"The first time ever I saw your face,

I thought the sun rose in your eyes.

And the moon and the stars were the gifts you gave

to the dark and the endless sky, my love. "

-Roberta Black "The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face"

1911, Los Angeles, California

His first formal event. It'd been out of pure luck, of course, since Mr. Bridges said it was an opportunity for connections. James knew very well Mr. Bridges wasn't interested in James's future. The poof clearly wanted more than business relations through the suggestive comments and flirtatious glances given in private. James suffered through them for his ambition. His dreams were the most important. If he pleased Mr. Bridges, then he'd truly be on his way. The old, heavy pompous man introduced him to all the movers and shakers in the room. He talked to them about business, politics, and personal views on the government, and anything that impressed them.

They were indeed. They'd never seen a sixteen-year-old so interested in his own future. Most boys enjoyed the fine leisure of life. It honestly shouldn't have surprised them. James grew up in a poor family, living off the money his father made working on a farm. James began working at an early age, mostly to avoid his father's constant drunken tirades. He started out selling newspapers on the street, and then began doing odd jobs around town for small change. James vowed he'd never become a poor farmer like his father. He reached for something far better than that. James dreamt of bigger things. He'd rise above those who spat on him. If they didn't accept him, he would make them.

James looked around the elegantly decorated room. Ladies wore finely made gowns and the men wore tailored suits. Waiters walked around with trays of champagne and appetizers to be served before the dinner. He listened to the string quartette playing in the corner of the room as he stood on the sidelines watching them. He enjoyed the glamour and refinement of it all. James will be one of them one day. He will wear his own suit and be the center of everyone's attention. Nothing really interested him until he heard a girlish giggle somewhere nearby.

She was radiant, that much was true. A leggy girl with soft chestnut curls pinned behind her head, she wore a slender cream colored dress. His eyes fixed on the lightly touched up face. She reminded him of a porcelain doll with her ivory skin and soft features. She looked about his age and as happy as can be. His heart swelled and his throat dried up. A surge of energy coursed through him that enthralled him. She stood in the center of a group of girls, all laughing and smiling in conversation. The others were nothing in comparison to her, and he wasn't the only one who noticed. Other boys turned their heads as they passed her, yet too intimidated to approach her. James gravitated towards her immediately. He didn't care about the other girls. He only wanted her.

"Good evening, Miss," he said. Light blue eyes stared back at him coyly. Oh what a beautiful coquette.

"Evening, sir," she replied. The other girls stifled their giggles and merely watched him in amusement. "Can I help you?"

"You most certainly can," he nodded. "I noticed something incredibly tragic about this dinner and I think you might be able to help."

She laughed, "And what would that be?"

"That the most beautiful woman in this room isn't dancing," he replied.

She didn't say anything at first. Their eyes met in a quiet exchange they each understood. She then asked, "Do I know you, sir?"

"No," he said, "But you will by the end of the night."

The blush upon her cheeks made her even more precious. She put down her drink, and stuck out her hand, "Joanne Tate."

"James March," he answered, brushing his lips on her knuckles.

He took her hand and they reached the dance floor. Suddenly, Joanne Tate became the only person he cared about impressing. The two of them talked as they danced. Joanne was perfect. Educated, well-mannered and humorous, they became disinterested in the party. The people around them became blurred in his vision and the only clear being was Joanne. His heart thumped against his chest from simply holding her hand and waist. She felt right. She felt real. James never felt anything before now. He was indifferent to most girls, only finding them attractive enough for sexual purposes. Joanne was above that. A girl of her well-off stature deserved more than a one-night frisk.

"They look down on my family because we weren't born rich like them," she said once they were alone. "They don't say anything, but I can tell. They don't like anyone who tries climbing the social ladder. My father pretends he doesn't notice, but I know he does."

"Times are changing, and the world will change with it" he said. "Soon, the poor won't stay poor and the rich won't stay rich. It scares them that people want to reach for more than they're given. They're so used to having someone to step on. There's always been a glass ceiling between the poor and the rich, and people are starting to break through."

"Is that what you want, James?" she asked. "To break through the ceiling and rise above them?"

He looked at her. The fairy lights of the expansive garden brought a gentle glow to her skin and made her even more beautiful. "What I want tonight is you, Joanne," he said. "And I fear if I don't have you, it'll be the death of me."

Joanne Tate became his that night.

