“Are you sure that’s him?” Li peaked over her knuckles from behind the shelf. “Positive.” Wu’s head hovered above her. “I didn’t think he was that tall—” “Well the only photo I’ve ever seen of him was on the back of that book you had.” Wu stumbled above Li, knocking her over in the process. “You buffoon! Watch it!” Wu helped her up and they turned to each other. “You go! I’m too nervous!” Li said, clutching her hands above her chest. “No way! I don’t even know why he’s here?” “Hungry, I guess. The guy likes Chinese food, who doesn’t?” Wu arched his eyebrows and folded his arms across his chest. “You’d think he’d stay clear of places like this. We’re a hole-in-the-wall for Christ’s sake!” “Fine!” Li forced her fists towards the ground. “I’ll do it!” Wu tip-toed back from behind the counter, continuing to spy on the mysterious gentleman seated at the table near the window. As Li shuffled past the counter, she grabbed a menu and approached the man from behind. Tapping her fingers against its spine, she blinked and forced a smile. “Huanying! Welcome, uh—here’s our menu.” Li’s trembling fingers gave out from beneath the menu, dropping it on to the table. The man’s stare cut through Li and boiled her insides with a mixture of fear and frustration. “Our special for today is wonton soup, succulent po—” “Noodles” He said stoically. Li felt a warming sensation on her cheeks and imagined them cherry-red—flush with anxiety. “N-N-Noodles?” He lowered his head and picked up the newspaper next to him. Li remained on the side of the table, pen and paper in hand, waiting to see if the man would order anything else. After several seconds of silent reverence, she turned toward the kitchen and fled to the store room where Wu stood, watching the man from behind the heating rack. Li collapsed next to him. Panting, she reached for the book shelf behind the work desk. Wu scurried alongside her. “So! What happened! Did he call you something! Did he even order! Li!” Li scrambled through piles of books, ignoring Wu’s questions. She located what she was searching for and snatched it off the shelf. Its spine flaked the letters: LOVECRAFT—DAGON. She flipped it in her hands and gazed at the portrait on the back cover. Sneaking behind the storage rack, she held the book so it was level with the man’s frame. She bit her fingers and turned towards Wu. “It’s him! And he wants noodles! Just noodles!” Wu spun away from the counter and emptied a container of noodles onto the saucepan. The sizzling of the fryer interrupted the restaurant’s silence as she continued comparing the two faces. Wu muttered to himself while working the dish beneath him. “H. P. Lovesshmaft...asshole...dickhole...piece of…” “Man, how I wish we could just poison his food.” Li whispered. “Same,” Wu shimmied the noodles onto a plate and cocked his head to the side. “What’s up? Let me guess, you want me to bring it out too?” Li watched her brother’s body language. Wu didn’t reply; he was seemingly entranced by the oily pile on the plate before him. “Nothing…I mean, no! Yeah, I thought I—I thought I saw something, like the noodles were watching me.” Li raised her eyebrows and took the dish from Wu. “You’re losing it. Tell Mom you want morning shifts before you start talking to more food—weirdo.” Li approached Lovecraft’s table and placed the dish before him. He folded the paper and picked up his fork, digging into the noodle pile. From the side of the table, she stepped back and sighed, glancing once more in his direction before escaping behind the counter. # Beneath her feet, the floor tiles peeled upwards and flashed in chromatic shades. Their contours deformed and enlarged into clusters of black cubes that aligned and melted into the darkness. Li’s hands wrinkled, her tongue stuck to her lips, and her cheeks rubbed against air that felt like sand-paper. She fell towards the counter and lifted her head. From Lovecraft’s table oozed a snot-colored stream. Its apex nearly tickled the ceiling; Lovecraft struggled in the mess. The counter rumbled underneath Li’s hands as she writhed about, shouting desperately for Wu. She twisted her head back to the kitchen, only to witness its descent into a murky void. A sinister wind ambushed Li’s chest, forcing her to grip the counter and wail in terror. Pulsing lights protruded from the mess and illuminated the perimeter of the room followed by guttural, horrid shrieks that accompanied the alien light—now a ferocious spiral of cosmic gusts. The noodles deified before Li. Their appendages burst outward in a frenzy of tentacles, gripping Lovecraft by the shoulders and tearing away at his center. Blood spurted from his dilapidated corpse like a loose fire-hydrant, pumping splashes of his innards to stream down Li’s face and into her mouth. She coughed through the membrane of blood collected on her lips and screamed, “Nyarlathotep! The God! Nyarlathotep—Please! No!” # Lovecraft turned around in his seat. He stared at Li while she screamed on top of the counter, her eyes gazing off into her self-created apparition. Wu scampered out of the kitchen and threw his hands around her shoulders, attempting to shake her from the nightmarish stupor. “The noodles...there was...I saw—” Li whimpered. “Would you get a grip! And you said I was losing it.” Wu peaked over Li’s shoulder at Lovecraft, who sat quietly observing the commotion. “I think he’s done. Get it together! Collect his plate! Put you on morning shift—crazy…” Her stomach churned with each passing step. Pulling alongside his table, she bowed and forced her best smile again. “We apologize for any inconvenience.” He hardly ate; the pile was mostly intact. She passed the counter and stood before the bin. As her foot pushed down to open the lid, she caught a glimpse of something moving in the noodle pile. She gawked at the ghastly site before her; her eyes met a stray eye—narrow and crusted with black scales. The eye blinked. Li lost her breath and felt the plate slip from her hands. Mike teaches and writes in upstate New York. His work has been published multiple times by 365 Tomorrows and will be featured in upcoming issues of Close 2 to the Bone, Dark Dossier, Sirens Call eZine, & Black Hare Press' Lockdown Sci-fi Anthology Series.
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“What’s that supposed to be?” Noah Allen, sleeves rolled up to his forearms and sweat beading on his forehead, dabbed little green scales onto the shop window. “Starbucks logo.” “Yeah, but what is it?” “Mermaid maybe?” He squinted at the window in the glare of the Manuxet River. “Who knows? They just pay me to show up and paint.” Noah did a lot of odd jobs around town: pressure washing houses, cleaning rooftop gutters, fixing boilers and plumbing. The Allens had been here as long as anyone. Came in the early 1800s and stuck around our crappy little oceanside town for whatever reason. “Why would anyone open a Starbucks here?” “Dunno,” Noah said, taking a rag out of his jeans pocket and scrubbing his brow. “Maybe they want to sell us coffee. What time’s the shindig start tonight?” “Seven o’clock. You gonna be there?” “For your mama? Wouldn’t miss it.” I headed down Marsh Street towards the grocery store. Innsmouth had changed in the past few years. Warehouses had been renovated into studio apartments, overlooking the Atlantic Ocean; new rustic farm-to-table restaurants popped up every week with menu offerings like smashed avocado on toast. We even got an Urban Outfitters down on Water Street, but when I went inside to check out one of the T-shirts in the window, all the cashiers stared at me like I’d done something wrong. So I left without buying anything. Stepping into Wegmans, I pulled out the grocery list my mother had prepared: plantains, chicken, flour and lemon juice for the pica pollo. And more than enough soft drinks for anyone who showed up on our doorstep. I was grabbing a six-pack of Coca Cola when I noticed him across the aisle. He was wearing a cardigan sweater with patches on the elbows, and his glasses slid down low on his nose as he examined the nutritional information on a box of ramen noodles. He was the handsomest man I’d ever seen. I followed him around the grocery store for a while, watching while he shuffled through coupons. When he got into the express