Halloween Haunts: A Halloween Scare for the Ghost Tour Host
Halloween Haunts: A Halloween Scare for the Ghost Tour Host
By David Allen Voyles
Halloween has always been a thrill for me, even as an adult. Without a doubt, it’s the main reason why I write horror. For over forty years, my wife and I, garbed in our October aliases of Mr. and Mrs. Dark (raising a glass to you, Ray Bradbury), have hosted an annual over-the-top, themed, Halloween party. The popularity of our “Dark Ghost Tours” party in 2014, when I took guests all over our property to tell stories about the little scenes of horror we had created, actually inspired us to throw caution to the wind and take out a loan to create our own small, family ghost tour business, Dark Ride Tours. Talk about scary…that was VERY scary! We were both in our sixties, for crying out loud. DRT featured a renovated 1972 Cadillac hearse, retired from actual funeral service, in which we took our paying guests to various haunted sites.
Generally speaking, I never experienced any specific hauntings with the hearse (named Lenore from Poe’s most famous work, btw) despite the fact that a friend who genuinely seems to be sensitive to the presence of spirits, no kidding, assured us that Lenore was haunted by her previous owner. She told us when she stuck her head in the back that she could hear 70’s music, specifically Creedence Clearwater Revival, and that a “very large, friendly man” was sitting in the corner where two freshly installed black leather seats met. She said he was very happy with what we had done with his hearse. Later, when I checked back with the man from whom we had bought the hearse after his brother, the actual owner, had died from a lingering illness, he told us that his brother had outfitted the hearse with a high-fidelity sound system and used it as a novel way to broadcast music at mobile parties which he hosted as DJ. His music of choice? Yep, you guessed it. 70’s rock ‘n roll, with his favorite being CCR, of course. Creepy, right? But in a good way.
Like I said, I never personally experienced seeing or hearing a ghost in our hearse. Apparently, I am about as psychic as a brick. Our guests on one tour did have a special thrill when a spirit-sensitive customer in a clearly disturbed state interrupted my spiel about the female ghost who reportedly haunted the theater of a local university. “There’s someone with us in the hearse right now,” she said in a hushed voice. I gave her a moment, and then asked if it was the spirit I had been referencing. She shook her head and then simply said, “She’s gone.”
I’m not sure I was able to deliver my usual humorous banter for the rest of that tour as I was constantly looking over my shoulder. I was tempted to just turn the tour over to her, but she seemed really rattled by the incident and withdrew into a morose silence for the rest of the trip.
But that wasn’t the scariest event for me as the ghost tour host. On our second, “very-special” Halloween night tour, one in which we had pulled out all the stops, offering homemade treats and special short Halloween-themed videos (yeah, we had a flat-screen TV in the hearse installed above part of a coffin––this hearse was totally tricked out, I’m tellin’ ya), the hearse broke down as we pulled into our first stop, the parking lot at the university theater. (Yeah, right. THAT SAME FREAKIN’ THEATER.)
There was an especially loud creak, more of a cracking noise, really, and instead of coming to a stop to idle in front of the theater as we usually did, we screeched into an empty parking space. My son, our silent driver garbed in a Grim Reaper-type costume, turned in the front seat to face me where I sat in the back with the guests and gestured with a slice across his throat that this tour had just ended. On our way to pick up our guests, we had heard some disconcerting noises, some creaks and groans from the chassis that weren’t the type you wanted, even on Halloween. We had discussed the idea of canceling the tours for the night when we first heard the sounds but ultimately decided it was best to go on with the planned tours since our guests, two couples who had booked separately, were likely already at the pickup site. And besides, the hearse was old. Old cars make a lot of weird, scary noises.
My heart leapt into my throat when I saw his signal.
“Folks, I have some bad news, I’m afraid. Our hearse has just…uh…expired.”
The couples chuckled and grinned at each other at what they thought was a fake breakdown.
“Uh, no seriously. If you have someone you can call to come pick you up, you’ll need to do that. Otherwise, I’ll call an Uber for you. At our expense, of course.”
