by Matt Drabble
Preston checked the headcount again. Still one missing - Richie Duchamp, his nephew no less. That punk had been nothing but trouble ever since he’d hitched his illicit wagon to the carnival.
They often attracted the criminal element; he supposed that it was the travelling nature that drew those looking to keep on the move and away from recognizable addresses.
A little thievery was always to be expected; he knew that many of the game operators ran crooked shows, and some of the female members of staff liked to offer shows of a more private and intimate nature after hours.
Crime rates tended to rise whenever they rolled through town, and most local law enforcers tended to turn a blind eye as long as they were gone by morning and didn’t leave a mess behind.
For some reason, most town sheriffs tended to be more concerned with litter than larceny - he paid a little contribution here and there to grease the wheels and expedite their way out of town.
To date, he had yet to allow any of his staff to sully the carnival’s reputation. He ran his business with an iron fist that allowed for no debate as to conduct, but Richie was a growing problem.
He’d had to cover two muggings, a house burglary and a nasty sexual assault that had cost a small fortune to silence. He was sure that Richie was the culprit, but not sure enough to act decisively. He was already planning on dumping Richie off on one of his other businesses. Richie may be his sister's son, but she was not his favourite sister.
“Hey, Carlo,” Preston called out as the Ferris wheel operator walked past wearily.
“What’s up, boss?”
“You seen Richie?”
“Your Richie?”
Preston cringed. Was that how the staff saw the little fuckup - his Richie? “Duchamp,” he snapped.
“Sorry, boss, not tonight. Jesse said that he was supposed to be on trash around the Candy Hut, but he never showed.”
Preston dismissed the underling with a contemptuous wave of the hand. Fucking Richie, he thought angrily. His ageing, aching bones longed for his bunk and a sound sleep through the night as they left this weird place behind.
Eden made his skin crawl more and more, each year that they played here - he wanted nothing more than to crawl into his cabin and sleep as they put the town in their dust. Sighing, he trooped off to find the errant pain in his ass.
He headed through the now almost fully packed away rides and stands; he stood opposite the darkened town hall, wondering where to start.
“About time you were gone, boy.”
The voice startled him from the darkness. He turned, uncharacteristically scared; it was an alien emotion to him, and one that did not sit well.
He attempted to find his bluster as he stared at the large sheriff before him. Quinn was a hard-ass of the old school variety, a six feet five and three hundred pound ball breaker.
He moved with the slow grace of a man who had always been big, and greatly enjoyed the power that derived from his physical superiority. Preston drew his not-inconsiderable confidence up to its full level, determined not to be intimidated by the bullying tactics of some hick Sheriff of Stepford.
“I haven’t got all of my workers yet,” he said.
“Really?” The sheriff’s tone was condescending; he looked over Preston’s shoulder at the square and the breaking carnival. “I think that you’ve got all you’re going to get.” He turned his casual gaze from the square back fully onto Preston.
Preston stared back hard at the much larger man, attempting to take in the inference. “I’m missing one man.” He attempted to speak with an angry tone, but it fell firmly into the pleading spectrum.
“Oh, Casper wanted me to give you this.” Quinn spoke as though Preston hadn’t. “Here.” He handed over a thick envelope, “Some sort of bonus for a good job well done I guess.” Quinn hooked his thumbs in his belt and looked around nonchalantly as though they weren’t dancing.
Preston hefted the weight of the envelope; he didn’t have to open it to guess at the sort of amount it contained. He weighed the contents and the sheriff’s intimidation, over the fact that Richie wasn’t even his favourite sister's son. “Maybe everyone is here after all,” he relented; self-preservation was a powerful ally after all.
“Well then, I guess we’ll see you all again next year,” Quinn offered magnanimously.
“Guess so,” Preston said, thinking never in a million years. Tonight, when he put Eden in the dust, it would be for the last time; he’d never set foot in the town again.
----------
Thom Bray viewed the house; it was empty and deserted, but in this town there was always someone listening.
His mother worked for Christian Realty, showing homes in Eden. She made a good living and provided him with everything that he had never asked for.
They were not on good terms since his dad had upped and left town last year. His mother seemed determined to avoid the subject at all costs, no matter how much he pleaded for his father’s address so that he could write and find the truth.
Thom was fourteen, short and skinny for his age, but no one seemed to care or mind, as the school had an effective zero tolerance policy when it came to bullying. Sometimes Thom felt that his life could use a little reality, maybe even a little dose of adversity.
Since they’d moved here from LA almost two years ago, his world had become hermetically sealed. There was no crime here, no trouble, no poverty, and everyone seemed to smile all the time.
His memories of LA were not particularly pleasant. His parents had fought a lot and life had been stressful and he remembered it as a world of rules and restrictions.
His mother was constantly fretting over him and the city that they lived in. His father had spent most mornings scanning the newspaper for signs that the darkness was getting closer to their front door. He’d had a few close friends from the neighbourhood, but none had stayed in contact after the move like they’d promised. He’d written a few times to Dominic, his closest friend, but had never received a reply.
