Bone Chimes

by Kristopher Rufty

  Leanne was the spitting image of her as well. Another reason why Vincent wished she’d stayed home instead of lollygagging around the carnival. He didn’t care if it was his land they had set up on, he still didn’t relish the idea of her being there. She would be the best-looking gal there. Most of the women and even teenage girls of Doverton were his patients, and, sure, some of them were cute, pretty even, but none could hold a candle to Leanne.

  She was as beautiful as the girls in magazines. Her beauty made him proud, yet at the same time, made his chest heavy with concern. Sometimes, he’d get so worked up fretting over her he feared he might have a heart attack.

  Vincent stepped under the eave of his front porch just as the rain began plummeting in heavy drops. He decided to wait here on the porch until he saw the headlights of his truck coming around the bend in the cornfield. A dirt road segmented the fields and Leanne had chosen to call it Mystic Lane. Vincent, always the encouraging father, even had a sign made with the name chiseled into it. They’d taken it into the fields and hammered it into the ground just like any other road sign you’d see. He’d never forgotten how happy it had made her.

  He was thankful that, out of his fear of the weather turning bad, he’d talked her into taking the truck. Once he spotted the headlights peering through the stalks, he’d go inside. Lord knew he wouldn’t dare let Leanne catch him waiting for her.

  She hated that.

  But with the way the rain was slashing down from the sky like sideways wet daggers, he doubted he’d be able to see much at all beyond the front yard. The fields were like black blobs in the storm. Vincent could only see the corn in the burst of a lightning flash.

  In the morning, he’d surely find batches of stalks had been blown over, and he’d lose money because of it. Why did he keep putting himself through the hassle and expense of maintaining them? Being the town doctor made him more than enough money, but for whatever reason, he’d chosen to take on the duties of the family farm as well.

  Ma and Pa Carlson had both passed away in the winter of ‘81. A freak hay-baling accident had taken both of their lives. Vincent had just buried his lovely wife and the mother of his child a few months before. They were living in Appleton at the time, but once Margaret passed, Vincent had no desire to stay in that house or that town any longer.

  It had been written in his parents’ will that the Carlson farm, house, and the acres of land surrounding it were to be left to Vincent. He gladly turned in his notice at the hospital, packed up their belongings, and moved with Leanne to Doverton.

  And for the past six years he and Leanne had been handling the farm on their own. It’d been tough at times, but they’d made it through all right. However, with her leaving for school in the fall, he would have to hire on some help if he was going to keep the farm going. There was no way he could preserve the nineteen acres of crops himself. That didn’t include the surrounding two hundred acres of woodland, plus the other fifty acres of fields. The house was already greatly isolated from the rest of Doverton in the nearly three hundred acres his family owned. It was as if the rest of the world was nonexistent.

  He didn’t mind living on the farm. He’d grown up on the land, and it was nice raising his daughter in such a small town. He could keep an eye on her, making sure she stayed out of trouble. Or so he hoped. Leanne would have all this land to herself one day, and the three-story farmhouse with it. She’d be more than taken care of once he’d gone to his own greener pastures.

  “All right, now. Enough is enough. Time to get home, girl.” Even speaking only to himself, his voice sounded worried.

  He paced the front porch for several more minutes, then headed inside to check the time. Standing in the living room, he glanced at the grandfather clock by the fireplace.

  12:31.

  A shot of dread hit Vincent in the chest. Something was wrong. He knew it. Leanne had never been late, ever. If she knew she was going to be, she would have called him. But there had been no phone call, so that meant she wasn’t expecting to be late, which could only mean…

  Something had happened.

  But what?

  Vincent didn’t know, but he planned to find out. First, he needed to come up with a plan. Actions couldn’t be taken without the proper preparation.

  He sat in his favorite chair, an old cushioned rocker, to think. As he glided back and forth, he combed his thoughts for a game plan.

  He was certain the carnival was over by now. He’d have to take the tractor since Leanne had the truck, and it would probably take him twenty to thirty minutes to get to the pasture gate on Mystic Lane.

  What if they’ve locked it?

