The Ferris Wheel

“I’m tired, can we got home now?” Sammy asked.

“Do you know who Daddy is Sammy?”

“Daddy?”

Lydia stopped walking and put her hands on her little brother’s shoulders. She was shocked by how much he looked like their father at that moment.

“Never mind that. Forget I said anything. I was just funning. Now, cotton candy or Ferris wheel?”

“Ferris wheel.”

Lydia held out her hand but he refused it. They sliced through the crowd, headed towards the towering, creaking Ferris wheel. She had always been terrified of it, but felt it was the safest place in the world right now.

 

---

 

“I’m telling you,” Lydia whispered in the dark, her hands finding Stephen’s face. “I’m telling you, something’s wrong. It’s not him.”

“This isn’t funny anymore, Lydia.”

Stephen pulled her hands away from his face. She tried to wrap her arms around him but he pushed her away. He did so gently but it felt like he’d punched her in the stomach. She felt her breath go out. She just wanted to melt into his arms, to feel safe again. She just wanted to know that when she opened her eyes the world she knew and could trust would still be there. She felt the tears coming. She closed her eyes.

She sobbed as quietly as she could, holding in the sound, snot running down her face, tears soaking the neck of her shirt. She tried to put her thoughts in order, tried to make sense of everything she’d been seeing and feeling these past weeks but she couldn’t. She searched his eyes in the dark. She wiped her face. She took a breath.

“It’s not a joke, it’s real. I – I can’t explain it. I know how this sounds”

“Okay, okay. Listen. The doctor said this might happen, remember? Let me go get your Dad…”

“- No, no no. You’re not listening. You can’t tell him anything.”

“I have to tell someone. You’re scaring me.”

“No, it’s not him. It’s not him. It’s not him.”

The door creaked open. Little Sammy in his Spider-Man pajamas standing in the doorway, rubbing his eyes. A look on his face like he’d seen a ghost. She ushered him back to bed, down the long hallway lined with what once were pictures of the whole family but now were just her father’s face, over and over again, watching her. Smiling.

 

---

 

The Ferris wheel turned slowly in front of them. They waited, Sammy on his tip toes. Soon they would be high up above the town.

Though she felt his eyes on her, Lydia said nothing. The silence of a secret. The sound of the gears turning within the towering ride was the driest sound she’d ever heard.

“When I woke up last night, I saw Daddy in the hallway, listening to you and Stephen. That’s what I came to tell you but I forgot,” Sammy said.

She looked at him now, unsure if this was the fancy of a child, or if he was telling the truth.

“And when he took my hand, it was cold. Steak in the freezer cold. I thought it was a game. But when I looked up at him he didn’t have any eyes. He took me back to my room. I waited until I heard his door click shut then I came to tell you.”

Lydia wrapped her arms around her little brother and hugged him tight.

“It’s going to be alright. Everything is going to be okay.”

She said the words but knew they weren’t true. She felt older than she ever had in that moment.

“But if he’s not Daddy,” Sammy said, “then who is he?”

Lydia didn’t answer. She listened to the creaking of the Ferris wheel, the screams and laughter of the kids running through the thoroughfare, and the sounds of the night. All the sounds of the carnival filled the night and made her forget, for one sweet moment.

A tangle of red balloons fluttered up into the sky.

They rode the Ferris wheel late into the night. The more she thought about it, the sicker she felt. Soon the ride would be over, the gates would be closed and they would have to go back home. Back into the house they would creep but no matter how quiet they were, he would be waiting. He would be listening. He would be watching. She thought about the knife in her pocket. Would she be able to do what needed to be done?

Lydia looked down at all the tiny people. She remembered the doctor’s words.This could all come back one day. But she knew this wasn’t that. This was some other kind of hell come for her, come for the whole world.

The wheel stopped spinning. A chorus of sighs and shouts from those below them but Lydia didn’t make a sound. They were alone on top of the world. They were safe.

It grew cold and Sammy, sleepy, sucked his thumb and finally held out his hand for her to take. She smiled, tussled his hair, and took his hand. It was cold. She lifted it to her mouth, cursing herself for not bringing him a jacket, and she blew into it and rubbed it until it warmed. He put his head on her shoulder. The ride started up again then stopped.

