At first I tried to rationalize his death, told myself I was just being paranoid. And that worked for a while—at least until Denton called me out of the blue last week. His voice was familiar, but strange at the same time. It wavered as he spoke, and came in a high, shrill register as he whispered through the line to me. Of us all, he had fared the worst. His aggressive nature had led him to crime, and as the story often goes, things went from bad to worse for him. He shot an old man in a clumsy carjacking and was jailed for twenty-five years. He ended up serving sixteen, coming out reformed and fit to rejoin society. I hadn’t spoken to him since school, but I remember seeing his picture in the paper when he was arrested, and even though he was much older than the boy I once knew, he still wore the haunted, glassy expression I remember from that day in the house. When he called me, I could barely understand his manic whispers, and I couldn’t really make out much before they turned to full on screams. After that all I could hear was the high pitched drone of hundreds, or maybe even thousands of rats. I definitely heard something speak, although it wasn’t Denton. The voice was thick and wet, and said it had something exciting to show me—that I would have to see it to believe it. And I do believe it. The scratching in the walls is louder now, and I fear I’m out of time. He’s come back, and God help me, I deserve whatever he brings.
It’s time.
They are here.
YURPLE’S LAST DAY
Freddy wondered what he had done to deserve such a run of bad luck. He’d just turned fifty-one, and for his entire life he’d done his best to entertain people—to make them happy. It wasn’t always easy, not anymore. He had arthritis in his left knee, which meant that the bumps and prat falls that always raised such a laugh legitimately hurt him now. He sat in his dressing room and took a long swig of Jack Daniels. No glass for Freddy. He preferred it straight from the bottle these days.
Glancing at his reflection in the large mirror, Freddy wondered what the hell had happened to his life. He didn’t know where the time had gone, how the years had slipped by without him noticing. One day he was twenty, with a head full of ambition and aspirations of success. In the blink of an eye, he was here. A bitter old man, with nothing to look forward to except biting the big one.
Flicking his eyes to the clothes rail in the corner, he scowled at the green and blue spotted shirt and red dungarees, and grimaced at the thought of slipping his feet into those oversized shoes. He wanted to scream, to reach out to his reflection and shake it by the shoulders— ask it what the hell it was doing with its life—but he knew that it was too late for that. Much too late. As the saying went, he had made his bed, and now he would have to lie in it.
Some might say he was lucky. After all, he had travelled the world and wasn’t tied to a standard nine to five job. But the grass wasn’t always greener on the other side. The pay was poor, and performing the same tired routine every night had grown to be monotonous. Then there was the hectic travel schedule, meaning he was constantly moving from place to place, city to city, town to town. In the end it had destroyed his marriage. His wife had been unable to cope with the lonely nights spent in an empty house, bringing up their two children on her own, and who could blame her?
He took another long swig of the sour whiskey, grimacing as he wiped his mouth with the back of his arm. Yes indeed. Who could blame her? What did he expect to happen when he wasn’t there to stop her from succumbing to the charms of another man? And not even someone he could accept as better than himself. Oh no, she fell for an accountant. A fucking accountant. He shouldn’t have been surprised. She needed someone who could provide the things she needed. The things that she had expected from him. Someone stable, with a good job, sociable hours, and steady income. And when she tired of his excuses and promises that things were about to get better, that’s what she went out and found. He’d heard through the grapevine that they had recently gotten married, and although he knew he shouldn’t hold it against her, as it really was his fault, he did anyway. The split had been amicable—cold and distant, but amicable—though he still harbored a deep, simmering hatred towards her for leaving him alone in the world. That was the problem; people didn’t understand how hard this job was. His job was to be funny, to make people laugh even when he felt like screaming at them. Try keeping a stupid smile on your face the next time you get divorced. The long and short of it was that he was tired. Tired of life, tired of the routine. Tired of feeling so… tired.
Even the routine, the one he used to get so much joy from performing—the comedy falls, the water shooting Lilly on his jacket—all of it had lost its charm long ago and become something he detested, leaving him empty inside. He opened the desk drawer and took out a handful of pills, and swallowed them down with another shot of JD. He winced.
God, what a mess.
Pills for everything. Pills to keep him supple. Pills to keep him pain free. Pills to keep him sane. Although he had stopped taking those. The bottle was pushed to the back of the drawer. They made him sleepy, and in his line of work, he had to stay sharp. Nobody likes a woozy clown. He reached further into the drawer and pulled out the red-lidded green box that had been on the road as long as he had. Its casing was chipped and beaten, and one of the hinges was loose, but still served its purpose. He flipped open the lid, revealing the vast array of greasepaints. Bright reds, blues and greens, yellows and purples.
How much of this shit had he plastered onto his face over the years? He couldn’t even begin to guess. Taped to the inner lid of the box was a reference photo of himself, although this was a younger, less cynical version—one still hoping for a big showbiz break, one with a sparkle in his eye and the happy I can do anything grin. He frowned and wondered why he still kept it there. He could apply his makeup with his eyes closed. White base, huge red and yellow smile, oversized purple eyebrows, and of course, the red nose. Easy when you have been doing it every day for the last thirty-four years.
