The Accidental Siren

by Jake Vander Ark

  * * *

  I left Ryan in the care of Sheriff Beeder and the carnies. On a hunch, I was rounding the corner of the funhouse between the colorful siding and the back of a row of port-o-potties. I had been watching the entrance and exit the whole time they were inside. If Mara left, she came out a different way.

  I rounded the second corner and my suspicion was confirmed. A door was open. The handle read, “Emergency Exit Only.” On the ground, laying between a blanket of yellow rose petals, were two halves of a broken tiara.

  I ran as fast as I could away from the funhouse, past the carousel, and through the midway. Where was Mara? Where was Danny!

  Cherry red lights bounced in the sky. The wail of sirens stood out among the racket.

  Again, the carnival had undergone a despondent metamorphosis. The carnies worked quickly to sedate the beast like the hunters who tried to tame King Kong. The games were closing. The lights were turning off. The kiosks and ticket booths were folding away like origami boxes.

  But the carnival was still breathing.

  Policemen spoke on megaphones from three different points throughout the park. Their voices overlapped and bounced through the streets, giving the beast an unintelligible, garbled language.

  The people who stayed were clustered around the accident that I heard but couldn’t see. It was the Tilt-a-Whirl. My parents were probably there, terrified that I was somehow involved in whatever incident created that sound, pacing circles and damning themselves for leaving us alone.

  I stood in the center of the midway and searched for Mara. I stood on a trash can and called her name.

  No reply.

  In the distance, a single ride was still dancing along the horizon; the Salt and Pepper Shaker, twirling, twinkling, still singing the “game over” sound as the carriages rose and fell with screaming children.

  * * *

  I was panting. I keeled and grabbed the cramp in my stomach. But I had reached the ride.

  I looked up and saw her, malevolent in her purple dress, weaving leisurely between a faction of unaware bystanders.

  Her lips trembled. Her eyes were closed. I couldn’t hear the words, but she was singing. Behind her, Danny followed like a rat to the Piper, lured by her melody and the poetry of her stride.

  “Danny!” I screamed.

  Through the safety gate. Past the operator. A cage zipped a foot from Mara’s face and her hair fluttered in its wake. Her timing was perfect as she stepped between the pair of tumbling carts.

  “MARA!” I screamed! “NO!”

  The girl reeled just in time to see the first cage slam into Danny’s body, his limbs twitching as the ride carried him like a deer on the hood of a car; up, around, then down, declaring “game over!” as it propelled him into the pavement with a loud, dull slap.

  If people were screaming, I didn’t hear. I was focused on Mara Lynn watching me through the ride, the cages spinning between us, her image flickering like a film reel projected on a bed sheet.

  The tempest of blood in her right eye watched me. Golden brown locks of hair snapped in the wind. Her ears bled from those amateur holes I bore, and her lips acknowledged me with a smile. The longer I watched, the deeper the sensation of calling Bloody Mary into a pitch-black mirror.

  Mara, I knew now, was the carnival beast.

  Mara was its brain.

  My God, I realized. She knows!

  My jealousy, my lust, my plots. Mara knew my transgressions and I was her next victim. Her face contorted behind that ride, her neck twisted like Ms. Grisham’s. “Is this a ploy, Jaaames? Have you been a good little boy, Jaaames? Mentally undressing an innocent girl? Creating scenarios in your little head? Masturbating to your pervy thoughts, Jaaames? Savoring the moments your bodies touch, Jaaaaaames?”

  Mara knew it all. I was no different than the ferrets and she knew it! I was just like Ryan and Danny and Little Trevor Tooth Fairy!

  I turned from her horrible smile. I closed my eyes until my sockets fused. I felt her descend upon me, binding my arms with rosaries, crucifying my wrists with her teeth, and ravaging my body whole.

  * * *

  The ride stopped between us. The carnie awoke from his momentary bliss and his face melted at the sight. Children were sobbing and parents were shouting. There was blood on the grate of the first cage and a heap of dead bully on the ground beside me. One eye was buried in the cement. The other was open, watching me.

  But I was alive. I had been spared.

