House of the Lost Girls (Flocksdale Files Book 2)

by Carissa Ann Lynch

  The Big Top was enormous and opened into a giant arena. I pushed my way through the crowd to get in. I could smell the unmistakable odor of ammonia, undoubtedly caused by animal urine. There was an elephant and two camels in the middle of the arena, kids taking turns riding their backs. I saw trapeze artists and jugglers warming up for their acts.

  I made my way toward the center but a frumpy, silvery-skinned woman blocked my path and demanded that I show her my ticket. I didn’t have one.

  “Tickets are sold in a booth out on the midway,” she said tiredly, as though she’d been repeating the same line all night. I jogged back out, completely flustered, and waited in a line to get the required ticket.

  As I made my way back, I caught a glimpse of shaggy brown hair and black tattered clothing. He was heading inside a long, painted tin trailer with a rusted sign stuck to the front that read, ‘Flocksdale’s Funhouse’.

  I called out, “Sam!” but I knew there was no way he’d hear me from this distance, even if it was him. The Sam look-alike went inside the funhouse, so I hurried to do the same. Hastily handing a five-dollar bill to the gray-haired, leather-skinned man at the door, I walked through the entrance of the funhouse. I immediately called out for Sam again, but the only responses I received were the high-pitched echoes of children’s laughter and fun-filled squeals of delight.

  The first room was filled with tilting, rocking floors that threw off my balance and irritated the hell out of me. I slid—more like fell—down a static-covered, vertical slide. Then I had to swim my way out of a seemingly endless pit filled with colored plastic balls. There were other kids my age up ahead, but none of them looked like Sam. Where the hell did he go?

  I walked through a room filled with air jets and high-pitched sounds that resembled a bull-horn. A short, chunky girl was struggling to hold down her skirt as the air from the floor blew the pleats up around her. I couldn’t help thinking how fun this would be if the giggling girl was Meg or Marcy. And if I wasn’t living in a hellish, creepy town like Flocksdale.

  I made my way through a mirror-filled maze that I hoped marked the end of this attraction.

  The mirror-padded room I entered next was filled with flashing strobe lights. As though getting through here wasn’t hard enough already, they had to add freaking strobe lights? I thought with a scowl.

  Turning a sharp corner, I hit a dead-end, and that’s when I heard the unmistakable, melodic sound of Sam’s laugh.

  I turned around and tried to go a different way, hoping like hell I could find him. I moved toward the contagious sound of his laughter. And then there he was. Not him exactly, but his reflection in one of the mirrors. The image was distorted, but I could clearly make out the shape of his back moving through the maze.

  “Sam!” I shouted. I was surrounded by mirrors. Catching a glimpse of my own reflection, I let out a blood curdling shriek. A man wearing a rubbery mask was behind me—the face of a gruesome, demented clown. I tried to run, but the clown grabbed me, dragging me deep inside the funhouse.

  Chapter

  Thirty-Six

  Black leather gloves muffled my screams. I flailed my arms and jerked from side to side, dragging my feet against the floor in an effort to slow him down, but it was too late.

  Suddenly, I was falling…

  I landed in the ball pit with a soft thud. Dazed, I looked around for the freak in the clown mask. To my horror, he was standing at the edge of the pit, his head cocked to one side, watching me through the eye holes of that demented costume.

  His clothes were all black, his hands covered by those gloves. But I noticed his shoes were Reebok brand. I started “swimming” my way out of the pit, trying to reach the other side…trying to get away from him, all the while screaming in terror.

  “Somebody help me! I’m being attacked!” I screamed desperately. He jumped in the pit with me, charging through the rainbow-colored balls toward me. He took me down from behind, burying my head and face beneath the balls.

  I fought wildly against his grip, trying to throw blind punches behind me in the dark pit. I sunk deeper and deeper, and I could feel him grinding against my backside perversely.

  Oh, god…I’m going to die in here! I realized. I could barely breathe, my entire face surrounded by the hard, plastic balls.

