Ghosted: A Halloween Mystery

By Jillian C. Stone

It’s Halloween, and seventeen-year-old MaryAnn is excited about her town’s annual celebration. The season assumes an ominous tone when MaryAnn is led to the body of her neighbor, Mr. Carlson, by the eerie howls of the big orange stray who frequents his backyard.

Weeks earlier, when her eyes had met the cat’s spooky yellow stare, MaryAnn had known something out of the ordinary was going to happen, but she never expected death.

The deceased Mr. Carlson soon appears to MaryAnn in a dream, insisting she find his murderer, and she reluctantly agrees. With the help of her close-knit group of friends, the big orange cat, and an adorable Corgi named Trixie, MaryAnn discovers her own psychic talents while unraveling a Halloween mystery that stretches back to her own mother’s death.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Balboa Press
• Release date: Sep 22, 2020
• ISBN: 9781982252670

Jillian C. Stone

Jillian C. Stone loves Corgis and anything magical. She lives in Colorado surrounded by people and pets she loves. This is her first book.

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Copyright © 2020 Jillian C. Stone.

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ISBN: 978-1-9822-5266-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-9822-5268-7 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-9822-5267-0 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2020914612

Balboa Press rev. date:   09/22/2020

CONTENTS

Acknowledgments

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Afterword

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Thanks to Rick for his belief in my dream and his patience in waiting for me to achieve it; to Crystal and Kendall for their willingness to listen to my chapters and brainstorm story ideas with me; to Cosmo, my computer teacher and resurrector of messed up files; to Kylie, Courtney, and Ashley, my enthusiastic test audience; to Julia M. for the initial edit which made it clear I had a lot more work to do; to Sally and Carol for their support, encouragement, and helpful suggestions; and to Kelsey S. for her talented final polish. I am grateful for you all!

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CHAPTER 1

L ATE SEPTEMBER IN the Colorado foothills is usually cold, sometimes so cold that you can’t feel the nose on your face. But every so often, Mother Nature gives you a gift to reward you for all those months you spent struggling into long underwear, and this September was certainly that. A gift. An orange, yellow, and red gift wrapped up in a warm blanket of sunshine called Indian summer.

When I awoke that last Saturday in September, I was determined to enjoy every second of this unexpected weather. The first thing I did was throw back my curtains and open my window. As a slight breeze eased through the screen, I spied Grams down below, standing across the street in Mr. Carlson’s driveway.

The old guy was obviously upset. His bushy eyebrows were pulled down hard over his eyes, and he kept running his hand over the top of his nearly bald head. My grandma stood with her back to me, dressed in summertime garb, her giant gardening hat making her petite frame seem even smaller. When she reached out and gave his arm a reassuring squeeze, I knew she was giving him one of her signature pep talks.

The big orange cat lay on his side beneath the forsythia bush near the back gate, relaxed as only a cat can manage, with the tip of his tail twitching lazily back and forth. His huge yellow eyes tracked every movement Grams and Mr. Carlson made, yet, in typical cat fashion, he also somehow appeared completely disinterested. When Mr. Carlson suddenly jabbed a finger toward the backyard, he didn’t even flinch.

He was the biggest cat I’d ever seen, a stray that had appeared in our neighborhood many years ago and decided to make Mr. Carlson’s yard his home base. For the most part, Mr. Carlson left him to his own devices, although he did leave dishes of water and dry cat food on his back porch. Every once in a while, one of the neighbors would complain about the cat’s nighttime howling to animal control. Officer Hannah Paisley would come by to talk to Mr. Carlson about getting a license and shots, but the old man would just shrug and say, That’s not my cat. I just make sure he doesn’t starve.

When I was little, I used to try to make friends with the cat. I would lure him out from under bushes and cars with a saucer of milk or a piece of hot dog tossed on the ground. He would get close enough for me to hear his rumbling purr, but if I reached to pet him, he’d dash for cover. I finally gave up and took on Mr. Carlson’s attitude: that he was a wild cat who belonged to no one, and no one could tame him.

While the two humans chatted in the driveway, the cat raised his golden stare to my window. I knew in that split second when his eyes met mine that something out of the ordinary was going to happen.

And that it would change everything.

And that I probably wasn’t going to like it.

