Midnight Thirsts: Erotic Tales of the Vampire

by Greg Herren

  Now he walked through the maze of rides and attractions, surveying the work of his crew and hired hands. The skeleton of the Ferris wheel was nearly complete, its empty cars swaying as the men set another one into the circles of steel and tightened the bolts to hold it in place. Beyond it, the Whirly-Gig was being tested, its five cars spinning around as the men who worked it laughed and congratulated one another on having no leftover pieces. Joe nodded at them and walked on.

  The carousel was still his favorite, and he saved it for last. Its interlocking wheels fascinated him as much as they had the first time he’d laid his hands on them. Each night after it was assembled, he stood in the center, watching the gears turn as an endless melody spilled from the music box hidden in the canopy decorated with roses and the faces of angels. The painted wooden horses, dogs, and mermaids circled around him, always laughing, always gay, rising up and slowly tumbling down again as tiny white and blue lights sparkled in the darkness. He knew the magic was created by cogs and pistons, electricity and grease, but it was magic nonetheless.

  In a few hours the carousel would be filled with riders—children with hands and faces sticky from cotton candy, women in summer dresses and hats. There would be a few men, too, fathers holding on to little ones who balanced atop the horses, young men with arms flung protectively around skinny girls with shy eyes. They would pretend not to be enchanted by the magic, as if admitting to falling in love with the machine’s song were an act of weakness. But Joe saw in their faces that they heard, saw the looks of longing that appeared when they thought no one else was looking.

  “Is she going to be ready in time?”

  Joe turned. Behind him Harley stood, his thumbs, as always, hitched behind the straps of his overalls. A cigarette, unlit, perched in the corner of his mouth. His dark eyes looked out from a face weathered by a life spent in the sun and wind, giving him an expression of perpetual weariness. In all the time that Harley had been managing the carnival, which was almost as many years as Joe had been part of it, Joe didn’t think he’d ever washed those overalls or lit that cigarette.

  “She’ll be ready,” Joe told him, nodding. “Has she ever not been ready?”

  Harley paused a moment, then shook his head. “Not that I can recall,” he said.

  “Tonight’s no different,” said Joe. “She’ll be ready for the good folks of whatever town this is.”

  Harley laughed. “Denton,” he said. “Denton, Kansas.”

  “Denton, Kansas,” Joe repeated. It didn’t matter; he’d forget the name within the hour anyway. He always did. Where he was didn’t matter to him. Kansas, Missouri, Tennessee—they were all the same. He’d set up his machines in hundreds of little towns all across the country, and he couldn’t recall the name of a single one of them.

  “Come on,” Harley said, turning away. “There’s someone I want you to meet.”

  Joe followed as Harley walked silently through the carnival. Although he seemed to be looking only at the ground, Joe knew the manager was registering every detail of the raising. If asked to, Harley could name every single person working to keep the show going, list every piece of equipment needed, and recite the take from every stop for the past seventeen seasons.

  Harley opened the door to the trailer that served as his office, and stepped inside. Joe followed. As the power of the afternoon sun faded away and his eyes adjusted to the dimness, he saw that someone was seated at the lone chair in front of the desk where Harley kept the bits of paper that comprised the carnival’s accounting system. The occupant of the chair—a man—turned and regarded him.

  “Hello.” Joe tipped his head in the stranger’s direction as Harley took a seat behind his desk.

  “Good afternoon,” replied the man. “You must be the dependable Mr. Flanagan.”

  “That’s right,” Joe said. “And you are…?”

  “I am Mr. Star,” said the man, standing up and removing the battered top hat that covered his head. Tall and thin, he had dark hair that fell several inches over the collar of his white shirt, and a trim beard and mustache of a matching blue-black color. His clothes had once been elegant—a suit and morning coat of the sort worn by gentlemen twenty years earlier. Now they were worn and patched, their fineness marred by age and dust. Mr. Star held out his hand.

  Joe shook it, and when his fingers slipped away, he found he was holding a small card. It was decorated with an image of a moon and stars that hung above a circus tent, its flags fluttering in an unseen wind. The words Tent of Wonders appeared in script below the picture, and beneath that, Mr. Star, Proprietor.

