DarkFuse Anthology 2

by Shane Staley

  I remember thinking everyone was crazy for thinking him cute, that he was definitely the ugliest thing I’d ever seen, that he didn’t deserve all that attention, and finally that I would have to make him go away.

  Just as I was arriving at this inevitable conclusion, Adam stirred, his face scrunching up and his mouth trembling. And then he started his screeching and I knew what I needed to do to set things right.

  “Shut up,” I whispered, raking his lips with my tiny hands. His scream intensified, his head swiveling on a neck too weak to support it. I remember wanting to bite him too, to tear and chew and ruin with my new teeth, but in a lot of ways, I was more patient in the upheaval of those early years.

  “Go away, Adam,” I said. I brought those tiny hands to my brother’s throat and clamped them down as hard as I could.

  Adam struggled feebly beneath me, his protest waning, his throat working to draw in what little air was left beyond the pinch of my thumbs. He was crimson by then, his lips blue, his eyes closed as tightly as his throat. Crimson turned to purple and purple to an ugly grayish blue. And in a matter of minutes he was gone and I let him go.

  His eyes had rolled toward me as he’d fallen limp, his pupils having dilated past the dull gray of his irises in the course of the struggle. The deep darkness beneath the slits of his eyelids held me for a moment, the cry of the cicada closer now and piercing. And then the spell was broken and I climbed out of the crib and slipped back into my own bedroom where I’d wait for Adam to be found.

  Cribdeath was a word that pricked my ears in the days following Mom stumbling down the hallway with Adam’s slack body clutched to her chest, her frantic cries of “oh, God, my baby…oh, poor baby, no!” filling our home. Cribdeath passed between the grown-ups like a dirty joke and, well, I guess in many ways it was.

  Eventually people stopped talking about it and things went back to normal: there was no more talk of babies, only “how lucky we are to have our little Colie.”

  * * *

  But now the baby had come back, its insectile eyes boring into me, its maw shuttering and clicking around the whirring of its throat.

  All the old hatred came rushing back with the same intensity as those memories. Overtaken by the rage in my heart, I leapt off of Bailey and onto the thing beside me.

  “Shut up and go away!” I roared, hunching over it on all fours. It kept its strange eyes on where I’d been before turning its wide head to me and screeching again, though now sounding more like an infant than an insect.

  “Shut up!” I screamed. “Go away!”

  I was inches from its face, my teeth bared, my hands in fists that were laying into the tiles on either side of the thing beneath me.

  “Shut up! Shut! up!”

  Its dark eyes locked onto mine and I felt hatred creep through me. The familiar disdain kept my attention on those eyes as Bailey Meyers scrambled to her feet and fled the darkness of the supply room. Somewhere, beyond the song of the cicada, I heard her sobs receding until there was only that dreadful creaking.

  I told myself then that I’d have to catch her and make her go away too, but when I tried to gain my feet, nothing happened. The imago held me with its gaze and in its eyes the old memories played out again, warped by time and the dark horizons of those pupils.

  I saw Adam in the crib and his ugly red face. I saw my hands, so powerful even then. And I watched the moment when the baby fell limp and my old hatred turned to satisfaction.

  Then the shrill aria began to fade and I was able to muster enough strength to look away. I turned to the sound of someone approaching through the darkness, but then the room was tumbling around me and unseen hands were pinning me to the floor.

  Mr. Ambrose was sitting on top of me, his beady eyes narrowed in anger. He was shouting at me through bared teeth, threatening me, but all I could hear was the distant creaking.

  I began to lose myself to the whine, returning my eyes to the strange thing beside me only to find that tiny, twitching cicada on its back with its spindly legs still pedaling. And just before I slipped away, the imago righted itself and turned to me one last time before flying off. I watched it skitter away to nothingness as Mr. Ambrose stood over me, his meaty hands clasped around my chest as he hauled me back through his classroom, away from the lesson I’d been trying to teach Bailey Meyers, that tattling bitch.

  As we went, I stared at the empty supply room in a daze, wondering what might have been had memories stayed buried like unspoken secrets. And in the absence of the imago came an old silence through the crawling darkness, I swore I could hear its whine again, deep and distant, a deathsong from a past I couldn’t escape.

