Carnies Page 10

  Her fingers clenched tight around his, and she leaned back with a soft grunt. He cried out in alarm as his feet left the ground, his cane dropping to the soft forest floor below. She pulled him up and over, and he scrambled onto the log, swinging his good leg over it. He straightened up and looked at the girl sitting next to him with surprise. And a little fear. She was a lot stronger than she looked.

  ‘There we are,’ she said, smiling at him. Again, there was something not quite right about that smile. It made Paul nervous.

  ‘So,’ he began, but couldn’t think of anything more to say, and trailed off awkwardly.

  ‘Okay, Paul, it’s time to make a decision,’ she said, her voice serious. But still there was that smile. ‘You can go home, or you can come with me. Either way, the decision is final. No second chances.’

  Paul’s nerves tightened another notch. This whole thing was beginning to frighten him, even more than his encounter with the monster last night. He found himself shaking, though he hoped that was due to his exertion. But he figured he’d already come this far, and he didn’t really have that much to lose.

  ‘So, what’s your decision? Forward or back?’

  He swallowed hard and took a few deep breaths. His head was spinning. ‘I... I want to go forward.’

  ‘You want to be one of us?’ she asked, her smile even wider now.

  He jumped a little, startled. ‘If that’s what it takes, yes,’ he responded. The idea of working at the carnival hadn’t occurred to him until that moment, but now that it had, it was an attractive proposition. Not having to worry about dole forms or queues, paying rent, dodging traffic... suddenly he understood what the brother of the little girl he talked to at the petrol station must have been faced with when offered this choice. No wonder the boy - Toby was his name, if Paul remembered correctly - chose the carnival life. It would probably be hard work, of course, but he thought it might be worth it.

  ‘Very well, Paul Hampden. Give me your hand again.’

  He put out his hand without hesitation this time. He wanted to be led to the campsite.

  She took his proffered hand gently in both of hers, holding it palm up like a wounded bird. She raised it to her face, sniffing it again as she had the night before. Paul’s nerves jangled again.

  ‘Hey, what...’

  She looked up at him for a moment, and every muscle in his body twitched at the look in her eyes. They were wild, vicious... and ravenous. He tried to pull his hand back, but she held it tight, still under her nose. Her lips slid back to reveal her teeth, which looked very sharp in the moonlight. Her lips parted, her mouth opening wide. Paul tried to yank his arm backwards, away from the girl’s lips, but she was too strong for him.

  ‘No!’ he yelled, but too late. Her jaws closed, and her top teeth sank into the fleshy part of his palm, the bottom row scraping against the bones below. Blood bubbled up around her lips, staining them almost black. He screamed and continued to try to pull away from her, but without success. He felt her grind her teeth a little, and the pain spiralled up his arm like the trail of a firework, exploding in his head.

  Then a voice, distant but clear in the silent forest air.

  ‘Jasmine?’

  Jasmine stopped biting, cocking her head to one side.

  Her brow furrowed in annoyance. She hesitated, as if unsure what to do. Then the far-off voice came again, deep and gruff, a man’s growl.

  ‘Jass? Where are ya? Time to pack up!’

  She held on with her teeth for a moment longer, then let go. Paul tumbled backwards off the log. For a moment he was in freefall, and all thought of pain or fear left him. But it was only for a moment, and then he struck the ground hard, the impact making his head ring and his teeth snap together. His arms and legs flopped into the dirt straight afterwards, and he lay there on his back, stunned. All he could see were the stars above him, which seemed to be spinning around. They also appeared to be fading in and out of existence.

  He realised he was on the verge of blacking out. He remembered that sensation, from three years before. It had been concrete he’d been lying on then, not soft soil, and above him had been the rafters and lights of a warehouse, but the sensation had been identical. The pain in his hand throbbed in time with his ankle now, which must have also been jarred in the fall. There was no sign of Jasmine, no sight or sound, which both relieved and frightened him.