  Joe looked at Mr. Star. The man was seated again. “Nice trick,” Joe remarked.

  Mr. Star smiled and tipped his head slightly. “A simple sleight of hand,” he said.

  “Mr. Star is interested in maybe joining up with us,” Harley told Joe. “Got a show of his own. Thought it might help us both to travel together.”

  “What kind of show?” asked Joe.

  “Curiosities,” answered Mr. Star.

  “Freaks,” Harley said in response to Joe’s puzzled look. “Bearded lady. Midgets. Shark boy.”

  “Mr. Harley has put it more clearly than I perhaps did myself,” Mr. Star said, laughing gently. “I have indeed collected a diverse number of oddities in my travels, and some may very well think them freakish.”

  “He’s got Siamese twins,” said Harley, looking at Joe. “Real ones, not like that pair we had a few years ago.” He turned to Mr. Star. “Turned out they weren’t even related—just two kids who looked a little alike and walked around pretending to be connected in the middle.”

  “I assure you, every one of my attractions is very much legitimate,” said Mr. Star, “from Cannibal Mary to the Pretzel Man. You can, of course, see them for yourselves before making your decision, but I guarantee you that you’ve never seen anything like what I have to offer.”

  “Why do you want to team up with another show?” Joe asked him.

  “Economics,” answered Mr. Star. “There’s a war on. People are reluctant to part with their money. If they think they’re getting more for their nickels, they’re more likely to open their pockets.”

  “Would you mind giving us a minute?” Harley asked, nodding at the door.

  “Of course,” said Mr. Star. “I’ll be outside.”

  He moved past Joe and left the trailer. When the door had shut behind him, Harley looked at Joe.

  “What do you think?”

  “Why are you asking me?” answered Joe. “I just put stuff together.”

  “We both know you do more than that, Joe,” said Harley. “You know as much about how this operation runs as I do. I want to know if you think this guy Star will fit into what we’ve got going.”

  Joe shrugged. “He’s right about times being tough,” he said. “But a freak show?”

  “People love freaks,” countered Harley. “Those Siamese twins pulled in an extra fifteen bucks a week for us before they split up and ran off.”

  “And you think he’s for real?”

  “Who cares?” said Harley. “Long as they look real and people pay to see ’em.”

  “What’s Star want for pay?”

  “Nothing,” Harley answered. “Just what he brings in from his shows. Even has his own roustabouts and barkers.”

  “That kind of deal’s hard to say no to,” said Joe.

  “My thinking, too,” Harley said.

  “So why do you sound unsure?” Joe asked.

  Harley shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said. “I’ve been in this business a lot of years, seen a lot of strange folks and strange things. Something about this fellow just ain’t quite right.”

  “You think he’s trying to cheat you somehow?”

  “Nah,” said Harley. “Can’t really tell you why I say that. Just something about him. The way he looks at you. Maybe he’s a fairy. Sure dresses like one.”

  “Wouldn’t be the first one in the circus,” Joe told his friend.

/>   “I just don’t want any trouble, is all,” said Harley. “Things are tough enough right now.”

  “So are you saying yes or no?”

  Harley moved the cigarette from one corner of his mouth to the other, a sign that he was thinking hard. “I want you to go check out what he’s got,” he said finally. “See what these freaks look like. If you think they’re worth it, we’ll give it a try.”

  Joe nodded. “I can do that for you,” he said.

  “Good,” said Harley. He glanced toward the door. “I’ll let you give him the news.”

  Chapter Two

  The old Ford pickup rattled lethargically along the dirt road, in no hurry to get wherever it was going. The crack in the windshield was growing longer, Joe noticed idly. The warmth of the afternoon settled around him, whispering in his ear with sweet breath scented by the tall grass they passed through, and making him drowsy. But the jostling of the weary truck as it ambled over the road’s bumps and dips kept him alert despite the best efforts of the world to lull him to sleep.

  “It’s just up here.”

