Chapter 10
Becki
T he automatic doors at the Hollar Dollar squeak like they’re haunted. Which, hell, maybe they are. Everything in this strip mall feels halfway between alive and abandoned. Paradise on one side, Hell on the other, and me stuck in the cheap aisle of purgatory.
I lean against the register in my plastic tiara and orange pumpkin earrings, handing out candy even though trick-or-treat was last Friday. The store manager thought it’d “boost morale,” but all it does is rot my teeth and give the kids another excuse to run wild between the discount bins.
“Here ya go, darlin’,” I tell a little girl from Paradise, dropping a fun-size Milky Way in her bucket. She’s dressed as a witch, face smeared green, grinning like it’s still the best night of the year. Her mama thanks me, polite as pie, before glancing at my tattoos like they’re stains.
I’m used to it. Folks from Paradise will take my candy but not my company.
Next in line are two boys from Hell, one with a skull painted across his face, the other in a shredded biker vest three sizes too big. They fist-bump me like we’re equals. “Happy Halloween, Becki!”
I grin. “Don’t eat it all in one night, or you’ll be pukin’ up nougat till Christmas.”
They laugh and run off, nearly bowling over Mrs. Howard from Pearly Gates, who’s balancing a crate of canned beans. Her gray hair’s twisted in a bun, her smile just as sweet as I remember from childhood sermons.
“Well, if it isn’t Rebecca Carter,” she says, ignoring the boys. “My, you look just like your mama.”
That stings, but I force a smile. “Thanks, Miss Howard.”
She drops her voice, almost conspiratorial. “You know, some of the ladies at Pearly were saying… it’s been years, but they still tell stories about that Halloween. The night Leah Crowley died. Say her ghost walks the ridge.”
Her words land like ice in my stomach. My mother’s name in someone else’s mouth always does. But usually they don’t know Mama Crowley was mine. To them, she’s just a story whispered over cider.
I shove a handful of candy into her bag. “Happy Halloween.”
She makes the sign of the cross as if I’d just cursed her.
By noon, I’ve seen them all, Paradise moms grabbing dollar-store décor, Hell bikers buying rolling papers and motor oil, Pearly Gates folks stocking up like the world might end tonight.
And then he walks in.
The Reverend. My father.
He’s dressed nice like always, collar big, open to show off his cross, smile brighter than the fluorescent lights overhead. He pushes a cart straight to the back coolers and loads it with twenty gallons of milk. Like always, for the commune.
“Rebecca,” he calls as he approaches the register. “How’s my girl?”
My skin prickles. He always says it like we’re close, like I didn’t run screaming from his holy empire the second I had a choice.
“I’m fine,” I say, scanning jug after jug. The barcode beeps stacking like a countdown.
“You’re looking well.” He rests his hand on the counter. He still wears his wedding ring. “Halloween never was a godly holiday, but I’m glad to see you working. Keeping busy. Staying safe.”
His eyes crinkle, but I know the trick, this is butter before the sermon.
“There’s another party tonight,” he adds, shaking his head. “Drunkenness, debauchery. Nothing but an excuse for demons to dance.”
I shrug. “Sounds like fun.”
A twitch in his jaw preceded the smile. “We’ll be praying for you.”
I bag his milk, heavy enough to break the counter. “That’s sweet of you.”
When he’s gone, the entire store exhales. Even the kids hush when he walks by.
By the time my shift ends, the sun’s low, and the air tastes like wood smoke and sugar. I trade my tiara for blood-red lipstick, my apron for a ripped-up skeleton dress, and walk straight into the streets of Hell where the party’s already roaring.
Bikers spill out of the Fire Pit bar, neon lights buzzing over leather and glitter. Someone’s grilling hot dogs in a trash-can fire. Girls in wings and not much else dance on truck beds, the sound of Harleys revving up rattling the windows of the old main street.
Drinking too much, I should feel at home here. But as I weave through the crowd, all I can think is, Legend’s not here. Royal’s not here either.
Instead, I feel it. That shadow. That weight in the dark just beyond the music.
My Biker Boo.
I spin slow, pretending to admire the party, but my skin hums with the certainty. He’s here. Watching. Waiting.
Maybe he’s following me. Maybe he’s already steps ahead.
There’s only one way to find out. I go home. I leave the noise behind, boots crunching toward the graveyard that bleeds into the limit of Pearly Gates, behind the old chapel. One nobody bothers with now that the church is in ruin. Kids have been here. Pumpkins rot on the fence posts.
The moon turns the headstones silver as I step inside the gates.
“Alright,” I whisper into the night. “If you’re out here… come find me, Biker Boo.”
The wind rustles through the weeds, and my pulse kicks.
I’m not sure if I’m hunting him, or if I’m the one being hunted.
Either way, Halloween ain’t over yet.