  But then I heard shouts. “Somebody’s in trouble!” a girl yelled. “Please, someone come help her!”

  The man with the mask unpinned me and leapt from the pit, shoving past the chubby girl in the skirt. He was gone, running through the mirror maze where he’d dragged me moments earlier.

  My arms and legs felt numb, but I pushed my way through those fucking balls, trying to get to the side of the pit. Suddenly, the lights in the funhouse came on and people were surrounding me.

  That young police officer from the other day lifted me from the pit. “Where is he? Someone needs to catch him!” I insisted frantically.

  “Who?” the officer asked, sitting me down on the floor. “Take a deep breath…” he tried to encourage me.

  “The man in the fucking clown mask! He assaulted me, drug me through the maze and threw me in here! I think he was going to rape me…maybe kill me…”

  The girl who’d brought help confirmed my story. “He ran out that way!” she pointed, playing with the necklace around her neck nervously.

  The officer used his walkie-talkie to call for help, and took off after my assailant. There was a crowd of people forming around me now. All of a sudden, they gave a shit about who I was. I wanted to cuss them out. I stood up shakily, ignoring their pointed questions. What happened? What did he do to you? What did he look like?

  Shoving past them, I spotted Sam running through the crowd.

  “Marianna! Marianna!” he screamed. He propelled through the swarm of people, wrapping me up in his arms.

  “What the hell happened?” he asked, placing his hands around my face. “I heard people talking, saying the new girl was in the funhouse and she’d been attacked. I just knew it had to be you. I was so scared.”

  I told him everything, trembling with fear. His eyes were wide with fright. “Who the fuck would do that?” he asked.

  “I don’t know…but I have something else I need to tell you. About Christa’s death. I found something…” That’s when I realized my messenger bag was gone. It was no longer strapped across my chest. The clown must have taken it.

  Chapter

  Thirty-Seven

  Sam drove me to the Flocksdale police station and sat by my side as I made a formal statement about my attack. I described everything about the freaky clown to two police officers, even down to his stupid Reebok shoes. One of them was the officer who’d helped pull me out from the ball pit.

  “Did you find that fucker?” I asked. But I knew he hadn’t, or else he wouldn’t be asking so many questions.

  “Brandy, the girl who interrupted the attack, she confirmed your statement. But nobody else saw a man wearing a clown mask running around the carnival.”

  Sam squeezed my hand beneath the table. I knuckled my tears away, determined not to cry anymore. I’d never been so scared in my life, and I could tell these morons weren’t taking me seriously.

  “I guess it could have been one of the out-of-towners, you know the people working at the carnival…” I wondered aloud. The officers exchanged glances. “What?” I asked angrily.

  “The people who run the carnival aren’t from out of town. They travel around the country, sure. But their home base is here. The people who run the carnival are from Flocksdale.”

  I couldn’t help but laugh. “Of course they are,” I spat. “This whole town is full of freaks.”

  ***

  When Sam and I got back to the house, I was surprised to see that George wasn’t home yet. It was nearly ten o’clock at night, but he must have still been working on the mental health warrant.

  On the way home from the police station, I’d filled Sam in on the t-shirt. He listened silently. “Do you think Georg
e was the one wearing the clown mask?” he asked finally.

  “That’s the thing…no, he wasn’t. George is so tall and broad; this guy was leaner. But honestly, it was hard to tell.”

  “I hate to say this, but the clown might have just been a stupid kid playing a prank. Maybe we should go back to the station and show them this t-shirt,” Sam suggested.

  I shook my head dejectedly, and told him about the clown stealing my bag.

  “I’m afraid to be here in this house with George. But I’m afraid to be out there where that clown-freak can find me,” I whined desperately. I thought about the gun Wendi had given me. It had also been in the messenger bag. I would have to tell Wendi first thing in the morning. She wouldn’t be happy that her gun was missing, but at least she was someone who would believe my story and try to help me. The evidence I’d had—Christa’s shirt—was gone, though. I wasn’t sure what to do now…

  “I know you’re scared. And you have every reason to be. But I won’t leave your side tonight. I don’t care what your stupid step-dad says…I’m staying the night,” Sam said firmly.