“Sorry folks,” a voice from below called. “Just gonna be a few more minutes. Hang tight.”

Sammy looked up at her. His eyes were missing. He smiled. She reached into her pocket and wrapped her fingers around the knife.

Ain’t It Funky Now?

“You gonna eat that?” Silas asked. Gruel dripped from his chin and as he eyed Funk’s bowl, he smacked his lips together, the dryness all but forcing him to rip them back open after every spoonful.

“Nope,” replied Funk. A wave rolled over his lime green skin, going from his tail to his face. Ripples in the lake of his face, revealing a smile.  “What is it?”

“The special. A place like this, always get the special. If you’re not gonna eat it, give it here.”

Funk watched Silas dig into the brownish, fetid concoction with gusto, a contented look falling over his friend’s face. When the eyeballs rose to the surface, Funk looked away, thinking of anything but what or who he might be eating.

The diner was quiet but full and the day was nearly done. Funk knew as soon as the spoon struck the bottom of that bowl they would be back out into the night and he was tired of running. He was tired of the cage. Dumb luck had left him with the tail, the need to hide. Dumb luck had given his brother the power to hide in plain sight. But he was a monster, all the same.

A group of miners got up from the bar together, singing and slapping each other on the backs. They pushed past like a cloud of dust. If I can’t have peace, Funk thought, at least I can have some fun.

Funk’s tail shot out from under his coat, catching one of the miners in the shin. The miner fell to the floor, cursing and clutching his leg. When the shouts began to ring out, the rest of the diner cleared out, even the help. Miner’s had a reputation in the colony for a good reason. They’d earned it.

They fell silent when they saw the rest of Funk’s body as he shed, first his overcoat, then the slimy pink layer of humanity that kept him being put in a jar on a shelf in a doctor’s office somewhere, next to the Elephant Man’s bones.

“Hey, look at this one,” one of them said. Another chimed in: “It’s not even Halloween.”

Their surprise soon turned to anger as Funk whipped his tail out again, knocking two of them back into the tables, upturning them. Glasses smashing, tables cracking, the jukebox skipping. David Bowie is still afraid of Americans.

When they pulled out their guns, Silas held up his hand. It was a simple but effective gesture. Something about the look in his eyes, and the stretching sound emanating from somewhere within the small, unassuming old man, like leather being pulled taught, gave them pause. They watched, their faces screwed up, as Silas’s fingers began to stretch, joints and tendons popping to accommodate the change, fingernails lengthening, longer than yardsticks now. His arms, too, and neck. The crack of bone and the howl, that godawful howl, like something you only hear in the wind, winding up within his throat. Fur sprouting like moss on his body and face, snout extending, rows of razor sharp teeth revealed when he smiled, if it was a smile, drool pooling at his feet. Antlers, finally, protruding from his head, poking into the low slung, stained cardboard ceiling tiles. His legs bent like wolves legs at the wrong angle for a man. If he was a man any longer. If he ever was a man.

The lone ceiling fan squeaked overhead, bolts loose, one blade cracked.

Somewhere within the monster’s face was his friend, but even Funk took a few steps back and didn’t make eye contact with the hulking figure.

“Wendigo,” one of the miner’s whispered. “No such thing,” another responded.

Funk closed his eyes. That was the wrong thing to say. He listened to their shrieks and the snapping of their bones. The gurgle and the howl. The sound of flesh being torn, blood splattering the walls, marrow being sucked.

When he opened his eyes again he was alone with the beast and the carnage. Silas, Wendigo, whatever he was at the moment, held an eyeball, still attached to the long string of ocular nerves, in its claw. It swung back and forth like a pocket watch, as if he were trying to hypnotize Funk. Funk couldn’t resist saying it.

“You gonna eat that?”

The Rats

It wasn’t until the chamber emptied and the hammer clicking echoed out in the shallow heart of the alley that I awoke to my actions. The fog of rage lifting like it was morning on the lake and the world was coming back into focus after being forgotten for the evening. The body on the ground before me. A hush over the city.