  There’s only one thing worse than being in the forest with a lunatic, he thought, groggy, and that’s being there alone.

  That was his last thought before he lost consciousness altogether.

  -16-

  It was nearly midnight when David’s mobile phone chirruped a jolly tune, in stark contrast to his mood. He’d been working on his story for far too long now, trying to put some kind of spin on it that would make it vaguely newsworthy. Real news, that was. But even with their unceremonious and brutal ejection from the venue, the story was simply a fluff piece, good to grace the glossy pages of the weekend colour magazine but not much else. David had twisted and turned the pieces of the puzzle over and over again, but no matter what he did, it always came out the same: a nice little story about an unusual country carnival. Eventually he’d given up and just let it be what it was, laying it out with the few photographs they’d managed to take before having the camera smashed... and wasn’t he going to have fun explaining that one to Holt.

  He picked up his phone and answered it. ‘Hello?’ There was silence on the other end at first, then the soft, breathy voice of a man. ‘Mr Hampden?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Where are you?’

  David frowned. ‘What business is that of yours?’

  ‘It is our business, Mr Hampden,’ the voice wheezed.

  ‘Are you still in Tillbrook?’

  ‘No,’ he answered, then added, ‘Who is this?’

  ‘Why did you leave, Mr Hampden? Didn’t you receive our note?’

  Understanding finally dawned on him. He opened his desk drawer and pulled out the note he’d received on Monday at the office. ‘Yes yes, very interesting. “Please come and see.” I came, I saw, I’ve written the whole thing up as a human interest piece. End of story, literally.’

  The man on the other end sounded like he was close to tears. ‘No, Mr Hampden, our other note. The one we delivered this morning.’

  ‘What other note? I don’t understand.’

  The voice on the phone sighed. ‘We contacted you because we’ve seen your work, Mr Hampden. We contacted you so you would come and see.’

  ‘See what?’ David asked, becoming annoyed. ‘A carnival? There wasn’t that much to see, trust me.’

  ‘It’s more than that, Mr Hampden,’ the man assured him. ‘It’s much more than that.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  There was a pause. ‘There is someone staying in your motel room still. Who is he?’

  ‘What, Paul?’ David was irritated by the sudden change of topic. ‘He’s my brother, if you must know.’

  ‘He is in danger,’ the voice said. ‘They are calling to him, like the sirens of legend. He will go to them, and he will never return.’

  ‘Who?’ He was beginning to feel a little alarmed now. Surely this was some kind of hoax?

  ‘They will change him. He will become one of them. And then he is lost forever.’

  ‘Who are you?’ David asked again, a note of panic creeping into his voice. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘We must meet,’ the man said, ignoring the question a second time. ‘I was hoping to avoid this, but the situation demands it.’

  ‘Meet?’

  ‘The Tillbrook public bar, Mr Hampden. Tomorrow at eight in the evening. Come alone to the private room in the back. We will meet you there.’

  ‘But...’ he began to protest, but the line went dead, a continuous low tone the only response. He looked at the phone for a few seconds longer, as if it had somehow transformed into something alien to him, something dangerous. Then he pressed
the ‘End’ button and put it back on the desk. He looked back to his work in progress on the computer screen. One photo caught his eye and refused to let it go.

  He is in danger, the man had said.

  Six heads in jars, looking more and more realistic the longer he examined the image.

  And he will never return.

  TWO

  Transformations

  -17-

  Paul wasn’t certain how he found his way back to the carnival. He staggered out of the woods, clutching his wounded hand. He didn’t know where his cane was, probably back at the clearing, so his limp was severe. The pain of every second step sang in close harmony with his throbbing palm. His head felt like it was full of buzzing insects, swarming around inside his skull, looking for a way out. He wished they’d find one soon. They were making it very hard to think.

  The carnival seemed deserted. He limped through the unguarded gate, towards the rows of darkened tents. This time there was no burning bonfire, no after-work celebrations. This time it was silent and sombre and black, like a funeral veil. Then he spotted something from the corner of his left eye: a light, flickering in amongst the tents. He walked towards it as if in a trance.