  Despite my fear, I was exhausted. “Let’s sleep in a different room,” I suggested. “That way, if George comes home and tries to kill me, we’ll at least have a heads up first.”

  We went to the last room in the hallway, the one with the pseudo-window. I used the same chair I’d used the other night to secure the door again. Sam wrapped his arms around me, stroking my hair and forehead.

  “I’m so sorry, Marianna…I love you…”

  ***

  I dreamed of bloated, rotting corpses, all wearing Christa’s t-shirt. One of the corpses looked like me and its shirt read—‘Kill Your Mom’.

  I sat up at three in the morning. Instantly afraid, I leapt out of bed, confused by the fact I was in a different room from my own. It only took a second to remember the details.

  Sam was here. I’d found that creepy, faded t-shirt—dead Christa’s shirt—in George’s sink drain. And that horrifying clown’s face…I remembered him thrusting against me and burying my head…Ugh.

  I looked at Sam, who was still sleeping peacefully in the bed. Not wanting to disturb him, I crept down the hallway, carrying my cell phone with me. I was sick of playing games. I had to know what happened to my mother. God, I needed her. Why wasn’t she here for me?

  I dialed her number, waiting for it to ring. It finally did—once, two times, a third time—I pulled the phone away from my ear.

  I could hear another phone ringing. Sam’s phone, maybe? I wondered.

  I suddenly wondered if it was his mom, worried because he didn’t come home. I stood up, moving through the hallway.

  But the ringing had stopped.

  Hit with some sort of sixth sense, I dialed my mom again. As soon as it started to ring, I could hear the shrill cry of an identical ring down the hall. Holding the ringing phone in my hand, I tip-toed toward the room Sam was sleeping in. I could hear him in there, moving around frantically. I clicked end, the ringing also stopping on the other side of the door.

  That’s when it hit me—Sam had my mother’s cell phone.

  Chapter

  Thirty-Eight

  I took off running. Darting down and around the twisted staircase, nearly tumbling down as I recklessly leapt over the last six steps. I could hear a commotion upstairs. Sam was coming!

  I threw open the door, nearly forgetting my bike. No way can he catch me on this, I thought, hopping on the slick, wet seat.

  I raced down Clemmons Street, skidding around the corner until I hit Lincoln Boulevard. Where was I going? Who could I trust?

  Wendi, the trees whispered. The rain was picking up, pelting my face as I pedaled as though my life depended on it. My life did depend on it. I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that Sam had killed my mother.

  She was dead and I’d never see her again.

  Why he did it was unclear, but he had no good reason for having my mom’s phone. He must have planted the t-shirt too, I realized.

  All this time, I thought it was George. And all the while, I was flying across the country with a maniac. Sleeping in bed with him…I was getting close to Baumans Lane, and beginning to crash from my adrenaline rush. I could see Wendi’s house up ahead, but my legs felt rubbery and sluggish. Her house was lit up like a Christmas tree. A hopeful beacon of light. I felt deliriously relieved.

  But then something slammed into me from behind. Something that felt like a Mack truck on steroids. I was hit with that sensation—when the plane’s wheels lift off the ground. No turning back.

  I was soaring through the air. I saw the pavement looming, but I didn’t care because I was flying. Out of reach, like when Sam and I flew to New Orleans. When I thought we were in love.

  But then my face and body smashed into a deep sea of blackness. I connected with the pavement, breaking my body to pieces.

  Chapter

  Thirty-Nine

  They say people can hear things while they’re in a coma.

  But I couldn’t hear shit.

  My entire existence was like a TV program on mute, without the courtesy of closed captioning. All I could see was my mother’s face. Her alabaster skin, white-blonde hair to match mine, and eyes the boldest shade of hypnotic blue. Now her eyes were black and lifeless.

