Free All Hallows Eve: A Krewe of Hunters Novella (1001 Dark Nights) by Heather Graham

strangled to death, slow and excruciating.
    “This is Gloria Day,” Laura said.
    “Did you know her?” Martin asked.
    “I’ve only seen her. She runs an ad on the local news about her ball every year. She also has a shop and helps promote classes run by some of her coven members. She’s kind of a big cheese around here.”
    “Like John Bradbury?” Jenna asked.
    “That’s right. But look at the way the rope was tied. It’s exactly the same as with Bradbury. When you look at the photographs, you’ll see what I mean. I don’t believe that either victim tied a rope that way around their own neck.” Laura shook her head. “This is going to be one wicked Halloween.”
    “What about the costume?” Jenna asked.
    “She could have worn that herself. She ran the ball, owned a shop, and did some tour guide stuff. I know all that from the ads you can’t help but see if you live here. I know she was thirty-eight years old, born in Peoria, Illinois, and a fairly recent transplant to Salem. She arrived in the city in a big way, though her commercial devotion was twitching away.”
    “Maybe we’re looking at a rival coven, or group of covens, or even one of the other sects. Like the voodoo guys, the Haitians, or the Asian-Indians. Maybe I should throw the Catholics and Baptists in there, too,” Martin said.
    “They’re not going to stop,” Jenna said.
    “Why do you say that?” the detective asked.
    She looked up at him. “Someone is trying to recreate the witch craze.”
    “John Bradbury wasn’t a Wiccan,” Sam said.
    “And neither were any of those executed long ago for signing pacts with the devil,” Jenna noted. “People like Bridget Bishop, Rebecca Nurse, Sarah Goode, Susannah Martin—”
    “You know their names?” Martin asked.
    She nodded. “Elizabeth Howe, Sarah Wilde, George Burroughs, John Willard, Martha Carrier, George Jacobs, Sr., John Proctor, Martha Corey, Mary Eastey, Ann Pudeater, Alice Parker, Mary Parker, Wilmott Redd, Martha Scott, and Samuel Wardell.”
    “That’s impressive,” Martin said. “I can add Giles Corey—pressed to death. Had the reputation of being somewhat of a mean son-of-a-bitch, stuck to his guns. He had that famous line, ‘ More weight! ’” He studied Jenna. “Were you from here? You’ve got it down.”
    “Boston. But I spent a lot of time here while growing up. What I’m afraid of is some kind of large-scale plot, or sick deranged thing going on. They’re both dressed. No man was hanged first during the real deal. Women got that honor. But there were men condemned and hanged as witches. From what I understand, John Bradbury had a love of local history, but he wasn’t a Wiccan. Gloria Day was a big-time Wiccan, apparently famed for her classes and her ball.”
    Martin looked at Sam. “Let’s get a search grid going.”
    “Sounds good to me.”
    Martin let out a whistle. A number of uniformed cops hustled over from the road area, around the outskirts of the trees, keeping their distance from the actual murder site until they were given instructions.
    “I’m going back to the graveyard,” Jenna said. “That’s where I came in from.”
    Sam frowned at her. What had she been doing running around among the tombstones?
    “No problem, whatever you need to do,” Martin told her.
    “I’ll join her,” Sam said, following Jenna.
    To his surprise, Martin came too, leaving his crew to grid search the crime scene.
    “You know,” Martin said, “it’s a ‘graveyard’ when it’s by a church. It’s a cemetery when it’s freestanding or planned. Most of the plots have names.”
    Sam was trying to catch up with Jenna, but she was moving ahead quickly.
    “Jenna,” he called out.
    She heard him and stopped.
    He reached her. “Did the ghost of John Bradbury find you? What were you doing here? I thought you were searching the house.”
    She glanced back. Martin stood close to the edge of the forest. “I think he might have whispered to me down in the