  That was simple. He’d break the damn lock. After all, it was his gate, and his property they were squatting on.

  Why did he need a plan? He should just ride out there and, if he needed to, drag Leanne kicking and screaming back home. It’d serve her right for being so late.

  Absorbed by his thoughts, Vincent nearly missed the pitter-patter of little feet darting across his front porch. It sounded like the footsteps of children playing tag on the stoop.

  It made his skin crawl.

  He stood up. The rocking chair knocked against the backs of his legs. He crept to the double-bay windows that looked on to the porch. He’d have a nice view of the porch and even a partial look at the yard. He could see his own reflection in the glass. It looked as if there were two of him, both slinking to meet at the window. The brightness inside made it impossible to see into the darkness outside.

  Vincent pressed his face to the glass as if he and his reflection were trying to clumsily kiss. He placed his hand over his brow like a visor. It helped very little.

  The footsteps had ceased. He twisted his neck, peering even harder out the window. He could feel the glass brushing the white of his eye.

  He still couldn’t see a thing.

  The nearest lamp sat on the end table a few feet away. Shutting it off would kill his reflection. Keeping his face against the glass, he reached for the lamp. His forehead squawked across the window, leaving a smudged print on its way. His fingers brushed the dust-caked weft of the lamp shade. The shade fell off the caddy, catching on the wire rim, and tilted away from the bulb. He felt around the base until he found the switch.

  And his gaze through the window was met by a dozen or more beady pairs of eyes.

  Bellowing a scream that hurt his throat, he shuffled backwards on stringy legs. His flailing arms bumped the end table, knocking the lamp over. It crashed on the floor.

  Through the darkness outside, he watched as rows of white stretched across crescent-shaped jaws. They were smiling. Narrow, toddler-like mouths gaped, drooling and savoring.

  From the rear of the house, glass shattered. Vincent whipped around, gawking down the hallway toward the crash.

  The bedroom. They’re coming through my own goddamn bedroom!

  He didn’t wait for the group outside the living room to break the window. He bolted for the den with all his might. The rug slid out from under him, folding over itself. He nearly lost his footing, but managed to stay up and running.

  As he charged into the den, the living room window exploded behind him. Thump after thump of little feet hitting the hardwood floor followed. And mixed with those sounds he could hear the faint, miniature chatters of the intruders talking amongst themselves.

  It’s the damn Haunchies from the carnival! They’re coming for me! What happened to Leanne?

  He saw what he’d originally come in here for standing in the corner. His gun cabinet. It was a two-door, upright locker made of wood and glass. He always kept it locked. Not wasting time searching for the key, he shattered the glass with his elbow. He could feel the burning cuts and scrapes from the shards.

  Reaching inside, he snatched his .30-30 lever-action rifle, a trusty weapon since his teenage years, and the only one he always kept loaded. He jacked a bullet into the chamber and thumbed off the safety.

  He turned toward the door
way as three of the small figures entered the room. They were dressed in carnival attire, bright and colorful. Two were even painted like clowns.

  In the light of the room, he was able to distinguish their features much more clearly. The heads cresting their pebble-shaped shoulders weren’t much larger than a tomato, and the lower portions of their faces were curved like a banana. Rotting, jagged teeth gleamed from between thin lips on their distorted faces. Their arms were like twigs under their flamboyant clothing, with wicker-thin torsos separating their hollow necks from legs no more muscular than weeds.

  Bushels of disheveled and crudely dyed hair jutted from the tops of their heads like the ends of paintbrushes.

  He’d never seen creatures so hideous. Almost human, but not quite.

  They do look like elves!

  Even through their mussed hair, he thought he might have detected minute, pointy knobs jutting through the fuzzy locks. Ears? “What did you do with my daughter?” he demanded.

  The reply came in the form of ear-piercing laughter. The one dressed in hand-sewn rags stepped forward.

  “She’s with us now.” His voice was of a high octave and probably made dogs howl. “Just as you will be, soon enough.” He lunged for Vincent.

  Vincent dodged the attack and thrust the stock of the rifle in an upward arc. The tiny thing’s skull caved under the wooden blow.

