Funhouse (7 page)

Six
years had passed since that day in the desert. The bullet had exited through Doyle’s cheek, taking with it most of his lower jaw. The surgery to repair the damage had gone as well as could be expected, but his once handsome features were gone, his ravaged face held together with screws and plates. He had been admitted to Penry Hospital following his recovery, and there he had stayed since. His routine was mundane, pills in the morning, electro shock therapy twice a week. He had a room with a view of the gardens and part of the large wall preventing patients from leaving. It was a simple life.

The voice in his head had been silent since the night he had shot himself, but he knew it was still in there, repressed by the electro-shock therapy for now, but there nonetheless.

The doctors told him he was making progress, and he only wished it were true, but at night, when he was lying in the dark, strapped to his bed by the wrists and ankles, he would sometimes hear DJ D’s show, and smiled as it played one of his favourite songs.

D
oyle closed his eyes, and slept.

T
immy was desperate. He had known it for the last half hour, but he couldn’t tear himself away from the fantasy land of magic and monsters that was unfolding on the carpet of his bedroom floor. For a while, crossing his legs had worked, but now even that was doing nothing to fend off the sharp ache in his belly. He set down the toys and hopped to his feet, leaving the Beast Lord Ragnock and his companions in situ as he hurried towards the bathroom. He charged down the hallway as his mother’s disinterested voice, automatically activated by the sound of his feet padding on the carpet drifted to him from downstairs.

“
Timmy, slow down.”

Timmy didn’t answer. He hit the brakes and slid to a halt outside the bathroom, went inside and slammed the door behind him.

The bathroom was quiet and cool. Its floors were black-and-white tiles, and the porcelain bath and sink gleamed under the artificial overhead light, which hummed steadily. None of that mattered to Timmy, however, because the ache in his belly told him he needed to go
now
, or there would be an accident, and he didn’t want that.

He had just turned nine years old, and hadn’t had an accident for a long, long time. However, sometimes, like today, Timmy got so involved with his toys that he simply forgot to go. He hurried toward to the toilet and lifted the lid, and then paused, letting out a short, surprised
gasp.

There
was an eye in the water. 

It
looked like a toy, a joke left for him to find, but unlike the fake vampire’s teeth or plastic dog mess that Timmy’s dad used to buy him from the joke shop, this was definitely real. He was aware of just how afraid he was, but was even more aware of the sharp ache in his stomach, and so he stood there, hopping from foot to foot as he tried to figure out what to do. The eye in the water blinked, and Timmy gasped.

Its eyelid had teeth. They were thin and sharp, like tiny yellow needles which protruded forwards as the eye blinked, sending tiny bubbles to the surface of the scented water. Timmy continued to hop from foot to foot, and clutched his belly, trying to ignore the aching need to empty his bladder. The eye watched him, its glassy black pupil betraying no hint of emotion. Timmy opened his mouth, intending to call for his mother, as he was sure she would know what to do, but he remembered that Sam was with her tonight, and he snapped his mouth closed.

No.

He couldn’t call out, not with Sam in the house.  However, his decision didn’t solve his problem, as he still needed to go, and go badly. The eye offered another sharp-toothed blink, sending more ripples through the water. Timmy moaned softly and looked around the room, assessing his other options. He considered the option of trying to do his business anyway, and pretend the eye wasn’t even there, but as he looked at it and those sharp, needle like teeth, he had a vision of it bursting up out of the water, wrapping its stalk like body around his neck and biting him with those horrible teeth. He knew it would happen that way, he just
knew
it. But knowing still didn’t help him, and as another cramp gnawed at his stomach, he knew he had to make a decision quickly. He looked around the room, and his eyes landed upon the bath, but he immediately dismissed the idea. He was too afraid of the consequences if he were caught going in there. For as much as hoped his mother might understand his desperation—especially if she saw the eyeball in the toilet — Sam most certainly would not. He had moved in not long after Timmy’s dad moved out, and although he pretended to be nice enough — especially when Timmy’s mother was around — the reality was that he was a horrible, nasty man with a violent temper.

He would often shout at Timmy (especially if he had been drinking), and say horrible things about Timmy’s dad. He wanted to tell his mother about it, about how frightened he was, but all she cared about was Sam, and whenever he would try to explain, she would just tell him to be nice and not cause any problems. He did as he was asked, because despite everything, he loved his mother, but he couldn’t deny that he wanted his dad to come back home more than anything, and for the three of them to be happy again without Sam hanging around the place and making life hard.

