by Mike Mignola
Maybe it had something to do with the weight of its purpose.
Or maybe it had something to do with what it had done—what they had done. By throwing that switch, they were defying the laws of nature, rejecting what was supposed to be—what was meant to be.
They were saying no to the forces of entropy.
They were saying, No, you cannot take our child.
We will not let you.
The cacophony of sounds in the makeshift lab became as one, all the machines unified in their sound and purpose.
Abraham looked to his wife and saw panic in her eyes, and tried through his own force of will to command her to be strong.
For their son.
Something was happening; the feeling in the room was strange.
Different.
Abraham’s every animal instinct began to scream—something was wrong, something felt terribly, terribly wrong, and it wouldn’t have surprised him if everybody and everything in the room in which they now stood had flown off, flying every which way as the forces of gravity were canceled, or if the oxygen in the air was suddenly gone, or if all the atoms and such that made up the reality they were most familiar with decided to drift apart and everything that defined their existence was—unmade.
“What is happening, Professor?” Abraham managed, and he was frightened by how scared he sounded.
“It’s here,” the scientist said, his goggle-covered eyes moving about the room, taking it all in.
As if sensing something as well, Bentley reacted, his thin, sickly body thrashing weakly upon the examination table.
“Don’t…” he said breathlessly, as if so very, very tired. “Don’t…”
His mother went to him, holding him down and whispering that everything was going to be all right.
Abraham wanted to believe that, down to the marrow in his bones he truly did, but …
The glass case became illuminated by an eerie light, vibrating from within—as if no longer empty.
“The death energy,” Professor Romulus whispered, looking from the writhing boy back to the glass case. “It is being collected … like metal filings to a magnet.”
The case began to rock ever so slightly.
“Don’t!” Bentley wailed again, thrashing his sweaty head from side to side. “Don’t hurt her!”
Abraham wondered who it was his son was talking about, who could be of such concern to him as he lay there on the brink of death.
And something began to appear inside the glass case, to coalesce before their very eyes from the light and shadow.
Something that appeared … almost human.
No matter how much he wanted to disbelieve, Abraham saw it—and knew that the others saw it as well. There was now a child inside the box, her tiny hands slapping the glass in an attempt to get out.
“Please don’t hurt her,” Bentley begged.
The girl grew angrier, her movements becoming more frantic.
More violent.
“It’s true,” Professor Romulus said, a touch of wonder in his voice. “It’s all true.”
“Please don’t hurt my friend,” Bentley cried out.
And the child inside the box began to scream. Not a scream of fear.
But a scream of anger.
How dare we, Abraham thought.
How dared they, indeed.
Chapter Fifteen
The 1930 Buick Sport Coupe sped down the winding back road, traveling far faster than Bentley cared to go.
“Don’t you think you’re going too fast?” he asked Gwendolyn, who was smiling from ear to ear, both hands clutching the steering wheel.
“Not at all,” she said, eyes fixed on the twists in the road ahead of her. “I could go faster, if you like.”
Her smile became insanely wider as she increased the pressure on the gas pedal.
“Gwendolyn,” Bentley said, reaching out to grab hold of the dashboard as his eyes grew wider.
“What’s the matter, Bent?” she asked. “Am I making you nervous?”
“I just don’t think we should be driving this fast on these lonely country roads, is all,” he attempted to explain, imagining them coming around a bend, losing control, and wrapping the car around a tree. He briefly wondered if Death would send someone for him.
“Well, you know, you could have driven yourself,” Gwendolyn retorted.
“I appreciate your offer to drive,” he said. “I truly do, I’m just not too comfortable with traveling at great speeds down roads more equipped to handle horses and buggies than roadsters.”
“I get it.” She laughed, slowing the vehicle dramatically. “I was just teasing you.”
“Of course you were,” Bentley responded, removing his hand from the dashboard.
“So do you even know how to drive?” she asked him.
“Of course I do,” he answered, offended by the question.