Our guests were incredibly gracious, and the next Halloween, believe it or not, I was delighted to find that one of the couples had actually booked us for a second chance. They had been so impressed with the hearse and the storytelling up to that point that they wanted to give it another go, and they said the redemption tour the next year was wonderful.
In all fairness, this breakdown wasn’t totally out of the blue. When we had finally gotten the hearse into road-readiness after rescuing it from sitting in a grassy plot for three years to become the focus of our business, we knew the chances of mechanical problems would likely be an ongoing issue.
For our ribbon-cutting ceremony at the brewery where we would pick up our customers, I had arrived separately in full costume as Virgil Nightshade, the undertaker/storyteller/host of Dark Ride Tours, so I could mingle with the guests and members of the Chamber of Commerce. It was great. We all had drinks, and I was telling stories of what we would do on the tours, preparing them for the big, dramatic arrival of Asheville’s first and only professionally haunted hearse. The text I got from my wife, who had ridden with my son to the event in the hearse, was awful.
“We are sitting on the side of the road by the entrance to Warren Wilson College. Lenore has broken down. We aren’t going to make it to the event.”
I was heartsick. I had to announce to the crowd that our special hearse, the midnight-black heart and soul of our brand-new business, wouldn’t be there due to mechanical failure. But as one wit remarked, “Well, it is kinda fitting that your hearse actually died on its debut run as a haunted hearse.” I can laugh about it now, but then? Not so much.
We stopped giving tours just before Covid hit, and I’m glad we did as it would have been a financial disaster had we continued. But I still miss riding in the hearse, pranking our guests with some pretty effective special effects, and telling ghost stories, nearly all of which––full disclosure––were tales I had made up. (I started every tour with a bit of wisdom from Mark Twain, “Never let the truth get in the way of a good story!”)
Without the tours, I turned to writing and publishing my stories as the creative outlet for those weird storylines that lurk in the dark corners of my brain begging to be told.
And of course, like most of you, Halloween remains my favorite holiday. But hey, I gotta ask…anyone out there interested in owning a hearse?
TODAY’S GIVEAWAY: David Allen Voyles is giving away a .pdf version, the complete manuscript, of his new novel, Edgar. Comment below for a chance to win!
Author bio:
David Allen Voyles is currently celebrating the October release of his fifth book, Edgar, a horror novel which imagines, “What if Edgar Allan Poe’s scariest stories were inspired by a series of terrifying events that occurred to him one summer when he was fifteen years old?” Voyles’ other books include two novels and two short story anthologies of original tales, one of which, Tales from the Hearse, was inspired by his time as the host/owner of Dark Ride Tours, Asheville’s only ghost tour business featuring an actual hearse. Edgar, like Voyles’ other works, is available on Amazon in paperback and Kindle formats. You can hear David Allen Voyles narrate several of his stories on his Dark Corners podcast (available on Spotify and other podcast apps). More info about his latest projects can be found on his website (davidallenvoyles.com) where you can also sign up to download a free short story found nowhere else and subscribe to his free Dark Cycles newsletter. You can follow Voyles in his Dark Corners Facebook group and on Instagram @davidallenvoyles.
Promotional Copy: Chapter 1 of Edgar
Chapter 1
The eyes in the chiseled skull looking back at Edgar felt as empty as his heart.
He dropped his pencil and sketchbook onto the grass beside him, and leaned back against the tombstone. Coming to the graveyard to write poetry and draw usually gave him a sense of peace, but that morning, after yet another argument with his adoptive father, he felt incredibly sad.
The sound of a bird’s raucous call nearby caused Edgar to look up; a blur of dark wings disappeared into the foliage. From the corner of his eye he thought he saw something larger move.
“Hello? Is someone there?” Edgar stood and took one cautious step toward the small mausoleum. Its walls were so densely covered in ivy, the stone was nearly invisible. Edgar took another step but stopped when he heard low laughter, or more precisely, someone trying to stifle a chuckle unsuccessfully.
