Damned Carnival
by J. Scott Ellis

I don't believe in fairytales, God, or the Devil. However, I do believe in balance and the perpetual struggle of opposites. Fables are keys to the soul. Truth is detritus on the ocean floor, suppressed by the crushing weight of water. There are things down there--awful things--whose wake stirs up whirlpools of sediment that rise up to the surface, only to dissipate and rest comfortably again.

The mark was, of all things, a clown. I was told not to underestimate him, which stood to reason. I am what many in the business call a cleaner, called only when things go wrong. But this wasn't a mop up, this was the dirty work. I hadn't been called direct in twenty years.

The carnival ground had fallen into disrepair in an abandoned slum. The street lights, like the rest of the crumbled, gutted buildings were broken and useless. Only a sliver of moon lit the way.

I stood at the entrance, an arch with a flaky wooden sign over it, the lettering of which I couldn't make out in the dark. What I could see gave me a superstitious chill: “…hell…” my inevitable final destination. I supposed at the time that it was part of a larger word, but now I'm not so sure.

I took one last drag on my cigarette and flipped it to the pavement and crushed it with the tip of my shoe. At the gate, I met a slight resistance, like a wall of gelatin. I tested it by poking my arm through, and discovered with some alarm that I couldn’t pull it back. It felt like I was being swallowed by a python, inch by inch, constricting patiently up my arm, then down my chest and up my neck. I struggled frantically, but it was no use. As the invisible skin stretched over my face my air was cut off. I waited helplessly as it slithered over my body until I was devoured completely. My chest was on fire. Sparks lit in my eyes. Just when I thought I was dinner, I was spat out into the park.

On my hands and knees, I filled my lungs with air in one large rush. I stood and regained my composure. A cat brushed my legs, rubbing up against me in an affectionate gesture. I wondered how long it had been since it ate. I scooped it gently with my foot and set it away from myself and scanned the area, planning my next move. A voice, feline in nature, said, "Please, don’t do this."

I whirled around. Standing where the cat had been was the most striking woman I have ever seen. She was dressed like a circus acrobat in a tight leotard, posed as if taking a bow after some death defying feat. I pulled my gun. She ignored me and twirled like a top on the tip of her toe, then pranced to alight soundlessly before me, brushing the gun gently aside. I felt her sweet breath against my cheek.

She looked familiar. Something about her eyes. “Do I know you?” I whispered.

A look came over her face, like I was her favorite pet, broken and bleeding on the road, mortally injured but not yet gone. A single tear fell down her cheek.

“I forgive you,” she said as she reached out and cupped my face in her hands. My heart leapt involuntarily. I realized with astonishment that I needed to hear this, but I had no idea why.

“Who--?”

“You were just a boy,” she said. “Leave now, and don’t come back.”

“I won’t,” I said with surprising ferocity.

"You never do,” she said. She stood on the tips of her toes, until her face was even with mine, then she kissed me with such passion that my mind felt like a brick in my head. I reached around her to pull her tight, but found the empty air. Only my need remained. She was gone.

Just then the carnival came to life.

Calliope music swelled from a suggestion to a distorted din. It was as if the place were waking from a power outage; like this was all a phonograph recording switched on with the needle down. Florescent displays throbbed and blinked, dimly announcing rides and attractions. Across the park there stood a mountainous roller coaster called the Razor’s Edge. To my right was an old western-style saloon called The Haunted Whorehouse. Beyond that was a massive wrought iron gate, chained and padlocked, barring access to a cave, from which fire fluttered like the tongue of a snake. The gate struts pulsed between blood-red and molten orange. “Dante’s Inferno” was chiseled into the surmounting rock face.

I turned away from the gate and was startled by the furious gallop of footsteps behind me. I spun to face the threat, only to hear the patter recede in the direction I had just turned from. A metallic creak. The crash of metal on stone. The gates of Dante’s Inferno dangled open.

With my gun trained before me, I struck a course toward the faded footfalls. I crept past a tall bell-topped tower called Night Striker and into a row of dark booths. In one of these were shelves of jars containing baby fetuses floating in sherry liquid. Each had lidless, black marble eyes that glinted with reflected light. They were staring at me. Impossible, I thought to myself, until I remembered with a shudder the carnival entrance gate. “…hell…” Something burst from the shadows at the end of the row and winked through the warm yellow glow of a hot dog stand--a clown in full regalia. Billowing red curls erupted from underneath a tidy bowler hat. He wore spotless white gloves and baggy plaid pants, held up by suspenders that pulled his waistline into sharp spikes. His shoes, which must have been size thirties, slapped the ground as he skipped away in huge bounds like a gazelle.

I started after him but couldn’t keep pace. In the distance he lit upon a carousel. He swung around on a pole and turned to face me. “A museum if you will,” he screamed with a cackle, “in honor of my muse!” He took a deep bow then stepped back and was swallowed by the shadows.