  The Betting Man

  Michael A. Pignatella

  Craig almost threw the ticket away, almost tossed it into the garbage bag along with the other flotsam and jetsam from the old desk drawer—the floppy discs, spent pens, paper clips and stamps. Even the half-used box of condoms, a reminder of days long past. Linda would have laughed, but she had left with the girls on an early morning flight to the East Coast, rendering Craig a bachelor for the week. Which wasn’t all bad—he was alone for perhaps the first time in ten years.

  What stopped Craig from discarding the ticket was the date scrawled along the back in a harsh, blocky script. Today’s date. Considering he hadn’t opened the desk drawer since college, it gave him pause.

  He flipped it over. It was a ticket to the Colegrove Brothers carnival, dated twenty years ago, when Craig was fifteen, when days and nights were filled with cheerleaders and school and earning an extra buck. He settled into an old recliner, which along with the desk was slated for the trash. The Colegrove Brothers. Why did that name sound so familiar? Why did it feel so distasteful, like swallowing dirty ashes? He turned the ticket back over and examined the handwriting, today’s date taunting him. Then, as if she had materialized in the room, he saw her thick sausage fingers and heard her shallow, noisy breath as she whispered his fate. The carny.

  * * *

  They had arrived at the carnival early in the evening, Craig and Rick and Brian and Joey, pulling into the parking lot of Falmouth Square in Rick’s father’s old Chevy Malibu. Rick was the only one with a driver’s license, and he used this leverage without conscience, comfortable in his self-appointed leadership role. They spent the night wandering: ogling girls, eating hot dogs, splitting a couple of sodas. Their monetary supply was limited and so they paced themselves, stretching their funds and the night as far as possible.

  They saw her late in the evening, when the stars had come out and the moon hung in front of them, just a sliver, as if someone had sliced the dark sky with a stiletto. Craig walked behind the others, soaking up the atmosphere, the smell of popcorn and fried dough, the tinny, never-ending calliope music, the blinking lights. He didn’t notice they had stopped until Rick spoke.

  “Take a look at fatty,” he said, motioning with his head to the woman running the “Guess Your Weight” booth. She was quite a sight—barely over five feet tall, but weighing at least three hundred pounds. Strands of long, greasy, brown-black hair stuck to her pale face, which glistened like bad cheese. Her harsh bark cried out for someone to let her guess their weight or age or birth month.

  “Hey, Craig,” said Rick, “go have her guess your age.”

  “Yeah,” said Brian, Rick’s cousin, “she’ll never guess—you don’t look old enough to have hair on your dick.” The others laughed as Craig bristled. He was small and skinny, and that, combined with his fine, wispy blond hair and fair skin, lent him an air of innocence that belied his age.

  “Screw you, Brian, I’m not the one with dick control problems,” he replied, referring to Brian’s recent first sexual encounter, which the high school rumor mill suggested had ended prematurely on his part. I shouldn’t have said that, Craig thought. That crosses the line. Brian stepped forward, hands clenched in tight fists, but Rick stepped between them.

  “That comment just bought you a date with the fatty,” he sai
d, winking at Brian. “Either that, or Brian gets to take it out of your balls.” Craig was silent. “No big deal, just play the game. Let her guess your age. Brian gets the prize if you win.” He shoved Craig with such force that he stumbled toward her, almost falling. Craig turned and there she was.

  She didn’t see him at first, but when she turned to him she leered, a broad smile that seemed a mixture of hunger and amusement. Her crooked teeth were a smorgasbord of color, brown and yellow and tan. She licked her lips with a gray tongue.

  “Well, well, well,” she said, “what do we have here?” Her voice was loud and booming. Craig didn’t respond. He could feel the stares of his friends on his back, watching, listening to every bellowed word. “Whatsamatter, cutie, cat got your tongue?” The carny was stuffed into a pair of hot pink stretch pants and a white halter top, and Craig watched a rivulet of sweat trickle down her neck, disappearing into the valley between her massive breasts. Finally, he found his voice.

