Chapter 9
Anonymous Caller: Yeah, hi, um … I’m on my way home from this haunt.
It’s in, uh, what’s the name of it? (inaudible voices in the background) Oh, it’s called, like, Hellbound, I think, and it’s off of Bennett Street at the old Garish farm.
Listen … (sighs audibly) I think we saw a dead body in there, but like a real dead body.
It smelled, man. It smelled so bad, and it just didn’t look like the other mannequins.
There was this kind of wet look to it. I don’t know.
Just—I think you need to get out there. There are a few people just walking through, and no one can find the owner of the haunt.
It’s just a free-for-all. (almost hangs up) Oh!
I heard about the place from a friend of mine, but he only heard about it from someone at a bar, I think?
Can’t find a website for it or anything.
I feel fucked up for even going. Just … check it out. I hope I’m wrong. (line disconnects)
The call came in at a shitty time, but they always do.
Leroux stretches himself out of his car, throwing the wrapper from a candy bar onto the passenger seat.
He had just left the precinct to go home when they called him out to the middle of fucking nowhere.
Dispatch said something about a possible deceased person being used as a haunted house prop, and in response, his eyes almost rolled into the next parish.
Seems to him like a stupid prank, just the kind deployed every year near Halloween to waste their goddamn time.
But even before he reaches the massive barn, the familiar scent of decomposition snakes its way into his nose, humbling him immediately.
This isn’t a joke. The smell gets thicker the closer he gets.
As he steps onto a small makeshift porch, he nods to Officer Moore, a young man with big brown eyes and a face that betrays his youth.
Moore is stationed outside, tightly gripping the rickety railing in front of him and looking slightly green.
It’s a subtle hue that only the more experienced death investigators would be able to detect, but it’s undeniably there.
Once you see the face of someone whose stomach is literally churning, it’s impossible to miss.
Moore puffs out a nauseated breath, shaking his head in a silent warning of what is waiting inside the barn.
Leroux claps a hand down on his shoulder, giving it a squeeze.
“Sometimes it helps to just let it rip, my friend.”
Moore nods, swallowing hard.
“Hit the bushes over there. Try to make it quiet.”
Having secured permission, Moore rushes past him, hustling over to the bushes that lie just outside most sight lines.
No one seems to notice. It’s a somber scene, where even the sound of a rookie retching doesn’t inspire the smallest bit of good-natured taunting.
Stillness seems to roll out of every corner of the run-down property, making the chirping of birds and the rustle of the soft breeze sound intrusively loud by contrast. He takes in the barn using all his senses, and he can hear hushed conversations between officers and the inorganic crinkling of evidence bags.
Technicians silently collect whatever is deemed important, walking the perimeter in a macabre march.
“Did they tell you?”
A voice shakes Leroux from his observant trance. He looks to his right to see his partner, Will Broussard, who looks every bit as horrified as everyone else around here. His sleeves are rolled up, and Leroux can tell that he’s preparing for the darkness that awaits them inside the haunt.
“This thing”—Will gestures at the amateur haunted house—“it just popped up out of nowhere like a fucking pox. People must have heard about it from word of mouth or something,” he says, walking toward the barn.
“Can you believe this shit? A few groups just made their way in and walked through last night.”
Leroux looks at Will’s face, realizing it really is as bad as it sounds. “Jesus. I honestly thought someone was bullshitting me with this one.”
Will rubs the back of his neck as they approach the entrance. “Smells like a party in there.”
“I fucking hate Halloween,” Leroux says curtly, crossing the threshold.
The smell is absolutely everywhere. No pocket of air remains unblemished by the sickly sweet stench.
Adding to the assault to the senses is slow, crawling music that’s playing on a loop.
A muffled mass of violins and piano crackles from old speakers.
The barn entrance is narrowed by two large makeshift walls, creating an entry tunnel that leads into bigger spaces through the structure.
The walls appear to be plywood panels that have been painted black.
Snaking plastic vines are haphazardly glued all over them.
They don’t reach the barn’s ceiling, but someone has tacked gauzy fabric across the open space at the top, stretching it to form a canopy.
