Dark Harvest

by Lynda Hilburn

  “I insist, Doc.” She stepped closer and held the flask up to my lips. “There’s nothing like a little brandy—for medicinal purposes only, of course—to set the world right. Humor me.”

  Since she was determined to force the brandy into my mouth, I grabbed the flask to keep her from jamming it against my teeth. I took a small swig and swallowed. Warmth spread down my throat and into my middle. I did feel steadier.

  Hmmm. Funny-tasting brandy. I don’t even want to think about how long Maxie must have had that in her car.

  She watched me and nodded, her face serious. “Okay. That’s better. Under different circumstances, I’d walk you back to the car and let you wait there for me, but I found the location of the main event and I need you to cover my back. Are you going to be able to be there for me? Can I count on you?”

  Shit. Where in my job description did it say anything about scaring myself to death while trailing mentally defective role-players? I really wanted to crawl back under that fence and head for the Jeep, but Maxie had pressed my guilt buttons. Either she’d figured me out very quickly, or my buttons were blatantly evident to everyone. But regardless, she had me.

  “Yeah, sure. You can count on me. Let’s go.”

  I took a couple of awkward steps before feeling my legs solidify beneath me. My knees were still a little wobbly, but they held.

  She walked alongside me, casting glances every few seconds to make sure I wasn’t going to pass out or bolt. Great. My intuition had decided to reappear. Where had it been when I was in the midst of the panic attack? Why couldn’t I read the intentions of whatever the hell it was that touched me?

  “What did you find?” I whispered. The silence seemed especially thick again.

  Speaking softly, she gave me a verbal tour of the demolished site, then pointed to the hulking edifice in front of us. Soft light shone from the broken windows. “Interesting that the biggest building in the park is the one that didn’t burn. I’d actually been here years ago when the huge structure was a unique fun house. It had quite an innovative design. Amazing art deco architecture. All the twisted mirrors and bloody exhibits were in hallways, and cubbyholes lined the walls of the structure on three separate floors. A large area was left open in the center where reenactments and horror-theater-type performances were held nightly. People lined the upper balconies to watch the orchestrated mayhem. Performances are still taking place in the center circle, but the morons are in charge now. I wonder how the idiots managed to generate light in there. You don’t think they’re dim enough to light a bonfire or something?”

  Speak of the devil. Just as Maxie finished explaining, excited voices sliced the air. She grabbed my arm and pulled me behind a corner of the large building. We crouched, watching as a group of males dressed in theatrical versions of occult chic carried a wooden box—a coffin?—across our line of vision. As they approached, I heard a muffled voice screaming from inside.

  I started to stand, and Maxie tugged me down again, vigorously shaking her head. I don’t know what I thought I could do about the person trapped in the box, but doing nothing seemed insane. I followed the goth caravan with my eyes, waiting for some kind of helpful idea to spring from my brain. Maxie tapped me on the arm and I turned to her. She mouthed “per-form-ance” and flicked her thumb in their direction. My mouth formed an O, and I nodded, relieved. I’d forgotten we’d come to observe role-players. After my horrifying experience with violent bloodsuckers five months earlier, I tended to overreact. Just a little Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. Nothing to worry about.

  Maxie jerked her head toward the rear of the building, signaling me to follow her as she crept through the shadows to an old-fashioned fire escape hugging the wall of the colorful fun house. The bottom rung was only about six feet from the ground, and Maxie bent over, lacing the fingers of both hands together to form a foothold.

  “Put your foot here and I’ll boost you up,” she said, her eyes constantly shifting about, scanning the environment for unexpected company.

  “Hold it! What do you mean, boost me up? Boost me up where, Lucy?”

  Maxie straightened. “You’re such a stick in the mud, Ethel. Put your fucking foot in my hands, get on the damn ladder, and climb up to the top floor.”

  We grinned at each other for a few seconds, appreciating the old sitcom in constant reruns, then I remembered where we were and that I really did want answers to my questions.

  “Why do we have to climb to the top floor? I thought you were invited to this thing. What’s the purpose of hiding?”

