The Complete Short Fiction of Charles L. Grant, Volume IV: The Black Carousel

by Charles L. Grant

  They reached the oval close to ten, and he balked when she headed straight for the Octopus.

  “No.”

  “Why not, Drake?” She leaned close; he smelled heat and sugar.

  “I don’t like that thing, that’s all.”

  “Oh, come on, it won’t kill you.”

  Doubtfully, he watched the round-bottom cars swing and spin up into the shadows above the carnival light, saw the faces desperate to have fun, heard the obligatory shrieks. He shook his head again.

  “Drake,” she said, sternly as she smiled, “it’s okay, really. Millions of people ride it every night.” Close again. “You can sit in my lap.” Her arm draped across his shoulders. She licked her lips and whispered, “I’ll let you feel me up a little.” Waggled her eyebrows. Kissed his cheek.

  And will you wipe my mouth when I dribble ice cream, Mommy? he thought, suddenly annoyed.

  “The carousel,” he said, pulling her toward the back.

  “Oh Jesus, wimp city.”

  “My choice for a change,” he said as lightly as he could. “Give the wimp a break, okay?”

  He could see it, then — hurt, is he joking, hurt, a shade of anger, finally deciding Drake doesn’t hurt people so why the hell not.

  “And who,” she wanted to know as they joined the short line, “ever heard of a black merry-go-round? It’s almost obscene, don’t you think?”

  He loved it.

  So black, so deeply and unrelentingly black, the strings of lights ranged along its circus-top roof seemed to float above it, the fall of light beneath the canopy soft enough to touch. The animals perfectly carved, gaily painted, even the bench seats in emerald and gold seemed alive somehow.

  “I’ll bet there isn’t even a brass ring or anything,” she complained when they finally reached the platform and the carousel slowed, the music slowed.

  “Sue me,” he told her, poking her sharply with a thumb.

  “Damn right.”

  On then, struggling through the red-faced kids streaming off, walking counterclockwise around the base until she found a mustang with a purple mane for her, and a rearing stag with ruby horns for him. Her expression dared him to fault her; he kissed her cheek mockingly and climbed aboard.

  “You know,” she said as the mustang began to rise, the music began to play, “you could write about this for the paper.”

  “Why? It’s just a carnival.”

  She shook her head, held on to the brass pole with one hand and leaned precariously over. “I mean, you could do the history of these things, y’know? What they mean to outlying places like the Station, stuff like that.”

  Pieces of him swept by on his left, the mirrors taking him, absorbing him, bringing him back for more.

  “Boring.”

  “Hey,” she said, straightening so abruptly he thought at first she was angry, “if you’re going to be a reporter, Saxton, you’ve got to get yourself a little imagination, right? I mean, you going to write about proms and professors and pay hikes all your life?”

  He couldn’t answer.

  She obviously didn’t expect one.

  His hands on the pole, sliding up, sliding down, while he thought about wishing wells and magic lamps and the music that sounded like tin and silver, pans and bells, while the wind pushed the hair from his eyes and rippled his shirt and opened his mouth so he could gulp it in like water, while he rode the stag and wanted to ride it all night, away from the carousel, away from the Station and into the hills where the trees would hide him and the hunters couldn’t find him and the weather would be the only thing that would tell him where to go;

  while he watched the other riders always ahead, always behind, never looking back, always looking in the mirrors, while those on the ground moved away from his speed, from his antlers, from his hooves, not quite cheering, not quite screaming, not quite afraid and too afraid to run, while the music, tin and silver, rendered him deaf to everything but the cry of a young cat trapped in the branches of a young tree in a town too old to be anything but just there;

  while the music slowed and the stag slowed and his eyes watered until his forearms, first one, then the other, wiped them dear.

  “Jesus,” he whispered, and climbed down, stood for a moment until his legs stopped trembling. “God.”

