The Blood Mirror: New Adult Paranormal Suspense (Burntown Carnival Book 1)

by Lucky Simms

  THE BLOOD MIRROR

  Burntown Carnival, Book 1

  by Lucky Simms

  Published by Lucky Simms at Amazon

  Copyright Lucky Simms 2014

  Published: September 2014

  The right of Lucky Simms to be identified as author of this Work has been asserted by her in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in retrieval system, copied in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise transmitted without written permission from the publisher. You must not circulate this book in any format.

  Amazon Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Amazon.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Follow her on Facebook. She would love that.

  More about Lucky and her escapades at LuckySimms.com

  Sign up for the newsletter for previews and freebies here: http://eepurl.com/Xtbhn

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  PREFACE

  THE CARNIVAL

  PEAKS AND FURROWS

  THE FIRST GARDEN

  ABSOLUTELY NOT A PSYCHIC

  FUN AND SWEET

  BETTER REACH

  THE PITCH

  READY OR NOT

  SPREADING THE WORD

  NO, REALLY, NOT A PSYCHIC

  GETTING YOUR ASS KICKED LIKE IT’S YOUR JOB

  WELCOME HOME

  LIKE A SIREN

  THE SURGEON AND HIS WIFE

  I NEVER JOKE ABOUT MONEY

  THINGS FALL APART

  ROADMAPS

  LIGHTNING

  WELL, WHOSE FAULT IS THAT?

  LIKE IT’S YOUR JOB, I SAID

  WHEEL

  CRUMPLED AND SORTED

  THE VOICE

  BARGAINS

  EVERYTHING IN ITS PLACE

  EPILOGUE

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  The Blood Mirror

  Burntown Carnival, Book 1

  Lucky Simms

  PREFACE

  August, 2004

  Billie slipped between game stalls with the mirror wrapped in her denim jacket and held tight to her chest. She walked quickly through the alley between the rows, carefully stepping over the ropes that held the stalls up.

  Wet, reedy bits of weed tangled in the toes of her sandals as she picked cautiously down the path. Every few feet there was another muddy puddle or trash pile with broken glass to avoid.

  She gritted her teeth and hurried, feeling the wind pick up and a few pellet-like raindrops strike her forehead. Her hair whipped around to cover her eyes but she couldn’t risk letting go with either hand. She just lowered her head and hurried.

  The music shrieked through loudspeakers on telephone poles. It was the same menacing hard rock from the 90s that had played here since it was new: Black Sabbath and a few Iron Maiden and Korn songs here and there, maybe Slipknot. Now with the wind shaking the speakers back and forth, the music distorted itself into a ferocious howl that echoed through the alley between stalls.

  She reached the end of the row as Roger stepped back through the plastic sheeting to grab a few more cheap Chinese stuffed hippos from a cardboard box. He glanced up at her as she rushed toward him. Billie stopped short and fumbled to keep the heavy, awkward parcel close to her, looking around and trying to think of an excuse she could give him. Why would she be dashing between the game stalls?

  He seemed to smile too broadly, gumming his tongue with his toothless lower jaw and laughing through his nose, then ducked back through the plastic to the game in progress. He had more important things to do like rigging unwinnable ring tosses, but his knowing, condescending expression annoyed her instantly. Still she was grateful to feel certain there would be no trouble from Roger.

  The wind rattled the stalls and shelters with a sound that reminded her of distant applause. Every few seconds it would seem to die down to an expectant silence, then begin again suddenly as the wind whipped through the carnival corridors and alleys.

  Families and couples looked around and at each other, wondering what to do. They gathered their helium balloons and oversized alligator prizes and small children close and watched the other families to see who was leaving and who was staying. Mothers looked at fathers with faces full of questions. Should they just go? It seemed the night was probably over, but everyone thought maybe a few minutes more. Children begged their parents not to abandon the carnival just yet. Parents shrugged at each other and stared uncertainly at the sky.

  Billie ran past the ancient Tilt A Whirl and Cliff Drop, then south toward the parking lot. The guess-your-weight guy shouted, “Go!” as she darted past, but she assumed that was probably that was a coincidence. The High Striker and Mini-Parachute attendants both seemed to raise their chins in salute as she hunched her shoulders and plowed ahead.

  When she finally reached the barefist fighting ring, Billie looked up to see the three shirtless men all drop their arms from fighting stances and stroll to the ropes. They leaned forward and smiled openly at her with their mouthguards lolling out grotesquely. Billie tried not to make eye contact but the implication was too direct: everyone knew what she was doing. They were all encouraging her, too, but not in a way that gave her any confidence she could pull it off.

  Riddick was there, sweating and shiny, bowing his head to flex his thick shoulders and looking at her from under his brows so no one could tell exactly what he thought. Tommy was smiling but he wasn’t smiling as broadly as Sweet Ray who raised one taped fist to wave, actually wave at her.