  “I told you. I like to sneak up so I can see things they don’t want me to see. That’s how I’ve gotten my best stories.” She laced her fingers together again. “Jesus, Doc. Do all psychologists have to know every fucking detail all the time? Or is it just you? Has anyone ever mentioned that you’re a bit … controlling?”

  Why, yes, they had, as a matter of fact, but I wasn’t the one doing all the bossing around at the moment. In this case, Maxie made me look like a slacker.

  “Me, controlling? Hey, you’re the Dominatrix from Hell today, not me! I think I’ve been very polite and accommodating, while you …”

  She put her hand over my mouth, leaned in, and whispered, “Somebody’s coming. Either climb the ladder or run over there and hide in those bushes while I go up.” She removed her hand from my face, laced her fingers again, her eyebrows raised, and waited a heartbeat.

  I heard footsteps approaching, and without thinking, put my foot in Maxie’s hands and she boosted me up much higher than I’d expected. I grabbed on and scurried up the ladder.

  Maxie was apparently athletic, or at least in good shape, because I sensed her rapidly moving up behind me.

  We’d climbed almost to the top before I peered down to check out our visitors. It was hard to make out details even with the light from the full moon, but it appeared two guys had sneaked off for some private time and were in the midst of shucking the lower portions of their costumes in preparation for some … deeper … intimacy.

  Maxie hadn’t realized I’d slowed and her head smacked into my rear, causing me to lose my grip on the bars. I almost yelped as she grabbed my legs and whispered, “Keep going!” Thankfully, we were up high enough that the small sounds we made hadn’t carried. Besides, the guys sharing body fluids below weren’t paying any attention to us.

  We made it to the top floor and stepped across the six feet of iron grating leading to a heavy metal door, which was locked. I tugged on the handle and turned to Maxie, who shoved past me, extracting a set of small tools and a miniature flashlight from her pocket. She held the slender light between her teeth.

  I peeked over her shoulder as she worked on the lock with a small knife-like tool. “Hmm. Breaking and entering. Should I ask what other illegal activities we might undertake tonight? Maybe next time we can hit a bank? Rob a gas station? Knock over a senior citizens’ center?”

  She let the flashlight drop into her hand. “Shut up, Ethel. Yes! Am I awesome, or what?”

  The door creaked open.

  Maxie stuck her head into the opening, then stepped inside, signaling me to follow. I pulled the door closed behind me.

  We’d gone to hell. Or at least a visual representation. In the pitch-dark blackness, colorful, glow-in-the-dark paint-depicted demonic scenes, rivers of blood, and evildoers feasting on the bodies of the previously living. Formerly ghoulish displays had been destroyed, the remnants of their wood and glass littering the floor.

  My eyes adjusted to the darkness, and I noticed there was a path under my feet made of glowing sparkles. Remembering the last time I’d been in a fun house, when I’d slammed into an invisible glass on my quest for an exit door, I put my hands out in front of me.

  “Hey! We don’t know each other well enough for you to touch me there, Doc.” Maxie chuckled softly. “Let’s go.” She clasped my hand. “The sounds are coming from this direction.”

  She was right. The noise was definitely getting louder. A so
lid wall of chatter, punctuated by shrieks, screams, and laughter with a musical backdrop provided by Black Sabbath increased as we approached. We moved ahead slowly until we reached a set of floor-to-ceiling, padded, saloon-type doors—the kind that open in the center. Maxie pushed against one side of the door and a shaft of soft illumination appeared. We dropped to our hands and knees and crawled through, entering a mezzanine overlooking a wild party below. There were large gaps in the wooden barrier between where we were and thin air, so we stretched out on our stomachs, heads poking beyond the balcony just enough to explore the source of the noise. Maxie slipped a compact camera from her pocket and began clicking.

  Light shone from freestanding torches spread throughout the room, and from flame-filled steel barrels in the center, providing soft respite from the prevailing darkness. The music burst from a large, industrial-looking CD player perched on top of some wooden crates.