Believe it or not, I never did get around to asking Grams why Mr. Carlson was upset. Reason number one being my grandmother is a professional psychologist and her ethics carry over into her private life. She doesn’t tell secrets or spread gossip, so even if I had asked, she would have told me it was Mr. Carlson’s business and not mine. And reason number two, I’m a seventeen-year-old high-school junior with friends, too much homework, and an after-school job helping my aunt, Marlene, in her costume and custom sewing shop. Translation: I’m so busy that I actually forgot to ask.

The following Monday morning, I was standing in the hallway with my two very best friends when Chester Gibb, editor of our school newspaper, walked up to us and said, Hey, guys. I want you to meet my cousin, Foster McNault. He looked back over his shoulder and called, Hey, Fos, come over here.

Across the hall, a boy with shaggy dark hair was deep in flirty conversation with a couple of girls. He flashed a friendly smile our way but stuck a just a minute finger in the air. A moment later, the girls burst into giggles, then walked off down the hall, throwing admiring glances back his way.

He headed toward us, hands tucked casually into the front pockets of his jeans, walking at just the right speed—fast enough to show us that he wanted to meet us, but slow enough that he didn’t appear too eager. His gaze quickly swung over the group and settled on me. When our eyes met, I felt a shock that stung me from the inside out. It was that same weird feeling I’d experienced that day with the big orange cat.

I could tell he was sizing me up, and I decided that more than likely, he would dismiss me as a girl-next-door type not worth his flirting efforts. Not that I could blame him. As usual, I was dressed for comfort—cute T-shirt, jean capris, and slip-on tennies. I wasn’t a complete mess, though, because I had actually done my hair, which meant that I combed it. I also wore mascara because D’neise had insisted she wouldn’t hang out with me unless I did at least one little bitty thing to make myself more presentable.

As he was taking stock of me, I was doing the same of him. I found his cocky attitude a bit annoying but decided he was good looking in a rough-around-the-edges kind of way. His body was a few inches shorter and a bit thicker than his slender, broad-shouldered cousin, and his face was a wider, less refined version of Chester’s smooth features, but there was a certain sameness about them that defined them as family. Maybe it was their eyes, which were nearly identical in shape, color, and the way they fit into their faces. Still, there was something in Foster’s eyes that wasn’t in Chester’s. Was it a sense of humor sprinkled with a bit of wariness?

He studied me far longer than I anticipated. Then, just as I had expected, his cobalt-blue gaze fastened on D’neise, who stood to my right, looking like an exotic Disney princess, perfectly made up, and wearing a stylish size-two yellow mini dress.

He stopped in front of her and raised a jaunty eyebrow. Hey, pretty mama.

D’neise’s smile disappeared. She stared him down in her intelligent, no-nonsense way. You’d better start over. (Meaningful pause.) "Because I am not your mama."

She crossed her arms and waited.

Amusement sparkled in his eyes, but his expression remained serious. I can definitely see that you are not my mama, or in any way close to being my mama, so I apologize for being so forward.

He stepped back and executed a curt, polite bow.

My eyes rolled before I could stop them.

On my left, Matt laughed, a deep, comfortable sound.

Foster’s gaze swung over, then up, and then up some more. He gave a nod. Hey, man.

Matt extended a hand. Matt Peach. Good to meet you.

Foster hesitated for a second, probably startled by the sheer mass of a hand that went with a six-foot-seven body, but his smile was easy as he grabbed Matt’s palm and gave a firm shake.

Matt grinned. The girl you just insulted is D’neise O’Neil, smartest girl in the whole school and captain of the pom squad. Matt laid a hand on my shoulder. And this is MaryAnn Flute, my best friend since kindergarten.

And my best friend since first grade, added D’neise, giving me an affectionate sideways bump with her hip.

I was oddly satisfied when Foster McNault had to raise his eyes a few inches to meet my gaze. To his credit, he didn’t make any Wow, you’re a tall drink of water remarks or compare me to Amazon women. He seemed to take my six-foot-two size in stride and slid his gaze from me to Matt, to D’neise, then back to me.

The corners of his eyes crinkled. How did my cousin get lucky enough to make it into the MaryAnn Flute circle of friends?

I squinted at him. Was that a snide comment disguised inside a seemingly nice one?

Chester adjusted his wire-frame glasses as if he were truly considering Foster’s snarky question. He gave the shorthand version. MaryAnn and I sat next to each other in fourth grade.

