by Greg Herren
The second tent housed also a man who consumed fire and glass, a snake woman, whose rough skin and forked tongue were said to be proof of her descendance from the reptiles of the Amazon, a brother and sister whose reputed psychic powers were displayed by having them guess the contents of randomly selected audience members’ pockets, and the promised hermaphrodite, Sheba.
It was Sheba who interested Joe the most. Seated on a red velvet couch and smoking a cigarette, Sheba wore a dressing gown of black silk embroidered all over with Oriental designs in silver thread. She appeared in every way a woman, with long dark hair and a beautiful face. When she opened her dressing gown, she revealed a pair of breasts that only further convinced Joe that she was indeed female.
But when she spread her shapely legs, he saw between them a man’s parts. The penis was large and unmistakable. Joe watched as Sheba patted it briefly with one red-nailed hand before closing her gown. When Joe looked up, she was gazing intently at a smoke ring she had just blown from between her lips, a small smile playing across her face.
He hurried on into the third and last tent. Smaller than the other two, it held only a handful of exhibits. The mood, too, was different, more subdued. It was as if the wild excitement that suffused the first tents had been used up by the time patrons reached the end of their journey.
The freaks contained in the tent, too, were different. There was a gruesomeness to them that Joe immediately found troubling. The first he encountered was the Haitian zombie he recalled Star mentioning to him at their first visit. A skinny black man with wild hair and wilder eyes, the zombie was restrained with a rope about his neck. The other end was held by a man who addressed the crowd, waving a burning torch he held in his other hand.
“The zombie does as he’s commanded by his master,” he said. “If I were to tell him to, he would work himself to death or destroy anyone I set him upon.”
The zombie wailed, causing the crowd to gasp and fall back. The man yanked on the rope and thrust the torch at him, making the zombie cringe in fear.
“No, Timpa!” he cried. “You will obey me!”
Joe was not interested in seeing more of the zombie. Whether it was theater or not, it upset him. This feeling of disease was not lessened by the next attraction. Cannibal Mary was nothing but a girl, but a girl with a most grisly appearance. Dressed in a blood-spattered dress, she sat in a cage surrounded by bones. From time to time she picked one up and gnawed at it, rubbing the bleeding flesh over her face and lapping at it.
“Mary was born of Christian parents,” a barker standing beside the cage told the gaggle of onlookers. “Missionaries. They took her with them to deepest Africa. There they were set upon by cannibals, who killed the parents and forced Mary to partake of their flesh. The act drove her insane, and she became as you now see her.”
Joe looked at the girl. She couldn’t, he thought, be more than thirteen years old. Was she truly insane? Her mannerisms suggested as much. And the way in which she savaged the bones that were presented to her by her keeper appeared genuine. She tore the meat from each one eagerly.
“We feed her horseflesh,” the barker told the crowd. “It does little to quench her desire for human meat, but it sustains her.”
Joe couldn’t bear to see any more. Nor did he want to see what other perversions were on view in the tent. He wanted to be out in the night air, free from the smell of rotting meat and from the sickness that was stirring in his belly.
He saw the exit and made for it, turning his eyes from whatever else might be waiting to distract him. As he pushed his way through the last of the crowd, however, he heard a voice that made him pause.
“You’ve never seen anything like her.”
It was the hoarseness that was familiar. He turned around, looking for its source, and saw a young man talking to a girl. They were standing in a neglected corner of the tent. The girl wore a blue dress with white polka dots, and her blond hair was neatly curled. When she lifted her face, Joe saw that it was the girl he’d seen before, the one with the bloated face. He saw then that she stood near a poster proclaiming the marvels of Lizzie, the frog girl. The portrait showed her with tongue extended, in the process of devouring a fly.
The young man shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said. “It’s a lot of money.”
Lizzie took his hand, and Joe saw the boy cringe a bit. “Too much for seeing the devil’s mistress?” Lizzie asked.
The young man hesitated. Joe crept nearer.
“She’s beautiful,” Lizzie said. “And she can show you things you’ve never dreamed of.”
The boy hesitated another moment, then nodded. Lizzie gave a little croak of delight and led him toward the door. Joe followed, anxious both to have the horrors of the final tent behind him and to see where Lizzie was taking the boy.
As before, she led him down the corridor between the tents and into the area where the performers were housed. And once again she stopped before a tent, where the young man handed over his money.
“She’s inside?” he asked.
Lizzie nodded. “Go on in.”
The boy, like the one before him, pushed aside the tent’s door and stepped in. Lizzie watched him go, then melted into the darkness. Joe waited a moment before once more moving to stand before the tent.
He felt as if he had stepped into his own nightmare. Everything was the same as it had been on that first terrible night, only now he knew for certain to fear whatever it was that sat inside the tent. When the singing began, he had to force himself not to run.
“Hush, little baby, don’t say a word…”
The fogginess reached out for him, and he fought it. This time he couldn’t allow himself to become bewitched. He had to find out what was inside the tent, even if it meant the end of him.
“Mama’s gonna buy you a mockingbird…”
He grabbed hold of the tent flap, pulled it aside, and entered.
