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“Good evening, Spider Cove! I’m Morticia Moonstone, your festival coordinator!” She pats her auburn curls as the crowd goes wild. “And I want to welcome you all to the first Spider Cove Scream Queens Showcase!”
Applause and cheers erupt from the crowd twice as loud as the first time.
“This week, we have an incredible lineup of events,” Morticia continues. “We’ve got workshops here at the inn, off-site panels, costume contests, and so much more. And for those of you who dress up as your own horror diva, we’ll be giving away some truly luxurious prizes throughout the week!”
The crowd whoops like mad, and I spot my sister Macy near the front absolutely losing her mind. She’s jumping up and down with her blonde bob bouncing, her hands clasped as if someone just rolled out an all-you-can-eat buffet of eligible men.
Macy is one year older than me, not necessarily wiser but infinitely spicier. And as if to prove my point, she happens to be wearing a screaming red dress, cut so low that I’m worried the girls are going to make a public appearance. I guess if you’re going to worship the queens of scream, apparently you dress like an emergency.
Macy is also a superfan of the entire horror-hosting genre, which I learned about three years ago when she made me sit through a twelve-hour marathon of Crypt Hostess episodes and provided commentary the entire time.
Morticia gestures toward the stage. “And now, please welcome our headliners—the legends, the icons, the queens of scream themselves!”
She starts calling names, and the Scream Queens stand one by one as the crowd cheers.
“Vampyra Vex, host of Coffin Confidential!”
The dark-haired queen stands and waves, her smile genuine and warm.
“Ghoulia Grimm, host of Screams from the Crypt!”
An elegant woman with silver hair and a black gown stands, resting one hand on a silver-topped cane. She has the quiet, gathered presence of someone whose arrival the party has been waiting for.
My mouth falls open once I recognize who I’m seeing.
It’s her! The woman Clawdia nearly decapitated by way of shaking her silly.
Morticia moves on. “Next up is Miss Kitty Cadaver, host of Saturday Night Slaughter with Miss Kitty Cadaver on YouTube!”
A young woman with platinum pigtails streaked with hot pink bounces to her feet, waving a stuffed kitten at the crowd. Honestly, she looks about sixteen under the twinkle lights, even though the festival program puts her at twenty-six, and according to the program she has 3.2 million subscribers who would absolutely follow her off a haunted cliffside.
Morticia holds up a hand. “And your showcase headliner—Countess Clawdia Noir, host of Midnight Mausoleum!”
The crowd erupts, and Clawdia takes her sweet time getting to her feet, milking every clap.
Morticia introduces the rest of the showcase lineup—another twenty-six women, all legends in their own right—and then steps aside.
Soon enough Clawdia takes the microphone.
“Good evening, darlings,” she purrs, and the crowd goes absolutely silent as they look up at her clearly mesmerized by the woman. “Welcome to the Scream Queens Showcase. This week, we’re going to teach you everything you need to know about being a horror hostess—the glamour, the drama, and how to make an entrance that stops traffic and possibly a few hearts.”
Laughter ripples through the crowd.
Clawdia picks up her glowing purple cocktail from the small table beside her chair. “This here is The Queen’s Kiss—my signature drink. I like to think of it as theatrical, dramatic, and just a touch dangerous. Much like myself.”
More laughter ensues, and a few wolf whistles break out. Mostly from Georgie.
“Now, I’d like to make a toast,” Clawdia continues, raising her glass toward the woman with the dark pin curls. “To Vampyra, who’s been so busy building her brand empire that she’s forgotten what actual talent looks like. Though I’m sure your lawyers could explain it to you.”
The crowd gasps and gives a round of nervous giggles. Meanwhile Vampyra’s eyebrows hike straight into her hairline.
“And to Ghoulia,” Clawdia continues, “the grande dame who’s held her throne for decades and would do absolutely anything to keep it. Age before beauty, darling, and you’ve got one of those covered.”
The crowd titters again, and Ghoulia looks as if she’d like to return the favor and shake Clawdia’s head right off its base. I can’t blame her. The woman wields her tongue like a machete.
“And to Miss Kitty”—Clawdia tilts her head to the side—”whose meteoric rise proves that viral fame and actual credibility are two very different things. Enjoy it while it lasts, sweetheart. The internet has a short memory.”
Another round of gasps circles the crowd, but the three women laugh and raise their own glowing drinks in response, winking at Clawdia like this is exactly the type of vicious roasting they expected. Not that any of them look as if they appreciated it.
