The Jester

Chapter One

Coal-black eyes pierce the blonde girl. The world contracts, colors drain, and all she hears is her pounding heart. Details sharpen. Panic scorches up her spine, incinerating reason. Each breath rasps; invisible claws clamp her chest. Vision narrows; shadows throb at the edges. A serpentine voice hisses in her mind, dripping venom, murmuring what she can’t bear. Nightmares choke out reason, leaving only terror. Every muscle begs to flee, yet she’s trapped in the gaze of an unblinking nightmare.

“Abby, where are you?”

“Here, Mother.” Abby’s voice is soft.

Alice Lawson, mid-forties in yoga gear, steps from behind worn books to her daughter. She has brought Abby to the estate sale for the late Lady Hawthorne, whose will require the proceeds to fund future local projects.

Alice watches Abby, petrified at the porcelain doll table, knuckles white. The air presses in. Panic explodes in Alice’s chest, hammering her heart. Abby’s face is ghostly, lips parted, eyes wide and alarmed. Alice feels icy dread crawl up her spine, frozen fingers squeezing her throat. It’s a primal fear: something invisible stalks them both.

As she approaches, Alice wonders how much Lady Hawthorne truly loved porcelain dolls.

“Abby, stay close.”

Alice draws near and sees what paralyzes Abby. The girl’s eyes are wide, breath ragged. Abby is transfixed by a jester doll suspended mid-cartwheel—limbs frozen in mock play; arms stretched in a silent scream. Panic shakes her visibly. The blue costume blazes under the lights, gold pom-poms glittering. The porcelain mask is corpse-pale, with green tears and a twisted, leering grin. For an instant, Alice swears it looks straight at Abby—straight through her.

“Abby.”

Her daughter does not respond.

Abby remains silent. Alice steps closer, gently placing a hand on her daughter’s shoulder.

Abby jerks upright at Alice’s touch, as if waking from a nightmare, and screams—a raw sound that cuts through the crowd. She collapses against her mother, muscles stiffening so violently they nearly fall together.

Alice grabs her daughter. “Honey, are you okay?”

Abby shrieks, staggers from her mother, and claws at the air as if to rip herself free. Her face is ashen, lips quivering, and breath sharp. Her gaze stays locked on the jester doll, unreachable.

Shoppers turn, whispering as Alice pleads. “Honey, stop, please.”

The shrieks echo. Alice grabs her face. “Abby, stop!”

Sometimes, terror seeps so deep it’s impossible to tell where fear ends, and something older, hungrier, and bottomless begins. Then, the boundary between nightmare and reality dissolves—something ancient presses in, drawn by panic.

Abby’s scream abruptly ceases. Her eyes, unfocused, slowly shift to meet her mother’s gaze.

Abby draws a shattered, ragged breath. Lips tremble, eyes wide and wild, she forces out: “He’s going to kill us all.” The words are raw with terror and certainty. Her knees buckle, and she collapses, limp as a broken doll, head lolling against her mother.

Alice looks around in alarm and yells for help, waving her arms to get attention.

                                             Chapter Two

“Odd first sale day.” Gavin Hawthorne forces a lopsided grin as he surveys the restless crowd. The estate’s grand foyer is packed with eager bidders. Dust motes swirl in the sunlight. Every shadow seems to twitch with secrets. 

 

Gavin stands beside Austin Stone, trying to relax, but his eyes stay alert, darting from the crowd to the porcelain dolls arranged like silent sentries. He barely knew his late aunt. After selling her family business shares, she vanished. Gavin returned to Westport only because his father’s illness left the estate leaderless. Now, his aunt’s legacy weighs on him like a stone.

 

Lady Hawthorne’s will shock everyone. The family receives only a portion of her fortune, under strict conditions. The estate sale must bankroll Westport’s future as a tourist haven. Gavin feels trapped, but the town’s survival depends on his compliance. He’ll see it through, despite his doubts.

 

Austin Stone, Lady Hawthorne’s longtime assistant and now co-executor, stands at his elbow. He’s calm in the storm, but there’s a haunted edge to his eyes. Rumors swirl about his closeness with Lady Hawthorne. Now, he’s left managing her estate and secrets.

 

Gavin leans in, lowering his voice. “How’s the girl?”

 

Austin’s jaw tightens. “Unresponsive but stable. I told them to call if anything changes.”

 

Gavin’s gaze drifts toward the far end of the room, where a mother clutches her daughter. “She stared at my aunt’s doll?”

 

Austin nods, voice dropping. “Yes. Transfixed. Wouldn’t look away.”

 

“The jester?” Gavin asks, unease creeping in.

 

Austin hesitates. “Your aunt always said the jester was odd. She never explained—just laughed it off and changed the subject. It always gave me the creeps.”

 

“Any problems before?”

 

Austin shakes his head. “Not that I know of. But I stayed away from the dolls. Never liked them—always found them… unsettling.”

 

Gavin glances at the jester doll on the display table. Its painted grin catches the light, frozen in a leer. “Take it out of circulation. Photograph it, post it online. Maybe someone will recognize it.”

 

Austin nods, pulls out his phone, and snaps a photo. The doll’s black eyes glint, following as he lowers his hand. Without waiting, Austin slips the jester into his bag. It’s heavier than expected, almost resisting. Its gaze lingers.

 

They carry the doll down the hall to Lady Hawthorne’s dedicated doll room—a white, sun-bright space lined with glass cases and shelves crowded with delicate faces. Austin sets the jester on a table beneath the brightest lamp.

 

“My aunt always kept the lights on in here,” Gavin says. “She claimed the dolls disliked the dark.”

 

Austin manages a weak smile. “Then this one should be happy.”

 

He steps back, but the room chills. Both men glance at the jester doll. Its painted grin stays fixed. The air vibrates with memories of all the averted eyes.

 

“Let’s hope that’s the last trouble,” Gavin says, but his voice rings hollow.

 

They leave—neither noticing the faintest whisper as the door clicks shut, the sound curling through the doll room like a threat: “I will kill you all.”

 

                                                                                      Chapter Three

Tito Rivera inhales slowly before entering Smith State Hospital for the Criminally Insane. On his first shift, nerves taut, he discreetly wipes damp palms with a napkin.

Inside, Tito finds himself at a facility housing America’s most violent minds. John Connolly—the infamous Jester—is among them.

Connolly, infamous as a real-life slasher, was once an acrobat in Fat Tony’s circus with his partner Ivy. Their act dazzled crowds until Ivy died in a tragic 1981 accident. The circus soon collapsed, leaving Connolly broken and guilty. He blamed himself, the audience, who always wanted more dangerous acts, and Fat Tony. 

Connolly began crafting porcelain jester dolls for money after the circus shut down. Soon, he claimed one doll began to whisper. It commanded him to kill.

Connolly donned his jester costume—mask split between joy and grief, bells crusted with blood, suit blotched. He armed himself with juggling knives and props—the tools of his killer act.

From 1982 to 1996, the Jester murdered over forty-five victims, targeting persons who were celebrating events. He left jester dolls inscribed with rhymes, taunting police.

Detective Evelyn Hart, whose parents died at the Jester’s hands, led the task force. She teamed with psychologist Dr. Marcus Lang, who traced Connolly’s warped justice: punishing those he saw as cruel or mocking at joyful events.  

The task force trapped him at a masquerade ball in 1996. Hart fought, disarmed, and unmasked him. Underneath was John Connolly, once a star, now a monster.

At trial, Connolly claimed a voice named Aleron, a cursed jester imprisoned in a doll, compelled him to commit crimes.

The original Aleron doll remained hidden. Replicas were his calling card.

Now, nearly three decades later, Connolly still waits behind the walls of Smith State. And tonight, Tito Rivera is about to meet him.

 

Chapter Four

Tito’s heart pounds as he walks onto Smith State’s grounds for his first shift. The hospital looms, a fortress of concrete and steel, windows gleaming in morning light. Every inch feels exposed—no fences, nowhere to hide. Trimmed trees stare, branches like skeletal hands pointing toward a place escape cannot reach.

 

He swallows hard as he passes through security. Guards with hard eyes check badges and bags. Phones are surrendered. Metal detectors beep. Panic buttons mark every hallway—promising help is near but reminding that it sometimes arrives too late.

 

Inside, Tito is issued a laminated pass and a stark white map of the facility. Cameras pivot as he moves, tracking his every nervous step. No one smiles. The air buzzes with a tension that makes his skin itch.

Mr. Rojias, his supervisor, greets him with a firm but hurried handshake. “You’ll shadow a senior for orientation,” Rojias says, his tone brisk, his eyes already scanning the monitors above the front desk. “Keep your wits about you. Here’s your facility map.”

 

Tito studies the map, noting every checkpoint and choke point. The place is a labyrinth: reinforced cells with thick bars, isolation rooms with soundproof glass, and a recreation area under constant guard. The isolation ward houses only six patients, but each is kept behind doors that look more like vaults than hospital rooms. Every piece of furniture in the cafeteria is bolted to the floor; the courtyard is walled and watched by more cameras. Even the medical rooms are equipped for instant lockdown. Tito’s leg bounces with nervous energy as he reads about emergency protocols—evacuation routes, lockdown codes, the grim reality that transfers are rare. Most here never leave.

 

After a half-hour lost in the manual, Tito finally looks up as David Chambers, the facility director, approaches. Chambers’s smile is practiced—measured, as if he’s already weighed Tito and found him light. “Ready for your tour, Mr. Rivera?” he asks, his voice smooth as glass. Tito forces a nod, steeling himself to step deeper into the asylum’s heart.

 

Chapter Five

The facility maintains strict hygiene, with muted, calming colors and immaculate halls. As they walk toward a patient ward, David Chambers, Tito’s orientation guide, asks, “So what brings you to work here with us?”

“I want experience before school. Good pay, too.”

David asks, “Jester-obsessed, are you?”

Tito hesitates. “He’s like Michael Myers. But that’s not the only reason.”

David leads Tito into the cafeteria, where guards oversee meals. Tito meets the kitchen staff and learns the protocols for keeping utensils out of patients’ reach. He admires the balance of security and humanity.

“Good behavior gets you a desk, chair, maybe stationery.”

“How many earned that?”

“One.”

“Who?”

David stops and meets Tito’s eyes. “The Jester.”

Tito is surprised. “But he’s in isolation.”

“Still earned desk, pen, chair, and paper.”

Tito thinks. “Why is he in isolation?”

David says, “He is dangerous—doesn’t seem it, but he is. When he arrived ten years ago, management tried to keep him with the general population. It worked for a while; he mostly stayed to himself.”

David glances around. “The Jester snapped after years in the general population. One October night, he ate dinner and left with two more bodies.”

Tito is stunned; it was never reported that the Jester was killed in custody.

David pauses. “Brass wants it under wraps, so they do. People can’t know they can’t control the killer. It would cause outrage.” He continues, “After that night, he was moved to isolation, where he’s remained. Once a week, under heavy supervision, he showers and changes his prison jumpsuit. During this time, staff check his cell for suspicious activity and change his sheets.”

Tito takes a moment to think again and asks, “Who, why, and how did he kill?”

David leans in. “A client and a guard. Fifteen of us are to stop him. He says voices told him to; it was time again.”

“He stabs the client with his pen, sneaks into the cafeteria, and snaps the neck of the guard. Straight out of a horror movie.”

David pauses. “Seeing him kill is scary and amazing. It’s poetry in motion—he’s on his fellow inmate in seconds, like a lion.”

“The guy is dead before he hits the ground—Jester shoves the pen into his carotid. I’ve never seen so much blood.” David pauses. “Roman was a good man, left behind a wife, a son, and a daughter.”

“Roman approaches him and orders him to put his hands up so he can cuff him.” David pauses, shakes his head, and releases an anxious laugh. “The motherfucker does put his hands up, but he has a surprise for Roman.” David pauses once again. “Roman approaches him with cuffs ready to cuff him; the Jester springs loose, using his unnatural agility to strike Roman before he can react.”

“Roman weighs 250 pounds and is five feet ten inches tall; the Jester shoves Roman as if he were a smaller man. In one move, the Jester stops Roman in his tracks by grabbing him by the throat,” David continues. “Do you watch wrestling?”

Tito nods, intently listening.

“The Jester, with minimal effort, lifts Roman off his feet by his neck and chokeslams him to the ground,” David states. “Then, with no mercy, he snaps Roman’s neck.” David shakes his head. “By the time backup gets there, two men are dead, and as stated earlier, it takes fifteen of us to subdue him.”

Tito, transfixed by the story, feels goosebumps on his skin. David lets Tito take a moment to absorb it all. “He’s a bad man and a cold-blooded killer, and it’s part of our job to keep him locked in here,” David finally says.

Tito nods in agreement. An alarm sounds. Tito jumps. David does not budge; he looks at Tito. “It is time.”

Chapter Six 

The Jester, who no longer identifies as John Connolly, lies on his cot; the fluorescent lights flicker in the unit at Smith State Prison in Washington. He knows what it is: the day he is taken from his cell to be given a shower and a change of jumpsuit. Today is going to be different. Aleron tells him so, and he says the Jester will know when the time is right today.

As he lies on his cot, he thinks of his beautiful Ivy. It was a terrible accident during the knife-throwing portion of the act; the Jester, known as John Connolly at the time, lost his grip on the knife as he prepared to throw it. The knife changes direction; John Connolly watches in horror as it flies right into her chest. John Connolly breaks that day, allowing the curse to take hold; how could the accident have happened? They had performed the act many times without any issues.

The guilt consumes him; he finally accepts Aleron’s answer that the audience is at fault—they want increasingly but are never satisfied. It is also Big Tony’s fault; just like the audience, he wants increasingly from them. John is happy the circus disbanded after the accident and even starts rumors about the abuse, knowing there is a hint of truth to them. The final nail in the coffin for the circus is when the allegations of animal abuse are made. John is glad, yet Aleron says his work is not done; it is far from done.

John takes on the embodiment of the Jester after he cannot take the voices anymore, calling for him to make the unjust people pay by killing them. Big John is his first victim when John puts on the mask; the body is never found, and Big John just disappears from the public eye. Big John is never heard from again, and many assume he has gone into hiding after all the bad publicity and rumors of mob ties.

Aleron has a plan: if John follows him, he will see Ivy alive again. The Jester’s personality is not in full control when the Jester killings begin, so John cries out for help, using the messages as breadcrumbs to lead to their capture. It takes the police fourteen years to break the codes and capture them. John is under Aleron’s control enough that he makes sure the Jester doll disappears before they are captured. John vaguely remembers a grimy pawn shop in LA, a man named Nicky, and Westport.

Aleron then patiently waits for John to accept his fate at Smith State. The public shows John no sympathy, as expected, due to the tragedies and his claim of possession. John also longs to be with Ivy again, so he finally allows the Jester to take over, freeing him to be with Ivy for all eternity.

After twenty-nine years at Smith State, Aleron is ready to break the Jester out, knowing that his curse is in full control now. The Jester hears the ward doors open; the team has arrived to escort him to the showers.

That’s when the Jester notices it—a cane in the corner. It is not just a cane. It is his specialized cane, which conceals a knife. The cane wasn’t there. Then it was. The camera saw nothing.

This is the sign. The Jester smiles. It is that time.

Chapter Seven

Breaker and Cole are the lead officers escorting the Jester to the showers. They have executed these many times before. Anderson and Morgan follow them. The four officers arrive at the Jester’s unit together. Breaker takes the lead and knocks on the steel door. “Get in the position, Connolly,” Breaker barks. He refuses to call him the Jester. This has become routine to them; Connolly is expected to stand in the corner with his hands behind his back. Breaker and Cole will handcuff Connolly and escort him to the showers, where he will shower and change. At the same time, Anderson and Morgan will conduct a room search.

Fans of the Jester send Connolly tons of mail to his cell, a sick fandom for the real-life slasher that a small percentage of people admire. The mail is inspected upon delivery before being given to Connolly. The room search is conducted as an extra precaution in case human error allows something unauthorized to reach the Jester. A warning has now been given to Connolly to prepare for the guards’ arrival. Breaker removes a large set of keys from his belt and finds the key to open the door. Breaker places the key into the hole and turns it to the right; the door unlocks with a click. Breaker opens the door, followed by the other three officers. The steel door opens, and there stands Connolly, cane at the ready.

“What the—” Breaker does not get the rest of the words out as the retractable knife from the cane goes through his right eye. The Jester pulls the knife out, and the eyeball comes out as well, with a waterfall of blood. Breaker falls to the ground with a thud; his eye bounces a few times, then rolls into a corner of the room. The other guards are stunned; the Jester takes advantage of this moment to accurately stab Cole in the chest, slash Anderson’s neck, and bludgeon Morgan. Blood spatters all over the Jester, and he loves it. When the killing is done, the Jester uses some of the blood from Anderson’s bleeding wound to paint a smile on his face. He then picks up Breaker’s keys and steps over the bodies. When he enters the hall, he looks up, right into the security camera; the Jester knows someone is watching, so he points the cane at the camera and then takes a bow. The Jester skips toward the door leading out of the ward as the emergency alarms begin to sound.

Chapter Eight

Tito Rivera and David are heading to the isolation wing when the emergency alarms start blaring. David stops short; Tito nearly bumps into him. David goes to his belt and unclips his radio.

Before David can ask a question, a voice on the other end of the radio yells, “Escape in progress, I repeat, escape in progress, the Jester is on the loose, the Jester is on the loose, all men on deck.”

David has a stunned look on his face, and Tito remains still. David takes a moment to say, “Stay here, kid.”

Then he takes off down the hall like a man in a marathon, disappearing behind a steel door. Tito stands in the hall, dumbfounded, unsure of what to do. “Great first day,” he thinks to himself.

Tito looks at the door through which David has gone, then up at the cameras; Tito has no radio to contact anyone. Tito is a man on an island, isolated from the world, and unsure of what to do.

Tito stares at the door again, hearing screams from behind it. Sounds of grunts and firearms being discharged, along with the sounds of bodies falling to the floor, are audible through the steel door. Tito stands there helplessly as sweat starts to form on his brow.

The screams are growing louder and closer to the door now. Tito is frozen in fear as he hears a voice scream, “He is fucking too much. “A muffled scream follows it.

There is a slam against the steel door as a body falls against it. Tito gulps. There is nowhere to run; Tito has no keys to the other door.

He then looks up and sees the security camera again, looking straight at him. It zooms in on Tito; he lifts his arm and waves.

The camera zooms in on him as a voice boom from the speakers: “Head north to the other door; we will buzz you in.”

Tito looks to his left and sees the other steel door. Someone is pounding on the door on his right. There is another scream from behind the door.

Tito takes off at the scream, racing down the hallway to the other door. The door behind him starts to open as the key is inserted.

Tito reaches the end of the hall, and the door buzzes open. Tito grabs the door handle and pulls the door open. A group of security guards in riot gear stands before him. “Get in,” a voice commands.

Tito does not hesitate and enters the door. The door slams behind him. “We got the newbie,” Ramsey, leader of the riot squad, states into the portable radio in his ear.

“Good,” a voice states. “The bastard got the master set of security keys from the last group; let’s get the kid to safety and prepare for him to come through,” the voice continues.

“Yes,” the leader states. Rogers, please get Tito safe.”

“Yes, sir,” a short man step forward. He steps up to Tito. “Let’s go, bro.”

Tito does not argue and follows the man down the hallway. They work their way through another steel door, and the security in the booth buzzes it open. They enter one of the general wards.

Rogers stops before a client’s cell. “This is empty. You’ll be safe in here until we get things handled.”

Security buzzes open the cell door. It is a reasonably sized space; a light bulb in the ceiling illuminates the room, and a cot stands on the right, with folded sheets and a pillow at its edge.

Tito enters. “It locks from the outside; the security team will let us out once we have things back in order.”

Tito nods, and Rogers shuts the door. It locks behind him.

Chapter Nine

Ramsey and his team wait for the following orders. The security team on the cameras reports that the Jester has taken twelve of its members.

“He is supernatural,” AJ says, stammering in front of the cameras. Ramsey does not believe the Aleron stuff being reported, which involves a vengeful spirit seeking to avenge being wrongfully accused by some king long ago.

The Jester is a man of remarkable agility, thanks to his circus background and a bit of luck. The Jester’s luck is about to end with Ramsey’s team. Rogers returns to the unit, confirming that Tito Rivera is safe.

“Newbie is safe; what are our orders?” Ramsey states on the radio, “Stand by; we are confirming where the Jester is,” the voice replies. Copy,” Ramsey responds.

The next few minutes are tense as they wait to get their orders. The voice returns in a panicked state, “The Jester is on his way to you; I repeat, the Jester is on his way to you.”

The radio is interrupted by static. The radio operator’s voice becomes distorted, taking on the demonic tone of the exorcist girl. It switches in and out from normal to demonic.

A piercing tone knifed through the headsets; lights ruptured in white bursts.

A high-frequency sound shoots into Ramsey’s ear, forcing him to reach for the portable radio. Ramsey looks up, and the steel door opens. The leader raises his hand to tell the team to hold fire until he gives the order.

The door slowly opens, and the radio’s high-frequency blare fills the room. It is over 2000 Hz. The riot team bends over in extreme pain as the sound affects their equilibrium and vision due to its loudness.

The sound grows louder, and the lights around the team burst open, sending sparks raining down on the riot team. The hall becomes dark.

The door opens, and the Jester stands before them. He has a menacing grin. The Jester’s lips and face are covered in blood, which is in the shape of a smile. The Jester’s jumpsuit is covered in blood from his victims; his orange jumpsuit now has a crimson tinge to it.

The Jester breathes heavily, his dead, cold eyes scanning the team before him. In the Jester’s right hand is his cane, covered in blood. In his left hand is a pistol of one of the dead security forces.

The Jester steps forward as the sparks rain down on the team. The knife retracts from the cane, and the Jester sets to work.

The Jester stabs through Ramsey’s bulletproof vest. Ramsey is in shock as blood pours out from the chest wound. As Ramsey falls to his knees, the Jester pulls the knife from his chest. Ramsey starts to cough up blood and falls to the ground in spasms.

The Jester then uses the pistol in his left hand to fire directly into the faces of three riot officers. He shoots each in the right eye, and all three fall on impact, blood pouring from their eye sockets.

With the cane, he then drives the knife into another officer’s neck. The knife hits the carotid artery, and the officer falls to the floor dead in a pool of his own blood.

The Jester pulls the knife out of his victim’s neck in one motion; the Jester lifts the knife and embeds it into Rogers’s chin, then pushes it back into his throat. Blood bursts from Rogers’s mouth. The Jester pulls the knife out of Rogers’s throat. Rogers falls face-first to the ground, dead.

The Jester then uses the gun to fire the remaining bullets into all the dead officers. He allows the weapon to fall from his hand onto the ground with the dead officers; with a twirl, he faces the security camera and bows.

The Jester then retracts the knife in the cane and continues down the hallway with a skip.

By the time the Jester completes his escape, it is a massacre. The Jester kills eighty officers who are on duty as he escapes.

The lone survivor of the officers is Tito Rivera, who remains locked in the cell until he is found by state police sometime later when they enter the facility to do a full search. The Jester does not kill him because he is unaware of his presence in the cell, as he does not kill any of his fellow inmates.

Detective Hart and Doctor Lang are notified of the Jester’s escape within twenty hours. Both are stunned by the news and by the death toll reported. Tito reports everything he knows up to the point of being hidden in the cell.

After his statement, the Feds and the state police must piece together the rest of the Jester’s rampage through physical evidence and security footage.

The Jester puts on a show for the cameras as he methodically massacres all the officers at Smith State. The Feds and state police watch in horror as the Jester theatrically kills all those who stand in his way with supernatural ease and a lack of remorse.

An all-points bulletin is issued for the Jester, who has stolen a Smith State van and is heading north, as captured on the outside security cameras. The police receive tips on the van’s whereabouts. Still, neither the Federal authorities nor the state police have intercepted it yet.

Chapter Ten

“Doctor Lang, as you are the man who does the Jester’s psychological profile, do you have any ideas about his next move?” Agent Clavell asks.

Sitting in his den at home, Doctor Lang leans back in his desk chair and closes his eyes to think. After a few minutes of pause, he leans forward again. “The Jester’s persona is wrapped in the trauma of his lover’s death. The belief is that Aleron is guiding his thoughts to free him from the guilt of that trauma by killing those they both deem are mocking the Jester’s tragedy, along with those they deem unjust. They seek to take their happiness from them. So, he will seek victims who fit the profile of his psychosis.

The Jester is also triggered by celebratory events that he considers unwarranted. Are there any significant Halloween celebrations in the area that we are aware of, which the Jester might target?” Lang concludes.

“Agent Young and I have searched, and there are no big events planned for the holiday in this area as of now,” Agent Clavell states.

“Then we need to put the word out that all big and small celebrations need to be put on hold until we capture the Jester,” Detective Hart says matter-of-factly.

“I agree; if we remove that MO, we might draw him back out faster, as he needs to search harder for victims to judge as unjust,” Doctor Lang replies.

“His psychosis is split, John Connolly and the Jester. The deep-seated guilt and trauma from his partner’s death split him into two personalities; Connolly has slowly allowed the Jester to take over fully to deal with his guilt and could be in full control at this point after being locked up for twenty-plus years,” Doctor Lang continues.

“So, what about this Aleron tale?” Agent Young asks.

“There is a glimmer of truth to the story. Historically, Aleron and the tyrannical king exist during the Dark Ages; the names are part of the historical record,” Detective Hart says.

“Hart is correct, yet there is no evidence that the tale is accurate, or that the supposed possessed Jester doll even exists,” Dr. Lang interjects.

“When I question Connolly’s circus buddies, they all state that the tale comes with a doll that Fat Tony gives Connolly as an anniversary present for Connolly’s years of service to the circus. Fat Tony is proud to come across something so fantastic but is unaware of any curse associated with the doll.”

Detective Hart piggybacks on Doctor Lang’s statement. “Yes, and as for the doll, it is never recovered,” Agent Young asks.

Both Hart and Lang shake their heads no.”We ask and search; it is never recovered,” Detective Hart states.

“When questioned, the Jester simply states that the doll is safe and will not say where it is,” Doctor Lang interjects.

Agent Clavell has taken notes; he looks up at the camera. “Do you have any questions for us?” he asks.

“Yes, can we look at the surveillance video of the Jester’s escape?” Det. Hart asks, “I want to see how he pulls it off,” she adds.

Both FBI agents’ nod. “Yes, we can set up a secure link for you to view it,” Agent Young responds.

“Video review available via the secure FBI portal; full footage pending restricted chain-of-custody review.”

“I’d like to get a look at the notes that the facility has on the Jester, see if there are any changes in his psychosis,” Dr. Lang asks.

“Once our people are done looking at the files, we’ll send a secure link for you to look at them,” Agent Clavell responds.

“We will send you the tickets to fly out here if you want to join the new task force,” he adds.

Both people nod. “What do you think Dr. Lang is up to? Some hunting?” Det. Hart asks.

Dr. Lang pinches the bridge of his nose and closes his eyes for a moment of pause. “As long as you are there, partner, I will come along for the ride,” Dr. Lang states, still with his eyes closed and nose pinched.

Det. Hart smiles. “Yes, I will be there all the way, partner,” she says.

“So, it is settled; we will be flying the two of you here as soon as possible,” Agent Clavell states.

Det. Hart and Dr. Lang nod in agreement.

State police officer Dickens’s phone rings; she looks at it and then addresses the group. “We have a tip. The van the Jester steals is seen in the Hidden Valley area.”

“Let us get a team out there ASAP,” Agent Young responds.

Officer Dickens nods, then cuts her video and audio feeds.

“The Jester is not going to make it that easy,” Det. Hart states.

Dr. Lang nods in agreement. “He has a plan. There is a reason why he is in the open like that. I would suggest that any team sent in to intercept him proceed cautiously,” Dr. Lang responds.

“We will advise team members,” Agent Clavell responds. “Let’s work on getting you two out here and on the team for us,” he continues.

The three agree and cut their audio and video.

Chapter Eleven

Hidden Valley, WA, 30 miles from Smith State— Oct 26, 10:18 p.m.

Night slowly falls, and Hidden Valley is a small town where nothing happens. The local teens regularly host weekend get-togethers at an abandoned barn on the Old Westlake property throughout the year, along with ghost tours of the Westlake home.

The teens love the place due to its dark past. Legend has it that it is the home of Donald T. Westlake, a farmer, a family man, and a serial killer. In twenty years, Westlake kills an estimated thirty carpetbaggers, male and female, or more, between the start of the Great Depression and the beginning of the Cold War. He does all this without his family even knowing.

One day, when one of his victims escapes the barn and is discovered by Westlake’s wife, his dark secret is revealed. He is arrested, and upon searching the barn, the state police find an untold number of humans remains and items belonging to his victims, along with other bodies in the basement of the farmhouse.

Westlake is disowned by his wife and two kids, who move out of state soon after he is arrested. Westlake is sentenced to death in 1950, and his family abandons the farm, moving to the West Coast.

The property stands vacant due to its dark history. The local kids, who hear the legend whose truth has been embellished over the years, begin sneaking into the barn in the 1980s to smoke weed and drink, thinking it is an excellent place to be because of its dark past; they also conduct ghost hunts. Harmless fun in a boring small town. It soon becomes a tradition passed down through generations.

Hidden Valley’s Gen Z teens are hosting a pre-Halloween party tonight. This year, since the holiday falls on a Thursday, a school night, the teens decided to hold their party on the Saturday before Halloween. The teens decorate the barn with the spookiest Halloween decorations they can find, most of which are brought from Spirit Halloween, located two towns over.

The teens also install a fog machine and strobe lights in the barn. Tino Rivera and his girlfriend, Roxanne Dupree, arrive just as Diana Richardson and her girlfriend, Jennifer Franks, finish putting up the final decorations.

Diana and Jennifer are two of the most popular people at their high school. “We do a good job, babe,” Jennifer says to the petite blonde beside her. Yes, we do, baby cakes,” Diana responds to her taller brunette girlfriend.

They take each other’s hands and turn towards each other, leaning in for a kiss; Jennifer must bend down for Diana to reach her lips. “Get a room,” a voice says from behind them.

Their friend Tino Rivera walks through the barn door with Roxanne. The girls kiss, and when they complete the kiss, Jennifer states, “fuck you, Tino.”

Tino responds with a middle finger and a smile. Jennifer rolls her eyes in amusement. “It looks amazing,” Roxanne replies with a smile as she looks over the decorated barn with a spooky theme.

“Thanks,” Diana responds with a smile and a bow. Do not give her a big head, baby. She has a big head already,” Tino responds with a chuckle.

Diana does not pay him any mind and directs a question to Roxanne. “Do you, asshole, and you pick up the keg?”

Tino fakes a laugh. “It is Mr. Asshole to you, dear, and yes, it’s in the truck.”

Diana claps with excitement. She then looks at the iWatch on her wrist. “Oh, we need to get dressed,” she says, screeching.

“Yeah, by the way, where can we put on our costumes?” Roxanne asks, “There are cow stalls towards the back of the barn we plan on using as changing rooms,” to which Jennifer responds.

“Perfect,” Roxanne responds. Who are you two going to be?” Tino asks.

“I’m a Pimp Daddy, and this one here is my hooker,” Tino adds, grabbing Roxanne by the waist and pulling her close. He wants to show me off,” Roxanne states with a twerk.

Jennifer is about to say something nasty when Diana grabs and squeezes her hand before she can. Jennifer takes the cue, keeping her mouth shut.

“Sounds lovely; we are doing the couple thing as well, as peanut butter and jelly jars,” Diana responds.

Tino tries to hold back a laugh, but Roxanne is more diplomatic, stating, “Aww, that’s the cute theme.”

Jennifer is about to say something when Doug Williams, another group friend, hurriedly enters the barn. “Do you hear?” he asks.

Doug is chubby and plays center for the high school football team. He sounds out of breath from running a long way.”Hey, what’s up, big guy?” Tino asks.

There is an emergency alert on their phones. The group of friends pulls out their phones in unison. This alert informs them that the Jester has escaped custody and is believed to be in the area.

Chapter Twelve 

They look up at Dougie.”Yeah, the Jester is around,” he says, smiling.

The local teens become excited about meeting the Jester, the actual Jester killer, not the movie version, as his MO is attacking parties. The teens of the late 1990s grew up with the fictional version of the Jester killer in movies loosely based on the killings.

The movie version of the Jester is an oversized, ugly, ruthless slasher killer who kills horny teens absentmindedly and is unstoppable due to a curse. He can never die if the box office exceeds his film’s budget.

Moviegoers devour it all as the late 1990s see the resurgence of the slasher killer, with iconic figures like Ghostface and the Fisherman. The Carnival of Terror movie franchise is a forgotten gem of the late 1900s slasher genre revival. It features a clown killer, Freckles, who is based on the Jester, and both share similar heartbreaking backstories that lead to madness and killings.

Now, the real-life killer that Freckles the Clown is based on is reported in the area after escaping the asylum, and these local teens hope they will catch a glimpse of the real killer.

“Yes, Mom, we are fine,” Diana responds to her mom’s frantic phone call. Mom, Derrick speaks to his dad. The van was spotted in the area earlier today; they believe he has already left it.”

Diana continues, informing her mother that Derrick Austin, a group friend, and his dad, the Sheriff, report that Jester is no longer in the area. “Yes, Mom, give Sheriff Austin a call if you like. I speak to him, and he will have deputies checking on us every hour just to be sure. Yes, Mom, we will have the doors locked.”

She looks over at Jennifer and blows her a kiss. “Okay, Mom, I’ll call you in a few hours, I promise. “Yes, Mom, I love you too.”

Diana kisses her mother on the phone, then hangs up. She looks at Jennifer, who is standing with Dougie. “My mom is freaking out about this Jester sighting today,” she says to Jennifer and Dougie.

“Ours too,” they both state.

“He has to be old by now, like in his fifties. I’m sure I can take him,” Dougie adds, getting into a fighting stance.

“If you could read, the news is reporting he butchers eighty people at the time of his escape; he seems to have a lot still left in the tank, Dougie,” Jennifer states with a smirk.

Dougie’s face turns ghostly white at that statement. “Maybe I need some help,” he gulps, getting out of the fighting stance.

Diana shakes her head. Jennifer looks at Di, who appears sad, and asks, “What is wrong, babe?”

“This Jester thing, twenty people have canceled on us already, stating their parents will not allow them to come; they are on lockdown tonight,” Di states.

Jennifer approaches Diana, placing a loving hand on her shoulder. “It is okay, boo. We are all still here, and it does not have to be a lot of people for us to have a good time tonight,” Jennifer adds with a smile.

“Yeah, Di, besides, you have the life of the party here,” Dougie states as he starts doing a little dance.

Diana and Jennifer cannot help but laugh.

Tino Rivera, Roxanne, Derrick, the Sheriff’s son, and his girl, Marcy, now come through the barn door. Tino has the keg in his hands. The others carry bags containing snacks and ice.

“We are letting the big man dance,” Tino states.

Dougie continues to expand his arsenal of dance moves; as he dances, he says, “You wish you had these moves.”

He unloads a series of dance moves that have never been seen before. All present are in complete shock and amusement at what they see.

They all start to chuckle and cheer as Dougie’s dance reaches its climax. It ends with him on the ground, break dancing—the group of friend’s cheers as he completes his last spin.

Tino, with a big smile on his face, nods at Dougie in approval. Dougie gets up, red and breathing hard, as he attempts to catch his breath.

Di walks over to Dougie, hugs him, and tells the group, “We are small, but we will have fun tonight.”

They all cheer in agreement. “Let’s get the party started,” Tino screams.

Chapter Thirteen 

An iPhone attached to a Bluetooth speaker in the corner shuffles Halloween songs. Fog machines on the floor produce a long-hanging fog that mixes nicely with the lighting. The group decides not to change into costumes, as they are the only ones, so they dance, chat, drink, and eat snacks.

The friends do this till around eleven in the evening. Di looks at her watch. She is a little tipsy. All of them are. “So, it’s eight now; we’ve been partying since six. Do we want to stay here or go up to the house and explore it?”

“You mean the Westlake house?” Marcy asks, with a hint of fear in her voice. The others nod.

“Cannot be on Westlake’s Farm and not explore the house,” Tino states. He takes a sip from his red Solo cup containing beer.

“You all have been here before. You never explore the house?” Tracy asks with curiosity.

“Oh, we have many times before, but it’s a different experience every time we explore,” Dougie states, smiling.

“Different experience?” Marcy asks.

“Yeah, it has never been the same experience; we are still waiting for Mr. Westlake to appear.”

Marcy gulps. “So, it is haunted,” she states with a tremble.

“Yes, most definitely; we have encountered many of his victims, but not Westlake,” Tino states as he sips his beer.

“Remember the time we saw the dead girl with the black eyes in the upstairs bedroom? All she does is scream,” Dougie states with a laugh.

“Super creepy,” the group members say.

“So, Marcy, are you ready, baby?” Derrick asks.

Marcy’s face says it all: she is as white as a ghost. “I guess if I have to,” she stammers.

“Oh, you have to; it’s all part of the fun,” Tino says.

“Don’t worry. Jen is afraid for the first time, too,” Di says, reaching out to take Jen’s hand.

“It is scary at first, but once you see your first Westlake ghost, it’s not so bad,” Jen says, taking Di’s hand.

“So?” Derrick asks with a big, cheesy smile on his face.

Marcy looks at the group; all eyes are on her, and she feels the peer pressure. She shrugs and says, “Let’s do this.”

The group of friend’s cheers Marcy’s name. Dougie stands up, chugs his beer, and screams, “Let’s go!”

He spikes his red Solo cup onto the barn floor. The group erupts with joy. They all rise and, in unison, yell, “Let’s do it!”

Marcy does her best to smile as they walk out the barn door.

The farmhouse stands on top of a hill. The old house stands as a relic of a forgotten era; its façade is now a shadow of its former glory when it was the hub of a prosperous farm for the Westlake family.

The wrought-iron gates, twisted and rusted, creak open with a groan as the group moves toward the house; the open gate reveals a path overgrown with weeds and littered with fallen leaves.

As the group approaches, the house forms an imposing silhouette against the dark sky. Its broken windows appear to Marcy as empty eyes staring back at her and the group as they get closer.

As the group ascends the porch steps, the old wood creaks and groans under their feet as they walk up.

Dougie, in the lead, approaches the front door, a heavy, ornate one; he pushes it open without hesitation, revealing a foyer cloaked in darkness.

The smell of aged wood and dust fills the air, mingling with a faint, lingering scent of decay and rot.

A staircase spirals upwards to the second floor. The atmosphere is thick with dread as the teens pile into the farmhouse’s living room.

Once vibrant with paint, the walls now peel and crumble, revealing the skeletal structure beneath. Faded portraits and tarnished mirrors reflect distorted images, deepening Marcy’s unease.

The rest of the group is enthralled by its atmosphere.

“So, where do you want to explore first?” Derrick asks Marcy.

Marcy does her best to address her fears and considers which area would be the safest to explore. She is unsure if the group is messing with her, but Marcy does not want to see any ghosts.

She finally decides, “Upstairs,” Marcy says with confidence.

Dougie nods and looks at the other group for their approval. The group nods in agreement. “Let’s go,” Dougie states; he takes his phone out of his pocket and turns on the flashlight.

The group begins to ascend the stairs.

Chapter Fourteen 

In the shadows upstairs, the Jester Killer lurks. He never leaves town; in fact, he stays in Hidden Valley, hides the van behind the Westlake property out of view, and decides to hide in the farmhouse because he senses a party is happening on the property and that unjust people are having fun. Aleron will have none of that.

Unaware of the imminent danger, the teens ascend the house’s stairs, their laughter and whispers echoing throughout the upstairs hallway. They reach the top of the stairs, the floorboards creaking with the teens’ weight.

Dougie states with confidence, “Now we split up.”

Marcy makes an audible noise of disagreement. The group looks at her with surprise.

“That’s the fun part,” Tino states, pulling Roxanne closer.

Roxanne, with little regard, states, “You just want to fuck me again here.”

Tino chuckles, smiles, and pulls her closer.

“So, it’s Tino and Roxanne, Derrick and Marcy, me, and the girls, Di and Jen,” Dougie responds.

The rest of the group agrees.

“Come on, let’s go,” Derrick states, taking Marcy’s hand.

Marcy does not resist and follows him as he leads her to the left of the group, down the hall.

“So, we will go this way,” Tino states, pulling Roxanne to the right of Dougie and the girls down the hallway.

“So,” Dougie tells Di and Jen, “where to?”

Di and Jen look at each other and then kiss.

Dougie raises his eyebrows. Then states, “Again.”

Di bites her lip, and Jen winks and says, “You liked it last time.”

Dougie enjoyed watching but did not touch them the last time. He takes his right arm, puts it on his neck, and then runs his fingertips on the back of his neck with his right hand. You promised last time I could join,” he says with a sly smile.

Di nods, then looks at Jen. Jen smiles and says, “Never have a dick, but there is a first time for everything.”

“Let’s get a room,” Dougie says, sprinting for the room behind him.

The girls follow.

In a dimly lit back bedroom of the old farmhouse, the atmosphere is stifling, thick with the scent of decay and dust. The walls are adorned with peeling wallpaper, and the once-elegant furniture is now draped in cobwebs.

Tino and Roxanne are amid foreplay on the dusty bed—the couple’s clothes sprawl on the floor.

The Jester Killer is already in the room, hidden in the shadows. His face is covered with a grotesque mask of blood, and his eyes gleam with malevolent delight.

“This is so fucking hot,” Roxanne whispers in Tino’s right ear, then bites it.

Tino moans with pleasure, his eyes rolling back in his head.”Fuck yeah,” he screams.

Roxanne lets his ear go, and Tino dives down to kiss Roxanne passionately; in the heat of the moment, the couple does not hear the bedroom closet door creaking open behind them.

The Jester steps out, cane in hand, the knife installed within the cane at the ready.

With a swift, brutal motion, he strikes Tino first, his blade glinting briefly in the dim light of the moon before it plunges into Tino’s chest. Tino’s eyes widen in shock, a strangled gasp escaping his lips as he crumples to the floor.

Roxanne’s scream pierces the silence, but it is cut short as the Jester Killer grabs her, his grip cold and unyielding. Desperately, she struggles, but he is too strong. The last thing she sees is his twisted grin before darkness overtakes her.

He snaps Roxanne’s neck like a twig. She falls back limp on the bed.

The room falls silent once more; the only sounds are the distant creaks of the old house and the faint rustle of the wind through broken windows.

The Jester Killer, satisfied with his work, slips out of the room to get to work on the others, leaving the lifeless bodies of Tino and Roxanne as grim reminders of his deadly presence.

Chapter Fifteen

In another one of the decrepit bedrooms of the old farmhouse, the air is thick with sweat and decay as Dougie, Di, and Jen participate in their illicit three-way on the bed, clothes passionately lying on the bedroom floor. The bed creaks under the weight of the three teens; the room is filled with sounds of passion as the three engage sexually with each other. The Jester follows the sound to the room, blood dripping from the blade of his cane knife. The trio’s noises of pleasure hide the opening of the creaking bedroom door. Lying on her back, Di is the first to notice the killer. She barely has time to scream before the Jester lunges his blade, slicing through the air with lethal precision. Di’s throat is slashed, and she whimpers in pain before expiring with a look of horror on her face and blood gushing from her neck wound.

The room erupts into chaos as Dougie scrambles to untangle himself from the threesome. Jen, in shock, looks down at Di, dead and bleeding, tears streaming down Jen’s face as she looks at her slain lover. Dougie’s attempt to escape is thwarted by the Jester, who grabs Dougie by his neck. With minimal effort, the Jester lifts Dougie off the ground, his feet dangling and swinging in fear when Dougie realizes what is happening. With superhuman strength, the Jester flings Dougie into the air. Dougie’s body flies three feet and crashes through what remains of the bedroom’s broken window. Dougie’s body falls to the ground below with a scream, then a thud.

A pool of blood rolls out from Dougie’s head, which is cracked open like an egg on impact. Jen does not attempt to escape; in shock, the Jester quickly pulls her by her hair towards him. With little fight, the Jester’s blade goes through her back, then erupts from her chest. Jen moans in pain, blood spills from her mouth, and then she goes limp. The Jester grips Jen’s neck tightly, holding her in place with massive strength. He removes the blade from Jen, and she falls to the floor dead. The room is now silent, and the vibrant energy that once filled it gives way to an eerie stillness. The Jester admires his handiwork, smiles, and leaves the room. Derek and Marcy are terrified by their friends’ screams. “What the fuck is going on?” Marcy whispers to Derek. The room the couple chooses is dimly lit by the moon and filled with dilapidated furniture. A smell of decay fills the air. Derek peeks out the door and sees the killer’s silhouette. His eyes widen as he realizes it is the Jester killer. He turns to Marcy and whispers, “It is the Jester.” Marcy places her hands over her mouth, and Derek then peers back out the door. The killer is gone. Derek mouths, “What the fuck?” A hand comes from the right side of the door, grabs Derek’s face, and pushes Derek back into the room. Derek stumbles backward, falling on a table and breaking it. The door swings open, and the Jester stands there. His face is bloody; the Jester wears it as a grotesque mask. A sinister grin is on the Jester’s face. Marcy screams. Determined to protect Marcy, Derek grabs a table leg from the broken table. “Run,” he yells to Marcy as he brandishes his makeshift weapon. He swings at the killer, who moves with predatory grace. The swinging weapon allows Marcy to run past the killer. As Marcy gets through the door, Derek lunges at the Jester; the killer is quicker, sidestepping and plunging his blade into Derek’s side.

Derek’s painful scream stops Marcy in her tracks; she turns around. To her horror, Derek collapses to the floor, blood pooling around him. Marcy screams. The Jester turns his face with a manic look. Heart pounding, Marcy dashes up the stairs. She breathes as she runs down the darkened stairs, coming out in a ragged sob. The Jester killer follows her; his footsteps are eerily calm and deliberate behind her. Marcy bursts through the front door, the cool air hitting her like a shock. She runs back to the farmhouse. She sprints past the barn toward the access road, guided by flashing roadblock beacons set by staged units on the perimeter. Flashing lights ahead of the farmhouse give Marcy hope.

Marcy runs toward the lights and cries for help, cutting through the night. Alerted by the commotion, Deputy Collins—first on the staggered checks—steps out of his car, gun in his holster. “Help! The Jester Killer is here,” Marcy gasps, collapsing into the deputy’s arms. Deputy Collins scans the area, draws his weapon, and positions Marcy behind him. In the distance, Deputy Collins sees a man standing there; he stares in their direction, then turns and walks back toward the old Westlake house. Marcy whimpers. Deputy Collins uses the radio attached to his uniform to call the station about the situation at Westlake’s farm.

Chapter Sixteen 

Sheriff Austin is at the front desk when the radio crackles to life.

COLLINS: “This is Collins. I need assistance at Westlake Farm. Over.”

AUSTIN: “Collins, Austin. What’s the situation? Over.”

COLLINS: “Contacted by Marcy, Derek Austin’s girlfriend, near the Westlake farmhouse. She reports a Jester encounter. Multiple attacks inside. Over.”

AUSTIN: “Is my son with her? Over.”

COLLINS: “Negative. She’s alone. Over.”

AUSTIN: “Hold position. Outer perimeter only. We’re en route. Over.”

COLLINS: “Copy. Over.”

Austin leaves the front desk and heads to the break room. Deputies Angle and Rude are watching wrestling.

“Hangman is due; he deserves the title shot,” Rude says, sipping coffee.

Their break ends when Austin pushes the door open. “We have a situation at Westlake Farm. Move.”

Outside, the three climb into a department-issue SUV bearing the Sheriff’s Office logo. Austin’s assigned jet-black Jeep Wrangler, fitted with a cage, radio, and rack, sits in the next slot. Austin rolls the SUV out and hits the lights.

“So, what’s the situation, sir?” Angle asks, gripping the grab handle.

“Collins checked the party at my request. Marcy reports the Jester attacked inside,” Austin says. Tension fills the car.

“But we thought he left town,” Rude says.

“State Police did a mid-day sweep with Collins and me of all possible hideouts, including Westlake Farm. No sign. The party started after dark. The killer returned after the sweep.”

“So, this could be a teen prank?” Angle asks.

“Maybe. If it is, we break it up and cite the hosts,” Austin says.

They ride in silence.

Collins stands outside his patrol car, watching the farmhouse. He hasn’t seen anyone since Marcy flagged him down less than twenty minutes ago. He’s on fumes, fourteen hours up, after a day of spot-checking possible Jester hideouts.

Chapter Seventeen

The Sheriff’s SUV headlights wash over Collins as Austin kills the engine. He, along with Angle and Rude, steps out.

“Where is she?” Austin asks.

“In the car, sir,” Collins replies, extending his left arm toward the back seat. Marcy sits there with her eyes closed, tears streaming down her cheeks.

“What exactly did she report?” Austin inquires.

Collins clears his throat. “She and the others arrived here early this evening, around 11 PM. They decided to go up to the house together. After they got inside and upstairs, they split up. She and Derek took a back bedroom to talk. They heard screams. Derek checked the hallway, and the Jester attacked. He was stabbed while trying to protect her. She escaped and flagged me down.”

Austin processes the information. “Rude and Angle, with me.”

Rude hesitates. “Sir, should we wait for more backup?”

“No. If my son and his friends are in danger, we move now.”

At the SUV hatch, Austin racks a shotgun. Rude and Angle unholster their weapons and check their lights before moving toward the dark house.

At the porch, Austin tunes the radio. “Angle, you take the back. Rude, you’re with me inside. Angle, status checks every sixty seconds.”

Angle nods and disappears into the darkness.

Inside, the house is eerily silent. “Angle, status?” Austin radios after a brief sweep.

Static.

“No reply,” Rude says.

“We’ll clear the interior first,” Austin orders.

They move from room to room, encountering bodies and blood. When Austin sees his son lying on the floor, he breaks down. Rude catches him before he steps further into the scene.

“Angle, this is Rude. Come in.” There’s dead air.

“Collins, this is Rude. Do you copy? Over.”

“COLLINS: I read you. Over.”

“RUDE: Has backup arrived? Over.”

“COLLINS: Yes. I’ll send them up.”

“RUDE: Send a team to the house and notify the ME. Over.”

“COLLINS: Calling the ME now. Over.”

Rude leaves Austin against the wall and heads outside to meet the incoming units. The patrol car’s strobes flicker by the barn.

“Tingle, Tremblay,” Rude calls as they reach the porch. “We have a massacre. The teens are dead, and the boss’s kid is among them.”

Silence. They hear footsteps on the gravel behind them as two more officers approach.

“Tingle, you’re with me to the rear. Tremblay, brief the others and hold the entry.”

Rude and Tingle make their way through the underbrush toward the back. A shape lies in the grass.

“Angle,” Tingle whispers.

Angle is on his back, blood pooling from a gut wound, his eyes fixed on the sky. A pulse check isn’t necessary.

“Fuck!” Rude yells. “Show yourself!”

Only an owl answers. A twig snaps—Rude and Tingle quickly wheel around and aim their weapons. Officer Lively stands before them, hands raised and eyes locked on Angle.

“Call it in, Lively.”

She keys up, her voice tight. “Officer down.”

Within an hour, the local ME arrives on the scene. Within two hours, State Patrol units arrive and notify FBI Agents Calvell and Young, who head to the location and, en route, alert Detective Hart and Dr. Lang.

Chapter Eighteen

Angle’s final breath is already gone. The woods returned to silence; the killer vanished into shadow beneath a blood-smeared jesters’ mask.

Inside, Rude manages the perimeter while Austin grieves. Backup secures the rooms. The corridor smells of bleach and iron. Evidence techs begin their slow work. Outside, radios crackle under a cold sky.

The Jester sits in a stolen Smith State van, tucked deep in the Westlake woods on an old service road the Westlake’s once used for deliveries. He grins at his reflection in the rearview. The police swept the backroads earlier in the day. The Jester was smart and did not park the van during the sweep; instead, they waited until it was considered safe. The van’s Headlights snap on.

A dark-skinned woman with long black hair stands in the beams of light. Ivy. His grin dies. For a beat, he is a man again. Ivy smiles. Blood spills from her mouth, teeth red—her right hand lifts, bony and pale, with elongated fingers pointing.

Her voice lives in The Jester’s skull. “There are more who must pay. Do Aleron’s bidding. Bring me back.”

Laughter rises. The world laughs at him. “Kill for us,” Ivy says. “Stop their laughter.”

The Jester screams, slams the van into drive, and floors it. The bumper hits her, and she becomes smoke. He hits the service road, and the scream turns to manic laughter. Tires bite dirt. Ivy points the way.

Det. Evelyn Hart is airborne when the alert hits her phone. Teens were slaughtered in Hidden Valley, about fifty miles from Smith State. All in Washington.

She expected it. The questions remain. After twenty-nine years locked up, what does the Jester want? How did he kill so many so fast at Smith State?

She pages through FBI case files and Smith State incident packets. He told the staff he was waiting for Aleron. Blood must be spilled. When asked what he would do when freed, he said, “I’ll reunite with the little man and the queen, and the world will know justice.” Who is the little man? “The world will have to wait and see.”

She closes her eyes. Next, we connect, then head to Big Lake, Washington. From there, she and Lang will work with the FBI and State Patrol. She opens her eyes as a flight attendant passes.

“Excuse me,” Hart says.

“Yes?” the blonde flight attendant asks.

“Refill?” Hart lifts her empty Jack and Coke.

“Of course.” The attendant returns with a fresh glass.

Hart checks her watch. About an hour to her Denver connection, then Big Lake. AirPods in. Classical music. It calmed her as a child. It played the night she found her parents slain by the Jester. It still works. She lets it carry her into focus before the storm.

Dr. Lang waits at the gate, iPad in hand. Hart steps off the jetway.

“I see you’re reading notes on an iPad. I prefer hard copies,” Hart says.

“It’s ideal for old eyes; I can zoom,” Lang says, standing to hug her. “How are you, Evelyn?”

“I want him locked up again.”

“We’ll get him.” He smiles. She does too.

“We have an hour before our connection to Big Lake. Coffee?” she asks.

“I was hoping for a real drink,” he says.

They take a small table.

“Here we are again,” Lang says, sipping.

“I love seeing you, but I wish the Jester weren’t out,” Hart says.

“Next time we’re poolside,” Lang says.

“You read the file?”

“He’s deeper into psychosis. More dangerous. He’ll kill more,” Lang says.

“He slaughtered the security crew, then the teens in Hidden Valley in less than two days.”

“He’s upped the body count. He’s become the slasher they made of him in the films,” Lang says.

“In slashers, the sequel’s body count is higher,” Hart says.

“And legacy characters can die,” Lang says.

She frowns. “Do you think the doll exists and influences him?”

“I know not everything has answers. The Jester kills out of guilt, shame, and a misguided sense of justice. If a doll exists, I wouldn’t rule it out,” Lang says. “I might have a lead. Ever hear of Lady Hawthorne?”

Hart shakes her head.

An English businesswoman who moved to the U.S. fell in love with a small town on California’s coast. She passed a few weeks ago. Estate sale to benefit the town.” He unlocks his iPad and turns it on. A photo of a jester doll mid-cartwheel fills the screen.

“They posted this asking for help after a girl had a violent reaction to it,” he says.

The doll’s eyes seem to fix on Hart. For a half-second, it winks. Hart startles.

“You, okay?” Lang asks.

“I need water.”

He signals the waitress for two bottles of wine. A red-haired waitress brings them, glances at the doll photo, shivers, and walks away. Lang closes the iPad.

“At some point, we should see it,” he says.

“First, Hidden Valley,” Hart says.

The waitress returns with mozzarella sticks. The waitress places the mozzarella sticks on the table between them. She looks at the iPad and at the creepy doll on the screen. The waitress shivers. 

Chapter Nineteen

The waitress, a slender figure with dark hair pulled back in a tight bun, glances over her shoulder and says, “Spooky,” before gliding away to tend to other patrons. Lang, his fingers deftly working the cork, reopens the bottle of deep crimson wine, allowing the rich aroma to fill the air. “You know that doll has quite the reputation. They say it triggered a young girl in that quiet California town to spiral into a near-hysterical fit—a brief coma, if you can believe it. The family got so rattled that they yanked it from the sale and shared its photo online, desperately seeking its history and any answers.” Hart leans forward, intrigued. “What was the girl doing in front of it?” “She came across it at the estate sale,” Lang replies, pouring a glass. The rich, velvety liquid swirls, catching the dim light of the restaurant. “Did anyone respond to the family’s post?” Hart’s brow furrows in concentration. “Not yet. But I’m keeping an eye on the page,” Lang assures him, his focus unwavering. “First, let’s tackle the massacre,” Hart insists, his voice firm yet thoughtful. “Do you think we’ll uncover anything significant?” Lang’s question hangs in the air as he studies the table surface, the grains of the wood reflecting their tension.

Hart shakes his head. “If the reports are accurate, he left no trace, no calling card at Westlake or Smith State.” Lang leans back, arms crossed, contemplating the implications. “But he’s a different man now,” he says, a hint of urgency in his tone. “How so?” Hart asks, curiosity piqued.

“He killed twice in the span of forty-eight hours. That’s a shift from how he used to operate—he would take breaks, rest between his sprees. Now, it’s all impulse and sheer volume: fewer theatrics, more raw punishment. Twenty-nine years in a cage have only intensified that Jester persona. He’s not looking to be caught this time.” “The violence is escalating, becoming more brutal,” Hart observes, his voice low. “And without any signature calling cards.” “Exactly,” Lang confirms, nodding. “There’s less empathy there, less control. The Jester wants the world to feel his anguish, to understand his pain,” he adds, his words heavy with understanding.

“You’re the expert in this darkness,” Hart acknowledges, allowing himself a moment of trust in Lang’s insights.

Lang leans closer, his eyes earnest. “Evelyn, you deciphered his ciphers last time. Trust your instincts. You know what to do.”

“Thanks,” she replies softly, her mind racing. Lang beckons the waitress for the check, his demeanor suddenly shifting.

“I’ll cover it,” he offers, glancing at her as Hart reaches for her bag. 

While Lang walks to the bar to settle the bill, Hart studies his leather portfolio, its surface worn yet polished, holding the weight of his thoughts. She imagines the doll’s eyes, its unsettling gaze. Did it just wink at her? Despite the unsettling feeling settling in her gut, she trusts Lang’s instincts. This investigation feels different, blooming with an ominous energy that seeps into their surroundings. Something darker indeed lingers in the air.  

Chapter Nineteen

The waitress, a slender figure with dark hair pulled back in a tight bun, glances over her shoulder and says, “Spooky,” before gliding away to tend to other patrons. 

Lang, his fingers deftly working the cork, reopens the bottle of deep crimson wine, allowing the rich aroma to fill the air. “You know that doll has quite the reputation. They say it triggered a young girl in that quiet California town to spiral into a near-hysterical fit—a brief coma, if you can believe it. The family got so rattled that they yanked it from the sale and shared its photo online, desperately seeking its history and any answers.”

Hart leans forward, intrigued. “What was the girl doing in front of it?”

“She came across it at the estate sale,” Lang replies, pouring a glass. The rich, velvety liquid swirls, catching the dim light of the restaurant.

“Did anyone respond to the family’s post?” Hart’s brow furrows in concentration.

“Not yet. But I’m keeping an eye on the page,” Lang assures him, his focus unwavering.

“First, let’s tackle the massacre,” Hart insists, his voice firm yet thoughtful.

“Do you think we’ll uncover anything significant?” 

Lang’s question hangs in the air as he studies the table surface, the grains of the wood reflecting their tension.

Hart shakes his head. “If the reports are accurate, he left no trace, no calling card at Westlake or Smith State.” 

Lang leans back, arms crossed, contemplating the implications. “But he’s a different man now,” he says, a hint of urgency in his tone.

“How so?” Hart asks, curiosity piqued.

“He killed twice in the span of forty-eight hours. That’s a shift from how he used to operate—he would take breaks, rest between his sprees. Now, it’s all impulse and sheer volume: fewer theatrics, more raw punishment. Twenty-nine years in a cage have only intensified that Jester persona. He’s not looking to be caught this time.”

“The violence is escalating, becoming more brutal,” Hart observes, his voice low. “And without any signature calling cards.”

“Exactly,” Lang confirms, nodding. “There’s less empathy there, less control. The Jester wants the world to feel his anguish, to understand his pain,” he adds, his words heavy with understanding.

“You’re the expert in this darkness,” Hart acknowledges, allowing himself a moment of trust in Lang’s insights.

Lang leans closer, his eyes earnest. “Evelyn, you deciphered his ciphers last time. Trust your instincts. You know what to do.”

“Thanks,” she replies softly, her mind racing. Lang beckons the waitress for the check, his demeanor suddenly shifting.

“I’ll cover it,” he offers, glancing at her as she reaches for her bag, eagerness in her eyes. 

While Lang walks to the bar to settle the bill, Hart studies his leather portfolio, its surface worn yet polished, holding the weight of his thoughts. She imagines the doll’s eyes, its unsettling gaze. Did it just wink at her? Despite the unsettling feeling settling in her gut, she trusts Lang’s instincts. This investigation feels different, blooming with an ominous energy that seeps into their surroundings. Something darker indeed lingers in the air. 

Chapter Twenty

Britt Robertson gazes at her reflection in the minivan’s mirror, taking in her transformation. She is in Circleville, just ten miles east of Hidden Valley, and feels worlds apart from her everyday life. By day, she embraces the role of the quintessential soccer mom, but as the sun dips below the horizon, she becomes “Bambi.” 

Tonight, she’s clad in a blood-red push-up bra that accentuates her curves, a tiny leather jacket that clings to her form, and a daring thong paired with shorts that are scandalously cut high. Her thigh-high boots and fishnet stockings add an edge that feels as exhilarating as the October air, even if it is a bit chilly for the season.

David has prepared a setting for their escapade, securing a grimy roadside motel that suggests both secrecy and adventure. He’s dropped the kids off at his parents’ house, providing the freedom they crave. She glances at her phone, the screen lighting up with a text: “Room 10.”

With a small, chic purse in hand, she fluffs her hair into a voluminous 1980s style, clips on a fake navel ring for that extra flair, takes a deep breath to steady her nerves, and steps into the bite of the crisp night air.

Her heels click sharply against the cracked pavement of the Starlight Inn’s parking lot. The neon “VACANCY” sign flickers intermittently, casting a garish glow over the faded mint green and sun-bleached yellow of the building’s exterior. The paint hangs on, peeling in stubborn layers. At the same time, each door opens directly onto the lot, revealing rusted number plaques and heavy drapes drawn tight against prying eyes. Weathered metal awnings droop overhead, and mismatched chairs sit forlornly on the porches, waiting for guests who may never arrive. An old gas station looms nearby, its windows boarded up and forgotten since the chain relocated down the highway.

Britt approaches Room 10 and knocks, her jacket parting just enough to tantalize. The sounds of the late news seep through the thin walls, but it’s not the familiar warmth that greets her when David finally swings the door open. 

His expression is off, somber, far removed from the playful “Bambi” they had both envisioned for the evening. 

“Britt, you need to see this,” he says, the gravity in his voice cutting through the air like a knife.

She instinctively pulls her jacket tighter around herself and steps into the dimly lit confines of the dingy room. The sickly yellow walls seem to close in around her, accented by floral curtains that whisper of a bygone era. A creaky bed groans beneath the weight of innumerable secrets, and a flickering lamp struggles to disperse the shadows. A boxy TV rests atop a scarred dresser, the screen bathing the room in an unsettling glow as the news continues in the background—this wasn’t at all what she had imagined.

Chapter Twenty-Two

On screen: BREAKING NEWS — ESCAPED SERIAL KILLER “THE JESTER” AT LARGE. The image flickers with static, revealing a grainy photo of a grotesque jester mask, its hollow eyes glinting like polished obsidian.

“The Jester escaped Smith State after twenty-nine long years,” the anchor intones, a tremor of urgency coloring his voice. “He is extremely dangerous. Stay indoors at all costs.”

With a clenched jaw, David lunges to kill the TV, its screen plunging into silence. He and Britt exchange tense glances, the weight of the news settling heavily in the air.

“We’re leaving,” Britt says, her voice steady but laced with an undercurrent of fear.

“Agreed. It’s safer at home, with the alarm system up,” David replies, his brow furrowing with worry for their children, tucked away at his parents’ house. 

“Let’s go.”

“I need my card. The owner keeps it as insurance,” David says, glancing toward the office.

Britt swallows her irritation, the urgency pressing on her. “Get it, and we’ll go.”

They cross to the office, the bell above the door tinkling ominously as they enter. The air is thick with a musty odor, like forgotten memories—no one is behind the desk. David taps the bell, but it remains silent.

“Hello? Is anyone here?” he calls, leaning over the counter, peering into the dim recesses of the back room.

A faint thud reverberates through the stillness. Britt’s heart races, her breath hitching in her throat.

“Stay here,” David says, slipping behind the counter and into shadowy uncertainty.

Britt stands frozen, heart pounding in her chest like a war drum.

“Britt… you need to see this,” David calls, his voice strained and urgent.

She inches into the back room, dread pooling in her stomach. There lies the owner, sprawled on the floor, eyes wide and unseeing, mouth contorted in an agonized grimace, a dark crimson pool spreading beneath him like a sinister flower.

“Oh God… Is the owner—” Britt gasps, horror etched on her face.

“Yeah,” David murmurs, voice heavy with disbelief.

Suddenly, the back-room door creaks ominously. Brittany and David whip around to see The Jester framed in the doorway, his blood-smeared mask glistening grotesquely, a twisted grin spreading across his face. His hollow eyes gleam with wicked delight, head cocked as if savoring the moment.

“Checking out so soon?” His voice slithers through the air, low and almost playful. “I thought we were just getting started.”

David instinctively positions himself in front of Britt, a shield against the horror. The Jester’s laughter dances through the air, echoing from the corners of the room.

“I’m tonight’s entertainment,” he declares, voice dripping with malice. “A very special night for you two.”

They exchange frantic looks. David unsheathes a pocketknife, its blade gleaming under the dim light. The Jester tilts his head, curiosity waning.

Then he lunges.

Chaos erupts. David slashes, but the Jester moves with an inhuman grace, dance-like in his agility. Britt swings a chair, but it bounces off him harmlessly, the sound hollow against the fray. The Jester’s laughter rings out, a mad symphony.

He catches David by the throat, lifting him effortlessly as if he weighed nothing. Britt, fueled by desperation, charges. He backhands her into a wall, her cry of pain swallowed by the storm of madness.

“Happy anniversary,” he whispers tauntingly into David’s ear, infusing every word with venom.

With fierce determination, David kicks hard, breaking the Jester’s grip. He drops to the floor, gasping for breath, and scrambles, dragging Britt toward the door.

But it’s too late. The Jester is upon them, a whirlwind of chaos. “Time to play,” he sings, voice dripping with glee, as he lunges forward.

David rolls, snatching a lamp from the table and swinging wildly. The Jester twists his wrist, and the lamp clatters to the floor. In a heartbeat, he slashes, and David staggers back, clutching his neck as crimson ribbons seep through his fingers.

“No!” Britt screams, a primal cry of anguish.

The Jester steps back, admiring the blood on his blade, then wipes it across his mask, smearing it into a grotesque canvas. He turns to Britt, eyes glinting with sinister amusement.

She bolts, adrenaline surging. As she clears the office door, she hurls a brass lamp at The Jester; he sidesteps effortlessly, his laughter echoing.

Outside, the rain drums against the pavement, relentless and unforgiving. Running in heels feels like a cruel joke, yet survival is Brittany’s only instinct. The Jester emerges, his figure dark against the stormy sky, head tilted as he watches her flee.

With deliberate slowness, he takes a step forward, twirling his knife like a child playing with a toy. Britt fumbles with the van keys, her hands slick with rain and panic, missing the lock. Frantically, she tries again. The key finally slides home. She yanks the door open, throws herself inside, and slams it shut, locking it with trembling hands.

“Please, please, please,” she whispers, jamming the key into the ignition, desperation surging.

The windshield is empty; the figure of The Jester has vanished into the shadows. The rain pounds like a heartbeat. Suddenly, she hears the soft scrape of his blade against the passenger side, a chilling reminder of the danger lurking just outside. In the rearview mirror, he looms, a dark specter, knife glinting in the fleeting light.

Chapter Twenty- Three

Panic surged through Brittany like a wild storm as she slammed her hands against the steering wheel, twisting the key in the ignition with desperate urgency. The van jolted, sputtered, then roared to life. 