I smiled fondly at Chester. I never would have gotten long division if you hadn’t helped me. To this day, every time I do a math problem, I am deeply grateful.

Well, when Miss Spence handed back your test and you burst into tears, I knew I had to help you.

Yeah, but you didn’t have to, and you gave up all your recess time to do it.

He chuckled. Thank God you finally got it. Otherwise, we’d still be on that playground.

I laughed, then wondered why I didn’t know Chester better. He occasionally came along when Matt, D’neise, and I went to the movies, school sporting events, or out to eat, but none of our conversations were ever very deep or even remotely personal. All I knew about Chester was that he was serious and incredibly smart, yet well-liked around school. He held the esteemed job of editor of our school newspaper. I also knew he lived with his grandmother, who owned a plant nursery where he worked after school and on weekends.

Foster blinked a couple of times, leaving me with the impression he could somehow read my thoughts. The first bell jangled, and he snapped out of his reverie with a little jump.

I’ve got to meet a girl in the science hallway. He grinned at us. She’s dying to give me a tour of the school.

Chester frowned. I already gave you a tour of the school.

It’s not about the tour, bro; it’s about the girl.

We watched him lope purposely in the correct direction. He appeared to have the layout of the school completely memorized, reaffirming the fact that it was, indeed, about the girl.

Matt turned to Chester. Foster seems like a good guy. I like him.

The two boys headed off side by side and D’neise tilted her head at me. I get the distinct impression you do not like the charming Foster McNault at all.

He’s too charming. I don’t trust him.

She laughed. You don’t trust him? It’s not like he’s some kind of spy or something. He’s a kid, MaryAnn, just like you, me, and everyone else in this school. You have no reason to mistrust him.

I lifted an amused brow. You think everyone in this school is trustworthy?

She punctuated her nod with a half-smile.

Oh, yeah? What about Mackenzie Westgerber?

D’neise scrunched up her face. Complete bitch, totally untrustworthy, as are all the stupid girls who hang out with her. She shrugged. But everybody else in our school is cool.

A thought suddenly popped into my head. You, don’t suppose the girl Foster is meeting is Mackenzie, do you?

D’neise made a sound in the back of her throat that came out somewhere between a growl and an annoyed ha-rump. I wouldn’t doubt it for a second. Let’s hope Foster is smarter than he looks.

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CHAPTER 2

A FEW DAYS later, Matt and I were making our way from algebra to newspaper. Usually, it’s an easy walk because they are only three doors away from each other, but today we were struggling through an abnormally crowded hallway. The girl quotient in this hallway had doubled or possibly even tripled. Some girls walked as if they were reluctant to enter classrooms. Others were scattered by twos or threes in gossipy little circles, and a whole line of them stood in front of lockers, halfheartedly spinning combinations. All of them were casting fleeting glances Matt’s way.

Matt is definitely crush-worthy, and I knew girls often positioned themselves to run into him each day, but this over-saturation in one hallway was beyond weird. Something was up.

LuAnn Grumskey and Donna DeHart stood a few feet ahead of us, just out of the flow of traffic. As we approached, I heard LuAnn hiss, Just ask him! That was followed by an out and out shove, and suddenly, tiny Donna was standing in front of us, looking like a frightening red-haired puppy in the path of an oncoming Clydesdale.

Matt was so busy smiling and saying hello to everyone else in the hallway that he nearly plowed her over. Just as she was about to topple backward, he caught her by the shoulders and pulled her back to upright.

He eyed her with concern. Sorry about that, Donna. You okay?

She had to tilt her head back in order to look at his face. So far back, in fact, that the overhead lights reflected in her enormous brown eyes. She seemed unable to speak but managed a smile and a vigorous nod before stumbling back to her friend.

Matt watched her wobble away, then turned a wrinkled forehead to me. Is it just me, or do all the girls seem a little crazier lately?

Yes, they are crazier, I said, looking him straight in the eye. And it is you, my friend.

Matt, as clueless and unassuming as ever, cocked his head to the side. You’re not making sense, MaryAnn.

We stepped into the classroom, where a circle of chairs had been placed in the center for our weekly idea meeting. I stowed my backpack under my chair, and as I was straightening back up, my eyes looked directly into Foster McNault’s, who was doing the same thing with his bag.