What have I done? I kneel and put my fingers to the artery, feel a faint fluttering. A shock pulses through my hand and I pull it away. Still alive but I can’t call an ambulance. That would mean the cage and that isn’t an option. Sorry, father. The next time I walk through those gates will be my last.

Looks like it’s the rats for you, Jimmy. The rats and the runoff and the homeless who will no doubt strip you bare, leave you naked as the day you came into this world.

My breath puffs out before me and I clasp my hands together to keep them from shaking but it’s useless. Soon my whole body is wracked with tremors. A florescent flickers to life overhead. A brackish green halo forming around it, the tears in my eyes mucking it all up. I wipe them away and chew back the sick as I look down on your caved in skull. Less like a man than a prop. I feel eyes on me and hear rustling and whispering from the shadows. I almost lose the thread, the moment but then I go back inside and remember that day when you took Sammy and me to the field for the first time, put the shotgun in my hand and it knocked me on my ass and bruised my shoulder but I fell in love with the sound, the fury and the power. That was the first of many lessons. This last, the harshest. You can’t trust anyone. Not even your father.

Sirens coming from downtown. Time to go. i walk back over and kick the body as hard as I can. That’s all it is, a body. But it feels good. I do it until I’m wheezing. Something inside breaks loose.

I wipe the gun clean with my shirt, toss it into a nearby sewer grate. I stumble out into the street.

Cut. That’s a wrap. Beautiful. Print it.

People emerge from the shadows, clapping and wiping their eyes and I for a second I am lost. Cameras all around me, lights blazing overhead where seconds ago there were none. I feel the heat and touch my face and my fingers come away bronzed. Makeup. What is this? I look at the body as people buzz around it. Monkeying with the skull and brains. A pale sack of skin and bones walks up to me, extending a hand. I take it. The author. My brother.

That was powerful. Good work. Felt good, didn’t it?

Yes, yes it did.

Now, Where Were We?

Abbot opened the door and stepped inside. The house was quiet and dark. No alarm system. No dogs. Just the sound of his own breathing to let him know he was there.

The silent assassin  made his way down the long hall by memory, feeling right at home in the dark. It was in this very house that he had learned to kill. Now, to find the man he knew only as Shine, and finish it. Word would get out. No more hotel jobs. No more rich Beverly Hills wives. It would be presidents, kings and coups. It would be respect, fear and awe.

He ghosted his way through the kitchen, dancing through the spiderweb grid of motion sensors he’d learned by heart, so many years ago. They still held the same pattern. How lazy the master had become. He pictured Shine dozing off in a chair in the den, Dorian Gray shadows falling over his face, his weapon nowhere to be found.

Tsk, tsk, old friend.

The basement. The door cracked slightly open. Abbot touched the door knob and jumped back, shocked, his fingers burning. His heart hammered in his chest but he made no sound. He cursed himself for not expecting this. He cut the feed. He crouched. He steadied his breathing. He listened. He peered into the darkness, the one sliver of light leaking up the stairs. Then the ceiling creaked. Movement in the bedroom above.

You old fool. Now, where were we?

He left his shoes at the foot of the stairs and ascended slowly. No more mistakes. Measuring out each step in increments of time only he could see, only he could count. The slow drain of the hourglass. The circle would soon be complete and he wanted to savor every second of it.

The bedroom light was on and he could hear the familiar strains of the Berlioz already. Marche au Supplice. He never used to care for it but now it felt right. It felt fitting. He would accompany on piano wire garrote. He crept into the bedroom on the balls of his feet.

He put a single toe down and that’s when the bear trap clamped down around his ankle and he crumbled, writhing and clawing at the rusted metal teeth. He howled and only then did the dogs come running. He heard them clambering up the basements steps. Paws scrabbling for purchase on the hallway tile floor. Up the steps they came, their barks and growls preceding them.

A light flicked on from the corner of the room. Shine sitting in his chair, a modest smile spreading over his face. He didn’t look a day older than the last time Abbot had laid eyes on him. He shook his head, sadly.

Abbot, whimpering, closed his eyes and covered himself as the dogs snapped their jaws inches from his face and neck.