In a heartbeat, she shifted into drive, flooring the accelerator so hard that the vehicle launched forward. The tires screamed against the slick asphalt, piercing the night with a haunting cry. A knife slid ominously across the door, reflecting the dim glow of streetlights. At the same time, the chilling laughter of the Jester echoed ominously behind her, fading into the shadows of the darkened highway.

An associate of Agents Calvell and Young, Agent James, meets Hart and Lang at the airport as the Starlight Inn attack unfolds. He drives them to the State Patrol district headquarters in Big Lake, where multi-agency briefings are held.

State Police Captain Suarez waits. He was a trooper during the first spree. He won’t allow another massacre on his watch.

“Captain Suarez, Washington State Patrol. An honor,” he says, shaking hands.

Lang grins. “I’ve lived long enough to be called a legend.”

“It’s an honor to meet you, too, Detective Hart,” Suarez says. “The woman who beat the Jester at his game.”

“Dr. Lang and I worked together,” Hart says.

“She broke the ciphers,” Lang says.

“We’re glad you’re here,” Suarez says.

“Did he leave anything this time?” Lang asks.

Suarez shakes his head. “Nothing but bodies.”

Lang and Hart trade a look.

“Does that mean anything?” Suarez asks.

Lang gathers his thoughts. “He’s more ruthless. The profile suggests guilt and a worldview driven by a desire for revenge as a form of justice. Twenty-nine years in a cage hardened him. He broke out to kill, not to be caught.”

Suarez’s neck hair rises. “A real monster.”

“Deranged, acrobatic, once respected,” Hart says. “John Connolly.”

“Right. Circus background. Lady dies. He says a doll tells him to kill. My kid watches those movies. I didn’t realize how close they were,” Suarez says.

“Art imitates life,” Lang says.

While they talk, a priority broadcast hits from Weston PD, which covers the Starlight Inn corridor off the interstate. James’s phone buzzes.

He answers, listens, then ends the call. “Starlight Inn. Circleville PD got a frantic walk-in. A woman reports the Jester killed her husband and the motel owner.”

A trooper steps from the back office. “Captain.”

“Yes, Daniels,” Suarez says.

“Circleville PD dispatched two units. They confirm two deceased males in the office.”

James nods. “Circleville PD also notified headquarters. They want you,”—he looks to Hart and Lang— “at the scene for any clue to the next move.” He turns to Suarez. “They want you there as well.”

Suarez heads into the back with Daniels to organize the response. James texts the route. Hart and Lang exchange a glance. The nightmare continues.

Chapter Twenty-Four 

Amazing Offers loading dock, Weston, Washington — 10 miles from the Starlight Inn

Kyle Stover lights his marijuana joint; he ensures the back door of the local big-box store is wedged open with a stone, so he is not locked out. The big box store is located ten miles away from the Jester’s latest massacre. Kyle and his coworkers, Mark Hill and Amy Wright, are also unaware and unhappy to learn that he smokes a joint. It isn’t that they are against smoking; they smoke themselves; they are mad he is sneaking a break as the stocking team, which consists of all of them, is trying to get out early from their stocking shift at the big box store, Amazing Offers, so that the group can attend a pre-Halloween party thrown by one of their high school classmates. Derek Austin, off duty but still hanging out until the party, is helping face the shelves and has stepped out front to stack the candy display. It is about eleven thirty in the evening when Kyle takes his break; the teens plan to leave at midnight to get to the party, as they still have about an hour of work left. The crew from the big box store, along with Cindy Owens’s mutual friend, whose parents have been away for the last two months for work, and her boyfriend, Butch, is throwing a pre-Halloween party at Cindy’s home.

Kyle enjoys the taste of the joint as he takes a pull. “I really need to move to a state that has legalized this lovely plant.” He says out loud to himself. Kyle finds comfort in the smoking bud, which always manages to relax him, no matter what chaos occurs in his young life. As he looks down the back alley, the shadows seem longer and darker, as if the night stretches its claws toward him. Kyle takes another drag, trying to overcome the paranoia that is washing over him. Out of his eyes, he notices a figure moving in the darkness. At first, he thinks it is a trick of the light, maybe the smoke playing tricks on him, but the figure moves again, stepping into the faint glow of the streetlamp. A man dressed in a green prison jumpsuit wears a twisted grin. His face is smeared in drying, coagulating blood, a “mask of blood” that turns his features into a grotesque smile.

Kyle freezes, the joint dangling from his lips. “What the hell…?” he mutters, trying to make sense of what he is seeing. The Jester takes another step forward; his head tilted to the side as if amused by Kyle’s confusion. Kyle’s heart begins to pound, adrenaline spiking through his veins. “Who are you?” he demands, his voice sharper now, more on edge.

The Jester doesn’t answer. Instead, he lunges. In a blur of motion, the Jester closes the distance between them, his hand whipping out with the speed of a striking snake. Kyle barely has time to react, throwing up his arm to block the attack, but the Jester is quicker, more agile. A glint of steel catches the light as the Jester’s knife slashes through the air, aimed directly at Kyle’s side. He twists, the blade grazing his ribs but not sinking in. Pain shoots through him, and he staggers back, dropping his joint to the ground.

“Shit!” Kyle gasps, clutching his side. Blood seeps between his fingers, warm and sticky. The Jester doesn’t pause or gloat—he keeps relentlessly coming. Kyle’s mind races as he tries to think of a way out, his breath coming in ragged gasps. During the scuffle, the stone kicks free; the door slams and re-locks, the alarm chirping once. The back door is alarmed and auto-locks; there is no exterior reader at this door. Kyle has left his keycard and keys inside. Kyle is locked out.

Kyle’s only hope is to run down the alley and attempt to reach the front door, where his coworkers are stationed, doing inventory for Halloween week. The Jester swings the knife again, but this time, Kyle is ready. He ducks, narrowly avoiding the blade, and punches at the Jester’s midsection. His first connects with a solid thud, but the Jester barely flinches, laughing—a high, crazed sound that echoes off the brick walls. Kyle’s blood runs cold. He must get out of here and survive.

The Jester swings again, and Kyle barely dodges. He stumbles, catching himself against the wall, and his vision blurs. The wound on his side is deeper than he thinks, and he is losing blood fast. The Jester is on him in an instant, his bloodied hand closing around Kyle’s throat. The pressure is suffocating, stars dancing in Kyle’s vision as he struggles to breathe. With a desperate surge of strength, Kyle lifts his knee, connecting with the Jester’s stomach. The grip on his throat loosens just enough for him to suck in a breath.

Kyle pushes off the wall, using his momentum to shove the Jester away. The man stumbles, but only momentarily, before regaining his balance, his laughter filling the alley once more. Kyle doesn’t wait to see what he does next. He turns and runs, his feet pounding against the pavement, the world spinning around him as his vision darkens at the edges. He must reach the front of the store, which is only a few more steps away.

But the Jester is behind him, his footsteps unnervingly light, almost playful. Kyle can feel the man’s presence, a dark cloud closing on him. Just as Kyle reaches the mouth of the alley, he sees Derek outside, calling his name. They are looking for him. Derek looks up, startled—his hand going for his phone. Kyle stumbles; before he can scream to Derek, the Jester grabs Kyle from behind, yanking him back into the shadows. Kyle’s scream is muffled by Jester’s cold-blooded, blood-covered hand. Jester’s knife comes down again, slicing through the darkness with deadly precision.

Chapter Twenty-Five

“Kyle,” Mark calls. Kyle has been gone for a while, probably smoking a joint without them. Derek frowns, considering going around to check on him. But before he can decide, a flicker of movement catches his attention. A figure stands half in shadow at the edge of the alley entranceway. Mark squints, his breath catching in his throat as the figure steps forward into the dull light of the streetlamp. It is a man in a prison jumpsuit, face covered in blood, a bloody grin drawn over his lips. The twisted grin on the mask is even more menacing in the light’s glow.

Mark feels his heart skip a beat, a cold dread settling in his gut. He starts, “What the—?” But the Jester doesn’t give him time to finish. The Jester charges at him in a flash, his movements unnaturally fast. Mark barely has time to register what is happening before the Jester is on him, slamming into him with the force of a freight train. The impact knocks Mark off his feet, sending him sprawling onto the sidewalk.

Pain shoots through Mark’s side as he hits the ground, but there is no time to process it. The Jester is already above him, raising a knife above his head, the blade gleaming in the faint light. Mark’s instincts kick in. He rolls to the side just as the knife comes down, the blade digging into the concrete where his chest had been a second before. He scrambles to his feet, adrenaline surging through his veins.

“Who the hell are you?!” Mark shouts, his voice tinged with panic. But the Jester doesn’t respond. Instead, he pulls the knife free and advances again, his eyes gleaming with a sick, twisted delight. Mark turns to run, but the Jester is too quick. A searing pain shoots through Mark’s back as the knife slices across his shoulder, tearing through fabric and skin alike. He cries out, stumbling forward, but stays on his feet.

He can see the store’s glass doors just a few feet away. If he can get inside, maybe he can lock the door, call for help—anything to escape this nightmare. With every ounce of strength he has left, Mark lunges for the door, throwing it open and crashing inside. He slams the door shut behind him, the glass rattling as he locks it with shaking hands. Blood drips from his shoulder onto the tile floor, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

He turns, hoping to see the Jester still outside, but his stomach drops when he sees the door slowly swinging open, the lock mechanism broken. The shear bolt has snapped under the impact; the door yawns on a bent hinge. The Jester stands in the doorway, tilting his head as if to mock Mark’s feeble attempt at escape.

Mark backs away, his vision swimming with pain and fear. He can’t outrun this madman, not with his shoulder bleeding and his strength fading. Mark must warn Amy—he must find Amy. “Amy!” he calls out, his voice cracking. “Amy, get out! He’s in here!”

But there is no response, only the echo of his voice in the empty store. The Jester steps inside, his boots clicking ominously on the floor. Mark turns and runs, darting down one of the aisles, his hand pressed against his wound. The store feels like a maze now, the once-familiar layout twisted and strange in the dim light.

He must find Amy and rescue her before the Jester reaches her. He rounds a corner and nearly collides with her. Amy’s eyes go wide with shock as she sees Mark’s pale face and the blood staining his shirt. “Mark! What happens?” she gasps, grabbing his arm.

“It’s not safe—he’s here!” Mark wheezes, glancing over his shoulder. “You have to get out!”

“Who’s here? Mark, you’re bleeding; what’s going to happen to you? Where is Kyle?” Amy’s voice is panicked as she tries to understand what is happening.

But a low, sinister laugh echoes through the store before Mark can respond, sending chills down their spines. Amy’s eyes widen as she sees the Jester rounding the corner, his mask twisted in that same grotesque grin.

Amy freezes, her grip tightening on Mark’s arm. “Oh my God…”

“Run, Amy!” Mark shouts, pushing her toward the back of the store. “Go!”

Amy hesitates for a split second before her survival instincts kick in. She turns and runs, her footsteps echoing through the store as Mark tries to follow, but his body gives out. He staggers, catching himself on a shelf, his vision blurring as the blood loss takes its toll. The Jester ignores Mark; his attention fixed on Amy as she flees. His laughter grows louder and more maniacal as he follows her, Jester’s laughter echoing through the empty store. Out front, Derek, still in the entry vestibule, fumbles for his phone and gets through to 911 as the pursuit vanishes into the aisles.

Chapter Twenty-Six 

The Jester stands in front of the line of adult Halloween costumes. The Jester’s focus is on a particular costume. Amy can see that it is a replica of Freckles, the killer clown outfit from the slasher film series Carnival of Terror. Amy watches as the Jester slowly walks up to the costume; the killer then runs his fingertips lovingly over its fabric. It appears to Amy that the killer has a connection to the costume. The Jester then takes the costume off the rack and looks at it for a moment, as if it were a lost friend reunited. Amy watches the security camera footage with unease as the Jester removes his blood-smeared prison jumpsuit and puts on the Freckles costume.

The Halloween costume is designed to appear tattered and stained, with a patchwork of dark, muted colors as its theme. The fabric is adorned with macabre motifs, such as skulls, bones, and sorrowful faces. The Jester slips into the outfit easily and comfortably, as this is his true skin. The Jester places the costume’s black gloves onto his bloodied and war-riddled hands. The shoes of the costume are soft-soled, allowing the Jester to move stealthily; he slips them on after taking off his prison-issued sneakers. The Jester leaves his bloodied jumpsuit in a heap on the aisle floor and walks up to the rubber masks, a few racks down from the costumes.

He is immediately drawn to one of the rubber Halloween masks on the rack. Amy watches anxiously as Mark is comforted with hair rubs, while the Jester approaches the mask with a sense of belonging. The Jester lifts his gloved hands and pulls down the grotesque mask of a deformed Jester. He holds it in his hands as he caresses it. The mask in Jester’s hands is a grotesque rubber Halloween mask that blends horror and dark humor. The mask features a deformed face with exaggerated, twisted features. The skin appears rubbery and decayed, with a sickly, pale color tinged with mottled green and gray tones, resembling a corpse. The eyes are hollow, sunken pits with small, beady, bloodshot eyes peering out, surrounded by dark, bruised circles. The mouth is unnaturally wide, stretched into a maniacal grin that reveals sharp, rotting teeth with cracked, blood-stained lips. As he lowers the rubber over the smeared gore already coating his face, the blood seems to seep and bind, the “mask of blood” fusing to the rubber grin as if it belongs there.

Chapter Twenty-Seven 

The Jester’s hat, attached to the mask, is tattered and torn, with elongated, drooping points that end in dirty, tarnished bells that jingle ominously with every movement. The hat’s fabric is a mix of faded black and deep crimson, adding to its unsettling look. The mask’s surface has deep cracks and crevices, giving the impression of worn, leathery skin that’s been through countless horrors. The overall expression is twisted with glee, creating an unsettling, nightmarish appearance.

The Jester looks up from the mask and stares into space. Amy is unnerved by the Jester’s unnatural stillness for an extended period. No movement at all as the Jester stares blankly down the end of the aisle. When Amy looks at the monitor, she sees a ghostly image of a female focused on the end of the aisle. Amy looks closely at the picture on the video screen. The figure is a woman with long, dark hair that covers her face. She wears a long white dress, and she is barefoot.

The Jester’s eyes remain fixated on the ghostly figure, a firm grasp on the rubber mask. The mysterious figure slowly lifts her right hand. The electricity within the building starts to flicker. The security monitors begin to glitch. The security cameras then stabilize after a momentary glitch; the cameras refocus. Amy watches as the camera automatically zooms in on the ghostly figure. The female ghost’s face is hauntingly pale, almost translucent, with a faint, ethereal glow that seems to emanate from within. Her skin appears cold and lifeless, with a soft, misty texture that blurs the edges of her features, making them seem to fade in and out of visibility. Her eyes are hollow and dark, like deep voids, yet with a faint shimmer hinting at a distant, sorrowful gaze. Her lips are a pale blue; her lips part, and she appears to speak. Amy cannot hear what she is saying because there is no audio. The Jester nods as the ghost appears to speak, blood pouring from her mouth.

The monitors go out, and all the screens go black as the feed is lost. Emergency lights are on in the corridors. Amy’s heart pounds as she scans the security office; with the security monitors out, Amy has no eyes on the store floor or on the Jester. The building’s lights start to flicker again. Mark lies motionless on the floor, his breathing shallow but steady. The room is silent, except for the low hum of the fluorescent lights fighting to stay on above Amy and Mark. The door is locked, but Amy knows it won’t be enough to keep the Jester out.

Suddenly, a loud crash comes as something heavy slams against the door. Amy’s breath catches in her throat. The door shudders with each impact, and she knows it is only a matter of time before it gives way. “Mark, please wake up,” she whispers, shaking him gently, but he remains unresponsive. Amy frantically looks for a weapon for defense. Amy sees a metal baton on the security desk, picks it up, and grips it tightly. The door buckles under another blow, the frame splintering. With one final strike, the door bursts open, and the Jester steps into the room.

The ghastly Jester mask adorns his face; painted with a twisted grin, it is menacing and unsettling. The Jester tilts his head, regarding Amy with twisted amusement as he slowly advances. “You really think you can stop me, little girl?” His voice is mocking, dripping with malice; it slides from a low human register to something layered and wrong, like two speakers at once.

Amy’s hands tremble, but she positions herself between Jester and Mark, raising the baton defensively. “Stay away from us!” she shouts, trying to sound braver than she feels.

The Jester laughs, a high-pitched, eerie sound that sends shivers down her spine. He lunges at her with blinding speed, and she barely dodges his swipe. She swings the baton with all her strength, connecting with his side. The Jester staggers back, clutching his ribs, but his grin only widens. “Not bad,” he hisses, his voice full of venom. “But it’s not enough,” a demonic voice comes to Jester’s lips.

He charges at her again; Amy isn’t fast enough this time. He knocks the baton from her hands, sending it clattering across the floor. She stumbles back against the desk as the Jester looms over her. Just as he raises a knife, the sound of sirens fills the air, growing louder by the second. The wail builds outside the storefront, closing in.

The Jester hesitates, his expression darkening. The police have arrived. Patrol units breach the store’s front entrance; shouts echo down the aisles. With a snarl, he spins around; the Jester lets out a primal scream as a mysterious fog fills the security office. The room is instantly filled with thick and mysterious fog. It rolls under the door from nowhere, cold and sweet-rotten, and the HVAC isn’t running.

“Get down!” one of the officers yells from the outer hall, and Amy drops to the floor, covering her mouth as the fog engulfs the room. The fog smells like a decomposing body mixed with human feces. Gunshots ring out somewhere in the haze, and there are sounds of a struggle, but the Jester is gone by the time the fog begins to clear. The officers rush to Amy’s side, pulling her to safety as they search the area.

 

Salt was supposed to protect them, but the line blurred after midnight, and some swore they heard whispers crossing it anyway.

“Are you okay?” one of the officers asks, helping her to her feet.

Amy nods shakily, her eyes watering from the fog. “He… he escapes,” she manages to say, her voice trembling.

“We’ll find him,” the officer assures her, though the tension in his voice betrays his uncertainty. “But right now, we need to get you and your friend out of here.”

Amy looks back at Mark, still unconscious but alive, and allows herself to be led away.

Chapter Twenty-Eight — Circleville Police Department

Britt Robertson sits in a police interrogation room with a hot black coffee on the metal table in front of her. A wool blanket, most likely used for prisoners in the holding cells, is draped over her shoulders. After her ordeal, the room is well-lit and comfortable, and they turn up the heat since she is cold. She sips the coffee, and Britt does her best to keep it together. David sacrifices himself for her. Her high school love, her husband, and the father of her children, now dead, are killed on their anniversary by an escaped madman. Britt feels the emotions swelling up. How is she going to tell the kids that Daddy is dead? Britt closes her eyes to reflect, and all Britt can see is Jester’s face, covered with blood, grinning maniacally, bloody knife in hand.

Britt’s eyes pop open; she is still safe in the Weston police station that she stormed into about forty minutes earlier, screaming about murder. Dressed in a revealing outfit and covered in blood, the police think she killed her pimp or a client. Soon, the police learn the truth and, after investigating the Starlight Inn, discover Jester’s victims. Britt wonders if she would still be treated this well and kindly if she were a killer hooker. She doubts it and takes another sip of coffee with this thought. The police assure her that the kids and David’s parents are okay, and they send two patrol cars to get the family. The Jester does not know who she and David are, yet he knows it is their anniversary. David must say something to the older man in the office that the Jester has overheard; it is the only way. This is all too much to think about now. How the hell does it come about? All because David wants to have a sex fantasy. Her poor David, her hero David, is now dead, protecting her; her love is a knight in shining armor. He protects her to the end. Britt’s eyes fill with tears. Britt puts her hand over her mouth, and she begins to cry. Britt does not know where to begin comprehending this nightmare.

Evelyn Hart knows all about this nightmare too well; the Jester kills loved ones as well. Hart stands outside the interrogation room, observing Britt Robertson processing the events through two mirrors. Hart’s arms are crossed, and she watches Britt crying. The crime scene at the Starlight Inn yields no clues, so the team agrees to speak with the survivor to see if they can learn anything from Britt. Hart hugs herself. Hart can still remember the night she discovered her parents dead. It is the fall of 1994, and Hart has been promoted to the NYPD’s homicide division for a few months. A few weeks earlier, Evelyn’s dad told her that he was planning a big surprise at home for Hart’s mother’s twentieth wedding anniversary. Hart is excited to give her parents the space they need that night. Only if she has not might they be alive.

After going out with some friends from her academic days, Hart drops off a friend a few towns over in Bayshore, Long Island, before heading home to Hempstead. Hart pulls into the driveway of the two-family home on a quiet block around eleven thirty that evening. She is surprised to see the lights out so early, especially given her father’s plans. In fact, the whole house is dark. As she exits her early-1990s sedan, she reflects on receiving it as a gift from her parents for graduating high school as valedictorian, attending a local community college, and then joining the police academy.

Hart’s parents fully support her decision to be a police officer, which makes Hart feel great. Hart leans into the sedan on the driver’s side to get her bag. Once the bag is secured on Hart’s shoulder, she closes the sedan door and locks it with the key. Hart proceeds to walk up the path to the house’s front door. The house is eerily quiet as Evelyn Hart pushes open the door, the creak of the hinges echoing through the empty hallway. She knows something is wrong in the house now. Always locked tight, the front door stands slightly ajar as if inviting her in.

“Mom, Dad.” Her voice trembles, barely above a whisper, but there is no answer. The air inside is heavy, suffocating, with an unnatural stillness that makes her heart pound. She moves cautiously through the hallway, her breath hitching with every step. Pictures of happier times line the walls—her parents smiling, unaware of the tragedy that is to come. Her stomach churns as she approaches the living room, a place once filled with warmth and laughter, now shadowed and cold.

The scene that greets her is something out of a nightmare. Her parents are lifeless on the floor, their eyes wide open, frozen in eternal horror. The walls are splattered with blood, a sickening contrast to the cheerful. Evelyn staggers back, her knees buckling beneath her. She falls to the floor, her body trembling with shock and disbelief. This can’t be real. It must be a sick joke, a twisted dream she wakes up from any moment now. But the cold, unyielding floor beneath her hands tells her otherwise. A Jester doll sits on the floor in a pool of her parents’ blood, a signature of the masked killer, The Jester.

Hart has only heard about the killer, a figure of legend and fear that has been killing for many years in whispers at her police precinct—a sadistic killer who toys with his victims before delivering the final blow. And now, he has come for her family. Tears blur her vision as she reaches for her father’s hand, clutching it as if she can somehow bring him back. But his skin is cold and lifeless, and no amount of wishing can change that.

“I’m so sorry,” she chokes out, her voice breaking as the weight of reality crashes down on her. The world seems to spin around her, the edges of her vision darkening as the enormity of the loss threatens to consume her. But then, amidst the grief, a resolve ignites in her chest. She can’t let the Jester get away with this. She can’t let him win. Wiping away her tears, she forces herself to stand, her legs shaky but determined.

Hart walks over to the living room phone to make the toughest phone call of her life. As Hart looks at Britt Robertson in grief and shock, she feels that night again. The Jester has taken everything from them, but he has also made a fatal mistake. He has underestimated Evelyn Hart, and she makes him pay. The last time, she locked the Jester up, but now Hart knows the evil of the Jester needs to be snuffed out to stop him. Suarez and Lang enter the room, and the look on their faces says it all. “Where?” Hart asks.

Chapter Twenty-Nine — Cascade Valley Medical Center

Amy is thankful for the pain medication she receives at the local hospital. The slash on her arm, given to her by the Jester, hurts badly; the pain is unbelievable. The hospital staff stitches the gash, and Amy is now waiting for further tests. The staff informs her that her parents are on their way after being notified of the incident at the store. When Amy asks about Mark, she is told he is in stable condition and has not yet woken up. She knows Kyle has not made it, as she saw Kyle’s body herself when she was taken to the hospital.

The police and the hospital call her a hero, but she doesn’t feel like one; she did what anyone would have done in that situation. Those slasher movies she grew up watching helped her think on her feet. Amy thinks to herself that when you watch those movies, you never believe you’ll face a real-life masked killer. Amy had a tough time but came out on top. She is a real-life “final girl” like her hero, Laurie Strode, from the Halloween franchise. Amy is in the hospital now, just like Laurie in Halloween II (1981). She closes her eyes and prays that the Jester does not make a real-life version of Halloween II by showing up at the hospital and massacring its staff. There is no Dr. Loomis here to assist Amy.

Amy’s parents enter her hospital room, and tears start flowing as the family reunites. Amy’s mom reiterates her disdain for Amy working late shifts at the big box store. Amy reminds her mom once again that she needs the money to save for college. She does not mention Kyle and Mark, as that argument is no longer relevant after tonight’s attack. Amy’s dad takes pride in her for fighting and saving a life.

The night nurse apologizes for the interruption. Police officers are there to speak with Amy. Amy asks if her parents can be present while she gives her statement. The nurse says that it will be up to the officers. Amy nods and agrees to ask them.

Hart, along with Lang, enters the room. “Hi Amy, I’m Detective Hart, and this is Dr. Lang. We’re here to ask you some questions about tonight.” Suarez stays at the Weston Police Station to speak to Britt Robertson.

Amy nods, indicating that she understands, and asks, “Can my parents stay? “Of course,” Lang responds. We won’t take too long, I promise,” Hart adds, acknowledging Amy’s parents.

Amy’s dad recognizes them. “You’re the two who caught the Jester twenty years ago,” he says. Yes, and we want to catch him again,” Lang answers with a smile. This is the right person to talk to, Amy; they caught him before,” Amy’s dad says to his daughter.

“I don’t know much before I see the Jester. I’m stocking when Mark comes running in, covered in blood. All I know is that this maniac with a knife is chasing him. I know I can’t fight him, so I make sure that Mark and I are safe by locking ourselves in the security office and calling the police. The maniac confronts me on the way; he slashes me, but we get away,” Amy says. And that is brave and smart of you; we’re glad you and Mark are safe,” Hart replies. Thank you,” Amy says, blushing.

Lang smiles at her. “I have a question. Police state that the Jester was wearing a mask and a jester outfit when confronted. Do you know why he got it?” Amy bites her lip. “Yes. After I lock Mark and myself in the security office, the Jester goes into a trance.” She takes a deep breath. “He stops at the door, then looks down the aisle of the Halloween stuff. He’s staring at something or somebody, but when I look at the monitors, there’s nothing and nobody.”

“The Jester then runs with unnaturally fast speed down the Halloween aisle, stopping at costumes. He picks up the Freckles costume from the Carnival of Terror movies. “Very surreal; he’d pick the exact outfit of the killer based on him in real life,” Amy’s dad says. Not really. I’m sure he has a subconscious connection to it,” Lang explains. “Being that it’s similar to his own costume, he’d have a connection to it.”

Amy nods. “Yes. He’s very attached to it. How he caresses it is creepy, but not as creepy as the mask he picks and the lady in the dress that appears then.” Hart and Lang exchange a look. “Lady in the dress?” Hart asks. Yes. After he changed into the Halloween costume, I didn’t think it was necessary to mention it to the police at the store. My mind was racing, and I wasn’t thinking, but after the Jester gets that creepy mask off the rack, he stands transfixed, staring at it. Then he looks up again at someone or something down the aisle. When I check the monitor, I see a lady standing at the end of the aisle, clear as day. I don’t know how she gets there. When the Jester looks up from the mask, he stares at her,” Amy says.

“Does the lady do anything?” Lang asks. Amy pauses. “She stands with her head down, looking at the floor for a few minutes. I’m not sure how long. When she looks up, her face is ghastly white, and she begins to speak to the Jester with blood running down her mouth. I can’t hear her voice because the monitors don’t have audio, but I see her talking to him. The monitors glitch as the lady speaks, and the lights go out. Soon after, the Jester kicks in the door and is ready to kill Mark and me.” Amy takes deep breaths to relieve her anxiety. Amy’s parents put their arms around her.

“The lady, is she with the Jester when he attacks you two?” Hart asks. No, it’s only him in that grotesque mask,” Amy says. What does the lady look like, so we can find her?” Lang asks empathetically. “So, the Jester can’t do this to anyone else.”

A young nurse knocks and enters. “Sorry to interrupt, but we’re ready to take Amy for her test,” she says with a smile. The group acknowledges this as Amy’s parents, Hart, and Lang prepare to leave the room.

Amy says, “I don’t think she’s real.” Hart and Lang look at each other. “As in, she’s not really there?” Hart asks. Amy nods. “I think she’s a ghost. She’s as pale as one. She looks like the girl from The Ring movies.”

Another knock at the door. Orderlies enter with a wheelchair to transport Amy. “If we have any further questions, we’ll follow up. Good luck with your test, and thank you for answering our questions,” Lang says. He puts his arm on Hart’s back and leads her out of the room.

Outside, Hart looks at Lang. “Do you really think the girl saw a ghost?” Lang thinks. “I don’t see why she’d lie to us. In our short time with her, she appears to be of sound mind. I’d have to sit with her for a full assessment to be sure.” Hart shakes her head. “I know, but we don’t have time for that. The Jester has never had an accomplice. Why now? Time is running out, and the body count is climbing.” Lang nods. “We don’t even have a pattern this time. He’s gone from being organized to disorganized. These are spree killings now. We have no idea where he’ll strike next or if there is an accomplice. The Jester continues to be an enigma.”

Hart puts her hands on her hips, takes a deep breath, and exhales. “What if it’s a ghost?” Lang rests his hands on Hart’s shoulders. “There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy, Horatio,” Lang says. Hamlet. How appropriate if we are dealing with a ghost,” Hart replies. “As I told you at the airport, there’s more to the Jester than flesh and blood this time. We could be dealing with things beyond our comprehension. “I think we are. And I should have told you at the airport, but the Jester doll you showed me from the late Lady Hawthorne—it winked at me when I looked at the picture on your iPad.” Lang looks at her with understanding. “Well, I think we need to lose these FBI agents and visit that doll.” Hart smiles and nods in agreement.

Chapter Thirty Owens Residence, Weston, Washington Suburbs 

The pre-Halloween party at Cindy Owens’ house is in full swing. The scent of pumpkin spice and the tang of fake blood fill the air, and laughter bounces off the walls. The living room is a riot of orange and black streamers. The kitchen counters are cluttered with liquor bottles and beer cans, and the garage has been turned into a makeshift dance floor. The party continues with no knowledge that three of their classmates have been brutally attacked by the Jester killer earlier tonight.

Randy Myers, the football captain, is in the garage with his girlfriend, Chelsea Rebecca. Chelsea is the queen bee, the mean girl who—with her devoted followers—rules the school with an iron fist wrapped in designer clothes. Randy is her king: all muscles and charm, with a mean streak to match. They dance alone on the floor while the rest of the party is scattered throughout the house. Chelsea and Randy are oblivious to everything but each other and the music’s pounding beat. The bass shakes the doors, the subwoofer drowns the house, and a horror-movie marathon blares in the living room. The split-level layout isolates rooms, so screams vanish into the background noise.

Randy leans casually, one arm draped around Chelsea’s shoulders. She is dressed as a sultry vampire. Chelsea whispers something in his ear that makes him chuckle. Her costume is designed to turn heads—a bold take on the classic vampire look. A deep crimson corset laced tightly at the front cinches her waist and emphasizes every curve. The fabric shimmers in the dim light, catching red glints with every movement. Beneath the corset, a short, flared skirt barely reaches mid-thigh, made from layers of dark tulle that swirl with each step. Fishnet stockings climb up her legs, held in place by garters that peek out beneath the skirt’s hem. Glossy black stilettos add height and a hint of danger. A long flowing cape drapes from her shoulders, lined with blood-red satin that contrasts with the black exterior. Her makeup is striking—dark, smoky eyeshadow, sharp winged eyeliner, and a bold red lip. Fangs peek over her lower lip, glistening in the light. She wears a choker adorned with a ruby pendant, a drop of “blood” against her pale skin. Her hair is styled in loose waves cascading around her shoulders.

Randy towers over her at six feet four, his chiseled frame painted green. His normally blond hair is hidden under a shaggy wig with large bolt props poking from his neck. His skin is painted a sickly green with dark, exaggerated stitches drawn across his forehead, cheeks, and arms, giving him the look of Frankenstein’s monster. He wears a tattered suit jacket two sizes too small and rugged boots that thud against the floor with every step.

“Are you ready for Frankenstein to show you some monster love?” Randy asks in his best Frankenstein voice. Chelsea chuckles. “As long as your penis isn’t an attachment from the parts you’re rebuilt from.” Randy growls. “The penis is all mine, and it’s big and fat and ready for some vampire pussy.” Chelsea smiles. “Well, let’s just do it.”

They begin kissing in the middle of the dance floor, tongues entwined. Neither notices the faint creak of the garage door behind them. The Jester watches from the shadows, his breath steady, his heart cold. Ivy’s voice echoes in his mind, soft and haunting: “They deserve this. Do it for me.”

He steps forward, unnoticed until it’s too late. Randy barely has time to react before the Jester plunges a knife into his side, the blade slicing through flesh and muscle. Chelsea screams, eyes wide, backing away, but the Jester is faster. He grabs her by the throat, silencing her scream with a swift motion. The music drowns out their final moments.

In the living room, Jason Jacobs and Alice Johnson sprawl on the couch, a haze of smoke curling around them. Both are dressed as 1960s hippies, fitting their stoner roles perfectly. Alice, one of Chelsea’s followers, giggles as she passes the joint to Jason, her boyfriend and resident high school slacker. Both lack motivation for traditional work and are trying to become YouTube stars with their stoner antics. They already have a small, devoted following. Right now, nothing matters. The couple is oblivious, lost in their stoned bliss.

“Is there any food left? I got the munchies,” Jason says after taking a hit. I don’t know, bro; I’m here with you. The foods in the kitchen, you know that,” Alice answers with a hint of annoyance. Man, I wish the food were here,” Jason whines. Don’t be lazy. Get your stoner ass up and get yourself some food. Besides, I need a beer,” Alice says. Jason sticks his tongue out. She rolls her eyes.

Neither moves despite wanting snacks. They stare at the horror movie on the TV. The Jester steps from the shadows, having entered through the garage door. His smile widens as he approaches. Jason notices him first, his dazed eyes struggling to focus. Before he can react, the Jester plunges his knife into Jason’s chest, twisting it with a sickening crunch. Alice screams, her hazy mind slow to comprehend, and the Jester’s knife finds her next. Her scream fades to gurgles as blood spills from her lips. She gasps, eyes wide, before collapsing beside Jason. Their blood mingles on the floor.

The Jester doesn’t linger. He moves on, driven by Ivy’s voice, which grows stronger with each kill.

In the kitchen, Robin Lively, another follower of Chelsea’s clique, is refilling the punch bowl, unaware of the massacre unfolding nearby. She hums the latest pop song as she mixes fruit punch and liquor. She loves her homemade zombie outfit; her dream is to be a special effects artist, not a housewife like her friends plan to be.

Robin pours herself a drink, using a red Solo cup, and smiles at the perfect punch-to-liquor ratio. The Jester enters silently. Robin turns just in time to see the glint of the knife. She gasps and drops the ladle, trying to back away, but the Jester is too quick. He slashes her throat, and she falls, clutching the wound as her life drains away.

The doorbell rings in the distance, swallowed by bass and subwoofer thrum. After the third chime, the Jester reaches the foyer.

Chapter Thirty-Two 

Cindy Owens, Chelsea’s right-hand woman in the high school mean-girl clique, and her boyfriend, Butch—Randy’s best friend and co-enforcer—creep out of Cindy’s bedroom, walking down the dimly lit hallway. The lights are low to keep the party’s pre-Halloween atmosphere. The couple decides to sneak away from the others for some alone time. After forty-five minutes of wild, passionate sex, they are hungry and too sober for a party. They decide to order late-night pizza from the only spot in town that serves it, for themselves and the other partygoers, except for the trio of Amy, Kyle, and Mark, who are still on their stocking shift and expected later. The party will last several more hours.

As they walk hand in hand, a soft, raspy chuckle breaks the silence. Oh, come on, guys, we’re not in the mood for scare tactics. We’re too sober and now hungry,” Cindy says. Yeah, after fucking I want a joint, a drink, and some pizza,” Butch adds. They laugh.

Before they can react, a figure bursts from the dark, clad in red and black, moving with frenetic energy that makes Cindy’s stomach twist. The Jester’s smile gleams like a crescent moon, wide and maniacal. His jagged knife catches the faint glow from a nearby lamp, reflecting a cold, deadly light.

“Butch!” Cindy gasps, instinctively pulling him back toward her bedroom. But Butch, ever the protector, plants himself in front of her. “Stay behind me!” he commands, voice firm but edged with fear. Cindy’s heart pounds. Her home suddenly feels like a labyrinth of danger.

Butch grabs her hand and pulls her forward, both racing back down the hallway in the opposite direction. The jester’s laughter follows, growing louder and distorted. He moves with almost inhuman speed, his knife slashing through the air as he closes in.

Cindy’s foot catches on the edge of a carpet she picked out months ago, and she stumbles. Butch yanks her upright. “Come on!” he shouts. The Jester is close enough that Cindy can hear his ragged breathing.

They reach the end of the hall. Butch flings open a door. Cindy recognizes it immediately—it’s her father’s study, a place she rarely visits. They dart inside and slam the door just as the Jester’s knife strikes it with a violent thud. They press their backs against the door, breathless. Cindy’s eyes dart around the room, filled with leather-bound books and antique furniture. The handle rattles as the Jester tries to force his way in, his laughter echoing through the wood, taunting them.

“We’re trapped in my own house,” Cindy whispers. The realization hits hard. Butch’s eyes never leave the door. “We need another way out. He’s just messing with us… waiting for us to make a mistake. “Cindy nods, mind racing. “The window,” she whispers, spotting the small window at the side of the room. It’s old, probably painted shut, but it’s their only chance.

Cindy runs to the window and yanks at the frame. “Help me!” she calls. Butch locks the study door, then joins her, throwing his weight against the wood. The Jester’s laughter grows softer, more deliberate, almost contemplative, as if savoring their fear. Cindy feels a chill creep down her spine. She has always felt safe here. Now, the walls feel like a trap.

“Hurry,” she whispers. “The guy won’t wait forever.”

The study door starts to crack under the Jester’s blows. Cindy and Butch continue to work the window. Dry paint flakes off as it is forced upward. Butch’s face turns red with effort. The upper sash fights them.

The window won’t budge despite their combined strength. The harder the Jester bangs, the louder the door creaks. Soon, he will break it down. “Come on, you motherfucker,” Butch yells, yanking harder. Inch by inch, the window lifts.

Cindy searches the room for something to defend themselves with. She spots a fireplace set with iron pokers. She sprints over just as the Jester’s hand breaks through the door. Butch looks from the door at Cindy. “Shit.”

The Jester pushes his arm through the splintered wood, reaching for the doorknob. Cindy can hear her heartbeat pounding in her ears. Butch tugs at the window again. Still stuck. The Jester’s hand is inches from the knob. Butch keeps pulling. The hand finds the knob and fumbles for the lock.

With a mighty tug, Butch finally rips the window free. At the same moment, the Jester turns the lock and throws the door open. Butch falls backward as the window gives way, landing hard on the floor. The Jester fills the doorway, knife raised.

Cindy races toward Butch with the fire poker ready. She and the Jester are in a footrace to reach him first. Butch looks up, bracing for impact.

Cindy swings the poker toward the Jester’s face. At the last second, he veers right and kicks his foot out, tripping her. She loses control, stumbles forward, and drives the poker straight into Butch’s right eye.

Butch collapses, body twitching. Cindy trips over him, slams into the open window frame, and bangs her head. She falls backward, hitting her hand on the floor. Everything goes black.

Butch is still alive, groaning weakly. The Jester stands over him and shoves the poker the rest of the way into his eye. Butch screams once, then goes still—blood pools around them.

The Jester tilts his head at the unconscious Cindy. He lifts his knife and plunges it into her chest. She gasps and goes limp. He twists the blade and pulls it free in one smooth motion.

The doorbell rings, echoing through the now-silent house, faint beneath the bass. The Jester descends the stairs, his pace measured, breathing heavy.

He opens the door to find Roy, the pizza delivery guy, standing on the porch, confused, holding a box. Uh, pizza for Cindy?” Roy says, uncertain, eyeing the costume. “Nice get-up, man.”

The Jester doesn’t respond. He lunges forward, knife flashing. Roy barely reacts before the blade sinks into his chest. His eyes widen. He drops the pizza, stumbles back as blood pours from the wound. The Jester steps forward, drives the knife in deeper, and finishes him with a brutal twist.

As Roy’s body slumps, the Jester wipes the blade. A ghostly figure appears before him, glowing pale. It’s Ivy, his dead love, beautiful and tragic. Her eyes are sad, but her lips curl into a small smile, blood dripping from her mouth.

“Aleron is pleased,” Ivy whispers. “But there is more work to be done before we can be together again.”

The Jester’s smile falters. He reaches to touch her, but his hand passes through. “Where and how much longer?” he asks, voice trembling. Ivy smiles wider and points toward the door. “Follow my voice. I speak for Aleron. I will lead you to the next ones and to us finally being together at the end, when we unite with the doll.”

The Jester nods, resolve hardening. He turns and heads for the door, leaving the bodies behind. He enters the stolen van, closes the door, and laughs. His laughter echoes through the empty streets—a chilling promise of horrors yet to come.

Chapter Thirty-Three — Suncrest Motor Lodge, Weston, Washington

Hart is grateful for two things: twenty-four-hour Walmarts and motels. She and Lang call Agent James regarding Amy. They inform him that they’ll stay in the area to speak with Amy further, as they have not yet completed the interview. Agent James agrees and says they’ll all check in during the morning.

After picking up supplies at Walmart, Hart and Lang check into an all-night motel. They agree to share a room with double twin beds. After taking much-needed showers and eating a light snack, they settle in for some sleep and plan their next moves for the morning.

Hart dreams that she is in a dark space. “Hello,” she calls into the darkness. Her voice echoes back. “What is this space?” she thinks. Against her better judgment, she begins to walk. Her footsteps echo in the void.

Her mind registers that this is a dream, yet it feels real. As she walks, a light appears ahead. It grows larger as she approaches until it takes the form of a red door. Despite her rationality, she is drawn to it. She doesn’t know what’s behind it but feels she must find out. Her heart pounds as her right hand moves toward the doorknob.

She hears laughter as she nears the door. Her fingertips touch the knob; it is warm. The laughter grows louder, like a crowd at a distant party. She wraps her fingers around the knob, takes a breath, and turns it. The door swings open to a bright light that engulfs her.

Chapter Thirty-Four Quik Stop, WA-10, outside Weston

It is four a.m., and Clayton Johnson can finally go home from his overnight job at the Quik Stop gas station and convenience store off Route 10. His old bones ache. It is unfair that he must work at his age. Welcome to America, 2015.

He adjusts the old black-and-white television, a relic of a bygone era. It comforts him, evoking memories of his youth. He watches his favorite sitcom on free TV at this early hour; it warms him, reminding him of simpler times, long before divorces, adult kids, and aging in a tech-driven world.

Clayton hears the van before he sees it pull into the station. “Shit,” he mutters. He hopes the driver has a credit card to run the pump and won’t want a late-night snack. He turns back to the TV, hoping to be left alone. With two hours left on his shift, he decides he should have another cup of coffee.

When the show cuts to commercials, he stands from his stool, his joints cracking. Stretching feels good. He walks to the coffee station. Out of the corner of his left eye, he sees the van sitting at pump 10 with its lights on. From this angle, he can’t tell if the engine is running. He hopes the driver isn’t dumb enough to pump gas while the van is still on.

He takes a fresh cup, flips it over, scoops sugar, pours coffee, and reaches for a stirrer. A chill runs down his spine. The hairs on his neck rise. He feels watched.

He glances up at the convex mirror above the coffee station. It gives a clear view of the front door. He half expects to see someone reflected in the mirror. Nobody. He exhales slowly. He knows he’s too old for these late shifts, but they pay well, and most customers use credit cards at the pump.

Financial missteps forced him back to work. Overnight shifts are usually quiet, but he worries about encountering trouble one night. He sips his coffee and returns to the counter. The van is still there, headlights cutting through the drizzle.

“Maybe they’re waiting for me to pump,” he mutters. He takes another sip, sets the cup down, grabs his jacket, and zips it halfway. He walks toward the door. A sign taped to the glass reads: PREPAY AFTER MIDNIGHT — ATTENDANT OVERRIDE FOR POLICE/AMBULANCES ONLY.

The van sitting alone in the lot, its lights on, feels like a scene from a horror movie. Clayton pushes the door open. The autumn air is cool, the drizzle steady. He pulls up his hood and walks toward the van. The lights are on, but the engine is silent.

He notices the logo on the passenger side: a caduceus surrounded by the words “Property of Smith State Correctional Medical Transport.” A DOC decal sits beneath it. He remembers hearing something on the news about Smith State recently but can’t recall the details.

The van’s headlights make it hard to see inside. He raises his hand to shield his eyes as he approaches. Each step increases the feeling that someone is watching him. He digs into his jacket pocket for his keys. He took a senior center defense class last year; the instructor advised against interlocking the fingers to form the keys. Still, they’re all he has. He forgot his mace at home.

He reaches the driver’s side door. Locked. He peers through the window.

The interior appears standard, with ergonomic seats, digital gauges, a GPS, radio controls, and a partition separating the driver and passenger areas. Nothing seems unusual. He debates his next move.

Then he hears it—a grating metallic screech from the other side of the van, followed by a low, evil laugh. The sound chills him. The screech drags along the van’s length, moving from back to front.

Clayton looks through the window again. A shadow passes the passenger side. His heart leaps. He remembers the news now. The Jester killer escaped from Smith State. A trail of bodies has followed.

The screeching stops. The laughter continues.

Clayton turns toward the front of the van. The Jester rounds the corner, breathing heavily under his grotesque mask, gripping a bloody knife. Rain runs down Clayton’s hood as he stares. He tightens his grip on the keys.

“What do you want? You need gas? I’ll give you gas,” Clayton says. The Jester stands motionless, chest rising and falling. “Gas and money. I can give you both.”

The Jester tilts his head, doglike, sizing him up. Then his gaze shifts—not to Clayton, but to Ivy’s ghostly form appearing beside him. Rain passes through her.

“He is just. Aleron will spare him,” Ivy says, looking at Clayton. The Jester straightens. Ivy vanishes.

The Jester speaks in a calm baritone that sounds doubled at the edges. “You are just. You will be spared. I require gas.”

Clayton is startled by the voice but doesn’t question his luck. He keeps the keys ready, moves to the pump, and punches in the emergency override code for police and ambulances. He fills the van’s tank. Sixty dollars’ worth. A small price for his life.

The Jester watches silently, knife still in hand. “Go,” he growls when it’s done.

Clayton doesn’t hesitate. He runs for the store as fast as his bad knees allow. He locks the door behind him, panting. Outside, the Jester stands still, staring into space—really looking for Ivy.

Moments later, Clayton hears the van door slam, the engine start, and the vehicle drive off into the night.

He exhales, walks to the cooler, grabs a beer, cracks it open, and chugs it. The cold beer tastes better than any drink he’s had in years.

The digital clock reads 4:22 a.m. The encounter lasted twenty minutes but felt like hours. Clayton still has an hour and a half left on shift. He grabs another beer. He’s alive. That’s worth drinking to.

Chapter Thirty-Five

As the Jester confronts Clayton Johnson at the Quik Stop gas and convenience store around four in the morning, Hart’s dream gives her a clearer picture of the tale of Aleron and the evil king than she is ready to know.

When Hart enters the red door and the light engulfs her, the laughter stops. She stands alone in a barren landscape. The air is thick with eerie stillness. Ahead is a forest of twisted trees, their branches stretched like skeletal fingers. A chill runs down her spine. She steps forward—the ground beneath her crunches like brittle bones.

She ventures deeper. A low whisper echoes around her. It grows louder, forming words she can barely make out. Suddenly, the ground splits open. From the earth rise skeletal figures, their hollow eyes glowing faintly in the dim light. They form a circle around Hart, their bony hands outstretched, beckoning her closer. One skeleton steps forward. Its voice is a hollow rasp.

“We are the innocent, the remnants of Aleron’s curse against the tyrant king and those Aleron has deemed unjust and cruel over the centuries. Do you dare to hear?”

Hart cannot speak, but something compels her to nod.

The skeleton recounts the tale of a corrupt king who rules his kingdom with an iron fist and a jester named Aleron. Known throughout the realm for his wit, charm, and dazzling performances, Aleron brings joy to the people and light to the dark court.

Aleron is not born into wealth. He comes from a poor village on the kingdom’s outskirts, honing his skills and earning his way to the king’s court. His sharp tongue and clever humor win him favor among both courtiers and commoners. His performances become the people’s only solace in a kingdom bled dry by greed and cruelty.

The people adore Aleron. His popularity grows with each jest aimed at the realm’s corruption. He becomes the people’s voice where dissent means death—a dangerous role in the king’s court. The king, black-hearted and paranoid, grows jealous and furious.

How dare a lowly jester command more love than the sovereign? How dare he mock the court’s tyranny with rhymes and wit?

During a grand feast, Aleron performs a bold routine. Dressed in his colorful garb, he tells a tale of a greedy vulture feasting on others’ suffering, surrounded by crows who caw praises to hide their own hunger. The courtiers laugh. The king does not. He recognizes the insult and plots revenge.

Weeks later, a loyal nobleman is found dead, poisoned. The king fabricates a rebellion, blaming Aleron as the mastermind. Aleron is arrested, bound in chains, and dragged before the court. The king declares him a traitor. Terrified courtiers turn their backs. The people, silenced by fear, mock him to save themselves.

On the day of execution, the skies are dark. The crowd gathers as Aleron is brought to the gallows. The king sits smirking on his throne. Aleron looks out at the crowd with defiance.

“You may take my life, but you cannot silence my spirit. I curse you, King of Tyrants, and all like you—those who twist truth and justice for their own ends. I will return, not as flesh and bone, but as a force of reckoning, to haunt the unjust and the wicked until the end of time.”

The trapdoor opens. Aleron’s body falls. His spirit does not rest.

To mock him, the king commissions a porcelain doll in Aleron’s likeness. It wears a miniature jester costume with tiny bells. The king keeps it in his chambers as a trophy, boasting that no one can deny him—not even the jester.

But Aleron’s spirit inhabits the doll. Soon, strange occurrences plague the castle. Bells ring in empty halls. Laughter echoes at night. Shadows move without light. One by one, the king’s corrupt allies die in macabre, jest-like ways.

The king descends into paranoia and madness, haunted by the doll he created. He tries to destroy it. It always returns, untouched. Courtiers whisper that Aleron’s spirit is trapped within, seeking vengeance.

Eventually, the king flees to a distant fortress. One stormy night, jester bells fill the air. He is found dead, face twisted in terror, the doll beside him.

The tale is nearly forgotten, surviving only in fragments. Aleron’s curse persists, punishing the unjust. The doll has existed for centuries, bringing misfortune and death to its possessors. Aleron’s spirit grows intoxicated with power, selecting victims more freely, even those who are not guilty, to feed his strength.

The skeletons sway in unison, jaws clicking in a macabre rhythm. Each adds fragments to the tale.

“The curse still lingers and has grown more powerful,” they say in unison. “The king’s sins of greed and ignorance corrupted Aleron’s spirit. He has become as sinful and cruel as the king. We are bound, waiting for more victims to join us. He now controls a man who, driven by guilt and shame, has given himself to Aleron to become his hand of justice. The Jester.”

Chapter Thirty-Six

Suddenly, the earth begins to tremble. The skeletons disintegrate into dust, leaving Hart alone once more. The sky grows darker. She feels the weight of unseen eyes upon her. A distant, mournful wail rises in the wind, and she knows the tale of Aleron is not yet finished.

With a final, chilling breath, the wind whispers in her ear, “You are part of it now.”

Hart bolts upright in bed, drenched in cold sweat. It takes a few seconds for her eyes to adjust to the darkness of the motel room. She realizes she’s no longer dreaming. She takes a deep breath to steady herself and register that she is safe.

She looks over to the other twin bed. Lang is asleep.

Hart gets up, slips on the cheap flip-flops she bought at Walmart, picks up her bathrobe from the chair, and heads to the bathroom. She flips on the light and walks to the sink. She looks in the mirror and notices the bags forming under her eyes.

She turns on the faucet, runs her hands through the warm water, and splashes it onto her face several times. When she stands back up, she freezes.

The Jester stands behind her in the mirror, grotesque mask on his face, eyes full of malice, bloody knife raised above his head.

Hart spins around, ready to tackle him. No one is there—only darkness.

Her heart pounds. Adrenaline floods her system. She takes a tentative step forward. Silence.

Hart moves cautiously to the bathroom door and peers into the dark room. The Jester is gone. Lang still sleeps. She exhales slowly, clicks off the bathroom light, and returns to bed. She removes the bathrobe and slippers.

Hart checks her phone. It’s almost five in the morning. She and Lang plan to get up at seven.

She lies back down and pulls the covers over herself. Her mind churns as she processes the dream and its implications. Lang is right. There are things in this world that they don’t fully comprehend.

She stares at the ceiling, replaying what she has learned. Aleron, a medieval jester unjustly accused of treason, cursed a doll created by a tyrant king to mock him. That curse endured for centuries, punishing those deemed unjust. Now she and Lang are part of it. John Connolly has fully succumbed, letting the Jester take control.

Hart closes her eyes. All she can see is the Jester killer. She opens them again and stares at the ceiling, awake until the alarm goes off.

Chapter Thirty-seven

Hart and Lang are informed about the massacre of teens at the pre-Halloween party around eight in the morning. Up to this point, Hart hasn’t mentioned her dream to Lang.

Agent James also informs them that the slaughtered teens were friends of the group attacked at Amazing Offers. He promises to update them once new findings from that scene come in. After the call, Hart and Lang order breakfast from a local restaurant.

They tell James they’re going to follow a lead in a town south of the latest killings. James agrees. Every lead must be pursued if they want to catch the Jester. Both sides agree to update each other by phone later with any new developments.

Breakfast arrives at the motel. Hart and Lang sit at the small table in the room. Hart has no appetite but forces herself to eat. Lang senses something is wrong.

“Everything okay, Evelyn?” Lang asks, sipping his black coffee. Hart looks at him. “I had a disturbing dream last night. “Oh? Do you want to talk about it?” Lang sets his cup down.

She nods. “I was in a dark, narrow space that led to a red door with laughter behind it. When I opened it, I was in a forest. The ground was made of brittle skeletons that cracked under my feet. As I walked closer to the trees, skeletons rose from the ground. They were victims of Aleron’s curse—condemned when he was falsely accused of treason, executed, and mocked with a doll made in his likeness. The curse killed the tyrant king, and according to the skeletons, it continues to this day, affecting all Aleron deems unjust. But Aleron is now corrupted by greed. He goes after innocents, too, with the Jester as his harbinger of doom.”

Hart finishes and takes a bite of her sandwich, relieved to say it aloud finally. Lang takes a moment before responding. He exhales slowly. “Truth is stranger than fiction,” he says. Hart smiles. “So, you don’t think I’m crazy? “Lang sips his coffee. “No, Evelyn. As I’ve said many times since this started, there’s much more to the Jester than flesh and blood.”

Hart nods, picks up her latte, and warms her hands on the cup. So, you think the doll from Lady Hawthorne’s estate sale is the cursed one? Because I want to stop this thing before it kills more innocent people, like my parents, and everyone else over the last three days. It’s been three days since Smith State, and the body count keeps climbing.” She takes a sip of latte.

Lang clicks his tongue, looks at his coffee, and says, “I’ve been tracking the Jester’s pattern since Smith State. Each killing moves him closer toward Lady Hawthorne’s town. I think he’s heading straight for the doll.”

Hart sets her cup down. “You believe he’s on his way to the doll, killing those he deems unjust along the way? “Lang nods. “If Aleron is guiding him, yes. The doll would be significant to him.”

Hart closes her eyes, choosing her words carefully. “And what about Amy’s ghostly apparition? “Lang sips his coffee. “Aleron, or another spirit. It’s on video. Did the skeletons say how the curse works?”

Hart almost laughs at the clinical tone. She exhales. “Hardship and death are the punishments for the cursed.”

Lang thinks about this. “Nothing about them becoming killers themselves—agents of Aleron’s curse—like John has? “Hart considers it. “No.” Lang looks puzzled. After another sip, he says, “Very curious.”

Hart frowns. “The curse kills some but turns John into a killer. And now it’s directing him to kill others? “Lang nods. “It’s curious, yes.”

“Well, maybe if we get to the doll before the Jester, we can get some answers,” Hart says. Maybe,” Lang replies. “Or maybe it’s just another mystery of the Jester, and we’ll never know.”

Hart frowns. “I’m okay with not knowing. I want to stop him. “Lang nods in agreement.

Chapter Thirty-Eight 

Ryan loves Nellie but hates the adventures she pushes them into. It is nine in the morning, and he has been awake since four, so they could trek the Foothill Trails of Washington State. Ryan is thankful that Nellie doesn’t insist on camping outdoors, which allows him to rent a camper for them to stay in.

“This is beautiful,” Nellie says as the couple treks through the terrain. Ryan is too tired from walking five miles to appreciate the scenery fully.

“We’ll have almost completed this first trail just a little further, and then we can head back to the camper for lunch and the afternoon trail,” Nellie adds.

The thought of hiking five miles back gives Ryan anxiety. “Look at this place. It’s so beautiful,” Nellie says again, stopping to take in the view.

Ryan stands beside her, takes a deep breath, and lets the scenery sink in. I’m so happy we can share this,” Nellie says, turning to look at him.

Although Ryan isn’t a fan of these adventures, he loves Nellie, so he enjoys them by default.

Nellie stands near a cliff ledge. Ryan walks up behind her and places his hand on the small of her back. She looks at him; he looks at her. They smile. They kiss, then break apart, grinning at the shared moment. Ryan zips her jacket closed and rests his forehead against hers.

Nellie reaches into her fanny pack and pulls out an old film canister. She pops off the grey lid, takes out a joint, puts the lid back on, and returns the canister to the pack. She pulls out a Zippo lighter, sparks it, and lights the joint.

A sweet, savory smell hits Ryan immediately. Nellie takes a hit, clearly enjoying it. She hands it to Ryan. As he exhales and passes it back, he finally notices the landscape in its entirety. The beauty takes his breath away.

He looks at Nellie as she inhales deeply, closing her eyes to let the relaxing effects wash over her. This place is beautiful,” Ryan says, handing the joint back. Nellie smiles. “So, it takes some fresh air and a little help for you to come around,” she teases.

Ryan laughs as he takes another hit. “Sorry, I’ve been grumpy. You know I’m not a morning person. “I know. I love you anyway,” Nellie says with a smirk. Ryan laughs. “We should head back soon for lunch, dessert, and the next hike.”

Nellie takes a hit. “We didn’t bring any sweets for dessert,” she says, handing the joint back. We’ll figure something out back at the camper,” Ryan replies. Nellie smiles. “I’m looking forward to that.”

Chapter Thirty-Nine

The hike back is more enjoyable for Ryan. Maybe Nellie is right—after some weed, a shared moment, and the promise of lunch and an afternoon hike, his outlook has improved. The five miles back pass more quickly than the climb to the summit.

As they approach the camper, Ryan suddenly feels as if he’s being watched. He stops a few feet away, scanning the trees—nothing but forest.

“What’s wrong?” Nellie asks. Ryan looks around a second time to be sure. “I just feel like we’re being watched, that’s all. “Nellie chuckles. “Weed paranoia setting in? “Ryan laughs. “I guess so. Let’s get back to the camper.”

He wraps his arm around Nellie’s waist, and they walk toward the camper.

The exterior of their rented camper is both streamlined and rugged, striking a balance between aesthetics and functionality. Its fiberglass body is shaped aerodynamically to reduce drag. The tinted windows are designed to provide natural light while maintaining privacy and offering protective coverings against insects and debris.

A retractable awning extends on one side, creating a shaded outdoor space for relaxing and dining. The camper is elevated with sturdy wheels for off-road terrain. External storage compartments are built into the lower body. Outside outlets, LED lighting strips, and water and electrical hookups are available.

Ryan has rented the camper with an option to buy. Nellie clearly hopes they will, planning more trips like this. Ryan likes the idea but admits sleeping in the woods unnerves him. Growing up in the Pacific Northwest, he heard many Bigfoot stories. Whether true or not, he has no desire to end up as a bear or Sasquatch snack. Nellie thinks he’s being ridiculous, but she appreciates the camper’s comfort.

Ryan reaches into his pocket, pulls out the keys, climbs the steps, unlocks the door, and enters the camper with Nellie close behind. She closes and locks the door.

From the treeline, a figure steps out. It is the Jester. After the gas station encounter, he has been guided here—two more “unjust” souls await, two more deaths to bring his beloved Ivy closer to being whole. Ivy’s ghostly image stands beside him, directing him.

The Jester grips his knife tightly. Ivy places her hand on his shoulder. She can touch him now, a sign that the killings are working and her form is strengthening. Her hand is cold, but to him it feels divine.

“It is time for them to die, my love,” she sings softly.

The Jester nods and steps forward.

Behind Ivy stands another figure, unseen by the Jester. It is pale and translucent, its skin stretched too tight in some places and sagging in others, as though warped by time. Veins pulse beneath its surface, blackened and vine-like. Its eyes are hollow pits that glow faintly with an unnatural light, shifting between icy indifference and burning rage. Thin, brittle hair hangs in ragged ash-colored strands. Its scalp is cracked and fissured, as if dried and split by centuries of exposure to the elements.

Chapter Forty

The figure behind Ivy is Aleron. He has grown gaunt and skeletal, yet his frame carries an unnatural strength. His hands, bony and elongated, end in sharp, claw-like fingers that curl slightly, always poised to strike. His blackened, jagged nails are chipped from centuries of torment and rage.

His face bears the deep scars of his suffering. Sharp, angular features and protruding cheekbones jut out like jagged rocks beneath his skin. His lips have shriveled into a thin, cruel line, and his teeth—once human—are now sharp, yellowed fangs that glisten unnaturally when he speaks. Deep lines carve through his face, as if eroded by time and agony.

Aleron’s once colorful jester clothing is now tattered and decayed, clinging to his skeletal frame in faded scraps. The fabric has long since rotted, leaving only remnants of the vibrant costume. Despite his frailty, he moves with eerie grace, as if his curse has granted him something twisted and eternal. His presence radiates despair, centuries of suffering hanging over him like a dark cloud. His voice is a rasping whisper, bitter and malicious, dripping with disdain for those he deems unjust.

Aleron is no longer a man. He is the embodiment of his curse, trapped in a decaying body that refuses to die, consumed by a hunger for vengeance.

He clicks the claws of his right hand together. Ivy’s ghostly image fades into the air. His eyes burn with rage. He clicks his claws again, anticipating the Jester’s next kill. Once noble, Aleron has been poisoned by his curse. The king’s cruelty and lust for power twisted Aleron’s spirit in death, turning him into a bloodthirsty ghoul.

Ryan and Nellie sit inside the camper. The cozy space is filled with the smell of simmering tomato soup. Wood paneling lines the walls. Kitschy knick-knacks cling to shelves with sticky pads to keep them secure during travel.

A small table for two sits beneath a window overlooking the woods. The curtains sway slightly in the breeze from a cracked ceiling vent. Beside the table, the kitchenette holds a stovetop, sink, and cabinets. Pots and pans hang from hooks, gently swaying as Ryan stirs the soup.

Nellie chops vegetables at the sink, humming as sunlight filters through the thin curtains. She turns toward Ryan, smiling as she wipes her hands on a dish towel. “This is shaping up nicely,” she says. “Should be ready soon.”

As Ryan chuckles, a faint sound drifts in from outside. It’s barely audible over the bubbling soup and the classic rock playing from the Bluetooth speaker.

An eerie cackle. Too close.

Ryan’s hand freezes on the spoon. “Did you hear that?” he asks, tension tightening his voice. Nellie pauses, frowning. “Probably just an animal,” she says, brushing it off, though her eyes flick uneasily toward the window.

Before Ryan can reply, the door bursts open with violent force, slamming against the wall.

The Jester stands in the doorway. His mask is twisted in its sinister grin. His attire is splattered with mud and streaked with blood, the bells on his hat jingling softly—mockingly.

Ryan barely has time to react. The Jester lunges, knife flashing. The blade slices Ryan’s side before he can turn. He staggers back into the table, knocking the pot of soup into the air. Hot liquid splashes across the walls and floor, mixing with the blood pouring from his wound. He gasps, unable to cry out.

Nellie screams, stumbling backward. Her hands shake as she grabs for anything to defend herself.

The Jester turns toward her, tilting his masked head as if savoring the moment. He moves slowly, deliberately, his grip tightening on the knife.

In desperation, Nellie snatches the dull kitchen knife she’d been using. She raises it, trembling, as he advances. The bells on his costume jingle softly with each step.

He strikes with terrifying speed, slashing her throat in one clean motion. Her gurgling scream fills the small camper as she collapses against the sink—blood splatters across the counter and pools on the floor.

Ryan, still alive but barely conscious, struggles toward the door. His fingers slip on the wet floor.

The Jester approaches him, head cocked, crouches beside him, and taps his blade against Ryan’s cheek. “Unjust,” he whispers, plunging the knife into Ryan’s chest. Ryan lets out a final, muffled gasp and dies.

The Jester pulls the knife out and stands. Ivy’s ghostly figure appears beside him. “Very good, my love. We are closer to being together forever,” she says.

He turns to her and nods, then steps toward the door.

The camper is silent now. What was once a place of warmth is soaked in blood. The smell of soup mingles with death.

The Jester steps outside and closes the door softly behind him.

Chapter Forty-One 

The drive to the coastal town of Westport, California, will take Hart and Lang over a day. Westport is the small seaside town that the late Lady Hawthorne called home after moving from Great Britain in the mid-1990s. Once a thriving fishing port, Westport’s economy has struggled since the late 2000s as the fishing industry declined.

Lady Hawthorne moved to the town shortly after the financial troubles began, using her immense wealth to keep it afloat and quickly falling in love with the community. After her death a few weeks ago, her will ensured that the town would continue to benefit. A clause stipulates that proceeds from her estate sale and additional investment funds are to be used to rebuild Westport and maintain it as a tourist destination. Plans include renovating the historic lighthouse and revitalizing Main Street with trendy shops and restaurants to attract younger tourists drawn by TikTok trends.

Unbeknownst to the townspeople, one item from the estate sale—the Jester doll—triggered an unexplained episode in young Abby Lawson. The incident was dismissed as an accident by those running the sale. However, as a precaution, the doll was removed from circulation and placed in secure storage. A public post online sought information about the origins of a certain event, but no one has come forward to provide it. Lang discovered the post while investigating.

When Lang calls Austin to ask about the doll, Austin explains that he doesn’t know how Lady Hawthorne obtained it. Before the incident with Abby, he had no interactions with the doll. Lang also checks on Abby’s condition; Austin reports she’s doing well and has been discharged from the hospital. Hart and Lang decide to visit Abby in Westport to better understand what happened to her.

When Austin asks why they’re interested in the doll, Lang explains that it may be connected to a criminal investigation and that they need to examine it for potential clues. Austin agrees, and the road trip is arranged.

Hart checks in with Agent James for updates on the Jester. James informs her that Clayton Johnson, an overnight employee at Quik Stop, reported an encounter with the Jester and survived. Hart finds it strange that the Jester didn’t attack him.

James relays Johnson’s account:

“Mr. Johnson says he offered the killer gas for the stolen van. The Jester agreed. Once the tank was filled, the Jester told him to go. Johnson locked himself inside the station. The Jester stood there for a moment, then got in the van and drove off.”

Hart clicks her tongue. “And that’s it? “Yes,” James replies. “He drove off with a full tank, heading south.”

Hart thanks James and hangs up.

Lang, packing for the trip, looks up. “What did James say? “Hart replies, “The Jester stopped at a gas station near the last crime scenes, got gas from the attendant, and left without incident.”

Lang looks confused. “He didn’t attack the attendant? “Hart shakes her head.

She explains that Johnson, working the overnight shift, became suspicious when no one exited the van for a while. When he went to check, the Jester confronted him. Johnson offered money and gas. The Jester said he wanted gas, took it, then let Johnson go. Afterward, Johnson locked himself inside. The Jester stood silently for a few minutes, then drove south on US-97.

Lang shifts in his seat. “That’s strange. As far as we know, he’s never intentionally let a victim go. “Hart nods.

“Is James going to talk to him again?” Lang asks. I doubt it,” Hart replies. “They got his statement. From a law enforcement perspective, there’s no reason to dig further.”