“But you prefer to be chauffeured around?”
“I just prefer not … to drive. It makes me nervous.”
“You don’t say?” Gwendolyn cackled. “Well, I don’t mind driving at all … in fact, I prefer to be the one behind the wheel. It’s all worked out for the best, I’d say.”
“Exactly,” Bentley agreed. “And seeing as you were also responsible for finding the carnival’s current location…”
“Exactly,” Gwendolyn echoed with a confident smile. “Gave me a chance to put on my reporter’s hat for bit and snoop around. Gotta tell ya, wasn’t really all that difficult. You just gotta know what rocks to flip over.”
“And you certainly did. I don’t think I would have ever been able to locate Doctor Nocturne’s Circus of Unearthly Wonderment.”
“Well, thanks, sport,” she said. “And what’s up with that, anyway? I never took you for the circus type.”
“I’ve heard some things about this particular amusement and was curious to see for myself,” Bentley explained. Although he didn’t go on to say that he wanted to see for himself if there was anything to explain William Tuttle’s murder of Tianna Hoops.
“Well, it’s a good thing I came along when I did,” she said. “The circus season is pretty much wrapping up, and this upstate location is the last place they’re gonna be before heading back to Florida for the winter.”
“Quite fortuitous, I must say,” Bentley said.
They were both quiet for a bit, the drone of the country road beneath the car’s wheels filling the void until …
“Hey, Bentley.”
“Yes, Gwendolyn.”
“Would you consider this, y’know…”
“Consider this what?”
“Y’know.”
“No, I don’t know.”
“Y’know, a date.”
“No.”
“Oh,” she answered abruptly. “I was just checking. I wasn’t sure, but I thought that maybe…”
“No,” he said again, this time stressing the word.
“Good,” she said. “Good to know.”
And he was glad that she did, for his life was already far too complex to have to consider the needs of a woman, never mind one who fancied herself a reporter.
Death was his mistress now, and a harsh one to boot.
* * *
They had to endure the suddenly uncomfortable silence for only a few moments longer as the Buick came around a bend to reveal an open patch of land with a circus and sideshow operating upon it.
“Here we are,” Gwendolyn muttered, as she slowed the car and turned onto a rutted dirt road that brought them to a large field that had been set aside for cars and the carnival’s transport trucks.
Bentley felt a strange charge of electricity as he climbed from the passenger seat of his friend’s car, his eyes at once finding the elaborate entrance to the show. DOCTOR NOCTURNE’S CIRCUS OF UNEARTHLY WONDERMENT, the arched sign over the entryway proclaimed. A rather menacing illustration of a gaunt man in a turban and eveningwear smiled down upon them, opening his arms in welcome. Doctor Nocturne, B
entley imagined.
“So, are we going in or are we just going to stand here and admire the sign?” Gwendolyn asked, already striding toward the entrance.
“Oh, yes, of course.” Bentley rushed to catch up with her.
They had just passed beneath the arch when he felt spider legs crawling along the back of his neck, and he turned around to see the ghost. Tianna Hoops hovered just outside the entrance, staring forlornly into the place where she had died.
Is it possible for a ghost to be afraid? Bentley wondered. He tried to tell her with his eyes that he was going to seek answers, but she would not look at him—her gaze was transfixed.
“Oh, fried dough!” Gwendolyn exclaimed, slapping his arm so hard that he was almost certain it had left a mark. “Let’s get some!”
He followed the woman to the concession stand, where she purchased a plate of the oily dough. She wanted to buy him some as well, but he could only imagine what something like that might do to his rather delicate digestive constitution.
“Suit yourself,” she said, digging into the dough with wanton abandon, her upper lip quickly becoming covered with powdered sugar, making her look as though she sported a graying mustache. Bentley stared.
“What?” she asked through a mouthful of hot dough.
He didn’t want to embarrass her, but he raised a finger up to his lip.
