Red Circus: A Dark Collection

by John L. Campbell

  Dante folded his arms, irritated. “I wasn’t the one who came up with the whole contract technicalities thing. The proxy clause allows it.”

  Noah started shaking his head slowly, but Dante spoke quickly. “She’ll never know it. She’ll live a long and happy life, especially with all that money, and she won’t seem any different at all. One-hundred-seventy-three million, Noah! A life you both never even dreamed of.”

  Noah said nothing for a moment, and then it hit him. “Mom?”

  Dante nodded. “Who’d you think we were talking about?”

  “That’s…” Noah’s voice was a whisper.

  “…the only way,” Dante said. “It saves your family, keeps you together, answers all your prayers. It costs you nothing, and she’ll never know it.”

  The boy’s eyes hardened. “No.”

  Dante sighed. “Noah, considering all the things your mom’s done in her life, she’s most likely headed there anyway. You have the chance to make her life wonderful before it happens.”

  The boy considered the imp’s words. He knew his mom wasn’t the best person, and admitted he had no idea what she did when he wasn’t around, when he had been younger, even before he was born. Tanner’s nasty accusation about her made him think of the Aces Tavern again. Could Dante be right? Was she going to Hell with or without his help?

  “You have the chance to do something good here,” the imp said softly, resting a small hand on his knee.

  She could have everything she ever wanted, Noah thought. Staying out of a foster home was suddenly far less important than giving her a good life. She wouldn’t have to cry anymore, or worry about bills and a crappy car. She wouldn’t need to drink so much.

  Dante watched him closely.

  Was it the right thing to do? Make this life wonderful, since he couldn’t do anything about where she was going in the next? He pictured how happy the money would make her, saw her laughing and hugging him.

  And then the absolute wrongness of it hit him, and he shook his head violently. “No!” he shouted, pushing the horned creature away. “I’m not giving you her soul!”

  Dante said nothing, just looked at him a moment, then vanished.

  Noah lay on his bed through the night, thinking about his mother, his life, crying at times. He didn’t know where Dante was, and sleep eluded him.

  The morning sun falling through his window roused him, and he realized sleep must have found him at some point. Tired, he got ready slowly, visited the bathroom, and made his way to the kitchen. He found the lights on, his mom already up, the sharp aroma of coffee in the air.

  “Good morning, honey,” his mom said, looking like she had already showered, her eyes bright, not hung-over. Noah could feel her excitement as he sat down across from her.

  “Powerball!” she blurted, waving a ticket and laughing. “A hundred-seventy-three million! Honey, we won!”

  Noah shook his head slowly. Impossible, he had told the imp no.

  She stood, animated, still waving the ticket and pacing the kitchen. “Gotta find a new house, a big house. New clothes, closets of them, we’ll go shopping in Paris!”

  Noah watched his mom as she moved about the kitchen, talking to herself now, her son forgotten in the moment. But he hadn’t done it! His mom moved to the living room where she ransacked a drawer, looking for her address book so she could call everyone who had ever wronged her and tell them to go to Hell.

  Dante appeared in his mom’s vacant chair across the kitchen table, and Noah darted a look towards his mother, then back at the imp. “She’s going to see you!” he whispered. “What’s going on?”

  Pudgy fingers shook a Salem out of his mom’s pack and the imp lit it, drawing deeply. “Business.” He blew a perfect smoke ring at the thirteen-year-old.

  “I didn’t agree to this!” Noah hissed.

  Dante inspected the cheap Bic lighter. “I gave you a chance, kid.” As he smoked, his smooth, plump face creased and weathered, cheeks and eyes sinking, his curled horns yellowing. Gone was Noah’s funny and curious companion. What sat before him now was far older, a creature that knew things a person wouldn’t want to know. When it spoke, its voice was deep, creaking like a wooden ship.

  “You didn’t think you were my only client, did you?” Dante flicked ash on the floor and grinned. His teeth were black. “So noble and good of you not to sacrifice your mother’s soul for a lottery ticket.” His eyes revealed only contempt. “But there’s the ticket, the price of admission paid in full.”

  A foul odor had begun to drift off the creature across from him, reminding Noah of a dead raccoon he’d come across one day walking to school.