“That’s unfortunate,” Lang says. “I’d like to know if Johnson saw anything else. “Like what?” Hart asks. Lang pauses. “A ghostly image, as Amy saw on the Amazing Offers cameras,” he answers with a grin.

Hart tilts her head. “You think Amy and the ghost she saw are real?”

Lang opens his iPad, enters his passcode, and scrolls through his notes. “Everything I’ve documented points to a supernatural force we don’t understand,” he says. Hart can tell he believes it.

She rubs the back of her neck, anxious. “I don’t disagree that there’s more to this than we believed. But… why now?”

Lang looks up. “We need to drop ‘why.’ We’re facing something unnatural, and we might never know its reasons.”

He scrolls through his notes again. “From Smith State records, John Connolly changed over time. At first, he insisted on his innocence and demanded justice. As time passed, he came to embrace Aleron’s worldview, believing the world was unjust and deserved punishment. Eventually, Aleron ordered him to kill a fellow patient and a guard. He was moved to a secured ward, and we know the next step was the Smith State massacre a few days ago.”

Lang pauses. “The event happened. The ‘why’ doesn’t matter. What matters is how we stop it.”

He swipes to a photo of the Jester doll. Hart shivers. She’s grown to hate the doll just from the image.

“The Jester is killing his way toward it,” Lang says, “and a young girl went into a coma after looking at it.”

Hart sees the intensity in his eyes. This case clearly matters to him. She looks back at the doll’s cold black eyes staring out from the screen.

“Evil exists,” she says quietly. “We may not understand why, but we can stop it.”

She knows evil took her parents’ lives. She thought it ended when the Jester was caught but evil found a way out again. Her eyes fall on the doll’s porcelain face. Despite its lifeless stare, it looks disturbingly innocent.

She looks back at Lang. He’s watching her, resolute. Hart nods. “Let’s get on the road and put an end to this.”

Chapter Forty-Two

Monique Saint James has had enough. She has been dealing with her stepdad’s bullshit for far too long, and now she’s going to run away from home. Her destination is her Aunt Simone’s house in California. The only problem is that she has no money or transportation, so she must hitchhike from Washington State to California.

Monique convinces herself that starting early will keep her safer than traveling at night, when she might have a greater chance of getting a ride but also faces more danger. Aunt Simone, her mom’s younger sister, understands her better than anyone.

Monique’s mom, Krystal, was a cool single mom before marrying Phillip a few years ago, following a brief dating period. Phillip is a conservative right-wing MAGA supporter who believes in “undoing years of progress.” Despite that character flaw, he’s a good, hard-working man who runs a construction business in Tacoma, Washington, and provides for his new family.

Monique and Phillip constantly clash over her life choices and political affiliations. Krystal had never been particularly interested in politics until she married Phillip and joined the MAGA movement, largely under his pressure.

Monique is far from a MAGA supporter. At eighteen, she’s still discovering herself and her worldview. She has always known she was different from other girls, feeling attracted to women from pre-adolescence, despite trying to force herself to like men. Her parents don’t know she had her first lesbian kiss at fourteen — and loved it, repeating the experience with another girl her age.

Krystal is aware of Monique’s sexuality but dismisses it as a “phase” encouraged by liberal culture. This attitude makes Monique feel isolated and misunderstood. Things get worse when Phillip enters the picture. Krystal instructs Monique to hide her sexual orientation from him. Confused and hurt, Monique eventually comes out to Phillip. His reaction is predictably intolerant; his political views reject same-sex relationships.

Phillip frequently entertains like-minded friends at their home, discussing how they want to change American politics and demonize the LGBTQ+ community further. Monique grows tired of biting her tongue. Eventually, she openly debates him, escalating household tensions. Neither of them backs down — both are stubborn, dominant personalities — making the home environment hostile and exhausting. Krystal sides with Phillip more often than with her daughter, leaving Monique feeling even more abandoned.

On top of this, Monique’s biological father died in the line of duty when she was five years old. She has little contact with his family due to a long-standing feud with Krystal that predates her birth. Now, as Monique stands on US-97 heading south, she knows Aunt Simone is her only hope.

The last fight at home was the worst. It turned physical between Monique and Phillip to the point that Krystal nearly called the cops. Monique spent that night at her friend Debbie’s house, where she finalized her escape plan. She reached out to Aunt Simone, claiming she’d be on a class trip and wanted to visit. Her aunt was delighted and asked when to expect her. Monique promised to arrive in two days. Once there, she plans to tell Aunt Simone the truth.

Aunt Simone is bisexual, and Monique believes she can offer the love and support she’s not getting at home. Monique packs after her parents leave for work, telling them she’ll stay at Debbie’s for a few days to cool off. They agree. Hours pass, and no cars stop. She’s starting to lose hope that she’ll ever make it to California.

Finally, Monique sees a van cresting the hill, heading toward her. She sets her duffel bag between her feet and sticks her thumb out, heart pounding. The van doesn’t slow as it nears — she curses loudly as it passes. But then, it slows down, pulls to the shoulder, and stops.

Excited, Monique grabs her duffel and runs toward the van, not noticing the Smith State Correctional Medical Transport emblem on its side. She reaches the passenger door, bends to catch her breath, and smiles. Before she can decide whether to knock, the door opens on its own.

The figure inside has an eerie glow, a soft, otherworldly light that doesn’t match the sunny morning.

“Need a ride?” Ivy’s soft voice echoes as if from far away.

Ivy turns her face toward Monique. Her mouth hangs slightly open, revealing broken, discolored teeth. Her lips twitch as if she’s about to whisper a secret or a curse Monique can’t quite hear. Ivy’s gaze locks onto her with suffocating intensity, as though she can see straight into Monique’s fears.

Monique wants to scream, but it catches in her throat. Her duffel drops to the ground with a thud. Before she can flee, a gloved hand grabs her from behind, yanking her close. A blood-stained knife presses against her neck.

Tears stream down Monique’s face. The Jester breathes heavily behind his mask, the stench of sulfur, death, and body odor overwhelming her senses. She gagged, trying not to vomit. The blade digs into her skin, drawing a trickle of blood.

He’s about to slash when Ivy suddenly screams — an animalistic sound, part cat’s screech, part bear’s roar.

“She is just who we need for the resurrection,” Ivy says, her voice both soft and menacing.

The Jester exhales through the mask, then slowly eases the knife from Monique’s throat. Without warning, he slams his forehead into the back of her skull. Monique goes limp. He throws her over his shoulder like a rag doll, carries her to the back of the van, lays her inside, shuts and locks the door, then gets into the driver’s seat. The van roars to life and drives off.

Chapter Forty-Three

Meanwhile, Abby Lawson, twelve years old, sits cross-legged on her bed, drawing. Sunlight fills her room.

She doesn’t talk much about the incident at Lady Hawthorne’s estate sale. Abby remembers waking up in the hospital, but not the seizure itself. She had collapsed after seeing a particular doll, screaming before falling catatonic. The hospital ran tests but found no medical cause, so they referred her to a neurologist and psychologist for follow-up. She was discharged a few days later.

Her parents are relieved, chalking up her ominous statement — “The man will come to kill us all” — to post-seizure delirium. Abby doesn’t remember saying it. But since coming home, she’s been plagued by nightmares.

In her dreams, the town is cloaked in unnatural darkness. A figure in a twisted jester costume stalks the empty streets, bells faintly jingling. Abby hides — in the diner, the library, her backyard — but he always finds her. His mocking laughter echoes everywhere. The nightmare always ends with him cornering her, gloved hands reaching out as she freezes in terror, then waking up just before he strikes.

Abby has started drawing the nightmare man, hoping it will keep him from haunting her dreams.

There’s a knock at her door. “Come in,” she calls.

Her mom, Alice, enters. The two look remarkably alike — they share blonde hair, blue eyes, and the same smile. “What are you doing, pumpkin?” Alice asks, sitting on the bed.

“Drawing,” Abby replies cheerfully, hiding her fear.

Alice glances at the drawing — a sinister jester with a twisted smile and a knife. “Who’s this scary person?” she asks.

“It’s a monster I made up for Halloween,” Abby lies smoothly.

Alice forces a smile. “Well, you’ve always had a vivid imagination.”

Abby smiles back but looks down at her drawing uneasily. Even on paper, the nightmare man terrifies her.

Alice touches Abby’s shoulder, and Abby jumps. “You okay, hun?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. Your hands are just cold,” Abby says with a grin.

“You know what they say — cold hands, warm heart,” Alice jokes. “I baked some Snickerdoodle cookies. Want to come have some?”

“Dessert before dinner?” Abby asks, eyes lighting up.

“Something like that,” Alice answers, running a hand through her daughter’s hair.

Abby nods and gets up. She glances back at the drawing one last time before leaving the room.

As the door closes behind them, a sinister laugh echoes softly in the empty room.

Hart cannot stop thinking about her dream. The skeletons remain vivid in her mind as Lang drives toward their destination in Westport, California. She can’t help but wonder if her parents are among them—victims of Aleron’s twisted form of justice. She wishes they had spoken to her if they were, but maybe they can’t. Maybe they don’t even recognize her.

She glances at the GPS. It shows nearly fifteen more hours on the road before they reach Westport, arriving late the following evening. Lang has made all the arrangements: he booked a motel room and arranged for a late check-in. He’s also scheduled a meeting with Austin Stone, Lady Hawthorne’s former assistant and current head of the Hawthorne estate. The meeting could give them valuable insights into the Jester doll, which may hold the key to unraveling Aleron’s curse.

Lang has additionally contacted the parents of Abby Lawson, the young girl who experienced a seizure while examining the doll. They’ve agreed to speak with him; Lang’s deeper understanding of the supernatural circumstances might help the family cope.

Hart reaches for the cup holder and picks up her warm coffee. A chill has lingered in her bones since the dream ended that morning. She flips the cap on the plastic lid. Steam rises in the shape of an S. She blows gently on the mouthpiece before taking a sip. The warmth immediately chases away some of the chill.

“Is the coffee good?” Lang asks, glancing at her from the corner of his eye as he drives the rental car.

“Hot yet fresh, delicious and warming,” she replies. She blows on the coffee again and savors another sip. “When would you like me to take over driving?”

“In a few hours. I’m thoroughly enjoying driving right now,” Lang answers. “The scenery is breathtaking.”

“Yes, it is!” Hart exclaims, gazing out the window at the stunning views along U.S. Route 101.

Perhaps the most iconic highway in the country, U.S. 101 hugs the Pacific coast, offering travelers breathtaking sights: dramatic cliffs plunging into the ocean, sandy beaches, and charming coastal towns. It encircles the Olympic Peninsula in Washington, providing spectacular views of the Olympic Mountains and the Strait of Juan de Fuca. It also winds through lush forests, such as the Hoh Rain Forest, where moss-draped giants stand tall and are home to elk and bald eagles.

Hart has never seen nature this beautiful. It’s a shame her first encounter with it comes while she’s pursuing a mass murderer. She draws a deep breath and takes another sip of coffee.

“What’s on your mind?” Lang asks.

Hart closes her eyes for a moment. In her mind, the skeletons from her dream sway back and forth in eerie unison. She opens her eyes again, focusing on the road and the Olympic Mountains rising on the horizon.

“I’m thinking about the singing, dancing skeletons in my dream. If my parents are among them,” she answers quietly, taking another sip of coffee. The chill creeps back into her bones.

Lang exhales. “That’s a valid thought. They’re among the Jester’s innocent victims.”

Hart nods. “If we can get to the doll before the Jester, maybe we can destroy it and free them—and the others—so they won’t remain trapped by the curse.”

“I’m sure they’d recognize you if they could,” Lang responds empathetically. “It’s hard. They were killed for no reason other than being deemed ‘unjust’ by a madman in a mask. And now… there’s the possibility they’re not at peace.”

Hart nods again. “We’ve been given a chance to stop this madness once and for all. And maybe we can free those doomed to be remnants at the same time.”

Hart can always count on Lang for optimism about the Jester. During the original investigation years ago, Lang was her biggest cheerleader. His analytical mind helped her decode the Jester’s psyche, and her instincts ultimately led to his capture at the grand ball.

She clicks her tongue thoughtfully. “So… what are we going to do with the doll when we get to it?” She takes another sip of coffee; just the thought of the doll sends a shiver down her spine.

Lang pauses to consider the question. “Buy it and burn it,” he finally replies.

Hart smiles. “Sounds like a solid plan,” she says with a laugh.

Lang laughs too. “Burn, baby, burn,” he sings playfully.

Laughter fills the car as they continue their long drive toward Westport.

Chapter Forty-Three 

Monique cannot believe her dream. She dreams of hitchhiking to her aunt’s house in California after yet another fight with her parents. In the dream, a van stops to pick her up—inside is a ghostly woman straight out of The Ring trilogy, and the driver is dressed like a demented jester.

As Monique wakes, she feels the gentle movement of a vehicle beneath her instead of the stillness of a bed. Her fingers flex against a rough rug, not soft sheets. Her vision slowly clears, revealing the back of a van. Soft, warm sunlight filters through the small rear windows, casting long, diffuse beams that create sharp contrasts of light and shadow within the interior. Dust motes drift lazily through the golden glow. The van’s walls and floor are worn, with faint scratches and scuffs. A tool bag catches the light, its shadow stretching across the floor.

As full consciousness returns, Monique realizes that her nightmare has become a reality.

A male voice speaks aloud, then mimics a female voice. A chill races up Monique’s spine as she listens to him hold a two-sided conversation. He’s talking to someone named Ivy, responding to her as if she’s real. “Westport,” the man says in a gruff voice. “They’re unjust. They must pay for their sins. We start on U.S. 101.” The female voice—his mimicry—agrees.

The eerie dialogue reminds Monique of Psycho, with Norman Bates arguing with his “mother.”

Panic flares. What an idiot she’s been to run away. Her mom and stepdad must be terrified. She didn’t tell anyone where she was going. But regret won’t help her now. She needs to get out.

She doesn’t see her duffel bag, but her phone is still in her pocket. She slowly rolls onto her back. The smell hits her immediately—a foul, nauseating stench of rotten flesh that turns her stomach. She holds her breath and digs carefully into her pocket. Her phone is there. She flicks the mute switch to keep it silent.

The screen shows over a dozen missed calls, voicemails, and texts from her mom and stepdad. She slides toward the van’s corner, trying to sit up without making a sound. Up front, the man continues his intense conversation about punishing Westport.

The stench is worse near the corner, but she forces herself to focus. She decides to call her mom—she’ll have to tell the truth.

Her mom’s number is at the top of the missed calls list. Monique draws a deep breath and presses the dial.

Her mom answers almost instantly. “Honey, my God, are you okay?” Relief floods her voice.

Monique keeps her voice low. “I don’t know where I am, Mom. I tried to hitch to Aunt Simone’s. A van picked me up. The guy attacked me. I’m in the back of the van now.”

Her mom gasps audibly. Monique hears her stepdad in the background asking what’s wrong. “Not now, Philip!” her mom snaps.

Monique’s voice cracks. “I’m scared, Mom.” Tears fill her eyes.

“I know, baby. I know. Tell me everything,” her mom says firmly.

Monique wipes her face, trying to think clearly. “I was walking along 97, about two miles from the exit for home, when a van finally stopped to pick me up.”

“Do you know the van’s make, color, or license plate?” her mom asks.

Monique squeezes her eyes shut, trying to remember. She’d been so relieved to see the van that she hadn’t noticed the details. But then she remembers a name on the side. It started with an “S.”

“Smith State,” she whispers.

The van doors fly open at that exact moment.

The Jester is there, breathing heavily.

Monique has been so focused on the call that she hasn’t noticed the van stopping. She screams. Her mom screams. Her stepdad screams.

The Jester laughs—a gleeful, terrible sound—and leaps into the van. He reaches her in seconds. She tries to scramble away, but he’s too fast. He slams into her, his hands closing around her throat. Her phone flies from her grip and clatters to the floor.

Her mother’s panicked voice shrieks through the line. Her stepdad yells threats. The Jester doesn’t care. His gloved hands tighten around Monique’s windpipe until her vision darkens and she passes out.

The phone is still connected. The Jester picks it up and listens to the screaming woman and the enraged man on the other end. He laughs menacingly into the phone.

“Who the fuck are you?!” Philip roars.

The Jester drops the phone and crushes it under his boot, silencing the call.

Ivy appears beside him, spectral and beautiful in a terrible way. Aleron’s unseen presence looms behind her.

“Have her join us,” Aleron instructs Ivy.

Ivy nods, her eyes turning jet black. Her jaw unhinges unnaturally. She walks to the unconscious Monique, sits on her chest, and forces Monique’s mouth open. Black liquid begins to seep from Ivy’s mouth, snaking downward.

Chapter Forty-Four 

Abby does her best to be present for her parents’ sake. She laughs and eats cookies, even surprising her dad by helping make his favorite dinner. Afterward, there are more cookies and a family-friendly Halloween movie. Despite the joyful atmosphere, Abby cannot shake the nightmare from her mind.

After the movie, Dale and Alice clean up together and debate watching another before deciding that bed is the better option. Abby’s mom insists on tucking her in.

“Good night, honey,” Alice says, leaning over to kiss her daughter on the head.

Abby’s dad stands in the doorway, watching his wife and little girl interact with loving eyes.

“Good night, Mommy,” Abby replies with a smile.

“Good night, baby,” Dale says from the doorway.

“Good night, Daddy,” Abby replies.

Alice kisses her daughter again, then gets up and walks to where her husband stands.

“Light on or off?” Alice asks.

“On, please,” Abby replies.

Alice frowns slightly, but Dale smiles and nods. He places his arm around his wife and gently leads her out of the room, closing the door behind them.

“I’m worried,” Alice whispers to her husband outside Abby’s door. “Since the incident, she wants the lights on every night. I hear her cry out in her sleep. And today, she was drawing that gruesome, demented Jester man.”

“I hear her, too,” Dale replies softly. “The lights are just a phase—lots of kids go through that. As for the Jester, she claims it’s a Halloween character she invented. Maybe it’s based on the doll she saw. She’s too young to know about the real Jester and his recent escape, unless she’s been watching the news, and you keep an eye on that. She’s always had a vivid imagination. What happened to her has been hard on all of us, which is why I’m glad Dr. Lang reached out. I think he can help, maybe get her past this.”

Alice takes a deep breath. “I’m just worried. She scared me that day. I don’t want anything else to happen to her.” Tears well in her eyes.

Dale pulls his wife close. “We won’t let anything happen to her. We’ll talk with Dr. Lang tomorrow when he visits, and we’ll keep working with those referrals.”

Alice pulls her face from her husband’s chest and looks up at him. “Do you really think that Jester doll caused the medical issue, like Dr. Lang believes, because of some curse?”

“It’s a possibility. That’s why I want Dr. Lang to meet Abby, talk to her about what happened, and then go with him to see Austin and get a better look at that doll,” Dale replies.

“Poor Austin,” Alice says. “He’s had so much on his plate. He’s been such a sweetheart since what happened with Abby.”

“He has,” Dale agrees. “I just wish he knew more about the origins of that thing.”

“Hopefully, Dr. Lang can help with that,” Alice says.

“Me too. I don’t want that creepy thing hurting anyone else,” Dale replies.

The couple stands outside their daughter’s door for a moment in a loving embrace.

“Let’s get some sleep,” Dale finally says.

Alice nods. He slides his hands from around her waist, takes her right hand in his, and they walk to their bedroom hand in hand, feeling a little more hopeful about the situation.

Chapter Forty-Five 

As soon as Abby’s parents leave the room, she turns to her right side, where a night table stands. She opens the drawer and pulls out her tablet. Her granny, Alice’s mom, gave it to her for her birthday a year ago as a reward for her good grades in school.

Abby opens the tablet case and powers it on. Once it loads, she opens the writing app and accesses her journal. She has been journaling for about two years, ever since her teacher, Mr. Stuart, handed out blank notebooks at the start of the school year and assigned the class to journal daily. At the end of the year, each student had to write an essay on whether the practice was meaningful. The goal was to help students understand how self-reflection can aid decision-making and personal growth.

Abby has used journaling to make sense of her daily life and the recent nightmares that have haunted her. She draws a deep breath and types the date into the app. She begins her entry by describing the nightmare from the night before, which has repeated itself nightly, always ending the same way.

She continues by recounting her day at home. Abby has another week off from school while recovering from the seizure. Still, she keeps up with her assignments to avoid falling behind. As a star student, she usually finishes the work quickly, leaving the rest of the day free. She writes about the day’s assignments, her love for school, and her dream of becoming a teacher like Mr. Stuart.

Abby then writes about playing outside for an hour to get fresh air and how much she loves the autumn weather. She mentions the neighborhood Halloween decorations and how they brighten her mood. She describes her plans for Halloween: surprising everyone with her costume, going trick-or-treating with friends, then coming home to eat candy and watch a scary movie marathon with her dad. Her mom will be working late that night.

She also writes about drawing the scary Jester from her nightmares, her mother’s reaction, and how she pretended it was just a Halloween creation. Abby isn’t sure her mom believed her. She admits to lying to her parents about how frightened she is, but she feels it’s better than worrying them more after what happened at the estate sale.

She writes about enjoying the cookies her mom baked that afternoon, especially getting to eat them before dinner. She talks about how much she loves her dad for bringing her favorite fast food, followed by more cookies and a Halloween movie. Abby remarks that she felt truly happy with her parents in that moment and hopes the nightmares will pass soon.

Abby also notes that her dad wants her to speak to Dr. Lang about the incident. He explained that Dr. Lang is aware of Lady Hawthorne’s Jester doll and believes it may have caused her illness. Abby writes that she’s nervous about talking to him; she’s tired of doctors and wishes things would return to how they were before the medical episode.

She stops writing and looks toward her desk. The drawing of the Jester sits on its oak top. She doesn’t need to look at it to remember the image. A deep breath escapes her as the weight of everything settles on her twelve-year-old shoulders.

Abby looks down at the blinking cursor, picks up the tablet, then lies back on her pillows and sets it on the nightstand. The light from the bedroom shines down, giving her comfort. She believes light protects her from scary things because scary things don’t like the light.

She thinks about what to write next and her mixed feelings about meeting Dr. Lang. Can he really help? Did the doll cause the seizure? Will talking about it change anything? Abby drifts into these thoughts as her eyes grow heavy, and she drifts off to sleep.

Chapter Forty-Six 

The dream starts as it always does. Abby sees the Jester killer moving through the empty streets of Westport. The bells on his hat jingle faintly, echoing in the silence and making her pulse quicken as they draw closer. Abby feels trapped as always within the dream, her footsteps heavy as if weighed down by fear.

She hides in familiar places—the diner, the old library, her own backyard—but each time she thinks she’s safe, the Jester appears around the corner, grinning with a glint of malice in his eyes. His gaze pierces through her. His laughter, low and mocking, fills her ears and chills her to the bone.

Abby wants to run, but she cannot. She knows her eyes will soon pop open, and she’ll wake safely in her room. The Jester walks toward her, knife in hand, dripping blood. His laugh starts as a distant sound but grows louder as he approaches. Abby braces for the usual end of the dream.

He’s closer than ever now. His laughter surrounds Abby. She tries to scream, but nothing comes out. He’s on top of her. The sinister grin on his masked face stretches wider. He lifts the knife high, blood dripping from the blade. Abby cannot move or scream. Tears streak her cheeks as the knife comes down—her heart pounds as if bracing for the blow.

Suddenly, the world shifts. The nightmare’s darkness gives way to a vivid, surreal scene. Abby stands in a crowded courtyard; her feet rooted in place. Towering gallows rise before her, silhouetted against a blood-red sky.

A man stands on the platform’s edge. His hands are bound, his head held high despite the jeering crowd. His expression is defiant, a spark of unbroken pride refusing to extinguish even as the noose tightens around his neck.

A king clad in resplendent but dark armor steps forward, his presence commanding and sinister.

“I give you justice!” the king bellows, his voice echoing across the courtyard.

“You give them lies,” the condemned man replies.

The king smirks, acknowledging the truth in the man’s words. He raises his arm, revealing an object that makes Abby’s stomach churn—a lifelike, intricately crafted doll that resembles the condemned man in every detail.

“Behold!” the king declares. “The mighty Aleron reduced to this—a mere doll of his failures to overthrow your king.”

The crowd erupts in cruel laughter. Abby’s focus narrows to the doll. It is identical to the one she saw at the estate sale, with its painted eyes, delicate stitching, and the unsettling aura it radiates.

Realization crashes over her. This is no coincidence. The doll is here, in this dream, just as in her waking life. Its significance looms larger than she imagined.

As the king gives the order, Aleron curses him and all like him—those who lie and keep secrets. The platform beneath Aleron collapses. Abby flinches but cannot look away. The air grows heavy with a suffocating sense of injustice and dread.

The king’s triumph is complete. He holds the doll aloft like a trophy as the crowd cheers.

Abby’s vision shifts again.

Chapter Forty-Seven 

The vivid courtyard dissolves like smoke on the wind. Abby stumbles as her feet land on solid ground—not cobblestones, but wooden floorboards. She finds herself standing in a dimly lit, cluttered pawn shop. The air smells of dust and old wood.

Her surroundings sharpen slowly. Glass counters display tarnished jewelry, faded trinkets, and cracked porcelain figurines. Behind the counter, a stout man lounges on a creaking stool, his disheveled appearance at odds with the neatly arranged items beneath the glass. His shirt is stained, and his thinning hair is unkempt.

Abby’s senses prickle. There is something deeply unsettling about this place.

The bell above the door jingles. Abby turns to see an elegant woman with long dark hair step inside. She is tall and poised, wearing a shimmering pantsuit far too fine for this dingy shop. Her perfectly styled hair and piercing eyes command attention. Abby recognizes her immediately—Lady Hawthorne.

The man grunts as he heaves himself off the stool. “Lady Hawthorne,” he greets her with mock reverence. “Always a pleasure.”

“I’m here to expand my doll collection,” Lady Hawthorne replies smoothly. She glances dismissively at the display cases. “Something… unique, perhaps?”

The man nods knowingly and waddles toward the back room. Abby watches, her breath catching. He disappears behind a curtain and returns moments later with a doll cradled in his hands.

It’s dressed as a jester, its painted face frozen in a wide grin. Abby’s skin crawls the moment she sees it. Lady Hawthorne’s eyes light up as she inspects the doll with a collector’s practiced gaze.

“Yes,” she murmurs. “This is exquisite. How much?”

The man hesitates, scratching his chin. “I should warn you, milady. The last owner claimed this doll is cursed. It ruined him—bad luck, strange happenings, disembodied voices, violent outbursts. He swears it was the doll’s doing.”

Lady Hawthorne’s lips curl into a faint smile. “How delightful,” she says, dismissing the warning with a wave. “A little curse adds character, don’t you think?”

He shrugs, relieved she isn’t deterred. “If, you’re sure. Five hundred, and it’s yours.”

“Done.” She places three crisp hundred-dollar bills on the counter. She cradles the jester doll like a priceless treasure, her fingers lingering on its painted face.

Abby watches, frozen, as Lady Hawthorne turns and sweeps out of the shop. The doll’s grin seems to widen as it disappears into the evening light. A chill runs down Abby’s spine. There is no denying it now—the doll is connected to her nightmares.

Behind the counter, the man—Nicky—pulls out a cell phone. With a few swipes, he makes a call, drumming his fingers on the glass as he waits.

“Yo, this is Nicky from the pawn shop. I’m calling, as you asked, about when the Jester doll was sold. The lady I told you about, the doll collector, bought it.” He pauses, listening. “Yeah, I told her about the curse. She didn’t care. Honestly, I’m glad it’s gone. That thing was creeping me out. I was seeing and feeling stuff.” Another pause. “Lady Hawthorne. She’s from Westport. She’s a local celebrity. Google her.” He listens again. “Okay, cool. I’ll expect that from you today.”

Nicky hangs up without saying goodbye and drops back onto the stool.

The scene dissolves into another vision of the pawn shop later.

Nicky leans back on the stool; a half-eaten sandwich balanced precariously on the counter. A small TV buzzes softly with static—the bell above the door chimes. A figure enters, moving as a shadow, dressed entirely in black, hood pulled low.

Abby’s heart jumps. The figure stands motionless for a moment, letting the door swing shut behind them. Nicky doesn’t look up at first, muttering about the lousy reception. The silence grows heavy. Finally, Nicky glances up and smirks.

“What’s with the outfit, pal? You think you’re Batman or something’?” he rasps.

The figure slowly shakes its head. Then, deliberately, they reach up and pull back the hood. Dim light from the TV reveals a pale, painted face. The grotesque grin of a twisted jester’s mask stares back.

Abby yelps. Nicky’s smirk vanishes. Terror floods his face. He stumbles back, chair screeching, hands raised. “Hey—hey, I don’t want any trouble, alright? I didn’t do nothing’!”

The Jester killer tilts his head. His silence is suffocating. Without warning, he lunges. The blade flashes. Nicky tries to scream but is cut off instantly. His sandwich hits the floor with a dull thud. Abby covers her face. His screams end quickly.

The TV continues buzzing. A laugh track plays faintly as the Jester wipes his blade with his gloved hand. He shifts his weight, and the mask comes fully into view—a chill races down Abby’s spine.

He breathes heavily under the mask, a mix of Darth Vader and Michael Myers. He steps forward, boots thudding—Abby’s forehead beads with sweat.

“I know you’re here, little one,” the Jester croaks. “We’ve been connected ever since you touched the doll at the old bitch’s sale.”

He inches closer. “You’re seeing my past and our future, little one. What do you think so far?” His tone is icy.

Abby slides back as far as she can into her hiding place. Her anxiety spikes. She desperately wishes to wake up.

The Jester’s right foot stops inches from her. She can smell the rot rolling off him. She holds her breath to avoid gagging.

“Abby. That’s your name, little one,” he says. “Aleron is looking forward to cutting down the morally unjust in your small town. Your town is full of them. He’s very pleased that Lady Hawthorne took his doll home with her to your seaside town.”

Abby begins to lose consciousness from holding her breath for so long. The Jester suddenly grows eerily still, breathing slowly as if distracted. Abby seizes the chance to breathe deeply through her nose.

Without warning, she’s yanked from her hiding place by her hair. The death smell hits her full force as she looks into the doll-like black eyes of the Jester. The grotesque mask fits tightly, its features blending into his face.

“Hello, little one,” the killer says coldly.

Chapter Forty-Eight

Dr. Lang’s eyelids grow heavy, the rhythmic sway of the road ahead lulling him into a soothing embrace of slumber. He and Hart continue their journey to the distant town of Westport.

They pull into a shabby diner, its neon sign humming faintly overhead, beckoning them inside for a hot meal and steaming coffee to fuel the remainder of their trip. After indulging in greasy fried chicken and golden waffles, their stomachs feeling like lead, the two partners climb back into the car, clutching large cups of coffee that taste as if brewed in the depths of an AA meeting—strong enough to jolt anyone awake and add a layer of grit to their day. Hart takes the wheel now, sipping from her travel mug, its lid designed to keep the heat locked in.

“You can take a nap if you want,” Hart says, taking a long sip and placing the mug back into the cup holder beside Lang’s.

“I’d rather keep you company,” Lang replies, his voice thick with the weight of sleep. He reaches down, lifting his own steaming mug, feeling the warmth seep into his palms. The potent brew momentarily electrifies him before he sets it back down, the effects quickly fading.

“I’d prefer to listen to some music to help unwind, honestly,” Hart responds, contemplating the road ahead. “We’ve got a big task before us. With the Jester looming, we both need rest and mental preparation.”

Lang frowns, the seriousness of their mission creeping into his mind. 

“Just rest for now while I drive. My shift is up in four to six hours; then it’ll be your turn,” Hart advises with a reassuring smile.

Lang nods in agreement. “I’ll take a twenty-minute catnap. If it stretches longer, so be it.”

He closes his eyes, the steady motion of the car seducing him into a deep sleep.

In the darkness behind his closed eyes, Lang suddenly finds himself standing in a long, damp stone corridor. The walls ooze thick black ichor, pulsating insidiously as if they possessed a will of their own. The air hangs heavy with the musty scent of mildew and decay, blending with a sense of ancient dread. Flickering torchlight shimmers dimly along the corridor—though no torches are visible—while the passage stretches endlessly in both directions, an invitation to an unknown horror.

The only sound is the faint, grotesque tinkle of bells—childlike and mocking.

Then comes laughter.

A high, reedy giggle, unsettling and cruel, echoes from the shadows ahead. Lang turns instinctively to run, but the corridor shifts and shifts again, curling around him like a serpent, forcing him forward. Suddenly, the floor disappears beneath him.

Lang plunges into a void, landing with a thud in a crumbling stone theater.

The seats are filled with skeletons adorned in tattered finery—decaying kings and bishops, plague doctors with hollow eyes, and masked noblemen, all long since departed. They sit perfectly still, their empty gazes fixated on the stage, an audience of the forgotten.

Under a single blood-red spotlight, Aleron’s Jester Doll stands alone on stage. The doll is child-sized, clothed in tattered motley, its porcelain skin marred by cracks, like an ancient vase forgotten in a dark attic. Its eyes are disturbingly lifelike—wet, twitching, and ever-watchful. Bells hang from its jaunty hat and wrists, chiming softly with every unsettling motion.

Its mouth opens wide, revealing rows of jagged human teeth, and it begins to speak in a chorus of intertwining childlike voices, layered and haunting:

“I was the king’s mirror to his cruelty, the kingdom’s laughter during tough times. But when the king cried, and the court spun lies… I became hungry.”

As the doll speaks, the world around Lang flickers violently. He sees the tumultuous fall of Aleron, his cruel torture and death, and a puppet show in the palace where the Jester danced for a dead king propped upon a throne of bones.

“They tried to burn me, bury me, shatter me. But ideas do not bleed, and I am more than a mere doll. I am weak, fed, and grown. I embody every indulgence left unchecked. Every lie whispered to keep warm. I am Aleron.”

As the dream twists once more, Lang finds himself hovering over John Connolly, bound by invisible threads like a marionette. John’s face is gaunt, his once-vibrant eyes now hollow. Behind him stands the Jester, its lips moving as it whispers insidiously into his ear.

“He’s mine now. So is his girl. You can’t save them. Unless… you wish to play?”

Lang’s voice rises in urgency as he demands to know how to stop it. The laughter turns shrill and giddy, echoing through the theater.

“Ahh, but clever men always question. And clever men always fail. But you, doctor… You listen. So, listen closely.”

In an instant, Lang stands in a crumbling church, dimly lit by flickering candlelight. The Jester Doll lies atop a cracked marble slab, its eyes closed, surrounded by a macabre circle of blood. Indecipherable chanted words swirl around him, echoing in the stillness.

Then, a voice—his own—begins to recite:

“Confess what festers. Bleed what feeds. Burn what binds.”

The steps to bind Aleron become clear in his mind.

The entity must be lured into revealing itself—nourished by sin yet restrained by truth. John must confront his guilt, and Ivy must grapple with her resentment in death. Only then, when the host is broken and remade whole, can Aleron be confined within the doll.

“But remember, doctor,” whispers the Jester behind him, its voice chilling and cracked like porcelain, “you, too, have something to confess…”

Lang turns and is horrified to see himself drenched in blood. Orderlies transport him on a gurney through a cold, sterile corridor. A broken watch dangles uselessly from his wrist as a patient’s scream pierces the air, and Lang walks away, distant and numb.

“We all have our price,” the Jester declares ominously. “And I am eternally hungry. I feast upon the just and the unjust alike to sate my hunger.”

With a sudden screeching laugh and a cacophony of jangling bells, Lang jolts awake, his heart racing. Cold sweat coats his forehead, drying quickly as the harsh glow of highway lights streaks across the windshield, illuminating the gliding trees outside, which blur by like shadows with outstretched arms.

Hart glances over, concern etched on her face. “Are you alright?” she asks.

Lang looks to the digital clock on the car’s radio. He’s been asleep for less than fifteen minutes, yet it felt like an eternity.

Chapter Forty-Nine

Abby lies on the exam table. Her parents, Dale and Alice, rush her to the closest hospital, a few towns away, after discovering a large gash on the side of her throat. They’re less concerned with how it happened than with getting her urgent medical care.

The wound requires stitches.

Dale heads out to get coffee for himself and Alice at the only 24-hour diner nearby. At the same time, Alice speaks to the doctors about Abby’s discharge plan.

Abby stares up at the hospital room ceiling. It’s dull and beige, but it gives her something to focus on while she waits. She thinks about how to be honest with her parents.

How does she tell them that she’s being stalked by a dark entity attached to her through the jester doll from Lady Hawthorne’s estate sale?

She barely believes it herself—but she’s living it, and now she has physical evidence.

Alice approaches the exam table. “Honey, how are you feeling?” she asks gently.

Abby doesn’t answer at first. She clears her throat as she hears her mom step closer. “I need to tell you something, Mom,” she finally says.

Alice moves beside her daughter and places a warm hand on Abby’s right arm. “What is it, honey?” she asks with a soft smile.

Abby takes her eyes off the ceiling and looks at her mom. She notices how much Alice has aged since the estate sale incident—new lines of worry etched into her face. Abby’s throat tightens.

“Mom…” she starts, struggling to find the right words. Alice’s face is full of unconditional love and patience.

“Mom, something bad happened with that doll at Lady Hawthorne’s,” Abby croaks.

Alice gently pets her daughter’s hair. “I know, honey. You gave Daddy and me quite a scare after those health issues you had when you saw the doll.”

Abby draws a shaky breath. “It’s more than that,” she says.

“Okay, baby. Tell me,” Alice encourages.

Tears well in Abby’s eyes as all the fear, she’s been holding in hits her at once. “There’s something evil stalking my dreams. He dresses like a jester—an evil, twisted jester who kills people he thinks are liars or bad.” Her voice cracks as tears spill down her cheeks.

Alice listens intently, though Abby can’t tell if she believes her.

“The evil Jester has two others with him,” Abby continues through tears. “A ghostly woman and a skeleton figure. They’re like his bosses. They tell him where to go and who to kill. I keep dreaming that the Jester is coming here—to Westport—to kill us and others. They want Lady Hawthorne’s jester doll back. The Jester attacked me in my dream tonight. He slashed me before I woke up. Before he did, he told me they’re close to Westport.”

Abby exhales, feeling a wave of relief at finally telling the truth.

Alice remains calm, unfazed on the surface. She smiles softly. “It’ll be okay, honey. Daddy and I won’t let anyone hurt you.”

Dale enters the room carrying two cups of coffee. “What’s going on here? Everyone okay?” he asks, walking over to Alice and Abby. He hands Alice a cup, then leans down and kisses Abby on the forehead. “How’s my little princess?” he asks with a smile.

“Abby was just telling me about some nightmares,” Alice says. “A man dressed as a demonic jester, working with two ghostly figures.”

Dale looks at Abby seriously. “Is the Jester from your dreams the same one you drew?” he asks.

Abby nods.

Dale and Alice exchange a worried look.

Alice frowns slightly. “Are the dreams why you’ve been keeping the lights on at night?”

Abby nods again.

Dale takes a sip of coffee. “The dreams started after the estate sale incident?” he asks.

“Yes,” Abby answers. “The Jester and his friends have been haunting my dreams since that day. They’re coming here to kill people in Westport and get the doll back.”

She looks at both parents, who are listening closely. “I told Mommy the Jester slashed me before I woke up tonight.”

Dale nods slowly. Abby bites her lip. “Do you believe me?” she asks.

Alice takes Abby’s hand and says firmly, “Of course, we believe you.”

Dale nods in agreement. Abby feels a small wave of relief.

“We think it’s important you talk to someone more experienced with this,” Dale says gently. He reaches out and touches her arm. “Mommy and I have spoken to Dr. Lang. He’s familiar with the doll from Lady Hawthorne’s estate sale. He and his partner, a policewoman named Hart, want to meet with us—and especially with you—about what happened that day.”

Abby listens closely. She trusts her parents, and if they trust Dr. Lang, maybe she can, too.

“So, I should tell them about the nightmares? How real are they?” Abby asks.

“Yes,” Alice says, eyes filling with tears. “Tell them everything, Abby—even about the slashes. They want to help us. They know more about the doll than anyone else.”

Tears spill down Alice’s cheeks. “We need help,” she whispers.

Dale puts his arm around her shoulders. Alice reaches out and takes Abby’s hand. Abby squeezes it back.

“I’ll tell the truth,” Abby says softly.

“Good girl,” Dale replies.

Abby closes her eyes.

In the silence, she hears the faint jingling of bells in the distance.

Chapter Fifty

The fluorescent lights buzz softly in the nearly empty diner. Al’s Diner, a roadside stop established in the 1940s, serves weary travelers along US Route 101—about halfway down the 1,500-mile highway. The place has seen better days, having passed through many owners over the past eighty-five years, but it remains stubbornly open.

Step through the creaky, bell-chiming glass door, and you’re greeted with the scent of old coffee, sizzling bacon, motor oil, and the passage of time itself.

Al’s is a time capsule, untouched by the polished modern chains that have sprung up around it over the decades. The linoleum floor—cracked and patched in places—is a faded black-and-white checkerboard, worn smooth by the boots of truckers, the soles of muddy sneakers, and generations of night owls.

The booths are wrapped in cherry-red vinyl, cracked at the seams, and patched with duct tape. Each has its own crusty mini jukebox bolted to the wall—most jammed on loops of Elvis, Patsy Cline, or early Motown. The tables are edged in aluminum trim, their Formica tops stained by decades of black coffee and cigarette ash. Napkin dispensers are half-empty; salt shakers are clogged; ketchup bottles are crusted over.

The walls are a chaotic scrapbook of American highway life: yellowed photographs of regulars from the ’40s and ’50s, oil company calendars from the ’70s, Route 101 memorabilia, and newspaper clippings about big rigs jackknifed in the rain. A dusty payphone sits in the back—it still works if you slam it just right. In the corner, an old pinball machine flickers endlessly, looping the same attract sound since the Reagan era.

The long counter dominates the center, lined with mismatched spinning stools. Behind it, the open kitchen hisses and pops. Ron, the late-night cook, works the griddle with a cigarette tucked behind his ear and a permanent scowl. The pass-through window is scratched and greasy, and the service bell has taken more abuse than a dive bar bouncer. The lights flicker a greenish hue overhead, and a ceiling fan wobbles as though it might drop at any moment. Outside, the rumble of passing semis blends with the fridge’s constant hum.

Al’s is never truly empty. It belongs to the insomniacs, the loners, the lost, and the hungry. Truckers sip their sixth coffee; teenagers dream over pie and fries. But after midnight, something about the place always feels just a little… off.

On this cold October night, Al’s is dead quiet, except for the jukebox playing dusty pop hits from decades past.

The griddle sizzles faintly in the back—Ron’s domain. No one dares bother him there.

Ally Walter, twenty-three, sees her graveyard shift as her ticket to TikTok fame. She dreams of acting school, and viral content might be her way out of the diner grind. With its flickering neon, checkered floors, and eerie after-hours atmosphere, Al’s feels made for social media.

She props her phone on a napkin dispenser, angling it with a salt shaker. In frame: a mostly empty diner, flickering lights, and Ally and her co-worker Alex, twenty-one, dancing to the latest TikTok trend.

Ally’s frilly pink waitress uniform clashes with her high-top sneakers. Her hair is in a messy ponytail; her eyeliner is slightly smudged but fierce. Alex, matching uniform and sneakers, tries not to laugh mid-routine.

“Wait—what the hell is a snap-snap-dip again?” Alex giggles between breaths.

Ally rolls her eyes playfully. “It’s exactly what it sounds like. Snap, snap, dip—then pop your hip. Like this.” She demonstrates, smooth and sassy.

Alex gives it a half-hearted try. “God, I look like a flailing baby deer.”

“TikTok loves flailing baby deer,” Ally shoots back. “That’s the beauty of it! Nobody expects J-Lo in a Waffle House.”

They burst into laughter.

“C’mon,” Ally says. “We nail this, post it, maybe someone actually tips us for once.”

They finished the dance in perfect unison, reviewed the video, and posted it to Al’s TikTok account.

“What’s the caption?” Alex asks.

Ally types: #ServingUpSassWithYourFries 💅 #NightShiftQueens #AlsAfterDark

“Add #TipMePls.” Alex leans over. “Rent’s a monster this month.”

Ronnie, the overnight cook, kicks open the kitchen door, a black trash bag in one hand, a cigarette dangling from his lip. His apron is crusted with grease, his mood even crustier. He trudges toward the dumpster at the far corner of the lot.

The October breeze is sharp. He flicks his Zippo, lighting up. “Stupid kids. Dancing’ while I’m cleaning’ their fryers,” he mutters.

He drops the bag, exhales smoke, and freezes. He hears bells. Faint at first.

He shakes his head. “Hearing things,” he mutters.

Then he hears them again. Louder. A figure emerges from the shadows—small at first, growing as it approaches.

“What the—”

A gleam of steel. A wet gurgle.

Ronnie’s cigarette falls, ember scattering. Blood pools beneath the dumpster as the Jester silently steps over his body.

Ally and Alex refresh their TikTok feed. Likes are trickling in, but no tips have been received.

Alex slurps her iced coffee. “My hip popped like cereal. You sure this doesn’t scream arthritic millennial?”

Before Ally can answer, three knocks echo from the swinging kitchen door. KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.

The overhead lights flicker once.

Ally frowns. “Ron?”

Silence.

“He’s probably screwing with us,” she says, trying to sound casual. “You know how he gets when we film.”

KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK. Slower this time. More deliberate. Wrong.

Alex edges forward. “Ron? You, okay?” She pushes the door open.

The kitchen is mostly dark, lit only by a single flickering bulb near the back exit.

For a split second, Alex sees it: a bloody handprint smeared across the stainless-steel wall—thick, wet, fresh.

She staggers back. “Ally,” she whispers, “there’s… blood.”

Before Ally can respond, the diner phone rings—a piercing, old-fashioned landline scream.

They jump. Ally grabs the receiver with trembling hands. “Hello?”

A long pause.

Then a distorted, sing-song voice:

“Knock, knock… Who’s ready for the final course?”

Click.

The lights snap off.

The diner plunges into darkness.

Alex screams. Ally drops the phone.

They scramble behind the counter. Ally fumbles for the emergency flashlight under the register. Its dim beam cuts across the booths, the exit, and the jukebox.

“Psycho Killer” by Talking Heads blares suddenly:

🎶 Run, run, run, run, run, run, run away… 🎶

“I’m not dying in a fucking diner,” Ally hisses.

Alex sobs softly beside her. “What do we do? We’re alone. The phones are dead. He’s—he’s inside, Ally.”

From the kitchen comes the jingle of bells, the scrape of metal on tile, and then—laughter.

High-pitched. Warped.

Ally grabs a steak knife from behind the counter, her knuckles white. “If he wants a show,” she whispers, “Let’s give him one.”

Chapter Fifty-One

Soft rock hits from yesterday fill the silence between Hart and Lang as they drive toward Westport, California.

Despite promising he won’t fall back asleep, Lang eventually dozes off again. Hart is secretly relieved — his nap gives her a rare chance to decompress. She sips her coffee slowly as she drives, the radio humming softly, while Lang snores beside her.

She knows that soon they’ll both need a bathroom break, something to eat again, and, most importantly, fresh coffee.

Up ahead, Hart spots a faded roadside sign advertising Al’s All-Night Diner. She’s not sure if the place is still open, but if it is, it seems like the perfect spot to stop for a quick bite.

Lang snores himself awake shortly after they pass the sign. A string of drool slides from the corner of his mouth as he jerks upright. He rubs his eyes groggily, then wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

Hart catches this out of the corner of her eye and can’t help but reflect on how much Lang has aged since the first time they met—nearly three decades ago, when they first brought the Jester down.

The tires hum steadily against the wet road. Fog licks at the shoulders of the highway, and rain begins to fall in a steady drizzle. The trees on either side blur into shadowy sentinels under the sweep of the high beams.

Lang, now awake, takes a sip of his cold coffee. He sits silently, lost in thought, giving Hart space to process everything—including the dark confession he made earlier.

As she drives, Hart’s mind drifts back to the fall they first met, twenty years ago. She can still hear their younger voices echoing in her head. She can still feel the chill of that first autumn—the season the Jester’s reign of terror truly began.

She had just been promoted to head of the Jester Task Force—the youngest officer in her department ever to lead such a high-profile case. The brass had brought in a forensic psychiatrist from Mid-State Psychiatric, someone who’d been tracking a pattern of ritualistic killings before law enforcement had even linked the cases.

His file read:

Dr. Marcus Lang, Forensic Psychiatrist, mid-40s, specializes in pathological ritual behavior.

She remembers walking into the conference room, her badge gleaming, her trench coat damp from the rain. Lang was already there—lean, angular, dressed in a charcoal suit with a slightly crooked tie. He sipped burnt coffee from a Styrofoam cup and didn’t bother to stand when she entered.

“You’re Hart,” he said flatly, not looking up.

“And you’re the profiler,” she shot back.

His eyes flicked up—cold, unreadable.

“No,” he said. “I’m the translator.”

She disliked him instantly. His dry sense of humor grated on her. Dr. Lang always acted like the smartest man in the room—and he was, and he knew it. And yet, there was something about him… something in his eyes—a man who had already seen what lay at the end of the path.

“So, translator,” she snapped, “what can you tell me about the Jester?”

Lang almost smiled but didn’t. He flipped through a file.

“So, Detective Hart, is that correct?”

“Yes. And you’re Dr. Lang, I assume.”

He nods. Then he answers Hart’s question before she even has a chance to ask. 

“The Jester kills because he believes the world is corrupt,” Lang said without looking up. “Diseased. He doesn’t see it as murder—he sees it as surgery.”

“So, he thinks he’s saving the world?”

“In his mind, yes. He believes pain cleanses. He thinks masks reveal more than faces.”

Back then, they knew so little. Just the calling card: a porcelain jester mask, left behind at every scene, grinning grotesquely and inscribed with riddles hinting at the next attack.

They had no idea about Aleron, the curse, the doll from Lady Hawthorne’s estate, Ivy, or John Connolly’s guilt. All those truths had been buried in Westport, waiting.

A gust of wind jolts the car, yanking Hart out of her reverie.

She glances at Lang now—older, paler, his frame sunken into the passenger seat. Not the same man she met back then. And yet, in some ways, still him.

Back then, she believed evil could be cracked like a code. That if she followed the evidence, she could beat the Jester with logic and speed. However, the truth had always been deeper, older, and more deeply rooted in Westport.

Al’s Diner Ahead

As the fog thickens, the trees grow taller, their dark shapes closing in like guards.

Through the mist, she spots a weathered roadside sign:

WELCOME TO AL’S ALL-NIGHT DINER — 1 MILE AHEAD OPEN 24 HOURS

Hart exhales. “Do you want to stop? Bathroom, food, coffee?”

Lang nods.

“Seems like Al’s will be the place,” she says.

Lang yawns. “Sounds nice.”

Hart cracks a small smile, and Lang notices.

He knows they’re still processing the bombshell he dropped about Aleron, Ivy, and the true nature of the curse. But seeing her smile—even briefly—gives him a strange sense of hope.

From a distance, the neon sign of Al’s Diner flickers through the rain.

Lang squints. “Hoping this place is like apple pie.”

Hart smirks. “Let’s just hope it has decent food.”

“Greasy spoons usually do,” Lang says.

Hart shakes her head in disbelief as their car approaches the blinking neon sign.

Chapter Fifty-Five

The flashlight flickers as Ally sweeps the beam across the dark diner. Every shadow seems to twitch and shift. The plastic eyes of the mounted Big Mouth Billy Bass near the soda machine suddenly look sinister—wide and glassy.

From the kitchen comes the metallic clatter of something falling, followed by the distinct jingle of bells.

Footsteps. Slow. Heavy. Dragging. Something sharp scrapes from behind the kitchen door.

Alex clutches Ally’s arm, whispering through ragged breaths.

“We must run. Now. Out the front door.”

“No,” Ally whispers, her voice low and determined. “If he’s already in the kitchen, he could be between us and the exit. We don’t know where he is.”

“Then the back door—?” Alex asks, her voice trembling. She pauses, draws a deep breath. “That’s where Ron went.”

A burst of twisted laughter pierces the air.

They both freeze—the flashlight trembles in Ally’s hand.

The laughter is warped and amplified, echoing through the ventilation system like a carnival ride intercom.

“I seeeee youuuuu… my lovely little waitresses…” the voice croons. “Shall we play a game of hide and scream? You’ve been very naughty and unjust. It’s only right you play my game.”

Then—a metallic clang. The kitchen door slams open.

“GO!” Ally shouts.

They duck low and sprint down the narrow employee hallway between the front counter and the storage closet. Ally yanks the closet door open, shoves Alex inside, and follows, slamming the door and turning the lock.

Darkness envelops them—the air reeks of stale mop water and cleaning chemicals. For now, it’s shelter.

Ally fumbles for her phone.

“What are you doing?” Alex hisses.

“Call the cops!” Ally whispers back, licking her dry lips.

“No signal,” she says, showing Alex the screen. “But we can still record.”

Alex’s eyes widen.

“You’re kidding—now?!”

Ally isn’t. She opens the TikTok app.

“If we don’t make it out of this, someone must know what happened. If this goes live, maybe someone will see it in time. Maybe even the cops.”

Outside the door, heavy footsteps pass by. Then a pause. Tap… tap… tap—the sound of a knife scraping slowly against the doorframe.

“Knock, knock… naughty girls must die,” the distorted voice sings.

Ally hits record. She whispers urgently into the camera:

“If you’re seeing this… we’re being menaced by a maniac. The Jester is here at Al’s Diner. He killed our coworker. We’re trapped in a closet. He says we’re naughty and must die. Please—someone help us. Send this to the police. Don’t come here. Just… don’t come alone.”

She stops recording and taps Post.

Signal weak. Uploading…

Outside, the handle twists.

“Ally,” Alex whimpers, clutching a broom. “Hold the door.”

The knob turns again—harder this time. Then silence.

CRASH! The door explodes inward as the Jester kicks it open.

He stands in the doorway—tall, lean, dressed in a bloodied jester outfit, the grinning white mask catching the glow from Ally’s phone.

“The Jester!” Ally screams.

Alex lunges. With a wild yell, she jabs the broom handle at his mask. It connects—he staggers back.

Ally hurls the flashlight at him. It misses, but it buys them a second.

“NOW!” Ally screams.

They burst past him into the diner.

The Jester recovers fast, dragging a butcher knife behind him like a predator stalking its prey.

Ally and Alex reach the counter. Ally dives over it and grabs the frying oil bucket from beneath the grill.

“You sure about this?” Alex pants.

“Nope. But it can’t hurt. I’m reaching down for my inner badass right now,” Ally says with a shaky grin.

The Jester steps into view, arms outstretched like a maestro about to conduct a bloody finale, the butcher knife slick with Ron’s blood.

Ally hurls the bucket of hot grease at him.

The scalding oil splashes across his chest. He screams—a sound part human, part animal—and collapses to his knees, clawing at his burning clothes.

“RUN!” Ally yells.

They shove through the front doors and stumble into the cold night.

Behind them, the Jester’s screams echo across the empty parking lot.

Alex sobs, gasping for breath.

“Did he follow us? Is he—?”

“I don’t know,” Ally says, turning back.

The diner is still. But the front door hangs open, darkness yawning inside.

Then—buzz. Ally’s phone.

The TikTok finished uploading.

35 views… 100… 1.2K…

Comments flood in:

“WTF is this real? “Someone calls 911 now. “Girl, are you okay?! “Dude, I live five minutes from there. I’m sending help. “This looks TOO real. “Not another ARG 🙄”“I’m screen-recording and emailing this to the police rn.”

Alex collapses to her knees, crying. Ally kneels beside her, holding her tightly.

They aren’t safe. Not yet.

But they are alive.

And now… the world is watching.

Chapter Fifty-Two

Hart veers onto the off-ramp for Al’s All-Night Diner. The lot sits at the edge of dark woods; she clicks on high beams to cut the gloom. Lang yawns and sips his hours-old coffee, grimacing.

“I hope they’ve got a fresh pot,” he mutters.

“I’m craving a greasy burger and fries,” Hart says.

“That won’t be a problem here,” he chuckles.

The beams sweep across two figures huddled in the lot—young women in waitress uniforms clinging to each other.

“What the hell…” Hart breathes.

“No kidding,” Lang says.

Heart breaks. The women look up, tear-tracked faces stark in the light, then sprint to the car. Hart steps out.

“Thank God you’re here—did you see our TikTok? The Jester tried to kill us,” Ally blurts, panting.

“TikTok?” Lang says.

“It’s an app,” Hart answers, already scanning the diner.

“He’s in there,” Alex says. “Please help us.”

It could be a prank, but their bodies shake like people who’ve truly survived. Sirens wail faintly in the distance.

“Stay with them,” Hart tells Lang. She unclips her holster and draws her Glock, safety off. “There’s a backup in the glove box—loaded,” she adds over her shoulder.

Lang pulls the spare Glock, then hustles Ally and Alex into the car, doors shut.

Hart moves for the door, breath steady, muzzle low. Inside is black—only the jukebox murmurs an old track she doesn’t recognize. A grease bucket lies on its side. She steps carefully past the slick surface and rounds the counter—clear—a faint jingle of bells from the kitchen. Sirens grow louder; red-blue light strobes off the front glass.

She plants, kicks the kitchen door. It bangs open.

A man dangles from the ceiling fan by his intestines, a carved smile open on his face.

Footsteps rush in behind her.

“Evelyn?” Lang calls.

“In the kitchen,” she says. Gasps as uniforms crowd the doorway.

Minutes later, emergency medical services (EMS) carefully triage Ally and Alex inside the ambulance’s cramped confines, where the atmosphere is tense yet tinged with a flicker of hope. Outside, Lang holds his phone to his ear, contacting Agent James to relay critical information. Captain Brandon of the State Police stands nearby, his brow furrowed in concern as he surveys the scene. They had been driving toward Westport when they unwittingly chose to stop at Al’s Diner, a decision that now seemed serendipitous.

Brandon gestures subtly toward the ambulance, a look of grudging admiration on his face. “Smart girls,” he remarks, his voice low. “Broadcasting for help in the heat of the moment. If you two hadn’t shown up…” He lets the sentence trail off, leaving the unspoken gravity in the air. 

Lang follows Brandon’s gaze and sees the two girls, their faces pale but their spirits resilient, managing to wave weakly from their makeshift stretchers. Meanwhile, officers on the scene are busy securing the area; the medical examiner is en route, with sirens blaring in the distance. George Bennett, the diner’s owner, is currently out of state. Still, his associate, Danny Beck, is en route to address the situation. The specter of “Jester” looms over everyone present, unmentioned but palpable. 

“I need to check on the men inside,” Brandon states with an air of urgency. Lang acknowledges him with a nod as Brandon strides towards the diner’s entrance, eager to gather more information.

A runner, breathless from the rush, arrives with steaming cups of coffee. “From the captain,” he announces, handing over the beverages.

“Thanks,” Lang replies, extending one cup to Hart as she finishes her call, the urgency of the situation still evident in her eyes.

“This is a complete shitshow,” she mutters, her gaze fixated on the ambulance and the activity surrounding it. Her attention shifts to a sharply dressed man nearby—an unmistakable Bezos lookalike—leaning in to converse with the girls. “Isn’t that Beck?”

Lang responds with a subtle nod, his expression serious as he takes in the hectic scene.

Hart takes a sip from her cup, trying to make sense of what she knows. “The Feds have confirmed it all: staff from Smith State, teens from the Westlake property, an officer—Britt Robertson’s husband at the Starlight Inn, along with the assaults at Amazing Offers, a second teen party, a pizza driver, and even a couple camping near the park.” She exhales slowly, the weight of the information hanging heavily in the air. “And that’s just the verified count.”

Lang contemplates their earlier conversation at the airport—the chilling tally of lives lost. “John’s gone. What awaits us now is the angel of death.”

Just then, Beck approaches, a determined look on his face. “Detective Hart. Dr. Lang. I’m Danny Beck, representing Mr. Bennett. Thank you for saving those girls,” he says, his voice laced with urgency as he glances back toward the diner, the shadows stretching ominously around them. “Ronnie’s family means everything to us. Get the bastard.”

“We intend to,” Hart responds firmly, resolve evident in her eyes.

Beck hands over business cards with a practiced ease. “I’ll take care of the girls’ medical expenses and inform Ronnie’s sister about what’s happened. Reach out to me once you have him.” He gives a curt nod before heading toward a sleek black sedan parked nearby, the engine already running as he departs.

Meanwhile, Brandon confers with his team as the distant sound of sirens fades into the cool night air, enveloping them like a shroud. Lang turns toward Hart, weighing their options. “Should we wait for the medical examiner, or is it time to get back on the road?”

“Westport can’t afford to wait,” she replies decisively, the urgency driving her words.

He nods in agreement, his thoughts racing. “The doll is the magnet. He’s picking off victims as he makes his way towards it.”

“Do you think your plan can work? If John confronts his guilt and Ivy faces her resentment, would Aleron lose his grip?” she questions, her gaze steady and probing.

“We have to give it a shot,” Lang insists. “If we reach the doll first, we may gain the leverage needed to sever their ties.”

Hart raises her cup as if toasting. “To take a little evil out of this world.”

“Cheers,” he responds, tapping the lids of their cups together in solidarity.

“You confessed,” she adds quietly after a moment of reflection. “Is there anything else I should be aware of?”

“Nothing that alters what we need to do,” he answers, his tone serious but sincere.

She smirks slightly, the tension easing for just a moment. “Touché.”

As they exchange keys, the weight of their mission hangs over them, and they start towards the car just as the medical examiner’s van pulls into the parking lot. Brandon catches a glimpse of them but chooses not to intervene, allowing them to slip away. The rental car exhales puffs of white vapor into the frigid air as Lang maneuvers back onto the highway, determination etched into their every move.

Scenic Overlook — One Mile from Al’s

The Smith State van crouches in the darkest corner of a scenic pull-off. The Jester sits behind the wheel, breathing hard. Hot grease has seared a third-degree wound into his chest—the stolen carnival costume is scorched and filthy, the cheap mask caked in blood. In the back, Monique lies silent, either unconscious or wisely still.

He thinks of the doll. Of Westport. Of the girl who dreams of him.

A cold hand settles on his right shoulder. Ivy.

“Aleron is pleased, my love,” she whispers. “He grants you a gift.”

On the passenger seat, things that were not there a moment ago now sit in the van’s thin light: a new red motley like his old design—clean, wickedly tailored—alongside a leather roll of razor-edged juggling knives and a battered clown’s satchel of gags and tricks he lost when he was arrested all those years ago.

On his left, the air warps cold—Aleron’s unseen presence pressing in like a storm.

“Stay still,” Ivy murmurs.

Pain ignites in his chest—searing, drilling, rewinding flesh. He clamps his jaw, bites through his tongue rather than scream. The char blanches, pinks, knits. In seconds that feel eternal, the burn is gone—only the melted hole in the old costume remains. He licks blood from his lips under the mask and shudders as strength floods back.

He looks right—empty seat. Left—only Ivy’s pale smile.

“Aleron has healed you,” she says. “Now—test your knives.”

Headlights sweep the overlook as a sedan pulls in. Two silhouettes. Laughter. Unaware.

“The unjust have arrived,” Ivy breathes. The van’s dome light briefly kisses steel and scarlet.

The Jester plucks a knife, weighs it, then thunks it into the dashboard. Solid. True.

“Use them,” Ivy whispers.

He yanks the blade free, gathers the roll of knives and the new red suit, and slides the door open into the night.

Behind him, the old mask on the seat spiders with hairline cracks, and a porcelain grin—not carved but born—glints within the satchel’s half-open mouth.

Chapter Fifty-Three

The headlights of the ’98 Camry cut a dull wedge through the trees. The overlook is empty, save for a busted vending machine and a row of concrete picnic tables. Miles below, the Strait of Juan de Fuca glimmers, black and endless, waves crashing.

“I don’t know, Trey,” says Morgan, her voice uneasy. “It’s late. Like… late.” She pauses, glancing at the clock on the car door board; it’s almost 2 a.m. “My parents are gonna freak out. It is so late.”

Trey leans across the center console and kisses her on the mouth. “Relax. If they’re that worried, they would’ve called.”

Morgan glances at her silent phone and sighs.

“Still… You’ve been working double shifts all week. You deserve a little break, don’t you?” Trey says, flashing a crooked grin.

“Just for a bit,” Morgan says hesitantly, then smiles softly. “Okay… just a bit.”

They kiss, slowly at first, then deeper, letting the quiet of the night and the rhythm of the crashing waves drown out the world outside.

That’s when the sound comes.

Clink.

Something metallic bangs against the car. The bang is deliberate, not accidental. Morgan freezes.

“What is that?” she asks, her face uneasy.

Trey looks past her through the rear windshield—nothing but the dark trees and moonlit overlook.

“Probably just the wind,” Trey mutters, trying to play it cool.

Morgan still clings to his sleeve; the noise unsettles her. “Trey, that doesn’t sound like wind. Something’s out there.”

He leans closer, kissing her forehead. “I’ll be right back. Promise,” Trey says.

“Trey,” Morgan warns as he’s already climbing out of the car.

The door thunks shut, leaving Morgan alone inside. Trey takes a few steps away from the car, glancing around. The night stretches on, eerily silent. The overhead lamp flickers above the overlook’s stone railing, casting long, twitching shadows across the pavement. Trees line the perimeter like sentinels, tall and unmoving.

Morgan’s freaking herself out, he thinks. There’s nothing—

Thump.

Trey spins toward the sound. Something lands on the Camry’s roof.

“What the hell?” Trey mutters.

He circles the car, scanning the treetops, then the nearby vending machine by the picnic table—its shattered glass face gapes like an open mouth. Beyond it, nothing but woods and fog.

Squeak.

Trey hears it again—like a balloon twisting. Like rubber on rubber.

Another sound.

Ting… ting-ting.

Something metallic bounces off the roof. Trey moves slowly, eyes narrowing. Then he sees it—sitting dead center on the Camry’s hood: a red rubber clown nose. Still spinning from the impact of falling on the roof.

“What the fuck…?” Trey breathes.

He steps toward it cautiously, stomach dropping as he reaches out and picks it up. It’s warm to the touch, and the bottom is wet and sticky. He rotates the rubber nose in his right hand to look at the substance. In the dim light, he sees blood.

A scurrying sound draws Trey’s attention. He looks up. Nothing but darkness. It must be an animal in the woods.

He looks back down at the clown nose. A thud echoes in the night. He looks up from the nose and sees a blade embedded in the Camry’s back door.

“What the—”

Something whooshes past Trey’s face—shattered glass. He looks behind him and sees another blade embedded in the Camry’s back window. Cracks spiderweb rapidly across the glass. Trey and Morgan lock eyes; he sees fear in hers. Rustling footsteps behind Trey break the moment. He spins around. Darkness. Then a chilling voice breaks the night:

“He loves me… he loves me not…”

The voice echoes from behind the vending machine.

Trey pulls out his phone and turns on the flashlight, sweeping the beam in wide arcs. The light catches a smear of red on the ground. Then—a white glove with black fingertips, lying there like a severed hand.

Trey takes a slow step back to the car. “Morgan!” he shouts, panic rising. “Start the car! Now!”

He turns—and comes face-to-face with him.

The Jester.

His new costume shimmers under the flickering parking lot lights: dark leather slick with red, skull-shaped buttons, and his cracked leather mask smiling grotesquely as if frozen mid-scream. The mask is grimier than the outfit, caked with dried blood. One eye is visible through a break—bloodshot and wild.

Trey stumbles backward. The Jester steps forward and tilts his head. His fingers twitch. Knife blades gleam between them. He begins to juggle. One. Two. Three knives—sailing into the air with practiced rhythm. He never breaks eye contact.

“Listen, man—I don’t want any trouble,” Trey says, raising his hands. “We’re leaving, okay?”

The Jester catches the last knife mid-air, stops juggling, snaps his neck back and forth like a fighter, then springs forward.

Trey turns to run—but the Jester is faster.

Thunk!

A juggling knife buries itself in Trey’s thigh. Blood pours from the wound. Trey collapses, screaming, yanking the knife out with trembling hands. The Jester is on him immediately, kicking Trey in the ribs—once, twice—sending him sprawling against the front wheel. Trey tries to crawl away. Another knife plunges into his shoulder. Then another—into his lower back. Pinned. The Jester straddles Trey, breathing hard, head twitching side to side like a metronome. He grabs Trey’s hair, yanks his head back, and slits his throat with the final blade.