Present Day

She didn't have to say anything to know he was there. She could feel him in the room as you would if a stranger entered. Elizabeth felt queasy simply looking at him. He was vile and psychotic. He enjoyed pain mixed with his pleasure. It didn't surprise her he'd become part of the hotel. He filled it with bodies regularly; killing indiscriminately. It'd been her idea to make a profit from his obscene work. She'll admit, as she sat there drinking her purified blood, she'd been drawn to the darkness. She supposed losing her two loves sunk her down so far. She felt she had nobody, even after the countless streams of lovers over the years. Marrying James seemed like a good idea at the time, until she realized she couldn't rid herself of him.

"I suppose you're here about Rachel?" she guessed.

He walked further into the room, walking stick tapping the floor. "Yes," he answered.

"She is beautiful," Elizabeth looked over at him from the sofa, "When you take away the mess."

"You will not touch her," he said. He stood next to the white sofas, yet didn't sit. She saw the threat in his eyes. Looking at him made her skin crawl. "I've let you have your fun with your playthings. I never protested whenever you took up a new lover. However, this time, you will keep yourself and your perversions away."

"I haven't done anything to her," she said. "It was mere conversation."

"And it shall stay that way," he growled. "I will not have you turning her into another one of your little toys. She is not to be tainted with your condition."

"My condition? You mean the fact I drink blood for sustenance? Is that what you're protecting your darling Rachel from?" She surveyed him and then said, "I'm surprised with you, James. You never cared who I turned before."

He hesitated. "She's different," was all he said before walking away. "Now if you don't mind, I have a party to prepare."

She watched him leave. When he looked at Rachel, he didn't see a separate being. He saw a projection. Knowing him, he'd do whatever he could to keep her. Elizabeth couldn't blame him. If fate afforded her the same opportunity, she'd be the same. She thought about Rachel and how special she'd been. Her blood smelled like nightshade berries and her supple skin tempted her. She supposed it matched the darkness nestled inside her. Elizabeth wouldn't have been rough. It'd have been a simple cut on the arm or suckle from her breast. Rachel tempted her. Not even Donovan made her feel so revived.

Halloween. Rachel never liked this time of year. It was all plastic pumpkins, cheap costumes, and hordes of candy. She hadn't enjoyed it since she was a child. It seemed so meaningless to her. Sitting in her room again, she munched down on a bite-size Twix and read the newspaper in her lap.

"Ten Commandment's Killer claims another victim" the headline read. That's what they were calling the sicko who'd been killing people around town. The police clearly tried keeping it from the press, but they could only hold out for so long. This time he'd killed a bunch of gossip columnists by nailing their tongues to the tables. Rachel hated thinking of how brilliant of a project that'd make. This killer had purpose. He had design and vision. She envied such freedom. She then remembered she should be writing.

Honestly, she found focusing difficult these days. The photograph of the man in the elevator sat on her bedside table untouched since she placed it there. At first, she'd been so curious about the seventh floor. Many times over the week she'd pressed the elevator button, but then backed out the last minute. Seeing the man's face, seeing his writing on the back, she had second thoughts about visiting. Whenever she stood at the end of the dusty, moldy hallway, it'd fill her with dread. Rachel could only imagine the things waiting for her at the end.

Then there was Elizabeth, who constantly made her presence known. Every so often, she'd see her walking through the lobby. She thought about talking to her, but then drew back. What could she possibly say? She couldn't simply invite herself to the penthouse suite. So many things held her back, and it infuriated her. Rachel hated being so scared. She hated never testing her limits. She blamed her mother for that.

'Be careful, Rachel.'

'Don't lose control, Rachel.'

'Never do anything to wile yourself up, Rachel.'

A knock at the door broke her thoughts. She stood and answered it. On the other side stood a maid with red hair pinned back in a braided bun. From the stray hairs and stains on her apron, she clearly worked very hard. The maid held a set of fluffy white towels in her arms, and she gave Rachel a polite smile.

"Hello, Ms. Corbin," she said. "I'm Ms. Evers. I've brought you fresh towels, compliments of the Master of the House."

"Um, thank you," Rachel let her into the room. Looking at her, she noticed the red stains faded on her apron. "Are you hurt, Ms. Evers?" she asked, gesturing to the stains.

Setting down the towels, she giggled. "Oh no, dear. I was scrubbing sheets this morning," she said, "But I couldn't get a hold on the situation right away. I'm normally so good at it. The Master praises my work, and chose me to see to your unmentionables and laundry personally. But, today is…today isn't my day."