At first, Eden had been a paradise for him; the whole town was open to him, and his parents were no longer constantly peering over his shoulder, terrified if he left their sight for even a moment.
The school was clean and friendly, there were no cliques or gangs, no discriminations or segregations by race or religion.
There was no bullying or tormenting like in his previous school, where it was a free-for-all jungle ruled by Darwin’s theories. In Eden, the classes were small and the teachers all had time.
The activities and facilities at the school were fantastic; every interest that he had was catered for.
He had joined many of the after school clubs and his life was supposedly wonderful. But just lately he was beginning to feel smothered by the encased world. Since his father had left, his mother had become more and more detached behind a wall of politeness, and her smiles were starting to look as plastic as the neighbours’.
The house that he now stood outside of was one of the large mansions over on Fairfax. Apparently some lady had killed herself in the bath, and her husband had just upped and left without a word.
He’d read all of this in his mom’s files that she kept on the Christians’ properties.
She didn’t know that he had access to her computer system, but he’d gained the address and the keys from her office.
The large house was more luxurious than even their own; the rear garden backed on to open fields and he’d had little trouble in clambering over the short fence that looked designed more for style than substance.
He’d wanted to go inside the house but now felt his feet drag. A woman had died in there, and he was excited and scared in equal measure of just what might await him.
The feeling of being scared was delicious; it was a real emotion that pierced through the bubble of Eden and lit his senses.
His mind tantalized itself with thoughts of ghosts and vengeful spirits. His was a secret love of horror that was frowned upon beneath his t
eacher and mother’s disapproving stares.
His father had shared his love of the genre, passing on book recommendations, showing him the quality that existed in the field.
He’d read the likes of King, Campbell, Matheson, Straub and Barker. They’d watched movies huddled on the sofa, beneath blankets and face-covering hands.
He missed his father and did not even have an explanation as to his disappearance from his life. His mother had only once spoken of a betrayal, one so black as to threaten them all; from then on, she point blank refused to so much as even discuss the matter further.
From his mother’s records, he knew that the writer Michael Torrance had moved in next door to the now empty property in which he hovered outside.
Torrance was not one of his favourite writers; his prose could be a touch flowery at times and he skirted the horror genre on the tails of thriller.
He had read one book that he’d enjoyed about vampires and gangsters; it had been gruesome enough to satisfy, whilst still engaging him with intelligence.
He had thought of approaching the writer, but his mother had been mortified at his ill-advised public suggestion over breakfast, and he’d had to promise that he would not bother one of her more important clients.
He moved towards the rear patio doors. Even though the house was deserted, the glass still sparkled perfectly in the sunshine. Inexplicably, he gleefully smeared a sweaty palm across the pristine surface.
He used one of the smaller keys on the bunch that he had brought from his mother’s office and unlocked the door. He slid them apart and stepped quickly inside.
The kitchen felt cool; the counters were clean and polished, the furniture looked new and untouched, and the house lay empty waiting to be filled again.
He moved through the house, checking the rooms one by one. The eerie silence felt oppressive and unwelcoming.
His forearms prickled with goosebumps and he embraced his thumping heart and sweating forehead; his skin felt clammy with fear and trepidation.
He placed one foot on the stairs. The bathroom lay at the top. The scene of a real death waited patiently for him, and he took another step. He ascended slowly, relishing the rushing adrenaline, the dread mixing with excitement.
Back in LA, late one night, he had been awakened by loud shouts and flashing lights outside of his bedroom window.
He had been ten and had crawled over to the window and peeked around the curtains.
There were three police cars pulled up on the sidewalk. Six officers stood hunched over the vehicles, guns drawn and pointed at a car that they had pulled over.
Even through the window, he had felt the air crackle with electric tension. He had felt the piercing nervous excitement as though he was watching a TV show parading on the world’s largest plasma screen.
Eventually, as the occupant of the stopped car had staggered out into the night and thrown himself onto the floor unarmed, the tension had immediately fallen. Thom remembered a feeling of anticlimax, but he remembered the electricity of anticipation. He felt the same anticipation now as he moved slowly up the exotic staircase.
He reached the upper hallway. The soft cream carpet was thick and lush and it was also thankfully silent as he moved.
He stood outside the bathroom door; his hand shook as he reached out slowly with a trembling hand.
The metallic handle felt like ice under his grip and his breath stilled as he held it absently. His heart pounded hard against his chest, and he turned the handle.
His imagination raced through a thousand scenarios of death and fear at what waited for him inside. The door eased open easily and smoothly; his eyes wouldn’t blink, his limbs quivered and he couldn’t catch his breath. One jelly leg moved forward and he stepped inside.
----------
Michael punched the cancel button on the cell phone hard with frustration.
He was still unable to contact Chris, and no matter how many messages he left, they were never returned.
He was sitting out on his steamer chair in the garden, his face thoughtful and contemplative.
It was a hot Sunday morning, but for once the weather offered little comfort.
Emily had yet to rise and he was alone. He was normally a man of action and deed, but he felt impotent and confused. The more that he ran the facts around his head, the more they swirled into a continuous circle of uncertainty.