  Star’s words broke the silence. Joe nodded. The man had said almost nothing since they’d started their journey—making infrequent and inconsequential remarks about the weather, the passing scenery, and other mundane topics. Several times he’d asked Joe questions about the carnival, about its acts and its people, its routines and schedules. These Joe had answered without revealing anything unnecessary. He still wasn’t sure what to make of the peculiar Mr. Star, and he resented more than a little being taken away from his carousel to go on Harley’s errand.

  “There,” Star said, pointing toward a field that appeared as they rounded a turn.

  Joe looked and saw a circle of tents pitched in what had once been a cornfield but was now a graveyard for a rusty tractor and the plow hitched to its backside. A few of the tents had faded red flags affixed to their center poles, and these hung limply in the hot air. No one was to be seen moving around the camp.

  Joe pulled off the road and into the field, bringing the truck to a stop just outside the circle. He and Star got out. As they walked toward the largest of the tents, a face appeared in the opening: the small, round face of a boy. When he saw Star, he dashed from the tent and ran toward the two men. Only then did Joe see that the child’s skin was thick and gray, and that from his back protruded what appeared to be a stiff, curved fin.

  “Ranku!” Star said warmly, opening his arms and embracing the boy. He turned to Joe. “Ranku is the youngest of our family.”

  Joe looked at the boy’s smiling face. In most respects he seemed an ordinary child, perhaps about seven or eight years old. His dark eyes looked back at Joe curiously as he pressed himself against Star’s leg.

  “How do you do?” Joe said, nodding.

  “You’ll have to forgive Ranku,” said Star. “He does not speak. It’s one of the conditions of the curse.”

  “Curse?” asked Joe.

  Star nodded. “The same curse that gives him the skin of a shark.” He ran his fingers over the boy’s back, gently stroking the fin. “I found him in the Fiji Islands,” he said. “I was told his mother had broken ancient taboos by falling in love with a shark god. Ranku was the result of her sin. The islanders had killed the woman but feared harming the child. They were only too happy to send him away with me.”

  Star ruffled the child’s dark hair. As he did so, Ranku smiled, revealing a mouth filled with razor-like teeth. Joe turned away.

  “You don’t find him fascinating?” asked Star.

  Joe looked at him. “Let’s see the others,” he answered.

  Ranku ran ahead of them as Star led Joe toward the tents. As they stepped inside the circle, Joe realized that they were being watched. From each tent, faces peered out, as if assessing the risk of revealing themselves further. Some, upon meeting his gaze, disappeared again into the safety of the tents.

  “Why are they hiding?” Joe asked Star.

  “We are not always welcome in the places we stop,” said Star. “People are not always kind.” He stopped in the center of the circle and said in a louder voice, “You may come out.”

  All around them tent flaps were pulled back. Joe found himself looking from tent to tent, waiting to see who or what would emerge. He was still somewhat shaken from his encounter with the shark boy, and although he didn’t know what to make of Star’s explanation for the boy’s unusual condition, he was nonetheless wary of what other surprises awaited him.

  His fears were lessened somewhat by the appearance of a large, smiling woman whose chin was crowned by a thick beard that hung almost to her ample waist. He’d seen such a thing before, and while it was unusual, it was hardly upsetting in the way that the boy with the cold, black eyes was.

  “Ah, Melody,” said Star. “May I introduce you to Mr. Flanagan?”

  “Pleased to meet you,” said Melody in a girlish voice, flashing a smile that Joe was relieved to see was composed of perfectly ordinary teeth.

  Arriving behind Melody were the Siamese twins Harley had spoken of earlier. Joe was surprised for some reason to find that they were girls. He’d only ever seen boys joined in that way.

  “Eleanore and Sally-Mae Kittery,” Star said by way of introduction.

  The twins curtsied. They appeared to be joined somewhere in the middle, and Joe wondered if, beneath the blue and red gingham dress, their skin was truly shared, or if, like Tim and Tom, who had fooled Harley several years earlier, they simply walked with their arms about each other’s waists.

  “We have…,” said the twin on the left. “…One heart,” finished the other. They giggled in unison, each clapping a hand over her mouth before running off, their pigtails flapping against their back.