  Jill didn’t seem to notice. “Octopus,” she demanded, payment for, and he watched her climb into the saucer-shaped car, watched the car lift, watched her blow him a kiss before the speed kicked in and she had to hang on. Nothing to see, then, and nothing to hear but the screams until it slowed, gears and chains grinding, and she pantomimed a message: I’m going around again. He felt like a jerk. People were probably watching him watching her, nudging each other and smirking. He’s down here, she’s up there, we all know who wears the pants in that family.

  He walked away, paused at several food stands without buying a snack, exchanged smiles with a few people he knew, although vaguely, and finally left the oval, back onto the midway where he kept to one side and read the signs, listened to the spiels, realized he’d left the canary somewhere behind, surrendered to a sudden urge like the jerk of a string and entered a square tent that smelled of sawdust and fresh paint.

  It was empty.

  It was dark.

  But not so dark that he couldn’t see a woman standing in the distance, a silhouette against lighter black. Watching him. He knew she was watching him.

  Cautiously, not sure how dangerous moving around in here was, he walked toward her, frowning, head slightly forward in an effort to see better, wondering if she was part of the show or only another customer wondering the same as he.

  She didn’t move.

  His left hand reached out timidly, searching for something to touch, grip, brush against, and found nothing.

  She didn’t move.

  A few moments later he collided with something hard that whacked across his thighs, made him grunt, made him snatch at it and realize it was a small folding chair with a thin padded seat. Hanging on to the back, he glanced around, saw nothing, no one else, and shrugged as he sat, intending to remain for only a few seconds, until his senses were able to give him bearings, better vision.

  She didn’t move.

  “Hello?” he said.

  The light behind her, neither from above nor below, brightened enough for him to see that she wore a ball gown, strapless shoulders, hooped skirt with tiers of stiff ruffles, a broad red ribbon that tied her hair behind her ears. Hands clasped demurely at her waist. Powdered bosom pushed in, pushed up, barely contained and not at all exciting.

  “Hello?”

  Her face in shadow.

  He knew her.

  Leaning forward again didn’t help him to see, but he knew her and couldn’t bring her name, conjure her features. It was the stance, for some reason. Not in those clothes, but it was the stance that nearly gave her away.

  “Hey, what . . . am I supposed to do something?”

  No echo, no indication of space, no volume.

  He might have been sitting alone in a closet, or in a monstrous empty stadium.

  She turned sideways.

  In profile, a long nose with a faint bump and the bridge and a delicate hook on the end, a chin that pointed out, lips in an unconscious disapproving purse. Lower, to a bulging stomach the gown couldn’t restrain.

  “My god,” he whispered.

  It was Sheri Firth.

  Keeping a hand on the chair’s back, he stood and glanced around, trying to decipher the joke here, searching for the others. “Aunt Sheri?” The dark was too intense; he sat again, heavily, wiped his hands on his legs. “Aunt Sheri, what’s going on? What the hell are you doing here? Mom —”

  “Don’t swear,” she said quietly, clearly. “Wendall, please tell the little snot not to swear at me.”

  “Why the hell aren’t you at the house?” he demanded, wanting to stand and not wanting to give her the satisfaction. “Mom’s going to be worried. She already is.” There was no
sense looking for her husband; it was too dark. “Where’s Uncle Wendall?”

  “Speak when you’re spoken to, you little bastard.”

  Turning her back to him.

  Bitch, he thought.

  “I heard that, Drake,” she said.

  “Okay,” he said. “Bitch.” And he winced.

  Turning again. Right profile.

  “It isn’t my place to criticize, of course,” she said, her lips barely moving, “but it seems to me you ought to be home now, taking care of your mother.”

  “She’s working. For Christ’s sake, what are you doing here? Is this some kind of joke?”

  Facing him.

  Face in shadow.

  “The meat you bought at that little pathetic place you call a market is tough. I’ll never be able to eat it, you know that. Give it to me raw and it’ll still taste like old leather. I simply won’t have it.”

  “What —”

  “And most of that lettuce has brown edges. Two days old, at least. Wendall doesn’t like brown edges. And he certainly won’t eat that ridiculous steak. You’ll have to think of something else.”