Since that first day, Foster had joked and flirted his way into the hearts of the entire female population of Serenity High. Heck, even the guys were smitten with his wisecracks and funny stories. It was obvious that Foster was just plain fun, and I would readily have joined in with the good-natured teasing between him and Matt if that ominous feeling hadn’t almost knocked me down the first time I’d seen him.

But it had.

Therefore, I was keeping my distance from the charming Foster McNault.

But every day, keeping my distance grew a little more difficult because Foster was just so darn likable. The red flags that had popped up at our initial meeting were beginning to fade to pink. Still, something about him made me uneasy. Every so often, I would look up and find him studying me, blinking as if he were trying to fit puzzle pieces together inside his brain.

Today, I ignored him and let my gaze wander around the classroom, which was one of my absolute favorite places. I especially loved it on dark, rainy days when the quiet hum of computers mixed with the sound of raindrops hitting against the high windows of the sturdy brick building. It was a cozy, functional space.

The teacher’s and editor’s desks sat directly across from the doorway, at the back of the room, positioned so the occupants could sit with their backs to the wall, keeping an eye on the class while conversing easily with whoever sat in front of them in the small, battered armchairs that faced them. Desks with computer stations dotted the room, but there was enough open space for us to squeeze our chairs into our meeting circle in the back right corner. The corner opposite served as a lounging area with an old couch and a time-weathered coffee table.

When we had a deadline, we often stayed in here, typing one-handed while holding a sandwich with the other, finishing our articles and our lunches at the same time. Many of us spent our free hour here as well, catching a nap on the couch or completing homework with our feet propped up on the sturdy two-tiered coffee table. The lower level was jumbled with various magazines students brought from home and left for anyone who might want them next.

Chester slid into the only empty chair in the circle, glancing over his notes as he gave the staffers a few more minutes to chitchat. Normally a senior held the position of editor-in-chief, but when Tom Moore resigned because his family abruptly moved to Denver at the beginning of the year, our adviser, Ms. Decker, had suggested Chester as his replacement. The vote was immediate and unanimous. We all liked and admired Chester. He carried an aura of smart, quiet confidence. He was highly skilled with words and computers, and he had an easy way of managing people. No one on the staff possessed even half his skills, and we all knew it.

Chester looked around the circle. Anybody got any amazing ideas before I tell you mine?

How about a comparison of all the haunted houses in the area? Sheila Anderson spoke from her chair on the other side of Matt. I’ve done an informal poll of teens, age fourteen to eighteen. About seventy-five percent of them visited a haunted house last Halloween, and at least thirty percent visited two or more.

Sheila was always precise, one of those math brains who was probably going to give Chester and D’neise a run for their money next year when it came time to choose a valedictorian. Her problem was she had spent so much time developing her math skills that she had failed to work on any of the ones involving people.

Chester nodded. Good. I think our readers will appreciate that. Are you planning on checking them out yourself?

She gave a little snort. Of course.

Sheila’s condescending attitude annoyed me, but it didn’t seem to faze Chester. I had no doubt that was your plan, Sheila, since you are always thorough with your research. However, in this case, I think it would be more informative for our readers to have a couple of different opinions. Yours could be from an analytical viewpoint. Things like how sophisticated the setups are and price comparisons. Then, we could have one from a more emotional standpoint. He looked around the circle for a moment, and then said, Mark, would you mind checking out the same places Sheila goes to and write your article from the feeling aspect?

You mean, like, how much they scare me? Mark asked.

Scream by scream, Chester answered.

Cool, said Mark, nodding his head so much that his shoulder-length brown hair swayed.

Mark was a bit of a stoner, but he was a good writer and always turned his articles in on time. He was Sheila’s exact opposite, so he was perfect for the job.

What about the corn maze over in Littleton? asked Robert Barnes, a tall boy with close-cropped blond hair and a muscular build. My girlfriend and I went last year. It was wicked spooky.

Stephanie Rourke spoke up in a tiny voice that didn’t quite match her outgoing personality and bouncy red hair. So, what makes it so spooky?

There’s this huge cornfield, explained Robert, waving his arms in a big circle to demonstrate just how enormous it was. They have all these pathways going through it, and they all intersect with each other. You go at night when it’s pitch-black, so they give you flashlights, but the beams are so small compared to all the darkness that you keep getting turned around. It feels like you’re never going to get out. They also set up things to scare you along the way, so it’s kind of like a haunted house made out of corn stalks.