Chapter Seven
The interior of the tent was bathed in candlelight, but still it was dim. Pale yellow light flickered against the black walls, fluttering like moths and throwing shadows that obscured the scene within. Joe felt at first as if he were trying to see underwater. Everything was out of focus, hazy and distorted. Then, too, there was the overwhelming smell of blood. It filled Joe’s head, threatening to make him sick.
He shook himself, trying to clear his mind, and looked for the source of the stench. He found it in the form of the young man he’d seen enter minutes earlier. He was stretched across the lap of a beautiful young girl who sat on a chaise. A smile of sweetest happiness was on his face, and rivulets of blood trickled down his neck and fell in fat, red drops to the dirt floor.
The girl was wearing a dress of deepest red. Her hair, too, was the color of flames. It fell down her back in curls and framed her face in graceful tendrils. She regarded Joe with a bemused expression, her eyes unblinking. One hand fell across the young man’s chest while the other stroked his hair, like a mother comforting a sick child. Her mouth was stained with his blood.
Unable to comprehend what he was seeing, Joe stood and stared in shock at the grotesque tableau. He couldn’t tell whether the boy was dead or merely wounded. The gashes on his neck seemed insignificant, yet the quantity of blood that covered him suggested otherwise.
The boy groaned, his eyes fluttering. Immediately the girl bowed her head to his neck. Joe saw the boy arch his back, shudder, and then lie still. When the girl raised her head, fresh blood dotted her lips and stained the teeth she revealed to Joe. Her eyes had lost all humanity, and in them Joe saw only unending darkness.
“What are you?” he asked, his voice trembling.
The girl cocked her head to one side and smiled. Her tongue darted out, washing the blood from her lips. She let her victim’s head fall back, lolling on what seemed to be a neck emptied of all strength. The boy lay like a broken doll across her.
“Hush, little baby, don’t say a word…,” the girl sang. “Mama’s gonna buy you a moc
kingbird…”
Joe clapped his hands to his ears as the haunting voice tugged at his senses. He knew that to listen to the words would mean his death, and he tried to drive them away by singing words of his own.
“Four and twenty blackbirds!” he screamed as he rushed toward the girl. “Baked in a pie!”
He grabbed her by the throat and began to squeeze, determined to destroy her. He knew nothing about what she was, but he knew that she was responsible for bringing death to more than one man, that she would bring more death if he allowed her to go on living. So he squeezed with all his strength.
“The king is in his counting house, counting out his money!” he raged. The ridiculous words of the rhyme fell from his lips in ragged gasps.
“And if that cart and bull turn over, Mama’s gonna buy you a dog named Rover…”
Somehow the girl was still singing, her voice as calm and wheedling as ever. How was she doing it, with her throat surely crushed? Joe closed his eyes and screamed.
“The queen is in the parlor, eating bread and honey!”
A violent force tore him backward, and he felt his grip on the girl falter. He hit the ground hard, the breath knocked out of him. The girl remained seated, watching him, while strong hands encircled his chest.
“You cannot destroy her,” a man’s voice whispered in his ear. “She’s not human.”
Joe struggled with his captor, but the arms were strong, and he knew he was bound. Finally he ceased his thrashing and collapsed against the body behind him.
“And if that dog named Rover won’t bark…”
Joe convulsed at the sound of the voice in his head, and once again the one holding him tightened his grip.
“Enough! You will not take him!”
The voice paused. Joe looked and saw the girl staring at him. The boy who had been in her lap now lay on the floor, his lifeless face peering into Joe’s. The girl seemed to be weighing choices in her mind. She looked from Joe to the man holding him. Then she folded her hands in her lap.
The arms that were keeping Joe still relaxed, and Joe shrugged them off. Turning his head, he saw Derry getting to his feet. Derry looked at him.
“Leave now,” he said. “This is over.”
Joe jumped up. He pointed to the girl. “Who is she?”
Derry shook his head. “Please,” he said, “this doesn’t concern you.”
Joe pointed at the body on the floor. “And does this not concern me, either?” he demanded.
Derry said nothing, looking at the dead young man for a long moment. Then he looked back at Joe. “She’s my sister,” he said.
Stunned, Joe stared at Derry in disbelief. “This…thing is your sister?” he said. He turned back to the girl, who was watching him coolly, unconcerned.
“She wasn’t always like this,” said Derry. “He made her this way.”
“Who made her?” Joe asked. “Satan himself?” He remembered suddenly the frog girl’s words. “The devil’s mistress,” he said to himself.
“Not the devil,” Derry said. “But one of his children. Star.”
“Star?” Joe repeated.
At the mention of the name, the girl gave a slight hiss, like a cat warning its intended quarry before a strike. Joe stepped back.
“Don’t fear her,” said Derry. “As long as I’m here, she will do as I say.”
He went and sat beside the girl, who took his hand in hers and held it tightly. Derry looked at her lovingly, then turned to Joe.
“Her name is Emma,” he said. “When she was nineteen and I was fourteen, Star brought his show to our town. Our parents took us to the carnival. I begged to be allowed into the Tent of Wonders. Emma didn’t want to go. She found the freaks repulsive. But finally I persuaded her. That’s where Star saw her and fell in love.”