lane, I slipped in right behind him. “That’ll be twenty-three dollars,” the cashier said, ringing up the man’s order. He counted the change out of his pocket. And then re-counted it. And then re-counted it again. “C’mon, man,” shouted someone from the back of the line. “We all have places to be.” “I’m really sorry.” The man checked all his other pockets for any hidden loose change. “Um, could you take off the —“ “How much do you need?” I asked, pulling out my bus fare. I could always walk home. He turned to look at me, and I wondered what he saw: round unblinking eyes with giant black pupils dotted right in the centers, dark skin with ashy patches of scales, the same thick lips as my mother. I expected him to ignore me, the way all the newcomers did, but instead, he grinned. “Seventy-five cents.” I gave him my change. His finger brushed against mine as the money passed between us. His nail was bitten down to the quick, and his cuticles were ragged; mine had tissue paper-thin webbing attaching it to its neighbor. “Thanks.” He handed the dollar to the cashier and packed his groceries into the bags he’d brought from home. “Do you live around here?” he asked, as the cashier scanned my items and took my EBT card. “A few blocks away, yeah.” “Mind if I walk you home?” His name was Russell Olmstead. He’d dropped out of Miskatonic University when the tuition bills had gotten too steep, but he still had forty thousand dollars in student loans to pay back. He’d moved to Innsmouth because the rent was cheap, and his job allowed him to work remotely. He didn’t have two cents to rub together right now, but that’d change, he told me. He was going to become something. I told him he’d be better off leaving Innsmouth then. Nothing ever happened in this shit-hole town. When we reached the Eliot Street Housing Development, he scratched the back of his neck and said, “Well, I should probably be getting back —“ I blurted out the words I’d been carrying around, heavy as my grocery bags, since we left Wegmans: “My mother’s moving next week.” “Where to?” “You wouldn’t know it. She’s having a going-away party if you want to come.” I lifted up a cluster of plantains and gave them a little shake. “Free food.” Russell glanced towards the rickety wooden pier down the street from our building. The water whipped up against the stilted legs, brown and frothy like watered-down cocoa. He couldn’t have known what was underneath those waves, but maybe he suspected. Maybe he’d also dreamed of tentacles crawling up the boardwalk and ripping street-lamps out of the cement. “Sounds great,” he finally said, stuffing his hands into his jeans pockets. “I’d love to get to know the neighborhood better.” “We’ll show you the real Innsmouth,” I smiled. But the corners of my lips were tighter than both our bank accounts. As he shuffled through the steel security door, I almost stopped him, even though I’d been the one to invite him inside. Leave! You’re not like us! But it was as if my breath had been caught in a riptide and pulled deep down into my throat; the words struggled to break the surface and then drowned. My mom came out of the kitchen, wiping off webbed fingers on her apron. “And who’s this young gentleman?” she asked, jagged teeth stretching up into a smile. I clenched my toes inside my flats. I knew we were different from the outsiders, knew they’d probably find our traditions, our appearance, our whole way of life strange. But I’d never been embarrassed of my family until that moment. And then I felt embarrassed about being embarrassed. Because why should I be? We’d been here first after all; Innsmouth was our home. If these people decided they wanted to live here, wanted to erect their Starbucks on our street corners and post photos of our harbors on Instagram, then what should that matter? We didn’t have to change for them. If anything, they should be changing for us. “Russell Olmstead,” he said, grasping her hand in his own. She nudged a chair out from the table and had a seat. Her bulging amber eyes caught the light streaming in from the windows. “You new to Innsmouth?” He nodded. “Used to be a good community,” she said. “But then the government came in. Detonated explosives out in the water, arrested most of the locals. Now what do we have?” She humph’ed and looked out the window. Russell glanced over at me with a nervous smile, not sure what to say. I shrugged. “Olmstead,” she repeated and looked him up-and-down. “You have family from around here?” “An uncle. He’s renting me his old studio for two hundred a month.” I noticed it then. The strange roundness of Russell’s eyes. As familiar as a used pencil, chewed-up and dull, in the bottom of my backpack. Maybe he wasn’t as much of an outsider as I’d first thought. “This neighborhood may not be perfect, but just between you and me—“ She leaned in closer to him, propping her scaled elbows up on the tabletop. “There’ll be worse places to be when times get tough than here with us in Innsmouth.” Russell went real quiet for a while after that, staring out the window at the churning sea. And everything that might lurk beneath its sparkling waves. V. A. Vazquez comes from New York City where she has previously worked as a theatre producer, an arts educator, and a ghostwriter for famous fashion editors (which you wouldn’t be able to tell from looking in her closet). She writes urban fantasy and specializes in stories that involve women (or men or non-binary folks) romancing monsters, preferably the slimy Lovecraftian kind. She currently lives in Scotland with her husband and their wee doggo. “No, Emilie, you can’t make me eat Cthulhu tentacles! It’s barbaric!” Mark couldn’t stop the sweat pouring out from his temples as steam rose out of the pots and the grills surrounding them. Each wooden table had a round grill indented in the center, barbecuing tentacles and thinly sliced meat, in addition to a personal steel pot boiling in front of each restaurant patron. “For once, can you shut the hell up about how I’m barbaric if I don’t eat like you?” Emilie glowered at Mark, her frown and the furrow between her immaculate brows doing nothing to spoil the smoothness of her porcelain BB cream and tinted cherry blossom lips. “You lost the bet with me. You’re going to eat some Cthulhu tentacles.” “I can’t believe people of your culture eat this crap. It’s cruel! You eat dead animals and call yourselves civilized?” Emilie’s brows rose while her dark eyes narrowed. Her long lashes stayed still, like frigid snow-frozen branches. “You’re calling me barbaric again?” “No, Emilie, not you! You’re...you’re not like the others!” “And how am I not like the others, Mark?” Emilie rested her pointed chin in a slender hand. “Explain that to me.” “Well...uh…” Mark sweated, no longer sure if it was because of the heat and steam that permeated the restaurant, or if it was because of Emilie’s sharp glare. “You’re beautiful, I’m...I’m dating you--” “And so because I have a white boyfriend, that puts me above others of my background?” snapped Emilie. “Is that it?” “That’s not what I’m saying!” “Then prove it!” Emilie pushed a plate of takoyaki balls to Mark, the golden dough glistening like freshly glazed donuts swept out of an oven. Emilie’s stare bore into Mark like knives. Eat them. Eat them, Mark. Eat them, and shove your white supremacy down your throat. Mark picked up one skewered ball, clamped a hand over his eyes, and poked out his tongue as he teetered the takoyaki ball closer. The scent of hot, sweet batter submerged his entire head. The dough shell bloomed on the tip of his tongue, warm and savory and crispy, like a hushpuppy. He sank in his teeth. The slight crunch of the golden skin gave way to the umami flavor and chewiness of the chopped tentacles enveloped in the soft, moist dough, tinged with the tang of seaweed and green onions. A new hunger surged from within him, a tidal wave of appetites flooding his nerves. He stabbed each takoyaki ball, one by one, and chewed on each impaled delicacy with the vigor of a man discovering a new obsession. All the while, Emilie watched him as she cradled her pointed chin in her scarlet-manicured fingers, her eyes fixed on him like a vulture never leaving its stare from its prize. Once Mark licked the plate clean of sharp mustard and