“Robert, is that you? I warn you, I’m not in the mood for one of your pranks.” Edgar unclenched his fists and crossed his arms, subconsciously assuming the exact same posture as his father hours earlier.
“Edgar.” The hoarse whisper was muffled; it echoed as if it came from within the crypt. Edgar edged his way cautiously over to its entrance and saw the iron gate protecting the wooden door stood unlocked and ajar. The stained-glass window of jewel-toned abstract shapes kept him from being able to see inside.
The sound of more laughter behind the thick door made Edgar’s skin crawl, but his unease was quickly replaced by anger as he imagined how his friend would tell the story later. Edgar lifted the iron latch on the door and opened it slowly. He found it difficult to see in the gloom of the crypt at first, but soon he could discern what appeared to be covered enclosures built into the walls on either side that likely held caskets. As he stood in the doorway with the sunlight spilling around him into the dusky room, his breath caught in his chest. Something crouched in the far corner.
At first it appeared to be an inhuman creature, one of many that inhabited Edgar’s dreams. But when it stood, Edgar saw it was a man, a boy actually, a few years from adulthood like himself. This person wore clothing like his own and was of similar height and build. As he smiled at Edgar, the grin grew horribly wider and wider––like the grin of the skull I was sketching. Edgar thought the boy must be mad.
“And so we meet,” the boy said in a hoarse, soft voice barely above a whisper. The speaker tilted his head oddly as he smiled which sent a shiver up Edgar’s spine, but then an even more horrifying realization struck Edgar. The boy looked like him. Exactly like him.
Edgar shut his eyes tightly as the sound of crazed giggling bounced off the stone walls, enveloping him like the gloom and wrapping him in its cold embrace so that he no longer felt the warmth of the sun on his back. When the laughter faded, Edgar reluctantly opened his eyes and found he was alone.
Edgar spun in the doorway and desperately searched the graveyard for movement but, seeing nothing, forced himself to turn back and look again within the crypt. With his heart pounding, Edgar stepped further into the mausoleum and made his way to the back wall where the boy had been. No sign suggested that anyone had been there. The stone floor was clear of any dirt or dust, so the absence of footprints meant little.
Edgar left the crypt and shut the door and the iron gate, frowning for a moment as he paused to stare at the entrance. Shaking his head, he made his way back to the spot where he had been sketching. He picked up his pencil and book from where he had dropped them and stood, surveying the gently rolling hills of the cemetery as he pondered what had happened.
A movement to his right caught his eye: a dark shadow streaked low along the ground before disappearing between two tombstones. Edgar’s eyes searched the adjacent crosses and statues, not sure whether he hoped to see the figure again or not.
A small dark shape caught his eye as it jumped up onto the top of a low, flat stone bearing a bronze plaque. With relief Edgar saw it was a cat, solid black except for a small patch of white on its chest. It lay down on the warm stone and licked the top of its paw which it then used to clean its face and right ear. Abruptly it stopped its cleaning and stared at Edgar.
What’s wrong with its face?
Edgar took a step toward the cat, but it jumped down from the small memorial and ran quickly off through the cemetery and into the nearby woods.
The familiar pang of loneliness that swelled in Edgar’s chest was overwhelming.
***
“Hello, what’s this?”
Edgar’s eyes flew open and he sat up from where he had been dozing in the warm summer air against the trunk of a large oak tree.
“Give that back,” Edgar said. He reached for the sketchbook Robert had snatched from his lap and held open barely out of Edgar’s reach. The book was angled so that the sketch of a ghoulish, crouching figure glared out from its pages. “I thought you were reading.”
“This is much more interesting than The Iliad,” Robert said, ignoring Edgar’s extended hand and returning his attention to the sketchbook. “I don’t know how anyone is supposed to keep up with all those Greek names. But, seriously, Edgar, these drawings are fantastic. I thought you just wrote sad little poems in here.” He flipped the book around to study the picture again. “But I must say, this picture is…” He paused, searching for the right word. “…well, disturbing. What would make you draw such things?” He turned several pages which displayed images of various robed specters and skeletons and then stopped to look at his friend. “I mean, they’re all very good, but…” His voice trailed off.