  I looked behind the cages but Mara was gone. I spun around, and there she was, sitting on the street with her back against a plastic trash can, knees to her chest, blood on her bare shoulder, weeping.

  It was exactly what the world needed to see.

  12. HAPPILY EVER AFTER

  The carnival beast was dead.

  The rides had been powered down, but their silhouettes still loomed above the horizon like a graveyard of petrified dragons. Main Street had turned septic with candy wrappers, discarded wristbands and spilled drinks. A traffic signal bobbed in the breeze, its usual rotation of red and green had ceased at eleven PM, now it warned outsiders with a monotonous yellow strobe.

  (The musings of a traumatized twelve-year-old are normally unreliable, but I’ll never forget that prevailing thought as I stumbled through the fair: Mara Lynn was pure evil. My face, they told me, was slack and expressionless after Danny’s death. My mind, however, was alive and busy assembling the pieces to Mara’s plot. She didn’t need Carrie-like telekinesis or Jedi mind tricks to exact her revenge, only supreme, inescapable allure.)

  I didn’t see A.J.’s body as the paramedics pulled it from the Tilt-a-Whirl’s base, only the chalk outline of legs climbing into that rusty seam. It was A.J.’s dying scream that we heard at the funhouse; ghastly shrieks and the gnashing of metal arms. Twelve riders had to be treated for whiplash after the attraction screeched to a halt. A.J. was killed instantly.

  Nobody knew why he crawled through the broken panel. Witnesses could only attest to a look of determination as he weaseled his scrawny limbs through the seam.

  (What did Mara whisper in A.J.’s ear that sent him dashing through the fair? Did she claim she left some exciting trinket in the gears beneath the Tilt-a-Whirl? Perhaps a fresh cassette with her singing voice in magnetic tape, maybe a lacy article marked with a scent unique to her. Or maybe she didn’t need to lie, but simply commanded the boy’s servitude. Maybe he obeyed. Whatever method she used, the message was clear, and I recalled Mara’s fondness for squishing flies as a warning to the other flies.)

  Within minutes, the carnival bigwigs arrived with their lawyers. Behind them, a handful of representatives from The Lakeshore Celebration planning committee.

  The carnies looked like a Where’s Waldo convention as they stood–arms crossed–among the midway games. Men with grim faces and colorful ties took turns lecturing the operators; one by one, they were plucked from the group and lead into a tent to give their official statements. By morning, six carnies would lose their jobs.

  (Were the carnival employees collateral damage from Mara’s plot? Middle-aged men–hopeless targets with dull lives, slugging from city to city to push buttons for ungrateful kids–gladly surrendering their pinup penchants for a numbing glimpse of absolute beauty.)

  My family and friends were reunited at a cluster of picnic tables at the front of the park. An ambulance was positioned between the tables for easy access. Inside, a trio of paramedics inspected us for physical and mental trauma as Mom and Dad paced outside the open doors.

  “Can you tell me your name, tiger?” asked the male paramedic as he listened for my pulse.

  “James Parker,” I replied.

  “And how old are you, James?”

  “Twelve.”

  “Did you see anything that frightened you tonight?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can you tell me about it?”

  I told him about Danny.

  The paramedic held a light to my eye.
“And how did you feel afterward?”

  “I barfed two times on the street, then once in a trash can. My legs feel like Jello and my heart feels fluttery.” I didn’t tell him I saw Mara’s bloody gaze every time I closed my eyes. “Other than that, I feel fine.”

  He asked me several more questions then patted me on the back, helped me out of the ambulance, and beckoned my parents.

  Kimmy and Haley were holding each other on the picnic table, waiting their turn. Whit’s head was leaning against the handlebar of his chair as he slept with open eyes. Livy refused to leave my mother’s wing and begged her to stay through the ambulance visit.

  (Whit, Livy, Kimmy, and Haley were innocents in Mara’s plot. None were punished. None were made to witness.)

  Mara was the last to be inspected. When her exam was complete, she refused to leave the ambulance. She only spoke when spoken to, and only the detectives dared to ask her questions.