worcester sauce, he met his girlfriend’s gaze for approval. Her eyes remained stony. “Now eat this.” Emilie pushed him a plate of live Cthulhu tentacles wriggling on the plate. Each glistening tentacle resembled living threads of oscillating jewels, marbled in a harmony of emerald green and vibrant violets. As Mark’s stomach felt as though it flipped inside-out, Emilie plucked a leg from the plate. She slurped on it like a noodle, gnawing on the thick flesh between each small suck as she stared at him. Her eyes remained unblinking. He followed her lead. He dunked one of the long appendages into a generous heaping of sesame oil before clenching his teeth around the rubbery flesh. The suctions sucked at his tongue and teeth, sticking to him, thrashing with a willingness to live. It was alive, it was fresh. He chewed and chewed, the slightly sweet sesame oil lubricating his teeth with each bite. When he swallowed, the Cthulhu tentacle slithered down his throat. He expected to choke, or even be rushed to the emergency room, as he had heard stories of grisly deaths met by those who did not take their time to thoroughly chew on Cthulhu tentacles. He took a pause to sip on iced water. Emilie plucked another swirling tendril from the plate and brought it to his lips, like a mother bird feeding its chick. Her red lips stretched into a smile as Mark chomped down on the offering. After swallowing that one, he dunked another, then two, then four Cthulhu tentacles into the glass bowl of sesame oil that Emilie kept refilling for him. He gorged on them as if sacrificing himself to drown in an ocean of steaming noodles. Each oscillating extremity filled him with warmth and gusto that he had never been raised to appreciate. Years of nibbling on limp leaves and ungarnished salads had left his taste buds barren. But here, here was life. The thrashing and squirming of Cthulhu tentacles swarming his tongue like fresh ramen, the scent of grilled meat and salted ocean flesh tingling from his nose and all the way down his spine, the warmth of steam submerging the entire restaurant, they all rang bells within his body. Bells that rang like a ceremony to welcome the resurrection of joy, of taste, of life. When he engulfed the last of the Cthulhu tentacles, he coughed. Grabbing his glass of ice water, he gulped down the cold refreshment. His jaw hung as he slammed down his drained cup. For once, Emilie bore a wide grin, her straight white teeth scintillating like knives framed by her red lips. She bit into a fresh order of takoyaki that a waiter set down in front of her, fluttering her lashes. “Not so barbaric, am I?” Delicious. Jo Wu was born and raised in the San Francisco Bay Area, where she studied Biology and Creative Writing at UC Berkeley. When writing, she can be found typing away in her Google Docs, accompanied by a Poisoned Apple mug that is constantly refilled with green tea, while blasting a mix of metal and orchestral scores. When she is not writing, she will be sewing her next costume or deadlifting her next powerlifting goal. Felix’s sandals slapped against the cobblestone path that snaked its way from the heart of Chicxulub all the way to its crumbling docks. His legs burned, as if his muscles had been doused and set ablaze. At the tip of the dock, Frederick Lamont flicked his cigarette into the still waters of the Mexican Gulf. The tall, pale professor from Miskatonic University waited with crossed arms, his fine leather shoes tapping impatiently on the plank floors. Behind him, the sky began to grow dark. Felix handed him the old tome and bent over to catch his breath. “Did anyone see you, boy?” Lamont asked. “Yes,” Felix said gasping. He stood and turned toward town. The chorus of voices began to rise in the distance like the buzzing of angry hornets. “The priest saw me take the codex.” “Damn,” Lamont said through grit teeth. “There’s no time.” He began flipping through the book’s tattered pages, biting down on his lip until a small sliver of blood trickled down his chin. “What’s so important about that book?” Felix said. “Don’t you know your own town’s history?” Lamont said as his eyes darted madly across the pages. Felix shrugged. “My mamá says that book is never to be read or discussed” “That’s why you and all your ilk will remain ignorant and subservient to people like me. Because you don’t understand the very treasures you have under your very noses.” Felix said nothing. Lamont offered the boy a quick glimpse and pursed his lips. “Oh, I suppose I can tell you a little secret,” he said smiling, tracing his fingers through lines of faded text. “Long ago, a Spanish Galleon sunk in these waters. One sailor survived, swimming into town and relaying his story to the local priest who transcribed his account into this very codex.” The drone of angry voices drew nearer, filling the streets behind them. Lamont continued. “The sailor’s account described an enormous creature that rose from the depths, bearing the tentacled face of an octopus and the body of a humanoid man. It sprouted mammoth wings from its back, which it wrathfully flapped, causing a tempest to capsize the ship.” “Like a Mayan god?” Felix asked. Lamont shook his head, his eyes never breaking away from the book. “I don’t think it’s some silly jungle myth, boy. I think we’re dealing with something real. Something alien and powerful.” A crowd of people marched down the road, their steps and shouts now a unified cacophony. Lamont began flipping through the book indiscriminately, creasing its pages and ripping away threads of stitched binding. “We stand on the very site of a large-scale global event. We are in the heart of the Chicxulub crater, where a celestial body crashed into the Earth sixty-six million years ago. It wiped out nearly all life on the planet, but I know it wasn’t just some asteroid.” The priest along with the town’s elders stepped onto the docks. They waved machetes and torches in the air like some offering to the gods. Felix felt beads of sweat accumulate on his head. “Sir, I think I’m going to get in trouble. I see my mamá coming. Can I just have my money now?” Lamont grimaced as his fingers raked across the book, flipping page after page. “The sailor made mention to the priest the beasts name, which it repeatedly bellowed out to the crew before they were destroyed. I must find its name so that I may call it. To call it is to unleash its power. To unleash its power is to in essence become a god.” He looked up at Felix, his eyes now bursting with rivers of broken blood vessels. Felix stepped back. Lamont jabbed his finger on the book, drool seeping from the corner of his mouth. “I’ve found it! By God, I’ve found it!” “Don’t proceed any further,” the priest said wrapping an arm around Felix, gently nudging him behind his own body. Felix’s mother quickly approached and pulled him toward her, her wrinkled face frowning, scolding him with a fury no words could ever convey. “You’re all too late,” Lamont said. He turned toward the Gulf’s waters and closed his eyes. “K’utulu! K’utulu! K’utulu!” The earth trembled, sending many townsfolk tumbling into the water. Felix fell, slamming his head on the planks of the dock. As he looked up, the waters began to bubble like soup in a pot. Then, a large monster sprang from the ocean, towering over the entire town like a small mountain. Lamont raised his arms in joy. “Rise Lord K’utulu. Set your eyes upon me, that I am your master.” The beast opened its eyes. Like fiery embers, they were filled with rage. Countless tentacles writhed along its mouth, as it shrieked like an angered beast. It opened leathery wings akin to those of a bat. “Mireya,” the priest said looking at Felix’s mother. “It is time, curandera.” Felix’s mother nodded and raised her arms to the heavens. She chanted hushed words in a language he couldn’t understand, as if uttering some ancient secret to the wind. Then, the sky cracked with thunder and a burst of fire lit the night. The crowd pointed to the sky and gasped. Felix turned to look. There, a feathered serpent descended from the heavens like a shooting star. “Kukulkan!” the people shouted in unison. Felix recognized the name. Kukulkan, the great Mayan god. The serpent uncoiled itself revealing its true size. Felix surmised it spanned the length of