Evil Origins: A Horror & Dark Fantasy Collection (91 page)

I
heard it before I saw it. The cry reached my ears and pulled at my
heart. I determined that the sound originated from beast, not man, and I
left the trail. Through a copse of trees I spotted the utter blackness of
rich earth. The chasm dropped the length of one man, and it must have
occurred through a natural settling of soil. This explanation did not
console the fawn struggling for life at the bottom of the pit. Tufts of
fur floated in the dense air, and some stuck to the thin, spiny roots crawling
from the walls. The creature’s ribs pressed hard against its skin. I
looked down into the dark eyes of the animal and raised my bow. The arrow
delivered instant death, piercing its heart with chiseled stone and compassion.

The
Sun God descended behind the horizon of the One World. I made camp for the
night. I had packed sufficient food, so I did not have to eat the body of
my unfortunate acquaintance. I jumped into the cavity. With arms
extended, my fingertips touched the sides. The rotting, earthy smell of
decomposing leaves soothed my nerves without dulling the senses.

My
body recognized the solution before my mind realized it. I grasped the
front legs of the dead fawn and swung it up onto the edge of the hole. The
internal organs burst when it landed, flooding my nostrils with the sickening
smell of death.

The
leather satchel I carried provided no tools made for this kind of work. I
reached for a low-hanging branch and pulled myself out of the chasm. I
would need to double the hole’s width and depth.

The
Lady of the Light rose underneath the glaring white face of the moon. She
struggled to shine in His bright luminescence. Sitting next to a small
fire, I pulled a scroll and ink from my pack and began to write. The deed
would fade into obscurity if I did not record it. Hane’s death would stand
as a warning to those considering adulterous dishonor.

***

I
maintained husbandly duties to the best of my ability. I kept to the
hunting cycles of the forest and managed to return with the expected
kills. The gods frowned on my nightly poaching of the creatures, a
practice forbidden to the hunters of the One World. It would be a small
price to pay.

The
Lady of the Light failed to reach her previous mark of the night before, a sure
sign that the gods of the north would appear with the next cycle of the moon.

The
task consumed me. I paid no notice to my wife’s behavior. I ignored
the frenetic rumormongers and their ravenous appetites. When our farmers
pulled the last harvest from the fields, I knew I would have to double my
efforts to finish before the encroaching winter froze the ground solid.

Vengeful
thoughts protected my body from the chilly days spent in the Northern
Woods. The sentinels of the forest dropped their cover to the ground,
spreading bright hues of red, yellow, and orange everywhere. The leaves
crunched under my feet and helped to cover the yawning maw I had created in the
soil. I left the remains of the fawn on the edge of the cavity—its skull
kept me company with secret stories of infidelity. By the time the trees
bared their bodies to the autumn wind, the labor neared completion.

I
moved the excavated earth to the stream, where the current tossed it towards
the Great Sea. High above the new cell, I built a small stand in a
tree. From this vantage point, and with the perspective of the eagle, I
would sit with my ink and scroll. I strung a leather sack of unleavened
bread and a flask of water from one of the branches. I would not miss a
single moment of Hane’s agony.

***

“But,
Rankin, I have all the game I need for the winter season. My wife stocked
our hut with dried fruits and salted meats.”

I
shuddered at the mention of his wife and wondered if she knew what I knew. “A
surplus can serve you well, Hane, especially with the soothsayer predicting a
long, dark season.”

He
nodded his head in agreement and motioned with one hand to the trail.

“Follow
me,” I said.

“What
will this cost me?”

I
led the man into the forest. I buried my head, making it impossible for
him to see my face when I answered the question. “Only what it should,” I
replied.

Hane
followed me through the Northern Woods and into a chilly evening. He
chatted about mundane things, and I answered without thought.

“I
have stored the skinned animals deep in the earth to protect them from other
predators and lazy hunters.”

“You
are a wise man, Rankin. How much farther must we hike? I need to be
back for the evening fire.”

I
winced and cried in pain at his mention of the fire. I saw Sasha’s face in
my mind and blamed the outburst on a sharp stone that cut my foot.

