by Jack Castle
‘The slammer; I think that’s what they call it Georgie-boy.’
Shut up, Jimmy; let me think.
For such a tiny town, they certainly had a large police force. He must’ve counted at least six squad cars out searching for him. Despite worrying about his pursuers, it was hard not to notice how each unit was the old kind with those single dome light on top of the roof.
After ducking down the alley, he had made several more turns. He ducked inside the back door of a public library, passed through it, and hid out in a shed behind a church. After a few hours, the artificial daylight had given way to dusk. Under the cover of darkness, it was a short hike out of town down a narrow, dusty road. Before long, George came upon a mailbox at the edge of town that had the letters J. Stranger, stenciled on the side of it.
He thought about the sky dome overhead and the tons of water above it. What did Kelpi the Annoying Mermaid call this place? A prison? A prison for whom, or what? For someone so important as to build all of this, the place before him didn’t look like all that much; just a quaint little farmhouse. As he walked up to the front door, he passed a red barn that had seen better days and heard chickens clucking in a nearby coop.
Mounting the porch, he pressed the doorbell. When nothing happened, he knocked lightly on the door.
Abruptly, he heard singing coming from within. It had just started up, mid song, or maybe it was more like a pleasant humming. Also, there was a faint smell of fresh baked cookies in the air.
Was that there before? He doubted it.
He heard sirens in the distance crank up again. They must’ve figured out where I went. Maybe they even talked to the woman with the ugly baby. George knew if that was the case, the town wasn’t very big and they would arrive in minutes.
A kind voice beckoned him inside the antiquated farmhouse, “Come on in, door is open.” The screen door creaked loudly as he opened it. The voice that called him inside sounded like it had belonged to a woman. But the only person inside the modest living room was a balding man sitting in a faded lime-green chair, with his face hidden behind an oversized newspaper.
“Um… hello sir. My name’s George Stapleton. I’m looking for,” he began, but fumbled for the words. Who was he searching for? The creepy man had something about a boy. Well I am certainly not going to say that. Realizing too much time had gone by without him saying anything he opened his mouth to speak, but the man in the chair merely shuffled his paper and turned the page. When he did, George could clearly see the man’s face. He didn’t have one.
George took a few steps back toward the door without even realizing it.
This wasn’t his first faceless person. Even in his nightmares, he recalled the faceless Nazi’s on Lady Wellington’s pleasure barge. He was about to leave when he heard the sound of pots and pans clanging together. Turning toward them, he saw the noise was radiating from an adjoining kitchen. He couldn’t explain it, but there was something comforting about that sound.
“In here,” a woman’s voice sang.
Too afraid to take his eyes off the man without a face, George backed out of the living room and into the white-tiled kitchen.
The woman at the sink had her back to him and continued with the task of washing dishes. He fully expected her not to have a face as well, and could only wait in trepidation as she finished washing every last dish. When she was done, she shook the excess moisture from her hands and dried them on her apron. She then removed the apron and hung it up to dry.
Finally, she turned toward him. Thankfully, she did have a face. She was middle-aged and actually kind of pretty, with big, bright-blue eyes.
“Hello there, darling,” she said with a voice that was as lovely as it was disarming. “I’m Mrs. Belle.”
There was something familiar about her. “Do I know you? Er… what I mean to say is, have we met before?”
Mrs. Belle studied him for a moment with those big bright blue eyes of hers and smiled. It was the kind of smile that had a way of disarming you the moment you saw it. At last, she asked, “Don’t you remember?”
“I’m sorry…” George struggled to find the words. He had to admit, it was difficult in her presence. He seemed to remember something about the interior of a commercial airliner. In his memory he saw several empty seats, but the moment he came up to a pair of seats with two women in them, a piercing white light struck his mind’s eye like a bolt of lightning.
It was so painful, George shot out a hand for the kitchen table to keep himself from collapsing to the floor. He held his other hand to his temple to help keep the pain at bay. The instant he gave up on trying to remember, the pain faded away.
