- Imogen Warner, contemplating marital dynamics
The phone behind the espresso bar was ringing off the hook.Again. Gwen, who was elbow deep in a double mocha frappuccino order, turned to me with desperate eyes.
“Imogen, be a gem and answer that, would you? That’s the fourth time it’s rung in the last ten minutes. Clearly, someone is desperately seeking execution.”
I abandoned my post behind the cash register and raced to the phone. It, like the rest of the shop, was old-fashioned, with a rotary dial and a long, curlicue cord that allowed about ten feet of free rein while chatting. I plucked the receiver from its cradle and lifted it to my ear, surprised by the heft of it in my hand.
“You’ve reached The Gallows, Imogen speaking. How can we hang you today?” I chirped down the line — just as Gwen had instructed me that morning. The boss was a big proponent of puns, often sending patrons on their way with a“Swing by again sometime!”or a“See you on the other side!”(How she pulled this off in a way that was cute, not cringey, I didn’t quite understand.)
“Hello?” I prompted when I received no reply. “Is someone there?”
Again, I was met with silence.
Or... not quite silence. When I strained to listen, I could hear someone breathing — a creepy, ragged sort of panting that seemed to shudder straight into my ear and settle in my brain. Instantly, my skin broke out in gooseflesh.
“Hello? Is someone there?”
Still, nothing.
Nothing but the creepy breathing, anyway.
My heart was pounding, but I told myself I was overreacting. It was probably just some local kids messing around. Halloween was all about youthful trickery, wasn’t it?
“Let me guess: my refrigerator is running, so I better go catch it?” I drawled, rolling my eyes. “Thanks a lot.”
I set the phone back in its cradle, chucking to myself. That chuckle died when the phone immediately started ringing again.
What the heck?
I jerked it back to my ear. “You’ve got The Gallows.”
Silence.
“Hello?”
A shuddering breath hit my ear. It sounded like the grim reaper himself was on the other line.
“Oh, great. You again.” My eyes sought the gold patina ceiling in annoyance. “Please, go find someone else to prank. I’ve got about three hundred lattes to make and no time to entertain you. Okay?”
More ragged breathing.
Perfect.
“Happy Halloween, mouth-breather,” I muttered, slamming the phone back down.
The prankster must’ve chosen a new victim after that, because the phone didn’t ring again for the rest of the day. Which was good, seeing as we were slammed. I’d been well warned that Halloween was the busiest day of the year here in Salem. Despite the warnings, the reality of it still shocked me. The streets outside the shop were already shoulder-to-shoulder when I hopped off my bike at 8:45AM — and growing more so by the hour as revelers arrived from all over the country. Apparently, this year’s Haunted Happenings were set to draw nearly a million visitors to the city this weekend alone, from families with youngsters to college-aged friend groups.
Practically everyone was in full costume as they wandered from shop to shop. I felt markedly out of place in faded jeans, a peasant-style blouse, and a pair of ultra-thin calfskin gloves as I walked the three blocks to The Gallows. A boring spot of neutral in a kaleidoscope of face paint, plastic vampire fangs, creepy masks… Pirates, witches, zombies, serial killers…
I’d never seen such variety or creativity on display. Though, it must be said, I would’ve preferred not to see the guy dressed like the creepy clown from Stephen King’sIt. He was scary enough to give me nightmares for weeks, standing there on the corner holding a single red balloon, staring at me with unblinking eyes as I rushed past.
However hair-raising the ensembles, everyone had one thing in common when they stepped through the door to The Gallows: they had money to burn and caffeine cravings to soothe. Even with Sally and her friend Agatha — a pear-shaped lady with the tartness of a Granny Smith — manning the mystical curiosities section in tandem, Gwen and I could barely keep up with the constant demand up front.
If I wasn’t washing out mugs or clearing tables, I was scribbling on to-go cups and helping fill espresso orders. On top of that, I had four walk-in requests for tarot readings before lunch, and two appointments on the books for the afternoon. Not that I was complaining. At this rate, I’d soon be able to buy one of Puck’s souped-up, special-edition Batmobiles.
Okay, maybe not.
I wasn’t exactly rolling in it. But if things kept up this way, I’d be back on the road in my repaired rust-bucket before the week was out. (For some reason, that thought didn’t thrill me quite the way it would’ve two days ago.)