, and even if I were followed by “he who should not be named,” he’d have a hard time finding me amongst a horde of fully costumed adults. In fact, it was sounding more and more like this may be the safest place I’d been in a long time. How odd that a controversial and, frankly, sort of creepy-sounding event could be the first place I’d found refuge in years. I was willing to give it a try. My adrenaline pumped at the thought of seeing what it was all about. Dancing, being free, maybe even talking to people. Maybe I’d meet someone handsome. My mind was falling into immature fantasies again, but this time, I allowed it without chastising myself. Why not? Why not allow myself to dream just a little. Fun. The prospect of fun was so overwhelming it made me jittery. Searching under my pillow, I tugged out my stuffed bat, the only tangible remnant from my childhood. My mother bought me the stuffed animal after I begged and begged in a grocery store line at five years old. I’d slept with him every night since. Benny the bat. My only family.