1
HADDONFIELD, ILLINOIS
Halloween night, 2018
Cameron Elam walked through the park in his bare feet. It was late October, and the grass was cold, but no way was he going to try to walk home in high heels. He’d only worn them as part of his costume, and he’d taken them off soon after he and Allyson had arrived at the dance. Not only did the damn things pinch his feet, he could barely keep his balance in them. And given how much he’d had to drink tonight, he figured he was unsteady enough as it was. So he carried the shoes, although why he hadn’t simply dropped them in the trash before leaving the high school, he couldn’t say. It wasn’t as if he was ever going to use them again. Maybe carrying them was a small way of punishing himself for having been such an asshole tonight. It wasn’t much in the way of penance, but it was a start.
He and Allyson had gone to the dance dressed as gender-swapped versions of Bonnie and Clyde, the infamous bank-robbing couple from the 1930s. Cam’s outfit consisted of a tan beret, brown scarf, yellow short-sleeved cardigan—now beer-stained— brown plaid skirt, lipstick, and those damn heels. Instead of a blond wig, he’d decided to go with his own brown, shoulder-length curls, and he hadn’t shaved his legs, figuring that would make the outfit funnier. The costumes had seemed like a good idea at the time, but once they were at the dance, no one had a clue who he and Allyson were supposed to be. The 1930s were ancient history as far as his generation was concerned. Practically prehistoric.
He walked through a small neighborhood park—oak trees, playground equipment, soccer field—rather than on the side of the street. The last thing he wanted right now was for someone to see him like this. He didn’t need people honking their horns and laughing at him as they drove by, shouting through open windows. Hey, baby! Looks like you had a rough night!
He couldn’t believe he’d screwed things up with Allyson so badly. Things between them had been going well lately, so much so that she’d even introduced him to her family. Her mom and dad seemed nice enough—for parents, that is—but her grandmother was an absolute headcase. Still, he had no room to criticize. His dad was pretty messed up, too. That was something he and Allyson had in common: nuts growing on the family tree. She hadn’t been thrilled about Oscar tagging along with them tonight, though. He could be obnoxious sometimes… okay, most times, but she’d put up with him because he was Cam’s friend. What she hadn’t put up with was Cam’s drinking. He’d brought a hip flask with him to the dance. It’s an accessory, he’d told her, that’s all. What he hadn’t told her was that he’d filled his “accessory” with gin. Not only had he drunk liberally from it every chance he got, he also had a couple of the beers that Oscar had snuck into the dance. He’d known Allyson didn’t like it when he drank, and to make matters worse, when she’d gone off to answer a call—most likely from Vicky— his former girlfriend Kim had approached him on the dance floor. They’d spoken for a couple minutes, making small talk. You having a good time? What’s the most ridiculous costume you’ve seen so far? And then, out of nowhere, she’d kissed him. Yeah, he’d kissed her back, but he’d been drunk and hadn’t realized what he’d been doing. Or maybe that had just been his excuse. Allyson had seen him kiss Kim, and when he’d tried to explain what had happened and how it hadn’t meant anything, not really, they’d argued. He’d ended up snatching her phone out of her hand and dropping it into a bowl of nacho cheese sauce. He hated her phone—it seemed she was always on the damn thing, interrupting their time together— but it had been a stupid, childish thing to do, and he’d instantly regretted it. But before he could apologize, Allyson had stormed off and he’d been too ashamed to go after her right away.
When he’d finally worked up his courage—and sobered up a little—he’d gone in search of her, but he hadn’t been able to find her. She’d left, and he couldn’t blame her. He’d looked for Oscar then, but he hadn’t been able to find him, either. The three of them hadn’t driven to the dance, and he hadn’t felt like bumming a ride off anyone, didn’t want to explain why he was on his own, so he’d started walking. The night air was cold on his bare arms and legs, and he wished he’d thought to bring a jacket with him to the dance. He shivered, and figured he’d probably end up getting a damn cold. God, could this night get any worse?
He wished he could call or text Allyson, but of course she didn’t have her phone. For all he knew, it was still back at the high school, submerged in cheese sauce. He could call Oscar, however. Maybe he knew where Allyson was, and even if he didn’t, at least he’d listen to Cam’s tale of woe. Oscar could be a jerk sometimes, but he was a good guy underneath all the smarminess.
He carried his own phone tucked into his skirt. He took it out now and called Oscar’s number. He listened as it rang on the other end. And rang. And rang.