At one time the carousel must have been magnificent, but now it cast a solemn pall. As I edged closer, ever wary that the clown might spring out, I realized with growing unease that something was terribly wrong. I expected to see colorful circus animals on the carousel—horses, elephants, zebras, rhinos, but these were something different. My eyes had lost all credibility. I stepped onto a creaking floor plank, grabbed a twisted brass pole and knelt down for a closer inspection.

The carousel jerked to a start. Lights came on, but flickering and faint. I barely noticed. The shape on the floor was a man, impaled by the brass pole through his back at the base of his neck, pinned like a butterfly in a collector’s case. He knelt with his hands tied together in the valley formed by the bend of his knees. Instinctively I knew that there would be a tiny hole where a bullet had entered the back of his head. His posture of death was unmistakable, with all the markings of a professional hit. Each of us has a particular calling card that sets us apart. Some cut off an ear, finger, or even genitalia. Some burn the eyes out with acid, or cut patterns into the skin. Juvenile--barbaric if you ask me. I prefer to keep it clean. A crisp shot through the back of the head at the tip of the spine, and out through the mouth. This man was one of mine, and so were the others.

The bodies were mounted to the carousel, complete with western saddles and tack. Their mouths were pried open by metal bits, from which draped leather reins that looped back and rested on the saddle horn. The carousel labored to turn. Ancient machinery from within its mirrored core convulsed and sputtered. Slowly at first and gaining speed, the bodies were pulled up and down in the motion of motor pistons.

The screams started. It was as if they were dry sponges, suddenly doused with water. The people came to life, straining against their bindings. Handcuffs snapped apart. The carousel was a jumbled confusion of flailing arms and legs as I leapt to the ground and turned to watch in rapt fascination. All fought with the poles that held them fast. One by one the poles came unfastened from the roof and bent over. Whatever they were, ghosts, demons or zombies, they squatted down and pushed with their legs, muscling their way to the end of their poles with rasping scrapes. I thought I had seen enough when the clown stepped from the mayhem to crawl into the saddle of a burly Samoan, who had just liberated himself but waited obediently on all fours at the lip of the carousel facing me.

From atop his Hawaiian steed, the clown beamed with an amused expression. The dead troops gathered behind him, staring hungrily at me. He said, “They’re just dying to see you.”

In the confusion, I had forgotten my gun. But somehow I lost confidence in its efficacy. Still, I aimed between his eyes, and felt a surge of hope as his features stretched in horror. He flailed his hands in front of him and said, “Wait! Don’t shoot.”

I pulled the trigger, but to my surprise, a pointed stick popped from the muzzle, and a flag unfurled below it with the word “Bang!” painted in big cartoonish letters. A gale of laughter exploded from the carrion crew. I reached inside my coat to my left side, and pulled my Bowie knife from its sheath and brandished it before me, but a purple plumed feather had replaced the blade. The laughter rose to a raucous roar.

“Our lion has been de-clawed,” the clown choked out, rocking back and forth with his arms wrapped around his midsection. I cast aside my useless weapons. With my arms by my side, I waited patiently. Finally, the clown reached out and patted the air down with his hands. “Okay, enough.” All went silent.

“I have to apologize for our little joke,” he said, still trying to catch his breath. “It’s a guilty pleasure of mine, but terribly rude I’m afraid. I hope you will...” He paused, searching for the right word, or was he being deliberate? “…forgive me.” I stared into his eyes and said nothing. There are few that can hold my gaze when I turn on the high beams, not even the craziest in the business. He however, met my glare with perfect aplomb, without malice or contempt. His was more like the lascivious gaze of a lover who has shared in your most secret fantasies.

“Well?” he said with cocked eyebrow.

“Well what?”

He enunciated and stretched the words, wildly signaling like a base coach--pulling an ear, tipping the brim of his hat, honking his nose, cupping his hand in his pit and flapping his arm like a bird. “Do… you… forgive… me?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Hmm. So you wanna play it that way, huh?” He struck a thoughtful pose, thumb to chin, bloated sausage fingers fanning his cheeks. “Why do you think you’re here?”

“I was sent to kill you.”

“Who would want to bother with me?”

“I don’t ask questions.”

“Well you should. I’m going to let you in on a little secret. Nobody sent you here. You came on your own, like you always do.”

“Like I always…?” She had said something similar, implying that I’d been here before. “That’s crazy.”

“On that we totally agree. It’s become quite a sport for me and my gang, but, well, we took a vote,” he looked for support and got it from the nodding freaks around him, “and this has to stop. It’s for your own good.”

The carousel core imploded with a loud sucking pop. A solid blue flame shot up in its place and blasted the fabric of the covering tarp, which caught fire and spread outward. A musky odor like burning tires stung my nose.