  Mr. and Mrs. Brosh looked exactly like their son with smooth Republican faces, a touch of grey in their roots, handbags and cufflinks and shoes that matched. They were dining with friends at the Dune Grass Grill when the Tilt-a-Whirl collapsed. When they rushed outside to survey the drama, they were unaware that their own child was being traumatized at the opposite end of the park. By the time they realized Ryan was involved in the mayhem, he was already en route to the hospital. Until witnesses gave their statements, the Broshes knew nothing of their son’s epic apology to Mara, only that he had been unusually busy with his friends over the last several days.

  (No one would ever know what happened to Ryan behind the funhouse walls. Perhaps Mara whispered words only adults should utter. Maybe she revealed a patch of flesh that high-school freshmen only dream about; an image reflected a thousand times through the hall of mirrors. Whatever she did, she knew her effect.)

  Kimmy and Haley’s parents arrived next. The Conrads were right behind them. Whit’s father surveyed the scene with a hand on his forehead. Whit’s mother fell to her knees and sobbed at her son’s feet.

  “Get up, Mom,” Whit said. “And stop crying.”

  She looked at her son and her face softened. Then she stood up and wiped away her tears.

  If the brawl had been the only unusual incident that evening, I suspect the boys would have been hauled to jail for processing. Instead, they were separated into three groups–jerseys, bandanas, and bleach guns–then un-cuffed, finger-printed, and loosely detained on plastic benches until their parents arrived. Firemen attached hoses to hydrants and sprayed down a line of bandana boys and half-naked jocks still itching and crying from the bleach attacks. Paramedics treated the more serious burns in the ambulances. In the coming days, two kids would be declared legally blind.

  The surreal affair kept the parents detached and defensive, but eventually, they began to mingle. As they chatted amongst themselves, an interesting dynamic began to play itself out, sparking a chain reaction of mini-revelations. Parents were shocked to learn that they were’t alone; that other families had similar problems with unnaturally defiant boys. They shared stories about their sons sneaking out of the house despite threats of the strictest punishments. “It started with missed dinners,” one mother said. “Then he would disappear until midnight and refuse to tell us where he was. We even installed a bolt on his bedroom door... something a mother should never need to do... and he still managed to sneak out.”

  Neither army spoke about the girl who united them. Without a motive for the attacks or the late-night excursions, the parents assumed that their children had been brainwashed by gangs, that they were living proof of America’s skyrocketing violence, that family values were being stripped away by movies, computer games, and Saturday morning cartoons. Concerned mothers exchanged numbers and organized support groups to serve as a lifeline to their troubled kids.

  (How easy it must have been for Mara to invite the boys outside her window, to drop a paper football with the time and place and a note to arrive at the carnival armed and ready for a fight. Perhaps a similar letter was mailed to the abandoned Grisham house where she knew the blue bandanas–her previous stalkers–would find it.)

  The old ladies were there too, scattered on the carnival outskirts, clustered behind taut yellow tape, watching the aftermath from the shadows.

  (They were mothers and grandmothers and churchgoing ladies called to witness Mara’s act of vengeance, doomed to know the source of chaos but unable to betray their malevolent goddess.)

  Hank was last to arrive. I watched as he returned from the Salt and Pepper Shakers with a police escort at his heel, scuffing the pavement and wringing a neon hat between his fists.

  There was a woman caught in the crook of his arm, a feeble crutch supporting a broken man. Her cheeks were caked with mascara, but her eyes were dry. She wore a black skirt that revealed more leg with every step she took, but I didn’t need to see her thigh to know it was Rosyln.

  We exchanged a glance. I like to think that she somehow knew about the ripped-up Poloroid in the middle of the woods. But that was impossible. I forced a smile and she looked away.

  Dad also saw the couple approach. He rose from his seat, stood twelve feet tall, and scowled at the grieving man.

  Hank noticed my father immediately. He nodded once, then squeezed Rosyln deeper into the fold of his arm as she led him away. Only when they were out of sight did my father return to his seat.

  A.J.’s parents never arrived. It would be daybreak before they learned the news about their son. I was grateful not to see their reaction.

