Funhouse

by Michael Bray

  “I suppose so. Let’s get this over with. I choose the letter A.”

  Dillon grinned, walked to the wall and drew a single line.

  “An incorrect answer I’m afraid.”

  Brad’s heart rate increased, and he forced himself to focus through the sweat which was dripping into his eyes.

  “E.” Brad said, trying to ignore the burning ferocity of the sun.

  “Well done. That is correct.” Dillon said curtly as he took the chalk and updated the clue.

  --- / E----E / ------E / E-- / ----E

  “Choose again.”

  Brad licked his lips, knowing that whatever he said next would either lead him closer to either life or death. At first, he didn’t think he could bring himself to speak, but Dillon was watching and waiting, and so he forced himself to go on.

  “N.”

  Dillon’s smile faltered for a moment, and that alone felt like a huge victory to Brad. He watched as Dillon chalked in the letters, then stood back to allow Brad to see.

  --N / E----E / --N---E / E-- / ----E

  Brad studied the words, and now that he knew his voice would come, the temptation to blurt out any number of half-hearted guesses was strong, but he knew to do so would mean death. He would have just one chance to get it right, otherwise he would die.

  “W.” he said quietly as he adjusted his position on the ladder.

  Dillon walked to the wall and added a vertical line to the horizontal one that he had drawn earlier.

  “Unlucky, Mr Jackson.”

  Brad looked at the wall, fighting hard against the urge to panic, which was hard when he knew that his life hinged on a series of chalk lines on a wall.

  “Choose again please.” Dillon prodded.

  “B.” He blurted, not really thinking about it.

  Dillon drew air through his teeth, and shook his head as he amended the hangman drawing.

  “You should consider your guesses more carefully, Mr Jackson.”

  Dillon was right. Brad squirmed, trying to ignore the burning pain in his legs, which were desperate for respite from the pressure of supporting his body. Brad pushed the pain aside, and concentrated instead on staring at the clue as droplets of sweat dripped from the tip of his nose.

  “O.”

  Dillon updated the clue, then turned and grinned at Brad. “You see? It's so much better if you think. Are you ready to guess yet? Is the ticking clock of death loud enough for you?”

  “I'm not ready to die.”

  “We shall see. Please, choose again.”

  He looked at the clue, desperately trying to see if he could form any words, anything that might give him a chance to extend his life.

  -ON / E-O--E / -ON---E / E-- / -O--E

  “L”.

  “Incorrect.” Dillon replied as he went to the wall and added to the hangman.

  “Please,” Brad blurted, finally overcome by the terror that he had so far managed to hold back. “Just let me go. I've learned my lesson. I should never have done what I did, I know that now. It was a mistake.”

  “I understand. Really, I do.” Dillon said. Although his voice was sympathetic, his expression was predatory. “However, we are mid game now, and cannot stop.”

  “You can't expect to get away with this.” Brad hissed, for a moment losing his balance. Dillon watched, willing him to fall. When he saw that Brad was stable, he exhaled and shook his head.

  “Seven times, Mr Jackson, my wife has cheated on me. And seven times this game has been played in this very yard. Four of the seven correctly guessed the clue, and won both their money and freedom. Of the others, two ran out of moves and suffered the consequences. The third had a heart attack right there on the ladder, just when it looked like he might win. You see, the odds are in your favour, as long as you remain calm and think clearly. Now please, choose a letter.”

  “P.” Brad said, his voice wavering as he watched his captor with the purest sense of terror he had ever experienced.

  “There, you see? Clear thinking.” Dillon said as he chalked the letter into the clue.

  -ON / EPO--E / -ON---E / E-- / -O- -E

  “It makes no sense. I don’t know what it says!” Brad sobbed, and although he didn’t like showing Dillon how afraid he was; it was impossible to hide it. He thought he had found love, but it seemed he was just a plaything, a way for a lonely wife to get some attention from her egomaniac husband.