The ominous sound of police sirens in the distance was a harsh reminder, I’m running out of time.
Opening his eyes, he saw Mrs. Belle was now sitting at the opposite side of the table with a steaming cup of coffee in her hands. A second cup was also on the table directly in front of him. Smiling up at him she said, “Don’t worry hon, I’m sure it will all come back to you in due time. Why don’t you sit a spell?”
George, eager to sit down before he fell down, motioned a thumb back toward the living room, and asked, “Is he… your husband? Is he alright?”
“Oh, don’t mind Mr. Stranger. He’s fine. My son had a lot of trouble remembering John’s facial features, that’s all. I don’t blame him. His father rarely spent time with the boy.”
None of this makes sense.
“Do you know why I’m here?”
Mrs. Belle regarded him patiently again, then moved over to him. Her perfume smelled like orange blossoms, and when she placed a hand gently on his shoulder, it was light as a feather. He was surprised to find he was no longer sitting at the table but standing again. Guiding him toward the back door she said, “Of course I do, hon. You are here to see my boy, Henry. Just like all of those who came before you.”
Suddenly George noticed the white curtains in the living room were bathed in red flashing lights. The cops had found him. Outside, a senior officer yelled, “Open up in there. This is the police. We’ve got the place surrounded.”
Mrs. Belle’s words suddenly registered with him. “What people? Who came here before me?”
There was a loud knocking at the door and the cop barked, “I said open up in there. There’s no use running anymore.”
“Why you did,” she said, opening the creaky screen door to the backyard.
George shook his head. Exasperated, he cried, “Why do people keep telling me that? I’ve never been here before.”
George was confused, but he allowed her to practically shove him over the door’s threshold. Ignoring the sirens, barking cops and flashing red lights, Mrs. Belle stated calmly, “Now, Henry’s outside in the backyard, probably building one of his stories again.” She was about to close the door, but stopped, looked him square in the eye and said, “You know what? You’re a bit different from the others somehow. I can’t explain it, but I really hope you make it this time. I really do.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”
The door banged closed. She smiled sweetly through the greenish-mesh of the screen door. “You were never meant to.” Lightly shooing him away, she said, “Go on now. Henry won’t wait around for you forever.”
Chapter 23
Henry’s Backyard
The backyard was surprisingly large.
It was about 5 acres of un-mowed grass, with a dirt track running around just inside the border. The track’s edges were bordered with two-by-fours, railroad ties and any other miscellaneous planks of wood the builder could get his hands on. George took a few steps closer and could now see where the improvised road passed dozens of improvised structures. Each was different from the other, but from this distance, it was too hard to make out any real detail.
Turning back toward the house, George saw only Mrs. Belle staring at him through the green mesh with her big, bright-blue eyes. Occasionally, she would raise her coffee mug to her smiling lips and take
a tentative sip. The cops could have easily charged through the house, or around it, but surprisingly, they had not. In fact, the moment George turned away from the screen door he no longer heard their blaring sirens, shrill whistles or snarling commands. It was as though the entire police force had been swallowed up by some unseen sinkhole.
“Hi there!”
George jumped slightly.
Wearing a worn and tattered ringmaster’s tailcoat and top hat (with a sewn-on patch), the thin ten-year-old gazed up at him and smiled. “Welcome to Stranger World my good man!” He tucked his walking cane under his armpit and produced a white-gloved hand in the form of a handshake.
As he shook the boy’s hand, George noted the boy’s gloves also had been ravaged by time. “Are you Henry? Henry Stranger?”
The boy released his hand, snapped his fingers and smartly said, “Right you are, sir.” He placed a hand at the small of George’s back and ushered him forward. “Now if you’ll be so kind as to step this way. You, are next in line.”
George noticed the boy walked with a limp and leaned heavily on his cane. Whether this was a well-performed act or not, he did not know.