Gwendolyn brought her own hand up to touch her mouth, and examined the white powder that stuck to her fingers.
“Jeez,” she said, wiping the sugar away. “I must look a sight.”
He had to agree, but managed to keep his mouth shut. They continued to stroll about the carnival. It was later in the afternoon, and attendance was quite light, making for ready access to anything that might strike their fancy.
“Is there anything specific you’re looking to see?” Gwendolyn asked as his eyes carefully scanned the dirt promenade.
“I’ll know as soon as I see it,” he told her.
The screams of those supposedly enjoying the rides off in the distance followed them as they strolled past many games of chance, the barkers attempting to entice him to play by challenging his manhood.
“That pretty lady looks as though she could use a teddy to hug,” a thin, ugly man with an alcoholic’s nose suggested as he leaned upon an overly large hammer that would be used to ring a bell in a test of strength. “Whadda ya say, sport? Three swings for two bits … heck, I’ll even give ya a free one to warm up.”
“What do you say, sport?” Gwendolyn chided.
Bentley snarled, ignoring her and the carnival barker, as he continued to look for … something. He did not know what it would be, but had a sense that he would once his eyes fell upon it.
A bell clanged noisily behind him, and Bentley cringed as he turned. Gwendolyn had paid her two bits and taken possession of the hammer to win herself that teddy.
“Well, you weren’t going to do it,” she said, hefting the large hammer in her hands.
He rolled his eyes as he turned away from her, close to resigning himself to the fact that this investigation was going to be a failure.
But then he saw it, and felt that familiar tingle at the base of his spine.
“Hey, what do you see?” Gwendolyn asked, clutching her teddy bear to her chest and eating a candied apple as she struggled to keep up with him.
Bentley didn’t answer her. Instead, he moved toward the wheeled carnival wagon, its wooden side covered with posters of various attractions that had performed with the carnival over the years. What had caught his eye was a drawing of a leg, the rest of the image covered up with another poster promoting Mistress Bobbie and her Jungle Cats. Somehow he recognized that exposed leg, and grabbing the corner of the Mistress Bobbie poster, he peeled it back.
THE AMAZING TIANNA, said the poster under Mistress Bobbie’s, showing an idyllic interpretation of the performer as she flew through a star-filled constellation on her trapeze.
“There you are,” Bentley announced, taking in the details of the poster.
“Who’s that?” Gwendolyn asked.
“Someone I’ve heard about.”
“Whatever you heard,” said a lone figure that shambled out from behind the wagon toward them, “was probably all true … so long as it was about how lovely, nice, and talented she was.”
The man was painfully skinny, with a scraggly gray beard and tiny beady eyes. The closer he came, the stronger the smell of alcohol grew.
“Phew!” Gwendolyn whispered as she leaned toward Bentley, waving her hand in front of her face. “Don’t light a match near that one, Bent.”
Bentley thought the meeting fortuitous—here was someone who had actually known Tianna, and probably William Tuttle as well.
“Damn shame what happened to her,” the man said, staggering over to look at the poster, his eyes filling with emotion. “A damn shame.” He reached into his back pocket and removed a bottle of clear, strong-smelling liquid. “Excuse me, I have to take my medicine.”
“Of course.” Bentley stepped back slightly to avoid the overpowering alcohol stink.
“Medicine, my foot,” Gwendolyn grumbled.
“So what happened to her?” Bentley asked, ignoring Gwendolyn and watching the man as he swayed before the poster.
“Everything was so good … we was all like a family for more years than I can remember. She hadn’t been with us that long, but she fit right in … her and Tuttle.”
Bentley had been right in his assumption. This drunken person had known both Tianna and William.
The man had some more medicine before starting to talk again. “But things started to go south when he bought the whole kit and caboodle.”
“Who?” Bentley questioned, feeling that maybe he was onto something.
The old drunk’s eyes fixed upon him. “Nocturne,” he said, as if his mouth were filled with poison. “Doctor Nocturne bought the carnival from the original owners, and that’s when … things started to happen.”