But not today.
Today he was going to try something new. He stood and removed his shirt, trying to ignore the weight he had gained. He could try to pass it off as something coming naturally with age, but knew it was his dependency to drink that caused the flabby, ape-like appearance. No longer able to stand looking at himself, he quickly pulled on the garish bright shirt and stepped into the dungarees. He glanced at the shoes, but couldn’t face them just yet. He hated the way they clopped on the floor, and how they made him feel as if he was walking underwater. His stomach growled, and he realized he’d forgotten to eat again. He rarely ate anymore, and as a result, the alcohol would go straight to his head. He knew he would be fine though; he was, after all, a professional. He sat back at his dresser with a thump, and looked bleakly at himself. The show had started. He could hear the muffled sound of the band striking up, and the voice of the ringmaster as he made the initial introductions. Checking his watch, he calculated how long until his section of the show. Still twenty minutes yet. Plenty of time to get ready.
These big top gigs weren’t too bad. Always guaranteed a decent turn out. And because tonight was sold out, everyone would get paid, which wasn’t always the case. He could hear the muted sounds of laughing and cheering already, and began to feel the niggling self-doubt he couldn’t seem to shake these days. He no longer cared for the crowds. The stupid adults jeering and booing, whilst their even less intelligent offspring whooped and laughed at the fat, washed up old clown.
Well, we’ll see who has the last laugh tonight.
As much as he hated the crowds, they were heaven compared to the private bookings he was forced to take to make ends meet. The birthday parties, where it was him alone in some stranger’s house, performing like a monkey to a room full of sniveling fucking kids. Do a trick, monkey. Fall over again, monkey. Tell us a joke, monkey. Worse still were the times the parents had grossly miscalculated their children’s interest in clowns. Those were the worst of all. The kids would just sit there and watch impassively as he went through the motions of his rout
ine. The party would inevitably end with everyone involved feeling awkward and praying for a quick end to the travesty.
He began to apply the white greasepaint, his hands moving with expert precision. As much as he hated it, at least it helped to cover the deep lines that had grown on his face over the years. The undeniable signs of growing old. He heard an audience wide ahhhhhh in the distance and knew that Stavros was up on the trapeze, performing his death defying and legitimately impressive act. Not long to go now, then showtime. Giving the white basecoat time to dry, he picked up his oversized patchwork jacket and slipped it on, and unable to put it off any longer, slipped his feet into those horrible, giant shoes. Taking another great drink from the half-empty bottle, he then took out the red greasepaint and drew a large mouth shape across his lips and cheeks, filling it in efficiently. His next step on a routine day would be to take out the yellow to color in the outer edge of the red, but not today. Instead, he took out the black and filled in all of the inner part of the oversized mouth, leaving it looking like a wide-open maw. Next, he took out the yellow paint pencil and carefully drew in twin rows of jagged teeth. Next, he blotted some of the black paint roughly around his eyes. The left first, then the right. He felt satisfied as he stared out from the twin pools of black. It looked good, better than that happy-go-lucky-kiddy-crap. He looked like a grinning demon. More cheering from the crowd now— this meant Stavros had defied the odds yet again, and survived his latest feat of skill. Good for him. Not bad at all for a wife beating pedophile.
The choice of wig was next, and important to complete the overall look. He tried on the green, but it didn’t feel quite right with his new makeup, so he plumped for the red; a huge curly afro made of cheap cotton that made his skin itch.
Satisfied, he looked at himself in the mirror, and at last, he could bear his reflection. Now the outside reflected how he felt within, and he felt a giddy excitement that had been absent for some time. He thought it must be because he had something new for the masses tonight. Something spectacular. There was just enough time to make his final preparations. He took the note out of his pocket and taped it to his dressing room mirror. It would answer most of the questions that would be asked. The ones it didn’t, they would have to figure out for themselves. He was almost ready, with just one more thing left to do.
He walked to the desk in the corner and filled his pockets with the props for his performance.
Extendable boxing glove.
Water squirting flower.
Handshake buzzer.
He felt the part now, and was ready to perform. He slipped the belt full of ammunition around his waist, and slung the bag of hand grenades over his shoulder. The M16 and sawn off shotgun were already loaded, and he filled the remaining pockets of his jacket with as much extra ammo as would fit. There was a knock on the door, then a voice, gone as quickly as it arrived.
“Yurple. Showtime.”
And so it was. The crowd was waiting now, and his theme was playing. Despite it all, he managed a smile as he slipped the handgun into the waistband of his pants, then picked up the M16 and the shotgun—one in each hand. That was the thing with clowns, he thought to himself as he walked towards the center ring. Nobody ever takes them seriously.
Perhaps today they will.
