Nightmare Carnival

“The Gallows travels far and wide, nonetheless, the cycle continues. Sometimes it goes weeks, sometimes months, maybe even a year or two. The company members aren’t the ones who suffer the worst. Those victims in the woods? Locals. The curse cuts down innocent bystanders like a lawnmower through grass. I was around for the last occurrence. Ohio. Seventeen citizens in three weeks. Horrible, horrible shit. Not a peep in the national news.”

I gave this a few seconds to percolate in my imagination.

“Some freak has a hard-on for your uncles, okay. Obviously it’s an inside job.”

“Could be. Might be something stranger.”

“Either way, you gotta have a theory.”

“Sure, I’ve got suspicions. About all I got, though.”

“How many people work this joint?”

“A couple dozen.”

“Kinda narrows down the suspect list.”

“Jess, you don’t understand. This isn’t simple.”

“Doesn’t seem complicated either. Can’t the cops catch this murderer? Must be a trail of corpses strewn across the country. Clueless as law enforcement tends to be, brute force will out eventually. For the love of god, all those bodies, dude. Where’s Nancy Grace and Geraldo? This is national news. A CNN spectacular.”

“You’d think so,” he said.

“My instincts are razor blades, else I’d figure you were running a con, Bease. Is this reality TV? Got a camera crew stashed nearby?”

“Trust your instincts.”

“Dude, I’m open minded, as you are intimately aware. What I saw in the field, how the cops reacted. None of it adds up. Sheriff Blondie seems to be in it to win it, though. What’s his story?”

“His great-grandfather was sheriff in ’65 when the, ah, inciting incident occurred. Vinette, a woman who worked at the carnival, got butchered by a jealous suitor. That suitor went on to terrorize the countryside until Grandpa Holcomb helped bring him down with a load of double-aught buckshot. He didn’t get reelected. Von’s the first Holcomb to be appointed sheriff since the curse took hold.”

“You keep using that word as if it’s not superstitious bullshit.”

Beasley dragged a cardboard box from under a table. He emptied its contents onto the bed — a meticulously dissected series of clipped newspaper articles and photographs. The oldest were blurry, preserved from the decade of Flower Power and Vietnam; the newest had been shot recently. Articles about wild animal attacks, mysterious slayings, missing persons, all connected by some elusive thread. The connection seemed patently obvious — every article covering these incidents was juxtaposed with another featuring the Gallows Brothers Carnival.

He watched me thumb through the clippings.

“Curses might be country bumpkin nonsense, sure. I just try to see it from the rustic perspective. Forget curses. Imagine. Imagine there’s a conspiracy. Nasty, violent, spans generations, and we’re going to put an end to it. You and me.”

“Conspiracies I can sink my teeth into.”

“Now we’re speaking the same language.”

“The authorities can’t make a dent in this case, what makes you think I can help?”

“Because we only need you to play a role — you get to stand in for the woman who got murdered back then. The Gallowses, Victor, our resident guru, they believe a reenactment of that original crime will allow them to interrupt it and break the curse. None of the ladies with the carnival has the guts to act as a decoy. I’m good at taking a person’s measure. My hunch is, you’ve got a gift for survival.”

I had another sip.

“Bait doesn’t sound fun.”

“Bait just hides the hook.”

“This is about Alaska. Oh, boy, you’re barking up the wrong tree if you think Eagle Talon qualifies me for what-the-fuck-ever freak Olympics you got going on here.”

“Damned right it’s about Alaska. Alaska was the crucible that made you. Your life ended when that man slashed your throat. The old you went up in smoke. You’re a dancing star.”

“What did you say?” Fear stirred in my heart. Fear and an incongruous trickle of exultance. A sense of deeper purpose.

Beasley retrieved his flask.

“I recognized your face the second I walked into that tavern. What’s more, I recognized the light in your eyes. I wasn’t there looking for Ms. Goodbar or a heroine to pull our fat from the fire. I went there to get drunk because we’d failed to find a leading lady for the big night. Meeting you is fate. Can’t be anything less than the machinery of the universe clicking into place.”

“Flattering, except I still don’t understand what you want. Eagle Talon doesn’t mean anything. I went head to head with a creep and lived to tell. The media tried to spin the hero angle. That ain’t me. I’m a survivor, not a savior.”

“Remains to be seen, Jess. Come on, you need to speak with Conway. He was there during the bad days.”

“Ask the dismembered people in the den, they’d probably say these days are pretty lousy,” I said.

“The other bad days.”