“What kind of things?” Bentley wanted to know.
The drunk twisted the cover from his bottle, preparing for another swig. “You’re a nosey little shit, ain’t ya?” he said with a grotesque, wet-sounding cackle. He took a long pull.
“Mishaps … accidents … murder.” He looked at the poster, his eyes welling up near to overflowing. “Call ’em what you will. I tried to tell ’em, but nobody wanted to listen … They tossed me out.” He began to cry. “Now I’m livin’ in a flophouse out on Beaton Street instead’a here with my real family.”
He raised the bottle again, eagerly sucking in its numbing contents.
“Why the run of bad luck?” Bentley asked him.
“Bad luck?” the man asked. “It ain’t no bad luck. It’s the Chamber,” he began, and Bentley was certain he was going to go on … until two carnival workers took notice of their conversation.
“Hey! Ain’t that Charlie Huggston?” one asked the other.
“I believe it is,” said the other. “And he ain’t supposed to be showing his drunken face around here ever again.”
The drunk, now revealed as Charlie Huggston, stumbled back, away from them. “Now, just a minute, fellas,” he slurred. “I got every right to…”
The large men came at him, each grabbing a bony arm.
“You was warned, Charlie,” said one with a sneer.
“Leave the guy alone!” Gwendolyn yelled, dropping the teddy bear onto the ground and advancing toward the men.
“Back off, sweetheart,” said one of the goons, “or I’ll have to take you over my knee.”
It wasn’t going well at all, and Bentley quickly considered his options. He was leaning toward taking Gwendolyn by the arm and leading her away.
But she had other plans.
“You think so, you ugly palooka?” she said, balling up her fists.
“Gwendolyn, please!” Bentley said, coming up from behind her to take hold of her elbow.
“You better keep your woman in line,” the u
glier of the two men warned.
“She is not my woman,” Bentley quickly corrected.
“Right, I ain’t his woman,” she reiterated, barreling down on the ugly man and giving him a swift kick to the kneecap.
The man screeched, releasing Charlie Huggston, who flopped drunkenly to the ground.
“Why, you little bitch!” the man said through gritted teeth. He actually looked as though he might strike the woman, and Bentley was about to do something incredibly stupid, like get between Gwendolyn and the man who wanted to punch her, when a booming voice stopped everybody in their tracks.
“Is there a problem, Mr. Kretch?”
Bentley and Gwendolyn turned to see a statuesque man, dressed in morning clothes and a bejeweled turban, standing behind them, his hands clasped behind his straight back. He bore a striking resemblance to the painted figure presiding over the carnival entrance.
“No problem we can’t handle, Doc,” Mr. Kretch answered.
The other man reached down and grabbed Charlie, who continued to struggle in his grasp. “We found Charlie here filling the customers’ heads with all kinds of nonsense, didn’t we, Charlie?” the man asked.
“Let me go!” Charlie slurred. “Don’t know what you’re talking about, you filthy animal!”
“That will be enough, Mr. Dyre,” the man addressed as Doc said. “Kindly release Mr. Huggston.”
“But I thought…” Mr. Kretch began.
“That will be enough, Mr. Kretch,” the man said, nodding for Mr. Dyre to do as he was instructed.
The man released Charlie’s arm.
“I didn’t say nothin’ to nobody, Doc,” Charlie began.
“You have been warned, Charlie,” the man in the turban said, advancing ever so slightly toward him. “And I would suggest that you heed those warnings and leave this property at once.”
It looked as though Charlie wanted to say more, his mouth moving as though he were a fish suffocating upon a dock, but instead he spun around and stumbled off.
“The effects of alcohol can be so unpleasant, especially on a once productive member of society,” the man said as he turned his gaze on Bentley and Gwendolyn. “Hello,” he said with a smile that seemed to take a very long time to spread across his face. “I am Doctor Nocturne.” He offered them a dramatic bow.