He cast his gaze back to the toilet bowl, and still the eye watched, waited, and blinked. With his stomach sending him another sharp warning that he would need to empty his bladder soon before he made a mess, he looked around and an idea came to him. He hurried across the room, grabbed the tube of toothpaste, and approached the toilet.

Carefully screwing the cap off, he squeezed the tube over the bowl and watched as a long, white slug poured out of the nozzle. He snagged it off between his finger and thumb and watched as it fell into the water. The eye twisted and snapped at the minty paste, shredding it with its eyelid teeth, and then, perhaps realising that it wasn’t to its taste, ceased its attack and settled back to watching Timmy, ignoring the small lumps that settled around it. Timmy glared at the floating, bulbous eyeball and considered what to do next. He pulled off a few sheets of toilet paper, screwed them up into a ball, and threw it in. Again, the eyeball lunged, snapped, and devoured the paper, tearing it into shreds, and as with the toothpaste, it seemed to give up almost immediately and returned its glassy gaze to Timmy.

He shook his head at his own stupidity, and realised that he was, of course, being silly. Monsters — even floating eyeballs — didn’t eat toothpaste or rolled-up toilet paper. They preferred meat, flesh and blood. An idea came to him, and without hesitation, he rolled up his trouser leg and frowned at the sticking plaster on his knee. He had fallen off his bike a day earlier when he was racing Joey Appleseed down at the park, and had cut his knee. It didn’t hurt anymore, but he was sure there would still be a little blood underneath. Remembering the advice of his father, he grabbed the edges of the band-aid and tore it off in a short, quick, and thankfully painless motion. The underside was exactly as he hoped. It was spotted with dry blood. With more curiosity than fear, he held it over the toilet bowl. Timmy thought that perhaps the eye could smell the blood (although he couldn’t see anything resembling a nose) because it began to thrash in the water, banging its thick body against the sides of the porcelain. As Timmy watched, it began to move, stretching out of the water towards the sticking plaster, its eyelid pushing forwards and out as the eye retreated. It was now a mouth with an eyeball inside, and underneath it, Timmy could see a deep, dark throat. Terrified, he dropped the band-aid and watched as it fell into the water. The eye lurched and snapped, devouring it, and sending small droplets of water arcing on to the floor.

Taking its bloody prize with it, the eye submerged again. Timmy hoped it would go away, perhaps slink off back down the drains, and go bother somebody else, but it simply sat there in the water, pulsing, watching, and waiting.

There was a short, sharp bang on the door, and Timmy’s bladder almost let go. The eye rolled towards the sound, and its fanged lid narrowed slightly.

“Hey come on kid, hurry up in there, I need to take a piss,” came Sam’s muffled, voice. Timmy grimaced as he heard his mother chastise Sam for swearing, even though Timmy had already heard worse. Joe Raspin in his class at school would always swear, and even sometimes used the F- Word.

“
Just a minute,” Timmy said, surprised at how calmly the words came as he continued to stare at the eye. As he watched, it rolled its single black pupil towards him, and there was a moment of understanding.

Timmy heard Sam muttering on the other side of the door, before he banged on it again.

“Come on! how long does it take damn it?”

Timmy ignored him. He was watching the eye.

It blinked once, and then retreated. Timmy could only hold on until it was just out of sight before he took care of what he needed to do. The relief was immediate, and he kept his eyes firmly fixed on the water, praying that the eye would stay away. He finished and flushed, wondering why he never thought of that in the first place. He watched the water swirl and rise, draining slowly as if there was something just out of sight blocking the flow. And of course, there was.

Timmy washed his hands and glanced at the toilet. The water was clear and blue and yet, as he watched, small bubbles rippled out from under the U-bend. Timmy nodded. He and the eye understood each other. Timmy opened the door and glanced up at the towering form of Sam, dressed in his red plaid shirt and grubby baseball cap, which, as always was pushed to the top of his sweaty head.

“It’s about god damn time. Move it kid!” Sam said, dragging Timmy aside by the arm and slamming the door behind him.

