Chelsea and Mark’s pre-wedding tryst got a pretty good response, so I decided to have some more fun with them. I’ve wanted a Long Halloween style holiday story for a while, so we’re going to give it a shot. For the foreseeable future, I’ll be taking over Fridays with Chelsea, Mark, holiday celebrations, and (eventually) hot sex.
~Richard
“Hawkeye to Sheepdog, I’ve got eyes on the target.”
“Roger Hawkeye, checkpoint one secure.”
“Deploying decoys. Thirty seconds to contact.”
“On him, proceeding to checkpoint two.”
“Closing vault one. He’s all yours, Bride.”
Chelsea shook her head. Why had she let Bonnie talk her into codenames? All she needed was for the two of them to let her know when Arnold was coming into the haunted house and make sure there was a break before the next group. She opened her phone camera and looked at her costume one last time. Veil: check, corpse makeup: check, bridal dress: check (a little old fashioned for her taste. She’d wear something that showed off a little more at the wedding), ring: check.
She and Arnold had met about a hundred yards away at the kettle corn stand of Shaffer’s Haunt-o-Ween Scareathon in high school. It’d been her first job. They hadn’t quite hit it off at first, but Bonnie claimed she knew they’d wind up together that first night.
She took her place behind the column of the dilapidated chapel set and waited. She was at the front by the (fake) cobweb-covered altar, with cockeyed doric columns and flickering LED candles. Between her and the door were three rows of pews and a blacklight-lit aisle. Normally, the guests walked up, she jumped out, and they ran to the next door that would light up past the altar. Tonight, she’d gotten permission to use it to propose. Old man Shaffer was a big softie, despite the fact that he ran the biggest Halloween display in the tri-state area.
Arnie would be here any second now. She could hear his footsteps coming down the hallway.
“ABORT! ABORT! It’s him! Shi–” the trademark thump-crackle-thump of Bonnie dropping her phone blasted from the speaker. Chelsea hit the end call button and peaked around the corner. What was going on? Him who? Someone was walking up the aisle, but she couldn’t tell who. It had to be Arnold. They’d said he would be there any second. She slid back behind the column, put her phone away, took a deep breath, and squeezed the ring tight.
The footsteps kept coming closer, walking between the pews towards the altar. Just a few more feet.
Until they stopped. Chelsea held her breath, listening. Why had he stopped? She took a slow breath, still waiting. Nothing. She poked her head around the edge of the column again. Empty. Where had he gone? There were only two doors, and she’d have heard him go back through the front.
“Boo!”
Chelsea screamed, jumping forwards. She flailed, sending the ring flying, and barely managed to grab onto the column. Which couldn’t support her weight. The plastic tube tilted even further until she felt an arm around her waist, pulling her back up. She turned to see who had scared her and saw the ring, held inches in front of her face.
“Sorry, I figured you’d rather I save this. Looks expensive.”
That voice. It couldn’t be.
She snatched the ring and took half a step back. It’d been five years, but he still had that stupid goatee.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” Chelsea asked.
Mark took his own half-step back. “Haunted house? I saw you peeking out and thought it’d be fun to see if I could sneak up and scare you instead. Or whoever was here. I didn’t realize it was you.”
“Just go!” she said, pointing towards the altar door.
“Alright, sorry, birdie. Like I said, didn’t realize it was you.” He held his hands up and started walking towards the door.
Arnold came in just after he left. Chelsea dropped down on one knee, proposed, and kissed him. At least, that’s what must’ve happened since he had the ring on his finger when they came out of the house, which was the first thing she remembered. They grabbed some kettle corn and hopped on the hayride. She snuggled up against him, but most of her attention was on her phone.
“What the hell just happened?” she texted Bonnie.
J R Vincente 