  Dante took a final puff and crushed the cigarette out on the vinyl tablecloth, melting a hole in it. “Funny, your mom didn’t even hesitate to give up your soul.” A cruel smile slit his face. “Be seeing you, kid.”

  He vanished.

  Noah could only look at the empty chair, while in the other room, his mom started singing.

  ELEPHANT RIDES

  He never knew her name. And he had never answered for his crime.

  Rusty Lerner, “Deuce” for sixty-one of his seventy-three years, was a bum, a drunk who’s weakness had caused the death of an innocent. He supposed it was an old story.

  His clothing was shapeless and faded, his coat stained and torn, sneakers ripped. He didn’t mind that his approach made women hold their pocketbooks tighter, or that his body odor could empty a subway car – at least until a transit cop emptied the subway car of him. He cared about the paper-wrapped bottle of oblivion in his coat pocket.

  “Jesus forgives,” Deuce muttered, tucking his chin against a cold night breeze as he shuffled up a Bronx sidewalk. It was a bad neighborhood but no one bothered him. One look told anyone interested he had nothing worth taking.

  He reached his destination and pushed between the gates of a chain link fence. The demolition had only recently begun and the site was quiet, any security guard sleeping warm in a car somewhere.

  “Jesus forgives, and so should you,” he told the wind, climbing over rubble to reach a cleared spot near the crane. Its derrick rose silently over the partially demolished apartment building like a finger emphasizing Deuce’s proclamation. He was sick of her, sick of not sleeping, of seeing her in doorways and corners. He could no longer awaken to her chill, dead touches on his cheek in the night.

  In 1975, Deuce had worked for the Starlight Circus, a traveling show which moved up and down the East Coast. He’d had one job, tending the elephants and setting up the rides. He’d been drinking especially hard that year and he’d had a temper. The old bull named Johnny was as irritable as Deuce, shitting in freshly mucked stalls, getting pushy with its trunk, and giving Deuce that evil glare from its runny red eyes.

  Deuce didn’t take shit from elephants, so he tormented it with an electric prod any time the bosses weren’t around. Johnny got mean. They got mean together.

  He sat on a piece of broken wall and sipped from his bottle, shivering at the friendly burn. “Wasn’t me that done it, you know,” he told the darkness.

  So maybe he’d had too much to drink that night, and maybe he hadn’t done such a good job tightening the belts that held the seats on old Johnny’s back, the ones where the kiddies could ride if their parents coughed up three dollars. But it was her Goddamned shrieking that done it, that Little Miss in her pretty white dress, holding a balloon and smacking old Johnny’s head while she squealed.

  She was the one set the old bull off.

  The seats fell, kiddies spilling every which way, and old Johnny going into a stomping rage before someone brought him down with a rifle. Those kiddies got out with some bruises and pee in their undies, except for that Little Miss with her white dress. She was stomped just as flat as you please.

  Deuce snuck off that night and never looked back, except to read the papers. The Post’s headlines screamed RED CIRCUS! The Starlight Company went out of business, and Deuce’s life became what it becam
e.

  He sat in the quiet and pulled at his bottle. It was here, thirty-five years ago, when this was just a field full of circus tents. “Jesus forgives and so should you, now you leave me alone, Little Miss.”

  A red balloon drifted across the rubble and came to rest at his feet.

  Deuce saw her standing beside the crane, cold and white, and his breath caught as he heard a metallic CLICK overhead. His old drunk’s eyes looked up to see the wrecking ball dropping swift and silent through the night.

  It crushed him just as flat as you please.

  And a red balloon floated away.

  A NIGHT WITH ANGELINE

  The interior of the mausoleum smelled of damp, decaying leaves, and a fine black film of mold coated the left side of Jesus. He was marble, two feet tall and standing atop a pedestal near a small stained glass window with missing panes. Despite a measure of sunlight coming through the glass, the room was cold and unpleasant, the air stirred by a foul draft coming from a black, rectangular hole in the floor. An iron door which normally sealed it was propped open to one side. Moldy stone steps descended into the hole.

  Two men with spades, one holding a lantern, the other a shotgun, stood to either side looking into the darkness with wide, nervous eyes. They didn’t go down.

