Sideshow

by William Ollie

  The mouth moved, the bubbles rose up, broke the surface and the indecipherable babble continued. Then came a thump, a buzz and a crackle as a light flashed on, and then off again. Another series of thumps, along with the jarring electronic buzz of a malfunctioning electrical circuit.

  Danny turned to see an armless and legless freak, framed by a nightmare vision of bright, strobing fluorescent lights. This horrifying creature, this monstrous abomination, sat two cages down, armless, legless, clothed in nothing but a blood-stained diaper, which hung loose around his waist. He was howling like a wounded animal, howling and slamming his face into those cold steel bars.

  Then he heard it, a deep-throated moan that shook him to his core, rattling his very soul as it echoed throughout the tent, so loud it seemed as if it was roaring right through the center of his head: “Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!” it said.

  Louder, mixing and mingling with the howling freak of nature, who kept screaming and smashing his bleeding face against the bars.

  Louder still, the cage buzzing and popping, the lights flashing on and off, on and off. “Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!” came a chorus of tortured voices, filling the air around him.

  “Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!” they cried out, dwarfing the noise coming from that bizarre-looking figure, as his mouth opened wider and wider, revealing a maw full of busted and splintered shards of enamel, but no tongue with which to speak.

  Danny looked on in horror, as the poor creature submerged within that murky fluid, its eyes bulging from their sockets, opened its mouth impossibly wide, emitting a violent stream of bubbles that rose swiftly to the top of the jar, breaking the surface and releasing a gut-wrenching scream—a child’s terror-stricken voice trapped within those bubbles, when finally released, shrieked, “Ruuunnnnnnnnnnnn!”

  And finally, Danny did. He took off running but he didn’t get far. He tripped and fell face forward onto the ground. The buzzing and thumping finally subsiding, he looked up to see a man standing before him, deep within the tent. He was tall and lean, and thin as a rail. His grey hair hung over his shoulders like a tangled clump of bristled wires. His eyes were narrow, his pupils lumps of glistening coal. He had a black coat with tails on his back, the stovepipe hat on his head a perfect rendition of the object Danny had seen earlier in the evening, painted high across the sky.

  He tried to get up, but his legs wouldn’t move. He looked down to see that they were trapped, held in place by hands wrapped tightly around his ankles. He tried to kick free but those hands wouldn’t release him. Then they were dragging him slowly across the floor, toward the cages, two hands attached to two impossibly long arms, stretched as long and thin as an unwound garden hose, dragging him kicking and screaming to The Rubber Woman, who no longer looked unhappy, no longer seemed exhausted. She was a beautiful young woman, a defiant creature in a skimpy red, and very revealing, skintight costume, basking in an eerie purple haze cast off by an unnatural glow, impossibly emanating from somewhere within the barren confines of her cage. Her emerald eyes were sharp and clear, her red lips heavily glossed. Her long raven hair, now coifed flat against her skull, shone with incredible luster.

  “Please,” he said.

  “Please!” he cried out.

  And this striking creature, who had once seemed so sad, so helpless and forlorn, gleefully called out, “You should’ve helped them when you had the chance!”

  Chapter Twelve

  To say that Justin’s curiosity had been aroused would have been the understatement of the century. Whether magician’s trickery or just plain magic, he had seen something out at that field, and no matter what reservations he had voiced to his friend, he knew he would have to see more. They would have to see more. Like a couple of assassins returning to the scene of their crimes, they would go back to the carnival. Something was going to happen there tonight—what, he did not know. But he did know they could no more stay away from the place than they could stop themselves from breathing. They had been touched this afternoon, by something that would draw them back regardless of how they might have felt about it.

  But as piqued as Justin’s curiosity may have been, the ride through town had unsettled him. The men lining the streets of Pottsboro, South Carolina, the way the cloud had changed, the tall man and those writhing and wriggling fingers of his; all of this had served to creep him out, and as they laid their bikes over in the yard and climbed the front porch steps, it felt pretty darn good to be retreating into the safety of his house. Here, nothing could bother him, nothing and nobody. Here, nothing could touch him unless he wanted to be touched.