  * * *

  Thanks to his developing relationship with the Parker family, Sheriff Beeder became our liaison with the authorities. We were suspects, though nobody used that word at the time.

  The detectives had no trouble assembling the more blatant connections: Danny and A.J. were best friends, all three victims were closely associated with our group, and most importantly, we all had reasons to want them dead. Mara was the obvious focus of the investigation, but every conversation with the girl ended in hugs, handshakes, and absolute certainty that she was uninvolved.

  Charlie, the funhouse operator who followed Ryan’s cries through the house of mirrors, couldn’t identify the creature he saw as a little girl. Eyewitnesses at the Salt and Pepper Shaker claimed Mara was the closest to Danny at the moment of his death, but they never saw her touch him and claimed he walked by his own free will into the path of the ride. When asked why she disobeyed the safety gate and stepped through the spinning cages, Mara told them that Danny had frightened her and she was trying to get away.

  To secure her innocence, the little girl was nowhere near A.J. when he crawled to his demise.

  * * *

  I was interrogated only once and I lost my composure before the detective could ask her first question.

  “I didn’t want him to die,” I sobbed.

  A second woman comforted me and assured me I wasn’t in trouble.

  The rest of the interview was benign. I only confirmed what fifty witnesses reported before me.

  Whit, Livy, Kimmy and Haley were useless.

  By the time the sun peeked over the horizon and announced a new day, all six of us had been exonerated.

  * * *

  I don’t remember the car ride home. I don’t remember shutting my curtains or crawling into my bed.

  I do remember my restless sleep, waking up to the ringing phone, listening to my mother’s concerned voice as she explained her version of the story again to the police, to the parents of the victims, to Mr. Anderson from Social Services, and to the Greenfields.

  I churned beneath my dinosaur sheets. I dreamt of Danny’s death. I drifted between planes of consciousness, reveled in the mystery, and pondered the hundreds of unanswered questions.

  Why was A.J. at the carnival? There was more he wanted to say, but he never got the chance. Why was Ryan Brosh a target of Mara’s wrath? I hated the boy, but there was a time when her diary declared us as equals. Who were the boys
with the bleach? What summoned them to the trees outside my window? They heard about Mara through the grapevine, I convinced myself. Somehow, they heard her voice and wanted more.

  The most important question wracked my brain for hours as I slept: why was I spared?

  I awoke again when a hand touched my forehead. The curtains were dark, but I could still see the white part of Mara’s eyes. The blood was gone.

  “I’m so sorry,” I said.

  “Shh,” she replied.

  “Mara–” I said, but she shushed me again.

  “Just sleep.”

  * * *

  When I awoke again, Mara was still there. “What time is it?” I asked.

  “Midnight,” she said. “You slept all day.”

  “Tomorrow night... let’s go on a date.”

  “Where to?”

  I wiggled my face into the pillow. “How about Gator Golf? Milkshakes afterwards. Dad’ll drive us.”

  Mara nodded in the darkness and smiled. “I’d love to.”

  * * *

  The sun was up. My stomach was nauseous and hungry. Twenty-six hours after returning from the carnival, I finally rolled out of bed.

  A pair of shorts and a fresh tee were folded and waiting for me on the nightstand. I dressed myself, pressed the swollen bags beneath my eyes, and patted down my hair.

  The castle was quiet. Livy’s door was open. Her room was spotless.

  “Hello?” I called, but my throat was dry and my voice cracked. I swallowed and tried again. “Mara? Livy?”

  “In here, sweetie,” Mom said from the dining room. “There’s tea in the refrigerator.”

  I braced myself on the piano, then stumbled through the archways to the kitchen. I cracked an ice cube tray, poured myself some tea, then stepped into the dining room.

  Mom, Dad and Livy were sitting around the table. My sister stirred her ice with her index finger. Dad rolled the base of his glass on the wooden top.

  “Mornin’” I said. “Where’s Mara?”

  “Have a seat, hon,” said my mother.

  I narrowed my eyes and asked again. “Where’s Mara?”