The rider stands by his cycle, unmoving for a long moment. Then he carefully holsters the weapon, pulls on his leather gloves. He mounts the cycle and it pulses to life under his foot.
With the sky in motion above him, he is again upon the moon-flowing boulevard, gliding back towards the blinking red eye.
The rider reaches his station on the small, tree-shadowed side street and thinks, How stupid they are! To be subject to indecision, to quarrels and erratic behavior—weak all of them. Soft and weak.
He smiles into the darkness.
The eye blinks over the river.
And now it is 4 a.m., now 6 and 8 and 10 and 1 p.m... the hours turning like wheels, the days spinning away.
And he waits. Through nights without sleep, days without food—a flawless metal enforcer at his vigil, sure of himself and of his duty.
Waiting.
00:10
THE PARTNERSHIP
Maybe you saw this one on television. It was adapted for Universal’s horror-shock series, Darkroom, and telecast in December of 1981.
Remember? About a creepy old funhouse in a closed-down amusement park outside this small town. About how this stranger goes out there and—Oops! Maybe you didn’t see it, and here I am giving away the whole damn plot.
I’ll shut up and let you get to it.
THE PARTNERSHIP
Me and Ed, we’re in business together. Which is what I want to tell you about eventually because I think you folks will find it interesting. But this is also about the stranger with the beard. And he comes first.
You like ghost stories? Bet you do! Everybody does. But this isn’t one of those. Not a ghost in it. Still, it’s a little spooky, I’d guess. I mean, to some it will be. Strange—that’s a good word for it.
Strange.
Anyhow, Ed and me, we got ourselves a real nice partnership going. For one thing, we trust each other, and that’s the basis you build on. No trust, no partnership. Learned that long ago. My Irish grandaddy, bless him, came over from County Cork. Bought into a saloon in Virginia City with a partner who “stole him blind.” That’s how he always put it: “That man stole me blind!”
Now, with Cramps long gone, I’m as old as he was when I was a tad. That’s how I got my first name. Ralph’s the legal one, but I’ve always been Tad since Cramps called me that. Tad Miller. Simple name for a simple man.
I grew up in Nevada, but we moved to Chicago when I was still a boy—but you don’t really want to know all about how I got here to this little town stuck down in god-knows-where country. It’s in Illinois, a good piece out from Chicago, and we’re on the lake. That’s what counts—not how I got here or what brought me.
I’m here. That’s enough.
Name of this town’s not important, so I won’t give it out. If I did, some of you folks might come here one day, looking to say hello, and I wouldn’t like that much since I’m not partial to meeting just anybody. No offense.
Ed’s the same way. When he’s ready to meet a stranger he’ll go all out, but in between he’s like me. Keeps to home.
Don’t get me wrong. When a stranger comes to town, and I see he’s lonely, I’ll strike up a conversation as quick as the next fellow. I just don’t advertise, if you know what I mean.
This town’s on a spur highway into Chicago, and we get our share of hitchers. Road bums, sometimes. Others—like kids on the run from home, heading for life in the big city. Some oil vacation. All kinds, drifting in for coffee and grub at Sally Anne’s. They all end up at Sal’s. Only eatery left in town, so she gets the business.
Real nice sort, too. You’d like her. Kind eyes. I always notice a person’s eyes, first off. And hers are soft and liquidy, like a deer.
Me and Sally kid each other a lot, but we’re both too old to have it mean anything. But she likes me. Most folks do. And that’s nice. Person wants to know he’s liked, even if he keeps mostly to home.
Well, before I tell you about the bearded stranger I met at Sal’s last month you need to know some things about this town.
For instance, it’s dying fast. Getting smaller every year. Most of the young ones are gone now. Us diehards are still hanging on. Me and Ed, we’ll have to split up one of these days because this town’s due to just wink out like a star in the sky. Bound to happen. Be a sad day for me. Ed, too. We’re not that close, understand, but there’s a lot between us. Still, like my mama used to say, nothing lasts forever.