  “I want to play.”

  “You do, do ya, baby? Well, what does a cutie pie like you want to play?” She winked. “I play all kinds of games.”

  “Um, guess my age.” And do it quick.

  “Guess your age? That’s one dollar, honey. You got a dollar?” Craig pulled a crumpled bill from his jeans pocket. She took it and tucked it into a little canvas bag hanging from her enormous waist. Then she approached him.

  “Stand still, honey, I gotta check out the wares.” She inspected him visually first, examining his teeth and his hands and his eyes. Then she touched him, running her fat fingers down his chest, across his shoulders, squeezing his biceps. Craig could see his friends over her shoulder, their faces red with laughter as Brian made mock-humping motions. The first hint of anger kindled, a taut, hard ember centered in his chest. Then her hands were on his ass, clutching both cheeks like basketballs. Craig jumped.

  “What the hell?” His anger flared, heat spreading across his stomach. Who did this fat bitch think she was? His friends’ laughter echoed in his ears.

  “Don’t be shy, baby. Just checking the wares.” She took out a little pad and a pencil nub, and after one long last look, wrote something down. “Okay. All set. So how old are you, handsome?”

  “Fifteen.” He said it in a strong, clear voice.

  “Fifteen? Oh boy, was I off.” She laughed, a hearty, coarse laugh that made her flesh jiggle, and turned over the paper. “I had ya pegged at twelve.” Craig stood dumbfounded. He could hear his friends break out into fresh peals of laughter, could hear Brian say, “I told you he doesn’t have any hair on his dick!” The carny must have heard too, as her gaze fell to his crotch. She looked at him, one eyebrow arched, then tossed him his prize, a small stuffed frog.

  “I don’t believe it, hon. I betcha it’s nice and hairy.” The embarrassment and anger burst from Craig in a hot jet.

  “Fuck you, you fat piece of shit,” he said, and he threw the frog at her, its bean-bag body smacking against her torso with a thud, falling to the dusty ground. Craig stood, fists clenched, his heart pounding in his ears. The carny looked at him and then walked over so that she was in his face.

  “Was that a nice thing to say?” she asked, her voice low and measured. Craig refused to budge.

  “Eat shit, lady.” She smiled. He could see an unidentified piece of food, green and glistening, snagged in one of the crevices between her teeth. She reached around him, sliding her hand into the back pocket of his jeans. Despite his anger, Craig couldn’t move. She pulled out his carnival ticket and held it in front of her.

  “How about we play double or nothing? Whaddya say, potty mouth? But not on something as boring as your age.” She paused. “How about this? How about I guess your death?” Craig felt a flush of fear, the first dim realization he had crossed a line he shouldn’t have. He wanted to speak, wanted to blurt “nowayyoucrazyfatpig” and run, but he couldn’t.

  “Not so quick with a comeback anymore, are ya, baby? Well, I’ll take your silence as a yes.” She licked her lips. Was her tongue that long before? That black? “Here’s what I’m gonna do. I’m gonna write down the date I think you’ll die right here on the back of your ticket. If I’m wrong, you hunt me down and take your pick from all of my lovely prizes.” She swept her arm, highlighting the trinkets and stuffed animals arrayed on the rack behind her. “If I’m right…” She paused. “Well, then you’ll be dead, won’t you?” She winked. “And you’ll owe me two bucks. Deal?” Craig still couldn’t speak. Where were his friends? Why didn’t they interrupt? Could they even hear what was going on? The woman stepped back and mumbled to herself, and then wrote something on the back of the ticket.

  “There you go. The date of your death.” She smiled, saliva puddling in the corner of her lips. Craig didn’t move. “Take it,” she said, pressing the ticket into his damp, sweaty hand. She pushed him in the direction of his friends, and called out to him as he shuffled away.

  “Don’t forget, double or nothing,” she said, and then she laughed, a deep, dark chuckle that bored straight into Craig’s soul. He continued toward his friends, who were still laughing, and then he ran, leaving them behind. He waited by the old Malibu until they joined him, an hour later.

  “What’s the matter, did she make you hard?” Brian asked, a laugh starting to form in his throat.