Seemingly from nowhere, two pig-faced, redheaded boys strode up, pulling a big, heavy, makeshift cart behind them. They each had a bit in their mouth and were strung up like oxen. Both boys, wearing signs around their necks, had pinched, angry-red faces with a classic bully look carved all over them. The sign on the left read, I’M DUMB, and the one on the left confessed, I DUMMER.
The boy in the ratty ringmaster outfit, leaned his head back to look up at him, held out a white-gloved palm, and said, “That’ll be 25 cents, sir.”
Startled, George was almost as panicked as the moment the leviathan was coming for him. Patting his pockets, he said, “I’m sorry, but I don’t have any change.”
The slender boy put a hand to the side of his mouth and whispered, “Check your pocket.”
“Uh, okay.” He checked his pocket and sure enough, there was a quarter in there, well sort of. It was actually a piece of cardboard in the shape of a quarter, only oversized, like it might appear to a child, and had 25¢ written on it. “Here you go,” George said loud enough for the bullies to hear.
“Thank you, kind sir.” Before pocketing the quarter into the breast pocket of his frayed costume, young Henry bit into it, so as to ascertain its genuineness. He held up an improvised megaphone fashioned from a tin can, cardboard and tape, and exclaimed far louder than was necessary, “Right this way, sir! Right this way!”
The makeshift carriage was a mishmash of four red wagons and a thick sheet of plywood topped off with two unmatched and discarded couches.
“All aboard!”
Feeling as though he were moving in a dream, George boarded the makeshift chariot. As he did so, he felt guilty about adding his weight to the chariot for the two young bullies to pull. Henry seemed to have no such reservation and climbed up into the raised dais positioned for the driver. George noted he did this with slight difficulty due to his leg.
Satisfied George was in place; the young ringmaster removed the whip from its hook and cracked it high above the bullies heads. “Hee-yaw! Onwards noble steeds!”
George felt his head snap back as the buggy jolted forward.
In an announcer voice, Henry shouted, “Ladies and Gentleman, please stay in your seats at all times while the ride is moving.”
The wagon passed beneath a white banner strung up between two stripped tree trunks serving as poles.
In full announcer voice, Henry read the sign aloud:
Welcome to Stranger World!
The first “attraction” the buggy passed was a tea party made up of a plastic table and chairs. The venue was enshrouded by potted plants, and attendees included three stuffed Teddy bears, a pink elephant, and at the head of the table, a creepy porcelain doll.
Standing off to one side, as though they had just arrived at the party, was an original G.I. Joe doll, “with life-like hair,” holding hands with a little girl doll wearing a blue dress.
George remembered Lady Wellington’s mask falling off and the fight that ensued. He spied another doll behind the porcelain doll holding a giant feather. A sense of loss filled up inside of him at the thought of his friend, Barnaby who had given his life for Maddie.
With a crack of Henry’s whip, the ride continued onward through the un-mowed grass. Still using his announcer voice, the boy heralded, “Your attentions please, your attention. Next stop is Dino-Land USA. Remember to please keep all hands, limbs and other appendages inside the carriage at all times. Our dinosaurs do bite and would appreciate any bite-sized snacks.” At this, Henry giggled at his own joke. When he saw George wasn’t laughing too, he cleared his throat, sat up straight, cracked the whip and they were off once more.
The carriage passed makeshift paddocks made of wooden poles and chicken wire. A haphazard sign attached to the cage read: Beware the Raptors. When George gazed within the cage, he could see where Henry had attached dinosaur masks to the chicken heads inside.
After the paddock, the track suddenly dipped down into a trench about four feet deep. Embedded in the walls, were steak bones and other animal bones you might find on a farm, each neatly arranged to form the outline of dinosaur fossils. As soon as the carriage exited the trench, Henry wiped the imaginary sweat from his brow and exclaimed, “Whew! That was a close one.”
Up next, they passed a Victorian village on a raised dirt pile. The village pieces looked as though they had been pilfered from a standard Christmas train set. Standing outside the doors of a large manor, and a bit out of scale, was a stone gargoyle dressed as a butler and holding a bright yellow balloon in one clawed hand.