  “A miracle of nature,” said Star dreamily as he watched Sally-Mae and Eleanore depart.

  “This the one that’s taking us in?”

  Joe turned to see who was speaking. The voice was slow and thick, almost drunken. It was coming from a man whose appearance both repulsed and fascinated Joe. Dressed in black pants and nothing else, his skin was all over tattooed with gruesome depictions of torment: women and men twisted in agony as demonic forms danced about them. Not even his face was unmarked, the leering grin of a hellish creature peering out from one cheek, and the fear-filled eyes of a screaming woman from the other.

  “Dwayne Upshall,” Star said. “Our illustrated man.”

  “Reverend Dwayne Upshall,” the man said, glancing at Star before holding a hand out to Joe. It, too, was covered in inky visions of death.

  “Reverend Upshall received a vision from the Lord,” Star told Joe.

  “Revelations,” said Upshall, closing his eyes as if in pain. “Revelations from Jesus Christ. Show them what’s to come,” he said. “Show them”—his voice dropped to a whisper—“what they sow.”

  He opened his eyes and grinned, revealing broken, blackened teeth. “The word of the Lord,” he said.

  He walked away, revealing as he did the work on his back. There Joe saw Christ on the cross, his body being ripped to shreds by long-fingered demons, who held his bleeding flesh aloft.

  “Not one of nature’s creations,” remarked Star. “But an attraction nonetheless. What do you think of my children so far?”

  Joe shrugged. “Doesn’t matter so much what I think,” he replied. “It’s what the paying folks think. I suspect they’ll find this bunch worth parting with a dime or two.”

  Star smiled. “And you’ve seen only a handful,” he said happily. “There are so many more: Cannibal Mary, the pretzel man, the human lizard. Oh, and let’s not forget Timpa.”

  “Timpa?” Joe repeated.

  “Mmm,” Star said. “Our zombie. Direct from Haiti. Would you like to meet him?”

  Joe shook his head. “I’ve seen enough,” he said. “I’ve got to get back and finish my work. I’ll tell Harley you’re the real thing.”

  “Excellent,” said Star. “We’ll join you tomorrow, then. It seems our l
ots have been cast together.”

  “Looks that way,” said Joe.

  “There’s one more person I wish for you to meet before you go,” Star said, taking Joe’s arm.

  “What’s this one?” Joe asked him. “Midget? A fat lady?”

  “Nothing of the sort,” said Star. “In fact, he’s completely uninteresting in that respect.”

  They walked through the tents until they came to a truck parked beneath a tree. From underneath protruded a pair of legs, and Joe heard the unmistakable sound of someone applying a wrench with great force to an unyielding piece of metal.

  “Goddamn son of a bitch,” the owner of the legs said forcefully.

  “Derry,” Star said, “come out from the belly of that beast and show yourself.”

  The man’s feet scuffed at the dirt as he slid out from beneath the truck. The legs gave way to a naked torso, the skin golden from hours spent in the sun. This in turn was followed by a handsome face. The man squinted, covering his eyes with one hand to block out the sun.

  “What do you want?” he asked. “I’m trying to fix this thing.”

  “Stand up and meet our new business partner,” Star said, sounding, Joe thought, slightly irritated.

  The young man pushed himself to his feet and faced Joe. “Hey,” he said.

  Joe pegged him to be about twenty or twenty-one. His body still possessed the leanness of youth, and although the stubble on his unshaved face was that of a grown man, beneath the sprinkling of hair Joe could see the boy he had only recently been. Derry gazed at him with a guarded expression.

  “Derry is our chief mechanic,” said Star. “He’s a magician with machines.”

  “Really?” said Joe.

  “I’m the only mechanic,” Derry replied. “But, yeah, I keep things running.”

  Joe eyed the truck that Derry had recently been underneath. “What’s the problem with her?”

  “Cracked tie rod,” answered Derry. “Leaky oil pan. You name it, it’s gone or about to go. But I’ll keep her alive for a while yet.”

  “We rely on Derry for so many things,” said Star. “He’s indispensable.”