Edgar shrugged. “I don’t know. I like drawing them.”
Robert studied his friend. “Sometimes you’re so withdrawn, so gloomy, I’d think you were brought up in an orphanage run by sadistic nuns if I didn’t know otherwise.” Edgar frowned. Robert’s eyes widened and he raised his hands defensively. “I didn’t mean anything by that, Edgar. You know that. But your life is so good. Now with your father’s business doing well, you live in the finest house in town. And you’re set to be his partner, a man of means yourself. There’s not another boy in Richmond who wouldn’t trade places with you.”
“You have a much rosier view of my future than I do,” Edgar said. “It’s true, my father’s inheritance has changed our lives a great deal. But even with this new wealth, that man can pinch a penny until it bleeds. It is only by my mother’s pleading that I have even a small allowance to buy things like that sketchbook. And as far as becoming his business partner…” Edgar shook his head. “I don’t see it. And to be honest, I don’t think I want it. I don’t want to be a merchant; I’d rather pursue the arts. Like my real parents.” He picked at a hangnail for a moment before looking up again. “But not a day goes by without him reminding me of my ‘questionable’ roots.”
“I would think that your birth parents being famous actors would be something he would be proud of,” Robert said.
“I’m not sure you could say they were famous, exactly,” Edgar replied. “Maybe my mother. She had quite a following from what my adoptive mother says. But John Allan has no great love for the arts. Actors might––and I emphasize ‘might’––rate a step above thieves and harlots in his book.”
Robert gave his friend a small smile. “Mrs. Allen seems very kind.”
Edgar nodded. “She is. She was friends with my mother.” Robert studied his companion for a moment in silence. Deciding to change the subject, he held up the sketch book again with the ghoul facing toward Edgar and asked, “But what about this particular picture? What made you draw it? This would give me nightmares.”
Edgar waited before answering, debating whether to tell Robert the truth or not. He took a deep breath and looked into his friend’s eyes. “The other day I saw this in the graveyard.” Robert’s jaw dropped and his eyes widened again but he held his silence and waited for Edgar to continue. “Well, I thought I saw this. I was sketching images from some of the tombstones when I heard a voice speak to me.”
“Someone had been spying on you?” Robert asked. He leaned toward Edgar, eager to hear more.
“I don’t know. That’s what I thought. At first, I thought I heard leaves rustling, like someone sneaking around in the graveyard. Then I heard a voice––hardly more than a whisper really––call ‘Edgar.’”
“They knew your name?” Robert asked.
“Yes. And then I heard laughter. Not very loud, only a chuckle, as if it were coming from the Blankenship tomb.” Edgar paused, and then confessed sheepishly, “I thought it was you.”
“Me!” Robert protested. And then he laughed. “Well, that is something I might do. But I swear it wasn’t me.”
“I know that now.”
“Then what did you do?”
“I went inside.”
“It was unlocked?” Robert asked. His voice indicated his doubt.
“It was. And I saw something crouching in the corner…” Edgar pointed to the drawing, “…like that.” Robert shivered but smiled, encouraging Edgar to continue his story. “But here’s what’s strange.” Robert inched closer as Edgar lowered his voice. “At first, I thought the creature didn’t have a human face. Or rather, I should say, a living human face. It looked like a skull.” In spite of himself, Edgar was clearly enjoying telling Robert his story, and Robert clearly enjoyed hearing it.
“The cemetery would have been a faint image in the dust behind me at that point,” Robert said.
“I was terrified,” Edgar admitted, “but it was as if I were trapped. Frozen. But then the figure slowly stood, and I could see the face had flesh after all. It wasn’t a creature; it was a boy, dressed as you and I are. But here’s the part that really chills my soul.” Edgar blinked and wet his lips. “The boy’s face changed.” Robert’s eyes narrowed as he waited for Edgar to continue. “I saw it looked exactly like me.”
Robert stared at Edgar in silence. Eventually Edgar continued, his voice so quiet that Robert had to lean in even further to hear him.