The sound is wet. Trey gurgles and chokes as blood sprays across the Jester’s chest and mask. His body convulses once… twice… then stills.

The Jester stands slowly, wipes his blade on his pant leg, and turns toward the car. Morgan watches from inside, frozen. He smiles through the windshield, bows deeply, and taps the knife against the glass, causing the windshield to crack. Then, without a word, he strolls into the trees, vanishing into the woods.

Morgan doesn’t miss a beat. She throws open the passenger door and bolts for the restrooms, unaware that the real nightmare has just begun. She slams the restroom door behind her and stumbles into the dim, reeking space. Flickering overhead lights cast long, twitching shadows against stained tiles. There are four stalls—three with busted doors barely hanging from rusted hinges. Only the farthest has a door that closes fully. Morgan ducks inside, locking it with trembling fingers. She climbs onto the toilet seat, pulling her feet up, trying to stay silent—her heartbeat pounds in her chest.

“M-my phone,” Morgan mutters. She fumbles for it, thumbs the emergency dial. It rings once… twice…

“911, what is your emergency?” the operator’s voice asks.

“Yes! Please—please help me! My boyfriend’s been attacked; I think he’s dead! There’s someone out here—he’s dressed like—like a clown or something—I’m hiding in a bathroom, I don’t—”

Silence. Then beeping. The call drops. “No, no, no—dammit!” Morgan mutters, trying to reconnect. No signal. Again. Nothing.

“Shit,” she mutters, fighting the urge to throw the phone.

Clack… clack… clack.

The restroom door opens. Slow, confident footsteps echo on the tile. Morgan freezes, phone still in her hand, breath caught in her throat. The door wasn’t kicked in—it was opened casually, tauntingly.

Clack. Clack. Clack.

Morgan risks a glance through the stall crack. Nothing. Then—a soft, rhythmic sound.

Clink… clink… clink.

Something rolls beneath the stalls—three juggling balls. One stops at Morgan’s feet. Painted white and red. One is cracked open, leaking blood. Morgan holds in a scream.

A sing-song whisper floats through the darkness: “Red ball, white ball, can you guess which bleeds. One is for the girl who hides, the other two for my needs…”

Morgan gasps, covering her mouth.

Bang! One stall door flies open.

Bang! Another.

The Jester is closed now. She hears the jingling bells. The lights flicker again—then go out. Total darkness. Morgan whimpers.

Scratch… scratch…

Something drags across the metal door. Slow. Mocking.

“Here I come,” a voice whispers inside the stall.

Morgan shrieks. The door explodes inward. A burst of light briefly illuminates the monster’s face—white, twisted, the face of death. His eyes are black voids. The cap bells jingle as he moves. He grabs Morgan’s ankle before she can leap down. She kicks wildly, screaming in raw panic. The Jester laughs—a croaking, corpse-like sound.

Morgan breaks free for a moment, crashing out of the stall, crawling across the piss-slick floor. She reaches the exit.

Thunk!

A blade lodges in the door, centimeters from her hand. She turns to crawl back—cornered. The Jester stands in the center of the room, spinning another knife. He juggles briefly—graceful, hypnotic—then hurls one toward her head. Morgan ducks; it lodges in the wall. She screams again.

“Run, little rabbit,” the Jester purrs. “I’ll give you a head start.”

He lunges falsely. Morgan scrambles up, but he catches her hair, yanking her back. Her head slams into the sink. Dazed, the world tilts. He crouches beside her. In one hand, he holds a knife. In the other, he squeezes a rubber flower. The flower squirts blood onto the floor.

“A gift… from Trey,” the Jester hisses.

With a final flourish, he pulls Morgan’s head back and slits her throat in one swift motion.

Outside, the air is still. On the roof, the ghost of Ivy stands barefoot in her white dress, eyes blank but smiling. Her translucent form shimmers like fog in the moonlight. Aleron, the skeletal nightmare with hollow sockets and a twisted grin, lets out a low, gurgling laugh.

“All the unjust will pay,” he hisses.

From below, inside the blood-soaked restroom, the Jester laughs—louder and louder—until it drowns out even the crashing waves below.

Chapter Fifty-Four 

Austin Stone reaches out a shaky hand to the decanter of whiskey. His fingers tremble as he pours a generous splash over ice in a rocks glass, caps the decanter, and lifts the drink to his lips. The whiskey burns warm down his throat into his stomach. Since waking up in Lady Hawthorne’s doll room, a chill has lived under his skin. It isn’t the first time he’s come to on his knees there—hands clasped in prayer, face tilted up toward the Jester doll like a worshipper. Austin isn’t religious, and if he were, he wouldn’t worship a doll. There’s plenty he hasn’t told Gavin Hawthorne—or anyone—about the late Lady Hawthorne and her relationship with the Jester doll.

He sips and wanders to the picture window, staring into the dark. He doesn’t even know what time it is. He only knows sleep has been worse since Lady Hawthorne died. Many people are unaware, and Austin intends to keep it that way. The rumors are true: Lady Hawthorne and Austin were lovers. It was love at first sight.

“Oh, Allie,” he sighs to the dark, taking another drink.

Allie Hawthorne was unlike anyone. She took no nonsense, trusted her gut in business, and did it with a confidence Austin found intoxicating. When she disagreed with the Hawthorne family business, she sold her stake and left to build her own life. After a short stint on the East Coast, she drove west to California and discovered the seaside town of Westport. Perched on the Central Coast, Westport was once a proud fishing town; now it offers waterfront restaurants, shops, and quiet charm—less vibrant than in its heyday, but a slice of heaven all the same. Allie fell in love in a month, bought a house, and introduced herself as Lady Hawthorne. She invested in the town, bought L.A. airtime to promote Westport, and expanded her house into a mini-mansion that became the town’s social hub. As social media rose, Austin built Westport’s online presence; after the pandemic, TikTok was flooded with images of Westport’s cliffs, beaches, and sunsets. Allie always said Westport was her best business decision.

Austin lied to Gavin: he knows exactly when Allie started collecting dolls—on one of those L.A. trips. He knew every doll, including the Jester. Allie admitted she’d been obsessed with dolls since childhood in England. That obsession blossomed into a collection. Austin, meanwhile, had hated dolls ever since he associated his My Buddy doll with Chucky from Child’s Play. He still remembers lying on the living room floor in their Queens railroad apartment, popcorn at his side, seeing something move in his bedroom—a doll-sized shadow. He screamed. His mother glared at his father for showing him the movie. His father checked the room; the doll was exactly where Austin had left it. Later, as his mom tucked him in, Austin couldn’t stand the doll’s cold eyes watching from the bed and insisted it get stuffed into the toy chest. That night, he heard faint shifting inside the chest. The next day, he begged his parents to get rid of it.

Austin empties the glass, sets it down, and relights the room’s electric fireplace. The faux flames and heat help. He remembers the argument—his mother wanting to move the doll, his father insisting they use it as a lesson in make-believe. His dad eventually opened the toy chest and lectured about inanimate objects not being alive. It didn’t help. Austin kept My Buddy out to “prove” he wasn’t scared… then didn’t sleep a wink. Eventually, his dad relented and took the doll and accessories to a thrift store. His father broke the obsession, but the fear remained.

He pours another whiskey. The memories pile up until he almost forgets why he started drinking: waking in that doll room, kneeling before the Jester like a supplicant.

His thoughts swing back to Allie. She teased him about heights and coaxed him to admire the dolls, but he never could. He only dealt with the collection to prep the estate sale and direct movers. He remembers when Allie brought the Jester doll home from an East L.A. pawn shop she liked. The owner, Nicky, saved the finds for her. Austin never told Gavin that Allie called him from the shop, giddy about the doll’s dark reputation. Austin wasn’t impressed. He told her he’d keep his distance. She laughed, called him a silly old kook, and buckled the porcelain jester into the passenger seat of her pink Aston Martin for the drive home. Fragile, she said. Five hundred dollars’ worth of fragile. She placed it in the doll room, and they went out to celebrate. They made love. Life with Allie was good.

Until a few weeks ago.

Allie started spending hours in the doll room, skipping meetings and sending Austin in her place. Austin felt cold spots in the house, the sense of being watched, doll-sized shadows skittering at night, whispers only he could hear. Allie denied everything. Then she admitted Nicky might’ve been right: something was wrong with the Jester. She grew pale and drained. A doctor suggested fresh air and a vacation. The headaches came, then chest and jaw pain—ER visits that found nothing. She stopped sleeping, wandered into the doll room to sit among them, and dozed there. Austin grew frantic. She told him it was just a natural consequence of loving an older woman. He should’ve insisted on more tests, he thinks now.

“You do the best you can, my darling,” he hears her say in his head.

He lets the tears come. He hasn’t cried since he found Allie unresponsive in the main bathroom and tried CPR until EMS arrived. Massive heart attack, they ruled. Sixty-four, stolen by the silent killer.

Now he sits alone in Westport. Maybe the sleepwalking is grief; maybe it’s an attempt to be closer to her. He keeps waking in the doll room, on his knees. He should be honest with Gavin. Dr. Lang and Detective Hart are coming; he’ll talk to them before he talks to Gavin. Lang said the Jester doll might be connected to the killer.

Is the Jester the doll in that room—the same doll that owns John Connolly, that wills him to kill?

A chill. Another sip.

The door creaks again. Austin turns—nothing. He shrugs, the whiskey softening his edges, and stares into the flames as footsteps enter behind him.

“Oh, Allie,” he sighs into the glass. “Why did you leave me?”

“I’m here,” a voice says.

He blinks at the fire.

“I’m here, silly—not in the glass or the fireplace,” the voice giggles.

He looks up. Lady Allie Hawthorne stands there—hair long and flowing, a robe parted slightly at the chest. Barefoot. She glows faintly.

“So now that I’m here, what do you want to do?” she asks coyly.

“Allie—how are you here? You died,” he stammers.

“Aleron wants to reward you for your loyalty. Are you loyal?” she asks, smiling.

“Who is Aleron?”

“Come with me, and I’ll show you.” She extends her hand.

He hesitates, looks from the whiskey to her and back, then downs the last swallow and sets the glass on the floor. He wipes his mouth and takes her hand. It’s ice-cold. He smiles anyway. She’s here.

“Come with me, love.”

He stands, still holding her. Her eyes are vacant now—no warmth in the pupils. He notices it, and then he chooses not to. She leads him into the dark hall toward the doll room.

“Allie, where are we going?” he asks again. No answer. He starts to sweat.

“Allie,” he calls, louder.

She stops but doesn’t turn.

“Please, tell me what’s going on. I put you to rest. How are you here?”

She turns, still holding his hand. Even in the dark, she’s radiant.

“All is possible with Aleron, my love,” she says, smiling.

His heart stutters.

“Who is Aleron?” he asks.

She places her free hand on his cheek. It’s so cold that the chill ripples through his body. “Do you trust me—even in death?”

He thinks, clicks his tongue, and nods. “Yes.”

“Then follow me. Aleron awaits.”

Arousal and dread warred in his chest. He closes his eyes and remembers the happiest days of his life. He opens them again. “Okay, love. I’ll meet Aleron for you.”

They reach the doll room door. She glances over her shoulder with a smile that isn’t the same as before. Something behind it is wrong. Her grip tightens; bones crack in his hand.

“Allie, you’re hurting me,” he blurts.

“Are you ready to meet Aleron?” she asks through her teeth.

He nods. “Good.”

She turns back to the door—distracted for a heartbeat. Austin kicks the back of her knee. She buckles and releases his hand. He bolts down the hall. If she’s a ghost, how could I touch her? he thinks. Figure it out later. Run now.

A banshee scream tears through the mansion. Austin sprints for the front door—until a figure materializes in front of it. He skids to a stop.

A life-size My Buddy doll.

Six feet tall. Mop-brown hair, freckled plastic face. Big blue googly eyes. Red shirt, overalls emblazoned with ‘My Buddy,’ red sneakers.

The doll tilts its head. The lights strobe on and off; the scream continues to shred the air. Austin feints right, then cuts left, and the oversized thing trips over its own feet. He darts for the Florida room and the backyard door. Bulbs pop, and sparks shower as he runs. He’s almost there when something slices the back of his ankle. His right leg buckles; he smashes face-first into the floor. Warm wetness spreads down his heel.

Huge hands clamp his neck and haul him upright. His vision clears. The life-size My Buddy holds him. Those giant blue eyes are as empty as space.

The scream cuts off. Allie is gone. The doll carries him back toward the doll room, each step leaving a trail of blood.

As they approach, chanting rises—words he can’t make out. The door swings open on its own. The room is dark—impossible; there’s no switch—but dark, nonetheless. The chant swells.

“Aleron. Aleron. Aleron.”

The doll sets him on the floor facing the display table where the Jester doll should stand. It’s gone. In its place: a skeleton in torn clothing, leaning over the table. Empty sockets fix on Austin. Elongated finger bones click against wood. My Buddy steps to its side. Allie appears on the skeleton’s other side.

“Are you ready to serve Aleron?” she asks, her eyes now a fiery red.

He looks down—blood pooling at his heel—then back up. “I’m dreaming, right?”

No one answers. The chant grows louder.

“Aleron. Aleron. Aleron.”

He squeezes his eyes shut, willing himself awake—chair by the fire, bed, anywhere but here. He opens them. The skeleton is closer, stinking of rot—the chant pounds.

“Aleron. Aleron. Aleron.”

“Are you ready to serve Aleron?” Allie repeats. My Buddy stares with its vacant blue eyes.

The skeleton speaks. “I am Aleron, the slayer of the unjust.” Its jaw clacks like a puppet’s, out of time with the words. The eye sockets burn. Sweat beads on Austin’s brow; he wets himself.

“Do you worship Aleron?” Allie snaps annoyed now.

Austin nods frantically. The chanting cuts off. The skeleton looks down at him; a weird flicker runs through the sockets.

“Aleron, Aleron, Aleron,” Austin stammers.

Unimpressed, the skeleton tips its skull back and unleashes a primal scream. “Unjust!”

Austin startles. Allie’s face contorts with anger. My Buddy’s grin twists into a sneer—Chucky by any other name. The doll clamps both hands around Austin’s head and lifts him like a toy. Pressure crushes in from both sides.

Allie shrieks—another banshee howl—and the chant resumes.

“Aleron. Aleron. Aleron.”

Flames seem to kindle inside the skull’s sockets. The doll tightens its grip. Tears leak from Austin’s eyes; blood runs from his nose. He coughs; blood bubbles from his mouth.

“Stop it, please,” he croaks.

The hands squeeze harder. Austin’s vision blurs. He tries to scream; teeth scatter onto the floor.

A crunch. A pop.

Blood spatters the doll’s face. It drops Austin’s body with a thud. His skull is caved in, one eye bulging from its socket, his tongue oozing out like paste.

Aleron looks down at him.

“Unjust,” he whispers.

Chapter Fifty-Five

Hart and Lang must face the fact that they can’t keep driving on coffee alone. Not long after the Al’s Diner incident, they pull into a roadside motel with vacancies—The Baker’s Inn. It isn’t the Hilton, but it’ll do.

Their room is on the first floor of the two-tier motel, facing the woods off the highway. It’s straight out of the late ’80s: a faint, permanent curl of cigarette smoke despite years of “No Smoking” signs; dense loop-pile carpet in brown-orange meant to hide stains; twin beds split by a narrow nightstand with fake wood-grain lifting at the edges. Polyester bedspreads—muted mauves, teals, dusty blues—gloss under a buzzing fluorescent. Thin, overstuffed pillows in stiff white cases. A brass pull-chain lamp, shade askew. On the nightstand: a rotary phone and a plastic ice bucket with two wrapped cups, Baker’s stamped on the side. Above, a crooked print of sailboats.

Against the far wall sits a long, low dresser with a built-in, wood-framed TV and actual knobs. A Gideon Bible waits in a drawer; the remote is leashed to the nightstand with a yellowing cord. A laminated channel guide lies beside it. Near the window, a small round table with two vinyl chairs wobbles on scratched chrome legs. Heavy drapes hang unevenly, letting a slit of neon seep from the sign outside. The window unit hums steadily, its dial labeled “ARCTIC” or “TROPIC” instead of degrees. The bathroom door sticks; the pinkish tile is discolored, the tub has a glued-down rubber mat, and a small window over the toilet provides air.

“I’m happy to hear the two young ladies are doing well,” Lang says into his cell, perched on one of the beds. He’s speaking with Captain Brandon. “If anything, else comes up, call us.”

Hart is stretched out on the other bed, changed into PJs from the car. It feels good after hours in the rental. Lang ends the call, sets the phone down, stands, and yawns.

“I’m taking a hot shower, then sleeping,” he says, grabbing his toiletry kit.

“Okay,” Hart murmurs, eyes closed, burning from fatigue.

“We’ve got about fifty miles to Westport,” Lang adds from the bathroom doorway.

Hart nods. “I spoke to the Westport sheriff after we left Al’s. I put him on alert that the Jester’s heading his way.” She opens her eyes to look at Lang. “He’ll increase patrols, post units at the Westport off-ramp to watch for the Smith State van, and put cars on Austin, the doll, and the Lawsons.”

“Westport has officers to spare?” Lang asks.

“Had to, after TikTok turned it into an influencer’s paradise post-COVID,” Hart says, eyes closing again.

Lang nods and closes the bathroom door.

In the Baker’s Inn back office, The Lucy Show plays on a flatscreen while Darcy Scully, the motel’s owner, builds a peanut-butter-and-jam sandwich. An ancient Mr. Coffee—circa 1980—gurgles beside newer fixtures, the one “upgrade” she refuses to make because it brews the best cup.

The Scully’s have owned Baker’s Inn off Route 101 for sixty years. Now in her late forties, Darcy took over in the mid-2000s. She still covers the 11 p.m.–7 a.m. shift. The family assists with maintenance and housekeeping, while a select group of trusted employees handles the remaining tasks. They survived the pandemic; after the lockdowns, Darcy’s youngest grandson created social media pages that attracted travel vloggers. A popular YouTuber showcased the motel’s old-school Americana vibe, featuring road-trip nostalgia and family-run charm, and business boomed. Prices went up. Renovation talk died; the family agreed the patina was the point.

Canned laughter pops from the TV as Darcy checks the clock: just past 3:00 a.m. She needs the sandwich and coffee to finish the shift. The lobby door stays locked; a bell triggers a buzzer to the office iPad and her phone. Safer that way. The back office has a recliner, a couch, a TV, a sink, a mini-fridge, and snacks.

She caps the half-and-half, pours coffee, and settles into the recliner. First bite—perfect. Sip of coffee—better.

A white van rolls into the Baker’s Inn lot. Several cars are parked—Darcy’s, a few travelers’, and Hart and Lang’s rental.

The Jester drives. Ivy’s voice hums in his head: “They are here—the unjust officer and doctor who locked you up.”

His gloved hands tighten on the wheel. “The unjust must pay,” he growls, his voice not quite human.

Something shifts in the back. Monique is awake.

“Use the girl to gain access,” Ivy whispers. The Jester nods.

Robert Hammer can’t sleep. He hates not being in his own bed. He’s been staring at the ceiling for hours. Ironic for a traveling sales associate—six months a year on the road selling Ronco’s latest. He began his career in the 1980s as a top seller for years. Now he’s feeling his age and thinking about retiring to spend time with his common-law wife, adult children, and grandchildren in Florida.

He checks his iPhone: 3:30 a.m. Maybe he’ll snag two hours, tops. Then, the van door slammed.

People love checking in late here, he thinks, and tries to drift off.

Darcy’s bell buzzes. Alerts ping her phone and the iPad: someone at the lobby door. Second late-night arrival. She balances her plate and checks the camera.

A young Black woman stares up at the lens—her clothes torn, her hair wild, her eyes red from crying. Darcy’s guard rises; sometimes “distress” is a setup for a robbery. She taps the mic.

“Hello?”

The girl looks up, trembling.

“How can I help you?” Darcy asks.

“I need help,” the girl says hoarsely. “I’ve been kidnapped. I got away, but he’s close. I need to hide.”

Darcy wants to help—but carefully. “Okay, honey, I’m calling the police. Once they’re on the way, I’ll let you in.”

Terror flashes across the girl’s face. “No—please let me in first. He’s close. He’ll kill me if he catches me.”

Darcy doesn’t see Ivy hovering behind the girl, cold hand at her neck, puppeteering the plea.

Darcy bites her lip, torn—until she catches a shape off to the side of the frame. She zooms in. A gloved hand. A blade.

“Shit,” she whispers.

“Please—” the girl begins, but Ivy senses it—Aleron warns that the unjust woman has seen. Ivy hisses to the Jester, “She knows.”

The Jester steps into frame, blood-wet knife in hand, mask’s grin leering into the lens. “Let us in, little piggy. Let us in.”

Darcy slaps a hand over her mouth. Metal scrapes the door—worse than nails on a chalkboard.

“Little pig,” the Jester croons, head tilting, “don’t make me blow this door down.”

Robert gives up on sleep. He remembers the ice/soda/snack machines near the office. He slips on slippers, pockets his wallet and keys, and steps outside.

As he rounds the corner, a bang echoes. He stops at a van. A young Black woman stands statue-still, her arms outstretched, her face tipped to the sky. And a man in a jester costume, knife in hand, kicking the door.

“What the hell,” Robert mutters.

The Jester turns. That grin, lit by the lot lights, freezes Robert in place. Then the Jester sprints.

It takes Robert a beat to register the charge. He wheels and runs. Not slow like movie slashers, he thinks grimly, lungs burning.

His room is closed. Mid-sprint, he fishes for his keys—fingertips brush metal—then a hot pop sears his right leg. He crumples hard onto the concrete. Muscle torn. That’s what you get for running cold at my age.

“Did the old boy’s legs give out?” a deep voice mock behind him.

Robert claws for the keys anyway.

“Now don’t be a naughty boy,” the voice says, looming.

A boot pins his forearm. Bones crack. Robert screams; tears spring hot from the pain.

“Shhhh. It’ll be over soon,” the Jester coos.

“Please—let me go. I won’t say anything,” Robert gasps.

Laughter bubbles, delighted. “That’s not how this works, puppet. You’ve been deemed unjust. You must pay.”

“No—please, I have a family, I—”

The knife plunges into the back of Robert’s skull with such force that the tip punches out through his mouth, cutting him off mid-plea. He gurgles blood and dies on a final gasp. The air sours as his bowels release.

The Jester looks skyward and laughs. He yanks the blade free with a wet pop; Robert’s head thuds to the concrete. The Jester lifts the knife to eye level, angles the edge, and wipes it clean across his gloved palm. 

The phone shattered the silence.

Evelyn Hart groaned and rolled over, burying her face into the pillow. “Who the hell is calling at this hour?”

Dr. Lang blinked in the dark. The red glow of the alarm clock read 2:47 a.m. He reached across her to grab the receiver. “This is Lang,” he mumbled, his voice thick with sleep.

What came through the line wasn’t a normal voice. It was muffled, wet — as though the speaker was calling from the bottom of a lake. “Drrr. Lang… this is Dana Scully, from the front desk.”

Lang frowned. “Ms. Scully?”

“Yes. Your card didn’t go through… you’ll need to come down and… run it again.”

Behind her voice, something slithered — faint laughter, a whisper, something inhuman. Lang sat up a little straighter. “Can I just give you the number over the phone?”

“No… now, doctor. You’ll need to come down. Right now.”

There was a sharp click in the background and a man’s voice muttering something guttural and gleeful. Lang’s heart skipped.

He swallowed hard. “All right. I’ll be there shortly.” He hung up and stared at the phone for a long second.

Evelyn lifted her head. “What was that about?”

“Scully said my card didn’t process. Wants me to come down.”

Hart scoffed. “At nearly three in the morning? Forget it, we’ll sort it out tomorrow.”

Lang nodded slowly. “Yeah… you’re right.”

Then it came — a sound that did not belong in the quiet room.

Scrape.

Both froze.

Hart sat up, eyes narrowing toward the door. “What was that?”

“I don’t know,” Lang whispered.

Another scrape, closer this time. Then a knock.

They stared at each other, the air thickening around them.

Scrape. Knock. Scrape. Knock.

And then— jingle.

A soft, chilling ring of tiny bells.

Hart’s blood turned to ice. She mouthed, The Jester.

The jingling grew louder, faster — playful, almost musical.

From behind the door, a voice cooed: “Knock, knock… who’s dying to come out and play?”

Lang’s stomach dropped. “Oh, God.”

The voice laughed, high and mocking. “You two sound awake now! I hate to disturb your beauty sleep, but I’m dreadfully bored out here.”

The door shuddered under a heavy kick.

Hart shot out of bed. “Bathroom—go!”

They stumbled into the small bathroom, slamming the door shut and locking it behind them. Lang pressed his weight against it as Hart crouched near the floor, eyeing the tiny window under the toilet tank — painted over, sealed tight.

From the other side of the door came the Jester’s singsong taunting: “Oh come now, doctor, don’t be rude! I just wanted to charge something to your card.”

BANG.

The door trembled.

Lang whispered harshly, “Open that damn window!”

Hart grabbed the edge of the window and yanked. The paint cracked but held. “It’s stuck!”

BANG. BANG. The Jester laughed between kicks. You know what they say—third time’s the charm!”

Lang pushed against the door, which was splintering near the latch. “Hart, hurry!”

Hart grunted, scraping the edges with her nails, whispering curses under her breath. “Come on, you bastard, open!”

The door cracked open an inch, the lock whining. Through the gap, Hart and Lang saw a sliver of movement — bells glinting in the moonlight.

The Jester purred, “Peekaboo… I see you.”

Hart screamed in frustration and slammed her shoulder against the window. It finally popped open with a brittle crack!

She squeezed through, scraping her arms on the frame, and dropped into the cold night air.

“Lang!” she hissed.

Lang climbed onto the toilet, half through the window, when the bathroom door exploded inward. The Jester stood framed in moonlight, his painted grin split wide, eyes wild and gleaming. His red-and-black motley shimmered faintly in the light.

“Well, well,” he said, his voice a syrupy mockery. “Doctor Lang—trying to escape your appointment? Naughty, naughty.”

He lunged, grabbing Lang’s leg with both hands. His grip was ice-cold and iron-strong. Lang screamed, kicking wildly.

“Now, now, stop kicking!” the Jester giggled, tugging him back. “You’ll make me—”

CRACK.

Lang’s boot connected with the Jester’s jaw. A sickening snap echoed through the room.

The Jester stumbled backward, howling with laughter even as blood streamed from his mouth. “Ohhh, doctor, that was a killer right hook!”

Lang wriggled free, diving out the window. He fell hard, landing in the gravel beside the inn. Hart grabbed his arm, dragging him toward the car.

She fumbled for the keys and pressed the remote. The rental’s lights flashed. They jumped inside, slamming the locks down.

Hart jammed the key into the ignition, her hands trembling. The engine roared to life—just as the high beams washed over the courtyard.

And there he was.

The Jester stood in the full glare of the lights, head tilted, one side of his jaw hanging loose. He sneered, blood dripping from his lips.

Then he grinned wider and darted into the shadows. A woman’s scream rips through the night. 

For a long, dreadful second, neither of them spoke.

Hart’s breath came fast. “Get my phone from the glove box.”

Lang reached in and handed it to her. She snatched it up, thumb trembling as she dialed.

“Who are you calling?” he whispered.

“Brandon,” she said, eyes locked on the darkness beyond the headlights. “Outside, somewhere in the night, the bells began to jingle again.

Chapter Fifty-Six 

Sheriff Andy Taylor sits at his desk in the Westport Police Department. A hot cup of coffee leaves a ring on a blotter already tattooed with others. This is the latest he’s worked since winning the sheriff’s race in Westport, California. He hopes retirement will be kinder than the LAPD ever was—twenty years there earned him the right to quiet nights.

Lady Hawthorne hadn’t been kidding when she urged him to run here. Westport needed an experienced officer to steady the department after the town became a TikTok hotspot. He’d resisted at first, then relented—helped by his wife’s blessing and Hawthorne’s perks: solid salary, housing, pension top-ups, and free meals around town. They’d met at an LAPD charity event and hit it off fast. In hindsight, her praise for Westport had been a sales pitch; she’d had him in mind all along.

Tonight, the perks don’t feel worth much. Taylor has the force on full alert: a dangerous killer could be coming to their seaside town. He never thought he’d have to defend Westport from a psycho—much less the Jester. He’d tracked the case like everyone else, even watched the movies (he’s a horror fan; Carnival of Terror is a guilty pleasure).

He sips his coffee—black with sugar—and eyes the clock. Almost 5:00 a.m. Last check-in: all quiet. He’s waiting for the five o’clock update and for Deputy Holmes to relieve him so he can grab a few hours’ sleep.

He takes another sip, then slides open his right-hand drawer. A small bourbon bottle waits there. He twists the cap, splashes a measure into his coffee, caps it, and tucks it away again. The mug warms his hands; the first spiked swallow smooths the edges.

His radio crackles—garbled syllables tumble over one another; more hiss than sense. He leans in, thumb on the transmit. “This is Taylor. Say again, over.”

More gibberish. Taylor frowns. “Taylor to unit, unreadable. Repeat your last, over.”

The static things. A voice punches through, thin and cold: “All hail Aleron.” Then silence.

Taylor scowls. Kids sometimes jump on the police frequency to screw around. Nick Carson is the ringleader; he’s had words with the boy and his parents before. Boys will be boys, he reminds himself—and reaches for the mic.

A sharp static pop zaps his fingertips, pain lancing up his arm. The needle on the signal meter is pinned hard right—far too much power for a handheld. Worse, the carrier bleeds across the emergency band, rolling over priority channels.

“That… isn’t local,” he mutters, stomach dropping. “And it shouldn’t be able to override the red lines.”

He keys up. “Fox, is that you? Over.”

Radio silence.

A bang echoes from the squad-room hall. Taylor looks toward his open office door. “Holmes? That you?” No answer.

The radio crackles again. “We’re here.” The set snaps him with another bite of static. He drops it; it thuds onto the desk.

Every light in the station dies at once.

The darkness falls with a finality that isn’t normal: the desk phone panel goes dead, dispatch repeaters fall silent, and the backup generator doesn’t even try to auto-cycle. It feels like a single unseen hand has palmed the whole building. Aleron’s influence settles over the station, smothering power and comms in the same breath.

Another bang—harder—like the front door slamming.

Taylor yanks open his bottom drawer and wrap his hand around a long-handled Maglite. The click of the switch is loud in the dark; a pale cone cuts across the office.

He slaps the emergency switchboard—nothing. He jabs the hard-wired line with the district override code—dead air. He swears under his breath. Lifelines are gone.

Silence. Too much of it. At first, it’s only the building settling. Then another sound: a deliberate drag. Boots scraping linoleum, getting closer.

His grip tightens on the flashlight. His other hand drops to the revolver at his hip. “Holmes? Fox? Daily?” His voice catches, then steadies. “If this is a prank, it isn’t funny. Not tonight.”

The shuffle draws up at the threshold. Taylor throws the beam at the door.

Two shadows resolve into uniforms—Daily and Fox. Or what had been them. Their shirts hang in tatters, dark with filth; badges on their chests flash dully. Their faces are wrong—skin gray and veined like marbled ink, eyes bulging and glassy, lips torn and dripping threads of slick black ooze.

A flash of memory: Fox and Daily had gone dark an hour ago, checking a noise complaint by the river. Routine. They never called back.

“What the…?” Taylor breathes, stepping back.

Daily’s head lolls at an angle, half-snapped. Fox drags one leg, boot scraping a shrill note across tile. Their eyes fix on him—not with recognition, but with hate.

He raises the gun, the Maglite beam jittering across their chests. “Don’t move. Last warning.”

They lurch forward.

BANG. The round punches Daily’s chest; he staggers, doesn’t fall. BANG—BANG. Fox jerks with each hit, then straightens, lips peeling into a grin as more black fluid threads from his mouth.

Bullets don’t matter.

“Stay back!” Taylor’s voice breaks as he retreats. The beam rag-dolls across filing cabinets and barred windows.

Daily reaches the doorway. The muzzle flash catches hungry, hollow eyes—the air reeks—gunpowder on top of rot and sulfur.

Daily lunges. The flashlight tumbles from Taylor’s hand, rolling across the floor, spinning its beam into a carousel of light and shadow.

Fox slams him into the desk. Wood shudders. Taylor swings—his fists land with sick, waterlogged give. Daily’s hands clamp his arms, ice-cold and iron-strong. Fox leans close; carrion breath floods Taylor’s nose.

“Get off me!” Taylor snarls, thrashing.

Fox opens his mouth. From the black pit of his throat comes a wet, gurgling, almost-laugh—and then the substance. Thick, tar-dark, it ropes out in writhing strands.

Taylor twists, but Daily forces his head still. The first drops sear his lips like acid. He gags, tries to spit, but Fox presses harder, forcing the sludge down his throat. It burns all the way, spreading heat through his chest, veining into his limbs.

His vision blurs—flash, dark, flash, dark—spun by the rolling Maglite. His scream rips raw, then chokes into a guttural rasp as the tar boils inside him, twisting him.

The last thing he sees as the black tide takes him is Fox’s ruined face, lips pulled wide in a parody of triumph—welcoming him to Aleron’s side.

Hart decides to call the Westport police station again. She unlocks her phone with the passcode, swipes to recent calls, and taps the Westport station number: the phone rings, but no one answers on the other end. Hart hangs up and looks over at Lang.

“Is Austin picking up?” she asks.

Lang shakes his head. Brandon’s officer has retrieved his overnight bag, which contains his phone, from their room. Hart frowns. She has a bad feeling that something is going on in Westport. 

Chapter Fifty-Seven 

Brandon walks on scene with a tray of coffee and two men in Crime Scene Unit jackets. He points the CSU techs toward the back room, and they nod and head that way. He brings the coffee over to Hart and Lang.

“Sorry about the delay. We got another call—two bodies were found mutilated at Scenic Overlook, about five miles up the road.”

Hart’s heart sinks at the word mutilated. She looks up at Brandon as he hands her a cup.

Lang asks, “Was it the Jester?”

Brandon turns to him and nods. “Looks like his M.O. I had to split the forensics team—sent some with Officer Johnson while I stayed here on this case.”

Lang takes his coffee. “He’s killing on his way to Westport.”

Brandon nods, then looks at Hart. “Have you been able to touch base with Westport?”

Hart sips her coffee. She’s been living on caffeine for days and has lost track of what day it even is. She was supposed to go trick-or-treating with her best friend’s kids—they love their Auntie—but that clearly isn’t happening this Halloween.

“No luck,” she says. “And Lang can’t get through to Austin Stone. He’s in charge of the late Lady Hawthorne’s estate sale.”

“Do you want me to send some officers there?” Brandon asks.

Hart looks at Lang. He nods. “Yes. That would help while we finish up here.”

“I’ll call the station, see who’s on duty now, and have them head over,” Brandon says, taking a sip of coffee.

“Thank you,” Hart replies. “I might ride with you when you head there. He’s killed in my district now—I want to make sure he pays.”

Hart and Lang both understand that feeling; both want to bring the Jester to justice.

“You’re welcome to come,” Lang says. Hart nods. Brandon nods too.

“Sir,” a voice calls. Brandon, Lang, and Hart look toward it. One of the CSU officers, Tong, stands near the back.

“Yes, Tong?” Brandon answers.

The young officer looks at Brandon, then at Hart and Lang. “We—uh, I—got into the iPad as you asked. You’ll want to see this.”

Brandon nods. He, Hart, and Lang follow Tong into the back office. The other CSU tech is collecting evidence; the TV still plays a black-and-white sitcom. The iPad, now sitting on the counter, has a smeared screen but remains usable. Tong cleaned off the worst of the blood. The video is paused on the security feed.

“I swiped the blood for DNA and got it open,” Tong explains.

“Good work,” Brandon says.

“What are we looking at?” Hart asks.

Tong snaps on a fresh pair of gloves and unpauses the video.

The footage is in black and white, but it has audio. Darcy Scully is talking to someone; in the picture-in-picture, a young African American girl stands outside in the parking lot of the Baker’s Inn, a dark figure looming behind her. The girl begs Darcy for help, hiding from the Jester. Darcy insists on calling the police first.

After some back and forth, the Jester steps into frame, mocking Darcy with a “little pig” taunt. The girl freezes in a trance—head tilted skyward, arms outstretched—as he speaks.

Inside, behind Darcy, a female figure appears barefoot, wearing a long, white dress, with hair hanging in a way that evokes The Ring. Darcy fumbles for the phone, but before she can dial, the woman attacks.

In the corner camera, the Jester suddenly looks away from the door—then sprints off toward something in the lot. The static camera stays trained on the door and the eerie image of the entranced girl.

On the main feed, the woman tackles Darcy. She pins her and leans back, mouth opening impossibly wide. Darcy thrashes, but the woman brings her head forward and spews a black, viscous substance into Darcy’s mouth. Darcy convulses and chokes as her eyes roll back. The woman finally stops; the substance begins to retract back into Darcy’s mouth like liquid pulled by a vacuum. Darcy gasps—then, disturbingly, her eyes refocus.

The woman whispers, “All hail Aleron.”

Darcy answers, voice deep and unnatural: “All hail Aleron.”

The feed cuts. Brandon, Hart, and Lang stand speechless.

“There’s more,” Tong says.

“Continue,” Brandon replies.

Tong swipes ahead and hits play.

Darcy now stands alone, trance-still. Minutes pass. The Jester returns on the outside camera.

“Call the unjust,” he commands.

Darcy nods slowly, picks up the phone, and dials. Lang immediately recognizes the call—it’s the one to their room from earlier. The events unfold exactly as they were experienced, ending with Darcy’s scream.

The footage flickers, and a face fills the camera. Sunken eyes flicker blue-to-red. Hair thin and brittle, scalp cracked. Teeth jagged and broken. It stares directly into the lens. The feed dies.

Tong pauses. “That’s the end of that camera. I pulled the exterior feed, too—Ms. Scully gets into the van with the girl. Then the Jester appears, gets in, and drives off.”

Brandon exhales. “Any chance this footage is doctored?”

Tong clicks his tongue. “I’ll know for sure back at the lab. I can break it down frame by frame.”

“Do it,” Brandon says. “We need to know what the hell we’re looking at.”

Tong nods.

Brandon turns to Hart and Lang. “Thoughts?”

Lang draws a breath. “Feels like Carnival of Terror 4 territory,” he says evenly.

Brandon raises a brow, then looks to Hart.

“We need to talk,” she says. Lang nods in agreement.

Chapter Fifty-Eight

The early morning air is cold enough to bite through the uniforms of Officers Salt and York. Their cruiser idles near the entrance ramp to Westport, headlights off, the engine’s hum barely audible over the distant drone of highway traffic.

Dispatch had pushed extra units out just after three—routine pre-dawn sweeps while the town was still quiet—and then everything went sideways. Since the station blackout, the radio net has been full of holes: transmissions clipping out mid-sentence, whole channels dissolving into molasses-thick static, as if something were sitting on the frequency.

Salt leans back in the driver’s seat, arms folded behind his head, staring at the dark, cloudless sky. “You get your kids’ costumes yet?” he asks casually.

York blows on the tumbler of coffee he’s been nursing all night and smirks. Salt has gone the iced coffee route—a canned Starbucks cooling in the back seat. Neither of them expects a break before the shift change.

“Yeah. Chloe’s going as a witch. Real original. Kyle wanted to be a T. rex, so my wife spent two hours wrestling an inflatable dinosaur in the living room.”

Salt chuckles. “Better than what I’m dealing with. My oldest, Danny, says he’s too cool for trick-or-treating, but he still wants the candy. I told him he can buy his own damn candy if he’s too cool to knock on doors.”

“Harsh parenting,” York says with mock severity. “You’re gonna end up with a teenager dressed as a delinquent.”

Salt grins. “I’d ground him long before that happens.”

Their laughter is easy, comfortable—two friends passing the hours on stakeout duty. They’ve been posted at the ramp all night and will be again tomorrow. It’s a watch post for any trace of the Jester, the escaped killer on the loose. It’s the kind of assignment that makes anyone jumpier as Halloween nears. So far, it’s been quiet. They can’t wait for their relief to arrive so they can head home, get some sleep, and drop their kids off at school.

Then the radio crackles. Just a brief pop of static.

York frowns, adjusts the dial. “That was weird.”

Salt sits up. “You hear anything?”

“No voices. Just noise.”

Another burst—louder this time—and beneath it, a faint hiss. Like someone breathing through waterlogged lungs.

Salt opens his door and steps into the chill night air. “I’ll check the perimeter. Maybe some punk is messing with us.”

“I hope Nick Carson isn’t up to his old tricks again,” York replies, then adds with a half-laugh, “Or it could be the Jester fucking with us.”

Salt shakes his head. “Man, you’ve been watching too many horror movies. It’s probably just the radio. I want to make sure it’s not Carson and his goons.”

“Speaking of horror movies,” York says, “this whole Jester thing’s making me think about showing my kids the Carnival of Terror franchise.”

Salt smirks. “Stay here, Dad-of-the-Year. I’ll handle it.”

He walks a few yards toward the tree line, flashlight slicing through the darkness. The road is empty—no headlights in sight. But somewhere beyond the pines comes a faint shuffle of footsteps.

“Hello?” Salt calls.

No answer. Just the shuffling again, closer now.

A figure steps to the edge of the beam—Officer Daily. His uniform is torn, his face pale and slick with a black, tar-like substance.

“Daily?” Salt lowers the flashlight slightly. “What the hell are you doing out here? We thought you were—”

Daily lunges.

The attack is instant and brutal. Salt staggers back as icy hands lock around his throat, driving him to the ground. Daily straddles him, pinning him down with unnatural strength. He forces Salt’s head back, mouth opening impossibly wide as a bubbling black fluid wells up from deep inside. The stench is overpowering—rotting tar and sulfur.

“Get—off—me!” Salt chokes, struggling, but Daily’s strength is inhuman. His lips clamp onto Salt’s, forcing the foul liquid down Salt’s throat. It burns like acid.

Salt thrashes violently, gagging.

York throws open the cruiser door, gun drawn. “Salt!”

But what he sees roots him to the spot. Salt’s body convulses as the black substance spreads under his skin like living veins. His eyes roll back, then snap open—jet black, reflecting nothing. His skin turns a sickly gray. He claws at his throat as if trying to tear the infection out, but his movements grow jerky, mechanical.

“Jesus Christ…” York whispers.

Salt’s back arches so far that it looks like his spine might snap. His ragged breaths stop—then restart in a slow, deliberate rhythm that isn’t his own.

York doesn’t notice Sheriff Taylor and Officer Fox stepping from the darkness until they’re almost beside him, moving with the same stiff, synchronized gait. They were supposed to be on routine patrol hours ago; whatever happened to them went off the air before anyone could call it in.

“Stay back!” York shouts, leveling his pistol. He fires twice—muzzle flashes tear opens the night—but neither Taylor nor Fox slows.

Salt rises to his feet, head lolling at an unnatural angle. The black veins fade beneath his skin, but his eyes remain dead pools of tar. When he speaks, his voice is wet and warped.

“York… come with us. Let us all hail Aleron together.”

Somewhere in the icy wind, the radios pop again—half-words, half-static—Aleron’s interference crawling the net and smothering any chance of backup.

York’s heart slams against his ribs. “Not a damn chance!”

He turns and bolts into the trees. Branches tear at his arms and face as he sprints blindly through the undergrowth. Behind him comes the steady, relentless pursuit—no shouting, no commands to stop. Just boots pounding the earth and Salt’s rasping, inhuman breaths.

York stumbles over a root, nearly goes down, but keeps running, lungs burning. The woods open suddenly into a moon-silvered clearing.

The Jester stands at the center, clad in his macabre patchwork costume, bells on his collar tinkling softly in the windless night. His grotesque mask gleams faintly. His voice is smooth, amused, and sinister.

“Running already, Officer York? But the party’s just begun.”

York raises his gun, hands trembling. “Stay back!”

The Jester laughs—a hollow, musical sound. “You should have stayed in the car.”

York fires. Once. Twice. The Jester slips aside, as if he’d known where the bullets would fly, closing the distance in a blur. A flash of steel gleams in his hand.

York turns to run, but the blade is already there, sliding between his ribs. He gasps, the world spinning, moonlight tilting as blood pours from the wound. He collapses to the cold ground.

The Jester leans close, whispering in his ear. “Now you see, Officer… this town belongs to Aleron. He will show your family mercy—if they hail him.”

The knife pulls free; York screams. The Jester drives it down again, embedding it in York’s skull.

As darkness closes in, York realizes the awful truth: he’s been herded. The Jester didn’t stumble on him; he steered him here through the woods with inhuman precision—like a hunter scenting fear from miles away.

The last thing York hears is the dull thud of the blade striking bone… while far away, Halloween’s dawn bleeds toward town. With it, Aleron’s power swells—quickening every turn and kill as the veil thins.

Chapter Fifty-Nine 

Hart and Lang brief Brandon inside a state police command van to get warm. The space feels like a compact office on wheels: dark acoustic paneling deadens road noise, and a generator hums beneath, even as the LED strip lighting flickers. Six mounted monitors show drone feeds, traffic cams, GPS overlays, and plate-reader scrolls. Below them, radios and encrypted phones line a counter with two bolted swivel chairs, headsets, and a neat control panel for the roof cameras, antenna alignment, and infrared/thermal systems. Rugged laptops sit on satellite links. In back: a lockbox for evidence, a tiny fridge, a clipboard of shift notes, and a dry-erase board tracking unit. The air smells faintly of coffee and warm electronics, and the cables are all neatly tied. It’s a roadside mission control.

“Tong’s been up all night combing that footage,” Brandon says, rubbing a tired eye. “Hasn’t stopped since we pulled the iPad.”

“So, per my dream,” Lang says, “Aleron can be stopped only by trapping him back inside the Jester doll. That means breaking his hold on John Connolly and Ivy—getting them to confront what happened. We also need to be free of guilt so Aleron cannot use it against us and turn us”. 

Hart bites her lip.

Brandon lifts his coffee. Hart gives a thin smile. “I know it sounds crazy.”

Brandon nods. “After what I saw on that video, this is the tame part.”

Lang exhales. “Whatever that was, if it’s part of this, we’ll need all the help we can get.”

“I wish the Ghostbusters existed,” Brandon mutters.

They share a brief chuckle.

“Next step—send men to Westport to check on Sheriff Taylor and Austin Stone,” Brandon says.

“No one’s answering,” Lang replies. “Even Abby Lawson’s dad goes straight to voicemail.”

“I want eyes on all of them—Austin, the Lawsons, and the doll,” Hart adds.

Brandon checks his watch—nearly 6 a.m. “Day shift’s rolling in. I’ll ask the supervisor to spare a few for Westport. It’s Halloween, so coverage is tight.” He glances at the status board. “For what it’s worth, Westport stayed quiet till just before dawn. If the Jester waited for the grid to dip and comms to sag, it tracks why we’re only now seeing flare-ups.”

Hart and Lang trade a look—four days hunting the Jester, and they’ve lost track of time.

“Think the date matters?” Hart asks.

“It could,” Lang says. “Samhain—October 31—the veil thins between living and dead. Might empower Aleron.”

“Either of your dreams says that outright?” Brandon asks.

They both shake their heads.

“Why would Aleron make it that easy?” Lang says.

A knock cuts in. Brandon opens the van door. Officer Simmons stands there in a STATE POLICE windbreaker, papers in hand.

“CSI ran facial recognition on the girl with the Jester,” she says, nodding to Hart and Lang. “Hit on state and federal MP databases.” She passes Brandon the file. “Monique St. James, seventeen. Reported missing two days ago. Parents say she called yesterday—attacked mid-call while begging for help. Then a maniacal laugh before the line died.”

Brandon scans the packet, then hands it to Hart. “When did we last speak to the parents?”

“Earlier this morning,” Simmons says.

“I’ll update them today,” Brandon replies. “Who’s the day supervisor?”

“Seltzer, sir.”

“Let him know I need him,” Brandon says.

Simmons nods and leaves. Brandon turns back. “Thoughts?”

Lang clears his throat. “New for the Jester—kidnapping.”

“This ‘sequel Jester’ keeps surprising—kidnapping and letting Clayton Johnson go,” Hart says.

Brandon’s phone chimes. “Tong,” he says, reading. “He recovered the rest of the video.”

He moves to a laptop, logs in, and opens the email. “You’ll want to see this.”

They crowd in. The clip resumes where they left it: Darcy’s blood-curdling scream; the woman in the long white dress beside her—both eerily still.

Suddenly, the woman in white snaps toward the office doorway. A skeletal figure stands there—translucent, decaying skin hanging in strips, tattered clothes, finger bones elongated into claw-like tips. Hollow eye sockets glow red. Its jaw opens; only animal sounds emerge.

A chill runs down Hart’s spine—Aleron. Rot made manifest by centuries of spite.

The earlier glitch point—where a face had spiked the feed—now plays clean. The figure turns back to Darcy, clicks its skeletal fingers in time with its mouth’s gnarl of sounds. Darcy steps forward, arms outstretched like wings. The woman in white stands behind her, waiting.

The sounds resolve into words—deep, menacing: “You will hail Aleron. You will follow Aleron’s lead. You will honor Aleron only.”

Darcy nods—Aleron and the woman in white share a look. Aleron pivots and vanishes.

Darcy walks out, arms still lifted; the woman in white follows. On the exterior camera, Monique stands by the van, waiting. Darcy faces her, statuesque, as the woman in white drifts behind her. A gust lifts the woman’s hair—Ivy, unmistakable from old archive photos—dead for twenty-nine years, standing there like she never left.

Ivy looks to the van; the back door opens by itself. Monique turns and climbs in. Darcy follows. The doors close as if pushed by invisible hands.

Ivy lingers, then dissolves.

A minute of stillness. Then the Jester sprints into frame, jumps into the driver’s seat, and starts the engine. As the van pulls out, the camera catches Ivy seated beside him. She looks straight into the lens—as if she knows Brandon, Hart, and Lang are watching right now.

Silence. The clip ends on Ivy’s knowing gaze.

Brandon’s phone rings, making them all jump. He fishes it from his back pocket. “Brandon.” He listens, then: “Yes, Tong—we saw it. No digital tampering?” Another beat. “Good. Keep digging—frame by frame. If there are practical effects, we’ll find the seams.”

He hangs up and exhales. “So—we’re fighting ghosts and zombies who can commandeer people.”

“It appears so,” Lang says.

“Sorry, we pulled you into this,” Hart tells Brandon.

He shakes his head. “The Jester pulled me in by killing on my watch.”

Hart nods.

“What’s the plan once we send officers to Westport?” Brandon asks. “Jesters got a head start.”

“The officers secure Abby Lawson and family, Austin Stone, and the Jester doll,” Hart says. “Move them to a safe location. Do not engage the Jester unless attacked.”

“And I’m going to run some occult research on your system,” Lang adds. “Quick study on countermeasures. We need a playbook before the next hit.”

Brandon huffs a humorless laugh. “Never thought I’d be a cop prepping to fight ghosts.”

“Let’s just hope we survive,” Hart says.

Lang meets her eyes. “We will. Together we end this—for good.”

Hart gives a weak smile anyway. In her gut, a colder truth lingers: this time, not all of them may make it back.

Chapter Sixty

The woods outside Westport are black and silent at six in the morning, as if the whole world has been emptied and left to rot beneath the October mist. Fallen leaves, wet and slick, plaster the ground. In the weak light, their edges gleam darkly like dried blood. It’s just after dawn—early enough that school is still hours away, early enough that the fog clings to tree trunks like breath.

Nick Carson leads the way, boots crunching, that restless grin never leaving his face. It doesn’t matter if it’s the dead of night, cold, or if his knuckles are still scabbed from his last parking-lot brawl—Nick is always looking for trouble. He moves as if the world owes him a laugh.

“Man, this is gonna be epic,” he says, pushing through a low branch. “Whole town’s gonna be talking about us for weeks—maybe months.”

“Longer than that,” Jennifer Collins murmurs, slipping her arm through his. Even in the cold October air, she looks flawless: hair tied in a high ponytail, jeans painted onto her legs, a tight crop top beneath her school sweatshirt, lips curled in a knowing smirk—the kind of girl who expects every pair of eyes to find her first. “You, dressed as the Jester, are going to stab me in the middle of the gym—a shocking and emotional death! God, everyone’s gonna freak.”

Candy Carlton, head cheerleader and Jennifer’s shadow since her first year, twirls the strap of her duffel. “Especially when Butch and I lock and block the doors, wearing the other Jester masks. They’ll be begging to get out—but nope. We’re the wall.”

Butch “the Hammer” Reynolds, Westport’s golden boy, barely grunts as he hauls the heavier bag stuffed with masks, costumes, blood packets, and retractable prop knives. His letterman jacket strains against his broad shoulders; Captain stands bold in varsity lettering. “Just make sure you scream loud enough, Jen. Sell it.”

Jennifer smirks. “Trust me, I’ve got lungs. People’s ears are gonna bleed.”

Their laughter rolls into the fog, but it doesn’t carry far—the forest swallow’s sound. By the time they pass the old iron boundary post, it feels like they’ve left the town—and the rest of the world—behind.

“Creepy out here,” Candy says lightly, her breath puffing white. “Like, more than usual.”

“You scared already?” Nick teases, grinning. “Boo.”

But even he glances back at the sound that follows—a sharp snap in the brush, too heavy for a squirrel, too precise for a falling branch.

“Probably just a deer,” Butch says. But his voice isn’t steady.

Up ahead, Jennifer’s eyes catch something. “What’s that?”

Slashed deep into a tree trunk is a face—smiling, crude, gouged with savage force. Not neatly carved, but hacked, as if someone was laughing the whole time. From the bottom of the grin, a dark liquid drips.

“Paint?” Candy asks, her voice pitched too high.

Nick leans closer, finger hovering near it. It’s not paint. “Fresh,” he says. “Some psycho’s out here marking territory. Guess we’re not the only ones who like screwing with people.”

As they press deeper, the signs multiply. A crow dangles upside down by its broken feet from a branch, feathers slick with dew—or blood. A shredded Westport police jacket is nailed high into a tree, sleeves pinned open like reaching arms. Strange footprints twist across the wet leaves—not quite boots, not quite shoes—long, thin, and crooked.

Then a sound, soft and deliberate: a laugh. Faint. Behind them.

“Nick…” Jennifer whispers, gripping his arm.

“Relax,” Nick mutters, though his eyes dart toward the sound. “Nobody’s out here this early.”

The laugh comes again. A different direction. Closer.

“Seriously,” Butch says, “someone’s screwing with us.”

The fog thickens, curling low to the ground. A chill crawls up Candy’s spine. “Maybe we should head back…”

Nick is about to crack a joke when the woods explode.

A figure steps out of the mist only yards ahead. Tall. Thin. Dressed head to toe in a Jester’s costume—its red-and-black fabric filthy, the mask cracked, bells jingling softly. In his gloved hand, something pale and round dangles.

“Oh my God,” Jennifer breathes.

It’s a head—Officer York’s. The cop who hassled them just last week was for cutting class. His eyes stare glassy and wide, his jaw slack, the corners of his mouth torn open.

“Holy shit!” Butch drops the duffel.

The Jester tilts his head, admiring them like specimens, then flings the severed head at their feet. It bounces through the wet leaves and rolls to a stop against Jennifer’s sneaker, smearing her white laces red.

“Run!” Nick yells.

Candy bolts first—but doesn’t make it far. The Jester moves with impossible speed, gliding from the mist to seize her by the hair. Her scream tears through the woods as he jerks her backward, a blade flashing silver before it slits her throat in one savage sweep. Blood sprays across the leaves, steaming in the cold. She gurgles and collapses, twitching.

“CANDY!” Butch roars, charging like it’s Friday night under the lights. He swings, but the Jester ducks and drives his knife up into Butch’s gut—once, twice, again—until his roar becomes a wet grunt. The killer drags the blade sideways, spilling him open before letting him crumple across Candy’s corpse.

Jennifer shrieks, frozen in horror until Nick yanks her arm.

They run, crashing through the woods, but the Jester doesn’t chase. Not yet. He wants them to run. Behind them, the bells jingle slowly and steadily, followed by his muffled laugh.

They stumble down a trail that no longer looks familiar.

“Nick, I can’t—” Jennifer trips over a root and goes sprawling.

Nick spins to pull her up—but the Jester is already there. Silent. Waiting.

The blade punches into Jennifer’s chest. Right where she’d planned to press the fake blood pack tonight—but this time, it’s real. She gasps, eyes wide, coughing blood into Nick’s hands.

“NO! STOP!” Nick screams, hurling himself at the killer.

The Jester flings Jennifer’s body into Nick, knocking him down. She rolls limply into the brush, her eyes fixed and unblinking.

Nick runs. He doesn’t look back. Branches whip his face, tearing skin, but he doesn’t stop. His breath rasps loud enough to drown out the forest.

Then he hears it again—right behind him. Jingle. Jingle. The laugh, sharper now. Closer.

The killer isn’t running. He’s following, savoring it—sometimes ahead, sometimes to the side, slipping through space like he’s bending the path itself, herding Nick where he wants him to go.

Nick bursts into the same clearing where York died, lungs burning. Silence tricks him into thinking he’s escaped. Then a shadow shifts at the tree line. The Jester steps out. Slowly. Deliberately.

Nick sees a looping drag trail in the bloodstained leaves. “Christ,” he whispers, realization freezing his spine. “He must’ve hauled a body through here faster than humanly possible.”

He grabs a fallen branch and swings wildly, screaming—but the killer bats it aside, grabs him by the throat, and slams him into a tree—bark cracks. Stars explode behind Nick’s eyes.

The Jester doesn’t stab immediately. He draws a small, serrated blade and carves deep lines into Nick’s cheeks as Nick writhes and screams. Then he draws his main knife and drives it up through Nick’s stomach, pinning him like an insect on a specimen board.

Nick gurgles blood, eyes wide with shock. The Jester leans close enough for Nick to see his own terrified reflection in the cracked mask.

“Happy Halloween,” the killer whispers, twisting the blade until the scream dies in Nick’s throat.

The fog swallows the clearing again. Bells jingle softly as the Jester walks away, dragging Nick’s body behind him—there, then not there—moving with that stuttering, inhuman teleport-like step that has haunted Westport’s legends for decades.

Chapter Sixty-One 

Abby Lawson feels uneasy as she and her parents roll back into Westport. Something is wrong—the Jester feels closer now. She gazes out the sedan window, letting the passing scenery blur while her parents’ voices steady her.

“Yes, my phone is back online,” Dale Lawson says triumphantly. His phone has been on the car charger for almost half an hour; it finally pops to life.

Abby smiles. She’s exhausted and wants her own bed, even though it’s Halloween. She slept a little at the hospital, but that’s not the same as being home.

Alice Lawson glances at Dale’s phone as he drives. She picks it up and flicks through the notifications. “Oh my, you’ve got several missed calls from Dr. Lang.”

“I hope everything’s okay. I’ll call Lang once we get in,” Dale replies.

They’d left the highway and drifted into town before the station blackout and roadside attacks began—threading a quiet needle of time when Westport still looked like Westport.

Abby closes her eyes, wishing for a nap so she can dress as Wednesday Addams and go trick-or-treating later.

“The town is quiet,” Alice observes as Dale turns onto Main Street, heading toward the waterfront to grab breakfast from a local artisan bakery.

It’s the wrong kind of quiet—too few patrol cars cruising, a couple of porch lights flickering even though there’s no wind, like the power wants to hiccup but doesn’t quite dare. Somewhere, a motion sensor clicks on and off with no one beneath it.

A couple, Mary and Maria Murphy, transplants from San Diego, own the bakery. In 2018, they visited Westport for a weekend, fell in love with the town, and decided to open a bakery. Mary left a successful law practice, and Maria stepped away from crime reporting at the San Diego Union-Tribune. Married since 2015, they were ready for a late-forties reset. It was rocky at first, but with perseverance and Westport’s help, the bakery became a staple—and after the pandemic, TikTok sent it viral, especially once they introduced their most popular item: the peanut butter and jelly brownie. Influencers flocked to try it, and their followers followed by the hundreds.

The PB&J brownie is Abby’s favorite. Dale plans to buy a dozen, plus fresh-baked rolls (the kind that melt butter on contact) and pumpkin-spice cold foam cold brews for him and Alice.

Main Street is dressed for Halloween, every storefront competing in the annual decoration contest sponsored by the Hawthorne Foundation. The trophy is custom: a hand-painted zombie lunging for brains atop a base depicting a classic haunted house, with a brass plaque for the winner. First place receives $2,500, second place receives $1,500, and third place receives $1,000. This year, with Allie Hawthorne no longer present, Austin Stone will serve as master of ceremonies.

From lampposts hang cobwebs so convincing that the local spiders might feel upstaged. Carved jack-o’-lanterns grin—some by schoolkids, some by fiercely competitive adults. Strings of orange and purple lights crisscross overhead, casting a playful, slightly eerie glow as dusk approaches. The hardware store’s display features a scarecrow holding a rusty handsaw (tastefully tagged “not for sale”). Even the bank swapped its banner for a towering black-cat silhouette with discreet LED eyes.

Volunteers have started staging for the parade: hay bales mark routes; rope lines snake along the curb. Later, folding tables will groan under caramel apples, popcorn balls, and hot cider, steam threading into the brisk October air. The salty tang of the Pacific will mingle with the aroma of roasting chestnuts.

At the far end of Main, the town’s prized antique fire truck—acquired by Allie on a trip to L.A.—sits polished and ready in a garage, draped with cobweb netting and a plastic skeleton in the driver’s seat grinning like it knows every Westport secret.

“Everything looks ready for tonight, but people are taking it slow today,” Alice says as they pass the pier.

“They’re probably still tired from setup last night. You’ll see vendors later,” Dale replies with a cheesy smile.

“You’re a big kid in spooky season,” Alice teases.

“I’ve always loved this time of year—can’t get enough of it,” he says. “Abby, you okay back there?” He checks the rearview. Abby is asleep. “Poor thing’s knocked out. Hope she’ll feel up for the parade.”

“I hope so too. Abby’s had it rough since the episode with that creepy doll at the estate sale—and now the nightmares. I hope Dr. Lang and his partner can help her past this,” Alice says.

Dale smiles. “I think she had a medical scare, and now she’s dreaming to cope. Lang can help.”

“You’re sure it’s okay that she talks to him? I don’t want him putting ideas about curses and a killer Jester in her head.”

“I don’t think he needs to. There’s wall-to-wall coverage about the real Jester escaping Smith State and killing down the coast,” Dale says, pulling into a spot in front of the bakery.

“Do you think that email from Westport PD was right—that the Jester might be heading this way?” Alice asks.

“I hope not. But I trust Taylor—Lady Hawthorne made a smart choice for sheriff,” Dale says. He nods toward the Hawthorne mini mansion on the bluff. “Hope Austin’s okay. Be right back.”

He climbs out and closes the door.

Alice glances toward the fire-engine garage. A figure in a clownish getup slips through the side door. “Glad someone’s in the mood,” she mutters, half a sigh.

Inside, the shop is cozy and lively, painted in warm tones with hand-lettered chalkboard menus. Behind the counter, the setup is efficient yet charming designed by people who care as much about workflow as they do about pastry. A long glass case brims with flaky croissants, almond biscotti, oversized cinnamon rolls lacquered with icing, jewel-bright fruit Danishes. Trays of rolls and bagels steam behind the glass. The stars are two full racks of PB&J brownies—dense, fudgy squares marbled with peanut butter and raspberry jam, cut with surgical precision and stacked like edible gold.

Two high-end brewers’ hum; twin espresso machines hiss and sigh. Syrups stand neatly labeled—ceramics for dine-in, recycled cups for to-go. Four café tables line the left wall. The Square reader sits ready for tap, chip, or swipe.

Halloween trims everything: orange-and-black bunting, sugar-skull cookies, and candy-corn cupcakes in the window, lopsided-smile pumpkins flanking the door with flickering tea lights, tiny witch hats dangling from the awning. Inside, the air is perfumed with cinnamon and melted chocolate. Glitter-dusted cobweb garlands drape the case tops. A motorized black-cat figurine guards a cauldron tip jar. Plastic bats sway when the door opens. Plush ghosts in bakers’ hats “hold” felt rolling pins near the espresso station. Even the famous PB&J brownies are cut into pumpkins and bats, raspberry swirls peeking like ruby smiles. Someone even dressed the Square reader in a tiny felt cape and paper fangs. Whimsical, not spooky—like Halloween threw on an apron to help.

Dale arrives before the rush. Mary, in a purple wizard hat, is checking the brew when he enters.

“Morning, Mary,” Dale says cheerfully.

She smiles. “Morning, Dale. Good to see you. How’s our Abby?”

Dale decides not to rehash last night—everyone is aware of the estate-sale incident. “Still sleeping. I’m here to surprise her with a dozen PB&J brownies.”

“I’m so happy to hear she’s doing better.” Mary gloves up, assembles a bakery box, and starts packing Halloween-shaped brownies. Dale eyes the rest of the case while she works.

“I’ll give you two on the house—Abby loves them,” Mary says, finishing the dozen.

“Thank you. I’m hoping Abby feels up for the parade. Maybe these help,” Dale says.

Mary ties the box with red-and-white string. “Me too. I want her to see us march.” (She and Maria join the merchants’ group every year.) “Anything else?”

“Yes—two rolls and two pumpkin-spice cold-foam cold brews.”

Maria comes from the back with another rack of brownies, hair in a net. “Hey, Dale. How’s Abby?”

“Better. Brownies for morale,” he grins.

“Good. See you tonight,” Maria says, moving to the brewer. She pours herself a coffee and blows on it. “Need a hand, hun?”

“I’m okay,” Mary says, bagging the rolls. “How are Jay and Becky doing?”

Jay Lee and Becky Rollins—out-of-towners hired a year ago—help bake and run the store.

“They’re good,” Maria says. “This rack’s done, more are in the ovens, and they’re starting another batch.” She sips.

“So, they’re working out great,” Dale says.

“Oh, total sweethearts,” Mary says, pulling out a large container of cold brew and filling two iced cups. She adds their house pumpkin cold foam and lids them.

“Where are they staying?” Dale asks.

“At the Black Whale Inn,” Maria says. “The Rileys are looking after them for now.”

“For now,” Mary adds. “Milton Jones is hunting a closer rental—might be the next town over.”

“Milton’s the best—got half the town there,” Dale chuckles.

“He got us our house,” Mary says, setting everything in a carry caddy by the Square.

“What’s the damage?”

“Forty even,” Mary smiles.

“Worth every penny,” Dale says. He taps to pay with Apple Wallet and drops a ten in the cauldron tip jar.

“I hope sweet Abby enjoys her brownies,” Mary says.

“Me too.” Dale sips his cold brew and smiles. “Perfection. Tastes like fall.” He gathers the order. “See you, ladies, tonight.”

“Yes, you will,” Maria says, pouring herself another coffee.

Dale leaves. Mary shoots Maria a look. “Hun, Dr. Hammer says to watch your caffeine with your blood pressure.”

Maria keeps pouring. “Just for today. It’s only seven a.m., and we’ve got about seventeen hours to go.” She takes a sip. “That reminds me—at nine we owe the parade volunteers two dozen mixed bagels and rolls, butter, a coffee box, and brownies.”

Mary smiles. “The bagels and rolls are packed in back; butters in the fridge here; cold brew’s chilling; hot coffee I was about to box when Dale came in. You need to grab brownies.”

“That’s why I love you,” Maria says, leaning over to kiss her cheek.

Chapter Sixty-Two

Lang and Hart remain in the state police command center, planning how to confront the Jester, while Brandon spins up two teams for Westport. The first—led by Lt. Arine Warren, with Officers Johnson, Brookfield, and Strange—will head out within the hour to link up with the Westport PD and check on Austin Stone and the Lawson family. Lang and Hart haven’t reached any of them in hours.

The second team will follow: Brandon, Hart, and Lang, plus Officers Brooks, Rhondes, and Hemsley—departing after Lang and Hart finish their research to better prepare for Aleron, Ivy, and the Jester.

Lang sits at a laptop station, skimming material on confronting malevolent entities. Hart, at the neighboring station, nurses a coffee.

“Evil doesn’t just appear,” she says, thinking aloud.

Lang gives a wry chuckle. “Poetic, Hart. But you mean Aleron—not a seminar on human nature.”

She shoots him a look. “Aleron was human once. So, what happens? How does someone go from flesh and blood to… whatever this vengeful thing is?”

She clicks her tongue, then, low and steady: “I hate him. I hate the Jester. I hate John Connolly. I hate Aleron. I hate what they took from me.”

“It’s okay to feel that way,” Lang says softly. “They took a lot from you.”

