by Gina Damico
“And suicide pills.”
But the agony had just begun. The entrance area alone boasted no less than forty varieties of jams and jellies, a greasy food court, a kiosk offering freshly made fudge, several Scent Stations, and, of course, the main attraction: walls and walls and walls of jars and tins and molds of candles.
“I am going to be sick,” Jill announced. “Excuse me while I duck into one of these Scent Stations and unload the contents of my stomach.”
“Don’t. They’ll probably make it into a candle.”
“Half-Digested Donut.”
“Chocolate-Glazed Upchuck.”
The line for the make-your-own-candle area was growing by the minute, winding slowly past a conveniently placed price list—CUSTOM LABELS: $5.00; RAINBOW SWIRLS: $3.00; HIDE A SECRET NOTE IN A CANDLE: $10.00—that kids looked upon with delight and parents looked upon with abject hatred. Another vestibule held bottles of Tackety Wax, the Grosholtz Candle Factory’s first foray into infomercial-worthy products—a sticky wax that promised a tight seal on anything that needed sealing. And eclipsing them all: a large display with a sign that read INTRODUCING: BISCENTENNIALS! COMING TOMORROW!
“‘In honor of our town’s bicentennial celebrations,’” Poppy read off the sign, “‘the Grosholtz Candle Factory will be releasing two brand-new, small-batch, exclusive special-edition BiScentennial candles every day. For the rest of our bicentennial year!’”
“My heavens,” Jill said as they walked farther into the store. “We’ll need another full year to recover from the excitement.”
Poppy tried to ignore the costumed musical atrocity that was befalling the food court, but it was not designed to be ignored. A dancing pig dressed in overalls swung his bucket oh so merrily across a raised stage while a trio of cows sang and wiggled their udders. There was also a terrifying anthropomorphic representation of the state of Vermont ambling and cavorting about, his ceaseless, dead stare no doubt sucking the souls from the slack-jawed children who had the misfortune to fall under his tyranny.
“I will miss my eyes,” said Jill, “when I gouge them out. But I see no other course of action.”
“Waterbury gets Ben and Jerry’s,” Poppy lamented. “Cabot gets endless cheese. Paraffin gets candles and Vermonty, New England’s most beloved nightmare goblin.”
It was then that Vermonty entreated the audience to join him in a stirring rendition of Vermont’s state song, “These Green Mountains,” at which point Poppy and Jill bolted as fast as their loganberry-laden lungs would allow.
They found themselves in a waiting room of sorts, where a large sign announced that the next tour would begin in five minutes. Beside it stood the Waxpert tour guide, a perky-looking girl wearing a red vest and a brightly colored felt hat shaped like—wait for it—a candle. Covering the room was a beautiful glass-domed roof, affording spectators a neck-craning view of the defunct storage tanks, conveniently located just up the adjacent hill. Stained into the glass in elegant, loopy letters was the Grosholtz Candle Factory motto: “One fire, many flames.”
A gaggle of tourists, not a one under the age of fifty, dallied about the room, waiting for the next tour to start. Some studied their maps with the intensity of air traffic controllers, not wanting to lose a precious second of candle factory fun time to poor planning. Others were reading the informational placards on the wall or shouting the contents of the informational placards into their significant others’ hearing aids. Still others were sitting on benches, complaining about their feet.
But most were captivated by the extensive diorama that wrapped around the perimeter of the room. Behind a wall of glass in a climate-controlled display, no less than two dozen beautifully sculpted life-size wax figures stood frozen in scenes of Vermontian history and noble pastoral labor. Some tilled fields, some churned butter, some gathered eggs. A crowd of villagers traded wares in the town square. One girl who looked to be about Poppy’s age sat on a stool next to a cow, squeezing its udders with a look on her face that could only be described as vengeful.
In fact, her cheekbones kind of looked like those of Poppy’s gazebo twin.
Poppy tugged on Jill’s sleeve and pointed out the deranged milkmaid. “Fancy a tour?”