  He led Reardon into the house, past his X-Men comic, which was still where he’d tossed it earlier in the day when the first stage of their journey had begun. And what a journey it had been. He’d started down the old dirt road a well-grounded kid with a healthy dose of skepticism. And cynical he should have been, for who in their right mind could have believed such a tale—Ferris wheels rising up from the ground like elevators.

  Yeah, right.

  He’d started down the road with a firm belief in the laws of physics, that black was black and white was white; that what went up would come back down again. But now, even though he was reluctant to voice his acknowledgement, could barely, in fact, admit it to himself—things had changed. The laws of reality had changed. White was black. Things went up, and sometimes those things turned round and round and didn’t stop turning.

  Black was white and white was black, but his comic book lay like a welcome mat right where he’d left it, a satisfying illustration that he had made it safely back home.

  “We’re back, Mom!” Justin called out.

  “’Bout time,” his mother answered him, and that brought a smile to his face, because he knew he was home now, all was well and all was good. Things were back to normal. All the clouds and magicians and weird people lining the city streets had been left far behind him.

  Except Justin knew they hadn’t been left anywhere at all. They were right there in the room with him, weaving their way through his every thought.

  He was halfway across the living room when his mother came in from the kitchen. She was a slim woman, Sara Henry, and not very tall. Nor was she was frumpy or dumpy like many of the mothers around Pottsboro. She had—as Justin’s father had on occasion been known to tell her—all the right curves in all the right places. Today she had on a red silk blouse, white tennis shoes and a pair of denim jeans. Her sandy-brown hair flowed over her shoulders in ringlets and curls. A touch of makeup highlighted her face. Not much—she never wore much makeup—just enough to bring out her natural beauty, which, Justin had to admit, was quite proud to admit, she had plenty of.

  She walked into the room with a glass of tea in her hand. “Where you been, guys?” she said.

  “Nowhere, really,” Justin said. “Just out messing around.”

  “Hi, Missus H,” Reardon said.

  “Hey, Mickey. How’s your mama doing?”

  “Good,” Reardon said.

  Good was what he said, but Justin didn’t think he meant it. Not with the way she’d been staggering around in front of the Wagon Wheel this afternoon. There wasn’t anything good about that. Not with the way she lit out damn near every night, leaving Mickey alone in the house to fend for himself.

  “So,” Sara said. “Sleeping over, huh?”

  “Yeah,” Reardon said, and Justin thought, here it comes.

  “Why don’t you stay over here, get up and go to church with us in the morning.”

  “Aw, Mom,” Justin said. “It’s my turn to stay at his house.”

  He knew she had reservations about letting him go off to Reardon’s house—it wasn’t any secret what was going on over there these days. Nor had what Tricia Reardon gone through with her husband been much of a secret. He’d moved on to greener pastures, left his wife and young son behind. His wife, a bitter woman sinking further and further into depression, further into the bottle. His son a broken shell of the happy go lucky kid he once had be
en, a hapless victim of a troublesome circumstance, who very much needed a friend to help him through these trying times. And that was why Sara Henry would let her son go tonight. Not because she wanted to, but because she was a kind woman, someone capable of seeing the obvious pain Mickey Reardon was suffering.

  A fact clearly illustrated when she smiled, and said, “Well, all right. But you two be back here bright and early tomorrow morning. You’re both going to church with me in the morning. You hear me, Mickey Reardon?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said, smiling, (Justin figured), because Mickey and he—his mother too, more than likely—knew that no matter how many times Sara Henry had invited, often cajoling; sometimes, like today, flat-out ordering him to attend Sunday morning services with the Henrys, Mickey Reardon had never shown up, and he wasn’t likely to turn up tomorrow morning, either.

  “You didn’t happen to see your dad while you were out there messing around, did you?”

  “No,” Justin said. “Why?”

  “He went off to the hardware store a few hours ago, and I haven’t seen him since. Should’ve been home by now—way before now, actually.”