Her hands curl into fists. “People preach forgiveness and understanding. I’m the one who finds them—my parents. Their faces…” Her voice snags; she swallows. “You don’t forgive that. You burn it out.”

Lang waits a beat. “What if John Connolly isn’t the hand on the knife? What if it’s Aleron’s, using his body?”

Hart doesn’t answer. Deep down, she knows John’s not in control—he yielded it, drowning in guilt over Ivy.

“I believe in curses,” Lang says quietly. “Not fairy stories. The kind born when hatred burns so hot it twists a soul.”

He leans in. “Aleron wasn’t a saint. A tyrant king had him executed—your dream showed as much. Before he dies, Aleron lays down a curse—every ounce of rage poured into it. The king falls, but the curse doesn’t stop. It turns Aleron into something worse than a vengeful man—a spirit that can’t rest, can only destroy those it deems ‘unjust.’ It binds to the doll, waits for a broken soul to wield—eventually, John Connolly.”

Hart’s lip curls. “So, he’s just possessed? That’s supposed to make me feel better?”

“He gave in,” Lang says. “He fought little and then surrendered—after no one believed him about the curse. That day, he saw himself as the innocent, like Aleron. It’s not about feeling better. It’s about knowing what we’re fighting. The curse is pure, irrational evil. It feeds on guilt—on John’s, on Ivy’s, on anyone’s. If John confronts what happened, if Ivy accepts it was accidental, if they stop letting Aleron speak through their grief, the curse starves. Then we can bind it to the jester doll.”

Hart’s voice comes out raw. “I want to believe that. God help me, I do. But when I close my eyes, I don’t see a curse. I see his smile. His knife. John still killed people. He goes back to Smith State.”

Lang nods. “He’s accountable—even if Aleron puppeted him. That comes after we end this.”

A knock at the rear door. “Come in,” Lang calls.

Brandon steps in with a tray of coffee. “Keep the caffeine coming,” Lang jokes.

Hart composes herself, takes a cup. “Please tell me this fancy van has a bathroom.”

“We’ve got a bucket,” Brandon deadpans.

“Oh, great.” She smirks; he answers with a dimpled grin.

“Alpha team’s en route to Westport,” Brandon says. “We’ll roll inside the hour.” He adds, “Assuming comms let us—half our calls to the coast are going through a blender. We’re pushing as fast as the blackout allows.”

He hands Lang a cup. “Any luck with your research?”

“We need John and Ivy to face guilt and acceptance to sever Aleron’s hold,” Lang says.

Brandon nods. “From your dream, right?”

Lang sips and nods.

“As for the others under Aleron—Monique St. James and Darcy Scully—we should avoid engaging them, if possible,” he adds.

“Did you reach Monique’s parents?” Hart asks.

Brandon nods. “Told them we’ve got a solid lead and will update them as soon as we can.”

“Good. I want Darcy and Monique back safe,” Lang says. “There’s a way to keep them from crossing thresholds—and to protect us.”

He arches a brow at Hart. “Share.”

Hart sips. “Salt.”

“Salt?” Lang and Brandon echo.

“Table, sea—doesn’t matter,” Hart says. “My mom used to run a line across the porch every Halloween—said it keeps bad spirits from crossing. I thought it was folklore. Maybe it’s what we’ve got.”

“She’s right,” Lang says.

Brandon looks to Lang. Lang adds, “Salt’s considered purifying—many cultures line doorways and windowsills to repel hostile spirits.”

“I’ve seen that in movies,” Brandon says.

Hart laughs. “Brandon likes horror.”

“Who doesn’t?” Brandon grins. “It is Halloween—everyone deserves one good scare.”

“Okay, Sheriff Brackett,” Hart teases.

Brandon clears his throat. “Technically, he says, ‘It’s Halloween; everyone’s entitled to one good scare.’”

“Okay, okay.” Hart raises her hands.

“People like scares—adrenaline and cortisol spike, heart rate and alertness go up,” Lang says. “And it bonds people—that’s why haunts are popular.”

Brandon nods. “Well, this is bonding us—while scaring the hell out of us. We’ve got salt guns at the station for pest control. I’ll grab those and a few bags of rock salt.”

“Great idea,” Lang says. “We bring anyone under Aleron’s sway home safe—even John.” He glances at Hart.

She holds his gaze. “Yes. Even John Connolly.”

Chapter Sixty-Three 

The kitchen of Two Lesbos Bake Shop is alive with motion. Flour dusts the air like snowflakes, and the scent of chocolate and roasted peanuts clings to every corner.

Jay Lee hovers over the mixing bowl, his brow furrowed in dramatic concentration as he folds in thick swirls of peanut butter.

“You’re going to break your face if you keep frowning like that,” Becky Rollins teases, scraping jelly into a piping bag. She gives it a playful squeeze, sending a ribbon of purple red into the pan. “It’s a brownie, Jay, not brain surgery.”

Jay flashes her a crooked grin. “This is sacred. People travel miles for these things. It’s not just a brownie—it’s an experience.”

Maria leans against the counter, watching the two with fond amusement. Her pumpkin-orange apron bears floury handprints like badges of honor. “And if we run out again before sundown, I’m putting your number on the voicemail, Jay. You can explain to the tourists why they missed out.”

Becky snorts. “We’ll sell out for sure. Not just because of the brownies, either. Half the town’s coming in to ogle Maria’s decorations.” She winks. “Flying bats, spooky cat guarding the tip jar, fake cobwebs on the ceiling—it’s like Halloween exploded in here.”

Maria’s eyes sparkle. “You should’ve seen Mary on the ladder yesterday, stringing those bats. She nearly fell into the mixer.”

That sets Becky laughing so hard she nearly smears jelly across her apron. “Now that I would’ve paid to see.”

“Laugh it up,” Maria says with mock severity, “but don’t forget—there’s a contest. The winner receives the zombie trophy and a cash prize. And I fully intend to keep it out of Henderson’s Hardware this year.”

Jay chuckles. “Good luck. When I took my walk earlier, I saw a twelve-foot skeleton parked out front. They must’ve gotten it just for today. Word is, they even programmed it to say, ‘trick or treat’ when kids walk by later.”

Maria groans. “Show-offs.”

Becky licks a smear of jelly from her finger. “We’ll crush them anyway. Nobody can beat the smell of this place. The judges will be hypnotized before they even walk inside.”

“Maybe,” Maria says, lowering her voice conspiratorially, “but rumor has it the bookstore has live ravens in their display this year.”

Jay drops his spatula. “Actual ravens? Inside a shop? What if they crap on the new releases?”

“That’s what makes it spooky,” Maria replies with a sly grin.

The door to the kitchen creaks open, and Mary steps into the back area, peering out from under her witch’s hat. “You three sound like you’re scheming.”

“Only about crushing the competition,” Becky says with an evil laugh.

“Don’t get too cozy,” Mary warns. “The volunteers across the street will be running on fumes after last night’s setup. They need coffee, brownies, rolls, bagels, and butter. Think one of you can make the run?”

Jay wipes his hands on a towel and straightens. “I’ll take it. Could use a break.” He grins slyly. “And some fresh air.”

Becky arches a brow. “Uh-huh. ‘Fresh air’ again. Otherwise known as your next nicotine fix.”

Maria wags a flour-dusted finger at him. “You think I don’t know? Don’t let me catch you, or it’s dish duty for a week.”

“Relax,” Jay says, stacking trays carefully into his arms. “I’ll be back before you even miss me.”

“Don’t dawdle,” Mary warns. “Parade prep is chaotic enough without caffeine withdrawal.”

Jay gives a mock salute, pushes out the back door, and crosses Main Street into the crisp autumn morning. The chatter of his friends fades behind him, leaving only the wind—and the promise of something darker—waiting across the way.

Jay nudges the bakery door open with his hip, balancing the boxes as he does so. The sea air hits him sharply and coolly, carrying the tang of the nearby ocean. Main Street is slowly waking. Children dart between shopfronts, already showing off their costumes—princesses, pirates, superheroes, a gaggle of witches trailing glitter from their brooms. Parents follow with warm drinks in hand, calling after their kids. The bakery crew is blissfully unaware of the night’s chaos; no alerts have pierced the morning bustle yet.

No volunteers are in sight, but they’ll be back soon. A hand-lettered note on the garage door explains the quiet:

RUNNING TO STORAGE FOR EXTRA CORDONS & SIGNAGE — BACK IN 10.

Jay adjusts his grip on the boxes and smirks. Westport does love its holidays. Small towns always do. He can see the towering skeleton in front of Henderson’s Hardware from here. Pumpkins line the steps; the skeleton’s glowing green eyes leer down at passersby.

“The zombie trophy’s gonna be a fight this year,” he mutters.

At the edge of the garage driveway, Jay sets the boxes down on a bench for a moment. He slips a joint from his pocket, lights it, and draws in a slow, calming drag. The ember glows bright even in daylight, smoke curling around his head.

That’s when movement catches his eye. From the yawning mouth of the garage, a figure emerges. At first glance, it looks like a volunteer in costume—but as Jay squints through the haze, unease prickles down his spine.

The clown mask is grimy and torn; the costume is ruffled and stained with dark spots. The clown doesn’t speak or wave. It just turns its head toward Jay, staring long enough to make his chest tighten, then turns away and begins walking slowly, deliberately, toward the woods—moving like a shadow slipping between places, not simply crossing them.

Jay lets out a shaky laugh, more to himself than anyone else. “Weird time for a smoke break, buddy.” He grinds the joint out beneath his boot, shakes his head, and gathers the boxes again. “Guess I’d better drop this stuff off.”

Still, unease gnaws at him as he pushes the garage door open.

Inside, the air is wrong. Too still. Too quiet. The hammering and chatter are gone. Only shadows stretch along the concrete walls, and a faint metallic tang of blood lingers.

Jay’s breath catches. “What the hell…?”

A laugh slices through the silence—high-pitched, jagged, and chillingly familiar.

From behind the fire engine, the clown he saw seconds ago emerges. Impossible—Jay had watched him walk into the woods.

But it’s not a clown. It’s the Jester—a nightmare figure Jay has only ever seen in movies and on the news.

His mask grins wickedly. His blade gleams red under the string lights.

Jay barely has time to gasp before the Jester lunges. The delivery crashes to the floor, splattering coffee across the concrete.

The scrape of steel splits the air.

Chapter Sixty-Four

Abby’s eyes pop open as soon as her parents pull into the driveway of their home. “Are we home?” she asks sleepily, yawning. Yes, babe,” Alice answers. We got breakfast, and I got your favorite—Peanut Butter Jelly brownies—for breakfast,” Dale coos happily to his daughter through the rearview mirror. Thank you, Daddy,” Abby says. She yawns again and stretches, trying to wake up fully.

“Let’s go inside, eat, and all take cat naps so we can go to the parade later in our costumes,” Alice says as she unbuckles her seat belt and opens the passenger door. Dale follows suit, stepping out of the driver’s side. Abby slides out of the back seat, stepping into the cool Westport breeze.

The Lawson house sits on the quiet edge of town, a few miles from Main Street and the tourist traffic. It’s a modest one-story dwelling nestled between salt-bitten pines and the constant breath of ocean wind. To Abby, this house isn’t just shelter—it’s her world. Every creak of the floorboards and every whiff of her mom’s candles carry family history.

From the outside, the house looks exactly like it belongs where it stands: weather-worn shingles painted soft gray-blue, white trim faded from years of sea air, and a low, sloping roof. A small front porch, freshly repainted by Dale last summer, invites neighbors to linger during evening walks. Hanging baskets of Alice’s beloved geraniums add bursts of color. A driftwood sign reading Lawson, carved by Alice’s late father, hangs beside the door—a cherished keepsake.

The yard is tidy. A narrow driveway leads to the single-car garage, which Dales mostly uses for storage. Alice tends a small garden of lavender, rosemary, and wildflowers on the left side of the property. From the back porch, the ocean is visible on clear days.

Inside, the home is as warm and lived-in as the exterior promises. The living room smells faintly of the sea mixed with Alice’s citrus candles. A well-worn couch dominates the space, and framed family photos line the walls. The kitchen, open through a wide archway, is the heart of the home—fruit bowl on the island, cookbooks stacked precariously, and mornings spent together before school. Down the hallway are Abby’s ocean-themed bedroom, her parents’ room, and a spare room that doubles as Dale’s office and Alice’s yoga storage.

The house is full of memories: birthday parties, dance routines, bedtime stories told as ocean winds rattled the windows. Abby has never lived anywhere else. It is part of her, just as she is part of it.

Once inside, they kick off their shoes by the door and head to the kitchen. Abby climbs onto a stool at the island. Dale sets down the bakery box and coffee. Alice opens a window for fresh air, then grabs plates, a butter knife, butter from the fridge, and an eight-ounce container of milk for Abby.

“I’m looking forward to these hot rolls, hun,” Alice says. Me too. Abby, I’m excited about the brownie,” Dale says.

Abby pulls the tab off the milk, uncaps it, and holds it near her lips when Dale asks, “You love those brownies, right? “Yes, Daddy. I love them,” Abby says, smiling sleepily.

Dale chuckles and unties the bakery string, revealing brownies shaped like pumpkins and bats. Aww, how cute—they shaped them for the holiday,” Alice says. Yeah, Mary, Maria, and their crew outdid themselves. They were baking more while I was there,” Dale replies.

Abby licks her lips, picks up a pumpkin-shaped brownie, and takes a big bite. The mix of chocolate, peanut butter, and jelly melts in her mouth. “They’re going to sell a lot of these today,” she says. I’m sure they will,” Dale answers, cutting into a hot roll. Steam curls upward.

“You think those Tok people will be coming today?” Alice asks as she sips her coffee. Abby giggles. Dale smiles. It’s TikTok, Mommy, not Tok,” Abby says, grinning. Yeah, hun, you need to get hip like me and know today’s trends,” Dale teases. Alice smirks. “Not sure how ‘hip’ you are if she’s using our old slang.” Dale sticks his tongue out and butters his roll.

“I think it’s fair that you both know what TikTok is,” Abby says between bites. “Not many parents at school even care about the app. I think it’s right that you do. “See, honey? We’re lit,” Dale says, assembling his sandwich. Alice laughs. “Guess I’m super lit since I’ve done a few TikToks with my students at the studio. “We’ll excuse me for not being so lit,” Dale snorts, taking a bite.

For the first time since last night, Abby feels at ease. The dread she felt on the drive home lifts. She’s ready to nap before braiding her hair into Wednesday Addams style for the parade. Her parents are dressing as Morticia and Gomez; she loves that they’re joining in. She’s twelve now, and they both know these moments are precious before teenage independence pulls her away.

“This roll is so good,” Alice says. Yeah, Maria and Mary are killing it this year. The holidays are gonna be awesome—can’t wait for Thanksgiving and Christmas,” Dale replies.

Abby watches them, smiling. The sunlight streams through the kitchen window, casting golden stripes across the island. The salt air drifts in. It’s a perfect, peaceful moment.

And then, faintly—Abby hears it.

For a heartbeat, the air thickens—the room tilts. Abby slips into that strange space between dreaming and waking—the space the Jester always finds.

Jingle… jingle… jingle… drifting in from the sea.

Abby freezes. Bells. Distant at first, like sleigh bells carried on the wind—but wrong. Too sharp. Too close.

Then comes the laughter. It starts as a chuckle, playful almost, then twists upward into something jagged and sinister, echoing through the very bones of the Lawson home.

Abby’s skin prickles. She looks up at her mother. Alice leans over the island, frowning. “Abby, are you—”

Her voice warps, distorted, like sound underwater. Garbled noise replaces words.

Abby’s heart slams in her chest. She tries to answer, but her throat locks. Panic surges. She tries to scream. Nothing comes out.

“Abby?” Dale’s chair scrapes against the tile. He’s moving toward her, alarm growing.

And then—the Jester is there.

He bursts into being, as if he had always been in the room. His mask is smeared with dried blood; bells jingle with every twitch of his head. His knife flashes—The blade drives through Dale’s back, bursting from his chest, spraying red across the island.

Abby’s world shatters. She can’t scream. Tears blur her vision as warm drops of her father’s blood hit her face and shirt.

The Jester laughs. Bells jingle. He wrenches the knife free. Dale collapses onto the island, knocking everything into the air.

Alice screams—briefly. The Jester whirls, seizes her chin, and snaps her neck with a single vicious twist. She falls lifeless to the floor, eyes wide in frozen terror.

Abby claws at the counter, paralyzed. Her father’s blood pools around her. The Jester leans close, his smile impossibly wide. His breath is cold and foul against her ear.

“I’m close by,” he hisses. “And a lot of people are about to die.”

The bells jingle again. Louder. Mocking.

Abby’s vision goes black. She collapses.

“Abby!” Alice screams.

Dale and Alice jump from their seats. Abby’s eyes fly open. The kitchen is bright again. No blood. No bodies. Just the smell of home.

Alice crouches beside her, gripping her shoulders. Dale looms above, pale. “Sweetheart, can you hear us?” Alice’s voice is steady now.

Abby’s chest heaves. Her lips tremble, but no sound comes. Her parents exchange worried looks.

And beneath the silence, the faint sound of bells still echoes in Abby’s ears.

Chapter Sixty-Five- Five

The bell above the bakery door jingles as Jay steps back inside. The air seems to follow him in—damp, cold—clinging to his clothes like fog. His skin looks paler than when he left, as if the short walk across Main Street had drained something from him.

The bakery is busier now. Maria and Mary are holding down the front, calling orders over the swell of customers. Many faces are local, but plenty are out-of-towners drawn by TikTok and Westport’s Halloween buzz.

Jay slips behind the counter and through the swinging door into the kitchen.

“Mission accomplished,” he says to Becky.

His voice carries its usual rhythm, but the warmth is gone.

Becky is rolling out dough on the floured table; sleeves shoved to her elbows. “Took you long enough. Did you stop to flirt with the skeleton at Henderson’s?”

Jay chuckles, but the sound is thin and hollow—like laughter heard through a wall.

Out front, Maria calls orders; Mary juggles hot cups for a group of TikTokers. Neither notice anything off about Jay.

He moves through the kitchen with slow, deliberate care, like a man relearning a dance. His steps land heavily. When he picks up a knife to slice brownies, Becky thinks for a second he’s gripping too hard—knuckles bone-white—then he sets it down again, calm as ever.

Its just Jay being Jay after a joint, she tells herself. He’s tired. He’s stressed. That’s all.

But as minutes pass, her unease grows. In five years together, she’s never seen Jay act like this from weed. Maybe it’s a new strain. Maybe—

Every so often, she catches him standing still, staring. Not at her, not at anything—just past her, eyes wide, lips moving slightly as if whispering to someone who isn’t there. When she clears her throat, he jerks like he’s been caught. He smiles, but it arrives late, like it’s been placed on his face by hand.

A shiver crawls up Becky’s spine.

She’s carrying a tray of fresh rolls toward the pass when she sees something gleaming at his temple. Sweat? No, the color is wrong. Not clear. Thick, black, viscous—like oil—sliding down in a slow trail.

“Jay, babe,” she whispers, stopping short. “You’re…bleeding? Or—what is that? Did you hit your head?”

Jay turns too fast, eyes snapping into focus. The grin that spreads across his face is too wide, too sharp—out of place.

“Just tired,” he says.

But the voice doesn’t match the mouth. The words are a half-second delayed, layered with another faint sound beneath—like two people speaking at once.

Becky’s throat goes dry. “That’s not funny. I know it’s Halloween, but this is too much.”

Jay steps closer. One, two strides—too fast. The smell comes with him: rot beneath the chocolate, something acrid that doesn’t belong in a bakery.

Becky backs up until her shoulder hits the prep table. The tray of rolls wobbles in her hands.

“Jay, stop,” she pleads, her voice shaking. “You’re scaring me.”

His hand shoots out, crushing her wrist. The rolls scatter across the tiles. She yanks, but he’s impossibly strong. The grin never falters.

The black sheen at his temple bubbles, thickening, running faster now, as if it’s been waiting. His other hand clamps Becky’s jaw, forcing her mouth open.

Becky screams, but the roar of the hood fans swallows the sound, the stand mixer’s whirr, the bell over the front door chiming in bursts—the voices out front rise and fall, a convenient wall of noise.

The ooze slides from Jay’s temple down his cheek and into his palm. He presses it to her lips, forcing it inside. Becky gags, thrashing, nails clawing his arms. He shoves harder until the tar is in her mouth.

The taste is vile—iron, ash, and rot—burning like acid. She tries to spit, to scream, but his hand clamps her jaw shut. She swallows.

It isn’t food. It isn’t liquid. It’s alive crawling down into Becky’s stomach, clawing into her blood.

Her knees slam the tile. She scrapes at Jay’s wrists, nails splitting, blood mixing with the black that seeps into her. Her chest convulses, lungs fighting the invasion.

Maria! Mary! Somebody! she screams in her head. Out front, laughter and the clinking of cups drown everything.

Then the pain hits.

It erupts in her chest like a furnace, radiating outward in molten waves. Her veins light with fire, then darken—turning black beneath the skin. She stares, horrified, as they bulge and branch, crawling up her arms like strangling roots.

Her spine arches. Crack. Crack. Crack. Bones shift against her will, jerking her into grotesque shapes before snapping back. Her jaw pops out, then slams home. She tries to scream, but what comes out is guttural, warped—no longer human.

Stop it! Please, stop it! Her mind howls. She pictures Maria’s flour-dusted apron, Mary’s warm smile, the cozy clatter of the shop. Please help me. Notice me.

The black reaches her heart. It seizes, skips, then hammers—too fast, too strong, no longer hers. Her vision blurs. Her tongue blackens. Her eyes roll white, then cloud as darkness bleeds into them, drowning the light.

No! I’m still here! Don’t let it take me!

For a heartbeat, her thoughts are sharp, defiant. Then whispers smother them—low and ice-cold:

You are mine now.

Her body convulses violently, slamming the floor. Fingernails tear as she scrapes for purchase. Black fluid seeps from her mouth, nose, and eyes, veining across her skin like ink.

Fight it! Don’t let him win!

The whispers swell—no longer one voice but many, an army inside her skull.

Serve. Obey. Become.

Her resistance cracks. The screams inside fade to whimpers. Memories—laughing with Maria, making love with Jay, decorating cookies with Mary—snuff out, one by one, replaced by an endless, suffocating black.

Becky rises. She trembles, then steadies. Her head tilts at an unnatural angle. Her eyes are pools of tar.

The last flicker of Becky Rollins—the baker, the friend—is gone. In her place stands one of Aleron’s soldiers, will bend and bound.

Out front, the bell jingles as another family walks in. Maria laughs at a joke. Mary pours cider. No one hears the knife-quiet silence that has fallen in the kitchen.

Jay releases her, a calm and satisfied grin on her face. The ooze still drips from his temple, steady as sap.

Becky tilts her head toward him, obedient, awaiting command.

Together, they turn to the brownies cooling on the rack. Jay dips his fingers into the tar and lets it slide into the batter. Becky follows, scooping what clings to her lips and letting it drip into the chocolate like ink.

They stir in silence.

The rich scent of cocoa fills the bakery again—but beneath it now curls something fouler: acrid, rotten, alive.

And no one beyond the swinging door suspects the horror being folded into every bite.

Chapter Sixty

Hart sits in the mobile command center van, waiting patiently to head to Westport. The first team has already been deployed, armed with salt guns for self-defense—one of the few things known to slow Aleron’s influence.

She wants to be in the room when Brandon briefs his crew on the mission. Will he tell them the truth—that they’re facing a supernatural force, an ancient evil that once cursed a murderous king and has since grown even more twisted and malevolent than the king himself?

Hart can barely believe it herself. She’s locked the horrors of the Jester away for decades, but his escape has torn those wounds open again. She still surprises herself when she remembers that night at the masquerade ball—how she arrested the Jester instead of shooting him. A small voice had told her to kill him for what he’d taken from her. Any officer present would have accepted it as self-defense.

Because she didn’t listen to that voice, he escaped. And now he’s left a trail of new bodies.

She knows she shouldn’t carry this guilt and anger, but she does.

Hart stares at the dark screens in the command center. Her own reflection stares back—tired, sleepless. She rubs the bags under her eyes. Coffee only goes so far; at this point, she needs rest and cold tea bags pressed to her face.

The van falls into an eerie silence. The hum of the servers and faint static of blank monitors stop—the quiet presses down like a weight. Hart leans forward, eyes narrowing at the dead screens. Her reflection fractures across the glass—then twitches.

She freezes.

In the central monitor, over her shoulder, something shifts in the blur of static: tall, hunched, a shadow with eyes. Her blood turns cold. Slowly, she turns her head.

Nothing.

She draws a deep breath. She’s letting the stress get to her. I need sleep, she thinks.

She turns back to the monitors.

Her breath catches.

Aleron is there.

The figure looms behind her in the reflection, grotesque and rotting. Flesh stretches and peels; teeth jut at impossible angles, as if the screen itself is warping to contain him.

“Lack of sleep,” she whispers to herself, her voice thin. “That’s all.”

The chair bucks violently. Hart is slammed back hard; pain shoots up her spine. She gasps, but her lungs seize as if she’s underwater. She can’t move. From the neck down, she’s frozen.

On the monitor, Aleron leans closer, filling the screen. His voice comes from nowhere and everywhere at once, rattling the van’s walls.

“So weak, Hart. So predictable.”

His grin splits wider, tearing his face down the middle like rotten fabric.

“You couldn’t stop me then. You won’t stop me now.”

Her throat quivers. “You’re not real.”

He chuckles, the sound metallic and warped.

“Not real? Did your parents think that when the Jester carved the life out of them? I directed him. Guided every thrust of the blade. Their screams were a hymn—a hymn to me. All unjust pain gives me power.”

Hot tears sting Hart’s eyes. “You won’t break me.”

“You already are broken. You want John to pay.”

A clawed hand presses against the glass. The monitor shudders.

“Join me. Kill The Jester. Avenge your parents. Become my new Jester. Obedience is survival. Easier than dying.”

“I said no!” Hart spits, her voice shaking with fury. “John is but a pawn in your game—innocent like your victims!”

Aleron smiles crookedly.

“You don’t really believe that, Hart. We both know it. But if you don’t obey, then…”

The other screens blink on.

—Lang’s body, ripped apart, blood slicking the floor.—Abby, engulfed in fire, screaming until she crumbles into ash.—Her parents, dragged into darkness, mouths frozen in silent terror.—Westport in ruins, its streets choked with smoke and corpses as the Jester doll is raised high like a trophy.

The monitors flicker hellishly.

Hart screams as the air turns acrid, stinking of smoke and iron. She can feel the heat of the burning town closing in.

“All this,” Aleron croons, “for the doll. Their blood. Their bones. Resist me, and this future becomes truth. Join me, and I will let many live.”

The images melt into a wave of screaming faces pressed against the glass, blood running down the monitors.

The van door bursts open.

“Hart!” Lang’s voice—sharp, urgent. Brandon follows.

For one heart-stopping instant, they see it too: the sea of faces, mouths open in endless agony, Aleron’s warped visage above them. The screens flicker, then die. The lights go out.

Thirty seconds later, backup lights click on. The monitors are black again. The servers hum back to life. The stink of sulfur and charred circuitry hangs in the air. Black streaks rake the walls as if clawed hands dragged across them.

Hart sits rigid, trembling, pale, with tear-streaked eyes. Red claw imprints burn on her arms and neck.

Brandon flips through internal cams—empty. No one else was ever inside.

Lang’s voice is hushed. “We all saw that… didn’t we?”

Brandon, pale and sweating, nods, hands shaking.

“Aleron knows,” Hart says, her voice regaining strength.

“What did he say?” Lang asks.

Hart hesitates, weighing Aleron’s offer—avenge her parents by killing John, become his instrument of death.

“Evelyn,” Lang presses gently. “What did Aleron say?”

She meets his eyes, then Brandon’s. “He knows we’re coming,” she says quietly. “And he’s ready for the fight.”

Aleron’s joyful laugh echoes in her mind.

“Should I warn the team ahead of us?” Brandon asks, color returning to his face.

Lang nods. “Tell them the persons of interest are onto us. Proceed with caution.”

Brandon squeezes Hart’s shoulder as he exits to make the call.

Lang looks at her. “You sure you’re okay, Hart?” he asks, his voice softening.

She nods with a faint smile. “Nothing a drink can’t fix.”

Lang chuckles. “We’ll get you an Irish coffee.”

Hart nods. “We should get on the road soon. Better to reach Westport before dark. Maybe that gives us a chance.”

“I understand,” Lang says.

Brandon returns. “I told them to proceed with caution. They’re on alert.”

“Then we head out,” Lang says.

“As long as Hart’s good,” Brandon adds, “we can have everyone ready to roll in forty-five minutes.”

“I’m fine,” Hart replies. “Just need that stiff drink after all this.”

Brandon chuckles. “All drinks on me when this nightmare’s over.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” Hart says with a laugh.

“Yes, ma’am,” Brandon replies, stepping back out.

Lang watches her. “We’re doing this the right way, right, Evelyn?”

She nods. But in her mind, Aleron’s offer lingers.

Chapter Sixty-Two

Abby lies on the couch in the living room, a wet rag on her forehead, the window open to let in fresh air. Her father sits beside her on the coffee table, gently cradling her left arm. In the kitchen, Alice frantically tries to reach Dr. Blair, the family doctor affiliated with the hospital where they had taken Abby the previous night.

“He’s not answering,” Alice says, mildly annoyed as she ends the call.

“He’s probably busy with the kids at the hospital. Leave him a message, and he’ll get back to us. She’s okay now,” Dale replies.

“I’m okay, Mommy,” Abby says, looking up at the ceiling. Her head still throbs from a lingering headache. “I just had some bad visions, like in my nightmare. I was just awake this time—but I’m okay now.”

“Baby, it’s not good that you’re having these visions during the daytime. There’s something wrong. I should have never taken you to that fucking sale,” Alice says, her voice quivering, her hands shaking.

“Honey, you didn’t think this was going to happen. It’s not your fault,” Dale says.

“Yes, Mommy, we didn’t know it was going to make me sick,” Abby chimes in softly.

Alice walks over and sits on the coffee table next to Dale, eyes welling with tears. Dale rubs her back gently. Abby tilts her head toward her mother, but the movement makes her wince.

“We’ll get through this together. Abby will be fine,” Dale says. “That reminds me—I should call Dr. Lang and see if he’s on his way.”

“That’s a good idea. Maybe Lang can finally give us answers… other than our baby being cursed,” Alice mutters.

“Cursed?” Abby asks.

Dale looks at Alice, and she bites her lip. He clears his throat. “Abby, Dr. Lang believes there’s something supernatural about the doll you saw at the estate sale.”

Abby sighs.

“Are you okay, hun?” Alice asks gently.

“I just… feel like I’m cursed with these nightmares,” Abby says.

At that moment, Dale and Alice realize their little girl is growing up too fast because of everything happening.

“You’re not cursed, honey. You just had some reaction to the doll,” Alice says, trying to sound convincing.

“Dr. Lang will know better when he gets here. For now, rest so we can go to the parade later,” Dale says.

“Yes—Dr. Lang will figure it out, whatever the problem is,” Alice adds.

Abby nods. She feels cursed. She and the Jester from her dreams are connected, whether anyone admits it or not. Perhaps Dr. Lang is right. Even now, after her vision, her mom calls it “just a nightmare.” But Abby feels it deep in her bones: the Jester is near, and things are about to get worse.

Riki Bella and Stacy Lee are the kind of women who turn heads everywhere they go—tall, golden-haired, their bodies honed from endless shoots and workouts. On Halloween morning, Westport bursts into color. Painted pumpkins, dangling spider webs, and children in costumes fill the streets in anticipation of the annual parade and trick-or-treating.

The girls look every bit the part of trendy TikTok stars. Riki wears a black halter crop top so tight it seems painted on, with a plunging neckline that teases her cleavage. Ripped denim shorts fray high on her thighs, exposing her midriff and showing off her well-defined abs. A silver chain belt glitters at her waist.

Stacy matches her in pink—a satin camisole cut low and snug, paired with a short black skirt that shimmers in the sunlight. Both wear white sneakers, their long, tanned legs catching every glance as they walk.

They plan to stay for the parade and livestream the festivities. Their visits to Westport always bring them dozens of viral hits, and their followers can’t get enough of the picturesque coastal town.

The bell above the bakery door jingles as they step into Two Lesbos Bakery. The air inside is warm and heavy with the smell of pumpkin spice, fresh bread, and baking brownies.

Maria bustles out from behind the counter, her apron dusted with flour. “Well, if it isn’t our favorite TikTok starlets! Halloween in Westport wouldn’t be the same without you two stopping by and doing your thing.” She winks.

The two TikTokers, based in Los Angeles, each have over a million followers and a large following on OnlyFans. Both generate significant income from their online platforms, primarily from young male fans, older men, and teenage girls seeking beauty tips. It pays the bills and gives them the lifestyle they want—and they excel at it.

Stacy laughs, brushing her blonde hair back. “We’ve been dying to come here again. We keep telling everyone about your peanut butter and jelly brownies—they’re extremely addictive. We get comments all the time from people thanking us for sharing this place. Plus, we needed a sugar-and-caffeine fix. I swear, I want one every day, but I must stay disciplined.”

Mary nods, walks to the counter, pulls on gloves, and begins assembling a to-go box. She lifts warm brownie squares from the tray Jay and Becky have just finished cooling.

“Oh my god,” Stacy whispers, eyes widening. “Those look… this is sinful,” she adds with a laugh.

Maria clasps her hands. “That’s the reaction we live for.”

“And this coffee!” Riki inhales deeply, the aroma of cinnamon and nutmeg hitting her senses. “You didn’t just brew this—you enchanted it.”

Maria chuckles. “Secret’s a pinch of patience… and love. That’s what makes all good things taste better.” She hands them lids for their coffees.

The girls lean on the counter, chatting like old friends. They ask about the bakery’s history, how long the couple has been in Westport, and whether Maria and Mary ever argue while running the place.

“Of course we fight,” Maria says, pretending to glare at Mary. “But then we make up over pie and other things—if you know what I mean. That’s the rule.”

Riki and Stacy grin knowingly. Mary giggles and blushes.

“Honestly, this place is perfect,” Stacy says. “Cozy, magical… like a fairytale kitchen.”

“Be sure to tell your followers that again—we love the references,” Mary says with a wink, sliding the to-go box across the counter. “On the house. Sweet things for sweet girls.”

Riki and Stacy look at each other, nearly laughing from disbelief.

“Five stars, absolutely,” Riki promises, lifting her coffee cup in a mock toast.

The couple waves them off as they leave, the bell above the door jingling cheerfully into the crisp Halloween air.

Chapter Sixty -Three

Sully Roth waits—a much older man of uncertain age, the town’s notorious sex pest. He loves watching the pretty girls in town and hitting on them. Sheriff Taylor has warned him many times, yet he continues. Sully is hunched and wiry, his eyes glinting with predatory interest. He’s been watching Riki and Stacy for weeks, following their social media pages ever since he first saw them in town wearing their skimpy outfits.

In Sully’s mind, those outfits scream “take me,” not the female empowerment they represent for Riki and Stacy.

He recognizes them as soon as they leave the bakery; he’s ogled their photos often enough to know every inch of them. Sully slides from his usual hiding spot like something slimy emerging from a hole. He approaches in what he thinks is a smooth manner—but it comes across as cringeworthy.

Sully smiles, his teeth yellow from coffee and cigarettes. “You two… even prettier than I imagined,” he murmurs, stepping into their path. His voice is oily, slow, thirsty. “I’ve been hoping to run into you today. Just for a little while. Really big fan of your TikToks—even bigger fan of your naughty pages.”

He winks. His eyes are crusted, as if he hasn’t washed his face that morning.

Riki tenses. “Uh… thanks, but we’re on our way to meet some people.” She grabs Stacy’s arm and tries to pass him.

Sully blocks their path and leans closer—too close. “Oh, you don’t have to be shy. I want a little fun, and I think both of you do too.”

He leers at their bodies, undressing them with his eyes, and bites his lip. No one will see… just me and you girls.” He reaches toward Riki’s arm.

“Hey! Back off!” Stacy shouts, stepping in front of her friend.

His grin twists. “I’m not hurting anyone… just want to touch… just a little. You’ll see. You’ll like it.”

Riki shoves his hand away. “No. Seriously. Leave us alone.”

Sully, undeterred, steps closer, brushing a finger against Stacy’s shoulder. I know you’re curious. You’ll want more once you try it. I can show you things you’ve only dreamed about.”

At that moment, two men dressed in monster costumes appear from across the street, stepping between Sully and the girls. One, burly and steady, glares at Sully. Riki and Stacy don’t know exactly who the men are dressed as, but they’re grateful for the interruption.

“Sully, you heard the ladies. Back off. Now.”

The taller, wiry man adds, “Last warning. Keep your hands to yourself.”

Sully freezes, sneering, fingers twitching as though imagining grabbing them again. “You’ll regret this. All of you…” he hisses, retreating down the block.

Riki and Stacy introduce themselves to their rescuers, who introduce themselves as Eli Massey and Donald Lee—locals who work at Henderson’s Hardware. They’re on a coffee run for coworkers setting up the haunted house in the store’s basement. Their arrival is perfectly timed.

The men are fans of the models and ask for photos. Riki and Stacy happily oblige, posing with their saviors. The photos end with each model in the arms of one of the men, kissing them on the cheek.

Eli and Donald invite them to Henderson’s for a tour of the haunted house later that evening. The models agree and promise to meet them in about an hour.

Eli and Donald head into the bakery for coffee and treats, while Riki and Stacy take a walk in the woods to clear their heads after the creepy encounter.

Sully watches from a distance, grinding his teeth. He doesn’t take rejection well. The young people in Westport refer to him as an incel. He feels at his waistband, where a pistol sits. If the bitches won’t give it to me, I’ll take it.

The woods are quiet—too quiet—but Riki and Stacy enjoy the walk, using the calm to steady their nerves. Birds trill above as sunlight dapples through the branches.

“This place is magic,” Stacy says, biting into her brownie, which melts in her mouth. “The ladies and their bakers deserve the best review we can give them on our livestream later.”

“No doubt,” Riki agrees, sipping her coffee. She’s already eaten her brownie. “More people are gonna flock here because of them. They deserve it. The brownie is insane, and so is the coffee. I can only imagine how the rest tastes. I’m sure it’s off the hook.”

Riki pauses, touching her ripped stomach. “I might’ve put on two pounds eating that brownie.”

“Don’t worry, girl, this walk and touring the haunted house will burn it off,” Stacy says.

“I’d rather my screaming happen in the bedroom than in the haunted house,” Riki says with a chuckle.

Stacy laughs. “Those two guys who saved us are cute. A bit older than us, but cute,” she coos.

Riki side-eyes Stacy, then smiles. “If they play their cards right later, I’d fuck them.”

“You really need a fuck,” Stacy answers, finishing her brownie and sipping coffee to wash it down.

“Yes, I do. Yes, I do,” Riki replies.

The sweetness between them sours quickly. The woods seem to tighten, the air growing heavy. A sharp snap breaks the silence.

They turn toward the sound.

Sully emerges—pale with fury, a pistol trembling in his right hand. “Not so smart now, huh? No Samaritans here to save your pretty asses. Now drop your coffee. Then keep walking. Deeper into the woods, my loves.”

They obey, hearts pounding as the forest swallows them.

“Please don’t hurt us,” Stacy murmurs as they walk deeper. The light fades beneath the thickening brush.

Riki stays quiet; she knows exactly what the sick bastard wants. He’ll kill us if we scream, she thinks. She’s working out a plan when it happens.

Riki falters, clutching her stomach, breath catching. Dark veins spiderweb beneath her skin. She screams, dropping to her knees, convulsing. Her body twists, her face contorts with agony.

“W-what the hell’s happening to you?” Sully stammers.

Riki digs her nails into the ground, ripping her palms. Her jaw snaps audibly, followed by her spine and legs jerking out of place. She turns toward Sully, eyes black as night.

“No,” he whispers, raising the gun. “Stay the hell away.”

The pistol drops into the leaves. Riki pounces.

The first strike shatters Sully’s wrist, bone jutting through skin with a wet crack. His scream rips through the woods. Riki bites into his shoulder, tearing away flesh in a spray of blood.

Sully shrieks, stumbling—but Stacy is already gone too. Her body jerks as the same poison overtakes her. She doubles over, gagging, then rises with black eyes.

Together, they descend on him.

Riki sinks her fingernails into his abdomen and rips upward. His stomach splits open, intestines spilling in steaming coils onto the dirt. Sully’s howl turns into a bubbling choke as Stacy seizes his jaw with both hands and pulls. Bone cracks. His lower face dangles loose, tongue lolling uselessly. He’s still alive. Still conscious.

“Please—” he gurgles.

They don’t listen.

They tear him apart like rabid animals, each bite and claw spraying gore across the leaves. His ribs snap pried open like a cage as his lungs shudder in the cold air. His heart flutters madly—until Riki rips it free with a triumphant roar and crushes it between her hands.

When it’s done, Sully is unrecognizable—just shredded meat scattered among the moss, bones cracked, organs hanging from branches.

Riki and Stacy stand over him, flawless faces smeared with crimson, lips curling into inhuman smiles. They lick the blood from each other’s hands like lovers sharing dessert.

The woods fall silent, except for the dripping of blood onto the earth.

Aleron has more soldiers now.

“We need to clean up. We have dates, don’t we?” Stacy says.

Riki nods. They begin cleaning themselves like cats.

Chapter Seventy-Four

The mobile command center hums along the coastal road, sunlight spilling across the cliffs and shimmering off the Pacific far below. Brandon squints against the glare, one hand steady on the wheel, making sure the unmarked car with the rest of the team behind him keeps pace.

Lang grips his phone in the middle seat. Hart sits beside him, arms crossed tightly, eyes locked on the horizon — lost in her own world.

Lang dials again. Static buzzes, then—click. “Hello?” Dale Lawson’s voice is rough, weary.

“Dale, it’s Dr. Lang,” Lang says quickly, putting the call on speakerphone. “We’ve been trying to reach you. How’s Abby? Is she safe?”

There’s a pause. “Abby is resting. She’s in her bed now; I just took her upstairs. Lang—last night, she revealed she was having nightmares involving the Jester and the doll. Terrible, violent nightmares.”

Hart turns her head sharply at the mention of the Jester and the doll. Lang leans in.

“Please tell us everything. You’re on speaker with Hart, me, and Captain Brandon of the California State Police. We need to know everything Abby told you.”

There’s another pause, heavy breathing on the line. Then Dale begins to speak—halting at first, then tumbling into a frantic recounting of Abby’s latest nightmare: Lady Hawthorne buying the Jester doll in a porn shop, the man named Nick, the Jester appearing, Nick’s throat opening beneath a blade, the Jester leaving Abby with a threat of coming to Westport to slaughter people. Abby wakes with fresh slashes carved into her arm—a trip to the hospital.

Lang shoots Hart a grim glance but let’s Dale continue.

“When we came home, she had another… episode,” Dale says, his voice raw. “Not asleep this time. Awake. She saw the Jester in the house. She watched him kill me. Then Alice. Then he turned on her. She swore it was happening, Lang—she screamed like her life was ending right there.”

Lang steadies his voice. “I believe you. Abby isn’t losing her mind, Dale. We’re almost there. Officers are already en route to you. They should be there soon. Go with them when they arrive. Just hold on.”

“We are doing our best; we have no idea what is going on. Alice is falling apart, and Abby is scared. At just twelve, Abby is growing up too fast. We need your help, please,” Dale pleads.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

The sound is sharp, cutting through the phone line. Hart’s hand drops to her holster, expecting Aleron to appear on the road in front of them.

“Someone’s at the door,” Dale says.

Lang looks over to Brandon. “Do you think your officers are there already?”

“They headed out some time ago, so it’s possible,” Brandon answers, eyes on the road.

Another knock—louder, sharper this time.

In the background, Alice calls, “Who is it?”

A beat of silence. Then: “Sheriff Taylor,” a voice growls.

Dale lets out a shaky breath. “It’s Sheriff Taylor—thank God—”

Lang takes a deep breath and then turns to Hart. “It’s Sheriff Taylor.”

“It’s about time. Taylor still hasn’t answered me. Glad he finally showed up to check on the Lawsons,” Hart says.

Lang nods.

A pause. Then a sickening thud. Alice screams.

“Dale!” Lang shouts. “What’s happening?!”

The answer comes in a voice that isn’t Dale’s. Raspy, hollow, and wrong: “Lang.”

The sound sends chills up Lang’s spine. Hart looks down at the phone. She knows the voice is Aleron’s.

Chaos bursts across the line—furniture scraping, Dale shouting, a crash—then silence.

The call goes dead.

“Damn it!” Lang slams his phone down. “We lost them.”

Inside the Lawson home, the sun streams warm and golden through the windows, washing over a scene that doesn’t belong in daylight.

Alice lies sprawled, unconscious or worse. Dale’s voice is silent now.

Sheriff Taylor stands in the doorway, his eyes black as pitch, his skin a corpse’s gray. Deputies Fox and Daily flank him, their grins stretched too wide.

“Upstairs,” Taylor rasps. “Bring me the girl.”

Their boots strike the stairs in heavy rhythm.

In her bedroom, Abby crouches in the closet, heart hammering. She had a bad feeling that this was coming, so she quickly moved to the closet before the knock. She presses her back against the wall of the cramped space, hands clamped over her mouth. Her breath comes in shallow gasps.

She can hear them already—the creak of floorboards, the scrape of something sharp along the wall.

The bedroom door swings open. Fox’s voice slithers in. Where are you, little Abby? Hmmm?” His tone is sing-song, teasing, but beneath it, something monstrous.

Daily drags his blade across the plaster—screeeech—leaving gouges in the sunlit wall. “I can smell her,” he croons. “So close.”

Their shadows stretch across the floor, cutting toward the closet. Abby shuts her eyes tight, trembling. The footsteps grow nearer.

Fox’s hand skims across the desk, then the dresser, knocking trinkets aside, opening drawers. Daily yanks blankets from Abby’s bed, letting them fall in a heap to the floor.

“Not here,” Daily murmurs.

Fox lets out a hiss of frustration. “Then where? Where is our little mouse?”

Abby nearly cries out when the closet door rattles—once, then twice. Fox chuckles low, his voice muffled through the thin wood. She’s here. I can feel her.”

The knob begins to twist. Abby’s heart slams against her ribs. She can see the door opening, their black eyes drinking her in. Her body screams to bolt, but her legs refuse to move.

The knob turns further. Daily leans close, whispering: “We’ve got you—”

“Fox! Daily!” Taylor’s roar bellows up the stairs, rattling the sunlit walls. “Now. We’re needed elsewhere. Leave the girl for now. She will come to us at another time.”

The knob freezes. Fox lingers for a long, agonizing moment, his breath audible on the other side of the door. Then he releases the handle and steps back, chuckling. “Another time, little one.”

Daily sighs, dragging his blade one last time down the closet door, leaving a long, splintering scar. “Don’t hide too long, Abby. We’ll be back.”

Their footsteps receded down the hallway, slow, deliberate, fading into the sound of the front door closing.

Abby stays curled in the closet, tears streaming, shaking so hard her teeth chatter.

Then she hears it: from downstairs, faint, ragged— “Abby…”

Her father’s voice. Groaning, weak. Then nothing.

She presses both hands over her mouth to muffle her sobs. The daylight seems cruel now, a spotlight on her fear.

The house in Westport no longer belongs to them.

Chapter Sixty-Four 

The afternoon light in Westport is different on Halloween; the sky holds a blood-red hue. The sun hangs low but bright, its rays slanting gold through thinning branches, catching every spiderweb decoration strung across porches. Pumpkins, carved with fanged grins and triangle eyes, sit on every stoop, their insides dark for now, waiting for nightfall to glow alive. The air is cool, sharp with the tang of sea salt and fallen leaves, and every gust stirs up the faint smell of Halloween—sweet candy and spiced baked goods.

Riki and Stacy, back from the woods, walk the streets as they own them. No coffee cups this time—they’re hands-free, swinging with a slow, deliberate rhythm. They don’t need props. Their presence is enough.

Riki’s halter top clings to her skin, tight enough that the fabric itself seems like a shadow cast over her body. She’s pulled the front lower, showing massive cleavage, more than before when she first showed up in town. Her ripped denim shorts appear painted on; her abs look more defined in the mid-afternoon light. Stacy has tied her pink camisole in a neat bow resting on her torso, exposing her toned midriff and giving her breasts a lift with a pink push-up bra; the look mirrors her friend—two sexy peas in a pod, about to break hearts. Her black shorts seem to have tightened, shaping her lower half, each step drawing every eye.

Their hair is wind-tossed but deliberate, their lips painted deep, sinful red. Children gawk openly, clutching their parents’ hands. Adults steal glances, unsure whether to stare or look away. Some whisper the girls’ names, recognizing them from TikTok. Others only feel the shiver of seeing something too polished, too unreal, glide through their small town.

They pause outside Henderson’s Hardware; a brick building dressed for the holiday. Black netting is strung like ivy over the façade, paper bats swing lazily from the awning, and the windows are painted with jagged castle silhouettes and crooked lightning bolts, the brushstrokes thick, almost desperate. The large standing skeleton looming over Main Street is an omen of death. Two papier-mâché gargoyles painted to resemble stone leer down at the entrance. From inside, the faint sound of organ music drifts up—low, slow, like a funeral dirge.

The girls share a glance, then push the door open.

Inside, Henderson’s smells faintly of sawdust and fog-machine oil. The shop has been transformed: shelving draped in plastic cobwebs; corners stacked with jack-o’-lantern lights that flicker like dying embers. Black fabric covers the walls to mimic stone, and cardboard chandeliers hang from the ceiling, dripping with faux wax candles. A red carpet has been unrolled down the main aisle, leading to a plywood archway painted to look like castle gates. A fog machine hisses steadily, spilling mist that pools low along the floor. Each step stirs it like ghosts parting at their feet. Hidden speakers groan with organ notes, punctuated by the occasional shriek of a distant scream track. The air is cooler here, the basement draft seeping through the floorboards.

Shoppers browse quickly, snatching last-minute decorations—bags of fake cobwebs, costume paint, boxes of rubber bats. They laugh nervously, but all laughter fades when Riki and Stacy appear. Every head turns. Whispers spread like fire.

Near the counter, Eli Massey and Donald Lee freeze mid-laugh at the sight of the girls sauntering in, heading toward them. The good Samaritans aren’t sure if the blondes they rescued from Sully will show up as promised an hour earlier. They sip pumpkin coffees patiently, waiting. Both men, around thirty, are more than happy to entertain younger women; it feeds their egos.

They’re dressed like creatures from old black-and-white horror films, something the TikTokers didn’t clock earlier: Eli as Bela Lugosi’s Dracula—cape flowing, hair slicked, makeup comically overdone; Donald as Boris Karloff’s Frankenstein—green face with a forehead scar, heavy boots, and neck bolts. They lean against a display of pumpkin lights until the two blondes walk in like trouble incarnate, taking them up on their invitation to preview the haunted house they’ve designed in the basement. They’ve been joking that no one in town appreciates the “classic monsters” anymore; everyone wants whatever’s trending. The sight of the girls silences them.

The blondes’ approach, hips swaying, every step purposeful. Stacy leans against the counter, her camisole tugging low, letting the men look down her shirt. They like what they see.

“Dracula and Frankenstein, right from the black-and-white movie days,” she purrs. “We Googled on our way here. Very old-school.” The O in school curves her lips into a kiss. “Old-school.”

Eli smirks, though it falters under her gaze.

“Classic is cool,” Riki says, tilting her head, blonde hair spilling over one shoulder.

“Do you know these old-school monsters?” Donald asks.

Stacy shakes her head—somehow making even that sexy. “Not really. We’re into newer monsters.”

Donald chuckles nervously, eyes locked on Stacy’s toned legs. “So, who are your favorite new monsters?” Eli asks.

“Definitely the beings from A Quiet Place—imagine not being able to make a noise, even when making love, when you want to scream out in passion during an orgasm,” Stacy says, biting her lip.

Eli raises his eyebrows. Donald grins, finding confidence. “How about you, beautiful?”

“Succubus,” Riki says, twirling a strand of hair around her finger. “I love draining men of every bit of energy.” She winks.

Eli quickly remembers the invitation. “You want to see the basement—the haunted house we built. It’s wild. Bloody. Scary. You’ll love it.”

“Bloody?” Riki’s smile widens, sharp. “We love bloody.”

The men exchange glances, excitement flashing across their faces. “Come on,” Donald says, gesturing toward the back and the stairs.

Stacy eyes their coffee cups. “Did you try the brownies?”

“We’ve had them before—love them—but not on this run. Maybe next time,” Donald says.

“They’re life-changing,” Riki says with a grin.

They follow, footsteps soft against the red carpet, fog parting around their legs. The stairwell yawns open like a throat. The wood creaks underfoot as they descend, step by step, into the cold. The air smells of mildew and iron.

The basement is alive with spectacle. Black curtains drape the concrete walls, swaying faintly with the draft. Red floodlights bleed over everything, casting grotesque shadows. Mannequins dangle from hooks, their bellies slit, rubber organs spilling in sticky ropes. Foam corpses sprawl across butcher’s blocks, their faces painted with silent agony. A severed animatronic head twitches in a tray of fake blood, its jaw opening and closing with a wet click. Chains rattle overhead from hidden speakers—a prerecorded woman’s scream loops, as if trapped somewhere in the dark. Fog swirls thick and cold, rising past their knees, carrying a coppery tang that—beneath the latex and paint—smells disturbingly real.

Stacy runs her fingers along a fake rib cage on the wall. “This is… intense,” she whispers, eyes glinting in the crimson light.

“Wait until you see the end of the tour. It’s—” Donald stops.

Because the girls aren’t smiling like they used to when they were visitors, they’re smiling like predators.

Riki steps close to Eli, her nails brushing his chest—not lightly, but pressing in. His breath hitches as she leans near his ear. “You said bloody. That’s a turn-on for me, baby.”

Her hand tightens. The nails sink deeper.

Eli gasps, eyes widening, looking down to see blood seeping through his costume shirt. “What the hell—”

Donald turns, confused, just in time for Stacy to slam him against the butcher’s block with monstrous strength. His fake bolts clatter to the floor as her nails sink into his arms. The decorations around them—the dangling mannequins, the painted corpses, the rubber blood—suddenly feel like a grotesque parody of what’s really happening. The haunted house had been a game. This is not. And as the organ drones on, the basement becomes more than an attraction. It becomes a slaughterhouse.

Aleron’s corruption passes by wound, by mouth, by heart—any opening will do.

Eli staggers back, clutching his chest where Riki’s nails have pierced him. His cape, once theatrical, now hangs limply, sullied by spreading red stains. He stumbles into a rack of fake skulls that clatter to the floor, their hollow eyes staring up.

Donald tries to shove Stacy off, but her grip is unyielding, her nails grinding deeper. His Frankenstein makeup smears with sweat. “Jesus—what the fuck are you doing?!”

Stacy’s lips curve into something not quite human. “Turning you into something better, lover.”

She kisses him hard, then drives her hand up under his rib cage. Flesh tears. Bone cracks. His scream drowns out the sound effects. Rubber intestines hang from mannequins overhead, but Donald’s blood sprays across them, dark and steaming in the cold air, soaking the cheap decorations until they look almost real.

Eli drops to his knees, hands slick with his own blood. He tries to crawl away, dragging his cape through the fog. Riki follows slowly, savoring the way his fear sharpens with every breath. She kneels, forcing his head up by the chin, her nails dimpling his throat. She licks his cheek, smearing his makeup and savoring the taste. “Don’t you want to live forever, Eli?”

He tries to answer but chokes on blood. Then Riki kisses him. It isn’t soft. It isn’t human. Something black, writhing, passes from her mouth into his. He convulses, his back arching violently. The sound that rips from his chest isn’t a scream but a tearing, guttural howl.

Donald’s transformation comes faster. Stacy rips her hand from his chest, clutching something wet and beaten—his heart. It throbs in her palm before melting into black ichor, seeping through her fingers, and dripping into Donald’s open chest wound.

The ichor doesn’t just stain. It crawls. It slides into Donald’s body like a black squid, thick tendrils burrowing back into his chest cavity. He screams as his veins blacken, spreading under his skin like lightning. Bones crack audibly as they stretch and rearrange. His hands claw the butcher’s block, digging deep into the wood, blood smearing where his nails bite.

Eli collapses onto his side, shaking violently as Riki straddles him, pinning him with effortless weight. His skin blisters where her nails marked him, bubbling and splitting to reveal something gray and sinewy beneath. His teeth clatter as pain racks him.

The haunted-house props now seem pathetic—papier-mâché gore paling beside the real carnage. The fog is no longer just machine-made mist but tinged with the copper reek of blood, heavy and choking. The looped scream track plays again overhead, thin and fake compared to the men’s real wails.

Donald’s body convulses, snapping upright as a marionette pulled too hard. His eyes roll back, then snap open—black pits ringed with crimson. His jaw distends, cracking wide, drool thick and tar-like spilling from his mouth. Eli’s cape shreds as his back splits, two ridges of bone rising beneath his skin like wings trying to tear free. His veins glow faintly, pulsing with Aleron’s corruption.

The women step back to survey their work. The men’s screams dwindle into growls and then into words after a few horrific moments. Their movements grow jagged and unnatural until they stand taller and broader, their flesh grotesquely warped to cover the wounds inflicted during the transformation.

The fog thickens, swallowing their final cries. Upstairs, Henderson’s still hums with customers buying plastic bats and candy bowls, unaware that below them the haunted house has become real—its newest monsters waiting to be unleashed soon.

The basement falls silent save for the shallow, ragged breaths of the newly risen soldiers. Fog curls around their twisted forms, mingling with the coppery scent of blood. Their eyes, black and lifeless, follow the women’s every movement—but there is nothing left of Eli Massey and Donald Lee—only soldiers now, obedient, completely under Aleron’s control.

Riki and Stacy step back to survey their work. The fake screams on looping tracks, the mannequins, the spilled buckets of stage blood—suddenly feel childish and hollow. The basement is alive, and it has a new pulse.

From the crack at the top of the stairwell, a slant of mid-afternoon sunlight falls across the floor. Outside, the streets of Westport glow gold, the air crisp, and the faint smell of popcorn for the parade later lingers in the fall California air. Children run past, their laughter echoing faintly through the brick walls. The wind carries the scent of spice and sweet candy down into the basement, mixing with the iron tang of blood that still hangs in the air.

For a moment, it almost seems normal. Almost, Halloween itself has swallowed the horror whole, leaving it hidden, invisible to the bustling town above.

A last, distorted groan echoes from the shadows. Then nothing. The fog hangs thick. The red lights flicker once, twice, and go out.

The darkness of Aleron will soon cover everything in Westport.

Chapter Sixty-Four 

The front door’s bell jingles softly as Maria flips the BACK IN ONE HOUR FOR LUNCH sign and locks the bakery door. She wipes flour from her hands onto her apron and glances at Mary. They’ve been at it since early morning and, despite nibbling on goodies and black coffee, they’re starving for a real meal.

“God, it smells like heaven in here,” Mary says with a weary smile. “But if I don’t sit for five minutes, I’ll collapse.”

“Sit after we check on the kids—they need a break too,” Maria replies, meaning Jay and Becky. “They’ve been at the ovens since two a.m. They need a longer rest. I know they’ve slipped out for a smoke a few times, and who could blame them? They’re working hard.”

Though Mary and Maria disapprove of cigarettes—and especially joints—they smoked when they were younger and still sneak a joint on occasion. They’d never tell the kids; it’d be hypocritical.

They push through the kitchen door. The tiled floor gleams from a recent mop, and racks of cooling pastries line the walls, golden and fragrant. The bakery smells divine.

Maria pauses. “Do you smell that?”

Mary frowns. “Not bread. Not sugar.”

A sharp, acrid scent—rot and sulfur—seeps from the prep counter. A sheet tray of brownies cools there, and beside it, an oily black streak clings to the metal, thick and glistening. Maria touches it with the tip of a spoon, lifts it to her nose, then recoils.

“God, it stinks. Smells like death.” She gags.

Mary’s voice drops. “That’s not sugar.”

The loading dock door bangs open. Jay and Becky stumble in, giggling, a haze of pot smoke trailing. Jay’s eyes are bloodshot, his black curls sticking to his sweaty forehead. Becky’s blonde hair is in a messy bun, a joint dangling from her fingers. Their eyes are black.

“Break time’s over,” Maria snaps. “What is this?” She points the spoon at the black streak.

Jay blinks at her, then at the tray. “That? Kokutō. Black sugar. Imported. Adds richness.”

Maria’s eyes narrow. “Don’t lie. We’ve used kokutō before—it never smelled like the devil’s ass mixed with death and decay.”

Becky laughs. “Relax. It’s just a new ingredient. Customers won’t even notice.”

Mary flushes with fury. “No notice? You’d poison them with—whatever this is? We trusted you!”

Jay steps closer, his grin spreading maniacally. “Maybe you shouldn’t ask questions you don’t want answers to.”

Maria’s temper snaps. She grabs his collar, shoving him toward the door. “You’re done. Both of you. Get out before I—”

Becky moves like lightning. Her first cracks into Maria’s jaw with a wet thud, splitting her lip. Maria stumbles. Jay twists free and slams her against the counter, bowls crashing to the floor.

“Stop!” Mary screams, rushing forward, but Becky catches her wrist and yanks her back.

Jay pummels Maria—ribs, stomach, face. Blood sprays across the counter, spattering the cooling brownies. Maria coughs, choking, spitting red across Jay’s apron.

“Your ungrateful little shits!” she gasps, trying to fight back, but Becky kicks her legs out. Maria crashes into the tile, her head striking hard. Blood pools quickly.

Mary screams until her throat burns. “Please, stop, please—”

Becky straddles Maria’s chest, pinning her. Jay leans close, holding the spoon still dripping with the oily sludge. His grin has curdled into something monstrous.

“Try it,” he hisses. “Hail, Aleron. Be more than you are.”

Maria spits blood in his face. “Go to hell.”

Jay’s smile doesn’t falter. “We are hell, bitch.” His boot comes down—once, twice—until Maria’s skull gives with a grotesque crunch. Blood and brain spatter the tiles. Her body twitches once, then goes limp.

Mary collapses, sobbing. “No—no, no, no…”

Becky crouches beside her, voice soft, almost gentle. “It doesn’t have to hurt, Mary. You don’t have to remember this. You can let it go.”

Mary shakes her head violently. “I’ll never forget her. Never—”

Jay forces the spoon toward her lips. “Then let us help you. This will ease your pain. Aleron is the way.”

Mary fights, but Becky strokes her hair, coaxing like a lullaby. “Think of the pain, the grief, the way your chest feels like it’s splitting. All of it can go away. Just one taste.”

Her heart screams to refuse, but Maria’s broken body lies at her feet. The black sludge glistens like an answer.

With a sob, Mary opens her mouth.

The sludge burns down her throat—bitter, metallic, alive. She screams, clawing at her skin as her body convulses. Memories shatter: Maria’s smile, mornings tangled in sheets, whispered ‘I love you.’ All splinter, dissolve, slip away.

Her skin blisters, bubbling open to reveal ash-colored flesh. Her teeth shatter, replaced with jagged shards. Her eyes fill with black ichor, tears of tar streaming down her cheeks. She claws at her chest as if to hold Maria’s memory inside, but even that name falls into darkness.

When the transformation ends, she lies panting, staring at Maria’s body with no recognition.

Jay and Becky grin like wolves. “Welcome home,” Becky whispers.

Mary rises, hands trembling, face emptied of grief. Jay nudges Maria’s corpse with his boot. “Dead weight.”

Mary blinks, no flicker of recognition. She slides the wedding ring from Maria’s finger, drops it into the mop bucket, and picks up a mop. She begins scrubbing the blood from the tiles, working carefully and efficiently.

Becky smiles. “See? Doesn’t that feel better?”

Mary pauses, then nods slowly. “Yes. Better.”

Outside, children laugh in costumes. Inside, Mary Murphy erases her wife’s blood from the floor as though it’s just another spill.

Chapter Sixty-Five 

Team Alpha—Lieutenant Arnie Warren, Officers Johnson, Brookfield, and Strange—roll into Westport, California, under the fading burn of a late-October sky. The SUV’s headlights sweep over tidy storefronts and tree-lined sidewalks, spilling light across the town’s beating heart: Main Street.

It is a small town preparing for a cherished holiday. But there’s something too perfect about it—straight out of a Norman Rockwell painting. Halloween decorations flap lazily from lampposts in the cool ocean breeze. The giant skeleton outside Henderson’s Hardware looms like a gateway guardian to the Halloween Festival. Pumpkins line the sidewalks, their carved faces glowing with battery lights, each grin just a little too wide.

Residents bustle about, smiling and laughing as they prepare for the parade. Their laughter carries strangely on the air—brittle and hollow, as though echoing from a stage set rather than real life.

Vendors work to set up their tables for the parade. The sharp snap of popcorn kernels bursting in iron pans mingles with buttery steam rising into the night. A sugared haze hangs over the street: caramel apples cooling on wax paper, candied nuts sizzling in glaze, cinnamon-spiced cider steaming from urns. The sweetness is thick as molasses, almost cloying, and beneath it drifts the restless salt tang of the Pacific, a reminder that the sea is always near.

Children in costumes dart up and down Main Street, excited for trick-or-treating and the parade. Plastic swords clash. Candy buckets rattle. Parents wave, clap, and kneel to fix wings and capes.

From the SUV, Team Alpha watches it all unfolds. None of them speaks—not at first. Because something about it feels wrong, it’s as if the whole town is rehearsing a ritual rather than celebrating.

“Westport,” Warren says finally, his voice quiet, measured. He picks up the radio receiver. “We’ve arrived, over.”

The radio crackles. Brandon’s voice answers: “Good. Head directly to the Lawson residence. There was an incident that we need to follow up on; local law enforcement is not responding. I am uploading the address now. Be quick. Over.”

“Yes, sir. Over.” Warren drops the mic.

The SUV pulls away from Main Street, leaving the brittle laughter behind. The side roads narrow. Porches are dark. Wind drives dead leaves across cracked pavement. Festive cheer evaporates as if it were switched off.

By the time Team Alpha reaches the Lawson house, the dread has crystallized. The house stands dark and silent, like a mausoleum. The ocean’s waves are the only sound.

The front door hangs ajar, as though the house has already surrendered.

Weapons raised, the team enters—and they are not prepared for what they find.

The living room is in ruins. Furniture overturned. Cushions gutted. A lamp was smashed. Blood spatters the walls and carpets in wide arcs. Handprints streak the wallpaper where someone clawed desperately to escape. Family photos lie shattered, glass crunching under boots. The iron stink of blood fills their throats.

“Christ,” Johnson mutters, his flashlight beam catching a crumpled child’s drawing smeared with red.

“Clear it,” Warren orders. His voice is hard, but not unshaken.

They sweep the first-floor room by room. Chaos everywhere: broken stools, smashed dishes, blood trails that lead nowhere. It feels less like a crime scene and more like a ritual, staged to instill terror.

Downstairs: clear.

Upstairs: a faint, hiccupped sob. Warren signals the team. They move in formation, boots creaking on the staircase. Each step echoes through the house. At the top of the stairs, they pause—then head for the soft pink door at the end of the hall.

Inside, Abby’s room is wrecked—stuffed animals scattered, sheets torn, walls scored with sharp scrapes. Warren opens the closet door slowly.

Abby Lawson is curled in the corner, face streaked with tears and snot, fists clenched around her knees until her knuckles are white. She trembles like a bird that’s hit glass.

“We’re the police, hun,” Warren whispers, lowering his weapon. “You’re safe. No one’s going to hurt you.”

She nods. Minutes pass before she can speak. The words come in fits, then a flood.

“It was—Sheriff Taylor, and Deputies Fox and Daily. But they weren’t really them. They had faces, but their eyes were empty, black as a doll’s. They were mean. They didn’t feel anything. They were like movie monsters. They came for us. My mom screamed, Dad tried to stop them—”

She breaks down again.

The officers comfort her, give her time. She steadies, then continues.

“They wouldn’t stop. They left me only when Sheriff Taylor told them they were needed elsewhere. But they said they’d be back for me.”

Her words hang heavy. If law enforcement has been turned, they are in deep trouble.

Warren kneels. “You’re safe now, Abby. We’ll protect you.”

She nods and tries to smile—a broken smile, but still a smile.

Warren steps into the hall and pulls out his phone. Brandon answers quickly.

