Page 1 of Property of Scythe
Chapter 1 Scythe
“It’s quiet tonight, Pres,” Mountain observes as we linger in the shadows of several trees. The low-hanging branches provide cover and a bit of anonymity under the silvery glow of the moon. “There aren’t many screams.”
I grunt in response, inhaling smoke from the cigarette dangling from between my lips. Funny, but we judge the night’s income in the off-season by the level of terror from the tourists. In other words, the screams. The infamous Mayfield Inn, where we currently stand opposite its front entrance, has more specters than the local cemetery.
As if to prove this point, the streetlight in front of me flickers. It’s a strange succession of flashes and pauses that reminds me of Morse code. Maybe the ghosts have devised a way to communicate with the living. It wouldn’t surprise me. Nothing in Raven’s Crest is what it appears.
From my vantage point, I can see through the hotel’s multi-paned windows and catch glimpses of the ongoing tour inside. There are a few candles lit to provide ambiance, but mostly it’s the green glows of the equipment from the tour guides thatdraw my eye. With thirteen floors, the tour has already lasted nearly two hours. They’re almost to the top.
I grin. We’ll hear more screams when they reach room 1307. It’s the most haunted area on the grounds. A popular ghost hunter brought his show to the hotel a few years ago to investigate paranormal activity in the Mayfield Inn. The episode increased traffic to Raven’s Crest ever since.
My club doesn’t see the income from the ghost tours, but our business is boosted by the extra traffic, including Buds & Brews, our bar and dispensary. Everyone loves to have one of our signature drinks and their picture snapped outside the Mayfield Inn. We make a killing off legal marijuana, whiskey, and bourbon sales, and the spooky vibe our town is known for.
Come here during the months of September through November, and you’ll find out pretty quickly. From the historic haunted Mayfield Inn to the creepy cornfields where a few famous horror movies were shot on location, to the Chills ‘N’ Thrills maze popularized by a serial killer during his murder spree in the 1970s.
Raven’s Crest, Ohio, is home of the macabre.
“It’ll pick up soon.”
Mountain nods. He’s my V.P. for a reason. One of the brothers I trust the most in the club. “Yeah. It’s almost September.”
Cue the screams. I chuckle as I watch the chaos unfold. It takes a few minutes for people to run from the hotel, but when they do, Mountain’s gritty laugh adds a sinister element to the frightened tourists.
I fucking love it.
“The tour is definitely over now.”
“But they’ll be back. They always return,” I remind him.
“Every fucking year,” he agrees.
A never-ending revolving door of thrill seekers, horror fans, and paranormal enthusiasts who can’t pass up the chance to be frightened by the Mayfield ghosts. Or see the infamous treewhere the Hillside Stalker hung his last victim, right outside the Hanging Tree B&B. They sure love the haunted hotel, too.
The nightly ghost tour is sponsored by the Raven’s Crest Historical Society and runs year-round, providing a steady flow of income to the small town of four thousand, three hundred, and sixty-eight residents.
“Won’t be long before all the townspeople and tourists are tucked into bed,” Phantom informs me as he joins us, poofing into existence like he emerged from the literal shadows. Handy trick.
“Hope they can sleep without the lights on,” Mountain laughs.
The wind shifts as if hearing our conversation, blowing in with a cooler breeze that heralds the return of autumn and the busy season. A restless feeling inside stirs, just as it always does when I anticipate large crowds invading our small town and the risk that our secrets will be exposed.
But this feeling is more than that. Anticipation and excitement mix with something ominous. A heaviness lingers in the wind as if the clouds suddenly became overloaded and threatened to spill rain. In those thick clouds that slowly churn above our heads, I sense evil.
True evil. Not the spooky hauntings or the creepy landmarks. It’s got nothing to do with the frightful delights we package up as a town and deliver night after night, keeping this town on the map, and ensuring its enduring presence.
“Something shifted in the wind,” Mountain remarks, altering his stance as he assesses the sky.
“It’s not the weather,” Phantom adds.
They feel the evil threat just as I do. It’s our curse. The blood flowing through our veins is a supercharged receiver focusing on Raven’s Crest and the residents.
I blink and my vision blurs. A figure appears in front of me. It’s the same woman I’ve seen for weeks. She invades my dreams and shows up at random points during the day. I never hear her voice. It’s just her big, beautiful green eyes andpleading expression. Sheneedsme.
Fuck. I don’t know who she is or where she’s from. There’s no way to find her. I don’t even know her fucking name.
As quickly as I see her, she’s gone again. In an instant, she disappears, leaving a melancholy smile and a sense of urgency behind. It’s fucking frustrating.
The evil foreshadowing is related to the girl I keep seeing. She’s not the cause, but she’s connected to it. If I’m getting visions, it’s because this threat, the girl, and my town are all somehow connected.