“And then he laughed. It was a horrible, low laugh, so horrible I couldn’t stand to hear it. I closed my eyes until the laughter stopped, and when I opened them, he was gone.”
“Would you boys like something to drink? A switchel or a lemonade, perhaps?”
Edgar and Robert jumped, startled by the sudden presence of Robert’s mother who covered her mouth to hide her smile as the boys stood. They averted eye contact with her as they brushed the grass from their trousers.
“I’m sorry,” Jane Stannard said. “I thought you heard me coming. What on earth had you both so captivated?”
“Edgar was just telling me about––” he looked at Edgar who shook his head slightly, “a bear he thought he saw near the river.”
Jane’s eyes narrowed but she didn’t press him for clarification.
“But, Mother,” Robert said in a new, playful tone accompanied by a sense of mischief sparkling in his eyes as he held up Edgar’s sketchbook. “Did you know that our Edgar is quite an artist?” Edgar’s eyes grew big as he silently begged Robert to stop. Robert thumbed a few pages back from the frightening image of the ghoulish boy in the cemetery, and Edgar grew even more nervous.
“Robert, no! Give me that!” Edgar said.
Batting Edgar’s hands away, Robert continued. “Mother, you’ve inspired a budding artist!” He held the book out to his mother so that she could see the portrait of a very pretty woman who obviously resembled her. Edgar’s cheeks grew red and he stared at the ground. Jane took the book and read the lines of verse that accompanied the sketch.
On desperate seas long wont to roam,
Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face,
Thy Naiad airs have brought me home
To the glory that was Greece,
And the grandeur that was Rome.
“How wonderful!” she said. “A poem written in ancient, classical style. Did you write this, Edgar?” He nodded and she returned her gaze to the sketchbook where she read more of the poem. “It’s about Helen of Troy, if I’m not mistaken. That’s hard to do well, Edgar, but you’ve captured it masterfully.” She ran her fingers over the portrait above the verse. “The sketch is beautiful, too. And how clever of you to use local people as models for your subjects, as the Renaissance masters did.” Edgar looked up at her, relief clearly evident on his face.
“Should you need a model for a poem about a rowdy, rude boy, I know where to find one.” She cast a side glance at Robert but smiled to take the sting out of the mild rebuke.
“Thank you, Mrs. Stannard,” Edgar said. He felt something brush against his leg.
“Oh, we have a visitor,” Jane said. The three of them looked at the black cat who had stepped from Edgar to Robert and then to Robert’s mother, pausing to rub its side briefly against each of them before returning to Edgar. Edgar knelt down and reached out to stroke its head but jerked his hand back when he saw the cat’s deformity.
“I’ve seen that cat here before,” said Robert, and Edgar thought back to the cat he had seen in the graveyard. “It must be lost, or maybe someone has abandoned it. I know it’s him because of that missing eye.” He reached over and rubbed the cat’s head, which didn’t appear to be troubled in the least by his touch. The cat purred but then turned to rub against Edgar’s knee again. Edgar shifted from his kneeling posture and sat fully on the ground, making a lap for the cat of which it took full advantage. It purred contentedly as he pet it and settled in as if it had known him for years.
“I think it’s a female,” Jane said. “She seems to be looking for a home, poor thing. However she lost that eye, she seems to have adjusted fairly well.”
“It’s so odd,” Robert said as he looked at his mother. “Another one-eyed cat!” Jane frowned.
Edgar asked, “There’s been another?”
“My aunt and uncle had a black cat like this…”
“Robert, no,” Jane interrupted softly.
“It happened, Mother. You might as well accept it.” Turning to Edgar, he explained. “My uncle is an alcoholic. And he’s mean when he gets drunk.” Jane clenched her lips tight but didn’t stop her son from speaking further. Robert settled on the grass beside his friend and continued the story. “My aunt really loved that cat. It had a white spot on its chest just like this one. Well, anyway, one night Uncle Julius came in from another night of drinking at the tavern and the cat made him mad. Aunt Olivia saw it rub against his leg, something cats are prone to do as you can see. Regardless of whether the cat tripped him or he stumbled due to his drunkenness, he fell, hurting his shoulder in the process. Swearing like a sailor, he blamed it on the cat and worked himself into a fury. He grabbed a knife and stabbed it in the head, taking one of its eyes out in the process.”