“Brandon, we have Abby. She’s alive, but…the family’s gone. She says Taylor, Fox, and Daily attacked. She swears they weren’t human anymore.”

“Keep her safe,” Brandon says, grim but steady. “We’re thirty minutes out. See you soon.”

Warren hangs up.

In the van, Brandon taps his AirPods. “Abby is alive,” he tells Lang and Hart. He pauses. “But her story matches what we feared. Taylor, Fox, and Daily took her parents. She called them monsters with lifeless eyes.”

Lang’s face hardens. He stares out the window, calculating. “If Aleron took Taylor and the deputies—if he can take others as he did with John—he can take the whole town. One by one. He can build an army of Jesters.”

Hart swallows. Brandon keeps his eyes on the road.

Hart bites her lip. “Tonight, the whole town gathers. Main Street will be packed. Taylor didn’t want to cancel the parade. Every family, every child will be there. That’s when Aleron will strike. A massacre. Westport won’t survive the night.”

The van goes silent. The weight of inevitability presses on all of them. They’re not preparing for a battle anymore—they’re trying to slow a tide that cannot be stopped.

Back on Main Street, the town pulses with laughter: the calm before the storm. Streetlights blink on as the sun sets. Children skip past vendor tables; candy apples glisten in the fading light as the school band tunes up for the parade.

The illusion of safety wraps around them, oblivious to the danger.

From the haunted house beneath Henderson’s Hardware, four shadows emerge—Riki, Stacy, Eli, and Donald. They move through the crowd like predators among a flock.

The townspeople are too distracted by Halloween festivities to notice them—or suspect their intent.

The four cut across the street toward the old town garage. Riki and Stacy glance at Two Lesbos Bakery—job done—then follow Eli and Donald through the side door.

It’s almost time for the real festivities to begin.

Chapter Sixty-Six 

The command center van crests the final hill as night falls over Westport, California. Inside, there is no cheer—only silence weighted with dread. They all know the Jester is about to strike at Aleron’s command. They don’t know how.

Brandon grips the wheel tightly, his knuckles pale. Lang sits rigid, staring at nothing, lost in calculations of horrors still forming. Hart checks her sidearm for the third time, jaw clenched. Her calm face betrays the hum of nerves coursing through her. Would killing John Connolly and becoming Aleron’s new killer spare Westport? Or would Aleron still carry out his dark mission regardless? The question gnaws at her.

Behind them, the unmarked car follows close—three more officers inside: Brooks, Rhodes, and Helmsley. They’re armed and ready, though unaware of just how much their readiness will fail them.

Brandon tunes the radio. His voice is low, deliberate. “Team Two, split at Main Street. Head to the Lawson house—link with Warren’s unit—Johnson, Brookfield, and Strange. Three of you break off to Hawthorne Mansion. Check in on Austin Stone, secure him and the doll. Report back to me.”

“Copy that,” Brooks answers. His tone is steady, but a nervous edge lingers beneath.

Main Street comes into view, alive with the restless electricity of a town on the brink of celebration. The tactical sedan turns right toward the Lawson address. Brandon drives on, steering the van into the heart of the town and parking in the first space he finds.

The three of them—Brandon, Lang, Hart—step out into the cool October night. The air smells of roasted nuts, caramel apples, hot cider… and beneath it all, faintly, the sea, restless and black beyond the horizon.

The parade is moments from beginning. The marching band stands in formation at the head of Main Street, brass instruments catching lamplight, drums taut, snares gleaming. The band director lifts his baton, waiting for the classic candy-apple red fire truck to lead them forward.

The crowd presses close—a hundred faces masked in paint and rubber, laughter bubbling as children swirl in makeshift costumes: witches with glow-stick wands, zombies dripping stage blood, clowns, cowboys, pirates, ghosts cut from sheets.

Vendors serve sugar-dusted treats. Candy apples snap under teeth. Steam rises from cider cups. Two Lesbos Bakery’s peanut butter jelly brownies are the night’s favorite, selling out fast. Some customers remark cheerfully about getting them early, unaware that the bakery closed for lunch and never reopened. No one seems concerned about why.

Brandon, Hart, and Lang weave through the crowd, eyes scanning for the flash of a jester’s mask. Every costume looks suddenly suspicious. Every painted smile is a little too wide.

Then—silence.

The crowd hushes as the garage doors at the far end of the street creak open.

The fire truck rolls forward. At first, cheers rise. Then they curdle into screams.

The truck isn’t decorated with cozy Halloween props. It is draped in flesh.

Nick Carson’s brutalized body is bolted to the grill, arms outstretched like a crucifixion. His lifeless eyes stare blankly, mouth frozen mid-scream. Lashed to the ladders and railings are butchered remains Candy Carlton’s severed arm dangling, Jennifer Collins’ torso bent backward at an impossible angle, Butch “The Hammer” Reynolds’ head jammed onto the siren, red light glowing behind it like a demonic halo. Blood glistens in the headlights, dripping onto the pavement like rain.

Behind the wheel—The Jester.

He gleefully honks the horn. The blare is distorted, mocking, deafening. His mask has changed—now a demonic jester with glowing red eyes and sharpened teeth. He laughs as he drives, pounding the horn repeatedly.

Behind the truck marches Aleron’s army: Monique St. James, Ms. Scully, Jay, Becky, Mary, Riki, Stacy, Eli, and Donald. Their eyes gleam in the lamplight, hands juggling long knives that flash silver with every spin. Their movements are sharp, predatory.

Before Brandon can shout an order, a scream cuts the air—high, shrill, blood-freezing.

From the shadows, a police cruiser screeches to a halt, blocking the three officers. The doors open.

Sheriff Taylor. Deputies Fox and Daily.

They step out slowly, like mannequins dragged by invisible strings. Their uniforms are splattered with blood, their hands dripping. Their faces are smeared with crude blood masks, eyes blank and glassy. Empty vessels. Monsters—just as Abby Lawson described.

Panic erupts. Some townsfolk scream and run. Others convulse and drop.

The brownies.

The once-sweet treats burn through their veins like acid. Flesh ripples, skin bubbles, spines bend. In seconds, dozens of townsfolk are clawing at their own faces, teeth bared, fingers ripping flesh.

The sugary autumn air turns rank with vomit, blood, and smoke as those who ate the brownies transform into Aleron’s soldiers.

The first of them lunges at neighbors—ripping, tearing, smashing skulls on pavement.

A man in a Frankenstein mask tears a woman’s throat open with his bare hands, laughing merrily. A child in a princess gown bite into her mother’s hand, blood spraying. Main Street dissolves into carnage.

The marching band tries to scatter—but the Jester floors the truck—the engine roars.

The massive vehicle plows forward, clipping the trumpet line. Brass crumples like paper. Musicians scream. One boy goes under the wheels, crushed into pulp, a trumpet embedded in his chest.

The fire truck barrels through fleeing teens, drums, uniforms—leaving shredded cloth and ruined flesh in its wake.

Those who escape the wheels meet blades. Monique and her killers chase them down mercilessly.

Blades flash, throats open. A saxophonist’s arm flies into the crowd. Becky drives a knife into a clarinetist’s spine, twisting as blood sprays across her smiling face. Jay tackles a drummer and saws through his neck, the head flying off and rolling grotesquely down the street.

The parade route becomes a slaughterhouse.

“Back!” Brandon roars, his voice nearly lost in the screams.

Taylor lunges. Fox and Daily flank him, their movements stiff but unnaturally strong.

Brandon fires—bullets tear through them—but they don’t falter, don’t bleed.

Fox leaps, swinging a juggling knife. It slices Brandon’s right leg. He howls, stumbling.

Hart looks back just as Fox closes in on Brandon. She fires, slowing Fox enough for her and Lang to drag Brandon toward the van.

Blood pools as Brandon collapses. Another knife whistles through the air and buries itself in the same leg. He screams, teeth clenched, crimson soaking his pants.

“Move!” Hart yells. She and Lang haul him toward the van, ducking flying knives that embed in metal and glass.

They reach the van. Hart throws the door open and shoves Brandon inside. Lang follows, slamming it shut. Hart races around to the driver’s side, climbs in, and locks the doors just as fists pound on the windows.

The engine refuses to start.

Taylor jumps onto the hood, slapping bloodied hands against the windshield, leaving red streaks. His dead eyes stare inches from Hart’s face, his grin wide and inhuman.

Fox and Daily slam against the side doors—metal groans. Knives clang against the roof—a horde of transformed townsfolk hammers on the van, shrieking.

“Come on,” Hart mutters, twisting the key again. The engine coughs, sputters, dies.

Taylor leans through the glass. “We’re coming to get you, Hart,” he singsongs.

Hart locks eyes with him, jaw set. “Come and get me, bitch.”

The engine roars to life.

Hart slams the accelerator. Fox and Daily are thrown backward as the van speeds forward. Taylor flies off the hood into a pile of corpses.

The van tears down Main Street.

Lang stares out the window, frozen. Westport destroys itself before his eyes. Families butcher one another in lantern light. Children scream. Blood flows into gutters like dark rivers.

“The town…” Lang’s voice cracks. “It’s killing itself.”

Brandon, pale and bleeding, grabs the radio. “Warren. Hold your position. Don’t move. All hell’s broken loose. We’re meeting at the Lawsons’ house to regroup.”

Warren’s voice comes back ragged and frantic. “What the hell is going on, Brandon? Brookfield, Strange, and Helmsley are already on their way to the Hawthorne place to check in on Austin Stone!”

“Goddammit!” Brandon slams the dashboard, pain lancing through his leg.

The van speeds toward the Lawson house.

Chapter Sixty -Seven 

The unmarked car pulls up to Hawthorne Mansion. It stands still and too dark, a modern palace dressed in glass and stone. Under the Halloween moonlight, the mansion is stripped of life. From a distance, it looks perfect; up close, it’s a mask—cold, unblinking, waiting.

Brookfield kills the engine. The men climb out and stare at the mansion for a long moment. None of them moves. Their orders are clear: check on and secure Austin Stone and the porcelain Jester doll.

They ascend the porch steps. The LCD light flickers on—pale and weak—and then the front door swings open on its own, groaning like something alive. The house seems to invite them in.

They exchange a glance. “Like it’s been waiting,” Strange mutters. Move,” Brookfield orders, throat tight.

The three men enter. The door closes gently behind them.

Inside, the air is cold and damp, thick with the sour sweetness of decay. Marble floors gleam faintly beneath smears of a dark substance that resembles dried blood. The chandelier above ticks faintly on its chain, rocking without wind.

They hesitate, debating whether to call Austin’s name. A sound cuts their discussion short.

Creak… creek… creak…

“It’s coming from the back hall,” Hemsley whispers.

They advance cautiously. The corridor stretches long and narrow, its flashlights barely pushing back the shadows. The walls seem to swallow the light; shadows curl like fingers behind them.

At the end of the hall, they find a door. The creaking is coming from inside—like a rocking chair slowly moving.

Brookfield nods. Strange pushes the door open, weapons ready.

The room is empty. A rocking chair stands in the center, rocking steadily, though no one sits in it.

Creak… creak… creak…

They freeze. Then a voice drifts through the stillness.

“Welcome…”

Soft, smooth, honeyed—yet wrong. The voice fills the air like perfume, pressing into the team’s ears and minds.

“…welcome to my home.”

The voice whispers from the right. The men turn as one.

In the far corner, shadows thicken. A woman steps forward, her presence bending the air. It is Lady Ally, Hawthorne. They’ve seen her picture; all three recognize her immediately.

She is tall and elegant, dressed in a flowing white satin gown that shimmers faintly, as though it were wet. Her black hair gleams like silk; her face is pale perfection, untouched by decay. Her smile is warm, maternal, and inviting.

The men stare, caught in the gravity of her presence.

“You’ve come so far,” Lady Hawthorne whispers, her eyes roaming over them. “Brave little soldiers, drawn here by duty. How noble… how foolish.”

Brookfield raises his rifle, arms trembling. “Stay right there. Don’t move!”

“This is my house,” she says proudly. “I am the house now—its walls, its rooms, its memories. I am Ally Hawthorne. And I have waited… so long for you.”

The rocking chair begins to rock harder, as if in agreement.

Strange swallows. “This… this isn’t real.”

Ally smiles too widely. “Oh, but it is. Do you not feel it in your bones? Do you not hear the house breathing? Each of you already belongs to him—and to me.”

She steps closer. Her feet don’t touch the floor.

“Stay back!” Brookfield orders.

Ally laughs—rich and empty at once. “Still clinging to weapons. Still clinging to hope. Sweet… but pointless.”

Her gaze moves from man to man. “Brookfield. Strange. Hemsley,” she says, smiling.

They stiffen. “How… how does she know our names?” Hemsley whispers.

“I know all who enter my home,” Ally croons. “I know their hearts. I know their sins. And I know how they will end.”

The rocking chair slams to a stop. Silence clamps down like a vice.

Creak… groan…

A floorboard above screams under invisible weight. Another thud follows—deliberate, heavy, directly overhead.

“It could be Austin,” Brookfield says. He glances at Ally. She smiles sharply.

“Go,” she whispers, voice like silk dragged over a blade. “Go upstairs. Find Austin. If you do, riches will be yours. All that I have—all that I will give—will be yours.”

Her pale hands gesture toward the hallway.

Brookfield swallows hard. Against every instinct, the men move. Weapons raised, they make their way upstairs.

Ally drifts behind them, humming softly, her lullaby twisting backward like something broken.

At the top of the stairs, the house holds its breath. Ally shows her true face.

Her smile splits too wide. Her skin sags and turns gray. Her eyes become hollow pits. Her hair falls in clumps. Her perfect gown blackens to rags of rot. She leans forward, whispering through too-sharp teeth:

“Now… you are ours.”

The house explodes into violence. The men never get a chance to look for Austin Stone.

Something steps from the shadows. Strange recognizes it instantly—Brookfield had one growing up.

The My Buddy doll.

Only it’s wrong. Twisted. Its body has stretched to man-size; its limbs are too long and jointed like a nightmare. Plastic skin splits, revealing dark sinew. Its face is locked in a permanent painted grin; black marble eyes catch the light.

It lunges.

Brookfield fires point-blank. Stuffing and fabric explode from its chest, but it doesn’t slow down. It slams into Brookfield with freight-train force. A sickening crack echoes as his ribcage caves. The doll’s oversized hands clamp his jaw, wrenching upward—Brookfield’s head twists fully around with a pop. His body crumples, blood pooling beneath.

“Brookfield!” Strange roars, spinning to fire.

My Buddy is already on him. It moves impossibly fast, claws ripping through Strange’s thigh like wet paper. He howls, smashing the rifle butt into its face—plastic shatters, revealing a black void beneath.

The doll’s hands wrap around his skull.

Ally laughs, her voice resonating through the house. “So fragile… so breakable… men who thought they were wolves, revealed as lambs for the slaughter.”

My Buddy squeezes. Strange’s eyes bulge, vessels burst—his skull caves in with a glass-shattering crunch. Gore sprays the wallpaper. His twitching body drops.

Hemsley stumbles back, panic flooding him. “Oh God—oh God!”

The doll’s head snaps toward him—the void grins.

Hemsley runs. Boots pounding, he flees downstairs, heart hammering so loud it drowns Ally’s laughter trailing behind.

He dives into the library, slams the door, and presses his back to it, gasping. His eyes catch something: a bloody, broken body. Austin Stone.

His reward is death.

The house is alive. The chandelier sways. Books slide from shelves. Drawers open and close.

Ally’s voice whispers from the walls. Hemsley… hiding, hiding like a pussy… but I see you. I hear your heart beating. You cannot run from us.”

He fumbles for the radio, thumb jamming the mic. This is Hemsley! We’re at Hawthorne Mansion! Brookfield and Strange are down—Austin Stone is dead—there’s a thing here, Lady Hawthorne’s a ghost, a life-size doll killed the rest of the team, it’s not—oh God—”

The door creaks.

My Buddy is in the room. It steps from the hallway shadows, void-face fixed on him.

“No—no—stay the fuck away—” Hemsley screams.

The doll lunges, wrapping its hands around his head before he can fire. He screams into the radio as it lifts him off the floor, boots kicking.

“—Warren, do you copy? Do you—AAAGHHH!”

Bones crack. Skin splits. The sound is like a watermelon crushed under a sledgehammer. Blood sprays the walls as Hemsley’s scream cuts off mid-breath.

The radio clatters to the floor.

Static hisses. Aleron’s laughter comes through, chilling Hart the moment she hears it.

The radio goes dead.

Chapter Sixty-Eight 

Aleron’s laugh slithers through the radio—hollow, jagged, a thousand voices at once, carried on frequencies that don’t exist. It rattles the windows of the Lawsons’ house miles away; it seems to vibrate through the bones of everyone inside with Warren. Warren swears under his breath, Lang’s jaw tightens, and Rhodes stumbles back a step as though the sound has weight.

Brandon lies on the couch, his leg up and bandaged thanks to Hart’s first-aid work. The bleeding has stopped for now. He closes his eyes and shakes his head. He has just lost three good men with families.

Abby runs into Hart’s arms. The little girl bursts into tears, clinging to Hart’s waist, her shoulders shaking. “They’re gonna die,” she sobs. “Mommy and Daddy… they’re gonna die…”

Hart kneels, gently rubbing her back. “Hey, hey… Shhh. Look at me.” God, I sound like her mother, Hart thinks. Abby sniffles, lifting wide, wet eyes. Hart strokes her hair. “You’re safe here. And your parents… your parents are stronger than you think.”

Abby shakes her head, but then a tiny laugh slips out, and she whispers—just for Hart— “Daddy snores like a bear. Mommy always says she’ll put a pillow over his face if he doesn’t stop. But she never does.” She giggles, a beautiful, fragile sound.

“That sounds like love to me,” Hart says, smiling softly.

“And Mommy—she can’t cook. Like, at all. She burns water. Daddy says it’s a miracle we’re still alive.”

Hart chuckles. “My mom was the same. She thought boxed macaroni counted as a five-star meal.” She pauses. “She used to sing to herself when she gardened, even though she couldn’t carry a tune to save her life.”

Abby leans against her, small hands gripping Hart’s jacket. “Do you miss them?”

Hart’s throat tightens. The memory of finding her parents flashes hard and hot. She brushes Abby’s hair from her face and forces a smile. “Every day.” She doesn’t say the rest—how the Jester ended them. Tonight isn’t the night for that truth. Maybe never. She can’t save her parents, but she can still try to save Abby’s.

While Hart comforts Abby, the others secure the house. Warren issues low, clipped orders: the doors are locked, the curtains are drawn, and the lights are off. From outside, the home looks lifeless—just another darkened shell in Westport’s nightmare. Inside, the air thrums with tension. No one says what they’re thinking.

Lang lingers by the front window, eyes scanning the street. He doesn’t voice what his gut is screaming: Aleron already knows where they are. This is theater—a countdown.

A phone buzzes loudly in the silence. Rhodes curses, fumbling it from his pocket.

“Jesus, Rhodes,” Brandon hisses, opening his eyes. “Not the time.”

“No, look—” Rhodes’ voice is tight. “It’s a livestream. From here. In Westport.”

Lang steps from the window. “Who?”

“Riki Bella and Stacy Lee,” Rhodes says. “Influencers. They’ve been here before.”

“Maybe they’re calling for help—like the girls from Al’s Diner,” Brandon says, hauling himself upright to see.

“Play it,” Lang says.

Rhodes swipes and joins the live.

On screen, Riki and Stacy fill the frame—naked, laughing, high and delirious. Blood spatters their skin like paint. They blow kisses to the camera, then turn back with eyes that are black and lifeless, their energy manic and wrong.

“Instagram can go fuck itself,” Riki purrs, flashing a breast toward the lens.

“Yeah,” Stacy giggles. “Tonight’s about what sells—nudity, violence, sex. We disabled chat, so no troll comments from you MAGA freaks who hate fun. We’re live from Westport, carrying out the great Aleron’s plan to cleanse the unjust.”

Riki nods. “Let’s check in on how it’s going.” The camera spins. “These are our boy toys, Donald and Eli.” She giggles. The two men—still in Dracula and Frankenstein—pose over a heap of butchered bodies. A boy’s severed head dangles from Eli’s grip like a prize. He grins as if he’s just landed a big fish.

“Family night in Westport,” Donald laughs, tossing the head into the street.

“That’s funny, baby,” Stacy coos, giggling.

The feed cuts to Monique and Ms. Scully strutting through the remains of a marching band—bent instruments, bodies sprawled in crimson rows. They laugh as they stomp twitching limbs flat.

“Keep up the good work, ladies,” Riki calls. “You’re doing great, unliving those marching band geeks.”

Riki smirks at Stacy’s look. “Okay, okay—unliving.”

Monique and Ms. Scully wave their blood-slick hands and move on. The camera pans to Jay and Becky, waving. Behind them, terrified residents huddle inside Henderson’s, visible through shattered glass.

“You two love playing with your prey,” Riki says.

Stacy laughs. Jay turns to the window, leans close. Riki rushes in for a close-up.

“Peekaboo,” Jay sneers. He licks blood from his knuckles. “We see you.”

A child sobs inside; her mother tries to hush her—and fails. The camera finds Becky. She twirls a juggling knife like a batter warming up.

“We’ll be in soon enough,” Becky sings, tapping the glass.—thecaptive’s flinch. The lens shifts to Mary’s face, caked in drying blood, eyes vacant, lips sealed. She stands mute and unblinking.

“Mary’s the strong, silent type,” Stacy remarks. “But piss her off, and she’s a monster.”

The camera tilts, zooming in on a wooden structure—a makeshift gallows in the street.

“We’re having ourselves an old-fashioned hanging,” Riki drawls.

The zoom tightens. Abby’s parents are bound and gagged, tears streaming. The camera shifts again: Taylor. Fox. Daily. They circle Abby’s parents, mocking, shoving them toward the nooses.

“And here are our brave men in uniform—so sexy,” Stacy purrs. “They’ll handle the hanging of these unjust folks.”

The lens catches a shape in the shadows.

“Come here, big guy,” Riki says. “We’re live, letting everyone know Aleron rules.”

The Jester steps into frame. He walks right up to the camera, mask tilting, painted grin impossibly wide. He leans in until the mask fills the screen.

“Send us Hart.”

The stream ends.

Silence. Everyone looks at Hart. Abby clutches her tighter, eyes huge with terror.

Chapter Sixty-Nine

Riki Bella storms toward the Jester. Her darkened eyes burn red, and her voice carries the shrill edge of a spoiled child denied her toy.

“You ruined it!” she screams. “You ruined my fun! I was having the best night, and you cut it short—why? Because you wanted the spotlight for yourself?”

The Jester stands in silence, unmoving, head tilted just enough to catch the dying lamplight.

“You think you’re clever, huh?” Riki presses on, her voice rising, cracking at the edges. “You think hiding behind a mask makes you some big bad monster? You’re an asshole; that’s all. And you know what? I don’t care if you’re in charge—I’m not scared of you.”

She lashes out, smacking the Jester across his masked face. The hollow slap echoes unnaturally, like striking flesh over plastic. He doesn’t flinch. He only cocks his head the other way.

Riki’s rage boils hotter. “Say something! Look at me! You think you’re better than me? You’re not—you’re nothing without us!” Her voice breaks, and in that break, a hint of fear slips through.

The Jester raises his gloved hand. Fingers flick, quick and sharp—sleight of hand he learned when he was John Connolly. A juggling knife blooms into existence, gleaming in the moonlight.

Riki freezes, breath catching in her throat.

The Jester strikes. The blade plunges into her stomach with deliberate precision. Not once, but several times—each thrust wet and meaty as flesh tears.

Riki’s scream pierces the night, raw and animalistic. She staggers back, clutching her gut as crimson spreads across her abdomen. Her hands try to hold her insides in place. “Stop it! Please—” she gasps, tears mixing with blood.

The Jester walks toward her, leans close, blank mask inches from her face, then thrusts and twists the blade again. A sharp, tearing sound fills the night as organs give way.

Riki shrieks, then collapses, blood and guts spilling across the pavement. “It hurts—it hurts—Stacy!” she spits through blood.

Stacy drops to her knees and reaches out—but the Jester yanks the knife free, blood spraying across Stacy’s face. She stumbles back, blinded by the splash.

The Jester thrusts the blade into Riki’s neck and slices across. She gasps as her vocal cords are severed, blood pouring down her chest. Her mouth opens and closes, but no sound comes. Her blackened eyes flicker—flicker—and then break back to blue. For a fleeting instant, she is Riki again. The real girl trapped beneath.

“Don’t… let me… die…” she croaks.

Stacy wipes blood from her eyes and scrambles to Riki’s side, slipping in the spreading pool. She falls to her knees and cradles her trembling friend. “No, Riki—no, stay with me, stay—please—” she begs.

Riki’s body arches, then a death rattle tears from her throat. The light drains from her eyes. Her head lolls to the side, limp in Stacy’s arms.

The Jester looms above them, blank and pitiless. He wipes the blade against his gloved hand, then steps back into the shadows and vanishes. No words. No explanation.

The silence that follows is heavier than screams.

Chapter Seventy 

At the Lawsons’ house, that same heaviness lingers. Abby sobs until her whole-body shakes. Hart holds her, though comfort feels meaningless now. Abby’s parents are in the Jester’s hands, and the Jester has marked Hart as his target.

They sit in the locked, darkened living room, flashlights turned low, curtains drawn tight. Every creak of the house feels like an intruder.

Brandon leans on his good leg, voice tight. “We need to get Abby out. That’s the only move that matters.”

Lang’s reply is sharp, laced with dread. “If we run, Aleron spreads. You know what he is. This doesn’t end until Connolly faces what he’s done. And Ivy accepts her fate. They’re both under Aleron’s control—along with everyone else. We can’t risk this going statewide.”

Brandon clenches his jaw. “And if Connolly can’t?”

Warren’s gravelly voice cuts through the dark. “We don’t even know where the doll is. Without the doll… there’s no plan.”

Abby’s sobs grow louder. Hart strokes her hair, keeping her own voice steady. “The doll’s with the Jester. I’m sure of it. And I might be the only one who can get close enough.”

“Not happening—” Lang snaps.

“Lang, let her finish,” Brandon says firmly.

Hart looks around at them. “Aleron came to me in the van, some of you know.” Lang and Brandon nod. Stroking Abby’s hair, Hart continues, “He said if I killed Connolly, he’d spare the rest of you. He wants me as his new Jester.”

The words land like a gut punch. The room seems colder. Abby lifts her tear-streaked face, eyes sharp despite everything. “You… want to trick him, don’t you?” she asks.

Hart forces a faint smile. “Smart girl.” She kisses Abby’s head.

Lang’s voice is taut. “So, you walk out there, pretend to play along, and hope we can spring Connolly on him before he tears you apart?”

Hart nods.

Lang glances at Brandon. “We’ll need proof the doll’s there.”

Brandon nods. “Warren—get the drone up. We confirm Jester’s location and the doll.”

He exhales slowly. “Then that’s the plan. We find the Jester. We confirm the doll. And we prepare for hell.”

The silence that follows presses down like a weight, the air so thick it’s hard to breathe. Abby clutches Hart tighter, as though letting go would mean death.

Chapter Seventy-One 

The drone skims through the heavy night above Westport, its faint hum swallowed by the black October air. In the Lawsons’ living room, the feed spills across the laptop screen in jittering light, painting the team’s faces in cold blue as they watch. Warren sits rigid at the controls, his knuckles white, every movement careful and deliberate, as though the smallest mistake might draw something’s attention. Lang hovers over him, hands gripping the back of the chair. Hart leans closer, eyes narrowed, lips pressed into a line.

Behind them, Brandon sits on the couch with Abby curled in his arms. He murmurs soft distractions—about candy apples, parades, the beach in summer—to keep her calm. His voice is steady, but his jaw trembles as he speaks. Abby clutches him tightly, her small shoulders jerking with each sob, unaware of what the others are seeing.

The drone dips lower. Main Street sprawls beneath it like a horror movie tableau. Bodies cover the pavement—men, women, children—sprawled in heaps, their blood pooling into rivers that snake between guttered jack-o’-lanterns. Masks lie torn and trampled in the muck, papier-mâché smiles now spattered with gore. The air seems thick, as if the whole town is suffocating beneath the weight of death.

“Christ…” Warren mutters. He slows the drone and tilts it toward the gallows. Abby’s parents sit bound at its base, ropes cutting into their wrists. Their eyes are swollen and wet with tears—the drone locks in on the dangling nooses swaying gently above. Abby’s parents do not scream. They do not beg. They shake, helpless, as the scaffold looms over them like a waiting mouth. Brandon pulls Abby closer, angling her head against his chest. No one wants her to see—but her trembling worsens, as if some part of her already knows what’s on the laptop screen.

The drone pans right. It finds Riki. Her naked body sprawls on the pavement, discarded like trash. Moonlight gleams off her pale skin, streaked with blood where the Jester’s knife split her open. Her eyes—no longer black, but ocean-blue again—stare glassily at the stars, her mouth frozen open, tongue protruding. There is no dignity in her death, no mercy. She is a broken doll, used up and thrown aside.

Stacy crouches over her, hands pressed to Riki’s cooling skin, rocking and sobbing as if she can coax her back to life. Eli and Donald stand nearby, masks of silence, their costumes stiff with dried blood.

The drone climbs higher. Across the street, Mary stands exactly where she did before—motionless, drenched, her silence heavier than screams. She’s covered in blood, but no one can tell whose; she hasn’t visibly killed anyone during the parade.

The drone turns toward Jay and Becky. They whisper urgently, glancing at Riki’s corpse, then at each other. Their voices are too low to hear, but their hunched postures speak clearly—fear, suspicion, and the beginnings of betrayal. If the Jester could kill Riki, he could kill any of them.

The drone pulls back and goes higher. It finds Monique and Ms. Scully laughing as they casually carve through the surviving marching band members. Their blades swing in lazy arcs, their glee undiminished by Riki’s death. Survivors’ cries crack like glass, drowned beneath their laughter.

The drone passes them and hovers over the fire truck—the feed stutters, then steadies. The vehicle looms below like a grotesque parade float: Nick Carson’s body lashed to the grille, Candy Carlton’s limbs splayed like wings, Jennifer Collins’ body stretched at impossible angles, Butch Reynolds’ severed head mounted over the stern light.

No one speaks. This is the first clear view any of the team has gotten of the truck’s horrific “decorations.”

Warren guides the drone toward the garage.

“Can we see inside?” Hart asks.

“The drone has thermals. Let’s see if we get any heat signatures,” Lang rasps.

Warren flicks a switch. Color bleeds across the laptop screen: two cold blue voids in opposite corners, one pulsing red shape at the center.

Brandon’s voice is low. “What’s the blue?”

Hart answers quietly. “Aleron and Ivy.”

Brandon nods grimly. They’re up against something they can’t fully understand. “Can you see inside?”

“Better,” Warren replies, jaw clenched. “The garage has Wi-Fi. I can ride it to the security camera feed and get a clearer look.”

He taps rapidly at the keyboard. The screen flashes to static, then resolves into a new feed: a clean, fixed view from inside the garage.

The garage has become a tomb. Chains hang from the rafters, swaying though no wind stirs. Blood drips from their hooks, pooling on the concrete below. The Jester prepared the fire truck’s victims here. Officer York’s severed head rests on a shelf like a trophy, lips painted into an obscene smile. The floor is black with gore, smeared with handprints like macabre children’s drawings—some fresh, some faded. As the Jester moves through the space, he presses his hands to the floor, adding to the mural.

He stands at the center, his rubber mask gleaming in the light of a single swaying bulb. His costume and mask are soaked in blood. His hands slice through the air in wild gestures, as if he’s arguing with someone unseen.

Warren grunts. “Great. Psycho showtime, and we can’t hear a damn word.”

He punches in more commands. The security camera pans, its lens shifting. Warren zooms in toward a shadowed corner.

The doll sits there. Silent. Watching. It’s painted smile fixed, glass eyes reflecting the bulb’s light.

“There it is,” Warren breathes.

The feed glitches.

The Jester freezes. Slowly—unnervingly slowly—he turns. His masked face tilts upward until it fills the camera’s view.

“Shit,” Warren whispers.

The Jester raises his hand. A juggling knife flashes into existence.

“Don’t—” Lang warns.

The Jester hurls it—the camera cracks. Sparks streak across the feed. The view cuts back to the rooftop drone footage.

“Get it out of there before he goes upstairs and destroys it,” Brandon orders.

Warren nods and pulls the controls to bring the drone back.

Something surges up from below the drone’s airspace. Massive. Invisible.

The drone jolts as unseen hands clamp around it. For a fraction of a second, the lens catches a face pressed close: freckled cheeks, painted lips stretched into a grin, eyes that are not eyes at all—just black, lifeless voids.

The feed goes black.

The living room falls into silence. Abby has fallen asleep in Brandon’s arms, her small body tense even in rest. She didn’t see the feed, but its weight hangs over everyone like a storm cloud. They all know what’s coming.

Chapter Seventy-Two

Silence falls over the Lawsons’ living room. The drone had been the team’s eyes and ears on Main Street; the image of that freckled, painted face is still seared into everyone’s memory. For a long moment, no one moves. Then Hart lets the weight of the room push her into motion.

“If we’re going to do this,” she says evenly, “we do it right. We make Aleron believe I’m on his side and ready to take his offer—to kill John and become his new Jester.”

Lang’s laugh is dry, edged with anxiety. He starts pacing, fingers raking through his hair. Hart—think. This isn’t a negotiation. Aleron reads minds. He doesn’t just anticipate moves; he feasts on hesitation and lies. You step onto Main Street pretending to turn, and he’ll strip you bare faster than you can blink. He’ll know your reasons, your doubts—everything. And he’ll use them against you.”

He gestures sharply, words pouring out faster. As we saw tonight, Aleron makes you see the people you love standing right in front of you—then turns them into weapons. He rattles through your brain, rummages through your history, your secrets. He finds your buried sins and twists them until you break. He’s supernatural in ways we don’t fully understand. We know he can bend wills, appear anywhere, haunt dreams, and infect minds.”

Lang’s eyes flick toward Abby, sleeping fitfully in Brandon’s lap. Every line of his speech lands like a hammer. He isn’t just arguing tactics—he’s describing how Aleron is dismantling their world piece by piece.

Brandon’s reply is quieter but just as fierce. “I’ve watched people die when we did nothing. I’ve watched them die when we reacted. We have one shot to end this nightmare. Harts faced the Jester before and didn’t break. That’s our advantage. We bait Aleron where he expects easy prey, lure him into a mistake, and shove him back into that damn doll—then sink it to the bottom of the ocean.”

His words hang in the air. Lang draws a deep breath. “You’re talking about making Hart the bait,” he says. “Turning her into a spectacle—a lamb led to slaughter.”

Brandon raises his voice. You’re talking like there’s another choice that keeps Abby’s parents alive, keeps her alive, keeps us alive. This isn’t just Westport. Aleron will want more. There isn’t another way.”

Hart folds her hands and exhales slowly. Lang, I don’t want to die. I don’t want anyone to die. But running isn’t the answer—Brandon’s right. If Aleron spreads, Westport becomes a footnote. The world follows. Let me walk in. Let me make him think he’s won.”

Lang fixes his gaze on her. And what if he doesn’t think he’s won? What if this is how he breaks you—makes you complicit, corrodes you with guilt until you’re worse than the Jester? He’ll use your parents’ deaths, your rage at yourself, everything, to get inside.”

Hart meets his stare. “I must face it. Just like John and Ivy do, all of us will have to face our sins if we’re going to survive this. You told me that yourself—back in the car. In your dream.”

Lang frowns, then nods slowly.

“Good,” Warren cuts in. “Then what’s the plan?”

Hart lays it out methodically and clearly. She will go to Main Street, alone or looking alone, and let Aleron and the Jester see her. She will pretend to accept Aleron’s offer kill the Jester and take his place as successor. Meanwhile, the others will create a brutal distraction: fire, explosions, noise, anything to split Aleron’s attention for a crucial moment. While Aleron is distracted, Hart will confront the Jester. The key to binding Aleron lies in a ritual that brings together several pieces. First, John Connolly must face his guilt out loud—he must confess what he did, freely and without denial. Second, Ivy must accept her own fate, acknowledge what happened, and let go of her unfinished business. Confession and acceptance are fuel for weakening Aleron’s grip. At the same moment, the doll—the vessel holding Aleron’s curse—must be present. When Aleron is weakened, the final step is binding his essence to the doll and purifying it with fire. If the ritual works, the fire destroys the vessel’s hold, and Aleron is trapped again. If it fails, there is no second chance. This is their opening—and their only hope—to shut Aleron in the doll forever and end the nightmare.

Lang’s rebuttal is immediate. “You want to stage this in front of people who are already puppets. You think Aleron won’t turn them on you the second he senses betrayal? You think he won’t already know we’re in the shadows?”

Warren clears his throat. We pick the distraction. We make it ugly—big enough even to draw Aleron’s attention. We can hit the doll directly. There’s a service map—garage entrance behind Main Street. If we hit fast, Hart might get five minutes with the Jester. It’s not pretty, but it’s better than waiting to die.”

Lang’s face crumples, then hardens. He looks at Hart. They share a quiet, loaded moment—something like father and daughter. They both know the risks. And they both know she’s going to do it.

Brandon’s jaw tightens. We also lose Abby’s parents if we don’t try.”

No one answers. The conversation has moved past tactics into the raw terrain of sacrifice—what you’re willing to risk saving others. And the answer is clear: they must try. Hart is the key.

Hart gives a faint smile. If I walk out there, it’ll be because I chose the one thing that might end Aleron without all of us becoming part of his kill squad. I don’t want to die. But I won’t die quietly, and I don’t think any of you want to, either. Be ready when I give the sign.”

Lang frowns. And what sign is that? A scream? A prayer? You think Aleron will just let you talk to the man under the mask?”

Hart’s smile is tired. “If you attack the doll, yes. He’s gone to great lengths to protect it. And if John Connolly hears himself—really hears himself—shame and guilt might do what bullets can’t.”

Silence falls again—taut, like soldiers holding their breath before a final push. The plan is a coin flip on a razor’s edge. They have reasons to believe. They have every reason to fear.

Meanwhile, Abby dreams.

The adults’ voices blur into background hum as sleep folds over her like a heavy blanket. Her dreamscape is Main Street: familiar and wrong at once. The lights are jaundiced and thin, decorations sag like tired flags, and the air tastes of metal. There are no laughing children, no clumsy costumes—just darkness.

She walks forward, even though she doesn’t want to. Each step feels as though an invisible string is pulling it. Paper crunches underfoot, then wrappers… then the wet slap of something heavy. Ahead, the gallows loom like a black tooth in the moonlight. Her stomach twists. She wants to scream, but her throat is dry.

At the base of the gallows lie bodies. As Abby nears, their faces sharpen into familiar ones—her parents.

Their eyelids snap open. “Abby!” they scream in unison.

She spins to run—and collides with something solid, cold, real.

Aleron.

He stands like a death-shaped man: angles of bone, skin like old parchment, and a smell of rust and burnt sugar. His voice is silk dragged across glass. “Little one, I’ve heard so much about you. You are special. Now you have a choice to make.”

His skeletal hand wraps her wrist. It’s cold as a grave. She pulls, but the undertow only drags her closer.

“If you betray Hart,” Aleron whispers, slick as oil, “I will spare them. I will spare your parents. We will be happy. You will be safe. If you refuse, you will watch everything you love die. Or… you can join me.”

Behind him, ghostly visions of her parents’ hover—gaunt, pleading. “Do what he asks,” her mother’s voice whispers like dry leaves. “Do it for us,” her father says—then, for a heartbeat, his face shifts, mouthing silently, let her go.

Abby’s lungs burn. She doesn’t want to choose. She doesn’t want to hurt. Aleron strokes her cheek with bony fingers. “You have until sunset tomorrow,” he says. “Decide wisely.”

He leans closer. The smell of carnival candy and rust floods her senses. Her parents’ faces thin and stretch into hungry masks. The world swells into a storm.

Abby wakes screaming, fists clutching Brandon’s shirt. Her breath comes in ragged gasps. She’s back in the Lawsons’ living room—dim, protected, alive. The taste of copper lingers in her mouth. The dream has left its mark.

Brandon holds her tightly. “It’s okay, Abby. You’re safe,” he whispers.

Outside, Main Street waits like a mouth. Inside, courage holds, and a clock ticks toward Hart’s decision.

Somewhere in the darkness, Aleron’s voice drifts cold and low: “Make the right choice, little one.”

Abby Shivers 

Chapter Seventy- Three

Main Street is silent in the aftermath of Riki’s death. The streetlights still burn, but they flicker weakly—like the last gasp of a dying hearth. Debris from the earlier festivities skitters in the cool California wind, tumbling like old-west tumbleweeds. Blood stains still gleam wet on the pavement.

Stacy kneels beside Riki’s broken body—half-naked, gutted, her blood drying in the asphalt’s cracks. Stacy strokes her hair, sobbing in ragged bursts. Eli and Donald stand back, hands shoved in their pockets, eyes fixed on anything but the corpse. They don’t know what to do. Riki and Stacy were a team. Now it’s only Stacy. Eli and Donald don’t know what comes next—or if they even survive it.

“We can’t leave her here,” Stacy says through clenched teeth. “She deserves better.”

Eli swallows. “Where do you want to take her?”

Stacy pets Riki’s hair meets Riki’s lifeless eyes staring at the night sky, and nods—as if receiving a message from beyond. “The woods,” she says. “Where she—where she and I took out Sully earlier. We’ll bury her there at midnight. She had so much fun killing that fucker… It’s where she should rest.”

The others nod, too afraid to argue. They lift Riki’s limp, blood-slick body, carrying her off Main Street. Her head lolls, eyes open, blonde hair dragging as they move. It’s a funeral procession for a fallen soldier.

At the forest’s edge, they lay her down. Stacy presses her lips to Riki’s cold mouth, closes her eyes, and smooths her hair.

Jay and Becky emerge from the dark, pale in the moonlight.

“We saw it happen. It was terrible,” Jay says quietly. His eyes flick to the body, then up. “We’re sorry.”

“Yeah,” Becky adds, arms crossed, voice low. “Nobody deserved that. Not her.”

The group stiffens. Trust is gone. Jay steps closer, words clipped. “We need to talk. All of us.”

Stacy wipes her tears with a shaking hand. “What do you want? You did nothing to save her.” She glares at all three. Eli and Donald drop their eyes.

Jay crouches, staring at the hollow where life once was. “We need to face it. He’ll do this to all of us. The Jester doesn’t care. We’re not his pawns. We serve Aleron. Look at her—proof. If we wait, we’re next. We take out the Jester—tonight. Not just for Riki—because it proves our loyalty to Aleron.”

Becky nods. “There are more of us than him. End it, and maybe Aleron favors us over the others.” (Mary, Monique, even Sully would’ve been nothing.) “He spared Jay when the Jester found him in the garage—ordered the Jester to turn him so we could turn others.”

Jay nods once.

Stacy’s head lifts, eyes narrowing. “I’m in.”

Eli and Donald shift. Eli scratches his neck. “That’s suicide. He’ll cut us down like he did Riki. He’s stronger.”

Donald nods. “We play it safe. Keep our heads down.”

“Safe?” Stacy rounds on them, voice steel. “Look at her.”

They won’t. Stacy strides to each man and slaps him hard. “Look at her, damn it.”

With stinging cheeks and wet eyes, they finally look. In the moonlight, Riki looks like a ruined princess, waiting for a kiss that won’t come.

“Is this safe?” Stacy demands. “Stand with me or against me. Decide.”

A long, cold silence.

“Fine,” Eli mutters.

Donald sighs. “Yeah… fine. We’re with you.”

None of them notices Deputy Daily at the tree line, half-hidden. His hand tightens on his radio, eyes cold. He lifts it to his lips, whispering, “Sheriff, we have a problem.”

—

At the Lawsons’ house, the air is taut and suffocating.

Hart and Lang sit at the table, voices low and sharp, still refining the plan. Warren keeps a post by the window, rifle across his knees, eyes slicing every shadow—hypervigilance wearing him raw. Rhodes rests with his eyes shut; his fingers twitch at each sound. Brandon has Abby tucked against his chest, her small body trembling even in sleep. He strokes her hair the way he does with his own daughters. Exhaustion and blood loss drag him under.

At first, he’s home. The living room is warm. Laughter upstairs—his wife, his kids. He smiles. Safe.

The stairs creak. Brandon calls their names. No answer. They appear, faces drained of color, eyes bottomless black, smiles stretched too wide—cracked porcelain. Filament-thin strings glint in the half-light, tugging their wrists and ankles. They move like marionettes.

“Hi, honey,” his wife says, but it isn’t her voice. It’s a bad imitation of one.

Walls groan and dissolve. October air rushes in. The living room stretches into Main Street. The gallows loom. His family stands beneath, strings hooked into flesh, jerking them in cruel motions.

Above them, skeletal fingers work the strings.

Aleron leers. Bones cast grotesque shadows beneath papery skin. His voice slides into Brandon’s ears—smooth, poisonous—and rattles in his chest like a cold knife.

“I could make them mine,” he whispers. “So easy. One pull, and they dance forever.”

Brandon’s chest locks. “Don’t touch them. Take me.”

Aleron smiles. An inside-out cold floods Brandon. “Then do as I ask. Kill Lang. Spare your family the pain. Spare them the truth.”

Strings twitch. Brandon’s wife’s jaw opens in a stiff, borrowed scream. It comes from the past—one Brandon has fought to bury.

“I already know what you’ve done,” Aleron hisses. “Shall I tell her?”

The air shifts. Another figure steps out.

Candy Clark. Barely twenty-one. Daisy Dukes. Tight crop top. Blonde hair wild, mascara-streaked. Pretty. Fragile. Hungry-eyed.

Brandon’s stomach flips. “No.”

Candy smiles—broken. “You killed me. You killed our baby.”

Her stomach swells grotesquely, round with the child that never came. She cradles it like glass.

Brandon staggers. “I didn’t mean— I didn’t want—”

“You knew she was a child herself,” Aleron croons, circling. “On the run. Doing what she had to do to survive. You were a cop. You should’ve protected her—not fed your fantasies behind your wife’s back. Candy was pregnant. She trusted you. You gave her poison. Left her to die alone in a motel bed. Your unborn child silenced with her.”

Candy’s lips go blue. She collapses to her knees, eyes locked on him. “You killed us.”

Brandon shakes, tears cutting hot lines down his face. “Stop. Please.”

Aleron leans close, breath like a tomb. “Tell your wife before I do. Or kill Lang, and your sins stay buried. What matters more, Brandon—your guilt or your family?”

His family stares blankly, unaware. Brandon’s gaze falls on Candy.

Her eyes blacken; her mouth tears wider. “Daddy…” she whispers.

Something small clutches his leg—a child’s spectral hand, bones and shadow.

Brandon screams.

His eyes snap open. A few seconds pass before the room resolves: the Lawsons’ living room. Abby is still sleeping in his arms. The others are in their places. Brandon’s shirt is soaked with sweat; his hands shake.

Aleron’s whisper still slides through his skull:

Kill Lang.

Chapter Seventy- Four

The woods close around the mourners like a held breath. Flashlights cut narrow tunnels through the dark, their beams trembling as they slice across trunks and low branches. The shovel bites into damp earth with a sound far too loud for the night.

Riki’s body lies wrapped in an old tarp—stiff, heavy, the outline of her broken limbs hidden beneath. Stacy kneels beside the grave, hands raw from the shovel handle, her face sharpened by grief. She smooths the tarp one last time with trembling fingers, as if trying to press warmth back into it.

When the hole is ready, Donald and Eli lower her in. The tarp drops into the cold, hollow space with a dull thud. They shovel until the mound is whole again—an obscene little hill beneath the thin moon.

Stacy asks for a moment of silence. All bow their heads.

She speaks first, voice small and fierce. “Riki… you saved me more times than I can count. You fought until you couldn’t anymore. You didn’t deserve this. I’ll carry you. I swear I will. I’ll avenge you. The Jester will pay.”

Her words land heavily.

The others try to look sincere, grief-stricken for someone they barely knew. Eli clears his throat. “She was tough. Stronger than she had to be.” Donald nods. “She didn’t give up.” Becky offers a clumsy tenderness: “She had guts.” Jay’s comment is brittle: “She fought.”

Donald and Eli scatter the remaining soil in silence. When the shovels are empty, they stand back. Their flashlights form a loose ring of light. The woods feel as though a hundred eyes are watching from between the trees.

“It’s midnight,” Jay says finally, checking his watch. “Let’s end this. Tonight.”

Becky steels herself. “We kill the Jester. Now. No reason to wait.”

Eli offers caution. “If Aleron’s with him, we don’t know what that means. The Jester was first—he may favor him.”

Stacy slams a hand into the dirt, a mix of oath and grief. “Then we do it now. Fuck Aleron. He could’ve stopped Riki’s death, too.” She looks at the mound, then up at Eli and Donald. “You’re with me, or you’re gone.”

Eli and Donald exchange a look, then nod. They’re not brave—just exhausted and angry. They need Stacy. Without her and Riki, they’re nothing.

Jay and Becky smile grimly. They’re in.

None of them notices Officer Daily slipping between the trees, watching, ready to call backup.

The five huddle and whisper strategy—numbers, timing, who strikes first, who makes the killing blow. The October air presses in. Around them, the woods reply with ordinary night sounds: a twig snapping, rodents skittering, leaves rustling.

Jay scoffs. “You’re all being paranoid. It’s the woods. Woods make noise.”

They agree on the plan. Then another sound swells beneath the smaller ones—something big moving in the darkness. Not a deer. Not a bird. Heavy. Patient. Circling.

Jay huffs, draws the knife from his sock, and flashes the flashlight in the other hand. “I’ll check it. Stay here.”

He disappears into the trees. His flashlight beam becomes a narrow spear swallowed by darkness. The noise stays ahead of him: scratching, dragging, always just out of sight.

“Hello?” he calls. “Mary? Monique? Ms. Scully? Is that you?”

The world narrows to Jay and his light. The trees close in like a trash compactor.

Something hits him out of the dark—sudden and brutal—a crash against wood. Branches snap. His flashlight tumbles, spinning wild beams through the trees like a frantic strobe. For a heartbeat, there’s only chaos: a flailing arm, a flash of jacket, a blur—and then darkness.

From the tree line, the others hear a body slam into a trunk, followed by a yelp cut short and then a wet, cracking sound like a watermelon splitting.

“Jay! Are you okay?” Becky yells. The others shout his name, hoping to scare off whatever is hitting him.

Becky runs to the treeline, voice shaking. “Jay, answer me!”

Her flashlight sweeps the dark. A white circle crawls over trunks. No Jay. For an instant, a shape lurches from branch to branch—wrong angles, not quite man, not quite shadow.

Panic ignites. Becky charges into the trees, the others following. Flashlights flicker wildly. Leaves slap their faces as they run.

Becky’s light catches a scrap of fabric—Jay’s jacket—torn and hanging from a branch. Nearby: a smear, a torn edge, a trail of crushed leaves leading deeper into the woods.

They stop. Becky’s tears streak her face.

Footsteps shift in the brush toward them. Relief surges—Jay?

“Jay, you scared the shit out of me,” Becky croaks.

But the steps are too heavy. Not Jay.

The forest seems to inhale.

Something white flashes through the trees. An object arcs out, slicing a terrible line through the moonlight. It lands at Becky’s feet with a wet thunk and rolls.

Jay’s head.

It stares up at her, brown eyes wide and lifeless.

For a heartbeat, Becky can’t move. Then her body remembers fear—she stumbles back, boots slipping in the dirt.

The woods erupt.

A blur launches out of the dark with impossible speed. Becky screams, a sound ripped raw from her throat. She’s grabbed, knocked down, and dragged away before she can fight. Her screams twist into thrashing, then the same awful ripping sound as before—then silence.

Flashlights skip across the forest floor, finding only scattered leaves and dark soil.

Eli, Donald, and Stacy run, stumbling toward Riki’s grave. Breath heaves, panic driving them. Each step away from the trees is both relief and admission—they’ve lost Becky, and they didn’t fight to save her.

Outside the treeline, the night is colder, sharper. Riki’s mound sits obscene under the moon.

They collapse there, gasping, faces streaked with tears.

Eli says what they’re all thinking: “He knows.”

The Jester has struck again. He’s faster, smarter, and more powerful than they are. And he’s dismantled the plan by killing its architects.

Behind them, the forest quiets, night sounds returning as if nothing happened. But the survivors are changed—shadows under their eyes deeper, their resolve frayed.

Officer Daily smiles from the trees, watching their broken retreat. His loyalty to the Jester will be rewarded.

They all serve Aleron. But they answer to the Jester—Aleron’s angel of death.

Stacy, Eli, and Donald keep moving, cold and silent. The woods have taken what they wanted. They might again.

The night swallows their footprints. The mound of dirt for Riki sits heavy and alone in the moonlight.

Chapter Seventy-Five- Five

The smell of fresh coffee drifts through the Lawson kitchen. Hart sits across from Lang at the kitchen table, both hunched slightly, hands wrapped around their mugs as if holding on to the warmth for more than just comfort. Coffee has become their closest ally over the last week as they’ve chased the Jester.

Lang draws a deep breath. “I know you want to believe you can reach him. But John Connolly isn’t just John anymore. He’s the Jester. Aleron has his hooks in him so deep you might not be able to separate the man from the monster.”

Hart stares into her mug, watching the steam rise like smoke from a battlefield. But there is a man in there. I feel it. He gave up control to stop his pain—his lover’s death at his own hands. I can’t forget that. John is no monster. Aleron fed on his guilt, becoming a monster. If I can get John to face Ivy’s death… if I can make him see it was a mistake—that he doesn’t have to hold on to the anger and guilt…” She trails off, swallowing hard. “Maybe I can free him. Free Ivy. Save all of us from Aleron’s curse.”

Lang leans forward, elbows pressing into the table, eyes tired but intent. “Hart, listen to me. Aleron is clever. He doesn’t just use power—he uses pain. The pain we try to suppress, the secrets we keep locked away. He’ll use your guilt over your parents and twist it into a weapon. One whisper in your ear and you won’t be forgiving John—you’ll be putting a knife through his heart before you even realize it. Taking his place as the new Jester. That’s what Aleron wants.”

Hart exhales sharply, hand tightening on the mug. “Part of me wants that, Lang. Part of me wants to kill him. To make him pay. But…” Her voice breaks. “…if I do that, Aleron wins. I need to find forgiveness within myself. Not for Aleron, not for the Jester—but for John. And for myself. Otherwise, this won’t end. It’ll move past Westport to the next place.”

Lang softens. He nods, voice gentler now. “Then you hold on to that. When the rage comes—and it will—you keep it on a leash. Remind yourself of the bigger picture. Feed your rage, and Aleron wins. Don’t let him drag you under.”

Hart nods slowly. “I’ll keep in mind that John’s death at my hands will only make Aleron stronger.”

A small voice calls from the living room. Hart?”

It’s Abby’s sleepy voice.

Hart pushes back from the table and finds Abby lying on Brandon’s chest. He isn’t fully asleep, but his eyes are closed, his mind elsewhere. Abby’s blanket is pooled around her.

“What’s up, hun?” Hart asks, her maternal instincts kicking in.

Abby looks up with tired, trusting eyes. “I need to go to the bathroom. But… I’m scared. Can you come with me?”

“Of course.” Hart smiles, brushing the girl’s hair back. “Come on.”

She leads Abby down the hallway, their footsteps soft against the old wood.

Brandon sits up carefully on the couch, keeping his injured leg elevated. With Hart and Abby out of the room, the moment opens.

“Lang. I smell the coffee—can I get some, please?”

Lang stands. “Yes, of course.”

As Lang moves toward the pot, Brandon’s hand dips to his side, brushing the cold steel of his gun. He flicks the safety off with the silent ease of a man who’s done it too many times before. Protecting his secret. Protecting his family. More important than Lang’s life.

Lang pours coffee, steam curling up like a ghost. He brings the mug to Brandon.

“Here.”

Brandon takes it, knuckles white around the handle.

Lang sits on the coffee table across from him. The air between them hums with unspoken violence.

“So,” Brandon says, forcing casualness, “Hart pretends to take Aleron’s deal. We hit the doll, stir up the hornet’s nest, and buy her a window with the Jester. She gets him to revert to John, breaks the curse, and traps Aleron in the doll. That’s the plan.”

His hand drifts toward the gun again.

Lang nods slowly, watching him. He can sense something’s off—more than exhaustion. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Lang remarks.

Brandon swallows. He has.

Candy’s face flashes through his mind—pale, hollow. The girl he killed. The unborn child who never took a breath.

Do it, Aleron whispers, a hiss slithering through Brandon’s thoughts. Protect your wife. Protect your children. Lang will expose you. He’ll tell them about Candy. About the baby. About the needle. He’ll figure it out. He’s smart. Dangerous. Do it now before he does.

Brandon grips the gun tighter beneath the table—his pulse hammers.

The bathroom door creaks.

Hart and Abby return. Abby rubs her eyes and climbs onto Brandon’s lap, small arms wrapping around him. His aim is ruined.

Oblivious, Hart says, “Abby, why don’t you tell Dr. Lang and Brandon what you told me in the bathroom?”

Abby takes a breath. Her little voice trembles but remains steady. “Aleron came into my dream. He wanted me to betray you all. He said if I did, he’d keep my parents safe.”

The room is still.

“I thought about it,” Abby continues, looking at Brandon, then Lang, then Hart. “But keeping them safe doesn’t mean anything if he wins. We must stop him.”

The words slice into Brandon. His throat tightens—his chest heaves.

She’s lying, Aleron hisses. She’s weak. She’ll betray you. Just like Lang will. End it now. Kill them all.

Brandon’s finger curls around the trigger.

Abby looks up at him, eyes wide, full of trust. We can stop him, right, Brandon? You’ll keep us safe, as you promised me.”

Brandon’s breath shakes. His finger squeezes—

—And he stops.

He forces his lips into a smile. Thin. Fragile. A mask stretched over the war inside him.

Aleron is there, listening. Aleron knows all.

Chapter Seventy-Six

Main Street is a graveyard of nightmares when Stacy, Eli, and Donald return from burying Riki in the woods. Their first steps onto the ruined strip of Westport feel like they’re stepping into another world—a dystopia stripped of life, painted in blood and silence after a violent revolution.

The once-bright storefronts of Westport’s Main Street gape like broken teeth, their windows shattered, signs dangling, neon lights buzzing faintly before dying with a final spark—rivers of blood snake down the pavement. Gore and entrails smear the ground like a macabre mural. Pools of blood shine under the pale moonlight, reflecting fractured faces and broken limbs.

Bodies are everywhere—men, women, and children. Adults in Halloween costumes lie face down, limbs bent and dripping red. Children sprawl in tiny heaps, their balloon animals deflated and stuck to their hands with drying blood, their bright clothes drowned in crimson. One girl still clutches a teddy bear, its fur soaked, one glass eye missing. The bear’s fixed grin is the only trace of happiness in a sea of death.

Women in Halloween costumes are scattered along the sidewalks, limbs twisted at impossible angles, fabric shredded. A mother slumps over her stroller, hair matted with blood, shielding what remains of the child beneath—a tiny, curled body missing half its skull. Brain matter seeps down the stroller’s side.

Men who tried to fight back lie broken in the street, knives and baseball bats frozen in white-knuckled grips. One man is pinned beneath the toppled Frankenstein statue in front of Henderson’s, his face mashed into the pavement, torso twisted like a wrung rag. Another dangles from a lamppost, his body split open from belly to throat, guts hanging like gruesome streamers.

This is not just a massacre. It’s a message. The bodies have been arranged deliberately, as though Main Street itself is telling a story of fear—a warning of worse to come.

The high school marching band is piled into a grotesque pyramid, faces turned outward, each mouth slit open wider than natural, cheeks torn into bloody “grins.” Their sequined uniforms glitter faintly beneath shards of broken glass.

Along the gutters, bodies line up like discarded trash bags, limbs jutting into the road. Fingers are missing, faces flayed down to bone. A pair of eyes stares from a storm drain, the body jammed into the pipe like trash into a chute.

Sneakers, baseball caps, and masks are scattered everywhere—thrown from bodies in the chaos. A single sneaker rocks gently in the breeze, its laces dragging through a puddle of congealed blood.

The silence hums thick. The wind whistles through corpses, flapping torn costumes and shifting strands of hair across pale faces. Somewhere, a phone alarm chimes faintly from a pocket, ignored by its dead owner.

And at the end of it all—the gallows loom.

The corpses form a red breadcrumb trail toward the structure, like a path leading to the wolf’s den. The wooden beams rise tall, shadows swallowing them whole. Ropes sway lazily, creaking in rhythm with the wind. One rope is taut, bearing a woman’s body. Long hair drapes across her face.

Stacy narrows her eyes. “Guess they strung up Alice Lawson sooner than expected,” she mutters, though her voice wavers with unease.

Eli stops walking, chest tight. His gut churns as he stares up the corpse-strewn street. “I don’t… I don’t like this. Something’s wrong. I’ve got a bad feeling,” he murmurs.

Silence. Only the wind answers.

Donald swallows hard and nods quickly. “Yeah. Same here. We shouldn’t be here. It feels like a setup.”

Stacy shakes her head, bravado thinner now than in the woods. “No. You’re both wrong. We play it cool, act like we never plotted anything. This blows over. It must. The Jester will forget. He needs us. Aleron needs us. There’s no trap.”

But even as she says it, her voice falters. The woods still haunt her—the sound of Jay and Becky being ripped apart, bones snapping like twigs. Riki’s brutal death. She’s changed, sworn to Aleron, but anger festers beneath the fear.

A gust of wind spins the hanging body, twisting it until the face comes into view.

It’s not Alice Lawson.

It’s Becky.

Her body is wrecked beyond recognition. Her jaw dangles loose, split down the middle, teeth clicking in the wind. Her arms hang at impossible angles, skin split, bones jutting out like broken spears. Her torso is torn into ribbons, intestines swaying like streamers in the breeze. Her eyes are gone, sockets hollow and streaked with blood. What remains of her face is locked in a silent scream.

Stacy gasps. Donald freezes. Eli gags violently, nearly vomiting into the street.

Then Stacy sees it. Not just Becky’s corpse—but a shape beyond her. A dark, hulking figure in the distance. It doesn’t move like a man. It’s the thing from the woods. The thing that killed Jay and Becky.

Behind them, boots crunch on broken glass and bone.

The wind picks up, colder, cutting. Goosebumps ripple their skin. Their stomachs sink.

They turn.

Officer Daily steps out of the shadows, radio clipped to his chest, eyes black and cold.

They whirl back. Two more figures emerge: Monique and Dana Scully. Their grins are smeared with drying blood, teeth caked red. Both are drenched head to toe in gore. One grips a bat; the other, a machete, blades slick from use. They are killers now—pure, remorseless.

From the gallows, Sheriff Taylor steps forward, boots echoing like a gavel. Fox follows silently, half-shrouded in shadow.

Taylor’s voice cuts through the night like a judge passing sentence. “Stacy, Eli, Donald… you’ve been charged with treason.”

He lets the words hang.

“How do you plead?”

Stacy bares her teeth, fear flaring into defiance. “Go fuck yourself.”

She spins, ready to bolt—not sure where but anywhere is better than here.

She slams into something wet, cold, and reeking of earth and death.

Her scream rips the night.

Riki stands before her. Not alive. Not dead.

Her skin is pale, dirt clinging to every inch, worms writhing through torn flesh. Her hair hangs in clumps, dripping black water. One eye is blue; the other bulges milky and wild. Her lips are peeled back, teeth jagged, smile ghastly.

The smell—rot, mud, something worse—hits Stacy like a wall. Her knees buckle. The world tilts.

The last thing she sees is Riki’s shredded hand reaching for her.

Darkness takes her as she collapses.

Chapter Seventy-Seven

Stacy regains consciousness to the bite of rope digging into her wrists and the sharp burn of another coiled tight around her neck. Her stomach drops as reality floods back into her awareness.

She’s not lying in the woods. She’s not running anymore. She’s standing on the gallows of Main Street, her body swaying slightly, elevated above the small crowd of those who hail Aleron.

To her left and right, Eli and Donald dangle the same way, their hands bound, the nooses snug against their throats.

The smell hits her like a ton of bricks—thick, rotten, and sour. One of the men has soiled himself in fear. Donald. She doesn’t need to look to know; his whimpers confirm it.

Main Street has been transformed. Chairs have been dragged and set in neat rows; a makeshift audience has assembled from the remaining followers of Aleron. Bodies still litter the street in grotesque postures of death, but those alive have gathered here, faces smeared with blood, twisted in glee as they watch the trio of traitors’ squirm on the gallows.

Monique and Dana Scully sit together in the front row. A machete and a bat lean against their chairs, both still slick with blood. Their faces are painted with matching grins—malicious, hungry, daring Stacy to meet their eyes. If stares could kill, Stacy would already be dead.

Mary sits near them, eyes vacant, lips trembling. She hasn’t spoken since the massacre, her mind trapped somewhere between her life with Maria and her new life as a blood-lusting follower of Aleron.

Sheriff Taylor steps from the side of the gallows, his long coat flapping with each stride; the black cowboy hat fits firmly on his head. Officer Daily shadows him like a loyal hound, and Fox looms behind, face hard as stone. Taylor carries himself with mock ceremony, his grin sharp and cutting. He is the judge, jury, and executioner.

He addresses the small crowd. Citizens of Westport,” Taylor booms, his voice cutting across the night. “Tonight, we pass judgment. These three—Stacy, Donald, Eli—have been charged with treason.”

Stacy finds her voice. “This is bullshit!”

Taylor’s grin widens. He pivots toward her with a predator’s ease. “Is it? Officer Daily overheard every word in the woods. You’re plotting. You’re scheming against the Jester. Against our savior, Aleron. Don’t waste your breath with lies.”

Her heart pounds. She glances at Daily, who smirks and shrugs.

Stacy draws a deep breath. “Aleron is no savior. I see that now. He poisoned us with some black substance to control us, then ordered us to do the same to others so we’d be spared his wrath. If they didn’t obey, we killed them. And we followed along happily. Look at us—just a handful left. We killed those who opposed Aleron, even many who joined the massacre at first. Still, none of us are safe from the Jester or Aleron if they decide we’re unworthy and unjust.”

She hopes her words will resonate.

Silence. Lifeless, blank stares. Black, soulless eyes.

Movement from the far side of the gallows cuts the silence like a knife.

The Jester emerges—silent, commanding.

On his arm: Riki. Or what’s left of her. She looks just as she did when Stacy last saw her: cold, wet, streaked with dirt, pieces of her face caked with rot. The hole in her stomach barely contains her intestines as she moves. Her skin drips as if perpetually fresh from the grave.

Riki steps away from the Jester, walking right up to Stacy. She leans into Stacy’s line of sight, lips curling. The smell of death rides her breath.

“Always the stupid one, Stace,” she croons. “But at least you finally did something worthwhile. Standing against the Jester… it brought me back. Better than ever. Now I can finish the TikTok live we started earlier tonight. And the Jester says I can stand by his side as we move to the next phase.”

Stacy’s stomach twists, bile surging.

My Buddy lumbers forward, dragging two corpses—Jay and Becky. Their broken bodies flop across the stage like discarded dolls.

Taylor’s voice swells again. “You see, my friends? Not only did they plot against the Jester, but they also conspired with these two traitors, who have already paid the price for their treason. Aleron, the Jester—we don’t tolerate dissent in the ranks.”

The crowd erupts in boos.

Taylor raises his hand, and silence falls.

“And so, since Aleron and the Jester value your opinion,” Taylor says, his voice smooth and poisonous, “we place the choice in your hands. Forgiveness… or death.”

The vote spreads through the crowd like a disease. One by one, hands rise—not in mercy, but in condemnation.

The word death rings out repeatedly, until it becomes a chant. “Death. Death. Death.”

Stacy’s chest clenches. Eli sobs, muttering prayers through shaking lips. Donald cries openly, his face streaked with tears and snot. Stacy keeps her chin high, though the rope bites into her neck like a vampire’s kiss.

Taylor milks the moment. He paces the gallows, boots echoing against the wood. His fingers trail over the lever like a lover’s touch. The crowd continues to chant.

“Funny,” he says. “You thought you’d change something. Thought you’d be heroes.”

His laugh cracks the air.

“Now you’re just entertainment.”

Stacy’s mind races. Maybe not. Maybe there’s still a chance.

Her eyes snap to the Jester. He stands still, mask gleaming in the moonlight. Riki clings to his arm, whispering and laughing. My Buddy looms beside him, blood still dripping from its soft doll hands.