Will flicks on a flashlight, casting its beam around the tight space. When the light hits a prop skeleton perched in a rocking chair in a corner, they both jump.
“I swear I about shot that thing.”
“Hey, hello! Someone want to direct us here?” Leroux shouts.
“They can’t hear us over that fucking music.” Will feels along the wall with his gloved hand, searching in vain for a seam or a doorway leading anywhere beyond this cramped entry.
“Just push the wall in.” The edge in Leroux’s voice is clear. He can feel the space closing in on him as sensory overload kicks in. The mix of claustrophobia and loud, unsettling music is bad enough, but it’s crossed into unbearable with the addition of the now-overwhelming stench assaulting him.
“I’ve got it—just give me a second.” Will sticks his tongue between his teeth like he always does when he’s concentrating. He feels around the same spot over and over again, finding nothing but fake vines and more seamless plywood.
“Will, I’m going to use your body to pry this thing open in a second.”
He sighs, directing the flashlight beam directly into Leroux’s face. “Go ahead.”
With that, Leroux kicks the wall. Part of it almost completely buckles, sending plastic vines and Lord knows what else to the dirty floor beneath them. But, along with the shattered plywood, a passage into the main room of the haunt opens up.
Three officers on the other side of the wall jump back. “Jesus! You ever heard of preserving the scene?” one asks, shaking his head.
“If the plywood ends up being our smoking gun, I’ll resign in shame.” Leroux looks around, now noticing the macabre shadows that surround them in the mostly darkened room. “Someone turn off the music. What is wrong with you all?”
All three officers throw their hands up. “We can’t find the source,” one says.
Will grunts, shaking his head and charging toward the only lit area, where a speaker rests high in a corner. Under it, a cobweb is illuminated by a yellowing spotlight. “Someone give me something.”
They all stare blankly at him, no one making a move to help.
“Something to hit it with, you worthless donkeys!” Will yells, his eyes widening.
Reluctantly, one of the officers drops a club into Will’s outstretched hand. In an instant, Will reaches up and hammers the speaker as hard as he can, replacing the music with the soft hum of electrical malfunction. “You patrol guys really are useless, huh?”
“Again, I will say—” a young officer begins.
“Yeah, yeah, preserving the scene. We get it. You really remember that one from the exams.” Will drops the club back into the officer’s outstretched hand. “You’ll have to forgive me for forgetting the big gold stars today.” He rolls his eyes, casting his flashlight’s glow around the walls.
Leroux flicks on his own flashlight, getting a better look at the shapes around them.
He blinks hard, trying to focus on the scene.
Clearing his throat, he attempts to take it all in at once.
Now the smell is changing, transitioning between a rancid stench and something cloying that triggers his gag reflex almost instantly.
He swallows hard, pushing air out of his nose to clear the sensation.
Although the smell is familiar, this time it’s hitting him differently.
There’s a chemical element that he can’t place.
“What am I looking at right now?” he finally asks, letting his eyes wander until they stop at a chaotic display in the corner.
One of the patrolmen answers. “You’re looking at a horror movie.”
Leroux and Will move closer to what seems to be the crime scene, stepping slowly over the filthy floor and hearing the crunch of debris under their shoes. When they get to the scene’s edge, neither of them speaks for a few moments. The hum of the broken speaker feels loud in the deep stillness.
“Get Muller out here,” Leroux says suddenly, his voice booming in the void.
“On it.” One of the patrol officers makes the call, stepping outside and leaving the heaviness behind.
It’s a macabre tableau unlike anything Leroux has encountered before. The first thing he sees is her.
A young woman, barely out of her teens, has been posed to appear as a prop in this haunted house.
She’s dressed as a nun, and blood has seeped through the fabric delicately draped over her form.
Her hair is covered by a very traditional habit, making it impossible to identify a hairstyle or color.
She’s been forced into a kneeling position, her hands together in prayer.
He can see the wires holding her in this stance.
The wires are connected to hooks in the rafters above them, but they waver slightly, making her appear to be gently swaying.