  A red-haired clown was the next to charge. Vincent twisted to his left and fired. The high-powered slug ripped through red spandex, lifting the creature off his feet. As he spiraled through the air, the bullet exploded from his back.

  The exiting bullet slammed into a green-haired clown’s throat, ripping open a gulley where his Adam’s apple had been. He dropped to his knees, grasping his throat, while blood gushed through the cracks of his fingers. Then he collapsed onto the floor, twitching a few times before becoming still.

  Three down.

  Vincent hurried out of the den and into the hallway. He cocked the rifle, but the hallway was deserted. He flogged his head this way and that, looking into each room on his way to the stairs. The downstairs appeared deserted. He wondered if they’d fled after hearing the gunfire.

  He climbed the steps quickly. His back was arched and stiff, his neck fixed, and his eyes focused forward. The barrel of the rifle was pointed ahead of him as if leading him to the second floor.

  At the top of the stairs, he didn’t bother checking the guest bedrooms and rushed straight to Leanne’s room at the end of the hall. He kept the gun clasped close to his chest.

  Ignoring the knob, he used the heel of his boot to kick the door open. The frame splintered as the door shot open. He went inside, aiming the gun.

  He froze only a few steps in.

  Waiting for him were twenty or more Haunchies piled together, a huddle of crescent-shaped heads twisting to observe him. Standing no more than two feet tall, they were armed with a variety of weapons that looked like they had been constructed by their own hands: homemade pitchforks, machete-like knives, and hatchets made from jagged metal shards twined to wooden handles.

  He scanned the room, studying the figures occupying it. Like the three downstairs, these were dressed like carnies. He saw more clowns, other carnie laborers, some even dressed in indistinguishable fluorescent attire, and the sparse numbers of what he guessed were females wore costumes like little dolls.

  If Vincent didn’t know any better, he’d have believed they were dolls that had been crudely crafted.

  Raising his gun to fire, he knew he couldn’t get them all. But he was going to make sure he got as many as possible.

  “Daddy. Stop.”

  Leanne’s voice?

  He faced the throng gathered on the bed. They parted like weeds in the wind, unveiling his daughter, lying on her side atop the mattress. Her left leg tapered from under her denim cutoffs and crossed over the right. She was gliding a finger up her thigh. She wore a cutoff, sleeveless shirt that left her midriff bare and, with no bra underneath, he could see the curve of her breasts. He quickly looked away.

  She hadn’t been dressed this way when she’d left the house. Vincent had no idea his daughter had blossomed so much. To him, she was still his little girl, not the mature woman on the bed.

  “Leanne,” he said, his voice tired and beaten. “Wha…What is this?” His grip on the rifle loosened.

  “They chose us, Daddy. They want to stay here. With us.”

  “What are you talking about?” Another group strolled in behind him from the hallway, trapping him inside. He was massively outnumbered.

  “They’ve been traveling all their lives. They’ve grown tired of living on the road.”

  “What does that have to do with us? What does that have to do with you? Why are you dressed like that?” Vincent had many questions, but only had enough breath to ask some of them.

  “I’ve been with them, Daddy. All week. When you’ve been sleeping, I’ve snuck out to where their camp was on Mystic Lane. Since you were kind enough to let them use our land for their carnival…”

  My land.

  “…I thought I would go out there and help them set up. Since that day I met them in town, I haven’t been able to think about anything else. They’ve touched me. They love me. They worship me.”

  “What? I love you, sweetie. I do. Not them…”

  “Daddy, stop. They need me to help take care of them. And I need them too…”

  “Honey… What have you done?” He dared another look at her overly exposed body and curves. Dabbled on her skin, along her tawny legs and around her neck and chest, were bruises and scrapes.

  Had she allowed the bastards to do this to her? Or had they taken her with force?

  Vincent felt his grip on the rifle tightening. He wanted to blow holes in as many of the little bastards as he could. They’d overpower him eventually, but not without a fight. He could probably take down several with his bare hands if he needed to.

