Ghost Protocol

I volunteered to be safety officer at the autumn festival because I had no problem being the killjoy that confiscated joints off zombies. Most of my job was running the opening checklist, sweeping flammable brush away from combustible effects, making sure all the mechanics were away from the reach of tourist fingers, and doing a quick sniff test for the sobriety of killer clowns. I did the final walk-through on the way out, but for the run of the haunt, my walkie was comfortingly silent, proof of how responsible a chainsaw massacre can be. Once in a while, a kid, or a tourist high enough to have the cognitive reasoning of a kid, would get too freaked out to finish the trail, and I’d have to take off my plague doctor’s mask to guide them toward the recovery station: a folding table with a first-aid kit, lots of bottled water, and a bucketful of ‘brave girl’ lollypops.

On this night, though, a scream sliced across the radio waves, grabbing my heart in crackling static. “This is Casey!” I hissed, and then remembered the ‘talk’ button. Trying again, I hissed, “This is Casey! What’s happening?”

There was no answer. There was a chorus of screams up-trail from my hiding spot, but that sounded like standard jump scare fare. I left my place, lumbering across the underbrush in the vague direction of the festival at the edge of the woods. “Hey, team leads! I need a head count; are we all alright?”

“Zombies are fine.”

“Clowns are okay.”

“I’m doing a walk-through at the mansion, but no red flags.”

“Graveyard is quiet.”

“Hell here; we’re all fine. What’s up, Casey?”

It was dark away from the trail; it had to be to hide the network of cables and rigging that would spoil the illusion of Eldritch horror. I pushed up my mask, squinting through the trees. “I heard something. I’m going to circle around to the trail head and—”

I heard tourists. Probably wouldn’t ruin anything to hear voices in the woods, but I pulled the mask down just to look professional. Waiting for them to pass, sweat prickling under a leather-based get-up, I could hear something over the walkie again. I held the black box up to my ear. It was crying. “Hey,” I said quietly as the tourists’ voices faded down-trail. “Who is that?”

“Cut it out, Casey; scares are for tourists.”

“Oh, fuck off,” I mumbled. “Nobody hears crying?”

“My life is over.”

I started walking, heavy boots snagged and snared on branches on bushes, dead leaves skittering in my wake. I didn’t know where the sound was coming from, but I knew there was no cell signal in the woods, and if I needed to make a 9-1-1 call, it would have to be at the recovery tent. “Who is this? Where are you?”

“It’s all over the kitchen.”

We didn’t have a ‘kitchen’ station, but there was a haunted mansion at the trail head, and I turned my trudging steps that way, picking up speed. Running blind in the dark, I tripped, landing hard on my knees, cursing as the beak mask pushed back in my face.

“Hey, Casey? We’ve got lights going out.”

“That was me,” I growled. “Damn clumsy ass tripped on a cable.”

“Where are you?”

“Look, I’m dealing with something, alright?” I snapped. “I have to get to the manse right now. Somebody get to my tent and be on standby to make a 9-1-1 call!”

“For what? Are we in danger?”

“I don’t know yet!” I pushed the dumb stupid costume out of my face. “That’s why I said standby! Don’t let another tour group in until this gets fixed!”

The cable I clipped must have been the main power to the house lights. There was no time to find it now, so I clicked on my emergency flashlight and followed it to the bloody front door. “Everyone sit tight, okay? We’ll figure this out.”

Stepping over the threshold, the beam of my torch was the only illumination in the claustrophobic void. Something was wrong; actors were not that obedient. When I said ‘sit tight’, they must have wandered away from their stations, possibly back to the festival, possibly to different stations to check on their friends, and the last thing I needed was for everyone to scatter. The house was silent as a grave, too quiet, nothing breaking the spell except my own heavy steps. “Hello?”

Now, I heard crying. I followed the sound, ducking in tight to avoid triggering mechanics, and headed toward the back of the house. It wasn’t an area we used, mainly because we needed the tour groups to have a free flow, and this part of the building didn’t have an exit. “Hello?”

In the kitchen, my flashlight landed on an actress in a standard blood-spattered dress. She was crying through the gore effects on her face, her whole front caked in splashy mincemeat, which in my opinion, could use a little re-fresh, since the oats were showing. It was hard to tell through all the make-up if she was injured or not. “Are you okay?”

“It burst!” she wailed. “It burst!”

“Hey, you’re okay.” I didn’t know all of the actors by name; this must be one of the kids they dropped off from the local university’s theatre department. I pull off my coat and put it around her shoulders—hope she didn’t mind the sweat—and did a quick check of her arms and face for any real blood. “It’s gonna be fine. We all get scared sometimes.”

She looked up at me, and I must have looked a sight, because there was a kind of morbid fascination that stopped the crying. “Are you here to protect me?”

“Yeah,” I told her, giving her shoulder a squeeze. “I’ll make sure you’re alright.” I picked up the walkie again. “Hey, can someone get to the manse?”

“Casey, I’m in the manse!” was the reply. “Where the hell are you?”