“Pick up, pick up…” he muttered. “Where are you?”
A click, and then Oscar’s voice.
“Hey there, sassy lover. This is Oscar—”
Voicemail.
“—I’m not able to come to answer your call right now because… I’m standing right behind you. BOO!”
A beep, then Cam began speaking, the words coming out in an anxious rush.
“Oscar, call me when you get this. I messed up with Allyson. I gotta find her. Gotta fix it. If you guys are together, if you know where she is, let me know, okay, bud? Be safe.”
He disconnected.
“Dammit!”
In frustration, he tore the beret off his head and hurled it away from him as hard as he could. It spun through the air and landed soundlessly in the grass near the high chain-link fence that separated the park from the street. He was about to throw the high heels too, when he saw something lying on the other side of the fence, not far from the curb. There weren’t any streetlights close by, but the moon was full tonight—how appropriate was that?—and Cam could see that the object was human-shaped. At first he thought it was a scarecrow or a dummy, a Halloween decoration that someone had stolen and left in the street. But then the decoration stirred and let out a soft moan. Christ, it was a person!
“Hey, you okay?” Cam called out nervously.
Another moan, louder this time.
Cam didn’t think. He tucked his phone back into his skirt, dropped the heels, and ran toward the fence. There wasn’t an exit to the street here, so when he reached the fence, he began climbing, fast as he could. The metal links were cold on his hands and they hurt his already aching feet, but he barely registered the discomfort. The fence wasn’t all that high—maybe seven, eight feet—and when he reached the top, he swung his bare legs over and dropped. He landed with a jolt on a small strip of grass that lay between the fence and the street, and nearly lost his balance and fell. Goddam gin! He stood, turned, and hurried toward the man, reaching him in three quick strides.
The first thing Cam noticed was the blood. It lay on the asphalt near the man’s head, inky black in the moonlight. Then he saw the vicious wound on the side of the man’s neck, and he understood where all that blood had come from, was still coming from. He knew that if he didn’t do something, and fast, the man would bleed out within minutes, maybe seconds. He tore the scarf from around his neck and crouched next to the man. When he saw the wound close up—flesh torn and ragged, wet meat visible inside—his stomach lurched. He almost vomited, but he gritted his teeth and swallowed. Keep it together, Cam. This guy needs you.
“I’ll get help,” he told the man. He raised his voice and shouted, “Somebody help! Help us!”
He lifted the man’s head, wrapped the scarf around his neck, pulled it tight as he dared—eliciting a sharp intake of breath from the man—then tied it. He couldn’t use the scarf as a tourniquet, couldn’t risk cutting off the flow of blood to the man’s head, which meant this makeshift bandage was a temporary solution. This guy needed a paramedic, not some drunk high school kid. Although Cam didn’t feel very drunk right now. He felt stone cold sober.
His voice echoed in the night, but there was no answer.
He looked at the man, registering his features for the first time. He was older than Cam had first thought, in his fifties or sixties, with short, gray hair and a high forehead. He wore a dark jacket with a gold badge on the front and the Haddonfield Sheriff’s Department emblem stitched onto the shoulder. Cam wasn’t a fan of cops—what teenager was?—and he was uncomfortably aware that he still carried his flask, and that it wasn’t empty. But he told himself to forget about that. Who gave a damn if he got in trouble for underage drinking tonight? A man’s life was at stake.
“Hold on, man. Hold on. Officer…” He took a quick glance at the nametag on the man’s uniform. “Hawkins. Take it easy. C’mon, please. You got it!”
Up to this point, the man’s eyes had been closed, as if he were hovering on the brink of unconsciousness. But now his eyes flew open and his hands lunged toward Cam. He flinched, thinking the man was attacking him in his delirium. But instead he grabbed hold of Cam’s sweater with surprising strength and pulled him closer. His eyes were wide and wild, and when he spoke his voice was a harsh rasp.
“He must die. He needs to die.”
Then all the strength drained out of the man, and he let go of Cam’s sweater. He lay back, face pale, but he didn’t close his eyes, and while his breathing was rough, it remained steady. The man wasn’t ready to check out yet. He was a tough one.
Cam had no idea what the man was talking about. Who needed to die? But right now it didn’t matter. He grabbed his phone and called 911. And while Cam frantically explained to the operator what was happening, Officer Frank Hawkins gazed up at the full moon—which looked too much like an expressionless white mask to him just then—and remembered another night, another Halloween, long ago…
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