Anyhow, the town’s slowed down a hellish lot since I first moved here from Chicago after Mama and Pop died. Expressway gets most of the traffic. Puts us in the backwash. The big change came when Moffitt Paper closed their factory. Town lost its main source of revenue, and things slowed way down.
That’s when I had to leave Happyland. It’s what they call the amusement park on the lake. Closed now. Boarded up. Left to rust and rain.
I ran the Funhouse out at Happyland. For twenty years. Slept there on summer nights. Knew every turn and twist of the place, every creaking board and secret passage and blind tunnel in it. Still do, for that matter. Which is where the stranger comes in, but I’ll get to that.
First, a little more about me and this town if you don’t mind. (I’m in no hurry, are you?)
I got married here. Surprise, eh? Guess, on paper, I don’t come across as the romantic type—even though Sally still kids me that way. But married I was, and to a good woman who never liked kids so we didn’t have any. When she died I was left alone. No family, not even cousins. (I didn’t know Ed then.)
Her heart gave out. One day, fine, the next she’s gone. Hit me hard. Made me kind of wacky for a while. But I got over it. We get over things, or things get over us, take your choice. Nowdays I’m used to being on my own, and I do fine. Enjoy my privacy. Enjoy the woods and some fishing in the fall. Like I said, a simple man. I miss her bad some nights, just like I do Happyland. But they’re both gone—and everything has to die. Natures way. Accept it. Flow with the tide.
She’s buried out at Lakeside. Strangers think it odd, us having our cemetery right there on the lake, smack next to Happyland. Graveyard and amusement park snug-a-bug together on the lake. Odd, they say. Or used to, when Happyland was still open. “Spooky” is what they called it, having them together that way. But I never saw a ghost in twenty years out there. Oh, once in a while some big rats would wander in and give the ladies a real scare in the dark. (I’d always refund when it happened.) They’d come from the burrows under the cemetery, the rats, that is. Big suckers. And scared of nothing. That’s the way of a rat; he scares you, you don’t scare him.
Anyhow, my good wife’s buried out there, or was. Guess the rats have her by now, though that isn’t very nice to think about, is it? They got mighty sharp teeth, can gnaw right through the side of a coffin unless you can afford a steel one. Me, I’ve never had one extra dime to rub against another! Spend what I earn. To the penny. But I pay my way. No debts for Tad Miller.
Better get on with telling you about the big stranger who passed through here last month...
I was at Sally’s, kidding with her—and we didn’t see him walk in. She was joshing me about a new ring I had on. Big shiny thing, and Sal said it looked like I was wearing a streetlight. I was joshing her back about her new hairdo, saying it looked like a hive of bees could make honey in there. That kind of stuff. Just kidding around, passing the time of day.
Next thing, the stranger is banging the counter and yelling for some service. Sal broke off quick and moved over there to ask him what he’d have.
“Coffee and your special,” he growled. “The coffee now. And a small tomato juice.”
She told him no tomato juice, just orange. That made him madder than before.
He was big and mean looking. Maybe a lumber man. Had one of those shoulder-hike rigs, which he’d taken off and put on the counter next to him. Man of about forty, I’d guess. Muscled arms and a wide back. Thick dark beard. But honest eyes. I noticed his eyes right off.
He wore one
of those space-age wristwatches with all kinds of dials and dates on it and little panels that light up. I’d never seen one like it before, and was plain curious, so I took the empty stool next to him. He gave me a scowl for doing that, because the rest of the counter was empty, and I guess he didn’t want company.
“Hello, mister,” I said. “My name’s Tad Miller.”
“So what’s that to me?”
Hard-voiced. Not friendly at all.
“Want to apologize for all that jawing I was into when you came in. Customers come first in this place.”
He grumbled “all right” while stirring his coffee, but he didn’t look at me. Ignored me. Hoped I’d go away.
I leaned toward him. “Couldn’t help but notice that timepiece you’re wearing. Handsome thing. Never saw one quite like it.”
He swung around slowly, holding up his left wrist. “Got it in Chi,” he said. “You like it, eh?”
“Prettiest damn watch I ever did see.”
