Brian Keene: Ghost Walk

Construction had started in August. Ken and a few volunteers had scouted the forest, marking trees to indicate in which direction the trail should go. Then they cut through the brambles and brush, clearing the undergrowth so that they could commence with the design.

And here he was, just a few days from the grand opening—and there was still a ton of things to do. He’d taken his two weeks of paid vacation from his day job, and was using it to get everything completed in time.

His only regret was that, because of the time the whole process had taken, he wouldn’t open until Halloween Eve. Most haunted attractions were open for the entire month; the Ghost Walk would only run from the night before Halloween to the first weekend in November. Still, if it was a success, maybe they’d be open sooner next year.

Finished with the pulley system, the men tested it out. Ken stepped on the hidden pressure switch, which was hidden beneath dirt and leaves. On cue, the out house door banged open and the dummy lunged out. Then it leaned back inside and the door slammed shut again.

“Perfect,” Ken said.

“What’s next?” Terry asked.

Ken sighed. “Too much. The guys from the VFW are almost done with the maze house, but we need to rig some strobe lights inside it. The trail needs to be raked again. We have to make sure we remove all rocks, roots, and anything else somebody could trip over. Last thing we want is someone taking a tumble and suing us. Someone with a pickup truck needs to make a run to Nelson Leiphart’s place. He’s got a field of dead cornstalks that we can use for camouflage along the trail.”

“Camouflage?”

“Sure. In addition to the buildings and scenarios, we’re gonna have volunteers in masks or makeup hiding along the trail. When people walk by, they’ll jump out and hopefully scare the shit out of them. So we need to camouflage their hiding places.”

Terry frowned. “Shouldn’t we use tree branches and leaves? Would look more natural. Or plywood sheeting, maybe?”

“Sure, but part of the fun is knowing there’s something up ahead. People see the cornstalks and they’ll be dreading taking another step. But at the same time, they’ll have no choice. Helps to ramp up their fears. Plus, cornstalks are suited to Halloween. It’s all about the ambience.”

Smiling, Terry shook his head.

“What?” Ken asked. “What are you laughing at?”

“You, man. It’s amazing. I’ve known you since high school, but I’ve never seen you as fired up about something as you are this. I mean, just listen to you talking about this—I’m impressed. By day, you hang drywall. But after work, you become an expert at this shit. I’ve got to hand it to you, Ken. When you first came up with this idea, I figured you’d lose your shirt. But you’ve really pulled it together.”

“Well, I could still lose my shirt. It’s all for nothing if nobody shows up on opening night.”

“They’ll come.” Terry put his hand on Ken’s shoulder and gave him a squeeze. “Deena would be proud of you.”

“Thanks.”

Ken’s voice was thick with emotion. They stood in awkward silence for a few seconds. Then Terry cleared his throat and removed his hand.

“Okay,” he said. “Where do you want me next?”

“Can you give Sylva and Clark a hand unloading those bags of lime? We need it to outline the trail.”

“Sure. What are you gonna do?”

“Walk the trail. Check up on everybody. See if I can spot any last-minute things we might have missed. And later, I’m supposed to meet with some reporter. Trying to get a write-up in the paper. They’ll probably do a hatchet job.”

“Better you than me.”

“Yeah.”

Terry gathered his tools and then strolled back up the trail, vanishing around the bend. Ken turned around and walked the other way, following the trail deeper into the forest. He inspected various locations along the way, making sure they were functional. The guillotine, whose dummy had a removable head. The spider’s grove, an area of the trail overrun with gauze “webs.” A pit in the earth, made up to look like a flying saucer crash site, complete with bits of twisted metal and several “alien” bodies. Scattered hiding places, small sheds that housed generators and first-aid stations.

The sound of hammering greeted him as he approached the maze house. It was a ramshackle construct. Low-hanging branches scraped against the corrugated tin roof. Various grades of plywood and weathered planks made up the outer walls. It looked exactly as Ken had wanted it to—like something out of a backwoods horror movie. House of 1,000 Corpses or Texas Chainsaw Massacre or Cabin Fever . He pushed past a sheet of plastic nailed over the doorway and stepped inside. The interior was far different. Black plastic covered the walls, floor, and ceiling, blocking out all light. Three different passageways led off into the darkness. The center hall glowed dimly. Ken followed it to the source of illumination: a string of work lights hanging from the ceiling. Four retired VFW members were putting another dead end into place, driving nails into the thick plywood.

“Hey, guys.”

The men stopped hammering and turned to him.

“Howdy, Mr. Ripple.” The speaker, Cecil Smeltzer, pulled a red bandanna from his back pocket and wiped his brow. “It’s coming along good. Darned if we don’t get lost trying to find our way back out.”

Ken laughed. “Let’s hope not. Wouldn’t want to send a search party in here after you.”

“No, we wouldn’t.”

“It looks good, guys. I really appreciate your help. You’ve done a great job.”

“No need to thank us,” Cecil said. “It’s for a good cause.”

The others murmured their agreement.

“And besides,” Cecil continued, “it ain’t like we’ve got much to do during the day anyway.”

Ken allowed them to show him all they’d done, and nodded with satisfaction. Then he exited the maze and continued down the trail. The work sounds faded, and silence enveloped him. The forest was still, the quiet noticeable. Ken supposed that all the activity had scared off the wildlife, but the absence of even the birds and insects was a little unsettling.

He reached the end of the trail, which opened up into a barren field. Stubs of harvested cornstalks jutted from the rocky soil. When the Ghost Walk was up and running, hay wagons and tractors would be positioned in the field to transport the customers back to their cars. There were supposed to be two teenaged volunteers working here. They’d been tasked with roping off the trail’s end and clearly marking the exit. Since they were seniors, the high school allowed them to leave school in the afternoon and help out with the Ghost Walk; all part of the workplace credit program. The idea was that they’d learn valuable skills that could be applied in the job market after they’d graduated. But reality was something different. Instead of working for him, they’d apparently played hooky.

Ken swore under his breath. The rope lay on the ground, along with the exit signs. There was no sign of the teens.

“Hey,” he hollered, trying to remember their names. He searched his memory, to no avail. “Hey, you kids!”

His voice echoed through the forest. He paused, listening. Then he remembered their names.

“Sam! Rhonda!”

They were good kids, for the most part. Except for now, when he needed something done. He called out again but there was no answer.

“Goddamn it. Want something done right, you’ve got to do it yourself.”

Sighing, he gathered the rope and began stringing it up between the trees. The echoes faded and the unnerving silence returned.

Won’t be quiet for long , Ken thought. Hopefully, on Halloween, there’ll be lots of screams .