Jill groaned. “We already did the tour. In fifth grade. Anthony Colucchio stepped on my Hello Kitty sneaker and made me cry. What if history repeats itself, Poppy? Do you really want that on your conscience?”
“I am willing to risk it, yes.”
“You’re a terrible friend.”
“But look at the tour guide’s jaunty hat! How bad could it be?”
∗ ∗ ∗
The tour was bad. The jaunty hat could not save it.
Somewhere around the point at which the tour guide cooed, “And this is the wicking room!” Jill slumped her head up against Poppy and whimpered. “I can’t take it anymore,” she said. “We get it. It’s wax. It melts. It smells. End of story.”
“The story begins,” Poppy said in a pitch-perfect imitation of the tour guide’s opening sentence, “in 1865, when the Grosholtz—”
“Stoooop.”
Poppy smirked, but her patience had worn as thin as Jill’s. The tour was duller than her ten-year-old self remembered, and it had been a waste of time to boot; she hadn’t spotted any sort of custom-made-statue opportunities. All she’d learned was that Blake may or may not have gone on this same tour and that the popularity of tea lights was on the rise.
“And here we have a drum of Forty Winks wax—careful, you may begin to feel drowsy after prolonged sniffing!” the tour guide said with a chuckle. “The Grosholtz Candle Factory is at the forefront of the aromatherapy movement, infusing innovative new blends into our candles that will improve people’s moods . . . and lives. We’ve partnered exclusively with the Paraffin Resort and Spa on a new line of relaxation melts, and we’re even working on a product called Beacon, a powder that can be used by emergency responders as a sort of olfactory flare gun, for victims to ‘follow their nose’ toward help. Just sprinkle it in any flame, and you’ve got the opposite of citronella—reeling them in, instead of warding them off!”
“Because that’s what we need,” Jill joked to Poppy. “More candle weirdos.”
“And now for a special treat,” the tour guide continued once they’d shuffled from the wicking room into a hallway. “Say hello to Anita and Preston Chandler, the CEO and president of the Grosholtz Candle Factory!”
She pulled open a curtain on the wall, revealing a large window. On the other side of the glass was a luxurious office featuring deep brown mahogany walls, a majestic fireplace complete with roaring fire, and red velvet armchairs with tall seat backs. A living Christmas card, Anita and Preston Chandler stood in front of the fireplace, waving, Smitty’s Donut Shop vanilla lattes still in hand.
The senior citizens crowded around the window as if it were the monkey enclosure at a zoo, scrambling to take photos of the fancy people in their natural habitat. Poppy and Jill stayed put in the back.
After a full minute of flash photography, the tour guide put an end to the gawking. “Thanks, Anita and Preston! Time for them to get back to work,” she said, pulling the curtain closed. “Now, I know what you’re all thinking. When is this dang tour guide going to talk about hollows? Hollow candles, for those of you not in the know, are wax shells shaped like candles, but they do not melt! Instead, they feature a cavity into which you can insert a smaller candle—a tea light or votive—thereby producing a muted, flickering light that’s ideal for—”
“Oh my God, a candle within a candle?” Jill said to Poppy, hysteria rising in her voice. “This tour is becoming a Russian nesting doll of insanity!”
Impatient, Poppy pushed to the front of the group, interrupting the guide. “Those sculptures back in the waiting room diorama, where we started the tour. Is there any way to hire someone from the factory to make something like that?”
The tour guide gav
e her a curious look. “What is that, the question of the week?”
“Huh?”
“Someone else asked that the other day. But I’m sorry to say it’s not a service the Grosholtz Candle Factory provides.”
Poppy turned to Jill. “That had to have been Blake!”
“Sure,” said Jill. “Fine. I don’t care anymore.”
“Now,” the tour guide went on, “if you’ll look to your left, you’ll see a picture of a bee. Bees make wax too! And so do our ears.”
Jill buried her face in Poppy’s shoulder. “Kill me.”
∗ ∗ ∗
Poppy did not grant Jill’s request. When an hour later the tour guide led them into a room with a small stage, they were both alive and well and totally miserable.