  Craig moved quickly, clutching Brian by the neck and jacking him up against the car. “Don’t ever mention her again,” he said. Brian squirmed and Craig tightened his hold. “Ever.”

  The car ride home was silent, and no one mentioned the carny again.

  * * *

  Craig sat slumped in the old chair, sweat beading on his brow despite the coolness of the air-conditioning. He looked at the ticket, at the handwriting that purportedly forecast the day of his death. Today. How could he have forgotten? It seemed almost inconceivable, given how freaked out he had been. Then again, he supposed there was a lot about growing up he’d forgotten. Willingly.

  Not that he believed it, of course. The whole thing was a cruel trick played upon a teenage boy. It was sick, really. He shrugged. No big deal. Strange coincidence, though, finding the ticket today, the very day of his ostensible demise. He moved to throw it into the garbage, and then paused. For a moment he smelled the carnival, the exhaust from the rides and the grease of french fries. He sat down at the corner hutch and flipped on his computer, humming to himself as it warmed up, then signing online and logging onto Google.

  He typed in “Colegrove Brothers” and punched enter. His heart pounded. A night at the carnival might be just what he needed. He did, after all, have a bet to win.

  * * *

  At five thirty he was in his Audi, a battered road atlas and the carnival schedule, printed from the Internet, sitting on the seat next to him. As unlikely as it seemed, the Colegrove Brothers carnival was playing in Homer’s Grove, Illinois. Just over the Indiana border, near Champaign, about a six-hour drive from his home on the Ohio-Indiana border. Not too far, if you really wanted to go. If you had a bet to win. When Linda had called from Connecticut, he told her he was going to the movies. A little white lie, harmless. Who could it hurt?

  He had seen the carny on the Internet, in a photo entitled “Our Carnival Family.” Her hair was still thick and greasy, her cheeks still full and shiny, her chin still lumpy. She was smiling, almost daring him to find her. He thought back to his encounter with her, to the way she had pawed and touched him. He remembered again the shame and humiliation, the laughter of his friends, the comments about his penis. It was like ripping a scab from an infected cut, a cut that was thin but deep. Bitch, he thought, and swallowed a throat full of bile.

  He pulled into the parking area at 12:05 and rechecked the schedule. Closing time on the weekends was 1:00 a.m. Plenty of time. He stepped out of the car, took a deep breath and smiled. Absurd as it might be, he felt a sense of achievement, having survived the carny’s fatal prediction. He headed into the carnival.

  It was just as he remembered, the
smell of fried food and the sound of amusement rides, the tinkling music slightly off key. Maybe I should turn around, he thought, but then he remembered her hands sizing him up, and the fire flared within him once again. No, he would confront her with her cruelty, and dammit, collect his prize, if only to spit on it.

  He found the midway and checked his watch. It was now 12:20 a.m. and he was still alive. He laughed as he walked, glancing past the Whack-a-Mole game and the darts and the squirt gun-powered horse races, each manned by nondescript carnival workers. Losers. Then he heard her, the voice still harsh and deep, like an anguished hippopotamus. The fat carny.

  She was still manning the guess-your-weight-age-birthday booth. Her greasy dark hair had perhaps a few streaks of gray, but she was otherwise the same, still massive, her face an unclean amalgam of unattractive features, the whole more grotesque than the sum of its parts. She let out another bark, “Comeandletmeguessyourage!” and Craig shuddered. He took a deep breath and walked up to her.

  Once again, she didn’t notice him at first. Craig stood to the side, observing the cheap stuffed animals and die-cast cars and plastic squirt guns that served as prizes. Finally she turned and looked at him, igniting a feeling of déjà vu as she examined him, poking and prodding with her eyes. She raised one eyebrow and spoke.

  “Well hello there, honey. Wanna play?” Craig’s stomach churned. The dirty pig hadn’t changed.

  “No thanks. We’ve already got a game going.” He paused for effect. “You might remember—guess my death.” He smiled, waiting for a look of shame. An apology, even. She smiled back.

  “Well, yes, I sure do. You’re the angry little cutie pie. I thought I recognized you. Is it that time already?”