  The building had four sets of double doors at the entrance and all were gaping, either because they’d been propped open with rocks, or the doors themselves were missing. In spite of the ventilation, the air inside the building was thick with smoke from the various fires plus all the cigarettes and joints adding to the mix. Not to mention the sour stench of body odor, which floated like the bottom note of a nauseating perfume. My eyes stung and my lungs ached as I sucked in the acrid air. Maxie didn’t seem to be bothered by the toxic atmosphere.

  There had to be at least a hundred people in the performance space. It resembled a rave, except most of the revelers were dressed as their favorite movie or television vampires. In some cases, they wore nothing but tattoos. Maxie was going to be disappointed. This event wouldn’t even present enough twisted behavior to provide her with material for a ridiculous article. Raves were pretty run-of-the-mill. Drugs, sex, alcohol. Not one mutated alien baby head to be found anywhere.

  I’d just yawned, blinked my eyes to clear away the tears caused by the smoke, and thought about how great it would be to go home, when the crowd went berserk. The dancers slammed into each other, and the noise level exploded. Everyone started yelling at the tops of their voices and pounding on whatever was at hand. The noise was almost painful. Vicious fights broke out between couples who, moments before, had been extremely friendly.

  “What the hell?” I said to Maxie, who paused in her picture taking long enough to shrug.

  As if by some invisible signal, a circular opening formed in the middle of the frantic partiers and two robed figures pulled a struggling, scantily dressed female into the center. She fought to free herself, but was held fast. The spectators began chanting, “Kill her! Kill her!” as a third robed person pushed through the mob, heading straight for the woman, a long knife poised in the air. Without a second’s hesitation, he drove the blade into her chest, blood blossoming from the wound.

  I gasped and rose to my knees, reaching into the pocket of the bulky parka to find my cell phone. My heart pounded and my hands shook. The amusement park was on the outskirts of town, so who knew how long it would take the police to arrive? As I watched, the woman fell and the robed guy continued stabbing her as she flailed on the floor. Her thin dress was saturated. I palmed my phone, ready to dial 9-1-1, when Maxie grabbed it out of my hand.

  I jerked my head in her direction and was shocked to find her smiling. “You’re such a Girl Scout. Get down before they see you. Everything’s okay. I’ve seen this before. Just watch.” She pushed on my shoulder until I lay flat on the floor again, then returned my phone. “Put this back in your pocket. You won’t need it.”

  The wannabes in the circle stopped chanting and began cheering. The knife wielder stood, raised his blood-covered blade into the air, and accepted the adulation of the onlookers. Then, he reached a hand down to the woman on the floor and she grasped it, letting herself be pulled into a standing position.

  They took a bow and melted into the throng.

  What the hell had just happened? Adrenaline flooded my body and my brain spun in stunned confusion.

  Maxie shouted into my ear. “Adolescent party tricks. Fake knife. Packets of red paint taped to her body. Watch. There’ll be more. The children aren’t very original tonight.”

  That had been a performance? I was so relieved I felt light-headed. Maxie could have warned me before I had an anxiety attack. But why hadn’t my intuition given me a heads-up about the pretense? I’d been really off since we arrived.

  I’d just taken a long, deep breath to release any lingering tension in my body when a large, hairy thing crashed through the dancers, scattering them like paper dolls.

  On closer inspection, the beastie looked like a big guy in a shaggy bear suit, the head replaced with a wolfish rubber mask. Sort of a low-rent, lupine Bigfoot.

  “Oh, eek! It’s a werewolf,” Maxie deadpanned in a high voice.

  The creature turned to a shirtless skinny guy, raked its claws down the young man’s chest, leaving dripping blood trails on the white skin.

  Maxie leaned in. “Good luck getting rid of all that red stuff. There’s tattoo ink stored in the fake claws.”

  I glanced at her and said, loud enough for her to hear, “You seem to know all about this insanity.”

  She grinned, pointed at the hairy guy, and made the universal “crazy” gesture, twirling her finger next to her head.

  The “werewolf growled, reached down, and grabbed his victim’s neck, tearing away the portion underneath his chin.

  The attendees roared, thrusting their fists into the air in manic glee.

