“Well, she might’ve been an edge case. And now we won’t ever know, will we.” Letha fixed me with a baleful side-eye, which, given how big and hooded her dark eyes were, was extremely baleful. “Seeing as I wasn’t invited.”
“I’m sorry, angel. It’d been a minute since I summoned, and . . . I don’t know. I wanted to do it solo, I guess, blow off some steam. Try to get my groove back.”
Letha gave a grudging nod, her cool expression thawing just a touch. She knew I’d been in an indeterminate funk lately, though she hadn’t pushed me on it yet. My best friend and second cousin wasn’t the cuddliest of creatures, but she was rock solid, the kind of unflaggingly loyal boulder of a person you always wanted at your back. You wouldn’t want to find yourself downhill of Letha, because in true Sisyphean fashion, she’d roll right back down and crush you. But you could lean on her anytime you needed, rest against her with all your weight and know she’d never budge an inch.
“Okay, so you get a pass this once,” she allowed. “But if I miss another demonic calamity, harsh words will be spoken. Of that you may be sure.”
“Understood. So, what do you think?” I asked her, surveying the murderous prom unfolding around us. Torn banners fluttered from the exposed pipes far above, ironically wishing the class of ’83 a happy life. While the prom king chased the queen around, oblivious couples covered in varying degrees of gore swayed lazily to the discordant strains of a slow, macabre cover of “Sweet Caroline.” Letha’s set design was impeccable as always, detail oriented and maximally creepy; my assistant director had a real eye for elevating horror ephemera into an art form. “Is it still working, six months in?”
As artistic director of the Emporium’s haunted house, responsible for everything from designing costumes to hiring the cast members, this storyline was my brainchild. The basic premise was: a teenage witch just coming into her power had been spurned by the prom king/quarterback/all-purpose popular dickbag. Fueled by rage, she’d cast a bloodlust spell on the whole town that had belittled her, turning everyone into murderous fiends. Kind of The Craft meets Carrie, with a twist—and way less menstrual blood, because, ugh, no thanks.
Besides the prom, other set pieces included the teen witch’s bedroom （complete with a bloody pentagram, black candles, and a human sacrifice; all the tacky accoutrements real witches never use）， a classroom in which a homicidal chemistry teacher terrorized his students, a daycare full of evil munchkins running amok, and cheer practice gone heinously wrong.
“I think this one was a win,” Letha replied, with a nod that rippled the slick curtain of her pink-and-purple-striped black hair. Courtesy of her Japanese mom, Letha had the kind of shining, slippery tresses I’d spent my teens chasing with too many products and an elaborate straightening regimen, before giving up the dream in my twenties. “Thematically consistent, but with enough variety to keep them on their toes. A lively palette, compelling audio, wet work decent but not overdone. A vast improvement over the circus of the damned, no question.”
I frowned, chewing on a knuckle. “You don’t think it all feels just a touch . . . uninspired?”
“Uninspired?” She glanced over at a tableau unfolding by the punch table, the teen witch cackling maniacally above a cheerleader caught in the thrashing death throes of the poison punch. “I mean, it’s a little slapstick, sure, but that’s part of the fun. Looks like the tourists are eating it up.”
“I suppose.” I nibbled on the inside of my cheek, trying to figure out what integral piece it was that I felt might be missing. “The narrative just feels a little lackluster, that’s all. Like there’s not enough heart.”
Letha tilted her head, flicking me a bemused look. “Unless you mean that literally—which, yes, no bloody ventricles currently featuring in the program—I’m really not following, Iss. This is one of our most elaborate takes yet. And the Yelp reviews bear it out, too. Whatever we do next, we’d be smart to keep it along similar lines.”
She was right; we’d noticed a significant uptick in ticket sales over the past six months, much more revenue pouring in from the haunted house than we’d seen in years. Part of it was the fact that, since Emmy Harlow had won the Victor’s Wreath during the Gauntlet of the Grove last Samhain, the town’s magic was no longer exclusively favoring the Blackmoores—Thistle Grove’s wealthiest and most powerful magical family, and our primary competitors for immersive entertainment. As a result, the rest of us were finally getting our fair slice of the tourist pie again. And now that we were well into spring, we were considering a redesign for the upcoming Flower Moon Festival, a town celebration organized around Beltane, the pagan holiday that usually brought the most tourists we saw outside of Halloween.