When
we approached the pit, I took a long look at the dimensions. Hane would
not escape. I glanced upward at the stand and smiled in
anticipation. The autumn wind stole sweat from my forehead and the
moisture from my mouth. I shook as I turned to face him.

“Down
there. I tied a rope to the tree. You may choose two pieces of game,
and then we will negotiate the payment.”

He
suspected nothing.

***

Things
deteriorated on the seventh day. Eyes began to see things that did not
exist, and ears heard sounds never made. Last night, the plotting,
adulterous lovers looked down upon me, hoping to see a corpse inside the
earthen cell. I could still feel Sasha’s hands upon my back, pushing me into
the trap created for Hane.

He
kissed my wife in the maddening light of the moon, a final taunt before I would
die at the hand of my own vengeance. The fawn’s weathered skull spoke no longer,
and I heard them laughing.

Everyone in Western Pennsylvania has memories of
Kennywood Park. Mine range from blissful childhood experiences to primal
fear. Every autumn, the park opens on weekends for Fall Fantasy Days, a
time when October chills the air, the apple cider, and the plastic seats of the
roller coasters. I remember being fascinated by the emptiness of the park
and the aroma of an impending winter. This story is dedicated to Ray
Bradbury.

Fall Fantasy Days

The
crow cried from atop the plaster giraffe, looking with sorrowful eyes at the
dead asphalt footpaths. It dove for the shriveled, half-eaten French fry
as Scott ran past the counter, squashing a discarded ketchup packet that splattered
red on the wooden siding. He ducked under the frozen turnstile of the
Thunderbolt and sprinted up the ramp towards the loading platform. The
sweet autumn breeze tugged at Scott’s Pittsburgh Pirates cap and rustled the
golden leaves of the oak centurion hanging over the coaster’s control
house. Sticks of chewing gum slid from his pocket along with a nickel and
a stub of a number two pencil.

He
heard her again.

Scott
slid off the platform and onto the track. He winced, expecting the thrill
ride to come to life and send a car thundering down the track to crush
him. He thought of his mom’s warning about getting too close to the edge.

Stay
behind the yellow line
, she would say as though she had already lost
a son in a freak roller coaster accident.

He
wiped a tear from one eye and walked down the middle of the track towards the
first steep incline. Scott thought about the countless times he had prepared
for the drop. The car would clink ahead until the chain pulled it up the
hill with even, jerked movements. He remembered the nervous smile of
anticipation and the low mumblings of the adults behind him. They said the
same thing every time, always trying to convince a child that it was “just a
ride.”

Yeah,
some ride
, Scott thought.

The
tinny, static-filled voice burst through the amusement park’s intercom system,
shaking Scott from his reflection. The music came to life through the
ancient copper strung when steel was king. “Pop Goes the Weasel” played in
lumpy rolls, as if the little fingers cranking the jack-in-the-box could not
quite get the handle to turn evenly.

She’s
here and she’s coming for me
.

Scott
crawled under the track and dropped two feet into the browning weeds of
October. His feet disturbed the crinkly leaves, kicking up the pungent
aroma of autumn. He ran along the rusted chain-link fence until the shadow
of the Potato Patch protected him from the retiring sun. When the leaves
settled, Scott closed his eyes and inhaled the faint ghosts of fresh-cut fries
and cotton candy. He licked his lips and tasted the sweet and sour tang of
candy apples. His tongue lashed out to catch the phantom candy sprinkle
sticking to his bottom lip.

“You
gotta tell Mom, dumbo. She’s gonna wanna know how I fell.”

Terry’s
voice ran through his body like an electrical current. She had not reached the
Thunderbolt yet, but she was close, no longer needing the impersonal assistance
of the park’s intercom system.

Scott
dashed around the wild growth and tripped over the cross beam supporting the
second dip of the coaster. His lone front tooth punctured the soft skin
below his lower lip, and he placed a hand over his mouth, trying to deaden the
pain and muffle the cry.

“Dad’s
gonna spank you good.”