  “Huh,” Justin said, Mickey eying him as he added, “Nope, haven’t seen him.”

  And he hadn’t seen him this afternoon. At least he didn’t think he had seen him. But he didn’t exactly get a close-up and personal view of every guy they’d passed looking up at that cloud a little while ago. Especially the ones in front of the Wagon Wheel. Sure, they’d gotten a pretty good look at Jack Everett. Tall and thin, with his trademark silvery hair, he was an easy guy to spot. But they’d never gotten close enough to pick out the other guys standing up and down the street. What if Lyle Henry was one of them, staring like a statue up at that dark and mysterious cloud? Did he run off hooting and hollering like old man Terwillegher, babbling about the carnival? Was he on his way out there right now?

  No, not good old dependable Lyle Henry, not Justin’s boring old dad, who hadn’t shown up at a carnival for more years than Justin could remember. He wouldn’t have been out there with the rest of them.

  Would he?

  “C’mon,” Reardon said. “Let’s grab your stuff and get going.”

  “What’s your hurry?” Sara Henry said.

  “Nothing,” Justin told her. “Just… we got stuff to do.”

  “Stuff?” she said. “What kind of stuff?”

  “Computer stuff,” Reardon said. “Comics and cards, DVDs. You know … stuff.”

  “Well, as long as all that stuff takes place inside—I don’t want you boys running around after dark.”

  “Geez, Mom,” Justin said. “What are we, three years old or something?”

  “Just remember what I said.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Reardon said. “We sure will.”

  They were turning to go down the hallway, when Sara said, “Justin?”

  “Yes ma’am?” he said. Not ‘yeah’, or ‘huh’, because he wanted to be on his best behavior, lest he give her a reason to put the kibosh on his and Reardon’s plans.

  “I’ve left your comic book in that chair all day long, waiting to see what you’d do when you came home. I guess it’ll still be sitting there this time next year if I don’t pick it up and cart it back to your bedroom for you.”

  “No ma’am.”

  “No?”

  “I was gonna pick it up.”

  “But there it sits.”

  “Yes ma’am,” Justin said, his eyes slowly lowering to the floor.

  “I swear,” Sara said. “You’re just like your father. Throws those dirty clothes of his on the floor and expects me to pick them up?” She reached out a hand, smiling and tousling Justin’s hair. “Just tell me you won’t still be doing it when you’re thirty-two years old.”

  “I won’t be,” Justin said.

  He crossed the room and picked up his book, and then he and Reardon went down the hallway to his bedroom, leaving Sara Henry alone with her glass of tea.

  Once in the bedroom, Justin tossed the comic on the bed, and then walked over to his dresser. Soon he was rifling through his drawers. Out came a shirt and a clean pair of socks, some pajamas, too. He wouldn’t be wearing them, of course. He’d sleep in his pants, maybe just his underwear. But no way would his mom let him out of the house without a clean pair of Peejays. It just wouldn’t be, as the old deodorant commercial used to say, civilized.

  He laid the socks on the bed, a fresh pair of underwear, the pajamas, too.

  “You should bring the Spideys,” Reardon said.

  “Yeah, right,” said Justin.

  “The Mickey’s… I know you got some Mickey Mouse underwear in there, somewhere.”

  “Shut up, Reardon.”

  “Some pink Mickey Mouse undies,” Reardon said, leering now. “Or Minnies. I know you got ‘em in there.”

  “Think so, huh? What do you got, women’s underwear? Do you even wear underwear?”

  “Wanta look and see?”

  “No thanks.”

  Reardon laughed. “Good call on the carnival,” he said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Good call not mentioning it.”

  “She didn’t bring it up, I didn’t see any reason to talk about it. ‘Cause she damn sure wouldn’t want us going anywhere near that place. Shoot, I probably wouldn’t get out of the house at all tonight if she knew the carnival was out there, ‘cause she’d know we’d be making a beeline straight for the place.”

  “Another reason for us to vamoose it outa here quick as we can.”