“Bet there’s no furnace under that stage,” Poppy said grumpily. “Bet their actors don’t get into orphan fights.”
The tour guide hopped up onto the stage and wheeled out a table set with two glass bowls of clear liquid. “What does the future hold for the Grosholtz Candle Factory? Let’s just say we’ve got a few more tricks up our sleeve.” She beckoned for an older couple to come forward and held the bowls out toward them. “Go ahead, take a sniff.”
They did so, then frowned. “I don’t smell anything,” said the woman.
“Right. Now do me a favor and dip your fingers in. It won’t hurt, I promise!” The couple did as she asked. “Now sniff again!”
The woman sniffed at the bowl into which she’d dipped her finger, then gasped. “It’s strawberry shortcake!”
“No, it’s not,” her surly husband countered, sniffing his own bowl. “It’s motor oil.”
“It’s both!” the tour guide crowed. “It’s your favorite scent, whatever that may be!”
“Oh, my,” said the woman, bringing a hand to her chest. “It’s true! I love to bake, and he’s a retired mechanic!”
“This miraculous substance is something our Waxperts have been developing for years,” the tour guide continued. “They’ve nicknamed it Potion, and it’s one of the newest advances in waxen technology. By mixing a person’s individually secreted oils with Potion—a proprietary mix of wax, pheromones, and scentographic sensors—we’ll be able to create an innovative, one-of-a-kind fragrance. Personalized scents are going to revolutionize the industry!”
This was followed by a polite round of applause from most, and a drowned-out “I don’t think ‘scentographic sensors’ are a thing,” from Poppy.
“In fact, our new line of BiScentennial candles—which releases tomorrow—will be made with this technology, using data from volunteers found right here in Paraffin,” the tour guide continued, wheeling the table with the bowls out of the way. “We are not overexaggerating when we tell you that this is a total candle game changer.”
“That must be true,” Jill muttered to Poppy, “as the Grosholtz Candle Factory is not prone to overexaggeration.”
The tour guide clasped her hands together, beaming. “Yes, here at the Grosholtz Candle Factory, it truly is—say it with me—one fire, many flames. And with that, there’s only one thing left to do!” she finished with a menacing smile. And of course, of course, from the wings of the stage moseyed Vermonty, that destroyer of worlds, as the melody of “These Green Mountains” filled the room.
The elderly contingent happily formed an impromptu, tuneless chorus while Poppy and Jill scanned the room for exits. “I’ll push them,” Jill told Poppy. “Trampling senior citizens is not beneath me.”
“It might be the one thing you were put on this earth to do.”
The music got louder. Arthritic hands clapped along with the rhythm. Poppy whipped her head around the room and spotted a door toward the back, labeled EMPLOYEES ONLY.
She swallowed, a rush of blood pulsing in her head. Once she was sure no one was watching her, she crept up to the door and put her ear to its surface—but the song had gotten so loud, it was impossible to hear anything.
Jill saw what Poppy was doing and joined her. “Have you decided to sneak into the back and set the Chandlers on fire?” she asked. “Good idea. If only we had access to anything combustible . . .”
“Look,” Poppy said, focusing on the door. “What if Blake snuck in here, found and trapped a couple of employees, and held them hostage until they agreed to fashion a statue of me?”
“Well, the simplest explanation is usually the right one.”
“I’m serious! What if—”
“Our illustrious state needs a dance partner!” the tour guide crowed while Vermonty do-si-doed with himself. “Have we any volunteers? How about you, in the back there?”
The fickle finger of forced audience participation landed squarely on Jill, whose face went whiter than a jar of New-Fallen Snow. “Oh, no,” she whispered, clutching at the door. “No no no. No.”
Poppy saw her opportunity, and it would cost exactly one decade-old friendship. “Do it,” she commanded Jill. “Be a diversion. I’ll slip in here, investigate, and find you afterward. Jill. Please.”
Jill’s jaw went hard. She drew in a long breath, the resigned inhalation of a battle-worn soldier heading into certain death. “If I do this for you,” she said stoically, “you will purchase me ten pounds of fudge.”