a great, winding river. Just that instant, Kukulkan spotted the water beast and hissed. K’utulu roared and clawed at the air in response. The townsfolk screamed, running back toward Chicxulub. “Come,” Felix’s mother said, “we must go.” She squeezed his hand and pulled him away from the docks. Kukulkan then closed its wings and dove downward, flying like a spear. K’utulu opened its maw to scream, but Kukulkan pierced through its heart before it made a sound. K’utulu’s eyes rolled behind its massive head, and fell backwards into the Gulf, sending up a geyser of water into the air. The shockwave rolled through the docks, splintering the wood in a mighty explosion that cast Lamont into the depths of the sea, the codex alongside him. Kukulkan shot forth from the water and flew back into the heavens, vanishing into the darkness of the night. After a moment the waves began to sway gently, until they became still and quiet filled Chicxulub once more. The townsfolk gazed thankfully upon the sky one last time and turned back home. Felix’s mother placed a soft hand on his shoulder as she led him back to town. “There are secrets, mijo” she said to him at last, “that have more value locked away in the depths of our hearts, than do all the riches in the world secured in our palms.” Felix held her hand and nodded. It would be a lesson he knew he would never forget. Pedro Iniguez lives in Eagle Rock, California, a quiet community in Northeast Los Angeles. He spends most of his time reading, writing, and painting. His work can be found in various magazines and anthologies such as: Space and Time Magazine, Crossed Genres, Dig Two Graves, and Writers of Mystery and Imagination. His novel Control Theory, and his collection Synthetic Dawns & Crimson Dusks are now available. He can be found online at: pedroiniguezauthor.com They oozed through the door of the Shade Inn, degenerate hordes with their coral shirts and adumbrations of learning. The patrons of a village bar might not drink more than a dram and could walk home. These students, given the chance, would drink themselves into states of madness, and in those states repeat the darkest patterns of half-ape savagery, shouting and singing along the lanes and thoroughfares. On the bus into town the girl with the red cap and black jacket and stressed shorts captured a pair of men who sat outside the post office, dour, elongated-faced men of Aseneith. She turned her cell to Lachlan Whatley and Jacob Wu and asked for commentary. “Do you think they’re brothers?” Whatley said. “The locals have that look of too few families living too long in one place.” She laughed. “That’s great.” Her smile sunk when she tried to post the video. Her bewilderment rippled through the chartered bus as students checked texts and tried to post photos. They could imagine losing connectivity here and there along their rustic route. In a town the experience challenged comprehension. Most of the buildings on Main Street were front-gabled, with flat façades suggesting second storeys that could only have consisted of the attics. The result was that Aseneith recalled an old west movie town made from brick. On the far side of the crossroads stood the hip-roofed, buff-bricked building which housed the Shade Inn. The upper floors seemed closed, the windows covered with faded curtains and, in some instances, boards. The heavy timber door, either the original or an antique added for historic character, had been painted sea-green and featured decorative iron straps like abstracted representations of tentacled invertebrates that stretched across each door. Black hurricane-style lanterns hung on either side; above the windows was carved a weathered, stylized face with tendrils that might have been whiskers and hair. Cater-cornered stood a church lacking clear markers of denomination. The bus parked and disgorged its riders, who with smug infectious smiles passed through the viridescent doorway. The few regulars within were the same type as they’d seen out the bus windows, heads like Easter Island statuary and ratfish eyes. Jacob Wu shuddered. At one time, the Wild Pig Tour had taken place the eve of Superbowl Sunday, always targeting some small town with a single licensed establishment. It created some ill will but, since the students drank the bar dry, the owner could hardly complain of lost revenue. A disastrous foray to a small town some years earlier engendered a fight with local boys and brought the campus unseemly publicity. People unaware of the tradition, benefactors and parents and quite a few students, could now disapprove. Nearby towns grew apprehensive about falling prey to this particular prank. Organizers had to look further afield for communities that remained unwary or, alternatively, gave a damn. Some places even welcomed them, so long as fisticuffs and public urination were kept to a minimum. And the indecorous tradition increasingly did not raise sufficient crowds, students willing to trudge through January snow or risk becoming blizzard-bound in some obscure town. Gradually, the Tour became untethered from a fixed date. Organizers would find some backwater hosting a wedding the next day or running a homespun parade. The Wild Pig would descend upon that place, drain the local watering hole, and depart. Inquisitive Jacob Wu had unearthed an obscure online reference to a one-day Harvest Festival held the final Saturday of September, two hours away. He showed it to Lachlan Whatley, a Wild Pig organizer. A Google search revealed the required single licensed establishment, a former inn that had become a restaurant and pub, owned by one Mustapha Al-Aziz. “Syrian refugee, maybe?” asked Whatley. “Like how back in the day every small town had this one Chinese restaurant. Because--” “Obligatory Token Minority.” “Careful, dude. I’ll kick your ass with, like, Ancient Chinese Martial Arts.” “Your mad Ninja skillz?” “Ninjas are Japanese,” Wu said, affecting a comic pedant’s voice, but sounding unoffended. “Excellent find, bro. We gotta move on this.” Two weeks later they encountered Mustapha, who stood behind the bar, a swarthy man with a black mustache and a polo shirt. He spoke with a discernable accent. Mustapha’s waitress had a curvaceous body topped by a variation of the regulars’ curious, elongated features. Her skin, seen close, had an unnatural jaundiced shade. Whatley turned to the girl who’d recorded them, taking a closer look at her cap. “Cincinnati Reds.” “You thought it was some other red hat? Well, I could see wearing a MAGA hat around campus to trigger all the Snowflake Majors.” Whatley moved closer and they tipped glasses. “I know he’s a clown, but by God I love the boy.” Her roommate, a redhaired girl named Haisley, rolled blue-green eyes and took the vacated seat near Jacob Wu. Time passed for him in a haze of intoxicants and Haisley. At some hour, while she was using the washroom, he grew aware of a pair of stout students arguing with the proprietor. “You got more in the back. Bring it out.” They were square-jawed and block-built, and loomed over Mustapha. “No rough stuff. Or I call the cops.” The local men stirred. “Call. There are, what, two cops covering this part of the county? C’mon. How much would you serve at your harvest festival?” Mustapha smiled enigmatically. “You should leave now,” he said. Wu blinked and looked about. He recalled their drive down Main Street. The inn, like the rest of the town, lacked any signs of an imminent Harvest Festival. He became aware of local men crowding in, and looked back to see shadowy figures lurking in the windows. Frat brothers and drunk intellectuals stood off against ochre-skinned men. Mustapha again urged the students to leave peacefully. Above the din of conflict Wu heard a knocking. He turned his face upward to the ceiling. He could hear the stepping and creaking like multifarious feet in the vacant upper rooms, accompanied by a dragging noise. A line of dark fluid, visible by the bar’s light, dripped through the boards. More men and some women entered through the great doorway. Some teenage boys he saw, too, mudcat-faced with bulbous eyes and mouths distorted in a way he could not clearly discern. Haisley, returning from the washroom, nearly walked into one of these and gape-eyed, she gasped. The fire