  The mirror seemed to get extremely heavy, and her legs burned as she struggled to run without actually, obviously running. Her arms quaked with exhaustion and she had a hard time keeping her hands locked across her chest. Mindful of the large rocks and potholes on the unkept gravel walk, she focused on getting to the gate as fast as possible. She wouldn’t trip, she wouldn’t fall. She could hear her breath, all ragged. But the entrance was surely getting closer. It wouldn’t be long.

  The lettering on the gate formed the stereotypical arch with neon ziggurats and chasing lights. Small glass booths flanked either side for tickets but they were empty now. Billie willed her legs to keep churning forward, finally reaching gate then through it, and cautiously allowed herself to break into a trot. She cut through the unmown grass to the south hill, ignoring the wet blades that lashed against her ankles.

  It was really raining now and the sky lit up white and purple with lightning. Fat drops of cool rain pelted her face, dripping heavily across her eyelashes and nearly blinding her. She bowed her head as much as she dared while still keeping the path in clear enough view to feel safe and ran on.

  Her car was just at the end of the row in the turf-covered lot. She reached it and finally dared to shift the mirror to her left arm to dig for her keys in the jacket pocket. The top of the jacket flopped back from the package, showing the flat limestone slab inside. The mirror was gone. This rock… it was worthless to her.

  Billie whipped around, dropping the rock heavily on the grass in front of her. Back at the gate, the carnival manager Noughton was staring at her from under the arch. He held the mirror in
his hands, then lifted it over his head. He let go with one hand and waved happily at her, all friendly, ending the gesture with an enthusiastic thumbs-up.

  The glass glowed white and purple like the sky, thick and shining. Billie gaped at Noughton, wanting to scream, knowing she would have to return again and again to retrieve the artifact. But how could she? How was she going to get her grandmother’s mirror back from this pack of thieving fucking wizards?

  THE CARNIVAL

  Most carnivals have a storied history, especially when they’re more or less permanently parked in the same place. They have old-time lore and mystery and fall into disrepair over a long time, so slowly that no one really notices. Things just go by the wayside and everybody sees them through the eyes of memory, all shiny and new and nostalgic.

  But in truth, there was never a heyday for the Burntown carnival. It began fairly crappy, and remains fairly crappy to this day. The people who are still alive to remember won’t tell the truth about how it got started. Not because they’re evil or really meaning to deceive, but because they have standards for storytelling.

  History should be rich and mysterious. It should make sense of things that were too hard to understand at the time or too painful to believe. And it should conceal what needs to be protected, while making the listener hungry for life. Not regular life, filled with tedium and niggling disappointments that gradually wear away your shine. But a condensed, concentrated, and edited life that buffs up the shiny bits and makes everyone as interesting and worthy as a matinee film idol.

  Most people parse out their lives like someone measuring out a skein of yarn, one arm’s length at a time. Each time an arm’s length passes it is immediately forgotten, rendered indistinguishable from the ever-growing pile of similar fibers. But carnies have a way of understanding when there’s a chance to make a better story, and they don’t have any qualms about embellishing a boring length of yarn until it’s rich with fantasy and wonder. In fact, they believe they’re doing you a favor.

  Who would want to hear how a family of filthy, near-starving homeless folks rolled up a grassy hill in a wagon and decided it was the last hill they could cross? They looked at the tiny town below, looked at each other, and simply shrugged. If they kept travelling, they would likely starve. Grandpa was too sick to go on. He’d lost any more will to see about a hundred miles back and now just stared blindly into the air in front of his face. The children were past malnutrition and didn’t even play anymore. They just huddled all gaunt in the back of the wagon and waited to be relieved of their suffering. Even the ox rolled its eyes balefully. Looking at him, they knew the trip was over one way or another.

  So they butchered the ox. They rented a few acres of pasture with half the ox meat and set up a modest homestead farming, raising a few chickens, and offering their services as people without pasts, free to reinvent themselves. The grandma had an old, hand-painted Tarot deck in a scarf and could offer hopeful glimpses of the future as well as vile potions for vengeance. Her daughter was an apt midwife as well as a trustworthy procurer of those secret herbs to keep a woman infertile. Father praised the lord and called himself a healer.

  In a few years the midwifery and homespun magic earned them enough to build a shack. A few years later it was a big house, and eventually it was the biggest house in three counties. Father bought the land and planted a tent on the north side for churchy revivals and a healing show.