  Were-foot stood over his victim, pounding his chest. The throat-less man remained prone for a few seconds, then jumped to his feet executing a graceful bow.

  They wrapped their arms companionably around each other’s shoulders and were swallowed up by the wannabe herd.

  A movement drew my attention and I noticed for the first time a tall man standing on a raised area in the midst of the crazed revelers. He wore dark, loose-fitting, genie-style pants, and his impressive bare chest was partially hidden by unusually long hair. Black, or very dark brown hair. It was impossible to tell in the firelight. He generated an air of authority—standing with legs spread, hands fisted on his hips—as if he were surveying his kingdom. After observing the dancers for a few moments, he raised his arms into the air and the crowd parted, making way for a cluster of black-robed figures to carry in the wooden box I’d seen earlier.

  I nudged Maxie and whispered, “Who’s the genie guy with the long hair? Is he the leader of this cult? Have you seen him before?”

  She lowered her camera and focused on the tall man. “I don’t know who he is. Never laid eyes on him.” She turned to me, grinning. “But I wouldn’t mind finding out. If he’s a genie, I’d be happy to rub his bottle anytime.”

  I almost laughed out loud before catching myself. “That makes two of us.” I was too far away from the intriguing man to see if he really was as attractive as he appeared, but he did seem to have … something.

  A couple of the robed participants moved to either side and lifted the top of the wooden box. “This must be the vampire staking portion of the evening’s entertainment,” I said.

  “Yeah. It’s about time. If nothing interesting happens soon, we can head out. This has got to be the most boring pseudo-supernatural event I’ve ever attended. Sorry for dragging you out to such a feeble waste of time.”

  The moment the top was off the box, the inhabitant started flailing his arms and legs, trying to sit up. The noise of the celebrants diminished a few decibels, as if they’d all quieted to listen to the prisoner scream obscenities. He didn’t disappoint.

  Four collaborators lifted the struggling captive—who was a large, nude fellow—out of the box and, each holding an arm or leg, carried him up onto the platform where the long-haired guy waited. The noise level began to rise again as the partiers swarmed closer for a better view.

  The victim’s limbs were stretched out to form an X, and the robed lackeys lowered him to the platform’s surface. Th
ey held the struggling man in place as the leader bent over, picked up what looked like four huge spikes and a fat hammer, and held them aloft. His dark hair streamed down the front of his body.

  “My children! We have gathered here tonight to slay a traitorous vampire. A fiend who has been banished from his coven for disobedience and betrayal. A bloodsucker who will not follow the will of his master. I ask you now—shall he live or die?” The man had a deep, commanding voice that cut through the chaotic sounds in the room with an intimacy that made me squirm with discomfort. Something about his voice troubled me, but I couldn’t get a fix on why.

  Then, like a scene from an old movie with the spectators at the Roman coliseum giving the thumbs-up or thumbs-down to determine a gladiator’s fate, the vampire wannabes in the fun house screamed their approval while gesturing downward.

  Wow. Who knew role-players took their performances so seriously?

  “So be it,” the leader proclaimed as he handed three of the thick spikes to a new helper who’d stepped onto the platform. He held up the remaining spike and the hammer, then leaned down and pounded the spike into the wrist of the man on the floor. The captive screamed and flailed, giving an amazingly authentic performance. Fake blood even spurted from the wound as the man in the genie pants pounded the spike in deeper. The group cheered.

  I’ve never been much of a horror movie fan. Not being able to release the ghastly images from my brain after the end of the film definitely put a crimp in my enjoyment of cinematic carnage. So, why the hell was I forcing myself to watch this slasher parody?

  The leader stretched out his hand, palm up, and his assistant placed another of the thick spikes there. Stepping over the victim’s head, the torturer thrust the spike into the man’s other wrist, and pounded until it appeared thoroughly wedged into his skin and bones.

  More fake blood spewed from the new hole and spread out in a dark circle from the wound. The man’s screams sounded so legitimate that I had to put my hands over my ears at one point and remind myself I was watching theater. I couldn’t figure out how they made the wounds look so real. Maybe this production wasn’t as amateur as I’d assumed.