  The stairs led to a short, low corridor which traveled several yards and opened into a chamber with cut stone walls, flagstone floor and a slightly domed ceiling. A cold breeze seeped into the room through gaps in the crooked stones. This place, too, was damp and moldy, and reeked of death. In here, a single lantern rested on the floor, casting an amber glow on the walls and on the rotting coffin at the room’s center. Two more men flanked the resting place, one in his fifties, broad and powerful looking, with a bald head and great whiskers and muttonchops, the other leaner and dark-haired.

  “Sergeant Major,” said the younger man softly. His companion immediately gripped the lid with big, rough hands and tore it off the coffin, hinges coming away from rotten wood with a muffled crack as he cast the lid aside.

  The thing inside squirmed in fitful half-sleep, long, pale fingers plucking at its filthy coat in little twitches, hooded eyes fluttering partially open, revealing a milky whiteness. Its mouth opened slowly in a prolonged hiss, revealing the twin, dagger-like teeth. It did not rise, though it appeared to want to.

  Nathan struck at once, driving a sharpened, four foot shaft of ash into the creature’s chest, running it through. Its eyes snapped open, pinpoint pupils expanding to fill the milky orbs, and it screeched and twisted its head about, thrashing against the spear, fingers pawing desperately at the wood. Thick, black liquid bubbled from its mouth and around the wound, and it shuddered once before stiffening, then collapsing into a man-shaped pile of ash. A moment later this shape collapsed as well, spilling out of the broken casket, to be scattered across the floor by the chill breeze.

  How many graves have I stood over, Nathan wondered? Thousands.

  The sergeant major retrieved the lantern and gestured to the stairs, and they climbed out of the chamber together.

  Lord Nathan Madison III, Earl of Westharrow, stood on the balcony overlooking Elaine’s gardens, the sky a deepening blue as the sun began its decline, the forests surrounding the estate slowly darkening. The gardens were immaculate, just as Elaine had always kept them, spending countless hours kneeling in the soft, rich earth, tending her flowers. Nathan had been particular about seeing they were maintained just as she’d left them. The powerful scent of lavender drifted from below on the late afternoon air.

  At thirty-eight he was of medium build with an athletic frame, his posture erect but not overly stiff, and the way he carried himself suggested a military background. He smoked a cigar slowly, supporting himself just a bit with one hand resting on the stone railing. A cane with the silver head of a stallion leaned nearby, and as the sun descended and the autumn damp settled over the manor house, he knew he’d be needing it. His right leg ached, something he had been assured would only get worse with age.

  Below, October leaves chased one another across a walkway at the edge of the garden. To Nathan they sounded like old claws scrambling up out of a stone well, and he thought about the crypt. How many graves, indeed? Both of his parents, a younger sister lost during childbirth, a younger brother in a foundry accident. Other relatives, family members of those who worked for him. His enemies. His troops, so very many of them. Geoffrey and Elaine.

  His cigar smoke floated up past the eaves of the great house and he watched it rise. He’d seen plenty of smoke, too, on the field and in the camps. Had lit some of those fires himself.

  An older man in the formal black of a butler softly opened the double glass doors behind him and stepped onto the balcony, standing quietly so as not to disturb the master of the house. Nathan heard him the moment he touched the door handle, and turned.

  “I beg your pardon, M’Lord, but it is six o’clock, and your guests are scheduled to begin arriving at eight.”

  “Thank you, Douglas.” Nathan crushed out the cigar in a heavy crystal ashtray on the railing and walked back into the house, carrying the cane and managing not to limp.

  Several minutes later he pushed through the door of the kitchens, avoiding a young man with a tray of cutlery heading for the dining room. The place smelled delicious, a mix of sizzling meat and warm bread, and servants hurried about in their preparation. Mrs. Smyth, the chief housekeeper, called out orders in a brisk voice, as organized and obeyed as any drillmaster he’d ever had under his command. She spotted him at once, and came directly to him.

  “Here now, sir, this is no place for you,” she fussed, trying to bully him back out the way he’d come.

  Nathan held his ground. “Just here for my delivery, then I’ll be on my way.”