  “Daddy…I know this is a lot to understand all at once. But this is how it’s going to be, whether you like it or not.” She sighed as if she were the parent lecturing a child about rules and regulations. “Now, I’m sorry they broke some windows. They were just scared you’d retaliate…and you did, didn’t you? So they had every right to break their way in. It wasn’t like you were just going to open the door for them.”

  Damn right about that.

  Vincent swallowed the lump in his throat. “I just can’t stand by and let them do this to you.”

  “I thought you might say that.” Leanne sat up, swinging her legs around to the front. Her bare feet slapped the wooden floor. “I’m not asking for your permission, Daddy. I’m telling you how it’s going to be from here on.”

  His legs weakened under him. His arms felt like limp and feeble noodles, and he couldn’t support the rifle any longer. The gun dropped to the floor as he sank to his knees, his head drooping low by Leanne’s bare feet.

  “That’s better,” she said, standing up. “It’s so much better if you submit.” She kneeled down, snuggled a finger under his stubby chin and lifted his head. Looking him in the eye, she said, “It’ll be okay. You’ll see. It’ll all work itself out.”

  “What’s happened to you?”

  She smirked. “Nothing I didn’t allow.” Her tone went stern. “You’ll get to keep the house. We’ll build our own colony in the fields. The crops will continue to grow as normal, and we’ll even plant some of our own. Do you understand?”

  He didn’t understand any of this, but still nodded anyhow.

  “Good. Just keep this in mind: You’re only alive because you’re my daddy. They wanted to skin you alive and prepare you as our first feast on our new land. It is a special occasion.”

  “Wha…?” He couldn’t finish. His throat tightened. He felt sick inside.

  “It’s okay, Daddy. They’re not going to eat you or anything. Not anymore.” She lowered her hand from his chin, and shook her head as if she pitied him for his stupidity. “I didn’t e
xpect you to understand. They’ve been around the world and have been cultured in delicacies we’ve never even dreamed of. It’s amazing. Their knowledge of the world is amazing. They’re savages…but are trying to adapt to our ways of living. To not feast upon mankind and, instead, focus their appetites on the wildlife like we do.”

  She stood up, leaving her father gawking at her from his bruised knees. She turned to her new followers, holding her arms out wide as if she were the Almighty Christ resurrected, and, maybe to these brutes, she was. “He won’t give us any trouble. He’ll supply us with what we need to begin our colony. And we’ll do what must be done to survive. No matter what.”

  “Baby…” Vincent finally said. He collapsed in a ruin of tears.

  “Oh…Daddy. It’s okay. I love you.”

  As he sobbed uncontrollably, she returned her attention to the Haunchies. “Bit by bit, we’ll reveal ourselves to Doverton. They’ll grow to accept us as one of their own, just like my daddy has. They might not like it, not at first, but just like my daddy, they’ll learn to coexist.”

  The crowd agreed with high-pitched howls and hollers.

  Vincent could even hear their chatter coming from under the floor. It sounded as if they were everywhere, in the house and outside.

  Hundreds of them…all over…

  Story Notes:

  I debated including this story for a long time. It had been out there, for free, for so long that I didn’t think it needed to be in this collection. But I eventually decided it would be okay if this story was a part of it. Plus, it was the first time I wrote about the Haunchies—those miniscule, humanoid monsters that dwell in the cornfields of Wisconsin.

  Originally, the story was going to be the opening to The Lurkers, which I was calling Haunchies at the time. But even as I finished it, I felt it didn’t quite belong as the opening. I toyed with the idea of putting it in the middle of the book, as a flashback, and in some older drafts, I did just that. In the end, I decided to go with my gut and remove it from the book.

  I was a bit depressed because I had this fun story and nothing to do with it. I pitched the idea to Don D’Auria of putting it up on Samhain Publishing’s website as a free read for a limited time. He liked the idea, but thought it might be neat to release it as a free story to coincide with the novel. Give the story its own cover and all. We agreed on it and it was a huge success. My only gripe about it is that Samhain didn’t mention anywhere on the description that it was a prelude to The Lurkers, or even connected to it in anyway. Sure, at the end of the story was a preview of The Lurkers, but that didn’t come until after the About the Author section. I pointed this out to Don and he contacted the marketing department. They told him they’d correct it.