exit, he knew, was near the washroom. He moved on unsteady legs past inhuman faces and took her hand and they exited, setting off the scream of an alarm. Behind the parking lot a diseased tree twisted against the barley moon. He looked up and she followed his gaze. Lights flickered in the upper level and something moved in the dark small hours of the Harvest morning. The nighttime spun around them and people gathered on the street, the Aseneith adults and children with catfish faces. She bolted and he lost her as he tried to follow through shadows and down rural roads and into mad corners of his mind. ### Jacob Wu awoke from tenebrous dreams into lingering inebriation and found himself on the floor of a rustic backroom, covered in old blankets. He saw the little girl watching him and bolted upright. She ran from the room. He’d seen her face clearly. Her mouth sported silurid barbels. Mustapha Aziz and a woman of the Aseneith type entered as Wu searched for his clothing and cell. “Are you all right?” Mustapha sat on the solitary chair. “You had much to drink.” “Where…?” “My house. We’ve taken in those of you we could find. Most made the bus. The driver returned late.” The furnishings were weathered, but the clock on the desk looked parcel-new. It read 8:57. “Your friends grew discourteous, just as our harvest was to begin. Some panicked.” “We… There were so many of you.” He shrugged. “Your friends come to us and see faces they do not recognize and they act violated. Surely our anger is not something I need to explain to you. Any other time, we would have no big deal. We thought you’d leave. Harvest is very important to her people. They make a sacrifice each year.” “Haisley? Whatley? My friends--” He shrugged. “As I said, we’re looking after those few who did not find the bus when it returned.” Wu tensed. “Sacrifice?” “What?” Mustapha laughed, outrageously. “No, they slay some sheep, some chickens. My wife’s people found refuge here. So you saw… In the upper windows?” Wu nodded. “It sleeps there. Awakes at harvest. We require you say nothing.” “It’s possible some of the others saw….” “Possible. But they were drunk. Her god is now in its temple. Locals only.” His wife brought in a glass of water. “I’m cooking oatmeal, if you think you can keep it down.” The barbel-faced child, peaking from behind, giggled softly. Mustapha stroked his moustache. “Your friends, yes.” He arose. “One imagines they see many monsters.” JD DeLuzio lives midway between Detroit and Toronto with his wife. He has written several short stories, numerous reviews and articles, and one collection of fiction. He has also workshopped original theatrical productions with youth. He frequently runs panels at SF, pop culture, and literary events. His short story, "The Rapture of Baatoon Hayes" appeared in the recent Brain Lag anthology, The Light Between Stars, and his novel, The Con, will be released in November of 2020. [Table of Contents with links follows editorial] Editorial: What a long long long freaky trip it's been If you've visited the home page, you'll see The Were-Traveler has been on hiatus for a few years. We're baaaaacckk! And we aim to misbehave and be more bitchin' than ever. Our first issue on the new site is resisting a theme that was popular on the old mag, FREAKPUNK. Freakpunk was created by myself back in the day when I realized that while there are more creepy clown stories (Clownpunk) than there are rigged games on the midway, I have not come across many tales penned about the other weird and terrifying folks connected to carnivals and circuses: the carnies, fortune tellers, and yes, the freaks! Thus the genre idea of Freakpunk was born in my twisted brain. Here lies our offering from the circuses and carnivals, the festivals and fairs, the darkness lies within the funhouses and the freakshows. Beware of having too much fun! Table of Contents: Drabbles: Evil Clowns, by F.J. Bergmann Accidents Happen, by K. B. Elijah Prize, by Belinda Brady Never-Ending Freakshow, by Radar DeBoard Two For the Price of One, by Amanda Bergloff Full Wolf Moon, by Emma K. Leadley Flash Stories: Geek Meat, by Kezia Kynaston-Mitchell The First and Last WyrFair, by Marcas McClellan Don’t Cage the Songbird, by Clark Boyd Le Festival de le Peur, by Jack Bates Round and Round, by Rowena McGowan Three Questions, by Emma Kathryn Carnaval de la Coccinelle, by Desmond White Editor's Picks: Geek Meat, by Kezia Kynaston-Mitchell (this super freaky story is just what this superfreak mag needed!) Evil Clowns, by F.J. Bergmann (almost too real, given what is going on these days!) Two for the Price of One, by Amada Bergloff (it's not always good things that come in pairs...) Don't Cage the Songbird, by Clark Boyd (strong woman character + revenge + outer space carnival = purrrr) Le Festival de le Peur, by Jack Bates (weird af and so enjoyable) Three Questions, by Emma Kathryn (THE fortune teller story + lesbian romance = purrrr) Carnaval de la Coccinelle, by Desmond White (mystery meets bizarro festival...so much to love) The streets were merry chaos. Artists displayed their work—blossoming apricot trees, lovers enveloped in murky fragrance. The academic style had not yet ruined the city. And there were masks, black chitin forged from carriage beetles. Everywhere, the faces of crickets, ants, and termites. Shells exaggerating the similarities between lacewings and lawyers, dragonflies and doctors, beetles and barons. It was the carnaval de la coccinelle, when the natural kingdom is reversed. The mayor dresses as a maggot and squirms in the sty. A beggar is put in the government building. He is given cakes. The only office uncontaminated is mine. For reasons of security, the commissariat de police remains intact. The carnaval is a time of excess, therefore abuse, and I am kept to the streets to deter license from turning criminal. Today, my white beard, the wrinkles around my eyes, were hidden by the black face of the ninfly. Incognito, I rushed through the stalls. A man offered me a cage with a six-tailed scorpion. I pushed pass. In my fist I clutched a portent that I must not relax. A message taken from the thief Gabbard. The thief was not really Gabbard. He was an Englishman named John Lawrence Kerr. Gabbard was a mask—a thin layer of words that ripped away in the interrogation chamber. The message was taken from his pocket. It read: Seek out the saint—the fête of fools. The shank is there—but nones pour vous. From pincer rust—to needle blue. An annoying riddle. Some verse in English, the rest in French. I had solved one portion. There was some operation to be performed at the Church of Saint Trophime. Today, during the festival. But what was the scheme? And when would this deed occur? The church I have always considered awkward, with walls that seem more dust than gray brick. These walls are unpunctured by scripture, except for a foyer, with its arches and columns decorated by the tediously holy. The doors are wood from a sanguine tree. Inside, the hall is long and dark. On this day, there was a line to the altar, where a priest stood. I saw his mask imitated the ant. He was blessing the merry-makers, one hand touching their foreheads, the other limp, shrouded by robes. This seemed poorly invented. Shouldn’t it be the rabble, in a reordering of tradition, blessing him? I do not care much for churches or their congregations, although I prefer Religion to the concoctions of the Darwinists. There is comfort in mystical men, blessed by God, even if their stories are mixed with mythical creatures. Animals have always been the hardest for me to believe. It is difficult to believe in miracles, but must I also believe in lions and lizards? And hellfire if I do not? In an office near the front, there was a man at the desk. His face pointed toward me, his mask dyed in blues and blacks. It was the common fly. “I am Henri Moreau,” I said, showing him my papers. The mask stayed still, not caring for credentials. “Today and only today, I am the subdeacon,” the man said. “My responsibility is the Liturgy of Hours.” Every few hours, then, he would sanctify the city with prayer. There were eight of these divisions, from matins to compline. “You are not always a subdeacon,” I replied. “We take the holidays seriously in Saint Trophime,” the man said. “Do you seek the true subdeacon? He is administering the blessings.” The priestly fly meant the man before the congregation, camouflaged as an ant. “But you are fast,” the man said. “We sent a boy for the police only a minute ago. Would you like to see the cage?” Not knowing what he meant, I consented, and we walked around pews as black as street water. The fly led me to the crossing, where stood the red priest. Behind him, the altar. It was a design as awkward as the church. An iron cage built beneath a stone table. The bars were black with flecks of gold. The cage door was open, the lock resting on the floor. I removed my mask, but the man hissed. “Return your covering. This is a holy observance, where those who are loved by God are raised.” I failed to mention that insect masks were more diabolic than divine. Instead, I whispered, “I am not one for religion.” “But God is—so keep your mask on.” I examined the cage. “There should be a claw inside,” my companion said. “From the scarab which the messiah rode into Jerusalem.” It was the custom of clergy to call the creature a ‘scarab.’ In the book my father read, it was a dung beetle. The man gave me an accounting. Most of the fathers were at the festival, rousing with the rabble, more for the blessed dignity of disorder than a desire to drink. Three remained. This man, who claimed to be subdeacon for the day, appointed to matins, prime, terce, sext, nones, vespers and compline. Put to a scribe’s desk when he wasn’t reciting prayer. The man at the crossing, giving blessings above his rank. And the bishop, put to the broom in the kitchen. As a man of near-eighty, the bishop avoided crowds, which carried sickness. “Tell me what has happened here,” I said, examining the cage. The man bent beside me and whispered confidentially, “We have been robbed. Someone in the last hour has stolen the claw.” “How?” I said. “Someone has picked the cage.” I handed him the lock. “He would be very skilled. There are no nicks. See, no small, shiny scratches around the key hole.” The man looked closely. “I think a key was used,” I said. “Your relic would be worth something?” “Incredible riches.” I scoffed. “If this is the claw of the scarab. There are fifty across the Continent.” “It is one of the six.” “When was your last prayer?” I asked. The man looked at me again. “The sext, or noon’s prayer.” I examined the church. The high nave, the darkness. The ant giving sustenance to the faithful. I took another look at Gabbard’s note, and the line of rags and hidden faces. In front stood a man with a curved horn protruding from his head, a lesser below. The beetle of Hercules. Behind was a green shield—someone posed as a bush cricket. The metallic navy of the water bee. The fuzzy brown of the assassin bug. The translucent oranges and grays of the atlas moth. Behind them all, three ninflies. My men in plainclothes. “The claw is here,” I said. “In fact, it is not far at all.” I walked to the red priest and took his limp sleeve and squeezed the cloth like a towel to be wrung. My companion stuttered, somewhere between a shout and a slap of surprise at the lack of arm beneath. Then I punched the priest, more to keep him from running. The mask fell, the youth’s face revealed. Here was no priest at all, but one of those roughs who work for Gabbard. Through his robes, something fell, and then it was on the floor. The leg of a beetle, a red shine to its black skin. Fire in deep water. The unholy thief had kept the relic beneath his cassock, pressed to his chest, with the unused arm. “We must be grateful to the thief Gabbard,” I said to the dumbstruck. The revelers were still, heads peering around the line. I read the instructions found on the English thief and explained. “The saint—St. Trophime. The festival—today. The shank—the leg of a beetle. The nones—that was the cleverness. I had mistook it for grammatical error. A contraction in need of an apostrophe. But now I have realized it was the hour for when the bell strikes. The canonical fifth prayer. Nones. With the bishop distracted, the rusted red pincers of the ant could slip the artifact to the metallic blue bee, disguising evil with a blessing.” My men sprang from the line and took the boy and his accomplice—the adherent in a blue mask. The leg was returned to its cage, the lock replenished. And I, returning to the carnaval, took a respite from my duty to purchase a blue-webbed apple, the sugar spun by Spanish worms. In a defiant mood, I removed my mask and ate. Desmond White writes speculative fiction in Denver, Colorado. His work has featured in The Tishman Review, HeartWood, Rue Scribe, and Theme of Absence. In 2018, he was featured in Z Publishing's America's Emerging Writers. Des lives with his wife, two cats, and a jungle of potted plants. The Festival of Fear opens at midnight with a parade through streets once muddied by a hurricane and still not back to what they once had been. A funeral carriage driven by a humped back man with a shadowy smile leads the carnival. The driver tips his crimpled top hat and long strands of scraggly hair fall around his ears and off the back his head. His lone passenger is le Reine des Mortes, the Queen of the Dead, who sleeps until her abdication at the opening ceremony when one of the twelve Lost Maidens dancing behind the wagon replaces her. Le Troubadour de la Reine, the Queen’s musician, rides on the back of a horse the color of a moonless night. With his face painted to resemble a skull, he strums a guitar with gloved covered hands that make his fingers look like bones. The balladeer sings a dirge to the once and future queen. “Hey little lady let me walk you home. You shouldn’t be out here on your own. The night is dark, so very dark…Come with me and take my hand and I will lead you from the damned…oh oh oh the world is stark and the night is dark…” Close behind the singing horseman march the Silent Souls. Each drags multiple chains that slows them, pulls them, burdens them. No one else knows the weight assessed to the encumbered individuals but people surmise. Oh, they have their theories and they share these thoughts away from the procession fearing that one day they also might drag the chains ‘they forged in life’. Next comes the rolling cages of ghouls and goblins and gargoyles. Spectators aim phones at the creatures then lower their hands when they think they recognize the tormented face in the images on the screen. A team of four feral hogs snort and drool and whinny as they pull a rolling cage. Bare chested men hoist the yolk of a wagon hauling an electric organ. A broken wing angel plays melodies arranged by crows on power lines as if notes were arranged randomly on a blank score sheet. She tries but cannot help hear the sorrow of the birds. Black tears leave streaks on her powdered cheeks. This goes unnoticed by the Gaffs, the newest members of the troupe. The Gaffs push three wheeled carts advertising attractions waiting for guests to experience at the carnival. Ride the Demon Whip! Sail on the Serpent! Rock and Roll down the Sisyphus Slide! The Abyss! Don’t just stare into it—Jump on In! Do You Dare Enter the Maze of Mirrors where Your Greatest Fear is what You see in the Glass??? And then, after the humped back carriage driver tips his crimpled hat. After the sleeping Queen wakes. After the Lost Maidens dance. After the skull faced bard sings. After the Silent Souls rattle their chains. After the train of ghouls, goblins, and gargoyles rolls away. After the weeping angel plays the songs of the crows. After the trudging of the Gaffs. After the parade has all but passed by comes a towering man in a vest made from rooster feathers. His pants are the same color red as a sun rising on a hazy summer morning. A necklace of chicken bones strung on a leather strap dangles over his chest. He carries a teakwood staff a foot taller than himself. A gnarled root ball on the top end of the teakwood rod houses a glass globe with a flickering flame inside it. In front of the towering man flits a spirit of sprites announcing the arrival of the man in a vest of chicken feathers. “Gather near! Gather here!” “Gather near the Chanticleer!” The man in the vest of chicken feathers lifts his arms and raises his staff. The glass globe rotates inside the