  “Don’t lose your focus, Mr Jackson.” Dillon warned, clearly enjoying the show. “I think you might yet win if you can only keep calm. Please choose again.”

  “G.” He stammered, fighting back the urge to vomit.

  “I’m afraid.” Dillon said as he walked to the hangman and drew in the next line.

  “You are incorrect.”

  Brad stared at the drawing, and at the beaming Dillon, then finally back to the clue.

  “I don’t want to do this anymore.” He whispered.

  “Are you saying you concede defeat?” Dillon said with a wide grin.

  “No!” He blurted, and almost lost his balance. He swayed, his punished calves struggling to support him. The rope dug into his throat a little as he tried to regain his footing, and just when it seemed he was destined to fall; he regained his balance. Dillon watched with amusement, chalk held deftly as he waited for Brad to either fall or stay upright, looking as if he didn’t care either way.

  Sweating, exhausted and afraid, Brad began to sob.

  “Choose a letter please.” Dillon said with indifference.

  “Fuck you.”

  Dillon grinned and added to the hangman.

  “Hey, that’s not the rules. It's not fair!” Brad whined, glaring at Dillon.

  “I will not be insulted. Please act in a gentlemanly manner, or suffer the consequences.”

  Brad looked at the hangman, and tried to work out how many moves he had left before the end.

  Five incorrect letters were all he had left before his death, so in reality he could make only four more mistakes. He looked at the clue, and could make no sense of it. The fear which had started as a gnawing subtle pressure in his stomach had now spread and filled his entire being. He could feel himself shaking, both from the pressure on his exhausted legs and the very real possibility that his life was almost at an end. He knew that even if by some miracle he survived the day, some part of him was destined to die here with Dillon.

  “Remember, failure to play counts as forfeit.”

  “U, I choose U.” He spat, the combination of tears and sweat stinging his eyes and making it difficult to see.

  “Correct.” Dillon beamed, and filled in the clue.

  -ON / EPOU-E / -ON--UE / E-- / -O- -E

  “I don’t know it; I can't do this anymore. Please, let me go!”

  He didn’t care that Dillon would see his weakness or his fear, all he wanted was to be out of the heat, and to sit down and take the pressure off his legs, which were close to giving up with or without him. Dillon smiled, and picked up the beer that he had started earlier, and took a long, leisurely drink.

  Brad’s stomach — which felt like a tiny, shrivelled up ball, quivered as he watched the cool liquid disappear down Dillon’s gullet.

  “You son of a bitch!” He whispered.

  “Ah, very refreshing. I would offer you one, but it is against the spirit of the rules. Now please, choose a letter.”

  “M.” He said absently, still staring at the bottle clutched in Dillon’s fat fingers.

  Dillon smiled, and drew the letter into the clue.

  “Surely, now you must have some idea, Mr Jackson. It really is quite easy.”

  Brad looked at the words, trying to make sense of them, and then everything fell into place, and he knew why he couldn’t understand.

  MON / EPOU-E / MON--UE / E-- / MO- -E

  “It isn’t written in English, is it Dillon?” Brad asked with a wry smile.

  Dillon grinned. “Of course not. Nowhere in the rules did it say it had to be.”

/>   “It looks like French.”

  “Correct. It is after all, my native tongue.”

  Dillon grinned, and Brad tried to recall hazy school French lessons, hoping that some of the information had stuck, but if it had, it was evading him now.

  “You were never going to lose, were you?” Brad asked, finding it in himself to push his smile into a wide grin. “Because you knew that even if I filled in all of the blanks, I don’t speak the language.”

  “Perhaps you are more intelligent than I thought.” Dillon said, with a grin. “You see, Mr Jackson; I have learned never to lose. And never to let anyone take me for a fool.”

  “I didn’t intend any of this,” Brad said. “I just happened to fall in love with the wrong woman.”

  “If it's of consequence, she also said she loved you a little too. I suppose that’s why I perhaps skewed the rules in my favour."

  “Then why not just let me go. Call it even. I'll disappear. You have my word.”