After the Victorian village, they passed a sand box with a toy airplane in the dirt. The tiny commercial airliner was surrounded by potted sunflowers. Each sunflower had the face of a doll embedded in them. One of them had round-rimmed glasses and a bowler hat.
George scanned ahead to see how much longer the ride was when he saw a wooden fort, like something a child might build. It was in the shape of a pirate ship complete with a skull-and-crossbones flag. As the carriage grew near, George could hear pirate-themed music crackling over a tiny speaker wired up on a pole.
Henry announced, “Coming up next are the Swamplands of the Zombie-Pirate-King!” As the carriage sauntered by, George could see various stick figures comprised of broom sticks and tree branches. Each of them was dressed as pirates with zombie faces drawn on paper plates.
Henry pulled on the reins and brought the carriage up to a stop next to a wooden post. “Uh-oh, keep your heads down,” he said ominously. “It appears as though the zombie pirates are out in full force today and they’re looking to shanghai themselves more crewmembers.”
Standing up in his seat, Henry pulled on a brass ring attached to some twine. The twine led all the way back to a pulley-system over and above the makeshift pirate ship. The moment Henry pulled on the ring, several of the pirates lifted their wooden swords in salute. George tried not to giggle when one of the pirate’s arms fell off. Henry, now wearing a worn-out pirate hat, turned back to him slightly, changed his voice to a more ominous tone and added, “Perhaps, it will be you… Arrrgghhhh.”
Henry released the ring mechanism causing the pirates arms to drop back down by their sides. He dropped the pirate act by switching back to his top hat and in an efficient manner, flicked out his coattails and sat back down in his seat. With a crack of his whip, the ride was off once more.
As they departed, George noted one figure in particular. He was standing in the makeshift bow with one black boot up on the railing. This pirate was a bit more fleshed out than the rest. Upon closer inspection, George could see where white rocks, painted to look like skulls, were woven into his thick, charcoal beard. Further, two Christmas lightbulbs had been installed in the Pirate Captain’s eye sockets, giving off a green phosphorous glow. George couldn’t swear to it, but the moment he began to look away,
he thought the Zombie-Pirate-King turned his head toward him slightly.
The track curved left at the end of a dilapidated wooden fence and continued onward along the back wall. The bullies grunted in complaint as they made the turn.
George leaned forward to talk with the driver. “Henry, can I talk to you for a moment?”
Henry, obviously uncomfortable responding to a request made in mid-ride, chose to ignore him.
“Henry,” George repeated.
In his usual announcer voice the ringmaster answered, “Out of courtesy for the other passengers, any and all questions will be answered at the end of your ride.” Then added, “No extra charge, of course.”
George decided to play along for a bit longer.
Leaving the zombie pirates behind, the carriage approached a scene George wasn’t familiar with. A modest wooden sign read: Welcome to the Himalayas. Mounted on the back fence were cardboard mountains, cleverly arranged to give one the impression of a vast mountain range. Some of the higher mountains were even capped with aluminum foil to represent snow and ice.
Turning to his left George saw a fenced-in paddock with two shaggy dogs dressed up like wooly mammoths. When one of the younger dogs tried to remove the vacuum cleaner hose attached to its snout, Henry shouted at him under his breath, “Barnaby, stop that!”
Henry leaned back and put his chin over one shoulder, “Coming soon is the Wooly-Mammoth train, over 70 feet tall and featuring a world famous dining car!”
George could see the track weaved in and out of makeshift scenes all over the property. He was about to ask how much longer when he spotted a plastic swimming pool. Peering inside, he saw a wind-up leviathan swimming around a half-submerged city. “If you need to relax, our underwater hotels are the most luxurious and relaxing on the planet.”
His patience wearing thin, George leaned forward again and said, “Henry, we gotta talk.”
“Sorry sir, no time for questions now, coming up next is the Sands of Insanity. But don’t worry, if you get thirsty, there will be plenty of lemonade available for purchase at the end of your ride.”