Taylor pauses, hand resting on the lever, and looks back—waiting.

The crowd hushes. Every eye turns to the Jester now.

Will Aleron and his vessel grant forgiveness?

The Jester draws out the moment, showcasing the theatrical flair for which he’s infamous.

Stacy’s breath catches. Maybe he’ll remember. She was one of the first to hail Aleron, alongside Riki. She helped bring Eli and Donald into the fold. Maybe—maybe even evil can show compassion.

The Jester tilts his head slowly, like an owl studying prey. His gaze locks on Stacy.

For a moment, she swears she sees hesitation.

He looks at Eli. Donald. Then, in the crowd, faces hungry for blood.

The Jester turns to My Buddy. It cocks its head like a dog awaiting orders. Then he looks back at Taylor.

With deliberate, unhurried weight, the Jester raises his left arm.

Hope flares in Stacy’s chest—blinding, desperate—And dies as his thumb turns down.

The crowd erupts, stomping and chanting: “Death! Death! Death!”

Taylor’s grin widens. So be it.”

Eli squeezes his eyes shut. Donald shakes, sobbing. Stacy clenches her jaw. She won’t give them the pleasure of fear.

Taylor yanks the lever with glee.

The floor vanishes beneath her.

The rope bites, snapping tight around her throat. Pain floods her body—white-hot and absolute. Her legs kick wildly, heels slamming against wood, searching for ground that isn’t there.

Her lungs convulse. She tries to scream, but the sound dies in her crushed windpipe. Her tongue swells, choking her. Her eyes bulge, blood filling her vision. Her body convulses as fire spreads through her chest.

The last thing she sees is the Jester, unmoving, watching her swing.

The crowd roars, stomping in rhythm: “Death! Death! Death!”

Stacy’s vision goes black. And she is gone.

Chapter Seventy-Eight 

The Lawson house was steeped in silence, but not the peaceful kind. It was the silence of a place braced for something it couldn’t see. It was uncomfortable, but the group needed to deal with it. Warren had nodded off at his perch by the window, rifle slack across his lap, chin sunk to his chest. Rhodes lay near the fireplace, his head tilted back against the brick, his phone forgotten beside him. Hart sat in a recliner, her breathing steady but shallow, her face soft in half-sleep. Across from her, Lang rested in another recliner, arms folded across his chest, eyes closed—his breathing calm, as though even sleep were measured and deliberate.

The grandfather clock ticked in the hall, every swing of the pendulum too loud, too sharp. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Brandon lay on the couch, Abby curled against him, her head on his chest. He hadn’t slept since waking from the nightmare. His body was still, but his mind refused to stop spinning. Aleron’s voice slithered through the ticking. Kill him. Kill Lang. Save yourself. Then kill Abby. She’s nothing but a liar. A bitch. A whore. Do it before she betrays you, too. Brandon clenched his jaw, staring into the dark. He forced himself to breathe slowly, as though his lungs might drown out the voice. He thought of his family—of what might be happening to them out there. He thought of Abby’s parents: alive? Dead? Somewhere in between? The clock ticked harder. Kill. Kill. Kill. He thought of the massacre that had taken place on Main Street—the innocents slain by an ancient evil that wants nothing but blood. 

Abby stirred, shifting her weight. Her voice came soft, hushed with sleep.

“You’re still awake?” “Yeah,” Brandon says, his voice raw yet gentle. 

She lifted her head just enough to look at him. “You, okay?”

He hesitated before answering. “I don’t know.” His gaze flicked toward the window, then back to her. “I keep thinking about my family. About yours. About what’s waiting for us when this is over—if it ever is. I just… I don’t know if I can keep everyone safe.” Abby’s eyes searched his face, older and steadier than her years. “You don’t have to carry it all by yourself. We must stick together. That’s the only way we’ll make it.” Brandon smiles, so wise for being so young.

Aleron hissed in his skull, louder now. She’s lying. She’ll sell you out like the rest. Break her before she breaks you.

Brandon’s hand curled into a fist against the couch cushion. The words pressed at him, a black tide threatening to drag him under. His voice was tight when he asked, “Why’d you tell them the truth about Aleron? You didn’t have to. You could’ve kept it to yourself.” The words come out, but they are hard to say. 

Abby didn’t hesitate. Her voice was small but firm. “Because lies only make him stronger. That’s what he feeds on. The truth is the only thing that beats him.” The words cut through Brandon like a flare in the dark. He remembered Lang’s voice earlier, calm and certain: We must face our sins. That’s how you strip Aleron of power. The grandfather clock ticked again, but the whisper behind it wasn’t as sharp. Not as strong. Aleron’s voice has faded. 

Brandon looked at Abby and, for the first time in hours, a fragile smile broke across his face. “You’re right. You’re right.” Before she could answer, a buzz shattered the stillness. Rhodes jerked awake by the fire, fumbling for his phone. Evelyn stirred, startled, and Warren raised his head at the window. Lang opened his eyes without a word, already alert.

Rhodes squinted at the glowing screen. “Another notification,” he muttered. His voice was rough, his expression pale. “Instagram. A live.” Hart sat up, the whole room’s heart pounding. “Riki and Stacy again?” Lang asks. Rhodes turned the phone so they could see. “Yes, Riki Bella. Again.” Lang leaned forward, his tone low and urgent. “Play it.” Rhodes hesitated, thumb hovering above the screen. The light washed the room in a sickly glow. Brandon’s stomach tightened, his mind whispering that whatever waited on the other side would be worse than silence.

Chapter Seventy-Nine- Nine 

The livestream opens with a howling wind blowing off the dark Pacific Ocean, making the mic crackle like a cursed speaker. The camera jolts, then steadies on three swaying corpses—Stacy, Eli, and Donald—dangling from the gallows like grotesque marionettes. Their deaths are not dignified. They are staged. Performed. A warning. 

Stacy’s head lolls at an impossible angle, hair snarled around the noose like weeds choking a branch. Eli’s eyes bulge wide, frozen mid-panic, catching moonlight like marbles. Donald drips blood in slow, steady pats that echo faintly against the wood. The ropes creak in rhythm, a sick metronome for the dead. The bodies blow gently in the wind. The camera zooms closer. A fly crawls lazily from Stacy’s nostril.

The camera whirls toward a crowd, gathered under flickering streetlamps—faces smeared with blood, eyes black with devotion. Monique and Dana Scully, grinning like jackals, gore crusting their weapons. Mary sits next to them, blank-eyed and more lifeless than the three dead bodies.

Riki’s voice glides in, onto the audio, like sugar dipped in lye.

“I’m back, babes. Sorry about the lost feed before; we had some technical difficulties, but they have been snuffed out”. The camera whips back to Stacy’s slack face. Riki coos.

“Stace started a trend and took it too far—classic influencer problem. Ten out of ten for commitment, zero out of ten for survival instincts. Say hi to your fans, queen.” The lens kisses Eli’s cheek. “Eli thought you were ‘ride or die’ was metaphorical. Oops.” The camera moves to Donald: “And Donny—sweetheart—pro tip: when you smell your own fear? Don’t share it with the class.”

The comments begin to climb up the screen feverishly:

@mamabear: CALL 911 THIS ISN’T FUNNY@urbanlegendz: staged as hell lol #prank@grim_fan_13: Aleron loves us!!! #AleronArmy@IZZYsister: TURN THIS OFF@pumpkinpolice: it’s a Halloween activation, chill@BandDad62: I see my son’s jacket. Where is my son? @mod_report: flagged for violence@riki_but_real: slay ☠️

Riki giggles, the sound brittle as glass, as her lungs sound like they are full of something.

“Sensitive content warning, babes. If you’re squeamish, scroll. If you’re real, stay.”

The camera stutters, then flips. Riki fills the frame—and what’s left of her face tries to smile.

She is wrong. Earth-caked lashes clump above one bright ocean eye; the other bulges milky, riding too loose in its socket. Dirt veils her hair in wet ropes. A hole yawns in her belly—stitched by grave worms and luck—her intestines glistening like a handful of licorice that refuses to let go. Skin sloughs at the jaw; teeth grin in places lips can’t cover anymore—steam ghosts from her in the cold. “Miss me?” she purrs, breath sour with the rot that made her. “Daddy Aleron did me a solid. New life, who dis? I’m unbothered, I’m unburied, I’m un-killable—and I’ve got soooo much work to do.” She winks; the loose eye lolls. “Content calendars stacked: collabs, cleanses, cleavings. Drop a skull emoji if you’re in.”

The chat fractures:

@SundaySchoolVic: DEMONS ARE REAL REPENT@candy_apple_ari: this is fake I can see prosthetics@JUGGLE4JESTER: HAIL ALERON 🔥@StopThisNow: where are the police? @Bandmom91: That’s Ryan’s trumpet on the ground. Oh god, oh god

Riki tilts the phone until the gallows fills the frame again. “Audience vote was overwhelming, babes. Democracy works if you work it.” She laughs, high and mean. “And if you’re still hate-watching from home? Don’t worry. We’re taking this show on the road soon.”

She blows a kiss with a hand missing two nails.

The stream continues as Riki goes on, with more comments.

“Shut it off,” Brandon says.

Rhodes’ thumb slams the screen dark. The house exhales like lungs released from a chokehold. Somewhere, the grandfather clock keeps count: tick, tock, tick.

The silence is eerie. You could hear a pin drop in the house. 

Brandon—bandaged leg trembling, face gray, sweat forms on his brow. Abby looks up at him, her hand small against his forearm, and gives him a brave, lopsided smile that has no business being there on a night like this.

He swallows. “Aleron came to me,” he says. “Told me to kill Lang.”

Warren straightens by the window. Hart’s eyes cut to Lang; Lang doesn’t flinch.

“And I—” Brandon’s jaw works. He forces it open. “I thought about it.”

The room goes very still.

“I thought about it because I’m dirty.” He looks at Abby, then away. “Candy was her name. Ashe was a runaway—barely twenty-one. I told myself I was saving her. I was saving myself. I took what I wanted. She got pregnant. I panicked. I bought drugs, knowing that they were laced. She died in a motel bed. My… our baby died with her.”

Abby’s breath catches like a bird in a fist. She is young, but she still understands what Brandon just said. Hart’s knuckles go white on the recliner arms. Warren looks at the floor. Rhodes stares at Brandon as if he’s forgotten how to blink.

Brandon nods once, as if confirming a verdict to himself. “I’ve lived with it pressing on my chest every day and night since. But tonight—Aleron pressed harder. He said Kill Lang, because he will betray me. By killing Lang, my secret would be safe, my family would be safe, and Abby’s would be safe”. His voice frays. “I almost did.”

No one moves toward him. No one moves away.

Lang breathes in, slowly. His voice is low and steady when it comes. “Thank you,” he says. “For saying it out loud.”

Brandon’s mouth trembles. He nods, once, helpless and ashamed.

Lang looks around. “He is a parasite. He lives in our rot. Lies, shame, hate—those are his entry wounds. He became his strongest after he attached to John Connolly and bent him to his will; now he is almost unstoppable. We can see what he can do now. Westport is only the beginning. If we cauterize Aleron, he has nowhere to feed. We tell the truth even if it burns us.” A beat. “Especially if it burns us.” There was a cold silence in the room as the people took in Lang’s words. 

Warren’s voice scratches the silence. “Then it’s my turn.”

He doesn’t look at anyone. He looks through the glass into the night.

“’2009,” he says. “Qalat al-whatever—outside Ramadi. Intel stated that our HVT was positioned on a compound edge. Thermal muzz and drone pings lined up. I signed off on the fire mission. That house wasn’t a safehouse.” His voice bends, but it does not break. “It was a family. Mother. Father. Three kids. The strike took the roof. The rest was…” He draws a deep breath. “I made it worse. I wrote it up as if the target had relocated. We put a weapon in a dead man’s hand and took a picture so it would make sense to the people who look for sense. The boys on my team got to sleep. I stopped for years. I still see the littlest one’s shoes by the door. Pink. Cartoon cat on the toe.”

He finally turns—meets their eyes without asking for rescue. “Besides my team, no one else knew until now. The grandfather clock hammers in the background like a judge banging a gavel in a courtroom. Abby shuts her eyes.

Rhodes’ voice is hoarse. “Me next.”

He keeps his gaze on the rug.

“I was sixteen. My brother was eighteen. We were drunk. He was supposed to drive. I took the keys because I wanted to show him, I wasn’t a kid anymore, that I could drive no problem, even drunk.” A shaky breath. “We hit her in the crosswalk outside the pharmacy. She was pregnant. I saw the bag fly, and the prenatal vitamins scattered everywhere, like little white pills in the snow. We stopped long enough to see her move her hand. Then I drove. I told my brother that if he told anyone, I’d say it was him. He hasn’t been right since. He has been drinking like a fish since that night; no rehab helps. He holds that secret to this day, knowing it would ruin my upward movement in the force if he told. The drinking helps him to cope; he is resentful”. 

Rhodes finally looks up. There’s nothing in his face but ruin. “I check the obituaries every year on that date. I still don’t know her name.”

No one speaks. Shame sits down with the group now, makes itself at home.

Hart’s voice comes small at first, then steadier. “My turn.” Lang is shocked; Hart had said in the car before Al’s that she had no hidden secrets. 

She’s staring at the wall like the past is projected on it. “The last thing I said to my dad was ‘I hate you.’ We’d argued about something I cannot even remember now. He tried to hug me before I left. I shrugged him off. I slammed the door. The Jester got them before I could say I was sorry to him.” Her breath hitches. “He died thinking his daughter despised him.”

Abby slips off the couch and walks over to her. Hart doesn’t see her until small arms encircle her waist. Then she folds—one hand at the nape of Abby’s neck, the other across the back of Abby’s skull, protecting her from a world that keeps proving it can’t be trusted. 

Lang looks over at Hart and Abby. He exhales. “Izzy,” he says, as if he needs to remind himself not to run from the name. “I was her doctor. I crossed a line. I told myself it was love. It was an abuse of power. She died by her own hand because I called it off. People send fruit baskets for certain deaths. They don’t for those. I wrote letters to her parents, which I never mailed.” He looks at Brandon. Then Warren. Then Rhodes. “I have said it before. I will keep saying it until I’m free of it or dead.”

Silence lies between them, heavy as a body. The house holds it. So do they.

Abby pulls back from Hart as she says, “Clayton Johnston, the gas attendant, he lived. I believe he was honest about his demons; he acknowledged them and took responsibility for them. There was nothing for Aleron to use to twist and control him, so he had to let him go.” Lang nods his head and looks at each of them. “Evil needs cracks to crawl through. Honesty keeps it out. Why the church has confession, keeps the devil at bay. 

Brandon’s shoulders sag, some invisible tourniquet loosening. “Then I’m done hiding.”

Warren wipes at his eyes with the heel of his hand. Rhodes stares hard at the window until his jaw unclamps.

No one says, “I forgive you.” No one says, “it’s okay.” They don’t lie to each other and themselves—not anymore; it is up to God, the universe, whatever they believe in, to forgive now. They have just breathed the same air in the same room and did not run. They could not run anymore if they wanted to live. They needed to sit with their sins and own them.

The clock ticks in the background, a reminder that time was slipping away. 

Abby leans into Hart again, small and fierce. The girl’s gaze drifts to the dark, to the place where night is thicker, where Aleron’s voice can slip between the cracks.

For a second, she smiles—brave for them, not for herself.

Then her eyes unfocused, and something cold brushes the inside of her skull.

“Little one, Aleron voices hisses in her head. 

She doesn’t answer. She presses closer to Hart.

‘We are not done yet, you and me. The voices seep into Abby’s brain. 

The house is quiet—but not the peaceful kind. It is the quiet of a place braced for something it still can’t see. And somewhere behind that quiet, in a corner of the night that refuses light, a question waits with its patient, hungry mouth still waiting to feed.

Chapter Ninety

The bodies sway in the October wind like grotesque marionettes.

Stacy, Eli, and Donald hang from the gallows beams, their corpses caught in a slow, unsteady rhythm. Stacy’s limp hair flutters over her face, sticking in clumps to her lips. Eli’s head lolls to one side, the wind catching his broken jaw, so it clicks with every gust, like a toy trying to speak. Donald’s shoes scrape against the support post with a faint squeal, a sound that worms under the skin, as though he’s still searching for a footing he’ll never find.

The night carries their thump… thump… thump like a heartbeat that refuses to stop.

Beneath them, Riki Bella is in her element. Enjoying every minute in her TikTok glory. 

The cracked screen of her phone casts a sickly glow over her face as she livestreams to a growing audience. Her undead grin splits her decaying face wide; strips of skin pull away from her jaw as she talks. She moves with manic energy, circling the bodies like she’s giving her followers a backstage tour of a Halloween haunt at an amusement park. 

“My babies! I hope you’re enjoying this spooky Halloween evening,” she shrieks into the camera, her voice high and sugar-sweet. “I hope you’re enjoying this exclusive content on —the Traitor Trio hanging, live and unfiltered. Stacy, Eli, and Donald. Say hiiii—just don’t hang around”. She giggles at her own joke.

The camera zooms in on Stacy’s face; Riki grabs Stacy’s slack jaw and wiggles it like a ventriloquist puppet. “Help meeeeee,” she says in a falsetto. Then she drops it, so the jaw clacks shut.

She plans to Eli. “This one begged for forgiveness. Aww, precious. Baby, but NOOOOOOO”. #TooLittleTooLate.”

The camera pans to Donald. Riki zooms in on his half-lidded eyes and whispers, “Fun fact: he pissed and shit himself before the drop. I smelled it. You guys smelled it? Smash that likes if you did!” She breaks into a laugh that curdles the air.

The comments fly up the screen in rapid fire:

@kaybby This is fake af 💀@adams1019 nahhh she’s committed to the bit wtf@mommydearest Someone call the cops??#JesterGang #WestportMassacre # HangingWithMyBesties @Slwiaiskingt Halloween, chill. She’s an actress.@bpeters, ok, but why does the dude look dead? @nnnnnnnnnn 😈🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥

Riki kicks one of Donald’s shoes for comedic effect. His corpse rocks violently, spraying a thin line of blood down onto the gallows floor. She cackles. “That’s what I call engagement, bitches! Aleron gives new life, and I give you killer content.”

She turns the camera on herself.

The screen glitches as her full face comes into focus. Riki has decayed more since the fresh air has hit her dead skin. Her flesh hangs in damp sheets. One bulging eye dangles on a gray nerve, swinging with each manic tilt of her head. Her mouth gapes too wide, cracked flesh stretching back toward her ears. Thick black ichor oozes down her chin. She presses her face close to the lens, whispering:

“Yeah, I died. Boo-hoo. But Aleron gave me a second chance—and I plan to spend it killing every one of you sweet little viewers. Stick around; Phase Two is just getting started. #Reborn #BloodyAndBlessed.”

She licks the camera lens, leaving a greasy smear of decay. The feed explodes with comments. 

Sheriff Taylor watches her from the far corner of the gallows.

Tall, thin, and unnervingly composed, he leans against a support post, trench coat snapping softly in the wind. His brown sheriff’s uniform is buttoned up to the throat, the brass star pinned over his heart glinting under the streetlamps. His cowboy hat sits low, casting a shadow over his gaunt face and dead black eyes. The boots on his feet are dusty and cracked, like they’ve been walking this cursed street for decades.

He doesn’t join Riki’s performance, but he watches like a man admiring the theater of cruelty. He finds it rather amusing how she is both entertaining and threatening him at the same time. Taylor is happy that Aleron decided to bring Riki back after the Jester took her life in an act of impulsivity. 

Taylor feels it.

The hairs on the back of his neck prickle. The air shifts — heavier, colder. His instincts, honed from years of police work, whisper that someone is behind him.

He straightens slowly, hand drifting toward his revolver. Turns.

The Jester is standing right behind him.

As if he had just materialized out of thin air. 

Taylor jerks back slightly. “Jesus Christ,” he breathes hard. “You weren’t there a damn second ago. Hate when you pull that shit”. 

The Jester tilts his head, his rubber mask gleaming faintly in the lamplight. He says nothing at first, “Just look at Taylor.” His voice is low and smooth when he finally speaks, as silk pulled across teeth.

“Aleron wants you, Fox. Daily. Return to the Lawson house. It’s time to fetch the girl.”

Taylor blinks. “Abby.”

The Jester nods.

Taylor glances back toward Riki. She’s perched now on the railing, phone angled up at the three bodies. She’s using Eli’s dangling leg as a prop, narrating like a deranged makeup influencer: “Okay, babes, so first you want to hang your enemies’ right side up for maximum impact to the enemy’s neck. Riki lifts the camera to Eli’s neck, where the rope is tight. From certain angles, the rope appears embedded in his neck. Riki zooms in on the rope and on the bruises on Eli’s neck. “Look at this texture! Soooo aesthetic.” She runs the camera up and down Eli’s corpse. 

Taylor looks back at the Jester. “Why her? I thought Monique was the one meant for Ivy’s comeback tour.”

The Jester steps closer. “Monique is the vessel. But Aleron has now seen the sigil. The girl bears it. The doll at the estate sale connected with her. It marked her. She’s seen the past. She’s seen what comes next. Aleron understands now. Abby isn’t just connected to him, to us”. The Jester pauses. His voice dips lower. “She could be the vessel for Aleron himself.”

Taylor’s interest sharpens like a blade. “So, what do we do with the parents?”

The Jester’s answer is soft, predatory. “Pick one. Use them as bait. Love draws blood deeper than fear.”

A scream rips into the cold air, like a hot knife. 

Taylor turns sharply.

At the base of the gallows, Riki has turned her mania toward one of the crowd members—a middle-aged man who had lingered too close to her. Monique and Dana Scully are already moving with her, grins wide, blades in hand.

The attack is immediate and frenzied. Riki and her goons fall on him like wolves, clawing and stabbing. His screams are short, guttural. His arms flail, catching nothing but air. Monique drives her blade into his ribs with a joyous squeal. Dana swings a bat at his legs, and they break on impact. 

Riki straddles his chest, laughing into her phone the entire time. “Say hi to the chat, loser!” she screams as she plunges her fingers into his face and pulls.

Blood geysers upward.

The spray arcs into the air, splattering across the three hanging corpses. Red streaks run down their torsos, dripping from toes and fingers, spattering the gallows boards below. Stacy’s limp body sways, her cheek now streaked with fresh blood. Eli’s clicking jaw is slick and red again, as if death has been reanimated into performance art.

Taylor watches it all.

And smiles.

Slow, wide, and disturbingly genuine.

Taylor turns to speak to the Jester, but he is already gone. 

Chapter Ninety-One

The Lawson House — 10:45 p.m.

For the first time in hours, the house feels almost normal.

The kitchen lights cast a soft yellow glow over the room as a pot of water boils on the stove. Hart stands at the counter, stirring sauce in a pan. At the same time, Lang leans nearby, chopping onions with the deliberate calm that only a practiced mind can muster under pressure.

Abby sits on the couch, legs tucked under her, watching Brandon with curious eyes.

“I’m starving,” she had announced earlier, rubbing her belly. “Mom and Dad always keep pasta in the kitchen. We could make some.”

So, they did.

The aroma of simmering tomatoes fills the air. Warren is at the table cleaning his rifle, Rhodes is checking his phone, and for once, there’s laughter instead of fear.

Brandon leans back against the couch, wincing slightly as he adjusts his injured leg. Abby scoots closer to him, her eyes bright despite everything.

“Brandon,” she says seriously, “do you know what Labubu is?”

He blinks. “Uh… La-what now?”

She gasps, like he’s committed some cultural crime. “You don’t know Labubu?”

Rhodes looks up from his phone. “Yeah, dude. Even I’ve seen those creepy little toys on TikTok.”

Brandon raises his hands defensively. “I’ve been a little busy not dying lately, okay?”

Abby giggles — giggles — and it’s a sound that cuts through the gloom like sunlight through fog. “Labubu is this little monster dude with a huge smile and sharp teeth, and he’s ugly but also super cute? They make figures of him, and you can collect them. There’s… a ghost Labubu, a pirate one, a Christmas one, even a glow-in-the-dark zombie version!”

Warren snorts from the table. “Sounds like my ex-wife.”

They all laugh, even Hart from the kitchen. Abby bounces a little in her seat, thrilled to have an audience. “I really wanted the Halloween Labubu this year. He’s dressed like a vampire, and his cape has little bat wings, and—”

“—and he’s probably fifty bucks online,” Rhodes mutters.

“More,” Abby says proudly. “Limited edition.”

Brandon grins despite himself. “Sounds terrifying. I’ll stick to socks for Christmas.”

The pasta finishes boiling. Lang drains it with his usual methodical precision, while Hart pours the sauce over the noodles. She stirs it quickly, and the smell makes everyone’s stomach growl.

They gather at the table, Warren and Rhodes helping Brandon hobble over to his seat. It feels like some semblance of family.

They eat. For a while, there’s nothing but the sound of forks scraping plates and the quiet tick of the grandfather clock down the hall.

Abby beams. “Hart, Dr. Lang, this is so good.”

Hart blushes a little. “Well, don’t tell anyone. I’ve got a reputation to uphold.”

Lang gives a small, pleased nod. “Thank you, Abby.”

Warren mumbles around a mouthful of spaghetti. “Better than MREs.”

Rhodes points at his plate. “Ten outta ten, would eat again before imminent death.”

Laughter follows. For a second, it feels like they’re just people, not survivors in the jaws of something ancient and cruel.

Then Abby goes still.

Her fork pauses halfway to her mouth. A shiver runs through her, so sharp it rattles the chair. Her eyes go wide, staring past everyone into some unseen void.

Lang notices first. “Abby?” His voice is gentle but firm.

Hart’s fork clatters onto her plate. “Sweetheart, what’s wrong?”

Abby doesn’t answer. Her breathing slows. Her pupils dilate.

The temperature drops.

A faint, creeping cold bleeds into the kitchen, crawling over their skin like invisible frost.

The lights flicker.

Then go out.

The grandfather clock ticks steadily in the dark.

Tick.Tock. Tick.

Something moves upstairs.

Heavy. Deliberate.

Warren is on his feet in seconds, rifle swinging up toward the stairwell. “Contact—upstairs!”

The sound grows louder: boots dragging across old, worn floorboards, shifting weight. Lang moves beside Hart. Abby sits motionless, eyes wide, like a doll.

Tick.Tock.

The noise stops.

The silence stretches thin.

Then the window nearest Warren explodes inward with a violent CRASH!

A dark figure hurtles through the glass, slamming Warren to the floor with bone-cracking force—his rifle skitters across the linoleum.

Before anyone can react, another shape smashes through the kitchen window, colliding with Rhodes and Warren—shards of glass spray through the air like glittering knives.

When the figures rise, their faces are cold, their eyes black. Daily. Fox.

Upstairs, boots descend the staircase.

Taylor appears, descending slowly, like a villain taking the stage. His hat is tilted low; his grin carved in shadow.

Hart pulls Abby close. The girl trembles violently now.

Taylor’s voice slithers through the dark. “Well, isn’t this cozy?”

Warren stirs on the floor, blood trickling down his forehead.

Taylor steps closer, his boots thudding on the wood. “I’ll enjoy wiping all of you from this miserable little house. Aleron’s will is coming, and you’re nothing but kindling for the fire.”

Hart tightens her hold on Abby. Lang crouches low, eyes scanning for anything he can use.

Taylor steps closer.

Warren leaps for the rifle—

Taylor spins on a pin, bringing his boot down in a vicious STOMP.

The impact crushes Warren’s skull like a melon.

Blood geysers up, splattering the walls, the floor, and even the underside of the table. The sound is wet and final.

Rhodes screams and charges, grabbing a knife from the table. He drives it into Fox’s chest—

Fox looks down at the blade. Unfazed.

Rhodes’ face shifts from rage to “oh fuck” in an instant.

Fox reaches out, grabs Rhodes by the jaw, and in one smooth, horrifying motion—

Rips his throat out.

Blood erupts in a scarlet fountain as Rhodes collapses, gurgling. Fox calmly raises the torn throat to his mouth and bites into it, chewing as Rhodes dies on the floor.

Taylor surveys the carnage, voice cold. “Any more heroics?”

Brandon and Hart both shake their heads slowly. Lang is still on the floor, hands clenching a salt shaker he’d grabbed when the windows broke.

Taylor approaches Abby, his shadow swallowing her small frame. “Little one,” he says softly. “Come here.”

Abby breaks Hart’s grip and walks to him like she’s in a trance. Taylor wraps an arm around her possessively, enjoying every second.

“Aleron is the new god,” Taylor declares. “And soon the world will see his wrath. You could join us, Hart. You too, Brandon. Think about it.”

“Go to hell,” Hart spits.

Taylor laughs. Daily and Fox step forward, eager, almost trembling with anticipation.

Taylor opens his mouth to say the word—

Lang bursts upright, unscrewing the salt shaker, and flings a cloud of salt into Fox and Daily’s faces. Both recoil with an unearthly hiss.

Taylor snarls. Fox recovers first and lunges.

Lang throws another handful of salt into Fox’s face—

Brandon whips out his gun and fires.

The bullet hits Fox in the side of the head with a wet crack. He crashes backward into the stove. The pot of hot water topples, splashing across his body. Fox spasms once. Then goes still.

Daily bolts for the window. Lang flings the last of the salt but misses. Daily vaults through the broken frame and disappears into the night.

Hart turns—Taylor and Abby are gone. 

“Fuck,” she breathes.

Lang meets her eyes, face pale but steady.

Hart straightens. “We don’t have much time left. We need to move—and move fast.”

Chapter Ninety-Two

The Lawson House — 11:08 p.m.

The house smells like blood and boiled pasta.

Rhodes lies sprawled in a dark, spreading pool, his throat ripped away. Warren’s crushed skull has painted the floor and part of the cabinet a gruesome shade of red. Fox’s body is still half-slumped against the stove, steam curling from the spilled hot water pooling beneath him.

Brandon’s men. His friends. Dead

He wants to stop—just for a moment—to let the weight of their deaths sink in. But there’s no time. Not anymore.

He swallows hard, forcing his gaze away from Warren’s obliterated face.

Hart and Lang stand over Fox’s corpse. Brandon joins them, leaning slightly on the counter to take weight off his injured leg.

Fox’s head is tilted at a grotesque angle, the gunshot wound blown clean through the side of his skull. Bone fragments and a fan of dark blood stain the cabinet behind him. His mouth hangs slack, teeth pink with splatter. Steam drifts through the air, mingling with the smell of iron and cooked flesh.

Brandon exhales through his nose. “You were right, Lang. Salt did the trick. We should’ve used the salt guns from jump.”

Hart shakes her head, exhausted.

Lang crouches beside Fox’s body, studying the black veins spiderwebbing under the dead man’s skin. “It repels them. Makes them vulnerable to other attack means,” he replies evenly. “That’s why the shot worked. Otherwise…” He doesn’t finish the sentence. He doesn’t have to.

Hart straightens, brushing her hair out of her face. Her jaw tightens. “We need to get our shit together. They have Abby now.”

Brandon’s expression hardens. “Yeah.”

He pushes himself upright, testing his weight on the injured leg. A sharp bolt of pain shoots up his thigh, making his vision blur for a heartbeat. He clamps his jaw shut, refusing to scream for air.

He limps toward Warren’s body, each step dragging a hiss from between his teeth. He stops halfway, staring again at the wreckage of his fallen coworkers.

The room goes quiet.

Brandon bows his head. Lang and Hart follow suit.

The silence is heavy—not peaceful, but reverent.

After a few seconds, Brandon moves again, walking gingerly. Hart watches him with concern. “Brandon… what are you doing?”

He doesn’t answer immediately, too focused on controlling his breathing, willing himself not to collapse. Finally, he looks back at them, eyes steel-hard. “We stick with the plan.”

Lang and Hart exchange a look. Lang voices the question they’re both thinking. “How are we going to do it without two people?”

Brandon paces slowly, getting used to the pain. Each step steadies him. He stops and turns to face them fully.

“Hart,” he says, voice low but firm, “you go in like planned. Pretend you’re ready to take Aleron’s offer. Keep their attention.”

The tension in the room thickens.

“Lang and I,” Brandon continues, “will take the back roads to the garage, where the doll is—like Warren suggested. We’ll hit it from the flank and destroy that thing.”

Lang nods immediately, clicking his tongue in that thoughtful way he does. “Yes. We need to do this. If we don’t…” His eyes flick toward the darkened hallway where Abby was last taken. “…then we don’t know what happens to her. Or her parents. Or the rest of us.”

Hart’s shoulders rise and fall with a deep breath. She nods slowly. “Okay. Let’s end this.”

Brandon limps toward Warren’s body. The sight makes his stomach turn: the crushed head, the spray of blood, the pulped mess that used to be his friend’s face. He kneels stiffly, swallowing down bile as he reaches for the key loop still attached to Warren’s belt. His fingers come away slick.

He stands, clutching the keys, breathing through his nose to keep from gagging.

“We should cover them,” he mutters.

Hart and Lang both nod.

Together, they find spare blankets and sheets from the hallway closet. One by one, they drape the bodies. Rhodes first covers the gaping wound and blank eyes. Then Fox, whose monstrous form looks disturbingly human in death. Finally, Warren. Brandon covers himself, jaw clenched, forcing his hands to stay steady.

The grandfather clock ticks in the distance. Tick. Tock. Tick.

Their shadows stretch long across the kitchen floor. The house feels emptier now, like the walls know what they’ve lost.

When the last body is covered, Brandon pockets the keys and limps toward the front hallway. Hart shoulders her pack. Lang adjusts his coat and checks his remaining salt supply.

No one says it aloud, but they all feel the dread coiling tighter around them as they move closer to the endgame.

They’re three against many now.

But they’re all that’s left.

Chapter Ninety-Two

Abby comes to with a ragged gasp. The first thing she feels is the rope—rough and biting—cinched tight around her wrists. The second is the cold.

The wind sweeps through Westport’s Main Street like a ghost’s breath, carrying the faint stink of blood, smoke, and something sweet rotting. She blinks groggily, vision swimming until the shapes above her sharpen.

They’re hanging.

Stacy. Eli. Donald. Three dark silhouettes sway gently from the gallows, their limp bodies creaking in the wind like broken marionettes. Their feet dangle inches above the platform, shadows stretching long and skeletal across the blood-smeared boards. A cold shiver cuts through Abby’s spine as she watches the ropes groan and twist, their corpses gently knocking against one another with a soft, thud… thud… thud, like a morbid wind chime.

Her eyes drift downward—And she sees what’s left of the man Riki and her goons had attacked.

He lies twisted on the ground below the gallows, his chest cracked open like a split log. His ribcage juts upward in jagged arcs, meat peeled away to expose organs that have been savaged, torn, and left glistening in the moonlight. One arm is gone at the shoulder; his jaw is ripped nearly in half, hanging loose by tendon. Blood fans across the wooden platform in dark streaks, some of it sprayed onto the boots of the three hanged bodies.

The street below is empty now—the jeering, chanting crowd that had filled it earlier has dispersed into the night like carrion birds. What remains is devastation—overturned chairs.

Debris is scattered across Main Street: broken bottles, scraps of fabric, and costume masks. The corpses from the massacre earlier still line the gutters like discarded refuse, limbs tangled and bent—blood pools in cracks of the pavement, black and sticky under the moonlight. Shattered storefronts stare blankly like broken teeth. A paper Halloween decoration flutters weakly from a lamppost, soaked half red.

The silence is wrong. Thick. Expectant.

Boots clunk against the wood of the gallows.

Sheriff Taylor ascends the gallows slowly, deliberately, each step echoing in the cold air. He looks more sinister than before—his uniform smeared with blood, the brown sheriff’s trench coat flapping against his thin frame like a vulture’s wings. His badge gleams dully against the moonlight, his cowboy hat tipped low. His eyes burn with cruel irritation.

“Well,” Taylor says, voice low, coiling around her like a snake. “Look who’s finally awake.”

He stops in front of her, staring Abby down. His smile is thin and mean. “You know, little one… I’m really pissed off. One of my men—Fox—got himself killed by your little friends. That doesn’t sit right with me. So, here’s what’s gonna happen. I’m gonna make sure they pay for that. Slowly.”

Abby stares back, trembling but refusing to look away.

Behind Taylor, boots sound on the stairs again. Officer Daily emerges from the shadows, dragging Alice Lawson onto the gallows.

“Mommy!”

Abby’s heart lurches as she sees her. Alice’s face is streaked with dried blood and tears, one eye already purpling from a blow. There’s dirt in her hair; her hands bound behind her back. She looks exhausted, broken, and terrified.

Daily shoves Alice forward. She stumbles, nearly falling. Taylor grips her arm, smiling coldly.

“Family reunion time,” he says with a mock flourish, then leans close to Alice’s ear and whispers something Abby can’t hear. Alice stiffens, eyes widening. She nods slowly, and a look of fear is on her face. 

Taylor pats her cheek like she’s a pet. “You two have a good talk.”

With that, he turns and descends the steps, closely following the usual path. Their boots fade into the silence, leaving Abby and Alice alone beneath the hanging corpses.

Abby twists in her bindings to look at her mom. “What… what did he say to you?”

Alice hesitates. Fear flickers across her face. She looks down at the blood-streaked boards, avoiding Abby’s gaze.

“Mommy. Talk to me. Hart and Lang are here with a man named Brandon and his team of officers. They came to our house and kept me safe after Daddy, and you were kidnapped. They have a plan to save us. I’m sure they will be here soon”. Abby does not remember that Warren and Rhodes were killed earlier due to the trance she was put in by Aleron at the kitchen table before the attack. 

Finally, Alice’s voice breaks through, soft and shaking. “Abby… I don’t know if Hart, Brandon, or anyone can save us this time.”

“Of course they can,” Abby says quickly, desperate. “They’re coming for us. I know they are.”

Alice shakes her head slowly. “Your father tried to escape. They caught him.” Her voice cracks. “He’s in bad shape, Abby. They beat him so badly. I don’t… I don’t know if he’s going to survive.”

The words hit Abby like a hammer. Her breath catches in her throat. “No… no, no, he’s okay. He must be.”

Alice looks at her daughter, tears streaking fresh paths down her bruised cheeks. “I don’t think he is, sweetheart.”

Abby’s world tilts. The ropes, the blood, the gallows—all fade for a heartbeat as the image of her father, broken and dying, fills her mind. She bites back a sob.

Alice gives her a moment. Then her voice lowers, hesitant but urgent. “The Jester came to me. He said… If you allow Aleron in, he’ll heal your father. Make him whole again.”

Abby blinks, confused. “What? What does that even mean?”

Alice’s eyes flick toward the empty street, then back to Abby. She hesitates again, then says it. “It means… Aleron would take you—your body. You wouldn’t be you anymore. You’d be him. But he would keep your father alive, and I would be safe. We would be his parents. He promised that no harm would come to us as we care for him”. 

The words hang in the air, cold and suffocating.

Abby stares at her mom, heart pounding. “What do you think I should do?”

Alice’s eyes glisten. She looks like her old self for a heartbeat—the kind mother who tucked Abby in at night. But then something flickers. A hesitation too long. A stillness too rigid.

“I think,” Alice says carefully, “you should do it.”

Abby stares at her. The words are simple, but they chill her to the bone. There’s something off in Alice’s tone—subtle, almost imperceptible, like a puppet moving just slightly out of sync with the words the puppeteer is saying.

Abby’s gaze drifts past her mother, toward the bodies swinging in the cool air again. The ropes creak. Stacy’s broken neck tilts grotesquely as the wind pushes her body sideways. The dead man’s viscera glisten below like spilled entrails in a butcher’s gutter.

Her mind spins. If she says yes, it might mean her father is still alive. She could save others, too. But she knows what “yes” really means.

The night presses in, cold and cruel.

And Abby Lawson, bound to the gallows under the gaze of dead heroes and demons, is left to plan no child should ever face.

Chapter Ninety-Three

The command van rolls through the darkened streets like a prowling beast, its headlights cutting thin, trembling beams across cracked asphalt and dead lawns still strewn with Halloween debris. Brandon grips the steering wheel tightly, his knuckles pale, and the pain in his injured leg radiates up his thigh with each bump in the road. Beside him, Lang stares grimly ahead, jaw set. Hart rides a shotgun, a coin purse of salt tucked into her jacket pocket, and a small, gritty insurance policy she prays she won’t have to use.

No one speaks for a long time. The only sounds are the engine’s low growl and the faint rattle of loose decorations outside—ghosts and paper skeletons tapping against houses as the wind toys with them.

Hart finally breaks the silence. “We’re really doing this.” Lang’s voice is quiet but firm. “We don’t have another choice.” Brandon doesn’t look at them. “This either ends tonight… or we do.”

They all know it. The plan hinges on Hart convincing the Jester and Aleron that she’s ready to join them—to take the offer, kill John Connolly, and become their new avatar. If she fails, they die. If she succeeds, there’s no guarantee Aleron will play by any rules but his own.

The van slows to a crawl. Brandon checks the crude hand-drawn map Warren made before his death. “This is it,” he mutters. “Back road to the garage starts a few blocks down. Main Street’s straight ahead.”

Hart exhales slowly, staring down the dark stretch of road leading to the nightmare’s heart. “This is where I get out.”

The van stops. The night presses in around them.

They all get a little quieter.

Lang turns toward her, eyes softening. “Evelyn.” Hart meets his gaze. There’s a weight in his look—fatherly, fierce, terrified. She forces a smile. “Hey. Don’t go soft on me now. “I’m proud of you,” Lang says. Hart’s throat tightens. She reaches out and grips his hand. “Thank you. For everything.”

Brandon clears his throat. “Kick his ass, Hart.” She gives him a quick nod, then pushes the van door open. Cold air floods in.

Hart steps down onto the street. She adjusts her jacket, checks the coin purse of salt, and looks back one last time. Lang watches her like a father watching his daughter head off to war. Brandon’s hands rest on the wheel, knuckles white again.

“Good luck,” Lang says. “You too,” she replies.

Then she closes the door, and the van rumbles softly as Brandon turns it down the back road toward the garage. Hart stands for a moment, watching the red taillights vanish into the dark. Then she turns toward Main Street and starts walking.

The Halloween decorations are still up, but they look out of place now. Paper ghosts hang limp from porches, their edges tattered and stained by the damp night. Orange string lights flicker weakly, some broken, some swinging loose in the wind. Plastic jack-o’-lanterns grin from stoops with dead batteries inside, their toothy smiles half-shrouded in shadow.

Hart walks alone down the empty street, boots crunching on stray candy wrappers and fallen leaves. Her breath fogs in the cold air.

She can see Main Street in the distance—the faint outline of the gallows rising like a black tooth against the night sky.

Her mind drifts. She remembers Halloween nights past—laughing with her best friend’s kids as they ran from house to house, her dad carving pumpkins on the porch, pretending to be the “Pumpkin King” and jumping out to scare trick-or-treaters.

Halloween had been his favorite. And the night he died.

The memory hits sharply. Hart remembers their fight—their last conversation. The words had been cruel, heated, and meaningless. She can’t even remember what it was about anymore. Something stupid. Something so small. She’d called him a stubborn old bastard, stormed out, and left him there.

And when she came home hours later, she found his body and her mother’s—cold, broken, carved open by the Jester.

Her chest tightens. Her pace slows. “God… I’m sorry, Dad,” she whispers to the dark. “I was such a bitch to you.”

A sound breaks her reverie.

Scratch.

Hart freezes. Her hand goes instinctively to her hip—but she didn’t bring her sidearm. A deliberate choice. She’s supposed to appear as though she’s coming in unarmed, surrendering.

The sound comes again. Scurrying. Low. Fast. Behind her? Beside her?

Hart spins, scanning the shadows. Halloween decorations sway gently in the breeze. The porch lights are out, but nothing seems to move.

She forces a shaky laugh. “It’s just… a raccoon. Or something,” she mutters to herself.

She keeps walking. Her boots sound loud now. Too loud.

The scurrying returns, closer this time—darting from somewhere near a hedge, quick and skittering, like claws on pavement.

Hart stops again. Her heart beats hard in her ears. She looks around, turning slowly. “Okay, Evelyn. You’re just spooking yourself. Classic horror movie bullshit. There’s nothing there.”

She breathes in deeply and tries to calm herself. Main Street is only a block away now. She can see the gallows clearly. The ropes. The shadows.

Scratch—scurrrrry.

It’s louder, right behind her.

Hart whirls around—Nothing—just a torn scarecrow flapping on a fence.

She exhales shakily. “Jesus Christ.”

She turns back toward Main Street—

BAM.

Something slams into her from the side, massive and fast, like a truck made of flesh and rage. She doesn’t even see it coming.

The last thing she catches is a glimpse of huge doll-like hands—soft-looking but impossibly strong—before she’s hurled into the darkness.

Her breath rips from her lungs. The world tilts. Then—Black.

Chapter Ninety-Four

The ropes creak softly in the cold wind, and a macabre lullaby plays above Abby and Alice as they sit bound on the gallows. The night has grown quieter, heavier. The chanting crowds are gone, leaving only the distant echo of their madness and the swinging bodies of Stacy, Eli, and Donald overhead, twisting like grotesque wind chimes in the chill.

Abby hasn’t answered Aleron’s offer. Not yet.

Alice sits beside her, eyes wet, face smeared with bruises and dried blood. But there’s something about her that isn’t quite… right. She smiles too often. Her words are too calm. She has stopped pleading and started reminiscing, as if the horror surrounding them doesn’t exist.

“Do you remember,” Alice begins, her voice light, almost dreamy, “that summer we went to the lake? Your dad tried to fish, and you and I spent the whole afternoon making sandcastles. You kept putting sticks on top like antennas, said they were ‘monster detectors.’”

Abby listens silently.

“You fell asleep in my lap while the sun was setting,” Alice continues softly. “I remember thinking… this is perfect. Just me and my little girl, safe forever.”

Abby stares at her mother. She knows that the trip never happened. They never went to any lake that summer. Her dad hated fishing.

Alice keeps talking, spinning warm, fabricated memories like a spider weaving silk. “You were wearing that little pink jacket you loved so much. The one with the hearts. You insisted on sleeping in it that night, remember?”

Abby forces a nod. Inside, her stomach twists.

That’s not Mom, she thinks. She’s saying things that didn’t happen. She sounds like her… but she’s wrong.

Alice leans closer, eyes shining with nostalgic sweetness that doesn’t reach deep enough. “I just want us to go back to that, Abby. No fear. No pain. Just us. We can, you know. Aleron can give that back to us. You can make it happen.”

Abby doesn’t answer. She looks away—down Main Street, past the scattered corpses, shattered storefronts, and pools of drying blood. The air smells like metal and rot.

And then—She sees something moving in the distance.

A large and lumbering figure trudges down the blood-slick street. The dim streetlights struggle to catch it as it moves in and out of shadow, something heavy cradled in its arms.

Abby squints.

“Abby?” Alice’s voice cuts in. “Are you listening to me?”

Abby nods quickly, distracted. “Look,” she whispers, pointing.

Alice turns.

The figure steps briefly into one of the flickering pools of light. My Buddy. The giant living doll. Its rubbery face is blank and smiling, with plastic eyes that catch the glow like dead stars.

And in its arms—A woman’s limp body.

Alice inhales sharply. “See?” she says softly, almost eagerly. “More death, Abby. It never stops. You can put an end to this. You have that power. Just give Aleron what he wants. This can all be over.”

Abby tightens her jaw until it aches. She doesn’t answer.

Her mind is on fire.

She wants to save them. Her parents. Hart. Everyone. She wants this nightmare to end. But she doesn’t want to lose herself—to become Aleron’s vessel, a prisoner inside her body, watching as something ancient and cruel wears her face like a mask.

And worse, she doesn’t trust him. He’s a liar—a manipulator. There’s no guarantee he’ll heal her father at all.

What if I say yes, and Dad dies anyway? What if I say yes… and everyone else does too? What if I say no, and he kills them because of me?

Her thoughts fracture like glass under a hammer.

The figure draws closer.

The streetlight catches the body in its arms. The torn jacket. The tangled hair. The limp, dangling limbs.

Hart.

Abby’s breath hitches. The world tilts—her vision tunnels.

The sound of the wind fades, and the creaking ropes fade. All that remains is the thunder of her heart and the rising shriek of panic inside her skull.

They got her. They got Hart.

Her chest tightens, her breaths shorten, each one jagged and shallow. Her hands shake against the ropes binding her wrists. Spots burst in her vision. Her ears ring.

Panic attack.

Alice’s voice becomes a distant drone—soft, coaxing, wrong. “Abby. Abby, listen to me. This can stop. You can stop it. Sweetheart, say yes.”

Abby barely hears her. She can’t focus on the words.

The doll lumbers closer, Hart’s unconscious body hanging from its arms like a broken doll itself.

Abby wants to scream. She wants to fight. She wants to vanish.

Instead, she sits there, trembling, chest clenching like a fist, eyes locked on the grotesque figure carrying her only hope toward the gallows.

The ropes creak—the wind moans. And Abby’s world spirals into uncertainty.

Chapter Ninety-Five

The van’s headlights cut through the darkness in thin, nervous beams. Brandon drives with both hands clenched on the wheel, his injured leg pressed stiff against the floor. Lang rides shotgun, eyes fixed on the broken road ahead. The forested back roads are choked in shadow, the only sounds the tires crunching gravel and the faint, ghostly whistle of wind through dead trees.

They’ve been silent since Hart slipped away toward Main Street. —the eighth of what’s coming presses in around them like a storm front.

Finally, Lang exhales through his nose. “You know what this reminds me of?”

Brandon glances at him. “Don’t say it.”

Lang smirks faintly. “Carnival of Terror. Part Four.”

Brandon shakes his head. “No way. This is Part Five.”

Lang frowns, turning toward him. “How the hell do you figure that?”

Brandon adjusts his grip on the wheel. “Part Five’s the one where Freckles goes full supernatural—remember? They’ve got that entire sequence where he controls the Ferris wheel using ghost energy.”

Lang scoffs. “Yeah, but in Part Four, they first figure out he’s tied to the doll. That’s when it gets stupid. And the ending? Same thing as always—they trap him in the doll, smash it to pieces, and bam. Evil defeated.” He waves a hand. “Until the next sequel.”

Brandon snorts. “Yeah, because in Part Five, they pretend that never happened. Whole continuity goes out the window. They just needed an excuse to bring him back. Different writers every time the box office numbers spike.”

Lang chuckles dryly. “Yeah. Each one is dumber than the last. By the end, Freckles wasn’t even scary. He was like a homicidal Looney Tune.”

Brandon allows himself a thin, brief smile. “Still better than six. Remember the time-travel subplot?”

Lang groans. “Oh God, don’t remind me.”

For a few precious seconds, the banter cuts through the dread. Two men drive toward the beast’s belly, arguing about bad slasher sequels. It’s almost human.

Then the garage comes into view.

The van slows to a crawl. Brandon kills the headlights.

Ahead, looming through the gaps in the trees, is the old Westport maintenance garage—once a practical space, now converted into Aleron’s killing ground. The structure squats at the end of the access road, its corrugated walls streaked with rust and blood; dim light leaks through cracks in the metal, like the glow of a furnace.

Lang leans forward, peering through the windshield. “We’re close. What’s the plan?”

Brandon doesn’t answer immediately. He lets the engine idle as he stares at the garage. His face is a hard mask, but his eyes move—calculating. “We’ve got two choices,” he says finally. “Walk in or drive in.”

Lang tilts his head. “And?”

Brandon’s fingers tap the wheel. He thinks it through, methodical despite the pain in his leg. “If we walk in, we’re exposed. If anything’s hiding in there—and let’s be honest, something is—we’re sitting ducks. Driving in might give us the element of surprise. At least for a few seconds.”

Lang nods slowly. “Less vulnerable. Makes sense.”

Brandon eases the van forward, just enough to fully bring the garage into view—then stops.

They both see them at once.

Monique and Dana Scully.

Leaning against the garage doors like bouncers from hell. Their clothes are soaked in blood, faces smeared crimson like war paint. Monique holds a machete loosely in one hand; Dana holds a spiked bat crusted with gore. The streetlamp above flickers, casting them in strobing light—once laughing teenagers, now grinning predators.

Lang feels his stomach tighten. “Jesus. Look at them.”

Brandon doesn’t say anything. His jaw sets. The women laugh at something, the sound faint but carried on the cold night air—feral, gleeful, inhuman.

Lang finally murmurs, “We try not to kill them. If there’s even a chance we can bring anyone back… we take it.”

Brandon nods grimly. “Yeah. But if it doesn’t work—”

“Then it doesn’t work,” Lang finishes quietly.

They sit there for a beat longer, collecting themselves, the van idling in the dark like a held breath. The garage waits ahead, its doors yawning like a mouth ready to swallow them whole.

The night presses in—the flickering light stutters. Somewhere in the distance, a faint bell jingle drifts on the wind.

They exchange a look. No turning back now.

Chapter Ninety-Six

Hart wakes to darkness and motion. Her skull pounds like a drum, each heartbeat flaring behind her eyes. Her vision blurs, catching fragments—streetlights, movement, shadow. Her body sways with every uneven step, wrists pinned awkwardly against her sides. Something hard and plastic digs into her ribs.

She blinks. Once. Twice. And then it hits her.

She’s being carried. By a life-size My Buddy doll.

“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me,” she thinks, dazed. “This is how I go? Kidnapped by a knockoff Cabbage Patch serial killer?”

The doll’s head tilts: painted smile, dead eyes. Streetlight glints off the plastic. I stare back, hollow.

Boots crunch on glass behind me. Taylor’s voice, smug as ever. “Good work. Brought her back in one piece.”

The doll makes a sound. Metal scraping metal. Wrong. Everything about this is wrong.

I shut my eyes. Breathe. Go limp. Easier to play dead than fight.

Daily’s voice cuts through. “Let me kill her. She got Fox killed. Let me.”

A hand reaches for me. Taylor smacks it away.

Taylor’s voice is sharp. “No harm. Not until the Jester says so.”

Daily growls. “Still want her to pay.”

Taylor: “You’ll get your chance. Tie her up. Aleron wants her front and center.”

My chest sinks. If Brandon and Lang aren’t close, this is it.

Across Main Street, Abby Lawson is falling apart.

The panic comes out of nowhere—fast and mean. Abby’s heart slams against her ribs. Her breath stutters. Vision narrows to a tunnel. She can taste copper. The ropes bite into her wrists as her hands tremble uncontrollably. She can’t breathe. Can’t think. The sound in her head is a rising tide—loud, relentless, crashing.

Before her, the three bodies swing gently in the cool night air. Stacy. Eli. Donald. Their faces are swollen and purpled, tongues forced out between bloated lips. Their bodies creak and sway like morbid puppets in the wind.

Her stomach revolts. She doubles forward against the ropes, bile stinging her throat. Tears blur her sight. Her heart thrashes, faster until—

“Abby. Abby, sweetie.”

Her mother’s voice cuts through the panic like a rope through water. Her vision swims back in shaky, uneven frames. Alice Lawson is sitting beside her, eyes wide, voice soft.

“You’re okay,” Alice whispers. “You’re okay, baby.”

Abby nods weakly. “Yeah. Yeah. I’m okay.” She’s not. Not even close.

Something’s off about Alice. The stories. She talks like a puzzle with the wrong pieces jammed together.

Abby steadies her breathing, wiping her nose against her shoulder. “Mom,” she says carefully, “why are you lying to me?”

Alice freezes. “What?”

“You said we went to the lake on my sixth birthday. We didn’t. We went to the aquarium. Dad got sunburned in the parking lot. And Uncle Mike? He’s in Arizona. He’s never even seen snow.”

Alice laughs nervously. “Abby, honey, you must be misremembering—”

“No.” Abby’s voice cracks sharply. “I’m not. And the fair story—you said we won a goldfish. I broke my arm that day. Remember?”

The silence that follows is heavy, cold.

Alice’s face falters. Her smile twists, skin pulling tight like wax melting. Then the voice that comes out of her mouth isn’t Alice’s.

It’s Riki Bella’s.

“Well,” the voice purrs, sugar-sweet and venomous, “someone’s been paying attention.”

Alice convulses. Her jaw pops open with a wet crack. Her spine arches as something inside her forces its way out.

Riki peels herself out of Alice’s back like a parasite clawing free of a host—the sound—wet, tearing, snapping tendons. Alice screams, and Abby watches, frozen, as the nightmare unfolds.

Riki stands fully upright, and Abby almost vomits. Her face is a mangled ruin—skin hanging in strips, one eye dangling by a nerve, maggots crawling lazily over her collarbone. The stench hits next: rot, filth, death. It fills Abby’s lungs like poison.

Riki smooths her hair back with a rotted hand and flashes a smile full of broken teeth. “You had your chance, Abby,” she croons. “But the deal’s off now. Mommy and Daddy are both gonna swing. And then…” She leans close, breath rancid and warm. “…Aleron’s gonna wear you like a Halloween costume, whether you say yes or not.”

She laughs—a bubbly influencer laughs, cruel and performative—and strolls off into the night humming a tune, like she didn’t just crawl out of someone’s spine.

Alice collapses onto the wooden planks, unconscious.

For a long moment, Abby sits there, heart hammering, eyes on the swinging bodies. The ropes creak softly above her like a metronome counting down.

Alice stirs weakly. “Abby…” she whispers.

Abby blinks back tears. “Yeah, Mommy. I’m okay.” She’s lying. She’s not okay.

Her gaze drifts back to the gallows. The bodies sway gently in the cold wind, their shadows long and warped. They’re not just corpses. They’re a warning.

And somewhere out in the night, faint and cruel, bells jingle.

The Jester is close.

Chapter Ninety- Seven 

Lang and Brandon crouch low inside the van, the engine off. The night presses against the windows like a living thing. The cracked street between them and the garage stretches like a throat waiting to be cut. The October wind slips through broken storefronts, carrying the faint tang of blood and burnt rubber.

Outside the garage, Monique and Dana Scully are in the middle of what looks disturbingly like a lively conversation. You’d think they were gossiping over lattes if you didn’t know better. Then Dana mimes swinging a hard bat and brings it down with a theatrical flourish, grinning like she’s on stage. Monique throws her head back, laughing, then acts out slitting someone’s throat, complete with squeals of delight.

Brandon makes a face. “Jesus. It’s like watching theater kids re-enact a massacre.”

Lang doesn’t even blink. His mouth tightens. “No,” he says quietly. “Worse. Theater kids usually have empathy.”

The two women are completely locked into their violent little pantomime—Monique twirls, stabbing an imaginary victim; Dana clutches her chest, staggering dramatically before collapsing in mock death. A few days ago, they were just… people. A teenager. A woman with a job. Now they’re giggling about slaughter like it’s an inside joke.

Brandon leans back, exhaling through his nose. “You ever think evil’s just… built in? Like, some people are born for this shit?”

Lang shakes his head. “Evil isn’t born. It’s made. And sometimes,” his eyes drift toward the garage, voice dropping, “it’s summoned.”

Brandon glances at him. “How do you mean?”

Lang’s face is half-lit by a flickering streetlamp, the other half shadowed. He stares out at the night like he’s looking through it. “Aleron wasn’t always what he is now. He was a fool. A court jester. Loyal, sharp. He used satire to mock the king’s cruelty, offering the people some relief. But power doesn’t forgive mockery. The king had him framed, betrayed, executed—publicly. A warning to anyone who might get clever.” Lang’s tone hardens, each word deliberate. “And in that final moment, everything inside him—rage, betrayal, hatred—collapsed into a single curse. It stuck to the bones of the world.”

Brandon listens, silent, watching him.

“He cursed the king,” Lang continues. “And the curse became real. His hate was so pure that it bent reality around it. He came back, took his revenge, and he liked it. That joy—his joy—fed on itself. It made him unstoppable. Not complicated. Just absolute.”

Brandon nods slowly. “Carnival of Terror Five.”

Lang blinks. “What?”

“Yeah,” Brandon says, warming to it. “That’s literally the plot of Carnival of Terror Five. Freckles comes back after they burn the doll. The narrator says, ‘Evil never dies. It just waits. And it always takes people with it.’ It’s like those screenwriters saw this shit coming.”

Lang cracks a smile for the first time in what feels like forever. “Right. And then in Six, the new crop of teen meat bags travels back in time to stop him before the curse.”

Brandon snorts. “God, yeah. The continuity was trash. Didn’t matter though—made a killing at the box office.”

Lang shakes his head solemnly. “All great horror franchises have to go to space eventually.”

Brandon chuckles. “Yeah, I heard the next one’s on a space station. Astronauts find the doll floating near Saturn.”

Lang deadpans. “Of course it is.”

For a second, they laugh quietly together. It’s brief but real—a tiny break in the choking tension.

Then Brandon’s smile falters. “Lang.”

Lang follows his gaze toward the garage. The Jester steps out of the shadows.

His costume flutters in the breeze, edges tattered like rotting silk. He moves with that eerie bounce; porcelain mask tilted upward like he’s sniffing the night air. Monique and Dana light up like fangirls spotting a rockstar and rush toward him.

He doesn’t even look at them. Just brushes past like they don’t exist, heading toward Main Street.

The two women shrugs, then immediately return to their gruesome charades, laughing.

Brandon exhales. “Hart’s got his attention.”

Lang nods, eyes narrowing at the garage. “Looks like it.”

Silence settles heavily between them, the kind that says this is it. This is the part where the plan either works—or everything goes up in flames.

Lang finally breaks it. “So… Carnival of Terror ever say how to take out the doll?”

Brandon gives a lopsided smile. “Yeah. Don’t get killed. That’s pretty much the strategy. Everyone who attacks the doll dies horribly.”

Lang’s smile fades. “Right. Because only the Final Girl can destroy it, everyone gets shredded first.”

“Exactly,” Brandon mutters.

Lang sighs. “Great.”

They sit there momentarily, the cold wind scraping across the van’s metal skin. The garage looms in front of them like the mouth of something ancient, waiting to swallow.

Chapter Ninety-Nine

The van sits in silence. Heavy. Final.

Both men know what this is—a one-way trip.

Lang leans forward over the wheel, jaw locked tight. Brandon checks the salt gun again, slamming the canister home until it clicks into place. The air between them thickens—dread, adrenaline, unspoken shit neither wants to say out loud.

They’ve gone over the plan three times. Lang drives. Brandon shoots. Full speed through the garage door. Take out Aleron’s soldiers. Grab the doll. Pray Hart reaches the Jester before it all goes to hell.

No backup plan. Just hope.

Lang exhales slowly. “This is either going to be brilliant,” he mutters, “or get us killed in the dumbest way imaginable.”

Brandon smirks through the throb in his leg. “Yeah. That tracks for us.”

A beat.

Lang reaches across and grips Brandon’s shoulder. “Hey… if this goes south, I just want you to know—”

Brandon cuts him off with a dry chuckle. “Lang, don’t get sappy on me. You’re a pain in my ass. But… yeah. Right back at you.”

They bow their heads for a quick, messy prayer—no fancy words. Just two tired men whispering into the void, hoping something out there still listens.

Then it’s gone time.

Lang slides behind the wheel—Brandon shifts, salt gun across his lap, finger brushing the trigger like a nervous tic.

The engine growls. The van rolls out of the shadows.

Monique and Dana lounge against the wall outside the garage like blood-soaked sentries. Weapons glint under the streetlights. They spot the van immediately—predatory shift. Eyes sharp.

Lang steers away, toward Main Street.

From the passenger window, Brandon gets a clear view of the gallows. The bodies of Stacy, Eli, and Donald sway in the night breeze, ropes creaking like dying laughter.

But that’s not what makes his stomach knot.

Three figures are walking back toward the garage. The Jester. Taylor. Daily.

“Shit,” Brandon breathes.

Lang’s knuckles whiten. “Yeah. That’s… real bad timing.”

Brandon bites his lip. Brain kicking into high gear. “I’ll take the doll. You keep those three busy.”

Lang whips his head toward him. “Are you insane?!”

“Yeah,” Brandon says flatly. “But Hart. Abby. Her parents. This is it. We don’t get another shot.”

Lang’s anger flashes, then cools into grim acceptance. “Alright. Make it count.”

Brandon checks the salt gun and chambers a round. Grins at Lang—cocky, reckless, all teeth. “See you on the other side, partner.”

Lang shakes his head. “God, you’re dramatic.”

Brandon winks, throws the door open, and limps out like a goddamn B-movie badass.

Lang floors it.

The van roars forward. Monique and Dana scramble to react.

Brandon lifts the salt gun. Thwump.Thwump.

Salt pellets explode against their chests. Both women scream, dropping their weapons as the salt eats through Aleron’s hold. They hit the pavement, writhing.

Brandon doesn’t stop. Pain rips up his bad leg, but he pushes through, limping fast toward the yawning darkness of the garage.

Inside—movement. Shadows twist.

Three possessed townsfolk rush him.

Brandon dives to the side, firing mid-roll. Thwump. The first goes down, blistering the skin. He pivots, fires again—thwump. The second collapses, howling.

The third slams into him.

His leg buckles. Pain explodes white-hot. They crash to the floor. He jams the barrel against the man’s chest and pulls the trigger. Point-blank. Salt seeps through fabric and flesh. The man convulses, screaming, then drops like a sack.

Brandon drags himself upright, teeth grinding. His leg’s on fire. Doesn’t matter. Keep moving.

The doll waits in the far corner. Smaller than he imagined. Just a toy sitting on a crate.

But the air around it buzzes. Thick. Electric. Wrong.

Then the temperature drops.

Mist coils beside the doll. Wisps swirl. Lady Hawthorne materializes.

She looks… normal. Elegant dress. Soft eyes. A warm smile like a bedtime story.

Brandon freezes.

“Put the gun down,” she says sweetly. “Hail, Aleron. End this suffering.”

He snorts. “Go fuck yourself, Casper.”

Her smile doesn’t fade—it stretches. Too wide. Too long. Skin peeling like wet wallpaper.

The elegant woman rips away, revealing the spectral horror beneath. Jaw unhinges. Eyes go black. Skin rots off in seconds.

She lunges.

Brandon dives sideways, leg screaming. She tears past him in a blur of shrieking mist. He hits the floor hard. Gasps.

He tries to push up. His leg gives out. “Ah—fuck!”

She turns, a mass of twisting rage and ghost light. Screaming.

She dives for him again.

The world narrows to her mouth—gaping, teeth like glass shards—rushing straight for his face.

They both know. What comes next isn’t heroic. It isn’t guaranteed. It’s a coin toss with blood on both sides.

Chapter Ninety-Eight

Hart keeps her eyes slitted, a dead weight in the My Buddy doll’s arms. It carries her like a prize; it doesn’t know how to hold—plastic knuckles knocking her ribs, head lolling, breath shallow. She tells herself to stay limp. To play dead. To listen.

The doll’s face bobs above her—those painted freckles, that stupid grin—so close she can count the little dots. “Great,” she thinks, dry. “Abducted by a clearance-rack nightmare.”

It huffs out a noise that isn’t human—a warped wheeze. A child’s toy is trying to breathe.

Boots grind on the plank. Taylor’s voice emerges from the darkness. “Nice catch, partner.”

Hart doesn’t move.

Daily’s voice saws in next, eager, cracked. “Let me do it. She clipped Fox. I want her fingers. One by one.”

Leather snaps. A hand smacks another. Taylor. “No harm to our guest until the Jester says so. You’ll get your fun.”

“Copy,” Daily giggles. It’s damp and wrong. Taylor and Daily walk off, leaving the doll to tie up Hart.

The My Buddy doll pivots, its big soft hands fumbling at ropes against one of the gallows support beams. It’s clumsy—knotting, unknotting, tangling itself in the coil like a toddler fighting a seatbelt. The rope slaps her shoulder, her cheek. Hart bites the inside of her lip to keep from laughing.

“Thumbs, genius,” she thinks. “You were built without thumbs.”

The knot finally bites. Tight. The doll’s shadow lifts away.

“Hart?” A small voice, raw with crying, edges out of the dark.

Abby.

Hart opens her eyes. “I’m here,” she says, voice low. Relief steals through her like warmth. Abby’s tied nearby, tiny shoulders squared and shaking. Another shape slumps against the post beside the girl—long hair matted, blouse soaked at the back with dried blood. Breathing, barely.

“Who is she?” Hart asks.

“My mom,” Abby whispers. “Riki was inside her. She tried to trick me into saying yes to Aleron. She… she wants to put him in me.”

Hart’s stomach drops. “Not happening,” she says, fierce and simple.

Abby nods, but her lip trembles. She’s twelve. She’s trying to be steel. She’s still twelve.

Footsteps. The air curdles. The Jester strolls out of the black like he was born in it—mask polished, eyes lit hell-red, that sneer reshaped into a weapon.