  She squinted as she looked him up and down, tisking in gentle disapproval at his casual tweeds and riding boots, then fluttered her hands like a bird. “Very well,” she said, retrieving a large wicker basket from a side table, hoisting it in both hands and lugging it to him. “Mind you allow time to make yourself presentable to your guests, and don’t make poor, tired old Mrs. Smyth come looking for you.”

  Nathan smiled a bit and gave her a peck on the cheek, causing her to blush and cry “Oh!” and making the other servants chuckle. “I promise,” he said.

  She shooed him off with her apron, then forced down her own smile and turned back to her staff. “Move along now, you dawdlers!”

  Nathan left the manor house behind as he walked down a gentle, grassy slope towards a gathering of low buildings, the garages and stables, carrying the heavy basket in one hand and his cane in the other. His leg felt about the same, and he’d found over the years that regular movement kept it from stiffening up. Of course, all that exercise exacted a toll later when he was at rest, but he’d face that opponent when it showed itself. He wasn’t one to surrender.

  As evening settled over the estate, soft lamplight and a couple of electric bulbs shone from the windows of the outbuildings, and he made his way towards the brightest of these, the garage. Before he reached the door, Davis and Kealty approached from the direction of the stables, their caps in their hands. They were the two men who had accompanied the sergeant major and him on that midday business at the cemetery, both grooms on the estate.

  “A word, sir?” Kealty called.

  Nathan nodded and set down the basket. The two men walked as if they were schoolboys caught at some misdeed.

  “Sir…” Davis started, then hesitated, unable to look at anything but his shoes.

  Kealty also looked embarrassed, but was able to meet his employer’s eyes. “Sir, me and Davis…well, sir, we wanted to apologize for today. And we understand if you want to sack us, sir.”

  “That’s right,” said Davis.

  Nathan looked at them and raised an eyebrow.

  “We know we let you down, sir. We were just…”

  “We’re not cowards, sir,” said Davis.

  They looked at e
ach other, then at him. “At the mausoleum,” said Kealty. “We should’ve been down there with you and Mister Voorhees.”

  Nathan put a hand on each of their shoulders, speaking quietly. “Lads, no more of this. You knew what we were looking for, and still you went into that cemetery, went into that mausoleum, opened that crypt. You did more than I’d ask of any man, and you’re as brave as any I ever commanded.”

  They nodded their thanks, not entirely convinced.

  “Have you told anyone about today?” Nathan asked.

  Both men looked shocked. “No, sir!” said Kealty. “The missus would be up wailing at me all night about my foolishness and having kids at home, and then she’d be afraid to turn off the lights. I’d never sleep again.”

  “Mine would think me drinking,” said Davis. “And much as I’d like to ask Father Kevin how God could let something like that walk the earth, I know he’d make our business everyone’s business by the morning.”

  Nathan smiled. “And now you know why we didn’t bring a priest along.”

  They nodded.

  “Rest easy,” Nathan said, “you’re good men, both of you.” They stood a little taller, and Nathan picked up his basket again. “Now open that door and come inside for a bit.”

  The garage was warm and smelled of oil, and under a pair of hooded bulbs sat five vehicles. There was a trio of lorries, two of them flatbeds for work around the estate and one canvas-sided for duties such as trips to market. A maroon, 1906 Austin Defiance was there for Nathan’s regular use, well maintained and clean. And at the far end under a tarp was a 1908 Rolls Royce Silver Ghost, a powerful, black and silver machine which Nathan had purchased new during darker days, and which had not been driven or even started since Elaine’s death. The Earl and his two stablemen walked the length of the garage, past the vehicles, and entered a small room at the far end. Nathan didn’t even look at the Rolls.

  A fire burned in a stove in the corner, keeping the October chill at bay, and a pair of lanterns rested upon a rough table around which sat several men. Their ages ranged from seventeen to fifty, and all were relaxing after a full day of labor. They wore greasy coveralls or dirty work clothes, men with grimy hands used to lives of hard work. All stood and quickly removed their caps upon Nathan’s entrance, and two of them, both in their late twenties, started to stiffen to attention. Nathan set the heavy basket on the table and waved them back to their stools, taking one himself.