Scott
wiped the trickle of blood from his chin and jumped on the chain-link
fence. The section swayed back and forth under the weight of the boy,
yielding enough to make the climb a challenge. He dropped to the other
side, darted past the Potato Patch, and ran for the Highway. Two dozen tin
versions of the Model-T sat in rows in the middle of the track. The hard
rubber tires had left ridges in the dying grass where, weeks ago, sullen
teenagers had parked them for the season. Cigarette butts, white as the
coming snow, stood at awkward angles. He dove under number 43 and shivered
in the waning rays of the sunset.

“Hide
and seek! I love it.”

Scott
pushed back as far as the undercarriage of the automated car would let him.

“Found
you.”

He
saw Terry’s unlaced sneaker dangling over the sideboards, the pink laces
swaying like a stranded caterpillar.

“It
was an accident. You know it was,” Scott said, trying hard to
rationalize the secret, to bury it under his guilt.

“I
saw the look on your face,” Terry replied. “You tried to knock me off. Maybe
not hurt me, but you wanted me to fall.”

Scott’s
chest heaved, and his heart beat like the pistons of a racecar crossing the
finish line. He watched as a second shoe dropped beside the
first. Scott closed his eyes, straining to block out what he knew was
coming.

“I
don’t know how
they
do things, but you’re in big trouble. That’s
right, mister. You’re gonna wish that the only thing you got was a swollen
butt from Dad’s belt.”

“You’re
gone, Terry. You’re not here.” Scott opened his eyes as the hem of Terry’s
funeral dress bounced off the dried leaves. A bead of brown fluid ran down
her leg and stained the white lace of her socks. It smelled like the
bottom of the garbage cans left to rot and fester in the closed amusement park.

“You’re
so wrong, big brother. I’m here, waiting. You know what you gotta do,
right?”

He
dug his fingers into the asphalt scree and dragged his body from underneath the
car. The rays of the dying sun stabbed him through the still spokes of the
Ferris Wheel. Scott turned his head and felt the contents of his stomach
tumbling, searching for the emergency exit.

Terry’s
red curls held spiders. They climbed through her dirt-incrusted locks,
picking off slow and plump insects. The heavy blush of the funeral parlor
ran in magenta streaks down her face, revealing mottled gray skin
underneath. Scott saw the Jesus Christ medallion around her neck, the one
Dad had clipped into place when they closed the coffin. Terry smiled at
him with gleaming whites, polished and brightened for all eternity. Her
blue eyes blazed.

Scott
accepted her outstretched hand. Her cold skin felt like a dead fish. He
felt the tug, the pull of powers beyond his imagination.

“Let’s
ride the Haunted Hideaway!”

Scott
shivered. “I hate that ride,” he said.

“I’ll
ride with you. Promise.” She pulled the corners of her painted lips
into a grin.

“No
you won’t. You’ll stick me in there and push the boat down the tunnel like
you did last year at the school picnic.”

Terry
stuck her blue tongue out at Scott and attempted to blow him a
raspberry. Her dried mouth released nothing more than a raspy whisper.

“You
have to, Scotty.”

The
two children walked past Kiddie Land, holding hands as if the memory of July
would smother the oppression of October. They passed the Jack Rabbit and
the Racer. Scott looked at the wooden behemoths, struggling between the
urge to ride and the fear of the coasters.

The
front of the Haunted Hideaway rose out of the fall foliage. The final
beams of light from the October sky gave the weathered wood a golden tone. Rusted
chains hanging over faux windows swayed back and forth, grinding like the teeth
of a madman. Scott pulled his hand out of Terry’s and turned to run
through the tunnel and into the parking lot.

“
They
won’t let that happen, silly. You have to go on the ride. Mom
says.” Terry finished the sentence with a girlish giggle.

Scott
watched the entrance of the tunnel close as if it were the jaws of an alligator
crushing its prey. He spun around as the mechanical skeletons dangling
from the roof of the Haunted Hideaway came to life. The sound of a 1920s
ragtime player piano blasted through the worn bullhorns held in place with
rusted woodscrews. Sickly bulbs inside the letters of the Haunted Hideaway
sign pulsed in rhythm with Scott’s accelerated heartbeat. The odor of wet
wood wafted from the artificial waterway of the ride. Scott felt the bile
rising in his throat and pressed a hand over his mouth.