"It's not mine either," Rachel replied. "I haven't really liked Halloween since my dad left my mom. He always went all out for Halloween; he really pulled out all the stops." She grinned softly thinking of the haunted funhouse he'd build in their backyard. "He'd build a haunted house in our backyard for the neighborhood kids. When he left…" When he left things didn't seem so much fun anymore. "Well, Halloween is silly anyways."

"Well, dear, the ones we lose are never truly forgotten, are they?" she asked. She patted Rachel's shoulder, and made to leave. Then she stopped herself, "I-I lost my boy on Halloween."

Rachel stared at her. "Oh, I'm so sorry, Ms. Evers."

"I-I was taking him trick or treating, and…" she sighed heavily, twiddling her apron in her fingers. "I turned my back for only a second, and the next thing I know he is gone."

"That's terrible," Rachel said. "Do you want to talk about it? My aunt always told me talking about it unburdens the soul a little."

She nodded. "Could you pour me a sherry, dear?" she asked, walking to the small dining table.

Rachel nodded and poured one from the decanter. Ms. Evers continued, "Little Arthur loved Halloween as well. He loved dressing up in costume with his friends and walking around collecting candy. I-I couldn't make him a proper costume that year. I'd been so busy with work, laundering sheets and mending clothes, I-I didn't have the time. Thank you," she took the drink from Rachel, who sat across from her. "I turned around to talk to a neighbor of mine, and suddenly he was gone. Someone had taken him away in their car. I chased it down the street but I wasn't fast enough. I wasn't fast enough to save my little boy!" her eyes twinkled with tears that she wiped with her apron. "Oh, why didnt I pay more attention?! If I hadn't turned around, he wouldb't have been taken! I should've made him a proper costume like all the other children!"

Rachel touched her hand, "It wasn't your fault. You couldn't have known."

"But I should have," she took a shaky sip of her sherry. "They searched the city for days, but he wasn't in the city."

"Where was he?" Rachel asked, imagining a small boy being taken by a faceless stranger. It was tragic, yet she couldn't have been more drawn.

"His killer had taken him to his ranch in Wineville-"

The name instantly clicked in her head. "-Wineville?"

"Yes," she nodded. "Do you know it?"

"I've been there before, yes," she said. "I took a trip there during a summer break. They changed the name because of what happened, but it's still there."

"Then you know," Ms. Evers whimpered. She drank more of the sherry. "You know about the chicken ranch and the boys he kept in the coupe. It was dreadful. When-When they finally captured him, he'd already disposed of most of the bodies."

"He dissolved them in quick lime and scattered their bones in the woods," Rachel added. "At least, that's what I heard," she answered Ms. Evers's questionable stare. "Do you know what happened to him?"

"Not really," she said. "The police wouldn't tell me. I suppose they wanted to spare me the pain. It didn't matter. He haunts my dreams 'til this day. His woeful eyes staring up at me as he spoke, 'Why weren't you careful, Mummy? Didn't you love me, Mummy?'" She sniffled, "I did love him. I loved him so much."

Rachel patted her hand comfortingly. She understood the police's reluctance. Gordon Northcott molested and killed an unknown amount of young boys. It was very likely Arthur had been killed before the police arrived. Rachel wouldn't tell this distraught woman how her son died.

"I'm so sorry, Ms. Evers," she said again. "That is a terrible story. If it'd been me, I don't think I could go on. You're very strong, Ms. Evers."

She smiled through her tears, looking over Rachel's face. "You are very much like her, you know. I can see that now."

"Like who?"

"Mrs. March," Ms. Evers said, "The first one anyway."

Rachel perked up, reaching for her notepad. "His first wife?"

"Yes," Ms. Evers answered. "She was a lovely woman when one got passed her special hobbies," she said. "When she heard I'd lost my Albert, she offered me a full week off. I told her it was preposterous, of course, but she insisted."

"So you worked for them before the hotel?"

"Yes, yes I did," she nodded. "I was working when I met Mrs. March at my former employer's soiree. She always appreciated hardwork and dedication, she said. She offered me twice what my previous employer paid me, and I accepted. Oh," she said with a smile, "They were such a lovely couple. They were so in love. You could tell simply by looking at them that they were soulmates. I don't think Mr. March loved anything more than his beautiful Joanne."

"So, he wasn't such a monster then?" Rachel scribbled this down.

