The Carnival of Lost Souls : A Handcuff Kid Novel

by Laura Quimby

  The professor chased after him. “You belong to the magician now!”

  Jack darted to the front door, but when he grabbed the doorknob, it was bolted shut. He spun around, but the professor had already made it down to the landing. The professor held his arm tightly. He was trapped. Concheta paced back and forth at the foot of the stairs, tears streaming down her small brown cheeks. The tips of her fingers almost touched Jack’s face as she looked at him like it would be for the last time. He had seen that look many, many times before. Then two words drifted clearly from her lips. “Los muertos.” She almost whispered the ghostly words; he had to strain to hear her.

  Jack’s knowledge of Spanish consisted of “hello,” “good-bye,” and enough food items to order off the menu at Taco Bell. Los muertos, los what? Los muertos, los muertos … It sounded familiar. He remembered his sixth-grade Spanish class and the skeletons they made for Halloween. The class decorated the room with white cut-out bony limbs pasted onto black paper.

  Concheta wiggled her way in between Jack and the professor and dug into Jack’s duffel. Her small fingers snatched a pair of handcuffs from the bag and slapped them onto his wrist, securing the other end to the banister. “Let them try and take you now. Hide the key, mi chico! Hide the key!” Concheta made the sign of the cross, kissed the rosary that hung around her sweaty neck, and scuttled through the house to the back door.

  “That’s not going to stop them,” the professor yelled after her. He turned to Jack. “Mussini and his minions are coming for you.”

  “Minions?” Jack’s voice cracked. Jack yanked and pulled at the cuff. She had twisted the clasp so tightly that there was no give, no play between his wrist bone and the hard steel.

  And then it hit him. Jack remembered the warning from the kids in the park: the occult, the grave robbers, and ghosts—los muertos.

  The professor’s dark gaze locked on to him and he said, “She’s right. It is los muertos, my boy.”

  Jack’s throat was dry. He could barely say the words. “The dead.”

  “Go with them to their domain. This is your destiny now.” The professor let go of Jack’s arm and vanished down the hallway, leaving the Handcuff Kid alone in the stairwell.

  “Come back!” Jack screamed, yanking on the handcuff locking him to the banister. “Don’t leave me here!” The house echoed with his voice. “Stupid jerk!” Hot tears welled up in his eyes. The front door slammed shut, and the house was suddenly quiet. “Stupid handcuff!” Jack coughed and punched the wall. Resting his forehead against the banister, he tried to calm himself down.

  Jack thought about a show he saw on the nature channel about bear attacks. The worst thing a person could do was run, because bears are surprisingly fast runners, not lumbering Yogi Bear snatching a picnic basket. Curling up into a ball like a pathetic baby was a person’s only chance. Jack heard heavy footsteps coming from the professor’s office. A hundred tiny currents of fear rippled through his body, waiting for the swipe of the claws, for the bear to rip his guts out and miles of intestines to fall onto the floor. Get a grip, he thought. Whatever was coming for him, he still had a chance to get away. He had to try.

  Jack snatched the shim from his shoe and went to work on the cuff attached to the banister, not the wrist one, so the cuffs would still be with him when they opened. He slipped the shim inside the lock, but his hands were sweaty and it was hard to get ahold of the slim piece of metal. The hallway disappeared as he stared into the small keyhole. He tried to think backward. He felt the groove, the small lip of metal. He pressed lightly as if touching delicate skin and then waited for it to catch, shhhh. He drove in the metal tip. It worked, like it always did for him, and now he could get out of there.

  Jack unhooked the cuff from the banister. His arm fell to his side, the steel brushing against his jeans. He turned around and froze, unable to take another step. The dark figure of the Amazing Mussini appeared in the doorway of the professor’s office. Darkness engulfed the hallway. Cold air wrapped around Jack as if encasing him in wet sheets.

  Jack collapsed to his knees, clutching his left wrist. Pain seared beneath his fingers as inky black marks sprung to the surface of his skin from somewhere deep inside him, forming into the same compass tattoo that the professor wore on his wrist—the mark of Mussini. Jack’s head jerked upward. Soot-colored clouds poured through the floorboards and rolled down the hallway. It was too late to run, too late to hide. Freezing hands reached out of the cloud cover, squeezing his forearms, while icicle fingers laced a rope around, binding them together. A scratchy blanket, thrown over his head, shrouded him in darkness. He was lifted clear off the floor. His sneakers dangled. His legs thrashed. Viselike arms wrapped around him, folding his body in on itself, pressing his knees up against his chest.