The clown swung a leg over the saddle and slid off. He raised his voice over the crackling blaze. “You always come here waving your gun around, with the same delusional pretense of killing me. We chase you around; you try to escape. But there is only one way out, and we have been only too happy to oblige. We have ripped out your limbs and feasted on your stinking innards a thousand times, and yet you keep coming back.”

One by one, the members of his entourage jumped into the fire--sizzling brightly for an instant then winking out--until only he was left. The carousel was a solid towering bonfire. He glowed brightly in the midst of the flames. “It’s time for you to face your shame,” he said with a wave, “or die.”

With that, he jumped high into the air, through the charred ceiling, and hovered for an instant. Flames followed him like a comet’s tail, like iron filaments to an electromagnet. He pulled his knees to his chest and absorbed the entire conflagration. Glowing like a supernova, he slammed down through the heart of the carousel. Upon impact, it exploded outward with devastating force, blowing through the carnival grounds and wiping it clean, leaving me stunned but untouched.

Something in me had changed. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. The sweet smell of jasmine dazzled my senses. My joints felt like rubber and I seemed lighter, like I could jump to the moon. The perpetual scratchiness in my throat was gone, and so too the slight wheeze at the apex of every breath. I had become accustomed to the gradual effects of smoking on my health. Now, breathing easy, I realized my folly, and wondered if I had really known all along. The air around me was alive with bird song and the slap of lapping wake upon a lake shore. I was barefoot now. Mildewed grass sprouted around my feet and between my toes.

I opened my eyes. The moon had been replaced by an orange sun, drooping lazily behind distant, snow-capped mountain peaks. I was a little boy again. My skin was baby smooth and unblemished--hairless, no scars or tattoos. A long dock stretched away from me over a lake.

“Come on,” a sweet voice said to my side. When I saw her, I wanted to cry, to reach out and hold her. But I wasn’t in control. I was only inside myself a long time ago, a spectator, not a participant. She took my hand and pulled gently. “Don’t worry. I’m here.”

“You know I can’t swim,” I said to her. The dock seemed to stretch away even farther, and I felt dizzy with fear. But I allowed her to lead me, step by hesitant step. The dock rose and fell on the choppy water, throwing me off balance. I panicked. I froze in place and couldn’t move, afraid to turn back. Yet somehow she brought me through. Whenever I looked into her eyes, dazzling green with brown flecks like sunbeams, it hurt to see her unbridled faith in me.

We sat at the end of the dock and let our feet dangle in the water. It had a cold bite at first, but that quickly yielded to a warm glow. She kissed me on the cheek, then pushed away from the dock and slipped under the water with barely a splash. She didn’t come up right away.

“Gracie!” I called out, but she was still under. Then she burst out, gasping for air, flailing with one arm, not three feet from the end of the dock where I sat.

“Help!” was all she could manage before sinking down again. My pulse pounded in my temples as I willed myself to push off and save her. My adult mind remembered everything now, this memory that I had sequestered into the deepest vault of my mind. Gracie never came back up, and I never moved from that spot, where I was found shivering the next morning, sick nearly to death with pneumonia.

To my surprise, I was able to set my young self into action. So into the lake I went. With my eyes open I kicked my feet, frantic to find her. Through the murk I saw her hair streaming above her as she sank, but she was no longer a girl, but a woman now--the woman at the park entrance. I was myself again, in the full stinking bloom of manhood. We locked hands as we came to rest on the lake floor, where the water was clear as a crystal spring.

I couldn’t hold my breath much longer. Even if I wanted to, I’d never make it back to the surface. Looking into her eyes, I was humbled once again. I deserved bitter scorn, but what I saw instead was too much to bear. My head turned away, but she pulled me back and made me see. Her voice sang inside my head, “Wake up Jonah--and live. If not for you, then do it for me." She kissed me then and pulled away as the water filled my lungs.

I sat up in bed, drenched in sweat with tears like a stream on my face. My pillow was sopping wet with the impression of my head sunk into it like a plaster mould. The sheets clung to my body like a latex glove. I clicked on the bedside lamp and found my pack of Camels propped against the ashtray. Waiting. The pack made a comforting pop when I smacked it to my palm, and a group of three cigarettes popped out, one more than the others. It flipped neatly between my lips. I paused for a moment and pulled it out.

Then I snapped it in two.

J. Scott Ellis is a new writer with big aspirations. Born in Ohio, he never spent more than one year in one place until setting down in Alaska to live out his high school years. His nomadic outlaw father, depending on his mood, is a carpenter, a farmer, a hunter, a mechanic, a fisherman, and an inventor--but failed to impress any of these skills on his son.

By day Scott masquerades as a software developer. His true passion however, has been writing ever since he won a short story contest as a small boy. Currently he has several works in progress, and hopes to start a novel in the next year.

Despite his wandering past, he has established comfortable roots in a wooded New England enclave, where he lives happily with his wife and two sons.