He spreads his arms. “Evelyn,” he purrs, voice starched with delight. “Welcome to Westport. Thoughts on our little parade?”

Hart bares her teeth. “You’re a punchline in a skin suit.”

He laughs—bright, ringing, happy. “Pathetic,” he says, then, cheerful as a weatherman. “You couldn’t save your parents. You won’t save hers.”

Boots come out of the same darkness as the Jester. Taylor and Daily materialize, hauling a third figure between them. Dale Lawson. His face is purpled and ballooned, one eye slit shut, jaw off-center. His shirt is dark and fresh with old blood. He’s barely upright. He clocks Abby and tries to straighten; a wet groan leaks out instead.

“Dad!” Abby’s voice splits.

Taylor shoves Dale to the center stage and palms his shoulder like he’s showing off a hog at auction. Daily pats Dale’s cheek—three light, mocking taps—then pushes him to his knees.

“Let him go!” Abby yanks at her ropes, skin burning as fibers bite. She thrashes until she sobs. “Please!”

“Look at that love,” the Jester sighs dreamily. “Wasteful.”

Hart yanks at her ties; the beam bites her back. “John,” she snaps, dragging his true name into the open. “Enough. You want me, take me.”

He tilts his head. The mask smiles wider.

He doesn’t speak.

He moves.

The knife appears like a trick—a quick wink of steel, then a blur. The Jester drives it into Dale’s chest. Once. Twice. Again. A fast, tidy rhythm that turns sloppy when bone gives, and cartilage separates. The sound is fat and awful; it thwacks. Dale’s breath leaves in a gargle. His hands scrabble at the blade, sliding off. The Jester keeps going. The sixth thrust punches high, close to the throat; the seventh spears low and drags, opening a wet mouth in Dale’s torso. Blood fountains, hot and bright, then sheets down the steps, pattering the boards, threading between them to the dirt below.

“Stop!” Abby screams until it shreds her voice. “Dad—Dad—Dad!”

Dale lies sideways, tries to pull himself up, fingers slipping on his own blood. Pink foam stutters at his lips. He turns his head toward the sound of his daughter and finds her with his one good eye. It flares. He fights his ruined lungs for breath enough to make a word.

“Ab—”

It dies as a cough. Blood bubbles. His body quivers—little, useless tremors—then settles into a heavy, ugly stillness. The dark beneath him spreads. The night drinks it.

Hart stares because she can’t help it. Her chest feels like it’s folding in. She drags her eyes off the body and up to the mask. “John,” she says again, and there’s a begging in it she hates.

The Jester wipes the knife on Dale’s shirt—casual, neat—then flicks the last thread of red onto the plank with a snap. He tips his chin toward Abby, delighted, as if unveiling a gift.

“One hour,” he says lightly. “You take Aleron in, little Lawson… or Mommy swings next.”

Taylor grins, thin and wolfish. Daily claps once, softly, like at a recital. Both men drink in Abby’s sobbing like it’s music. The Jester turns his back on the ruin he’s made and saunters off the platform, boots whispering. Taylor and Daily follow, laughing low and already talking about rope.

They leave Dale where he fell. In the gutter. To steam. Too cool. To become another smear on Main Street.

Abby crumples around her own sound—small, raw, continuous. She squeezes her eyes shut, as if it might push the image out. It does not. “Dad,” she begs the dark. “Daddy, please.”

Hart pulls against the rope until his skin splits. “Hey,” she says, voice rough, useless—everything she can give. “Hey, look at me.” She tries to keep her own voice from breaking and fails. “I’m here. I’m not leaving you.”

Abby sobs, her body shuddering in the darkness. Hart holds her close, whispering steady reassurances—promises that sound thin against the horror bleeding through the night. The words do not stop Abby’s shaking, but she keeps talking anyway, desperate to anchor the girl. Above them, the gallows blaze, smoke swirling, heat echoing the chaos still burning through town. Hart can feel the minutes ticking down, each one sharper than the last. She tries to block out the dread pressing in from all sides, but tension coils tighter with every second, urgency crackling in the thick air.

 

And so, the hour begins. Hart squeezes Abby’s hand, her voice dropping to a harsh whisper. “Stay with me, kid. We are almost through,” she says, more to herself than the girl. There’s no time left for grief now—only the final attempt to end it all.

And the hour begins. Hart doubts more than ever that she can bring John back. 

Chapter Eighty-Nine, 

The Van sits in silence, perched, looking at the garage. The air in the van is heavy, and there is nervous anticipation for the battle. Both men know this could be their last chance. One-way trip. No hero’s return. Lang leans forward over the wheel, jaw locked. Brandon checks the salt gun again, slamming the canister home until it clicks into place. The air between them is thick—part dread, part adrenaline, part unspoken bullshit neither of them wants to name. They’ve run the plan three times already. Lang drives. Brandon shoots. Full speed through the garage door.

Drop those Aleron controls humanely. Grab the doll.

Pray Hart gets through to the Jester before it all goes to hell.

No backup. No cavalry. Just Hart and the others. “This is either going to be brilliant,” he mutters, “or get us killed in the dumbest way possible,” Brandon smirks through the throb in his leg. “Yeah, that tracks.”

Lang reaches across and grips Brandon’s shoulder. “Hey… if this goes south, I just want you to know—”

Brandon cuts him off with a dry laugh. “Lang, don’t get soft on me. You’re a pain in my ass. But… yeah. Right back at you.”

They share a quick, raw prayer. No poetry. Just two tired men whispering into the dark for guidance from the one who created the universe.

Then it’s gone time.

Lang slides behind the wheel. Brandon shifts the salt gun across his lap, his finger brushing the trigger—a nervous tic.

The engine roars to life.

Lang rolls the van out of the darkness of their stakeout point.

Outside the garage, Monique and Dana stand under the streetlights, blood on their clothes. They spot the van immediately, and they pick up their blood-stained weapons, ready for trouble. Their body language changes—alert, feral.

Lang steers away first, toward Main Street.

From the passenger seat, Brandon catches sight of the gallows in the distance.

He sees bodies, Stacy. Eli. Donald, swinging in the wind. 

Their bodies sway lazily in the wind, ropes creaking like dying laughter. But that’s not what makes Brandon’s stomach twist.

Three figures walk toward the garage.

The Jester. Taylor. Daily.

“Shit,” Brandon mutters.

Lang’s knuckles go white. “Yeah. Real bad timing.”

Brandon bites his lip, thinking fast. “I’ll take the doll. You keep those three busy.”

Lang snaps his head toward him. “Are you insane?!”

“Yeah,” Brandon says flatly. “But we don’t have time. Abby. Hart. Her parents. This is it.”

Lang’s anger flashes—then dies. Grim nod. “Alright. Make it count.”

Brandon checks the salt gun and chambers a round. Grins at Lang—cocky, reckless, alive. “See you on the other side, partner.”

Lang shakes his head. “God, don’t be dramatic.” Brandon winks, throws the door open, and limps out like some B-movie antihero from the 1980s.

Lang floors it.

The van roars forward.

Monique and Dana scramble at the sight of Brandon.

Brandon raises the salt gun.

Thwump.

Thwump.

Salt pellets explode against their chests. They scream, dropping their weapons as the salt eats through Aleron’s grip. They hit the pavement, writhing in pain, but not dead. 

Brandon doesn’t stop.

His legs on fire, but he pushes through. Limping. Fast.

Inside, shadows writhe.

Three townsfolk charge him.

Brandon goes full action hero; he dives sideways, firing mid-roll. Thwump. The first target drops to the ground, skin blistering.

He twists, fires again—thwump. Second target collapses, shrieking.

The third target slams into him.

His bad leg buckles. Pain explodes white-hot.

They crash hard. Brandon jams the barrel against the attacker’s chest and pulls the trigger—Point-blank in the chest.

Salt rips through skin and cloth. The man convulses, howls, then goes limp.

Brandon drags himself upright, teeth grinding. Every nerve screams, but he keeps moving, driven by pure adrenaline.

The doll waits in the far corner—all this horror for a damn doll. Smaller than he expected. Just sitting there on a crate like some cheap thrift-store reject. But the air around it hums—wrong, electric, heavy. Evil is coming off it.

Then the temperature drops.

Mist swirls.

Lady Hawthorne forms out of the cold in front of Brandon’s eyes. What the fuck now, Brandon thinks.

She looks perfect. Elegant dress. Kind eyes. A soft smile, like she’s about to serve Brandon tea.

Brandon freezes.

“Put the gun down,” she says sweetly. “Hail, Aleron. End this suffering now for your friends and you.”

He snorts. “Go fuck yourself, Casper.”

Her smile doesn’t fade.

It stretches. Too wide. Too long. Like flesh being pulled by invisible hooks.

The elegant shell peels away, wet and slick, revealing what’s underneath—something that should not exist.

Her jaw cracks open with a bone-deep pop.

Her eyes go black.

Skin liquefies off her face, sloughing away in sheets.

The scream that follows isn’t human. It’s a sound that digs under the skin—metal scraping glass, a woman wailing, a dying animal. All at once. She lunges.

Brandon dives, pain detonating through his leg. She tears past him in a blur of shrieking mist. He hits the floor hard, air punching out of his lungs.

He tries to push himself up. His leg gives.

“Ah—fuck!”

She pivots mid-air like a vulture scenting blood. Her face stretches, skin fluttering like wet cloth in a storm. Maggots wriggle across the decaying folds of her neck. Her hands are talons now, translucent and sharp.

She dives for him again.

Everything narrows.

Her mouth, gaping wide—rows of teeth like shattered glass.

The smell—rot, mildew, grave dirt.

The scream—high, endless.

She’s coming straight for his face.

Chapter Ninety-Nine

Brandon gets out of the van; Lang floors it. The van growls like something alive and speeds forward towards 

The Jester. Taylor. Daily. Three silhouettes in the middle of the street. Waiting for what will happen next. 

Lang doesn’t let up—the engine roars. Headlights cut through the dark like blades.

Taylor moves first—sliding sideways, fast, too fast. The Jester follows; a blur of tattered fabric moves supernaturally fast. But Daily—Daily doesn’t move.

He stands his ground. Arms loose. Head tilted—that grin. He is completely unhinged. 

“Come on,” Lang mutters. “Come on—”

For a heartbeat, it looks like Lang’s going to take him out—a direct hit. Full speed. End this; cream the fucker like a bug on the windshield.

Then the Daily jumps.

Not human. Not natural.

Like a puma, jumping on its prey

He launches straight up with supernatural speed, vanishing from the headlights in a blink. A split second later—THUNK.

The roof caves slightly. Daily lands on top. Laughing. High-pitched. Wild.

“Son of a bitch!” Lang snarls.

The van swerves left, then right, tires squealing against the cracked pavement. Daily holds on. He’s crawling. Scritch-scritch-scritch.

Like a spider.

Lang cranks the wheel hard, trying to shake him off—the van fishtails, nearly clips a burned-out car. Daily doesn’t fall. He scurries—fast—across the roof toward the windshield.

Lang snaps his eyes to the passenger seat. Salt gun, just out of reach.

He tightens his grip on the steering wheel, his knuckles white, as he reaches for his other hand—the van bucks. Daily’s fingers claw at the metal.

Then, Daily is there.

He drops down the front of the van like some demonic lizard. His face presses against the glass.

And what a face it is. The skin stretched too tightly. Veins bulge black under the surface. Daily’s eyes are solid pools of pitch-black. His mouth stretches wide, splitting at the corners until it almost reaches his ears. Teeth like splintered glass. A tongue that flicks against the windshield like a snake tasting the air.

Lang’s stomach lurches.

Daily cocks his head, grinning. He raises one hand—long, bony, claw-tipped—and slams it down.

CRACK.

The windshield blooms with a spiderwebs fracture.

“Shit—”

Lang’s fingers brush the salt gun. Daily slams again.

CRACK.

The fracture spreads, thin veins snaking outward.

Daily leans in close to the cracked glass, his voice dripping through like venom. “Come on, old man. You can’t even drive straight. When I’m done with you, I’m gonna find her. Little Hart. Gonna break each pretty finger… one by one, then I’ll rape and kill her”. 

Lang’s heart hammers. His hand closes on the gun—but he needs better control. One more slam and that glass is gone.

Daily lifts his hand again, slowly. Taunting.

Lang makes his move. He jerks the wheel hard right.

The van swerves violently. Tires scream.

Daily sticks to the glass. Supernaturally. Daily’s limbs bend in the wrong direction, clinging like a spider to a wall.

But Lang’s got the gun now. “Fuck you,” he spits.

Three quick shots. Thwump. Thwump. Thwump.

Salt splashes across the glass. Hits Daily full in the face and chest.

He shrieks—a high, demonic wail that vibrates through the van’s frame. His grip falters. He slams against the hood, dazed.

Lang doesn’t think. He accelerates.

The van surges forward, straight and merciless.

Daily scrambles, too late. The front wheels hit the ground first, followed by the back wheels.

CRUNCH.

Bones snap like dry twigs. Daily lets out a scream that’s not human. Not earthly.

The back wheels finish it.

The sound is wet. Final.

Lang keeps driving. Chest heaving. The salt gun was still raised like a weapon. He doesn’t look back. He speeds towards the gallows. 

Chapter One Hundred

Brandon’s leg gives out on him. Not a stumble. A total collapse.

Pain tears through him like shrapnel. Brandon slams into the concrete, palms scraping, breath punching out of him in a grunt.

And she’s already moving.

Lady Hawthorne lunges—an inhuman blur of rot and silk, claws extended, mouth yawning wide like it’s ready to eat his soul. Her scream rips through the air, high and sharp, making the tools on the walls tremble.

He rolls, drags himself backward, elbows slipping on the cold floor. His bad leg screams with every twitch.

He sees it as a lantern.

There, on a cluttered workbench. Rusted frame. Filthy glass. A faint wick flickering like it’s already half-dead.

His only chance. And it feels impossibly far.

“Come on,” he growls under his breath. “MOVE.”

He crawls as fast as he can. Hands slap the floor. Pain spikes. Breathing ragged, animal.

She’s gaining. Brandon can hear her. That sounds like silk tearing mixed with someone screaming underwater.

The distance between them shrinks fast.

The lantern’s closer, but every inch feels like a mile—Brandon’s vision tunnels. Sweat drips into his eyes.

Her claws rake the ground inches from his boot—a near miss.

He throws himself forward. Fingers graze the lantern’s metal.

Her scream spikes.

Brandon yanks it off the bench. It’s heavier than he expected. He fumbles with the knob, hands slick.

First twist. Nothing. Second twist. The wick flickers. Dies.

“No no—”

He hears her behind him. A rush of cold. The weight of something ancient and furious barreling toward him.

Third twist. A spark. Gone. “WORK, DAMN IT!”

The sound of claws. Closer.

Fourth twist. The wick stutters. Light. Then darkness.

She’s right on top of him now. He can feel her cold breath like an open freezer door against his neck.

His heart’s a jackhammer.

Fifth twist.

The flame flares to life.

She lunges—midair, screaming, claws out.

He whips around just as her shadow swallows him.

Her face is inches from his. Hollow sockets. Gaping mouth. Teeth like splintered glass.

“Light this, bitch,” he snarls.

He hurls the lantern and fires two shots from the salt gun.

Direct hit. The lantern and the salt hit the ghost bitch right in her chest.

WHOOMPH—fire erupts across her chest. It spreads fast, hungry.

She screams.

It’s not human. It’s the sound of something evil and furious realizing its end has come.

Flames crawl over her face, wrapping her like living chains. Her elegant dress blackens and splits. Smoke pours off her in greasy waves.

She thrashes, convulsing between ghost and flesh: one moment solid, the next a smear of ash and shadow.

The stench hits him—burned meat. Wet rot mixed with the scent of perfume curling in the heat.

Her scream climbs higher, cracking the air like glass under pressure.

She careens into the wall, flailing, fire chewing through her torso. Her body fractures like a shadow in a floodlight. Pieces peel away—arms, chest, face—curling up into ash.

Only her head remains, flames swirling around her shrieking mouth.

Then she explodes.

Ash. Smoke. Gone.

The garage falls silent.

Brandon collapses onto the floor, chest heaving, drenched in sweat. His hands are shaking. His leg feels like it’s full of knives.

For a long beat, all he can hear is his heart pounding in his ears.

Then a shaky, disbelieving laugh escapes him. “Jesus Christ… five tries. Really?”

He stares at the scorch mark where she burned away. His laugh dies in his throat.

“Yeah,” he mutters hoarsely. “I really fucking hate ghosts.”

Chapter Hundred- One 

Lang kills the engine and steps into silence. Main Street yawns open before him like a wound.

The gallows loom in the center of town. And at their base—Dale Lawson.

Or what’s left of him.

His chest is split wide; ribs cracked like a busted cabinet door. Blood pools thick and black beneath him, soaking into the street. His eyes stare upward, fixed on nothing.

Lang swallows hard. Keeps moving.

Abby’s tied to one side of the gallows, catatonic, pupils blown wide. Her mother slumps beside her, unconscious, barely breathing. Hart’s lashed to the opposite post, eyes blazing through the ropes.

Lang tightens his grip on the salt gun and sprints across the blood-slick pavement. Hart’s the priority. Untie her. Arm up. Move fast.

He doesn’t get the chance.

Something hits him from behind like a freight train. He’s thrown forward—hits the ground hard—the salt gun clatters away, spinning out of reach.

Lang rolls onto his back, groaning—And freezes.

A life-size My Buddy doll stands over him.

Plastic smile. Glossy eyes. Head cocked to the side, like it’s curious about how best to kill him.

“…you’ve gotta be kidding me,” Lang mutters.

The doll lunges.

Hart screams his name—her voice muffled by distance—but Lang doesn’t wait to translate. He tackles low, wrapping his arms around the doll’s legs in a desperate football dive.

They crash into the ground. The doll’s plastic head slams into Lang’s face—THUNK.

Pain bursts behind his eyes.

He rolls off, vision swimming. The doll scrambles to its feet with jerky, unnatural speed.

Hart’s yelling something again—Lang can’t make out the words—wind, distance, panic.

The doll charges.

Lang kicks out. His boot connects with its knee—CRACK. The doll stumbles, collapses to the side, arms flailing like a puppet on strings.

Lang scrambles for the salt gun. It’s five feet away. Maybe six.

He stretches. Reaches. Fingertips brush cold metal—

The doll slams into him from the side.

They hit the ground in a tangle. Lang’s lungs heave for air.

The doll shifts its weight, pressing down on his chest like a bag of cement. Then its soft, plush arms wrap around his throat.

Lang thrashes. Coughs. Tries to tear it off. But the grip tightens. This shouldn’t be happening. It doesn’t even have thumbs. Yet it’s choking him.

Hart’s shouting. Abby’s silent. Lang can feel his pulse pounding in his skull.

The salt gun glints in the moonlight, just out of reach.

He twists his hips. Stretches his arm. Fingertips graze the stock.

The doll squeezes tighter. His vision darkens at the edges. A ringing starts in his ears.

He drags himself forward inch by inch, boots scraping the pavement. The doll clings to him like a nightmare he can’t shake.

“Not… dying… to a damn toy,” he growls, teeth bared.

His fingers hook the gun. He yanks it toward him—slow. Agonizing. The doll clamps down, cutting off air. His vision flashes white.

Hart’s screaming his name now—desperation, fear.

Lang’s head spins—his arm trembles. The gun’s just beyond his grip. He’s seconds from blacking out.

A last surge—he snatches the gun.

He drags it back toward his chest, but he can barely lift it. The doll’s arms are like iron. He angles the barrel up, unthinkingly.

Thwump. Salt bursts into the air—miss.

The doll squeezes harder.

Thwump. Miss.

Lang’s vision tunnels. He hears his own heartbeat thudding like a war drum.

Thwump. Miss again.

“Come on… COME ON!”

He squeezes the trigger a fourth time.

Thwump. The shot slams into the doll’s torso.

The impact sends it jerking back, its arms slipping off his throat.

Lang rolls over, gasping, sucking air like he’s been underwater. The doll stumbles, shrieking—a sound that’s part child’s laughter, part grinding metal.

He rises shakily to his knees—gun up.

Thwump. Thwump. Thwump.

Three clean hits to the center mass.

The doll convulses, letting out a scream that is not human. Its body starts collapsing inward, shrinking slowly, painfully—like a balloon deflating through a pinhole.

The sound it makes as it shrinks is worse than the scream. Wet. Gurgling. Wrong.

Then—silence. Only the faint smell of scorched fabric and salt.

Lang collapses onto his back, chest heaving, the gun across his stomach. The night sky spins above him.

“Choked… out… by a children’s toy,” he pants. “That’s… a new low.”

Hart bursts into strained laughter, tied up across the gallows. Lang lets out a breathless chuckle.

“Yeah,” he mutters, staring up at the stars. “Totally had that under control.”

Chapter One Hundred Two 

Brandon limps toward the doll. Each step feels heavier. Colder. “All this for that thing”, Brandon thinks to himself. The air thickens around him, a static chill clinging to his skin like spiderwebs. The doll sits in the far corner on its crate. Innocent. Motionless. A lie.

His finger tightens on the salt gun.

A sound cuts through the silence—Creak. The Metal door to the side entrance opens.

He spins, bad leg screaming.

Taylor stands framed in the doorway. Hat tipped low. Trench coat hanging like a vulture’s wings. Streetlight spills in behind him, turning his silhouette into a gunslinger’s nightmare.

Brandon exhales a curse. “Great. Went from Ghostbusters to High Noon.”

Taylor steps forward, slow and theatrical, like he knows the scene belongs to him. His boots clap against the concrete. Clack. Clack. Clack.

“What are you gonna do with that doll, partner?” Taylor drawls. His voice is oily, slick with menace.

Brandon gives a half-smirk. “Honestly? I was thinking of a tea party with it. You in?”

Taylor looks up. His hat tilts back. Black eyes stare out from a face no longer fully human. Veins crawl up his neck like black lightning. His grin spreads too wide, showing cracked teeth.

“You’ll have to get through me if you want that doll,” he says. “Partner.”

Brandon Chambers, a round of salt with a loud chunk. “Then bring it.”

Taylor moves.

Not walks. Not runs. Moves.

A blur across the garage floor—inhuman speed. Brandon fires. Thwump! Salt pellets rip through the air. Taylor twists sideways like his joints aren’t bound by normal rules. The blast shreds the wall behind him.

“Shit, this is not high noon; this is the mother fucking Exorcist!”

Another shot. Taylor ducks low. Fluid. Predatory. He’s on Brandon before the third shot.

Taylor’s hand clamps Brandon’s wrist. The salt gun jerks upward. A blast hits the ceiling. Sparks rain down. Taylor’s other hand slams into Brandon’s chest, sending him crashing against a workbench.

The gun clatters away across the floor.

Brandon wheezes, ribs screaming. His bad leg almost gives out. Taylor stalks closer, head tilting at that impossible, insect-like angle.

The garage looks like Taylor’s kill box. “Let’s have that tea party, partner”. Tools dangle on pegboards. Oil stains spread like shadows. A saw table hums faintly in the corner.

Taylor charges. Brandon ducks. Barely. A punch smashes into the workbench, splintering wood. Taylor’s strength is monstrous.

Brandon grabs a wrench and swings wide. CLANG. Taylor catches it mid-swing with one hand. His grin never falters.

Close on Brandon’s eyes—panic flashes. Close on Taylor’s hunger.

He slams Brandon into the hood of a half-stripped car. Brandon’s skull rattles. Taylor raises the wrench like a club.

Brandon kicks out with his good leg. The shot lands hard against Taylor’s knee. The man doesn’t buckle—he laughs. Low. Cruel.

“You think you can stop this?” Taylor growls. His voice is layered now—human and something crawling underneath. “Aleron is many”. 

Brandon spots it out of the corner of his eye. Another Lantern. This one is old and dented, but it still appears to be in working condition. Hanging on a hook by the shelves. Five feet away. It could be a mile.

He fakes left. Taylor bites. Brandon rolls right, hitting the ground hard. Pain spikes through his leg. He scrambles, crawling toward the lantern.

Taylor’s boots scrape the concrete. Slow. Deliberate. He’s enjoying this.

“Run, little soldier,” Taylor mocks. “Run.”

Brandon stretches—fingertips brush metal—Taylor’s boot slams down on his calf.

The scream that rips out of Brandon is raw, animal. His leg feels like it’s on fire.

Taylor crouches beside him, voice oily. “You can’t save them. You can’t even save yourself.”

Brandon snarls through gritted teeth. “Watch me.”

He twists suddenly, jamming a screwdriver from the floor into Taylor’s thigh. Taylor howls—a guttural, demonic sound—and stumbles back.

Brandon lunges for the lantern. Grabs it. Stumbles to his feet.

Taylor recovers fast. Too fast. He’s charging again, black veins crawling across his face.

Brandon fumbles with the striker. His hands are slick with sweat and blood. It slips once. Twice. “Come on, not again, not another close call”, Brandon mutters.

Taylor is almost on him.

Third try. Strike. A weak spark.

Taylor is three feet away.

Fourth try. Strike. The wick catches—barely—flame flickers, small and pathetic.

Taylor’s grin splits wide. “That’s cute.”

He lunges.

Fifth try—Brandon flings the lantern. “Was good enough for the Lady Hawthrone, now smile, you son of a bitch”. Brandon screams. The flame roars to life midair as the lantern arcs.

Brandon sees it move in slow motion and prays it works—the lantern collides with a shelf stacked with old oil cans.

WHOOSH.

Fire erupts. An explosion of orange and black. Taylor’s face flashes in the light—demonic, twisted—before the blast hurls him backward. He hits the far wall with a sickening crack.

The garage is now a burning maze. Flames snake up the shelves. Smoke billows thick.

Brandon collapses to one knee, coughing, leg screaming. He stares through the rising flames at Taylor, who writhes against the wall, fire crawling up his coat.

“High noon, you demonic asshole,” Brandon rasps.

Taylor’s scream is not human.

Taylor writhes against the wall. Flames crawl up his coat like living things, hungry and fast. His hat burns away first, blackening and curling before dropping to the floor in embers. His face is next.

The fire licks across his skin—It bubbles. Blisters. Peels.

Taylor lets out a sound that doesn’t belong to anything human. Half scream. Half… roar. A demon choking on its own rage.

Brandon pushes himself upright, leaning against a metal support beam. His chest heaves. His leg feels like shattered glass grinding under each breath. The salt gun is still somewhere in the chaos behind him, useless now.

The fire spreads faster than he expected. Oil cans pop like gunshots—shelving buckles. Shadows dance against the walls like a hundred laughing faces.

Taylor staggers forward, engulfed. His movements are jerky, puppet-like. For a split second, it looks like he’s coming for Brandon again. No hesitation. No pain. Just hate.

Brandon’s pulse spikes. He grabs a loose crowbar from the floor—tight grip. Sweat and blood slicked his palm.

Taylor lunges.

Brandon swings.

CRACK.

The crowbar smashes into Taylor’s jaw with a wet crunch. The lower half of his face folds sideways. Still, he moves forward, flames consuming his skin, exposing his muscles and blackened bone. His eyes—still black—lock on Brandon like a predator.

Brandon swings again. And again. And again. Each blow lands harder. Bone splits—skin tears. Flame sputters from open wounds.

Taylor collapses to his knees. His coat is almost entirely aflame now, like a human torch with a demon inside. His mouth works silently, jaw hanging in ruins.

Brandon steps closer despite the heat searing his skin. He can smell the burnt hair, the cooked flesh, the acrid sting of gasoline and smoke. It’s hell in here.

Taylor’s eyes flicker. For the briefest moment, beneath the black, Brandon swears he sees something else. Something almost… human.

Then the black takes over again.

Taylor throws his head back and SCREAMS.

The sound hits Brandon in the gut like a physical force—high-pitched, echoing, layered with something inhuman. Aleron’s presence burns inside the scream, like a radio signal from hell itself.

Taylor’s body jerks violently, arching backward, and then—it bursts.

Not in a Hollywood fireball but a grotesque, wet detonation.

Flaming flesh sprays across the garage like shrapnel. Chunks slap against the walls, sizzling. Taylor’s spine collapses inward. What’s left of his ribcage caves like brittle wood underfoot.

The fire swallows the remains.

Brandon staggers back, shielding his face from the blast of heat—his ears ring. The garage is becoming an inferno now—walls cracking, support beams creaking, smoke thick enough to choke on.

Taylor’s scream fades into the crackling blaze.

Brandon limps toward the doll, coughing, vision swimming. He thinks to himself, what else can attack him now? He looks back over the Taylor, his body burning, no movement, just the flames fully engulfing him. Brandon picks up the doll. Nothing happens. He drew a deep breath and walked out of the garage. 

Taylor’s body burns down to ash. There’s no coming back from that.

Not for Taylor.

Not for anyone.

Chapter One Hundred – Three

Lang pushes himself up, chest heaving. The limp in his leg is worse now, but he forces himself to stand.

The deflated My Buddy doll lies nearby, shriveled like a cheap Halloween decoration left on the front lawn overnight. Lang squints at it. “You were a real pain in the ass, Cabbage Patch.”

His limp is worse now. Every step grinds bone against bone. But he moves.

Hart’s still tied to the gallows beam, giving him that classic you took your sweet time glare.

“Took you long enough,” she hisses.

“Sorry, doll problem,” he mutters. “Big bastard had attachment issues.”

She snorts despite the chaos. Lang frees her.

“Where’s Brandon?” Hart asks.

Lang exhales. “Garage. We had to split. Jester, Taylor, and Daily were headed back. I took Daily out on the way here. “Long story”

Hart curses under her breath and bolts toward Abby.

Abby’s still tied, curled in on herself, small and trembling. Alice lies limp beside her, unconscious but breathing. Her back is torn up from Riki Bella’s possession—raw, shredded flesh visible through her shirt. You can see Alice’s muscle tendons. 

Hart kneels beside Abby, his voice gentle. “Hey. Hey, sweetheart. It’s me.” Abby looks up. Her face crumples. She breaks. Hart gathers her into her arms as she unties her, letting the girl sob against her chest.

Lang sets the salt gun down next to Alice and checks her vitals. She’s alive. Beaten. Barely holding on to life,

He draws a long breath. Dale Lawson’s body is still sprawled in the street. Butchered. Cold. They didn’t save him. That truth sits heavily in Lang’s gut.

Hart rubs Abby’s hair, whispering something no one else can hear. Abby clings tighter, her sobs cutting through the night.

Then, Hart stops.

The air shifts.

She looks toward the hanging bodies. They sway gently, creaking in the wind.

Riki Bella steps out from behind them like a nightmare peeling away from the dark. She’s more decayed than before. Her skin sloughs off in patches. One arm twitch wrong. Her grin is cracked and mean.

“Well,” Riki says, her voice warped and giddy. “Isn’t this cute. A little family reunion and me with no casserole.”

Hart stands, pulling Abby behind her.

Lang picks up the salt gun. “I’ll handle this bitch,” he mutters. Riki smiles. “You almost got taken out by a doll, grandpa; you might want to sit this one out.” Hart jumps off the gallows. “Bring it bitch.”

Riki lunges first.

She moves fast—too fast. She collides with Hart, slamming her back against the gallows post. Hart grunts, teeth clenched.

Riki laughs as she hits her again, cruel and rhythmic. “Oh, come on, Detective. You’re supposed to be tough! What’s wrong? Daddy issues slowing you down?”

Hart swings, connects with Riki’s jaw—but Riki barely flinches. She hits back twice as hard, sending Hart sprawling to the ground.

Lang raises the salt gun, fires—Miss. Riki dodges, cackling. “You’re old, Doc. Slow. Pathetic.”

Hart tries to get up, but Riki kicks her in the ribs, hard. “Stay down, sweetheart.”

Then Abby’s voice cuts through the chaos. Riki turns and says, “Oh, look who found her voice. I’ll be there soon for you”. She applies more pressure on Hart’s neck. Abby recoils for a moment, then reconsider. In a strong and more confident voice, Abby said, Leave her alone”. Riki takes her eyes off Hart to look fully at Abby. This gives Hart an opening.

Hart drives her knee up into Riki’s stomach with everything she’s got. The sound is ugly—like a log cracking.

Lang fires again. This time, he connects. Salt bursts against Riki’s side. She screams—a ragged, unholy sound that makes the air vibrate. Smoke curls off her skin like acid on flesh.

Lang doesn’t stop. He pumps the trigger—thwump, thwump—each hit pushing her back toward the gallows.

Riki staggers, shrieking, clawing at the salt burns. “You think this hurts?! This is FOREPLAY!”

Hart scrambles up, eyes landing on something near the base of the gallows: A lit pumpkin. Candle still burning inside.

Salt. Fire. Something old clicks into place in her head—an occult banishment trick she half-read in the command van some time ago.

“Lang! Keep her there!” Hart shouts.

He fires again. Riki reels backward, arms flailing. Her grin cracks into a snarl.

Hart grabs the pumpkin. Its surface is warm, wax dripping onto her fingers. She lifts it over her head like a weapon.

“Trick or treat, bitch,” she growls.

She hurls the pumpkin.

CRACK.

It shatters against the ground and the salted wood. Fire blossoms outward, sudden and violent. Flames snake up the gallows, licking ropes and beams.

For a moment, everything freezes.

Then the fire erupts. It races across the salt trails like a living thing. Riki’s eyes widen.

The flames catch her dress first. Then her hair.

She goes up like kindling.

Her scream rips through Main Street, shrill and animal, echoing off the buildings.

She thrashes backward into the hanging bodies. Ropes creak. Flames climb.

And then—Stacy’s eyes open.

Not weak. Not lost. Furious.

Her legs hook around Riki’s waist. Pull.

Riki jerks. “No—NO—WAIT!”

Stacy yanks her closer. Fire lights like a macabre stage show.

“Who’s stupid now?” Stacy snarls, voice strong and defiant. “Let’s go to hell, baby.”

Riki’s shriek spikes, wild and desperate. “THERE’S NO TIKTOK IN HELL.FOLLOWERS 

The fire engulfs them.

Bodies ignite one by one—Stacy, Eli, Donald—catching like dry leaves. The ropes snap. Charred forms collapse into the inferno below.

Riki disappears in a whirl of flame and screaming.

The heat surges outward like a shockwave. Hart throws herself over Abby. Lang shields his face, eyes narrowing against the blaze.

Sparks rain down like hell’s snow. The smell of burning flesh and wood is thick and choking.

For one last moment, Riki’s scream claws at the night. Then—Silence.

Just fire. Crackling. Consuming. Cleansing.

Hart looks at Lang. He lowers the salt gun slowly. Abby clings to Hart, sobbing.

Riki Bella is gone.

Chapter One Hundred Four

Brandon bursts out of the garage, clutching the doll tight against his chest. The night slaps him—cold, sharp, alive.

Under the flickering streetlight—Monique.

She’s shaking violently, like her bones are trying to crawl out of her skin. Her eyes flicker between human and inhuman—brown, then black, then brown again—like a busted neon sign sputtering.

Her hands claw at her scalp. She screams—raw, guttural—half her voice, half Aleron.

“Monique!” Brandon limps toward her, pain stabbing through his leg with every step.

She looks up, wild-eyed. “It HURTS!” she yells, her voice doubling weirdly through the street.

“I know!” Brandon shouts back. “Fight it. You can fight him—”

Impact.

Something slams into his ribs. Hard. He crashes to the ground.

Dana.

She’s on him in a heartbeat, grinning like a wolf. Her grin is wrong—too wide, too eager.

She pins his wrists and slams a knee into his bad leg.

Pain detonates through him. White-hot. Blinding.

He howls.

Dana laughs, low and guttural. “God, I love it when they scream.”

She leans down, breath rotten, whispering like a lover, “You’re going to die for nothing.”

Her hand curls toward his throat—CRACK. A crowbar slams into her skull from the side.

Mary.

She stands over them, crowbar raised, blood streaking her face, eyes blazing.

Dana snarls, blood dribbling down her temple. She whips around, slashing Mary’s cheek with jagged nails.

Mary stumbles back, but she doesn’t drop the crowbar.

Dana lunges. They slam into a parked car—the crowbar clatters to the pavement.

Mary grunts as Dana drives a fist into her stomach.

They grapple closely, messily, and violently. Dana snaps at Mary’s face like a feral dog. Mary jams her forearm under Dana’s chin, pushing back, her jaw clenched tight.

Brandon forces himself upright. His leg’s a mess, but he moves anyway.

Mary knees Dana in the gut. Dana folds.

Mary snatches the crowbar. Swings. THWACK.

Dana staggers sideways.

Mary swings again. CRACK.

Dana drops to one knee, spitting blood, gasping.

Mary stands over her, breathing hard, blood running down her cheek.

Her voice is low, almost trembling. “This… is for Maria.”

THWACK.

The crowbar caves Dana’s skull. Dana crumples.

For a second, silence. 

Mary looks at the body. Something flickers behind her eyes. Rage. Relief. Grief.

Then—Her breath catches.

She looks down.

A blade pushes through her chest. Slow. Cruel.

The metal bursts out between her ribs, slick and red.

The sound is wet. A look of shock is on Mary’s

face and blood pours from her mouth. 

Her body jerks forward.

The knife slides back out—deliberate, savoring the moment of providing more pain to the victim.

Mary gasps, a ragged sound. She staggers, blood blooming across her shirt like spilled ink.

She turns toward Brandon, her eyes wide with confusion.

She collapses into his arms. He catches her, stunned. No, no, stay with me!”

Blood bubbles at her lips. She tries to speak. Only a wet, broken sound comes out.

Then she starts to convulse.

Brandon lowers her to the ground. She’s still alive—but it’s not a quick death.

The blade went deep, and Mary bled out. 

Her body twitches, blood pooling under her. Her 

Mary’s breaths come in rattling gasps. She looks at Brandon’s eyes, wide and terrified. She knows she’s dying.

He holds her tighter. “I’m here. I’m here. Hold on—”

Mary’s back arches as a violent shudder rip through her. A gurgling sound escapes her throat.

And then the world changes.

The air drops ten degrees in a breath.

The wind dies. Streetlights flicker.

A faint jingling drifts through the night.

It grows louder.

Bells.

And then he’s there.

The Jester.

One second—empty street. The next—Jester slides out of the darkness like a nightmare. 

Porcelain grin shining in the flickering light. Costume edges rippling like smoke. Eyes—those cold, black voids—fixed on Brandon.

His presence bends the air. Makes everything feel wrong; it seems the world has stopped spinning.

Mary’s breath rattles one last time. “Take my car.” Her eyes shift to a red Ford

parked not too far away from Brandon and her. Her hand tightens weakly around Brandon’s sleeve. She tries to say Maria’s name one last time. The name dies in her throat. Her eyes go still.

Mary is with Maria now, reunited in the great beyond. 

Monique stumbles toward Brandon, fighting Aleron’s grip like she’s tearing herself in half. Tears streak down her face. She doesn’t know his name. She doesn’t need to. She sees the doll in his arms. She understands what’s at stake.

Brandon grabs the car keys from Mary’s cold, dead hands. They sprint—well, he limps, she stumbles—toward the red ford Mary looked at.

Brandon unlocks the car; they both stumble into it. Brandon jams the keys in the ignition — the engine roars to life immediately. 

The car’s tires screech and then peel out of the space. It races towards the gallows.

The Jester watches them.

Still, for a few minutes 

Then—he moves.

Not running. Pacing slowly. 

Effortless. Unhurried.

Because the Jester has time.

And he wants his prey to know it.

Brandon grips the steering wheel, jaw tight, blood on his hands and face.

“Alright, asshole,” he mutters. “Let’s end this.”

Chapter One Hundred Six 

Headlights cut through the haze hanging in the air. The red Ford screeches to a halt on Main Street.

Brandon stumbles out, bloody, limping, clutching the doll like it’s the last anchor to sanity. Monique follows, swaying, eyes black but flickering. She looks half here, half lost to Aleron, every movement trembling like she’s still fighting the pull.

Hart gasps when she sees him. Lang smiles—relief breaking through the exhaustion.

The reunion was sweet. Hart rushes to Brandon, gripping his arms. “You’re alive.” “Barely,” he rasps. Monquie stands behind him, shivering, muttering under her breath—broken words, fragments of memory, maybe prayers.

Abby peers from inside the van, safe for now, wide-eyed Alice still unconscious, but breathing shallow. 

Brandon cracks a crooked smile, trying to hold back a cough. “Jesus, you two look like shit.”

Lang lets out a breath that’s almost a laugh. “You should talk; you look like you went a few rounds with Tyson.” Brandon chuckles. Lang pauses and smiles. “Had a run-in with a few of the Jester’s pets,” Hart smirks faintly. “They didn’t exactly roll over.”

Brandon nods, “I get it; I had to take out two pets myself.”

Hart asks, “Did you get the doll?” 

Brandon smiles, “Yeah. We’ve got the bastard; it’s in the car.” 

He turns and heads toward the car. The night suddenly grows still and quiet. Brandon’s halfway to the car when—

Thunk.

A knife whistles out of the dark and buries itself deep in his neck.

Brandon’s eyes widen. Blood pours fast, hot, down his chest. He drops the doll, staggers, and collapses hard on the pavement.

“Brandon!” Hart screams.

The sound that follows is worse than the knife. Bells. Low. Mocking. Everywhere.

Monquie runs to the car for safety, locking the doors behind her. 

The Jester steps out of the haze, as menacing as ever before. The Jester’s grin was cracked but wide. Costume tattered but alive. He tilts his head, studying Lang and Hart like bugs under glass.

“You’re not going to stop this,” he says coldly, voice both him and not him.

Lang’s hands tremble, but he lifts the salt gun. Fires. Pellets fly. They hit the Jester’s chest, his face—nothing. He doesn’t even flinch.

The Jester laughs softly. He isn’t here for Lang. He’s buying time.

Because at the van—The back door creaks open.

And Ivy steps out.

Not the girl John loved. Not the ghost Hart hoped to save. This Ivy is a nightmare—skin gray, hair wet with rot, eyes sunk deep in black voids. Her bones crack as she moves. Her fingers are claws. Aleron’s curse is making her decay as he is. 

Abby screams as Ivy’s skeletal hands wrap around her, lifting her out of the van. The child kicks, thrashes, her voice raw. “Let me go!”

Hart bolts forward, rage exploding out of her, but an unseen force slams her back into the dirt. She hits hard, the air leaving her chest.

Lang fires again, aiming at Ivy this time. The pellets dissolve into smoke before they hit her. She doesn’t even blink.

The Jester is on Lang now. Close. He circles, eyes bright with cruel delight.

“Izzy,” he whispers. “Tell me, doctor… do you still taste her name?”

Lang freezes.

The air warps. And Izzy appears—her face pale, her skull shattered, the bullet hole glaring black. Her eyes fix on him.

“You ruined me,” she says. Her voice is hollow, broken. “You broke me, made me believe that you loved me, broke my heart, and left me to die. And now you’ll pay. You hide the truth so you would not pay”. 

Lang stumbles back, hands shaking, the salt gun slipping from his grip. His voice cracks. “No… no, I—”

Izzy steps closer; her hands reach out. Lang can smell the rot, the blood. His chest caves in on itself. He can’t move.

Hart screams his name—but it’s drowned by the shriek of salt splitting the air.

Three pellets slam into Izzy’s chest. She recoils, shrieking, then crumbles into nothing.

Lang whirls. Brandon.

Still on the ground. Bleeding out and barely holding the gun, Brandon gives a weak wink. Then slumps back, blood pooling beneath him.

Lang’s gut twists.

Hart drags herself up, dirt and blood smeared across her face. She sees Abby—screaming, thrashing in Ivy’s arms, the little girl’s terror tearing through the night.

Ivy’s face peels back, the true demonic form breaking through. Her jaw stretches too far, teeth dripping black. Her voice rattles the air.

“All hail Aleron.”

And then—

Everything goes silent.

The bells fade—the smoke stills. The ground seems to hum.

Aleron has arrived.

Chapter One Hundred Seven 

The air rips.

A deep, wet sound, like the sky itself being torn apart.

Then — silence. Dead silence 

The wind dies. The jack-o’-lanterns along Main Street candles go out, one by one. The streetlight flickers, buzzes, and dies. Everything stops; the world goes still.

Even the ropes above the gallows stop swaying.

The air thickens. Heavy with dread. Waiting for something or someone to return.

And then he steps through.

Aleron.

A corpse that refuses to die. A curse given shape.

He moves through the rip like smoke given weight, dragging the stench of centuries with him. Aleron’s skin is split, gray, and rotted, muscles writhing underneath like they’re alive. Black blood drips from his joints. Each step he takes leaves a slick stain that steams in the cold air.

The claws on his right hand click together — click, click, click — the sound steady, patient, final.

When Aleron breathes, ash spills from his mouth. The air burns with the scent of rot and old iron.

His face is half bone, half shredded skin stitched with the faces of the dead — their eyes wide, their mouths forever open in silent screams. His eyes burn with light that isn’t light — a molten red that pulses like a dying star.

He’s not just death. He’s the echo that death leaves behind when the person has unfinished business. 

Aleron’s cloak shifts behind him, made of faces stretched thin — whispering, twitching, their lips moving in pain; his victims now clothe him. 

He stops in the middle of the street. The shadows stretch to him, bending like they know who owns them.

“I have walked the bones of kings,” he says, his voice layered, a hundred voices speaking through one throat. “And I will walk the bones of this town.” For centuries, I have worn the faces of cowards and sovereigns alike, drawn by injustice-like blood in the water. My curse was born not only from betrayal, but from pain made immortal: a single truth binds me—I hunger for guilt, for secrets rotting inside human hearts.” 

 

His voice drops, becoming even more dreadful. “I cannot be destroyed by force alone. Only confession and acceptance weaken me. Guilt is my feast, but truth is my prison. Bind me in your honesty, and you chain the old jester’s malice. Fail, and I return in every shadow, every laugh that hides a wound.”

Beside him, a shimmer flickers — Ivy’s ghost. She stares at him with hollow eyes; her devotion etched in misery.

Aleron glances at her with something close to affection. “My loyal servant,” he murmurs. “Your reward comes soon.”

He clicks his claws. Click. Ivy’s image dissolves into smoke.

Then his head turns toward Abby.

Aleron’s smile cracks his face. “Let the purest bear my crown.”

Abby rises from the ground.

She is helpless to resist. The lingering touch of the Jester doll—when she was forced to hold it at the estate sale—left her open, marked as a beacon for Aleron. Because Abby is young and traumatized, her mind is raw and vulnerable, her sense of self shaken by nightmares, fear, and the grief that has haunted her since Westport fell into horror. Aleron cannot simply possess anyone: innocence cracked by guilt and fear makes his entrance possible, and the bond Abby formed with the doll is his key. As Aleron’s curse preys on unspoken pain, her terror and confusion give him room to worm inside.

Her feet leave the dirt. Her hair lifts, floating like it’s caught underwater. Her arms hang limp as her body tilts backward in the air, spine bowing.

“Abby!” Hart yells, running forward.

Aleron raises one clawed hand, and Hart freezes mid-stride — her body jerks, her knees hit the ground.

Aleron walks closer, claws clicking, voice dripping poison. “Do you know why I chose her? Because innocence bends easier than guilt.”

Lang fires the salt gun — three shots in rapid bursts. They disintegrate before they reach him. The air eats them alive.

Abby’s eyes roll white. Her mouth opens — no sound comes out—only smoke.

Aleron whispers words in a language no human should know. The smoke slithers from him to her, pouring into her mouth, her nose, her eyes.

Hart screams. Lang runs forward. It’s too late.

Abby’s body jerks. Then goes still. Her head lowers, slow, deliberate.

When she speaks, her voice is no longer hers.

“You should’ve left me in the dark,” Aleron hisses through her.

Hart stumbles back. “No… no, please…”

Aleron walks her forward — Abby’s small, bare feet dragging through the dirt. He grins through her face, her expression flickering between child and monster.

He looks at Lang. “How many, doctor? How many women did you save before you destroyed them?”

Lang’s hands shake. “Don’t—”

Aleron doesn’t stop. “Izzy. She screamed your name before she died, didn’t she? Hung herself with the rope you left behind.”

Lang’s grip falters. His eyes flood. “Shut up.”

Aleron turns to Hart, grin widening. And you, Evelyn Hart. You couldn’t save your father. You couldn’t save your mother. And now—” He drags Abby’s voice through it, making it sound like a child mocking. You can’t save her either.” The body convulses. Her head snaps side to side as if she’s fighting something inside. Her voice breaks, caught between Aleron’s guttural rumble and her own trembling cry.

Hart’s voice cracks. “Abby, listen to me. You’re stronger than him. You’re still in there!”

Aleron laughs through her — a deep, splitting laugh that echoes across Main Street. “Stronger? She’s mine!”

Abby screams. The sound splits into two — a child’s wail and a monster’s roar, colliding into one unbearable noise. Her eyes flicker — black, then blue, then black again.

Lang steps forward, desperation taking over. “Abby, fight him!”

Abby’s voice cracks. “I… I’m trying…”

Aleron’s fury shakes the air. “You are mine, child! I was born from betrayal, fed by lies. You will feed me too!”

Abby’s eyes blaze blue now, brighter, steadier. Her small body trembles violently, light radiating from her chest. She gasps through blood and tears. “You can’t hurt them anymore.”

Aleron screams through her mouth — a howl of rage and fear.

Smoke bursts from her eyes and mouth, black and violent. It howls as it’s ripped free from her body. Abby falls to the ground, gasping, bleeding from her nose.

Aleron’s figure reels back, howling. His chest splits open in bright cracks of molten light—the skin tears. Smoke pours from the wounds.

He staggers — but doesn’t vanish. He’s still standing. Weakened. But still existing 

He looks down at Abby, voice warped, trembling with hatred. “You think you’ve won?” he snarls. “I have walked through centuries of fire. I do not die.”

Aleron’s burning eyes turn toward the Jester, who stands at the end of Main Street like a dark reflection of his master. Bring me the other girl; she will do for now,” Aleron commands. 

The Jester bows, bells chiming faintly. “As you wish… Hail, Aleron.”

Hart rushes to Abby and pulls her close. The girl is limp but breathing. Hart holds her tight, whispering, “I’ve got you. I’ve got you.” Abby does not move; she is locked in Hart’s arms like a newborn. 

Lang moves between the Jester and Monique in the Ford, raising the salt gun. Lang’s breath is steady, his hand on the salt gun trigger. The Jester tilts his head, that cracked grin spreading beneath the mask.

“You can’t stop this,” The Jester says

Lang doesn’t blink. “Maybe not. But I can slow you down.”

The Jester laughs softly; the laugh crawls up Lang’s spine. It’s bone-chilling. 

Lang and Jester face each other in the street, and Hart looks on, holding Abby in her arms. Abby does not move. Aleron watches, his decaying frame pulsing with light — he is beginning to get his strength back.  

Chapter One Hundred Eight

Main Street burns.

The wind has died, but the smoke crawls, dragging the stink of ash and blood.

The gallows creak. Abby is safe in Hart’s arms, her face pale, her eyes half-open, whispering in broken fragments.

Lang limps forward, dragging the salt gun like a broken limb. His coat is soaked in someone else’s blood.

Monique crouches in the van’s driver’s seat, trembling, peeking through the cracked window, one hand pressed to her chest as if it can keep her heart from bursting out.

And out there—

In the middle of that ruined street—

Aleron and the Jester stand side by side.

Aleron looks like death that refuses to finish dying. His ribs show through split skin; black smoke leaks out of him with each breath. His claws twitch. His flesh quivers with the effort of holding himself together.

“You’re not done yet,” Aleron hisses. “Kill him.”

The Jester takes a step forward. His bells jingle, soft and deadly.

Lang raises the gun, breathing hard. “Come on then, clown.”

The Jester moves like lightning.

Salt explodes through the air. It hits nothing. He’s gone—then right there—his hand grips Lang by the throat, slamming him against the van. The gun falls. Lang’s vision flashes white.

The Jester leans close, voice low and human for a heartbeat. “You think this old body can stop what I am?”

Lang wheezes, eyes bulging. “No… but I think I can stop who you are.”

The Jester’s head tilts, mask inches from Lang’s face.

Ivy steps out of the dark, no longer a phantom but human again—perfect, glowing, almost kind. Her eyes are soft. Her voice is honey.

“Do it, my love. Finish him. And then we’ll be free.”

Lang’s chest heaves. He hears something under her voice—something false. He forces a grin, blood in his teeth.

“John… tell me something.”

The Jester pauses mid-lunge.

Lang croaks out the words:

“How’s Aleron gonna bring Ivy back… if he needs Monique as his vessel after he lost Abby?”

That single question cuts like a scalpel.

The Jester freezes.

His hand trembles around Lang’s throat.

His head twitches, confusion rippling through him.

“What… did you say?”

Ivy’s face twists, flickering between beauty and rot. “Don’t listen. He’s lying.”

Lang keeps pushing, his voice sharp, relentless.

“You loved her, John. You didn’t mean to hurt her. Aleron fed on your guilt, twisted it into hate. That pain—it wasn’t rage. It was grief.”

The Jester’s body shudders. His fingers loosen.

“You’ve been punishing yourself for her death ever since,” Lang says softly. “He needs you broken. He feeds on that.”

Aleron snarls, his voice booming, “Silence!” His claws slam into the ground, splitting the concrete.

Lang pushes himself upright, spitting blood. “You were never his servant, John. You were his meal.”

The Jester’s head turns slowly toward Aleron.

The old monster’s body pulses with fury, smoke pouring from his mouth like a furnace. “He lies! I gave your life!”

Lang steps forward, voice shaking with both fear and compassion. “He gave you chains. You can break them.”

The Jester stares at his trembling hands, at the blood on them, at the mask that hides his face.

Lang’s voice softens. “You told jokes so people could breathe. Do not scream. That’s who you were. That’s who Ivy loved.”

For the first time, the Jester’s shoulders sag.

He whispers, almost childlike. “Ivy?”

The ghost steps forward, still smiling sweetly. “Yes, my love. Kill him, and we can be together again.”

Lang’s eyes flash. “Don’t you see? That’s not her. That’s what’s left of her after he used her to keep you on a leash.”

The Jester looks closer. Ivy’s eyes flicker black. Her smile stretches too wide. The illusion melts—her face splits down the middle, peeling open to reveal the demon beneath.

“You lied to me…”

Her voice hisses, monstrous now. “You were mine.”

The Jester rips the mask from his face. His eyes—blue, human, full of pain—lock on her.

“Not anymore.”

The air ignites.

Ivy screams. Her body convulses, burning from the inside out. Her arms twist backward as light tears through her chest. She collapses, dissolving into ash and smoke that vanish into the wind.

Aleron staggers, roaring. His power falters, leaking like blood.

The Jester—John now—turns to him. His face was streaked with tears and soot.

“This ends tonight.”

Aleron lurches toward him, claws slicing through the air. The two collide. Flesh hits flesh. Bone cracks. Blood sprays across the street.

They fight like beasts, all fury and ruin.

Each blow echoes like thunder.

Aleron rakes his claws across John’s side—deep red arcs glisten in the firelight.

John drives his knee into Aleron’s ribs, grabs the knife from his belt, and slashes upward.

Aleron’s blood is black, thick as tar. It hisses when it hits the ground.

“You think you can end me?” Aleron growls. “I am every sin that breathes. Every guilt that festers.”

John grips the knife tighter. “Then I’ll make you choke on mine.”

He drives the blade into Aleron’s gut. The monster howls, smoke exploding from his mouth. They both crash to the ground.

Lang stumbles forward, his leg dragging, heart pounding. Hart holds Abby close, whispering prayers that sound like apologies.

Monique sobs quietly in the van, watching everything through the cracked windshield.

Lang kneels beside Brandon. The knife is still in his neck, blood pooling beneath him. His breath is shallow.

Lang grips his shoulder. “Hold on, kid. Just hold on.”

Brandon’s lips twitch into a faint grin. He can’t speak, but his eyes say it all. He’s proud. He’s ready.

Lang looks up. The street is a hellscape—fire and ash, two monsters locked in their final dance.

Aleron snarls, pinning John by the throat. “You can’t kill me. There will always be guilt. Always sin.”

John struggles, blood bubbling at his lips. And then—

He hears them.

The voices.

The victims.

They rise like wind through the fire—soft, sorrowful whispers.

“You are his avatar.”

“If you die, he dies with you.”

“Free us.”

John’s hand trembles. He nods.

Tears stream down his face. He looks to Hart.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers.

She meets his eyes. She knows. She forgives him.

John smiles through the blood. “Fuck you,” he tells Aleron.

He drives the knife into his own neck.

Aleron screams. The sound splits the air, tears through the sky. Flames burst from his chest, from his mouth, from his eyes. He thrashes, collapsing as his body ignites from the inside out.

The doll rips itself from Lang’s grip, spinning into the air.

It catches fire mid-flight, the flames blooming bright white.

Then — boom.

The explosion rattles the town. Windows shatter. The gallows crumble. The fire eats everything.

When the smoke clears, Aleron is gone. The doll is ash.

Lang lies flat on his back, staring at the glowing sky. Hart looks at him.

Neither speaks.

Just breathing

Ragged. Relieved, it was over. They hoped. 

 

Chapter One Hundred Eight

Filed by: Dr. Stanley Lang

Date: November 18, 2025. This is Dr. Stanley Lang, submitting what the Bureau insists is the final report on Westport.

 

I wish closure were as simple as paperwork. Every time I sit down to write, I find my thoughts circling the quiet aftermath days. Sleep is fragile. There are nights, even now, when I wake to the memory of bells, or with the taste of guilt burning in my throat. The scars in this town reach far deeper than the crime scene maps or official statements. I can still trace every wound in the eyes of the survivors. Sometimes, in the smallest moments—sunrise over the ocean, the stillness before the fog lifts—I remember all that we lost, and I remember the hard truth that survival is not the end of suffering. You tell yourself to move forward, but pieces of what happened cling to you, quieter but present, working their way under the skin. I share this because if any record endures, I want it understood: the story did not finish with the last body counted. What remains is what you carry, and what you choose to face each day after horror has passed.

But nothing about Westport feels final, not truly. The nightmare has finished, but the air in town still feels tense, as if the story itself refuses a neat ending. Even now, I sometimes wonder if the worst of it lies behind us or only waits elsewhere.

 

Some things, I suspect, may never be fully explained. We faced horrors that defied logic, and even what rules existed could shift in a moment. Sometimes the evil that haunted Westport followed patterns we glimpsed only—other times, it broke its own logic. There were moments where the so-called curse seemed to have limits: it fed on guilt and secrets, grew stronger in the presence of unspoken shame, and took on power wherever suffering was buried. Confession or moments of honest reckoning could weaken its hold but never banish it outright. At times, some who told the truth or openly faced their sins seemed to escape Aleron’s grasp, or resist his influence, while others were taken regardless, as if randomness or some hidden logic stepped in. Maybe the curse needed a host who was both broken by their guilt and open to its whisper, or maybe the old stories were right, and innocence itself could be twisted if exposed to enough terror. The curse always clung most fiercely to the young or the wounded, and proximity to the Jester doll, the violence, or Aleron’s voice only hastened the change. Yet for every person claimed, another could resist—inexplicably—suggesting that, if there were rules, they were written in contradictions. There are gaps in our understanding, places where reason falters, and the supernatural remains just out of reach.

 

The stories never aligned. The boundaries between the supernatural and psychological, the real and unreal, dissolved whenever we tried to draw them. Was there truly a spirit at work, or did evil simply move through us in the ways we most feared, given shape by what we could not admit to ourselves? Maybe that is what we truly confronted: a power that feeds on guilt and buried shame but follows its own unknowable laws. Perhaps that’s the only anchor we ever had. Not every question will have an answer, and not every scar will close cleanly. I have come to accept that ambiguity. Some mysteries are meant to linger, whether in the world or just in the mind. Perhaps that’s the only honest way to tell this story. It is difficult to describe what happened here or how those in power have tried to shape the narrative. The scale of the violence and the evidence left behind defy any simple explanation. There are too many witnesses, too much footage, and too many gaps for any “official” story to fit neatly.

 

The Bureau’s efforts to contain the truth have been as relentless as the horror itself. They control the perimeter, monitor digital traffic, and stifle the flow of information. TikTok videos and livestreams are dismissed as hoaxes, alternate reality games, or viral marketing. The cover stories shift ritual cult, mass hysteria, a tragic accident, a viral prank gone wrong. Locals are told little; the families of the missing are given even less. Media access is tightly managed, and anyone who sees too much is quietly relocated or silenced by the promise of witness protection or the threat of prosecution.

 

Yet the reality is impossible to fully erase. The town’s devastation, the sheer number of victims, and the survivors’ wounds—these are things no press release can mend.

It just stopped moving.

Westport, California, once a postcard town on the Pacific, now sits behind barricades and barbed wire. Federal agents patrol the perimeter, their eyes down, their voices low.

The Bureau calls it a secured contamination site.

The locals just call it cursed.

Halloween decorations still hang on their strings. Paper bats sag with rainwater. Rotten pumpkins slump against doorsteps. It looks like the night never ended, as if the whole town is holding its breath, waiting for the next scream.

It took twelve days to count the dead.

Even now, on the quietest nights, those of us who survived find ourselves listening for a faint jingle. Some say the evil is over—claimed by fire, locked away by confession. Others, me included sense something else. Evil never dies. It lingers where memory persists, waiting for the world to forget. We tell ourselves we found peace, but all it takes is the whisper of a bell in the dark to remind us: endings are rarely absolute.

The Bureau’s version of events:

Two separate cases. Two convenient truths.

Case #A-419 — “The Jester Killings.”

A string of ritual murders across California.

Public story: the killer was neutralized, the case closed.

No mention of Aleron.

There’s no mention of who wore the mask before the man.

Case #B-237 — “The Westport Cult Massacre.”

Riki Bella, a disgraced influencer, allegedly led a small cult — including Stacy Marino — into the town.

They supposedly staged a ritual performance for her livestream audience.

The FBI statement says the group turned on each other and perished in the chaos.

They called it mass hysteria.

They called it a tragedy.

They left out everything that mattered.

The press ran with it, of course.

Headlines. Podcasts. Conspiracy threads.

By next week, Westport will be yesterday’s horror.

But some nights, I still see it — that fog-choked Main Street, the gallows swaying in wind that wasn’t there.

Survivor Status:

Detective Evelyn Hart — on extended leave.

She talks to everyone involved — Brandon, Alice, even little Abby — but not about Westport.

If someone mentions it, she shuts down.

It’s not defiance. It’s protection.

The Bureau calls its trauma suppression.

I call it mercy.

Brandon Fox — alive.

Still recovering, walking slower but talking faster.

He hides the limp with bad jokes, but there’s pain behind his humor.

He lost good people that night — and in quiet moments, I think he still hears them calling.

Monique Saint James — reunited with her family.

She’s fragile but fighting.

Sometimes she remembers what she did under Aleron’s control, and the shame tears through her like glass.

She tells her therapist she dreams in two voices — one hers, one whispering commands.

The doctors call it dissociation.

We know it’s residue.

Alice and Abigail Lawson — relocated to the East Coast.

Safe, mostly.

Abby… she smiles more now, but her mother says she wakes at night and talks to the air, sometimes whispering, laughing, always asking if the bells have stopped. Sometimes on quiet afternoons, Abby sits by her window and watches the shadows move across the walls, trying to tell herself the jingle of a bell is just the distant sound of the wind chimes across the street. When she drifts off to sleep, her dreams pull her back to the empty streets of Westport, making her heart race until she wakes with her sheets twisted around her ankles and tears on her cheeks. In the quiet moments before dawn, she writes in her journal about the fear she still carries inside her and the feeling that something is watching, waiting, always just outside the circle of light in her bedroom. Though the worst is over, Abby knows her struggle is not finished. Each day is a new effort to remind herself that she is safe, and that the Jester cannot find her anymore, even if sometimes, when the night is at its stillest, she thinks she hears the smallest sound of a bell.

Abby… she smiles more now, but her mother says she wakes at night and talks to the air — sometimes whispering, laughing, always asking if the bells have stopped.

They never really do.

And me — just the man left to explain the impossible to people who stopped believing in monsters.

The Bureau cleaned it up their way.

No mention of the curse.

No mention of possession.

Just two closed cases sitting in different drawers, separated by paperwork and lies.

They got their neat ending.

We got what was left.

Gavin Hawthorne gave his statement and left the country.

He never closed out Lady Hawthorne’s estate.

Her mansion still stands — windows boarded, gates chained, property tied up in probate.

The FBI lists the doll collection as unaccounted for. 

Not missing.

Not destroyed.

Just unaccounted for. But some nights, when the wind comes off the water and the houses around Westport are silent, it almost feels as if something is listening. Survivors hear, or imagine hearing, the light chime of a bell echoing from nowhere—or the faint, distant giggle of a child that is gone. Maybe it is only memory or fear. Or maybe it is the start of another story, waiting for someone to notice a new arrival, or for a box to be opened in a place far away. The silence that follows is never quite as quiet as it should be.

That single word keeps me up at night.

I check the Bureau’s live feed sometimes.

Westport looks hollow — colorless, dead.

The streets are ash and silence.

Agents on perimeter duty report strange interference.

Sensors tripping. Cameras freezing.

They swear they hear faint, metallic laughter echoing off the water.

The higher-ups call it feedback.

I call it a warning.

Brandon believes we stopped it.

Hart wants to believe it.

Monique prays it.

I try.

But evil doesn’t die. It hides. It changes names. It waits for the world to forget.

 

Some nights, I dream of the doll, shattered to ash in the fire, only to find its painted grin grinning back at me in the dark as if it survived after all. Survivors speak of waking with the ghostly impression of tiny porcelain fingers pressed around their throats, or the faintest bell echoing through empty halls. It is not proof. But it is enough to know that some doors, once opened, never fully close.

I’ll send this report up the chain, then destroy my copy. The Bureau can file it away under a new code and pretend it’s over.

But sometimes, when the wind shifts, I swear I hear it again—that soft jingle cutting through the static of memory—a single bell, then silence.

I pray.

Epilogue

Sotheby’s Annex, New York – Six Months Later

The auction room glows warm and golden under chandelier light. Velvet seats and silver pens. The air hums with wealth and anticipation, but something else too—a tension no one quite names. The auctioneer adjusts his tie, then smiles at the crowd.

“Lot 238,” he says. “Oil on canvas. Fischer, 1892. Sold for eighty-five thousand.” Polite applause follows.

He checks his notes, clears his throat. “Now… our next item is something rather unique.”

The house lights dim. A screen descends from the ceiling with a soft mechanical whir. The projector flickers on, casting pale light across the darkened room.

Rows of porcelain faces appear. Dolls. Hundreds of them. Some cracked. Some perfect. All smiling.

The auctioneer’s voice is smooth, honed by years at the podium. “This collection was delivered to us anonymously three weeks ago. No return address, no provenance. But each piece has been appraised and authenticated. Some date as far back as the nineteenth century.”

The slides begin to change, one doll after another. A ballerina. A clown. A baby in a yellow bonnet. Each more lifeless than the last. Each smile is a little too wide.

The auctioneer’s own confidence seems to waver for just a second. He covers it with a crisp, practiced grin. “We’ll start the bidding at one thousand dollars.”

The next image lingers on the screen. A jester doll. Frozen mid-cartwheel, arms raised. The outfit is blue, pom-pom buttons shining, a cockscomb hat strung with tiny gold bells. Its porcelain face is dead white, painted with green streaks down the cheeks and a red grin stretched far too wide.

For a moment, the auctioneer hesitates. Someone in the audience coughs. Other murmurs about how there’s always a story with dolls like these—sometimes a curse, sometimes just a rumor. A woman in the fourth-row leans to her friend and whispers, “Didn’t you hear about that town out West?” Her friend shrugs. “Urban legend. Someone’s always selling haunted dolls.”

As the bidding begins, somewhere at the edge of the room, a bell jingles, faint and clear. Heads turn. The auctioneer halts, looking uncertain. Silence falls for a heartbeat. Those near the dais glance back at the screen. The doll’s black glass eyes gaze back, blank and glossy, but for an instant, they seem to flicker in the light—as if something within them has awoken to watch the room.

A chill ripples through the crowd before the auctioneer recovers, his voice steady once more as the next bid is called.

Later, as the lot is packed for shipment, a porter swears the doll’s eyes shifted, just slightly, following him as he left the room. He tells himself it’s the light, or a trick of nerves. He doesn’t mention it to anyone else.

In the quiet after the crowd has gone, a single gold bell trembles, catching the light on its rim—as if nudged by a breath that no one else feels. And somewhere, faint as memory, a laugh echoes—too soft to be sure, too clear to be forgotten.

Was it real? Or just the wind in a city full of stories?