  Jack’s heart caught in his throat—he couldn’t scream. The front door opened, and he felt the vast emptiness of the night as he was carried outside. Since he couldn’t see, he listened: muffled voices, hushed whispers, rustled leaves. Another door opened, and he was heaved inside a small dark box like he was a load of laundry thrown into the dryer. The door shut, and suddenly, he felt alone with his own desperate gasps.

  Jack instantly went into recovery mode. Over the years, he had honed the craft of getting out of whatever dire situation he got himself into; this, he told himself, was no different. Where was he? The trunk of a car or the back of a van, except he didn’t hear a motor running or smell any gas fumes, but whatever he was in jerked to a slow crawl. The rope burned into his wrists, but the knot was pathetic, telling Jack one thing: Whoever tied it had never been a Boy Scout. Then again, he thought as he gnawed at the rope like a desperate animal, neither had he.

  Once his hands were untied, he yanked the stinky blanket, which smelled suspiciously like a horse, off his head. Jack felt around the small box-like compartment. It was just big enough to crawl in, so he inched his way to the back, or what he thought was the back. He felt a fabric curtain, and slid it open, revealing the dark night sky as cool air rushed over his hot face.

  A thick fog clung to the trees alongside the vehicle, and he couldn’t tell from his surroundings where he was, except for maybe the woods near the professor’s house. Jack considered his options. If he waited to act, there was no telling where Mussini might take him. Jack felt like he was spinning wildly, trapped inside one of the rusty carnival rides. His sweaty hands grasped the edge of the cart. He had to make a run for it. They were gaining speed. He had to hope he didn’t twist his ankle or get impaled by a tree limb as he leaped into the darkness. He swallowed the lump in his throat and glanced at the ground drifting by under his feet. Jump now! Jack flung himself over the side and hit the ground with a crunchy thud as he landed in a pile of leaves. He scrambled to his feet, clawing through the brush, trying to regain his balance while sprinting into the darkness.

  A deep voice bellowed, half laughing, from behind him, “There goes a slippery eel! Grab him, Jabber!”

  Branches slapped Jack’s face and pulled at his sleeves. Quick footsteps raced up behind him. A knife sliced through the darkness, cutting into the bark of a tree only inches from his head, and he hesitated—big mistake. Instantly, Jack was tackled, thrown to the ground, and then yanked by his collar to his feet. He thrashed wildly when an arm wrapped around his neck into a headlock, choking off his breath.

  “You’re more trouble than you’re worth,” the one called Jabber hissed into Jack’s ear. His hands were ice cold against Jack’s flushed skin, and he had a weird musky smell like damp earth. Jack jerked out of his grasp, annoyed he had been caught so quickly.

  “Is that Mussini?” Jack asked, motioning to the large man. “The coward who makes you do his dirty work?”

  Jabber wrenched the blade free from the tree bark. “I warn you—call him a coward to his face, and it will be the last word you utter. He’s obsessively fond of throwing knives, especially at deserters.” Jabber shoved Jack back the way they came.

  “We’re almost to
the wall. Gag him if he can’t keep his trap shut,” Mussini yelled.

  Jack reluctantly climbed back up into what he now realized was a small black carriage drawn by a horse. Who traveled by horse and carriage? Had he been kidnapped by the Amish? The sharp smell of kerosene burned his nostrils. A match scraped across flint, then burst into flame. The man on top of the carriage lit a lantern that hung above his head and swayed with the carriage when Jack stepped aboard. He craned his neck to get a look at Mussini, but all he saw was the halo of light the lantern cast above the man’s head, though this guy was no angel. A snakelike whip snapped in the air. Jack curled up on the floor as the carriage hurried on, straight for whatever this wall was.