Ewww, squeaked Stephanie. That sounds fun!

I saw Chester and Foster exchange amused looks. They knew as well as I did what the next sentence out of Robert’s mouth would be since it was common knowledge that he and his girlfriend had broken up over the summer.

Wanna go with me?

Hell, yeah! grinned Stephanie.

Chester shook his head good-naturedly. Now that that’s settled, Stevo, why don’t you write up the game?

Since the regular football season had ended a few weeks previously, the game to which Chester was referring was an annual event specifically designed for former Serenity High players to relive their glory days. The alumni players got together, picked teams with a lottery system, and played a game for the enjoyment of all the townspeople. It was a big, heavily attended event.

Chester continued, Aaron, you scout around and talk to students to see if there’s anything they want in this issue, but as I see it, it’s Halloween, and no one cares about real news. All they want are spooky stories and updates on all the Halloween activities.

How about a top ten of the all-time scariest movies and reviews of the ones in the theaters now? Vanessa Avila piped up from next to Foster.

She was a dark-haired beauty with a perfect shape and a flawless complexion. She smiled at Foster as he bobbed his head in exaggerated agreement.

Chester nodded. Good idea, Vanessa. You can handle that. He paused to jot down a few notes, then looked up. Now, what about the dance?

That was it! That’s why the halls were so crowded with all those girls swarming around Matt like sharks to a deliciously tasty (and handsome) piece of fish. I groaned and slapped a hand to my forehead.

Foster burst out laughing. What’s wrong, MaryAnn? No date for the dance?

I glared at him, but my outburst seemed to give Chester an idea. MaryAnn, why don’t you interview the Poms? Graveyard Stomp is a huge thing, so people will be expecting us to report on it.

Ordinarily, I would have protested having to deal with the cheerleading squad, simply known as the Poms around school. Out of its sixteen members, I considered two-thirds of them to be nitwits. However, D’neise was the team captain, so I could get all my answers from her. The article would practically write itself.

Chester’s eyes scanned the group again. Seems what everyone wants at Halloween is a good ghost story, so why don’t we all ask around and see if any students or teachers have had any ghostly encounters or know of any unsolved mysteries?

Stephanie let out an excited gasp. Why don’t you do a story on the murder here?

Everyone turned to stare at her and, almost as one, asked, What murder?

I haven’t heard anything about a murder, said Chester.

Sure you have, answered Stephanie. It happened way back, like in the ’90s. A girl was killed after the big game. They found her body under the bleachers.

Oh, yeah, said Chester. I did hear about that, but I thought it was just some kind of urban legend.

Now everybody was talking at once, comparing stories.

They found her the day after the Halloween dance.

She was stabbed, right?

No, strangled.

No, stabbed. Like fifty times.

They never found out who did it.

Usually, Ms. Decker let Chester run the meetings and kept out of things, but now she rose from her desk and clapped her hands for quiet.

When everyone settled down, she spoke. I don’t think the administration would like us dredging up this old story. Besides, I heard it was a suicide, and out of respect for her family, I don’t think we should rehash it. I also don’t know about the idea of devoting a whole issue to Halloween. After all, many people don’t even celebrate it. We could get a lot of flak from the church groups.

Chester’s frown showed he was thinking the same thing we all were. Serenity residents loved their Halloween. The last week of October was a citywide celebration that drew tourists from neighboring towns. Why would anybody be offended at our completely Halloween issue?

Ms. Decker pumped her palms in a let’s slow down gesture. Her ring flashed a reflection of the overhead light as she moved her hand toward the silver necklace she always wore. When her fingers caught the cross at the end of the chain, she slowly twisted it back and forth, just like she usually did when deciding how to put her thoughts into tactful words.

I’m just saying it could make some people very angry if we devote this much print to ghosts and goblins. There are twelve churches in the greater Serenity area, and I’m sure most of them do not condone celebrating Halloween.

Then they can complain to me, said Chester stubbornly.

I could tell by the set of his jaw that he wasn’t going to back down anytime soon.

Ms. Decker noticed it, too, because she threw up her hands in a surrender gesture. I’m trying to help you, Chester. Just think about it.

The bell sounded but nobody got up. We were too busy staring at Ms. Decker’s back as she stomped out of the room.

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CHAPTER 3