  Everything was done on the cheap. Pennies were pinched so hard they flattened under the strain. The tent blew over regularly and was patched together with any sail cloth they could find. Visitors could sit on a bench if they found room, but most had to squat on the hard-packed dirt floor. You could get stew or biscuits, and bouts of typhus and food poisoning were so common that the tiny village - now called Burntown - secretly named it the Cramp Carnival. But during the Depression, folks would spend their last pennies and then borrow more for a chance to buy some hope. And so the carnival grew. By the 40s, Burntown was a proper bedroom community for soldiers returning from war, and the carnival was their poorly-kept secret hangout for vices of all sorts.

  Of course there were trends - there were skee-ball rallies through the 60s and 70s, and a brief but passionate Pachinko surge. As the livestock farms dwindled in the surrounding area, the petting zoo and pony rides took center stage. There was a video game arcade in the 80s that really brought out the town teen population and created enough income to build a standalone shed, which is now a small roller rink.

  The fighting ring never fell out of style - that’s been in perpetual use since the 40s when it was built. The townies still come out to test their mettle against the carnie fighters for cash prizes as a rite of passage. They bring their girls and strip bare to the waist, tape their fists and have at it - grunting, grappling, throwing mostly body shots until someone falls to a knee mostly from exhaustion. Sometimes the girls are impressed with their townie loves, and sometimes they are lost forever to the poetry of the carnies’ dance and brutality in the ring.

  All the classic midway games are there - duck shoot, ring-toss, guess-the-number, etc etc. They will figure your weight and talk to your dead. You can get a tattoo, and it will not be very good nor even close to the design you asked for, but it will be better than anything you can get in Burntown proper or for many miles in any direction.

  You can win posters with your favorite band’s pilfered logo, or ill-fitting t-shirts with vulgar slogans. You can win bandannas to give to your secret crush and stuffed animals that are too large to fit in your car, leaving you feeling like maybe you won something, and maybe you really didn’t.

  You can dare the bartender to try to drink you under the table, but you’ll be paying for all the drinks. If you’re very good, you can even ask him for something special, something for the missus, for later. Something for your broken heart, your formless rage. You can ask, but you’ll be paying for all of that too, in ways that will eventually horrify.

  But mostly, like any carnival, you can get lucky. Boys learn how a girl’s middle parts are organized, and which are for touching, and how. Girls can unburden themselves of their maidenheads in the arms of someone who squints under lights, who drips like honey, who snarls and fucks like an animal. There are still a couple of cathouse booths with dancing girls and one-way mirrors, but those aren’t as busy as the kissing booths where you are kissed by the softest, sweetest lips ever to leave you breathless, maybe ruin you for life. Lips that change everything. Kisses sweeter than candy.

  Ladies and gentlemen, it’s a show.

  PEAKS AND FURROWS

  Burntown was pinned between two interstates just southwest of the exact center of Ohio. For dozens of miles in any direction, the interstate was the only change in texture from the rolling fields of fallow or corn. Finger-shaped lanes of trees divided fields from each other, and there was always a farmhouse in the distance.

  The exit signs read “Burntown” but what you could see from the interstates was the Ferris wheel, and that was why people took the ramps. Nobody was coming for Burntown proper who didn’t already have to be there.

  You could get gas in town, and the Piggly Wiggly had been replaced by a larger brand with a more dignified name. You could get feed or tractor tires at the Farm and Fleet. You could visit your distant whomever.

  But Burntown, as far as anyone on the interstate knew, was just two small churches, a perfunctory downtown, three townie bars, and narrow streets of shotgun shacks and modest Victorian bungalows. It was no big deal.

  Truth be told, the carnival kept the town alive, and not the other way around. The town was too small to support an operation that was open from April through November, but the suckers coming off the interstates brought in enough money to keep the lights chasing on the Star Flyer and the tiny town library open besides.

  Burntown needed the carnival like a Vicodin addict needed pills, and everybody knew that.

  When Billie came home for the summer, she crossed county lines in her
old Escort and around the bend she saw the dull high arc of the Ferris wheel’s top against the blue horizon. The next brown exit sign read: GAS FOOD LODGING. As cars got closer, they could see the Ferris wheel was moving, then see the Cliff Drop had its car rising, rising. If you opened your windows at this point, you could maybe even hear the screams from people on the rides. Screaming is a great seduction.

  She remembered nights at the carnival, stretching back as far as her memory would go. The lights and vertigo were imprinted on her life even though she was firmly a townie, and only attended the carnival a few times a year.

  As a very small child, it was a confusing deluge of too-sweet and too-salty food smells, too-loud-music, and too-harsh rides. During grade school, kids seemed to develop courage one by one, daring themselves to progressively more dangerous rides. By middle school, nearly every townie knew the carnival rows and aisles as well as the Burntown geography. By high school age, most of them had gotten their first kiss there, and more besides.

  Even if you couldn’t see or hear it, everyone in Burntown had carnival in their blood. They were steeped in it. Even if it was out of sight, it was everywhere.