gnarled root ball so that the flickering flame points at the moon. His voice is as old as the wind and as heavy as thunder. The sprites scatter like old, crinkled leaves in the rush of an autumn gust. “I am the Chanticleer and I make problems disappear! This isn’t a game. I will put a curse on anyone you name.” And the sprites cry out of the shadows. “Gather near! Gather here!” “Gather near the Chanticleer!” He waves his staff through the night. The flickering flame brightens. “You can’t keep secrets from me for into your souls I can see! I know more about you than you think I do!” And the sprites twirl and whisper. “Gather near! Gather here!” “It’s time to follow the Chanticleer!” “Follow the Chanticleer!” “Follow him to the Festival of Fear!” And they follow. The crowd follows and the parade grows longer with each passing night. When morning breaks all that remains is the dust of their shadows. Jack Bates is a three time finalist for a Derringer Award from the Short Mystery Fiction Society. His short horror fiction has appeared in anthologies and websites including 365 Tomorrow, Tales from the Lake III, and Enter the Aftermath. Round and round and round it goes. My first real memory was riding on a carousel. There were probably other, earlier memories, indistinct blurs of hands and voices, meals and games. But the first thing I remember with crystal starkness is the carousel. A small carousel, as they go, only perhaps ten animals. I was perched on a horse, white faded to the colour of bone, its golden mane chipping and ragged. I remember clinging to the pole up the centre, my child’s legs barely spanning the width of the cracked red saddle. I didn’t trust myself, didn’t trust the horse. The pole seemed to be the only thing between me and the drop to the carousel floor, a distance that seemed light years wide. Still, when I finally stumbled off, the fear had alchemized, as it sometimes does, to exhilaration. I developed a fondness for carousels. Not for me the ferris wheel, the roller coaster, the lion tamers or the bearded lady. No, I always first sought the ring of delicately prancing ponies with the bright colours and the jauntily tossing heads. In fact, I could spend a whole evening there. The minute to a minute and a half rides, the five or ten rotations never seemed long enough to satiate me. It was sunny when the carnival rolled into town, the day that special kind of bright and welcoming that seems specially designed for children’s play. If I had had my way, I would have dragged my parents in the second the tents went up. But I was forced to wait, to eat, to be changed into something more appropriate, before finally I was permitted through the tall, fluttering gates. I made my way to the carousel, of course. I wanted to be early in line, so I had time to pick my mount. I liked to walk along the rows, to pick the very finest one to bear me. It was an enormous carousel, the largest I had ever seen. The carousel animals were arranged in rows of three, beneath a canopy that blocked out the sky. It must have been freshly painted; it gleamed wetly under the fading sun. I was lucky; I was first. I was allowed to scramble up immediately. I walked among them. It was a traditional carousel, horses alone. Or at least, I thought they were horses. Whoever had carved them had little talent, I thought. Their bared teeth were too sharp, their necks too long and something in the eyes seemed to follow you as you moved. The colours were strange, too. There was bluish gleam to the whites and a green undercurrent to the blacks that looked sickly. Still, it was a carousel and I was fond of carousels. I chose for my mount a golden horse, because it looked the brightest, and swung into the saddle. I wrapped my hands around the pole. It was a slippery, sinuous thing, slick almost to the point of wetness, and it seemed to already be spiralling up into the canopy. The carousel filled up quickly. I paid little attention to the other riders, too focused on anticipating the glorious moment when the carousel would begin. Finally, finally, I heard the music start. Slowly, the carousel began to spin. My horse started to raise and lower. It was a disjointed movement, up far too slow and then down with a jerk that sent me slamming against the pole. I sat up, shook my head. And then – the music did not slow or speed up. Neither did the carousel’s movement. It was the same pace I remembered all my life. And yet, the world beyond didn’t move. Though I could feel the carousel spinning, everything around us was static. And then, everything beyond the carousel slid out of focus. It didn’t blur with speed. It just faded, as though it had simply stopped existing. The music grew louder and louder, the tinny noise pounding against my ears until they began to ache. The colours, too, seemed to brighten and brighten until my eyes couldn’t take them in any longer. I blinked the tears from my eyes. I looked around me, wondering if anyone else was experiencing what I was. There were no children on the horses next to me. There were only shadows, shapes without eyes and with grinning, toothless mouths. Their horses, though, were stark, their colours glistening under the artificial lights. They tossed their heads, their manes falling wetly across their shoulders. They opened their mouths, their jaws splitting open back to their ears, displaying jagged teeth coating every inch of their mouths. For a moment, my mind couldn’t take it in. And then, without conscious thought, I decided to run. A carousel doesn’t go that fast. I could make it back out into the world I could no longer see. I stiffened. I tried to jump. But I couldn’t move. My horse’s head turned. Its eye was black, black, black, and the fangs it bared at me reached past its chin. I had taken the horse’s colour to be golden. But it was not. It was the soft pinks and yellows of human flesh. Almost the colour of my own flesh. I could no longer see the line between my calves and the horse’s belly. I don’t – I don’t think there was one. Did I scream? I think I must have. Even I couldn’t hear it over the carousel music. I think my mind stopped working for a while. The world, such as it was, faded out. When it faded back in, I knew I had never had a chance to escape. There was no platform beneath my feet. There was only an inky black void. How many years passed? I don’t know. I felt my body grow and strengthen, my muscles stretch, my hair on head and face grow and straggle down, mixing with the sweat and blood and urine in my lap to form a sick, crusted mess. I felt my mind change, become sharper, clearer. Better able to understand what was happening but so much less equipped to deal with it. I felt my body begin to fail. My teeth loosened and fell from my mouth. My back hunched. My joints stiffened and ached. And always, always, the carousel music played. And then – release. My back straightened. My arms moved. My eyes were clear. The world beyond the carousel sharpened. The light was the same tinge it had been when I entered the carousel. The leaves on the trees still held. The crowd wore the same clothing, carried the same bags and prizes. I saw my mother’s face. She was smiling. She was waving. I was a child again. But there was a last fading spark of something older in my mind. And I understood. All that time and in it, I had completed only a single rotation of the carousel. I have ridden many, many carousels. Some go around five times before they stop. Some go around much more. I don’t know what will be getting off this carousel when it finishes spinning. Round and round and round it goes. Rowena McGowan has lived in more provinces than most Canadian citizens have visited. She writes horror, fantasy, and magical realism about birds. You can find her @rowena_mcgowan on Twitter. You can also try whispering her name into the ear of the nearest white horse. It won’t get a message to her or anything but she thinks it would be neat if people did it. It was the aroma of popcorn in the air that Madeline loved most about the carnival. Pretty much the minute those vans and carts rolled into town the scent lingered in the air like a smile after a pleasant dream. The excitement drove her wild and she nagged her best friend Lily every day, begging her to go with