  My mother was dead, and if I was being honest, a huge part of me never wanted to wake up.

  But I had work to do…I was going to kill Sam, chop him to little bits if I had to. He had to die for what he did to my mother. To Christa and anyone else he’d hurt.

  I thought about Wendi Wise, how strong she’d been when she went after the monsters from her youth. I channeled her energy. Her strength. Her courage.

  I tried to say her name, forming the words with my lips. I opened my eyes.

  Chapter Forty

  I was lying on a wet bed of sand. No, not a bed…a beach. Sweet, lukewarm water tapped my toes, rising up to my knees and then my waist. I was at the ocean and it wasn’t too stormy to swim this time. The water came to me, rising over me. I let its sweet breath consume me. A blanket of wet, soothing warmth consumed me.

  I immediately spotted the conch shell.

  It was the biggest conch shell I’d ever seen. I reached out, grabbed it, and pulled it to my ear. Suddenly, the mute feature of my dream was gone, and I could hear. Muffled murmurs, like a TV turned down too low.

  What was I hearing? Not the whispers of the ocean—my father’s voice.

  No, not my father’s. My mother’s. The sounds became clearer, the muffled tones transforming to audible words. “Wake up, Marianna. Mommy’s here.”

  I closed my eyes, traces of her voice fading from my ear. I tried to cling on to the sound. But it was gone.

  When I reopened my eyes, I was in a cold, white room. A sterile hospital bed.

  Chapter

  Forty-One

  I was sitting up, my eyes and ears working—finally. But I couldn’t move a muscle. I felt like I was inside myself looking through a pair of windows, only those windows were my eyes. “Her eyes are open, but nobody’s home,” I heard someone say. It was a man’s voice. An unfamiliar drawl.

  “The psychological term is catatonic, Detective Fountain. It may look like nobody’s home, but I assure you—she can hear you, and most certainly see you.”

  I looked out the left window-eye and then the right, searching for the other speaker. A young, exotic-looking woman wearing a white doctor’s coat stood near the end of the bed. A scruffy-looking man in a suit was standing next to her, his hands crossed over his chest. He looked pissed.

  The doctor was looking at me, straight through my window-eyes, daring me to argue her point. But I couldn’t argue, even if I wanted to. I was an observer within myself, unable to talk or move the body I inhabited.

  “Fantastic. Then can I borrow her ear for a minute, then?” the snotty detective asked. He wasn’t the same police officers I’d talked to the other day.

  So, they know about S
am being a killer and they’re here to question me, I realized. The doctor looked as though she might refuse him, but then she pursed her lips and walked outside the room, closing the door behind her.

  The detective had a full head of feathery black hair, bits of silver sprinkling his side burns and patchy beard. He pulled up a chair, stuck his face close to my window-eyes. He couldn’t see inside. Thank god.

  He sat there silently, as though waiting for me to speak. “What sort of game are you playing?” he muttered, shaking his head back and forth. Opening a thin manila folder, he pulled out a glossy photo. Held it up to the window panes for me to see.

  I could hear myself screaming in my own head, and then the window-eyes went black.

  ***

  The beach. The gritty sand felt rough, but good on my back. The tide rolled in and the water came up, swallowing my lower half. Keeping me covered, protected. I put the conch shell to my ear. I didn’t want to…but I did. I listened and closed my eyes.

  ***

  The windows were clear now. I was staring at a horrific scene. A macabre photograph of Sam sitting on the floor, his back pressed against my bedroom wall. A halo of blood around his head, splattering the once-white, boring walls. Someone had blown his head off.

  Chapter

  Forty-Two

  “We found the gun with your prints on it,” Detective Fountain whispered into my eyes. “We also found a t-shirt hanging on a hanger in your closet. It belonged to another corpse—Christa Shankton. If it were up to me, you’d be miles from here, at the prison in Mooresville. But lucky for you, your step-daddy’s the judge. And you’re playing off this mute act flawlessly. Seriously, honey, you deserve an Oscar…”