TINA
Thomas Rhodes had worked as a detective for almost fifteen years, and had seen pretty much everything there was to see. But even he had trouble believing that the young girl in the interview room could be guilty of anything other than denying herself a decent meal or two. He’d always had a good instinct for sniffing out the truth, but from the moment she was arrested, covered in blood and walking in a daze, something had not felt right to him. He looked at her now, as she sipped from her polystyrene cup, and wasn’t quite sure what to think. Her skin was smooth and pale, and she had a narrow, oval face, which seemed both guilt and trouble free. She hadn’t given any personal information when she was arrested, but he guessed she was only in her early twenties. Her frame was thin—borderline malnourished—and her shoulder blades stood out, casting ugly shadows in the harsh light of the interview room. Her hair was long and black with a red streak at the fringe, and she wore it parted down the centre, which brought out the brilliance of her piercing, blue eyes. Rhodes searched her features, looking for any hint of guilt, but found none. She could just as easily have been sipping coffee in the park with friends, rather than under arrest and wearing a white paper forensics suit.
He set down his own cup and stretched, trying to ignore the dull ache in his arthritic knees. He was only forty-two, but was starting to feel the depressing onset of old age creeping up on him. The hair that hadn’t already gone grey was thinning, and the dimples in his cheeks that had given him a chiselled look as a young officer had now deepened into worry lines. He hadn’t shaved for two days, and found that even his stubble had lost its once natural blonde colour, taking on a salt and pepper tone. He made a reluctant mental note to see the doctor about the pain in his knees, even though he knew he would be given the same advice that he’d ignored for the last few years. Lose a few pounds, cut out the saturated fats, stop smoking, and exercise more. Although he could probably benefit from losing a few pounds, he didn’t think it was as doom and gloom as they liked to imply. Either way, he thought he might put in a request for some vacation time. But only after he dealt with the enigma sitting across the table from him.
“Ok,” he said, folding his hands on the table. “Let’s start with the basics. How about a name?”
She looked at him with a smile, and it troubled him deeply. It was a warm, friendly smile—not the twisted smile of a killer or maniac. Her voice was soft and calm, and although it was just a single word, it gave him an inexplicable chill.
“Tina.”
“Ok, Tina. I’m Detective Rhodes. I’m going to ask you a few questions, all right?”
She nodded and put her cup on the table.
“Now, I need you to tell me what happened; why you were covered in blood when we picked you up.”
She frowned, and for a moment, there was a look of uncertainty on her face.
“Oh, I forgot about the blood,” she said casually, lowering her gaze and staring at the wooden tabletop.
His mouth suddenly felt dry and he had to force himself to stay focused.
“You were covered in it when our officers picked you up. You were walking down the middle of the road singing. Do you remember that, Tina?”
“Of course I remember. I always sing when I’m out walking. It’s an old habit,” she said with a shrug.
“What about the blood. Tell me about the blood. Where did it come from?”
“From Lexi, of course. Where else?” she said irritably, like he had asked the most obvious question in the world. She was staring at her hands now, as if they held the answers to his questions. Even though Rhodes had shared rooms like this with some of the most vile and dangerous criminals to ever roam the country, he had never felt as unsettled as he did in the presence of this young girl.
“And where is Lexi now?”
She didn’t answer, and wouldn’t meet his gaze.
“Tina, I want to help you, but you have to talk to me. What did you do to Lexi?”
She threw her head back and laughed, the trouble-free mirth of it disturbing him even more.
“Me? I didn’t do anything. I could never do anything like that.”
“Then who did it, Tina? Talk to me,” Rhodes pressed.
She stopped laughing and met his eyes with an icy gaze.
“It was Monde.”
Rhodes took out his pen and held it over the notepad.
“Ok, spell that for me please. M-O…”
“N-D-E,” she finished as he scribbled the name and underlined it.
“And where is he now, this Monde?”
She shrugged. “He comes and goes.”
“Is he a friend? Boyfriend?”
“Sometimes.”
“Sometimes a f
riend or sometimes a boyfriend?”
“Both,” she replied with a small smile.
“And what did Monde do? To Lexi I mean.”
“Only what he had to. I tried to warn her, but she wouldn’t back off.”
Finally feeling that he was getting somewhere, Rhodes added the name Lexi to his pad and set the pen down on the table.
“So you and Lexi are friends?”
“She and I had been friends for years, but she kept pushing and pushing, and Monde didn’t like that. He hates it when people don’t do what he says.”
Rhodes didn’t like the way Tina was speaking about her friend in past tense. He pressed on carefully.
“Tina, this is very important. What happened to Lexi?”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” she said, shaking her head slowly.
“Look, I’m trying to help you here, but you have to talk to me.”
She looked up at him, her eyes hot with defiance.
“You won’t find him. You probably won’t find her either.”
“Let me worry about that. Just talk to me, tell me what happened. You realise you could be in a lot of trouble unless you give me something.”
She smiled at him again, showing her perfect white teeth.
“I’m not afraid. Monde said he would come for me and take me away from here.”
“Look Tina, I’m going to be honest with you. It’s not looking too good for you right now. You have to tell me what happened.”
She shrugged, looking unconcerned.
“I haven’t done anything. I already told you. Monde did it.”
“So you keep saying, but it was you we picked up covered in blood. Now unless I get some answers, you are only a matter of hours away from being charged.”
Dark Corners - Twelve Tales of Terror Page 7