  The light was from a single candle, stuck in a pile of dirt outside a tent. He looked down at it, and noticed there were words written in the sand, underneath the candle.

  - sins of the father -

  ‘Paul. You made it.’

  He looked up and saw Rachel in the entrance of the tent, still dressed in the velvet and lace dress he’d first seen her wearing that first night at the carnival. It had only been the night before, but it seemed like an age ago now. She was smiling, her lips stained dark in the candlelight. He tried to speak, but his throat seemed to have seized up.

  ‘The candle speaks true, child. Trust its words.’

  He looked down again, and the words had changed.

  - sons of the mother -

  He looked up again. Rachel was still smiling, but there was something in her eyes that didn’t quite match. Something he’d seen earlier that night, in another’s eyes.

  ‘I told you. It is inside you. Jasmine has taken the first step towards awakening it.’ She approached. ‘Now I shall take the next.’

  Paul didn’t seem to have control over his eyes. They turned again to the pile of dirt, to the words below the candle.

  - seen off the brother -

  He looked up at Rachel again and flinched, startled. Her eyes were a solid dark red, like she’d haemorrhaged and blood had filled them. She didn’t seem bothered by it. Her smile revealed her canine teeth, which were long and sharp. There was downy hair across her cheeks, almost invisible from a distance, but up close it was very obvious.

  He wanted to run, to scream, to do anything. But he was frozen. All he could move were his eyes, which turned again to the dirt at their feet.

  - signs of the other -

  Something else was bothering him about the sand. It took him a few moments to realise what it was.

  It was Rachel’s footprints, stretching behind her through the dirt from the entrance of the tent. They weren’t right. No long indentation, a deep heel and five toes. No, these footprints were more round, with pads and... were they claws?

  Either way, they weren’t human.

  His eyes returned to hers, still stained a deep crimson. She licked her lips.

  ‘It is in your blood, Paul.’

  Her hand shot out, hitting Paul in the chest. There was a moist crunching noise, like a wet branch breaking in two, but he felt nothing, merely continued to look into those eyes, those red, red eyes.

  She held up something between their faces in her hand, just under her nose. It was the size of a fist, red and purple. Dark, thick liquid trickled down her wrist.

  ‘It is in your heart.’

  She bit into it, like an apple. Blood spurted out, hitting Paul in the face. He screamed, and...

  Paul’s eyes opened, bright light stabbing at them. He lay for a long time, very still, blinking. He felt tears trickling down his face. He was disoriented and didn’t know where he was or what was going on. The image of his heart in Rachel’s hand was still etched in his vision through the blur of light that was attacking his eyes. It hurt to open them, but he was terrified to close them again too, in case he returned to the tent, the dirt, the candle. So he bore the pain, until his eyes had adjusted and he could look around, expecting to see the trees and forest floor he’d passed out on.

  He didn’t. He was lying, fully clothed on a narrow bed in a small room, one he’d never seen before. The ceiling was panelled with pale timber, in thin strips running from wall to wall, like someone had covered the roof with old-fashioned wooden rulers. He turned his head to the wall. It was covered in faded wallpaper, pale cream with a dark brown pattern. Turning his head the other way, he could see a door and part of the floor, which was also wooden, but this time a deep, dark brown. The door was closed.

  He looked back at the ceiling, taking stock. His hand was still hurting, but not as much as before. But his entire body ached, as if he’d done a triathlon the day before. Actually, no, that wasn’t a good comparison. He’d felt something akin to this a few times before in his life, during particularly bad bouts of influenza, when he recalled having to lie very still, his muscles hurting deeply as the virus ran riot through his system. That was similar to this, but not identical. This was simultaneously better and worse than that: more painful, yet somehow less debilitating. He felt as if he could move if he had to.

  And if he wasn’t tied up, of course.