  “What’s the other reason?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The other reason,” Justin said. “You said another reason. What is it?”

  “The quicker we get outa here, the quicker we can get to the carnival.”

  Justin, who had grabbed a backpack out of the closet, stuffed his clothes inside it; zippered it shut and turned to Reardon. “Well,” he said. “I guess we’d better get going then.”

  Backpack in hand, Justin led Reardon down the hallway. Stopping briefly at the bathroom door so Justin could grab his toothbrush from its white ceramic holder, they went back to the living room, where Sara Henry was sitting on the couch, beads of moisture covering the glass of tea that sat on the coffee table before her.

  “All ready?” she said.

  “All ready,” Justin told her.

  “Got your toothbrush?”

  “Got it.”

  “Alrighty then,” she said, then, “Come give me a hug.”

  And Justin did. He went to her and they embraced. She kissed him and rubbed a hand across the middle of his back. “Love you,” she said, and Justin said, “You too.”

  Then they separated and Justin took a step back.

  “Be careful,” Sara said. “Be good, and mind Tricia, and make sure you take a shower tonight. And you, Mickey Reardon. I expect to see you bright and early in the morning, ready for Sunday School.”

  “Yes ma’am,” Reardon said, grinning now, as surely everyone in the room had to have known he was lying through his teeth.

  And now they were leaving, crossing the living room to the front door, through it and out onto the porch, down to their bikes, which were grabbed and stood up and summarily mounted. Red streaks threaded a sky the color of slate as the last vestiges of sunlight bleached itself from the skyline. Dusk had finally settled upon the land, bringing with it a crisp autumn breeze that blew across the flatland.

  Justin looped his backpack into the handlebars, and off they went down the old dirt road, the wind back in their hair, the smiles back on their faces.

  A night full of adventure awaiting their arrival.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Jack Everett grew up in an affluent southern family, the roots of whose ancestral tree stretched far back through the ages. The Everett clan, spearheaded by Elam Everett, fought long and hard for their land, finally gaining a foothold in the early stages of the seventeenth century that would never be re
linquished. From colonial times through the American Revolution, on up through the great battles of the north and the south, the land would sustain them. Fortunes would be won, and they would be lost. But the land would remain firmly in their grasp.

  Through the years, though Jack Everett’s forefathers enjoyed the high and fashionable living their many holdings afforded them, there were also times of great sickness, unfavorable circumstance and tragic occurrences. But, somehow, through all their trials and tribulations, the descendants of Elam Everett would come to find themselves at the forefront of a myriad of income-producing enterprises stretching far and wide across their great state: Rice fields dotting the flatlands. Wide rows of cotton populating the upcountry; family farms grown into great plantations; plots of land rich of both soil and timber; the entirety of these great endeavors fueled by the economical use of slave labor.

  Jack Everett was one of those descendants, and he was proud of his family’s heritage. Old Dixie, which flew high and proud in the yard of his two-story antebellum-style home, also held a great place of honor on the personalized license plate riding the back of the bright and shiny Cadillac he drove through the hill and dale of Pottsboro, South Carolina. He considered himself to be a southern gentleman, steeped in traditions that had once made his home state one of the greatest in the land. His family had owned slaves, as they well should have. For what were they before they arrived here, other than two-legged animals running filthy and wild through the jungles of Africa? Sure, they’d suffered. But to grow is to suffer, and it was easy to see that these once two-legged beasts had grown from ignorant savages into prosperous citizens. Anybody with a firm grip on the history of this storied land could see that. Jack could certainly see it.

  Jack Everett, now in his Cadillac and well on his way home, had no idea what had occurred back at the Wagon Wheel Bar and Grill. Only that he had been on his stool, priming the pump with Tricia Reardon so he could get his pump primed later on this evening. One second he was on his stool. The next thing he knew he was drawn like a moth to a lamp to whatever was painted across that clear blue sky. Moments later, or was it minutes—could have been hours, for all he knew—he was driving his Caddy past the Ace Hardware store, thinking of all the fun he would be having at the carnival tonight.