Emma looked away, and for a moment she looked to Joe like any beautiful young woman. But then he saw the blood that still stained her cheek, and he remembered the eagerness with which she had drunk her prey’s blood.
“He wanted her,” Derry continued. “And he stopped at nothing to have her. Later that night he came to our house and killed our parents while they slept. He drained Emma and left her near death.”
“And what about you?” Joe asked. “What did he do to you?”
“Nothing,” answered Derry. “He let me live.”
“Why would he do that?”
“To make her stay,” Derry replied. “He knew Emma would never love him. But she does love me.”
Emma looked at her brother, and Derry avoided meeting her gaze.
“As long as I live, she won’t leave.”
“Why can’t you both leave?” asked Joe.
“If we do, he’ll find us and kill me,” said Derry. “And so we stay together.”
Joe looked at the brother and sister, sitting together on the chaise. He found Derry’s story unimaginable. Yet he’d seen Emma’s handiwork, and he found it impossible to believe that anything with a soul could do what she had done.
“What is he?” he asked finally. “What is she?”
“Vampires,” Derry said. “Creatures drained of life but still living. They need the blood of others to stay young.”
Joe nodded. “I know what they are,” he said. “But they’re just stories. Legends.”
“No,” Derry said. “They’re as real as you and I. Star is one. He’s lived for a hundred years or more. Look at Emma. She hasn’t aged in the six years since he made her what she is.”
“Nothing can do that to a human,” said Joe stubbornly.
“He can,” said Derry. “He can do that and more.”
“They’re crazed,” Joe said. “They kill because their minds are rotted by some sickness. And you cover up their crimes.”
“You’ve heard her voice,” Derry said, interrupting him. “She puts her thoughts into yours. She invades your sleep and calls to you. You can’t deny that.”
Joe started to answer, then stopped. Derry was right. He had heard Emma singing. But that had nothing to do with evil magic; it was simply his mind replaying a moment of shock, allowing it to grow into something more than it was.
“She can’t speak,” said Derry, before Joe could make his argument. “She’s mute.”
“But I’ve heard her,” Joe rebutted.
“Yes,” Derry said. “You’ve heard her thoughts, but not her voice. He took that from her when he stole her soul away. He took almost everything she was.”
“Then why don’t you kill her?” Joe asked.
Derry shook his head. “That wouldn’t stop him,” he said faintly.
“But it would stop her killing,” said Joe. “It would stop the deaths of these innocent young men.”
Derry glanced at the body of the boy on the floor, then looked away. “Their deaths are quick and painless,” he said. “They go to sleep dreaming of her beauty.”
“You make excuses for her,” said Joe. “She is not to be pitied; she is to be destroyed.”
“Then destroy her,” Derry said.
He stood up and moved away from Emma, leaving her alone on the chaise. She looked at him with a bewildered expression.
“Go on,” Derry urged Joe. “Destroy her if you will.”
Joe looked at the girl. He took a step toward her. Emma turned her gaze on him, and he saw her eyes go dark once more. His body was gripped by an unseen force, and he could move not even his mouth to scream as Emma stood and began to come for him.
“Enough,” Derry said, and Emma paused. Joe felt the invisible bonds around him fall, and he collapsed to the floor, gasping for air. Emma returned to her seat, stepping neatly over the corpse she had so recently created.
“Now maybe you understand a little,” said Derry. “This is not a parlor trick. It is real.”
“You say Star made her,” said Joe. “Everything made can be unmade.”
Derry came and knelt beside Joe. He took Joe’s head in his hands and kissed him. When he pulled away, he looked into Joe’s eyes
.
“What is one missing man now and again?” Derry asked him. “We send tens of thousands to die in war. What are a handful of others?”
“And what is one dead girl?” Joe countered, flashing a look at Emma.
“Please,” said Derry. “I’ve kept her from harming you. I didn’t have to.”
“Then why did you?” Joe asked him.
Derry bowed his head. When he looked up again, his eyes were wet with tears. “I thought maybe you would understand,” he said. “I saw something in you that is also in me.”
Joe closed his eyes. How long had he hidden himself away? How long had he not dared to let himself dream about the things he’d done with Derry, the things he wanted still to do with him? How long had he, like Derry and Emma, been ruled by a dark secret? No, he didn’t believe their story. It wasn’t possible. But part of him wanted to believe it was true, wanted to believe that Derry was simply doing what he had to for himself and for Emma.
“I know you don’t believe everything,” said Derry, as if he shared his sister’s talent for invading the mind. “But you must believe something or you would have told someone about what you saw.”
Joe nodded. It was true. And several times he almost had revealed Derry’s actions. Yet he hadn’t, and he knew that meant something, even if he couldn’t admit the reason to himself.
“Why does she try to seduce me if she knows your feelings?” he asked Derry.
“There is part of her that acts on its own,” said Derry. “She does what she’s been created to do. She means you no ill will.”
Joe looked at the body of the dead boy. “And what about him?” he said. “Did she mean him no ill will either?”
“They’re instructed to bring her only those who will likely not be missed,” Derry explained.