"Not that I thought so," she said. "He was…" she paused, "Mr. March was different around her. I was shocked when he remarried. I personally think it was more out of loneliness than true love. The second one was so cold towards him. She hated every minute she was obligated to be in his presence. Mrs. March loved being with her husband. She absolutely adored him, and he with her. Mr. March loved no other. A woman knows these things, you see."

"Of course," she agreed.

"I care to think the second one had something going on the side, if you catch my meaning," she said, "But I'm not one to start rumors. Mrs. March would never have done such a thing." She looked at the analog clock on the bedside table and said, "Oh, will you look at the time! Here we are gossiping like two old ladies when there's so much to be done before the shindig tonight." She stood up, "The Master likes to have everything perfect at his dinners. And these guests are very demanding! 'Refills, refills, refills!' My feet are swollen like puff pastries by the end of the night." She stood by the door, her fret cooling down, "Thank you for listening, Ms. Corbin. You are a sweet woman."

"No problem," Rachel said, "And please, call me Rachel."

Ms. Evers nodded in understanding and then closed the door. Rachel's mind filled with new material. March might not have always been the monster the world perceived him as. If she presented this new information to the public, surely there'd be some interest. This could turn the whole novel's premise around. She knew it wasn't much to go on and the information was biased, but if she dug up more about the first Mrs. March, then she could carry on with it.

Her phone rang as she continued jotting down her ideas. She answered it without stopping. "Rachel here," she said.

"Rachel," Liz's voice said on the other end, "It's Liz from reception."

"Hey Liz," she said. Mrs. March could have been from a lower-class family like March. It could have been how they met. "What's up?"

"I was calling to let you know you have some mail here," she said. "It seems quite thick. There's also a special invitation for you. I think you should have a look."

Rachel gasped, "Really? Great! I'll be down in a sec. Thanks, Liz!"

"No problem, sweetie."

They both hung up and Rachel rushed out the door in her flannel and jeans. When she reached the lobby, Liz stood behind the counter in a beaded and sequined dress. She smiled at Rachel when she approached. "Someone's excited today," she noted. She handed Rachel a thin Fed-Ex box. Rachel saw Jeanine's company name and address printed on the sticker, and instantly knew what it was.

"This is great," Rachel said. "This is really great!"

"May I ask what it is?"

"The contract for my book," she beamed. "My agent told me she'd sent it, but I didn't think it'd come so quickly. Liz, you have no idea how much this means to me. I-I know I'm gushing here, but-"

"-Feel free to gush, honey," she smiled. "You're the only one around here who does."

She gave a breathy laugh. "I seriously never thought I'd be standing here with a contract. When I wrote it, I didn't think anyone would be interested. I mean, serial killers aren't the most popular topic. Yeah sure, people like true crime but how often do people buy books about it? Ever since I was little I've wanted to be published, and now I'm on the very cusp of it, Liz. It's-it's fucking awesome!"

"Isn't that the best feeling?" Liz asked, "When we're so close to getting what we want we can almost taste it? I'm happy for you, Rachel. Someone like you deserves a bit of happiness."

She gave a small grin, "You think so?"

"I have a good judgment of people. I always have, even in my former self," she said. "You've been through the ringer, honey. And I'm glad to tell you that I have the cherry on top of a priceless night." She handed Rachel an envelope before lighting her cigarette.

"What's this?" Rachel asked.

The envelope had a red wax seal holding a crossed black ribbon to it. She pried it open and revealed the paper inside. It read in black, thin letters: 'You are cordially invited to the annual event, Devil's Night, hosted by James Patrick March. October 31st at 7pm. Please be prompt.'

"James Patrick March?" Rachel looked up at Liz, who let out a puff of cigarette smoke. "Wait, that's the guy who…" she remembered the photo, "No way. No fucking way. This is a joke, right? Liz, I appreciate the humor, but this is a bit far, isn't it?"

"It's no joke," Liz said. "Mr. March's annual Devil's Night soiree is the event of the season. The guest list is tre' exclusive. You'd be a fool to turn it down."

"I'm…" she stopped, "How could he be hosting a party if he's dead? I mean, it's impossible, right? It's like a costume party or something, right? I'm not really a Halloween person, so costume parties aren't my scene. Tell-Tell Mr. March I respectfully decline."

"I'm sorry, Rachel," she came around the counter and towered over her in her six-inch heels and purple dress. "You don't really get a choice in the matter, I'm afraid. Come on. Let's get you glamed up for tonight. The Master wants you looking spectacular."

"Liz, I-"

"-It's just a party," Liz said, linking her arm with Rachel's, "It won't kill you."