Boys, boys. Enough.

The dogs fell silent, sat back on their haunches. Shine stepped around the unsprung traps and knelt next to his former pupil. Unmistakable scar running down the left side of his face, all the way down his neck.

Surely you didn’t think your presence would go unnoticed, oaf?

I…I wanted to be the best.

No such thing. There is no best assassin. There is no worst assassin. There are only assassins and dead assassins. Now, where were we? Ah yes. Boys? Dinner time.

I’ll See You in the Morning

“You need a job?” Ronald asked. “I could use a grill man, my last one, well, he’s gone.”

Ronald said it through a clenched tooth smile. His lips barely moving. His face a taut mask. As many times as Arthur had been in there over the course of the summer, he’d never seen Ronald without the uniform, makeup or smile.

Ronald. That’s what the name tag said.

“Aren’t you worried about getting sued? I mean, Ronald? Really?”

“I don’t worry about anything anymore. I’m free. And we’re a franchise, of sorts. Would you like an application? I think you would be a perfect fit.”

A chill ran up his spine but Arthur took the application. He needed the money more than he needed to sleep at night. He read a few of the questions. He told the truth where he needed to and made the rest up. He signed and dated at the bottom of the page and handed it back to Ronald.

“Do I have to wear the makeup?”

“It’s a required part of the uniform. If I run a background check will any of this be true?”

“Look, I just need a job.”

“I’m sure we can come to an agreement.”

---

One night, just after closing, Arthur heard muffled moans coming from the back office. He inched the door open and saw Ronald at his desk, head in his hands, sobbing. His makeup still perfect.

Arthur pushed the door open a hint and it creaked, giving him away. Ronald looked up at him, wiped his eyes and laughed quietly. He stood up and made his way around the desk, snapping his suspenders back over his shoulders. They fit into place perfectly, sliding right into the deep grooves, the indentations in his bright yellow undershirt.

As Ronald approached Arthur rubbed his own shoulder in that same spot. Like an old man that feels a storm coming in his bones, Arthur had a bad feeling and it originated in that same exact spot. Not pain, but a dull ache. Close enough to pain anyways. Close enough to fear.

“Here, let me make you a burger,” Ronald said.

“No, I can make it myself. I’m…I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have…I just heard you, and I saw the door open…”

“It’s fine. Everything’s fine. Everything’s going to be okay. Please, I’d like to. I’ll make you the best burger you’ve ever had. My special recipe. It’ll make us both feel a lot better. It’ll make us both feel brand new.”

It was heaven. It was the best burger Arthur had ever eaten. Ronald made six more and they split them. They told jokes and laughed until dawn.

Every night after that, Ronald made them burgers and they ate and laughed and then cleaned. Arthur lost the need for sleep, save a few hours nap between close and opening. He didn’t think much of it. He even stopped having to reapply the makeup. When he woke, it was on. The hair, too. And the uniform. It was always on and after awhile he didn’t think about it anymore. He didn’t think about anything anymore.

---

One day, Arthur caught a glimpse of his reflection in the polished steel of the grill face. Clown makeup holding despite the heat, copper colored hair shooting out like springs at wild angles. He touched his face. He felt someone behind him. He turned around, slowly.

He was looking at himself. What he used to look like. Before he started working for the clown. And he knew it was true. He was the clown, now. And Arthur was standing there by the door, watching him. No uniform. No makeup. His own face, his own eyes. He touched his new face and smiled.

“Heading home, Ronald. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Ol’ Number Three

I’ve got to go Daddy.

Honey, can’t it wait? We’re almost home.

No, I drank all of Mommy’s lemonade.

Of course you did. Okay, I’ll pull over. There’s a rest stop in just a few more minutes. Number one or number two?

The ‘ol number three.

Jackson laughed at the sheer weirdness of his daughter’s response, wondering what in the world she meant, and where in the world that would have come from. But then a chill came over him and his hands stopped working as he realized that was not his daughter’s voice. Only the blaring horn of an oncoming truck brought him back to the world. He swerved back into his lane and Cassandra giggled.