He considered riding back out to Darnell’s again; perhaps if the man was a little more sober - or a little more drunk - he would have further thoughts to offer on the town and Casper’s twisted family tree.
He was stuck in limbo and he did not know just how to proceed. His book had stalled for the time being - did he pursue the story, regardless of the possible damage? He wasn’t naive enough to think that, despite his best efforts, the town wouldn’t see through any attempt to disguise the setting of the story.
The residents of Eden would no doubt not appreciate his portrayal of them, no matter how fictionally he camouflaged them.
Despite the undeniable juicy nature of Casper’s family history, what else did he really have? His neighbour, Janet, had committed suicide; Chris had, to all intents and purposes, disappeared, and in the woodland beyond the town he’d lost some time.
However, he didn’t really know just what had lurked in Janet’s heart; perhaps she and Chris had argued later that night? Perhaps her infidelity wasn’t a one-time deal? Perhaps Chris felt responsible? Perhaps he left her that night? Hell, perhaps he had even been complicit in her death, and that’s why he’d disappeared.
The high-pitched scream startled him; the noise appeared to have come from Chris’ empty house next door.
For a moment, he was rooted to the spot as the sheer panic and terror rose from the scream.
The shattering noise was halted as quickly as it had risen. He sat up on the steamer chair panicked.
For a second he’d thought that something terrible had befallen Emily, but the noise had clearly come from next door.
He stood on shaky legs, unsure as to what to do, and then he cursed himself for his cowardice and ran towards the fence.
Someone was clearly in trouble, and this was now his neighbourhood. He made a snap decision and clambered up and over the fence, landing in Chris’ back garden in an ungainly lump.
The patio doors at the rear of the house were open and he moved towards them cautiously.
The house smelled clean and sterile, and he was surprised to see the lack of personal touches.
The photos and prints that had once hung on the walls and decorated the surfaces in silver frames were all conspicuously absent. If Chris hadn’t been home since that night, then just who had been spring cleaning? Michael worked from home and would have undoubtedly noticed any unusual coming and goings, at least during daylight hours.
He moved slowly through the open plan lounge. Here too, personal touches were missing; the furniture looked clean and new and the house stood empty, seemingly waiting patiently.
Michael moved towards the front of the house. Suddenly, the hallway was filled with two dark shadows - one huge and one small.
The larger dragged the smaller down the stairs with ease. Sheriff Quinn held a small boy roughly by the throat.
Michael watched as a cruel, sadistic smile perverted the huge man’s face. The boy looked to weigh about eighty pounds soaking wet and the sheriff’s large meaty paw gripped the small boy by the collar as he dragged him, tearing the fabric of his shirt. His other hand reached back and pulled out something that glinted wickedly in the bright sunlight.
“P-P-Please,” the boy begged.
Michael stared in horror as Quinn laughed; it was a disturbing rumble that seemed to shake the air. The sheriff’s face was alight with pleasure, seemingly at the child’s now sobbing and trembling form. Whatever the glinting silver he held in his hand was, it was now rising to the boy's face. Michael couldn’t see what he held as his broad back was turned.
“And just how am I g
oing to make sure that you learn a lesson?” Quinn whispered ominously.
“QUINN!” Michael shouted.
The sheriff turned and in that split second Michael was afraid for his life. Quinn’s face was a thunderous black mask of rage; his eyes squinted, and his whole body shook with fury. The intense vehemence suddenly melted away and the sheriff smiled normally again, his giant shoulders relaxed, and calm exuded once more.
“Mr. Torrance,” he greeted Michael. “You gave me such a fright,” the huge man said in a friendly polite manner. “I’m afraid that we’ve had an intruder.” He shook the boy to illustrate.
“And you were looking to hand out a little private justice?”
“You misunderstand, Mr. Torrance. Here in Eden, we believe in preventative measures. A little scare works wonders. Isn’t that right, Mr. Bray?” he said, addressing the trembling boy.
“Yes, sir,” Thom managed through his tears.
“Well now, I’ll just be driving young Thom here home and having a little word with his mother,” the sheriff announced.
“Where is it that you live, Thom?” Michael asked suddenly, feeling that it was important for the sheriff to know that he’d taken an interest.
“Greenfields, sir,” Thom answered.
“Hey, your mom rented us the house, didn’t she? She works for Casper?” Michael never took his eyes off of the sheriff as he spoke to the boy.
“Yes, sir,” Thom answered, his voice growing stronger. “Hey, aren’t you the writer?”
“Yeah, Michael Torrance. I live next door. You know, Sheriff Quinn, maybe I’ll have a word with Mrs. Bray as well. I seem to remember that she was a single parent. I was raised the same way, and it can be tough,” he said, enjoying the large bully’s uncomfortable silence.
“Whatever you think, sir,” Quinn said through a forced smile that never quite reached his eyes. “I’m sure that she’d appreciate the help.”
“Jot down your number, son, and I’ll be in touch,” Michael said with a smile.
As Thom wrote his phone number down with a pen and paper that the sheriff grudgingly produced, Michael looked at Quinn. The big man now knew that Michael would be checking up on Thom and that he would have to arrive home safely and untouched.