  “I cannot do that. You forced my hand. You took everything.”

  “Then let's cut the crap. Just do it. Kill me.” Brad shrieked, unable to handle standing there and waiting until Dillon had finished toying with him.

  “I cannot make that decision. Rules are rules.”

  “Then I will.” Brad said, locking eyes with Dillon. “I concede.”

  Dillon shook his head, and walked to the wall. He paused, and then turned back to Brad.

  “You know what this means for you, if you go ahead and withdraw?”

  Brad licked his lips. “We both know I'm dead anyway. I don’t want to give you the satisfaction.”

  “Admirable and, as it happens, something of a first. Such a shame Mr Jackson. Under other circumstances, the two of us may have become friends.”

  “I doubt it. I wouldn’t willingly mix with a lowlife, fat, piece of shit like you, Dillon. Even if you are rich.”

  “But my wife was good enough?”

  “She doesn't love you, you know.” Brad said, finding it in himself to smile. “For all the money and the power, it was my name she screamed as she dug her nails into my back. She saw you for what you really are Dillon. A pathetic, insecure little man.”

  Brad expected fury, but Dillon only sighed.

  “I know. I have known for some time, sadly. However, I am a man of great determination. And in a way, you have helped me.”

  Dillon filled in the missing blanks of the clue, and then approached the ladder.

  “The clue reads, Mon épouse Monique est morte, which in English means,”

  He leaned on the ladder and spoke in a whisper.

  “My wife, Monique, is dead.”

  “No, you wouldn’t, you said she…” Brad stammered, and all at once his acceptance had turned back to horror, because Dillon’s eyes said he was telling the truth.

  Brad wanted to explain, to plead and beg for his life, but Dillon had already pulled the ladder from under him. The last thing Brad saw before his neck snapped was Dillon’s smiling face, and the writing on the wall. Mon épouse Monique est morte.

  THE BOY WHO SAW SPIDERS

  The party on Pointer Street was where Andy had planned to tell Jenny how he felt, and perhaps take the next step in their relationship. But now, any idea of such things had evaporated, disappeared into the ether as he sat and tried to come to terms with the situation. He tried to regain focus, but it was no good.

  All he could think about were the spiders.

  When he arrived at the party that night, he was just like everybody else. An average, run of the mill student who didn’t really excel at anything in particular, and had made an academic career of remaining almost completely anonymous. However, none of that mattered. Not anymore. He chewed at his bottom lip, scratched at his greasy mop of brown hair, and tried to make sense of it all. He was perched on the end of the sofa, his beer long forgotten and clutched in his hand, as he watched the spiders scurrying over the carpet and skittering across the walls with horrible, jerky urgency. They were far too numerous to even attempt trying to count. The big ones were hanging back in the corners, peering out from the dark places and watching, their smaller, olive-sized cousins were bolder, and exploring the room as if the throng of people were nothing more than enormous lumbering obstacles.

  He took a slow, dazed look around the room and wondered why nobody else was making a fuss. He would have expected screams or panicked yelps of disgust, but with sick realisation, he understood why.

  Only he could see them.

  He reflexively curled his toes as one darted past his shoe and into Melissa Freese’s Handbag. Melissa didn’t notice, she was too busy jawing with that smart mouthed, pig faced friend of hers — Alison something-or-other — who was blathering on and on about some personal injustice that had conflicted with her narrow minded view of the world. He looked to his left. On the opposite side of the sofa, Jonny Marshall, and whichever unfortunate girl’s face he was chewing off, were slobbering as they groped at each other and tongue wrestled in the way that horny teens did.

  One thing for certain was that the pair hadn’t noticed the spiders either – even the one that was working its way into Jonny's ear, its thin legs kicking and scrabbling for purchase as it delved deeper. Completely oblivious, Jonny and his date continued swapping spit and feeling each other up. Andy half wanted to warn him, but Jonny was a jock, and more than that, he was an arrogant, bullying son of a bitch who was at his happiest making the less gifted, less attractive, less ‘Jonny’ type kids’ lives miserable.