Turning the rear view mirror with a trembling hand, he held his breath. But it was her. It was his Cassandra. Golden hair and ice blue eyes. A strawberry patch of freckles on her left cheek. It was her in all the right ways. He must have imagined the voice. He was overtired and the road was blurring and he just wanted to be home in bed and forget about yet another forgettable day. He rubbed the back of his neck and sighed.

Turn it up, turn it up, turn it up.

Jackson hesitated, he didn’t want to wake his wife, sleeping soundly in the passenger seat but Cassandra kept prodding and he gave in. He could not deny her anything. They sang along together, whispering at first, mindful not to wake Mommy.

Puff the Magic Dragon lived by the sea…

Cassandra made her teddy bear dance and giggled some more. Her mood lighter than it had been in days. The strange cloud that had been following her seemingly lifted. But as the song came to a close the darkness returned. She furrowed her brow and threw teddy aside. She scratched at her scalp and her neck. Red marks rising on her skin. She rubbed her eyes with tiny fists.

Honey? Audrey, wake up. There’s something wrong with Cassie. Audrey?

His wife wouldn’t wake up. And for that he was grateful because that’s when he saw them. Snakes swimming behind Cassie’s eyes. Smiling now, she stared right at him. It was his turn to rub his eyes but when he stopped they were still there. Her eyes bulged out and Jackson gripped the wheel tighter, closing his eyes and shaking his head but he didn’t wake. The dream didn’t end. He made a sound like a dying bird.

What’s wrong Daddy?

Nothing. Nothing at all, sugar Here, I’ll pull over here.

No, a little further.

He drove on. He pulled out his cell phone, keeping it close to his chest so she couldn’t see. No service. Who would he call anyway? An ambulance? The police? The pastor? He nudged his wife’s elbow but she just murmured, shifted in her seat and smacked her lips.

Okay Daddy, you can stop now.

The tires bit into the gravel and the car skidded to a stop. Resigned, he got out. Cicadas chirping in the field beyond. The wind picking up. Jackson opened the back door and let her out. She curled her fingers around his and pulled him along.

They kept walking. Deeper into the trees. She led the way. They crested a ridge and a hole was there, waiting for him. She let go his hand and he fell in. He landed face down. His back and neck on fire, it was all he could do to turn over and look up at what was once his daughter.

It’s okay, Daddy. It’s better this way. You don’t want to see what comes next.

By the Window

She’s by the window now. I can hear her breath, steady but shallow. The wind outside batters the glass, trying to get in. The soft kiss of her perfume hangs heavy. The squeak of her fingers on the fogged up glass sends a shiver up my spine which I know isn’t real but I don’t care.

She settles into the chair beside me. Just outside my periphery. If only they would listen. If only they would leave the chair a few more inches to the left I could see her. My eyes are open.

I catch a glimpse of her as she leans forward to place her head in her hands to cry. Muffled sobs. More grey in her hair than I remember. She reaches out her hand, pushing it slowly across the bed towards mine and the blankets bunch up along the way. Though I cannot feel it, I know my hand is there. That’s where they put it this morning. That’s where they always put it. And though I cannot feel it, I know her hand is now holding mine.

The walls dissolve, taking the sterile hospital room with them. A moment of darkness and panic but then blue skies. A seagull floating above. Ocean air in my lungs and hot sand between my toes. I take a handful and let it slip through my fingers which feel like my own. The sun beats down upon on my back and I wrap my arms around her. We wade out into the warm bath of the ocean together.

I don’t know if I can do it. One minute you’re here with me, then you’re not. How do just I accept that, Alex? You tell me how. You tell me what to do. Do I just walk away?

She smiles as she says this, her hand on her sunglasses but she doesn’t lift them so I can’t see her eyes. The sun is directly behind her. I’m squinting and watching her lips but they don’t match her words. What’s happening I say but nothing comes out. A wave crashes over us and she laughs and everything is all right again. I even laugh a little despite the creeping fear in my heart.

What do I do now, Alex? Say something. Okay. Oh, God.

Another wave and I’m pulled under. Our fingers, intertwined just moments before, separate. I scream but my mouth fills with water. I see a light ahead but the undertow takes me.