“Done.”
Jill gave an imperceptible nod and began the long walk to the stage, where Vermonty enveloped her in a suffocating green-felted hug. The last thing Poppy saw as she slipped through the door was Jill being twirled around like a ballerina, and by the look of homicidal rage on her face, Vermonty was not long for this world.
∗ ∗ ∗
It was the strangest thing.
Not the fact that Poppy was so easily able to sneak unnoticed into the restricted area.
Not the fact that as soon as she grabbed a red vest off the coat rack within, every employee traveling the hallway nodded at her as if she were one of them, a certified Waxpert.
Not the fact that it was a really long hallway. She’d been walking for five minutes and still hadn’t reached an end, seeing fewer and fewer employees along the way. Doors lined both sides of it, some labeled, some not. Windows revealed dull, corporate-looking rooms where product development meetings no doubt took place, where employees would shout things like I think it whiffs of dragon fruit! or Let’s call this one Banana Bonanza! or What does “freedom” smell like? A couple of laboratories, more offices, a break room. Another window revealed a market research panel currently in session, the kind that almost everyone in town had been invited to participate in over the years. An employee would present candles for volunteers to smell while analysts watched via a one-way mirror. At the end, the sniffers would leave with a free candle, a coupon booklet, and the fervent hope that they would be invited back in the future.
No, the strangest thing was that the farther Poppy walked, the less sterile and generic the hallway was. The linoleum floor turned to hardwood—and then, farther down, old wood, the kind that jutted up in odd places with protruding nail heads. Doors got fewer and farther between, then stopped altogether. The clean white walls faded into dusty yellowed wallpaper, then, like the floor, switched to wood. The air became fusty. She had to be at the rear of the factory, somewhere in those arachnid-looking reaches. By the time Poppy arrived at the end of the hallway, finding only a single wooden door, the only thing she could think to say to herself, in the goofiest voice possible, was, “Well, gee. Knock-knock.”
“Come in,” came a voice on the other side.
Poppy clapped a hand over her mouth. “Oh, crap, no, I was kidding,” she whispered into her palm.
She glanced around, but there was nothing to glance at. With that single door, the hallway simply . . . ended. She could either go in or begin the long walk back, ending her investigation with as many unanswered questions and unfulfilled revenge fantasies as she had started with.
The silence between Poppy and the concealed answerer gained weight, sagging th
ere between them in the form of a rotting old door. Heat clogged the hallway. Poppy’s skin was sweaty, her mouth dry. If she were a candle, she would be Dehydration Celebration.
Clearly, she would not be going in. She was not an employee. She was not authorized to be there. She had hoped to maybe snoop around undetected, but now? It was time to leave.
And yet out shot her hand, reaching toward the knob. Twisting the knob. Pushing the door open.
The room was dark, but not pitch-black. Muted light entered through windows caked with grime. Dust choked the air, so thick, it was as if a fog had rolled in. The wooden boards creaked as Poppy walked, her feet brushing aside something like dry leaves with each step.
And that was when she spotted the bodies.
People hidden in the foggy shadows. Crowding around her, staring at her, advancing on her. She backed up against the door, but it had closed, trapping her inside. Her sneakers slipped on whatever she was stepping on—panicked, she looked down at the floor—it was blanketed with scrapings of skin—
And all the while she felt a scream gathering in the back of her throat, gasping and clawing and begging to be let out—until she couldn’t contain it for a second longer.
5
Scream
“GOOD HEAVENS,” SAID THE VOICE THAT HAD BECKONED HER INSIDE. “Now, there’s a racket to wake the dead.”
Poppy blinked. Some of the cloudy air had drifted out the door when she opened it, giving her a better view of the room. It did indeed contain several people. They were indeed staring at her.
But none of them were real.
They were models. Dummies. Life-size human replicas.
“I’m sorry to have startled you,” one of them said.
Poppy gasped, freaking out all over again until she realized that the one who spoke—that woman was a real human being. Right?
It was at this point that Poppy wondered what was in those candles she’d been inhaling all day.