her. Lily did not love the fair. It was the stench of motor oil and smoke in the air that she hated the most about the carnival. Those vans and carts seemed to drag the stink in with them, filling the town with pollution and waste. The dread of going sunk right to the pit of her stomach and she dreaded the thought of Madeline bringing it up. And Madeline always got her way. It was decided. Lily would borrow her mother’s car and they would ride the short trip to the abandoned field that carnival had claimed for the season. Madeline talked the whole way there. In the driver’s seat, Lily just nodded, said “uh-huh” whenever was required of her and smoked another cigarette right down to her fingertips. A yellow ticket was thrust into Lily’s hand and Madeline looped her arm around the crook of her friend’s elbow. Lily tucked the ticket in her purse and tucked her purse tightly under her free arm. Carnivals were rife with pickpockets and they loved to look for a pair of young women like Lily and Madeline. Madeline beamed at her friend and waved her ticket in the air, yelling “Look out boys, the gals are here!” She held Lily close, trying to hold down her own excitement. All around them the carnie boys grinned and she winked. This carnival was rife with strapping young men and they were on the lookout for a pair of young women like Madeline and Lily. “Right,” Madeline grinned. “I say we hit the Ferris wheel first. Gives us a good chance to look around and see what’s what.” “Whatever you think, Maddie,” Lily grimaced. Madeline squealed and ran towards the structure at the far end of the field, pulling her friend in tow. The two women ran through the thoroughfare, trampling through the discarded popcorn and tickets that had already collected in the few days since the carnival had arrived. Tents whizzed by them, along with food stalls, games of try-your-luck and unusual individuals who claimed to lift cars over their heads. From the vantage point of the Ferris wheel, Lily and Madeline could take in the view and plan out their day. Immediately after the Ferris wheel, they would test their strength, hoping that the strapping strong lad would say “step aside, ladies, let me show you how it’s done”. Lily hid her eye roll at this and started smoking another cigarette. Next, would be some of the performers - especially the strongest man in the world. Then, would be the carousel. Then some cotton candy. Even though Lily preferred toffee apples. And finally, a good old fortune teller to finish. A whirlwind afternoon of too many rides, too much sugar and sideshows that were a little too strange swept by and a few hours later they were stood outside the foreboding tent of “Madame Mystique”. There was no way that was her name. It was probably Mary. Lily grimaced and took another bite out of her toffee apple. The poster showed a woman with white eyes and flowing black hair. Blind eyes were raised to the heavens. The hand of the illustrated figure lingered between the words “Yes” and “No”. “Alright, three yes or no questions for $1,” Madeline read off the poster, skipping from one foot to the other. Her cotton candy was nearly gone. Sugar was practically running through her veins now. “This is it; this is my chance to find out when Tommy is going to propose and where we’re going to get married and how many babies we’re going to have…” Lily licked stray toffee from her lips. “None of those are yes or no questions.” Scoffing, Madeline corrected her wording: “Is Tommy going to propose soon? Are we going to get married in that little church on Elm Street? Will we have more than three babies? There, done. What are you going to ask?” “Nothing. I have no questions.” “What?!” “I like the mystery.” Giggling, Madeline gave her friend a very gentle punch in the arm. “You old romantic, you.” “Right, go ask your three burning questions and I’ll wait outside.” Madeline grinned from ear to ear and kissed her friend on the cheek. Like a good friend, Lily wished her luck and held back the tent door. Madeline disappeared into the dark. A smell of incense and burning candles snaked out towards Lily as the tent swung closed. It clawed at her nose and gave her that sinking feeling in her stomach again. She leaned back on a lamp post that had been fitted in the thoroughfare for the fair coming. Little kids ran by, laughing and cheering and egging each other on. She hated it here and wanted to go home. In a flurry of tent and smoke and waving arms, Madeline burst back into the thoroughfare. Tears were streaming from her face. “Lily, I need you to go in there and ask my questions again. She said no, no, no.” Lily took Madeline by the wrists. “Sweetie, calm down, it’s a load o hocus pocus.” “No,” Madeline insisted, overcome with an anger that Lily had never seen in her. It was a little frightening. A dollar bill was pressed into her palm and Madeline started pushing. “I need you to go back in there and get the right answers because that was wrong.” Her future was evaporating before her and she needed her friend. “Please,” she begged. Lily nodded and headed into the tent. Her last sight was Madeline, leaning against the post and biting her nails. Inside the tent, the smell was stronger. It pulled her in and held her like a warm embrace. The temperature was dramatically higher than it had been outside. Sweat ran down Lily’s neck. A burly man appeared from the shadows and held his hand out. “One dollar. Three questions,” he growled. Money exchanged hands and the man led Lily to a small table where the young blind woman sat. Just like on the poster. “Yes or no questions only,” the man added and gestured for Lily to sit down. Something both frightened and enticed Lily about this woman. Electricity prickled through the air, prickling at Lily’s skin. The man tapped on the table. “Three questions,” he ordered. This seemed to pull Lily back into her body and she felt herself again. “Will that idiot, Tommy, marry my friend, Madeline?” “No,” the girl whispered. Her unseeing eyes stayed fixed on the ceiling. Madeline hesitated. Something in her head told her that Madeline’s questions didn’t matter. “Will I ever leave this town?” “Yes.” On the table her fingers twitched. “How will I die?” The burly man stepped forward. “Yes or no questions only…” The young woman reached out and grabbed Lily by the wrists. Her white eyes met Lily’s and stared right into her soul. “In my arms, in this tent, in this carnival. Not in this field, not in this town, not in this state. You will be old, you will be sick, you will be loved.” The burly man pulled Lily out of the seat and out of the seer’s hands. He pushed her from the tent and the outside world flooded in. “Well?” Madeline asked, grabbing Lily by the shoulders. “What did she say?” Lily looked at her friend and she seemed like a visitor from another life. She felt like an imposter all of a sudden. And she had way more than three questions left to ask. Searching Madeline’s face, she tried to find words to explain what she had just gone through. Instead, she saw desperate hope. “Three yeses. Load of hocus pocus, I told you so.” Visible relief washed over Madeline’s face. “I knew it! I knew Tommy and I were getting married in that little church. I knew it, Lily, I’ve always known it. What a load of hokum. Let’s go home.” Madeline pulled Lily towards the exit. Everything was a little louder for her now. Children’s laughter sounded like cackles. Smells assaulted her nose. Oil from the noisy trucks polluted the air. Around her, she was sure that the young men behind the stalls were laughing at her. She wanted to go home. Madeline was done with carnivals. Lily walked at Madeline’s side with purpose. Everything sounded different now. Children’s laughter was like music, harmonising with the accordion player. The scent of popcorn filled her lungs. Around her, the carnies gave her subtle nods. They knew she’d be back. And she would be. Lily was ready for the carnival now. Emma Kathryn is a horror fanatic from Glasgow, Scotland. You can find her lurking on twitter @girlofgotham. When she's not scaring herself to death, she is recording as one half of The Yearbook Committee podcast or she's streaming games on Twitch. She is rather tiny and rather mad. |
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