  He did stand then, lashed a foot out to kick the chair away.

  It was gone.

  He heard music: a tune he didn’t recognize, but it was as if someone had dragged the carousel’s band of bears in here with them. When he looked back, his aunt was dancing, waltzing with an invisible partner, the partner not very close. It was all very formal; it was all very disturbing.

  “Aunt Sheri, this is stupid.”

  The dark was warm, chilled, felt like air and felt like wool. She danced a little faster, skirts rustling, feet scraping across a rough dirt floor.

  His hands clenched and opened, his head swiveled left and right, but he couldn’t leave. A step backward, a second, a third, suggested he could get away, get outside, any time he wanted to, but as he watched his aunt whirl with a ghost in large circles against the dim light, he simply couldn’t leave.

  Couldn’t look away.

  The music, tin and silver.

  “Aunt Sheri?”

  Couldn’t see her face.

  This was nuts. She was going to kill herself if she didn’t stop, she was going to get hurt. He didn’t know who had thought up this insane gag, but he’d had enough. He strode several paces to the left, swatting at the air, heedless of what might happen should he strike a support post, a wall, someone else standing in here watching the macabre show; a dozen paces more, looking up, looking out, seeing neither ceiling nor walls and not feeling anything but a pleasant chill. Like a breeze.

  Realizing that the light always stayed behind his aunt.

  Dancing faster.

  Face in shadow.

  Trotting in hopes of getting behind her — this was ridiculous; jogging easily — this was nuts; suddenly sprinting as though he would catch the trick and trickster unaware. Spiraling inward in order to grab hold of his aunt. Nothing changed. When he slowed, she spun, in perfect time to the music almost fast enough now to lose all semblance of a tune.

  Tin and silver.

  Panting at last, he sagged to his knees, a hand pressed against his side, face toward the ceiling as his mouth worked for a breath.

  “Hey!” he yelled. “Hey, get in here!”

  No one answered; no one came.

  A skittering across the dirt, and something bumped against his leg. A shoe. Her shoe. Sensible, as always, and as always, expensive.

  This is a dream, he thought, and felt stupid for thinking it.

  They were always dreams, the nightmares and wishes and scenes that weren’t real; they were always dreams, and the dreamer always woke up and sometimes was glad and sometimes was sorry. But the point was — they were dreams.

  He saw the other shoe fly off into the light, fading, shrinking, never hitting the back wall. Vanishing.

  “Aunt Sheri?” His voice small. Helpless. “Please, Aunt Sheri?”

  She tried to speak; the words were garbled; the music played faster.

  Why doesn’t she fall?

  She danced on, back perfectly straight, arms in perfect position to hold on to her partner.

  He cried for help.

  The light turned amber, his shadow-aunt darkened.

  He called out a second time, and the first drop of blood landed on his cheek.

  He reared back, twisted away, and the first shard of her gown fiuttered into the air, absurdly slowly, absurdly long.

  Ignoring the taste of bile in his mouth, the surge of acid in his stomach, he scrambled to his feet and tried to reach her, changed his mind and tried to run away, but the blood was faster and the gown fell apart and his aunt danced on to the music tin and silver; he screamed at her to stop and received gibberish in turn.

  Face in shadow.

  Dancing on.

  He found the chair and grabbed it, knelt beside it, pulled himself onto it and covered his face with his hands.

  He heard her bare feet on the dirt, heard the blood splatter, heard the silk and satin tatter, heard the music.

  Heard the first of her bloodless skin pull away from her arm.

  He moaned.

  He rocked.

  Mom, he prayed; Mom, Jesus Christ, what’s going on?

  The music stopped.

  The sound of a distant wind, not approaching, simply traveling, winding down to the hiss of a breeze in summer leaves, winding down to silence.

  His fingers spread, stiffly as if cramped.

  His shirt, his jeans, were drenched; he could feel the blood drying in his hair. An image of himself in gleaming red made him retch, but nothing came up, and he swallowed as rapidly as he could as tears finally broke and crawled down his cheeks.