  Fuck him.

  Let it burrow.

  He saw a flicker of movement, whipped his head around just in time to see it, and immediately wished he hadn’t. He watched as a plump, ugly looking funnel web spider darted into an open pack of Cheetos that were on the table. Once again, he had half an urge to call out and tell someone, but held his silence. Other than Jenny, he didn’t really care for anyone at the party anyway, and none of them were people who he could actually call friends. They were just acquaintances, some of which he barely knew. So he swallowed his words and watched in morbid fascination as

  Chip Denning — who if rumor was to be believed, preferred boys to girls and had a homophobe of a brother who would break your teeth if you ever asked about it — picked up a handful of the cheesy snack. Andy saw the plump spider wriggling as Chip shoved the snacks, spider, and all, into his mouth and crunched down, then turned back to his conversation.

  Andy’s stomach quivered a little, and he suddenly wanted to run away from both spiders and classmates alike, but he knew he would never be able to pluck up the courage. He was also sure that if he tried, his legs would refuse to cooperate, and he would be left standing like an idiot frozen to the spot.

  And they would know.

  The spiders that only he could see.

  He became conscious of the fact that he was holding his breath, and let it out slowly. His eyes flicked to the door, the thought of escape still lingering in his mind, but even if he could move, what he saw made the point moot, as that route was already being cut off.

  Hundreds — no, thousands of the spiders were constructing an intricate web which covered the entire doorway.

  The scale of it was too much to bear, and he forced himself to turn away. His stomach lurched, and he let out a shallow, booze-flavored belch. It was only then that he noticed the bottle of Budweiser still clutched in his fist, and he took a long, grateful swig, just about managing to keep his trembling hand steady enough to get the bottle to his lips. It was warm and flat, but made him feel better nonetheless.

  Still the party went on.

  Still the spiders scurried.

  Dale Thompson crossed the room, standing in front of Andy with a distracted, uncomfortable look on his acne-ravaged face.

  “Hey Andy, you drinking that or what?” Thompson said pointing to the bottle clutched in Andy’s hand.

  “Uh...Yeah. No... I don’t think so.” Andy replied, unable to rationalise his thoughts.
/>   “Mind if I have it?”

  “No, go ahead.” Andy mumbled, handing Dale the barely touched, too warm beverage.

  “Thanks. Take it easy Andy.”

  “Yeah. You too.” He said as he watched Dale swagger away.

  Dale’s T-shirt was swarming with hundreds of spiders, crawling over and under each other as they explored their host’s portly frame.

  How could he not have noticed? Andy wondered, and as he considered the question, that little voice — the one that went so often ignored – popped up in his mind.

  Dale can’t see them because they aren’t there. Not really. But you already know that, don’t you?

  The thought sparked another question, which presented itself in his inner monologue with much less subtlety.

  Am I insane?

  He considered the question. He was nineteen. Reasonably intelligent, no history of mental-health problems. In fact, life had been pretty uneventful until he arrived at the party that night. But no matter how he tried to spin it, there was no explanation for them.

  The spiders.

  They were now everywhere, swarming out from behind furniture, and covering almost every wall and surface.

  He glanced at Andrea Gill, she who had cheated in last month’s chemistry exam by reading his answers. He had let her, because he didn’t care. He was going places, and regardless of her cheating ways, the Andrea Gill’s of the world were destined to become single parents, welfare scrounging fuck-up losers for life.

  He watched in fascination as a fat house spider with disproportionately long, spindly legs scurried up her body, finally coming to rest in her hair. One thin black leg clung onto her cheek as the spider paused above her ear.

  Andrea carried on talking to her friends, none of them spotting the new addition to the party.

  Yes.

  He thought to himself as he looked at the table full of half-eaten buffet food, now pulsing and flexing with a life of its own as the arachnid mass explored the fleshy sandwiches and small containers of dips and breadsticks.