Jane shut her eyes and shook her head. Edgar frowned and continued to pet the cat while murmuring a soft apology to the creature for the cruelty of humans. He raised his head and asked, “But that’s not this cat?”
“No, not at all,” Robert answered. “Aunt Olivia’s cat died from the injury. I buried it for her, so I’m sure this is not the same cat.”
“It certainly is odd for another cat like that one, black with a white spot and missing one eye, to show up here,” Jane said. She looked down at the cat in Edgar’s lap as they stood in silence for a moment. “I’d love to give her a home, but Robert’s father has a sensitivity to cats which makes him sneeze. They give him fits. It wouldn’t do to have it here.”
“He sure seems to like you,” Robert said to Edgar. The cat purred loudly, obviously content in Edgar’s lap. “Maybe you could adopt it.”
Edgar shrugged and raised his eyebrows. “Maybe. My mother would be fine with it, but my father is another story.”
“She’d be a good mouser, I bet,” Robert said. “Even with only one eye. Your father ought to like having a cat around, especially in your horse barn.”
Edgar nodded. “That’s true.” The cat looked up at Edgar and reached a paw up tentatively, eventually touching his chin lightly. The three humans looked at each other and laughed. “I think my mother will be able to convince him to let us keep her. She’s got such a soft heart; I don’t think she could say no to this. I’ll take her home with me and we’ll see what we can do.” Edgar gently moved the cat from his lap as he and Robert rose again.
Edgar turned to Mrs. Stannard and said, “I hope it’s still all right if Robert goes with me next week to make that special delivery for my father. I could really use his help.”
“I think we can spare him for a day or two. I understand you plan to stay overnight?”
“Yes. I’d rather make camp in the woods near the estate, but my father says Mr. Tamerlane will have a room prepared for us and that we shouldn’t risk offending his client by not accepting the offer.”
“Not a problem for me,” Robert said. “I’ll never pass up a soft, warm bed over a bedroll on the cold, wet ground.”
“Mr. Stannard and I are glad for Robert to be able to help,” Jane said, ruffling her son’s hair. “And you should both be proud that Mr. Allan is trusting you to carry out this assignment alone.”
“Well, he doesn’t have to pay us, which I imagine is the greater motivation,” Edgar said. “But speaking of my father, I should be checking in with him at the warehouse, I suppose. He doesn’t like for me to be idle too long.”
“It is always nice seeing you, Edgar,” she said. She looked at Edgar with a sad smile for a moment before turning to go back to the house.
The boys said their goodbyes and Edgar picked the cat up and began his walk home. After a few steps the cat squirmed and leapt down to the ground.
“Oh,” Edgar said. “Well, walk then, if you want to be that way. I guess we’ll see whether you want to live with me or not.” He continued across the Stannards’ lawn to the dirt street and the cat followed him with its tail pointing skyward.
“I suppose we ought to find you a name,” Edgar said looking down at his new companion as he slowed to match the cat’s pace.
Morella.
The feminine voice sounded as clearly as if someone had spoken aloud.
Thanks for the reply, David. And the encouragement! That just might be my winter short story to draft out.
Hi David: I am long-life Poe fan since my high school days. Your novel sounds amazing. Love the cover. I’ve always wanted to write a short story about Poe but lack the courage. Maybe someday. Anyway, fun post here today!
Thank you, Paula! I had a lot of fun writing Edgar, and hope the disruption of Helene for my book launch this month will be temporary. (I’m in Western North Carolina, temporarily displaced from the storm.) But there are people with FAR more important things to worry about here in NC than my book sales! In regard to Poe, write that story! You don’t have to show it to anyone if you don’t want to, but I guarantee you’ll have fun. And somebody else WILL like it!