He was warming up fast. Like a woman will do when you tell her how cute her kid is. Works every time.
“What are all those little dials and things?” I asked.
He worked back his sleeve so I could get a better look. “Tells you the time in ten parts of the world,” he said. “Tells you the month of the year and the day of the week.”
“Well, I’ll be jinged!”
He twisted a doodad at the side of the watch. “Set this,” he said proudly, “and it rings every hour on the hour.”
By now Sally was spreading out his lunch special, and she couldn’t resist getting into the conversation. “Whats a thing like that cost?” she asked him.
Bad manners. I’d never have asked it that way, straight out. And he didn’t like it. He scowled at her. “That’s my business.”
Watch could have been stolen, for all I knew. You just don’t ask folks about how they get hold of a thing like that or how much they paid for it. But Sal was never one for laying back.
She huffed into the kitchen, all tight-faced.
He was eating in silence now. Sally’s question had put him back into his sour mood. I felt bad about that.
“Look...” I said, “don’t mind her. She don’t see many new folks around here. Sticks her nose in too far, is all.”
He grunted, kept eating. Really shoveling it in. It was beef stew. I knew Sally made good beef stew, so he was bound to be enjoying it. I tried him again.
“You just... passing through?”
“Yeah. Hitching. Can’t hitch on the express so I’m on the spur. Not many cars, I’ll tell ya. Waited two hours for a ride this morning.”
I nodded in sympathy. “Like you say, not many cars. But the fruit trucks go through this time of year. In the afternoons. One of those’ll stop for you. Those truckers are good people, lust you give ’em a wave, they’ll stop.”
“Thanks for the tip,” he said. “Usually, with trucks, I don’t even try. Regulations about riders and all.”
“Just give ’em a wave,” I repeated.
There was some silence then. Him finishing Sally’s stew, me sitting there sipping at my own lukewarm coffee. (I drink too much of the stuff, so I’ve learned to nurse a cup. Can’t sleep nights if I don’t.)
Then I said to him, “You ever go to amusement parks as a kid?”
He nodded. “Sure. Who hasn’t? Every kid has.”
“I ran the Funhouse in one,” I told him. “Down by the lake just this side of town.”
His face brightened. A smile creased it. His first of the day, I’d wager.
“Hell, I loved those frigging funhouses! Used to sneak into ’em when my allowance was all spent and I couldn’t afford to buy a ticket. They had an air vent inside that blew the girls’ skirts up. Used to hide in there and watch.” He scrubbed at the side of his dark beard. “Haven’t been in one since I was eleven—back in Omaha.”
“Never made it to Nebraska, but I hear it’s a nice state.”
“Used to scare myself half to death in those places. Bumping around in the dark... Couldn’t see a thing. Scary as hell!”
“Folks like to be scared,” I said. “Guess it’s part of human nature.”
“Trick doors... blind tunnels leading nowhere... things that popped out at you!” He chuckled. “One place had a big gorilla with red eyes... I musta jumped ten feet when that ape popped outa the floor at me! Had gorilla nightmares for a month after that. Wouldn’t go to bed unless Ma left the light on.”
I’ve noticed one thing in the years with Happyland: people love to talk about funhouses. It’s a subject everybody just plain likes to talk about—how scared they got as kids, lost in the dark tunnels, with things jumping at them. Funhouses are just that—fun.
“I miss running the place,” I told him honestly. “Used to get a real kick out of scaring the folks. I’d work all the trick effects... and how they’d yell and scream! Especially the girls. Young girls love to scream.” He nodded agreement.
Suddenly I turned to him, grinning. “I got me an idea.”
“What’s that?” he said, pushing away his last empty plate. He put his hand on his stomach and belched.
“Why don’t you and me go out there—to Happyland? I can take you through the Funhouse!”
He blinked at me, a little confused. “You mean—right now?”
“Sure. The park’s closed, has been for years, but I can get in. Be no problem for me to show you through my Funhouse. Be proud to!”
The big man shook his head. “Well... I dunno. That stuff’s for kids.”