  That fact became apparent when he tried to sit up. Loops of thick rope crossed his chest and arms, and more encircled his ankles, disappearing beneath the bed. He leaned over to the edge of the bed as far as he could and looked at the floor. There was a tin bucket there, perhaps a quarter filled with some dark liquid which he couldn’t quite make out. But the smell of it...

  His stomach lurched. He tried to hold it back, but there was no chance. He spasmed, and vomit surged up his throat and out of his mouth. It was hot and tasted of copper, and as it splattered in the bucket he realised that it was a deep red colour. There were large chunks in it, big enough to make his throat clog up as he vomited, so that a few times he thought he would choke, but then the pressure would eject the lumps, and they’d land in the bucket with a splash. He tried to cry out, but all that came was more vomit.

  Soon there was no more inside him. Paul continued to lean over the bucket, dry retching, but only a thick line of pink bile made it out of him. He spat a few times, trying to clear his throat, the acidic taste overwhelming his senses. He looked into the bucket again, and knew what was in it.

  Blood. Blood and meat, like he was throwing up his own intestines.

  That thought made his stomach turn over again. He shuffled himself back onto the bed. Blood was smeared down his chin and right cheek. He lay on his back, exhausted and alone and very afraid.

  There were footsteps then, clunking on the wooden floors outside the door. It opened, and a short man walked in. He was a little fat, his chin was almost non-existent, and he had pale blond hair that was retreating up his forehead. His glasses were thick and dark rimmed, his clothes casual but not cheap. He looked at Paul and smiled, an open, guileless smile.

  ‘Ah, you’re awake, excellent,’ he said. ‘How are you feeling?’

  He couldn’t speak, so he just gurgled a bit.

  ‘Oh dear, you’ve had another vomiting session, I see,’ he said in a clucky tone, leaning down and picking up the bucket with no sign of distaste on his face. ‘This is the second one I’ve had to empty. It’s been quite a night. But hopefully that’s the last of it.’

  Water, Paul tried to say, but again, all he managed was a half-choked gasp.

  The man seemed to understand, though. ‘Ah, of course. Just a moment.’ He walked over to the head of the bed, just out of Paul’s sight, then there was the sound of liquid being poured. ‘I had this here, just in cas
e,’ he said, coming back into view, holding a glass of what looked like water. He held it to Paul’s lips.

  Paul hesitated. Could this man be trying to poison him? But that made no sense. If he’d wanted to kill him, Paul would already be dead. He lifted his head and gulped at the water, swallowing the taste of vomit as much as he could. Some of the water trickled down his chin. It only took a few seconds to finish off the glass.

  ‘There, is that better?’ the man asked, putting the glass back out of Paul’s sight.

  Paul nodded, then looked down at his body, at the ropes that held him there.

  The man looked horrified for a moment. ‘What was I thinking? I’m so sorry,’ he said, hurrying to untie the ropes. ‘It was for your own protection. You were thrashing around quite a bit.’

  He was? He tried to remember, but there was nothing, apart from the dream of course. He frowned. ‘What happened? Where am I?’ he husked, his voice sounding strange to him. He looked at the little man standing next to him, as the last of his bonds were loosed. ‘And who are you?’

  The little man smiled again. ‘Last question first. My name’s Alvan, Alvan Roy.’

  Paul was still having trouble speaking, his throat raw.

  ‘I’m Paul,’ he managed.

  ‘I know.’ Alvan replied. ‘As for your second question, you’re at my house. I found you in the woods, unconscious, and brought you back here to recuperate.’

  Paul tried to sit up, but he was too weak, and gave up with a grunt. ‘What happened?’ he asked again.

  Alvan’s smile wavered. ‘Ah... well, that’s a little more difficult to explain. What do you remember?’

  ...teeth piercing his flesh, scraping against the bone, pain flowing like molten lava up his veins and into the core of his brain, filling everything until...

  ‘She bit me,’ he said. ‘I passed out.’

  Alvan nodded, his expression strange. ‘She chose you, Paul. They don’t do that very often. You should feel blessed.’