  Jack leaned against the back of the carriage and peered between the curtain folds. The bright white moon made the trees look wiry and foreign. Not long after they started moving again, the carriage slowed. Jack heard the gruff yell of Mussini and the snap of his whip, and then the strangest sound he ever heard erupted outside of the carriage—a deep guttural cry like a cross between a moan and a roar. He strained to see where the sound was coming from.

  The carriage wheels rumbled and shook, passing over a rough surface before settling. That’s when he saw an enormous stone wall covered in moss and vines. A beastlike figure with sharp twisted horns growing out of its head stood near the wall. The creature swung a towering metal gate shut behind them. It turned a metal key in a huge metal lock. A knot tightened in Jack’s stomach. The carriage rocked back and forth. He closed his eyes and huddled down in a corner. Los muertos. The professor had traded him away, and the dead had taken him, snatched like a baby.

  Jack must have fallen asleep, because the next thing he knew he woke up with his neck stiff and his jaw clenched shut. His face was burning up. He opened his eyes. Rough fibers brushed against his face and muggy air filled his lungs. He pulled at a ragged edge of cloth with his teeth, tasting bits of the burlap in his mouth. A sack was fastened over his head; his new warden wasn’t about to take any more chances. He almost laughed—almost, because his hands were once again tied together with rope. Not a laughing matter.

  Jack pictured Houdini inside the black sack, locked in the trunk for the metamorphosis trick, as he and an assistant switched places in three seconds. One second Houdini was trapped, and the next he was free. Jack wished he had someone to switch places with, so he could slip out of this bad dream. He shook his head violently. The muscles in his neck tensed and his breathing heaved in gasps, pulling the burlap into his mouth. The inside of the bag grew hotter and hotter. Listen, listen, listen! he yelled to himself, quieting his panic. He heard the swish of a tail and the neigh of a horse, air forcing through the soft snout.

  “Ya!” He heard the yell of the angry man, the snap of a whip, the crack of wood, and then a wheel turned. Jack listened to the horse’s hooves crunching through the leaves of the forest’s floor.

  “Ho, ho!” the voice called out. The horse neighed. The wheels groaned to a halt, followed by the heavy footsteps of someone landing on the ground. A fist pounded on wood. “Jabber! Water the horses!”

  Metal rings dragged across a metal rod—a curtain drawn back. Someone jumped down from the back of the wagon, perhaps Jabber, because he was lighter on his feet than the heavy footsteps of the angry man. Jack thought of Little Miss B.—now look who was the blind dog. He lay still on the floor of the carriage, trying not to move. A hand reached under his chin and untied the burlap bag, pulling it from his head.

  Jack flinched. His eyes fluttered, adjusting to the punch of brightness. Leaning up on his elbows, he climbed out of the carriage and watched the world around him come into focus.

  He was in the middle of a forest, but not the forest near the professor’s house. Heaps of dead brown leaves covered the ground. An army of pale, tall trees surrounded him like ghostly sentries that went on for miles and miles. The tree limbs grew into a tangled net above him, obscuring the cloud-covered sky. Fog clung to the ground, and if Jack lay flat on his back, he might even disappear under the hazy carpet. The air of the place felt like ice-cold breath on his neck and made him shudder.

  A large wagon stood in the clearing. Huge black wheels with long spokes supported the enormous wooden wagon, which looked like something out of an old-time circus. It was painted in the same dull red, black, and tan colors that the box in the professor’s office had been.

  Jabber, who looked about nineteen, give or take, kicked through the leaves and fog and kneeled down to untie Jack’s feet. Jack was surprised when he saw Jabber. From the strength of the arms that held him in a headlock, he expected a much tougher-looking guy. His skin looked pale, an ashy blue color. A black hat rested on Jabber’s head. His black velvet jacket, black pants, and black boots looked old, but not worn, more like vintage—as if he had been born one hundred years before Jack. His hands were wet, and his shirt was speckled with water marks. Jack gnawed at the rope binding his hands.

  “You’re going to want to ride up top,” Jabber said.

  “Huh,” Jack said, spitting rope fibers onto the ground.

  “Get a little air.” Jabber motioned to the circus wagon. “You need it. You stink.” Jabber gave Jack a good sniff, then stood, slapping him on the back.

  “I smell as good as those horses. I was wrapped in their blankets.”