“Hell, were kids, aren’t we? Just wearing adult bodies. No man ever stops being a boy. Not inside. Not all the way.” I grinned at him. “Want to have a go?... give it a try?”
“Sounds a little crazy.”
“Funhouse is for fun!” I said. “It’s not even noon yet. You can take the tour with me, come out of the park and still grab a hitch with one of the truckers.”
He slapped the countertop. “Why not? Why the hell not?”
I grinned at him. “Be fun for me, too. Haven’t been out to Happyland for a longish while. Be like going home.”
I own a Ford pickup. Old, like I am. Got a missing taillight. Clutch is bad. Needs a ring job. Tires are mostly bald. And the paint’s gone altogether. But it putters along. Gets me where I have to go.
Happyland’s only ten minutes out from town. As I said, right on the lake, at the deep end. Lot of boats used to be on the lake, but its quiet now. Just black water, and too cold to swim in most of the year. Deep and black and quiet.
I parked next to the gate and we slipped under the rusted chain fence. The park was sad to see, all deserted and boarded up and with old newspapers and empty beer cans and trash everywhere. Vines growing right into the boards. Holes in the ground. I told the stranger to watch where he walked.
“Break an ankle out here at night,” I said.
“I’ll bet.”
We passed the old Penny Arcade. All the machines were gone. It was like a dirty barn inside. No color or movement or sound in there now. Just a rat or two, maybe. Or a spider trapping flies.
Sad.
We walked on in the noon heat, past the Loop and the Whip and the Merry-go-Round, with broken holes in the floor where all the painted horses had galloped.
“No gorillas today,” I said as we approached the Funhouse. “Electricity’s shut down, and they took all the trick stuff away to Chicago. But at least we can run the tunnels. They’re still the same.”
“This is crazy.” said the bearded man. “I’ve gotta be nuts, doing a thing like this.”
“Be proud of yourself!” I told him. “You’re not afraid to let out the boy in you! Every man would like to, but most are chicken about it. You’ve got guts.”
We stood outside, looking at the place. The big laughing fatman at the entrance was gone. I can still hear his booming Ha-Ha-Ha-Ha like it was yesterday. Twenty years of a laugh you don’t forget.
The ticket booth was shaped like the jaw
s of a shark—but now most of the teeth were missing and the skin was peeling in big curling blisters along the sides. The broken glass in the booth had two boards nailed over it, like a pair of crossed arms.
“How do we get in?” the stranger asked me.
“There’s bound to be a loose board,” I told him. “Let’s take a look.”
“Oke,” he nodded with a grin. “Lead on.”
I found the loose board, pulling some brush away to clear it. Illinois is a green state; we get a lot of rain here, and things grow fast. The Funhouse was being choked by vines and creepers and high grass. It looked a thousand years old.
Sad.
The sky was clouding over. Late summer storm coming. They just pop up on you. It would be raining soon.
More rain, more growth. At this rate, in another fifty years, Happyland would be covered over—like those jungle temples in Mexico. No one could ever find it.
“Watch that nail near the top,” I warned, as the stranger stooped to squeeze through with me. “Tear your shirt easy on a nail like that.”
“Thanks.”
“Got to watch out for my customers,” I said.
Now we were inside. It was absolutely tar-pit black in the Funhouse. A jump from daylight to the dark side of the moon. And hot. Muggy hot inside.
“Can’t see an inch in front of me,” the stranger said.
“Don’t worry, I’ll walk you through. I’ve got a flash. It could use a new battery. Kind of dim, but we should be all right with it.”
For emergencies, I always keep a flash in the Ford’s glove compartment, with a couple of spare batteries. Never know when a tire might let go on you at night. But I keep forgetting to put in the new batteries when the old ones wear out. I guess nobody’s perfect!
“Lot of cobwebs in here,” I said, as we moved along. “Hope you don’t mind spiders.”
“I’m not in love with ’em,” said the big man. “Not poisonous, are they?”
“No, no. Not these. Mostly little fellers. I’ll clear the way for you.” And I did that, using a rolled newspaper to sweep the tunnel as I moved through it.
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