  One eye opened — a lost little child in a theater, not wanting to see the monster, too curious to look away — and saw a stick figure frozen in the midst of an extravagant sweep of its arms, accepting plaudits from admirers for the magnificence of its dance.

  A giggle was swallowed. Another escaped, and that horrified him more than what was left of his aunt, standing there, frozen, in the middle of the light.

  Dreamer.

  A slow inhalation brought him out of the chair, another one with a hand pressed against his chest moved him a step forward, turning slightly sideways as if ready to run away, blinking, reaching out.

  Touching the light.

  It was solid.

  He pressed harder; it was cool.

  He ran his fingers along its unblemished surface as he circled the indistinct figure inside. But it was his aunt. He knew it. There was too much arrogance in that stance, too much preparation.

  The light went out.

  He nearly fell as he whirled, and saw an exit sign right behind him.

  Tell someone, he thought, hysteria and panic close to hand; tell someone what happened, Jesus, tell Mom.

  He ran outside, and grabbed a guy wire with both hands to stop himself, swinging himself around until the wire started to burn.

  The midway was deserted.

  Bewildered, he checked his watch, and didn’t believe the Travelers had closed just before eleven. Then he brought the hand close to his eyes, turned his arm over, stretched it out, brought it back. He sagged against the taut wire. There was no blood. He checked his shirt, jeans, hair, spun around with a question opening his mouth and saw that the tent flap had been sewn closed with tarnished copper cable.

  He had to tell his mother what had just happened. Or Jill Yes; Jill was closer. She was on the Octopus, he’d only been gone fifteen minutes, no more, though it seemed like hours, and there was no way she would be content with only one ride. She knew about weird things; she’d be able to help him out, think of an explanation of either what had just happened, or how he’d been taken.

  The police; he’d have to tell them, too. His aunt was dead, entombed in that tent.

  He looked at it.

  The wind, kicked up, and sun-faded pennants along the rim snapped at him, the sides of the canvas bill
owed toward him.

  He stumbled more than ran, thumbs brushing the tears away harshly.

  “Here,” a voice whispered.

  He waved a hand — not now.

  “Here,” it insisted.

  He hurried on toward the oval; the voice followed.

  “God damn,” he said, nearly shouting, turned to the speaker, and jill handed him an ice-cream cone.

  “Strawberry,” she said. “You like it?”

  He nodded, examined it, sniffed it, tasted it, nodded again.

  “Real strawberries in here. That’s the best kind.”

  “A connoisseur, huh?”

  “Years of practice.”

  She couldn’t quite look at him. “Are you all right?”

  A wan smile quickly vanished. A shrug.

  “You’re mad,” she said, a finger tracing the length of her scar. “I’m sorry. Really. I just couldn’t resist that thing. I don’t blame you for leaving, are you sure you’re all right?”

  He watched without seeing the people pushing by, checked the sky, realized they were standing in front of an undecorated caravan with a sign that declared that this was where lost things and people were found and held.

  Another shrug. How, honestly, could he be mad when he had known what he was getting into when he asked her out? She was Jill, that’s all there was to it, and if he hadn’t wanted to abide her he could have come alone.

  “You’re dripping.”

  Ice cream trailed down the cone and over the back of his hand coldly. He licked it quickly and, at the same time, let his expression tell her he was okay, don’t worry, and he wasn’t mad at all.

  Relieved, she took his arm, and they bucked the surging customer river to a clear space on the other side, where he pointed out a grey-board shack that claimed to hold a photography studio where, when they entered, they discovered cardboard people in bathing suits, garish military uniforms, space suits, elaborate antebellum gowns and evening dresses, or nothing at all, with holes where their faces should have been. Jill pointed at one nude woman with hands on her hips, the hips thrust forward, and allowed that, all modesty aside, her own figure was rather better than that. Drake fought the urge to compare openly, fought back a maddening blush when he lost and did it anyway, then hastily, solemnly, concentrated on a grizzled backwoodsman with an eyepatch and noted that the man’s coonskin cap seemed to be a little ragged.