  Jabber ignored him and walked back to tend to the horses. Four speckled gray horses with long white manes stood in the clearing hitched to the gigantic wagon. One of the horses looked at Jack with somber eyes. He rested his forehead against her large body and stroked her soft coat.

  “Who’s this Mussini guy?” Jack asked, wondering what Jabber would divulge about the magician.

  Jabber pointed to the side of the wagon. Painted in swirled black script on the side of the wagon was the phrase: The Amazing Mussini and His Traveling Players.

  “He’s your new boss, and he runs the show,” Jabber said.

  As if on cue, a ferocious bear of a man came out of the woods and barreled past the wagon toward them. Enormous was an understatement. He was well over six and a half feet tall in his heavy leather boots. His thick, wavy black hair accentuated his bristly beard and black eyes. He snapped a long leather whip in the air. And when he spoke, his voice was deep and rubbed against Jack’s eardrums like sandpaper.

  “Hurry up, Jabber. It’s a long ride to where we’re headed, and we don’t want to get caught in the forest at night.”

  Black crows erupted in flight through the treetops. Jack stumbled to his knees and then righted himself, trying not to look too freaked-out.

  “Well, looky here. Sleeping Beauty is awake. Sorry about the rope and hood. I’m not a man of bondage by principle, but we couldn’t take a chance you wouldn’t try and leave without saying good-bye again.” Mussini clapped a massive callused hand on Jack’s back and his black eyes gleamed. “It was a show of spunk, I’ll give you that. But if you try it again, I’ll chain you to the back of the wagon like a beast of burden. Are we square?”

  “I get the picture,” Jack said, afraid to look Mussini in the eye but more afraid to look away. Mussini smiled, but it wasn’t friendly, more like a show of teeth, like a grizzly bear licking its chops.

  “Good man. Then we won’t have any more trouble before we make camp.” Mussini stalked off, boarded the smaller carriage, and drove ahead of the larger, colorful wagon.

  “Better do as he says,” Jabber said as Mussini pulled out of sight. “You work for him now. You should consider yourself lucky.”

  “Lucky? Are you kidding?”

  “You should be grateful Mussini took you on as a member of the troupe. I’d do my best to not screw this up. The forest can be a dangerous place for someone who gets lost or accidentally left behind.”

  Great, a slightly veiled threat, and we just met. Way to make friends. Jack looked around for his duffel. He saw it on the ground and heaved it up on the seat next to Jabber. He was so exhausted he could hardly think straight, but he had too many questions
to fall asleep. “Where am I?” Jack asked as they rode through the forest.

  “You aren’t in your world anymore. You’re in the Forest of the Dead,” Jabber said matter-of-factly. He must have noticed the look of utter bewilderment on Jack’s face, because he smirked. “Don’t you believe me?”

  “That’s impossible. In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m not dead,” Jack said, rubbing his temples. He couldn’t help but stare at the deep blue veins that spidered across Jabber’s neck. Suddenly he realized why Jabber was pale, clammy, and smelled like dirt. “Whoa! No way, man! Are you dead?”

  “Very.” Jabber’s eyes never left the road in front of them.

  “Dead-dead?” Jack scooted away from Jabber.

  “Is there any other kind?”

  Head injuries caused hallucinations. Maybe Jack was actually in a coma, lying in a hospital bed, and this place was just a figment of his imagination. A weepy Mildred was probably on an all-night vigil, burning a candle at his bedside, yapping his ear off so he wouldn’t get lonely in his coma state.

  Jack rubbed the red rope burns on his wrists. This place felt a little too real to be a dream. Coma or no coma, this was getting creepy.

  “The Forest of the Dead has its own rules,” Jabber said. “The living are allowed in. But they don’t last long here.”

  “What about heaven and hell?” Jack asked.

  “Oh, sure. Heaven. Some people call it nirvana, paradise, cloud nine, a world-renowned place to spend eternity. And then there is hell or Hades, an ominous domain, a real scorcher, so I’ve heard, exactly where you don’t want to end up. But we are neither here nor there. We’re in the middle.”

  “Look, just to warn you, my social worker, Mildred, is going to be really angry when she finds out I’m missing. And she might look like a sweet little old lady, but she has the heart of a ninja. I wouldn’t want to get on her bad side.”