Normally, such a thing would frighten Timmy, but not today. He walked down the hallway to his bedroom, and sat on the carpet. He didn’t return to his toys, as the game that he had been so involved with now seemed unimportant. Instead, he sat cross-legged and watched the bathroom door at the opposite end of the hall.

For a long time, there was no noise, then Timmy thought he heard a gasp and a deep,
bloop
followed by a splash of water on tiles.

Timmy’s mother’s voice floated up from downstairs.

“Sam, are you almost done? Survivor is coming on.”

Timmy looked at the door, and tilted his head.

No.

He was sure that Sam wouldn’t be watching any more episodes of Survivor, or spending more nights drunk and hitting his mother or being cruel.  He thought Sam would be in a different, darker place.  Timmy smiled and closed his bedroom door.

S
pyder was drunk, and pushed the cherry red convertible up past seventy, cheering and whooping as he sat with one elbow hanging out of the window.  His mother had died earlier that day, and Spyder’s answer had been not to spend the day with his family in their mourning, but to go out and get shit faced. It was all a front of course, but for Spyder (or Dwayne to his family or anyone outside of his school) it was the reaction that people would have expected.

It was a hot, sticky July day, and the Red missile which was piloted by the grieving teen tore across the blacktop, the miles of empty country roads perfect for their endeavours. They thundered past
Oakwell Forest, veering at speed around the occasional traffic on the road, and through the industrial area where Dwayne’s father had worked at the lumber mill before he was laid off.

“
Hey, maybe you should slow down.”

Spyder glanced to the passenger seat, and his friend Randy squirmed a little. Perhaps he saw a little of the hurt in Dwayne’s eyes, or maybe he was just scared. Either way he didn’t elaborate, and by way of reply, increased his speed, pushing the car even harder.

In the back, Kenny whooped and cheered, and almost as drunk as their driver, either didn’t acknowledge or didn’t care about the potential danger of the situation.

“
Yeah, Spyder, come on man, redline this thing!” Whooped the acne ravaged Kenny, who flicked a grin missing both of its front teeth at Randy, who was glaring at him from the front.

“
What’s with you?” Kenny asked, the venom in his voice hard to miss. Randy wasn’t afraid of Kenny, or anyone else for that matter. He was a wrestler, and one of the best in the school. Undefeated, he had the luxury of a high school life untroubled by the constant tests to see who the alpha male was. It was him, and nobody disputed it. He would never admit it, but he was, however, just a little bit afraid of Dwayne.

He wasn’t a physical threat, Randy was sure that if things ever came to blows he could quite easily overpower him, but something in his personality, just little things like the way he would get a look in his eye that made you wonder just what the hell he was capable of. It was moments like that which caused him caution, and why he didn’t quite want to commit to taking control of this particular situation.  And even as his eyes flicked from his friend — his prominent cheekbones and strong jaw framed by the moonlight as he stared at the road ahead — to the speedometer, which was close to the 90mph redline that Kenny seemed so desperate to reach, he tried to think of a way to diffuse the situation.

Dwayne took a long drink of the beer that had been nestled on the front seat between his legs, and Randy saw that, for a few seconds, both of Dwayne’s hands were off the wheel, and the car began to drift into the opposite lane.

“
Hey, hey man, the wheel.” Randy warned, reaching out to steady the vehicle, but Dwayne didn’t take too kindly to the intrusion, and pushed his friends hands away.

“
Leave it alone, I got it.” Slurred Dwayne, as he took control of the vehicle.

“
Hey man, stop being such a pussy.” Kenny added as he drained his bottle and tossed it over his head, where it smashed some way behind the speeding car.

“
Jesus Kenny, you could have hit someone with that thing.” Randy said, glaring for the second time in quick succession at their back seat passenger. Normally it would be enough, but Kenny had been made brave by alcohol, and he sneered at Randy, and then glanced at Dwayne.

“
Hey Spyder, why the hell did we bring this guy with us?”

“
Whaddyamean?”

“
This guy, he’s dragging me down with all his warnings and rules.”

“
Randy is a decent guy, I want him here.”

“
Whatever man, I just wish he would relax.”

Dwayne glanced at Randy, who was watching him carefully. Dwayne broke into a grin, and Randy saw it again, that little glimmer of something sinister hiding within, that every now and again, came to the surface to check the lay of the land before it went back to wherever it came from.

They were out on the outskirts of town now, the lands here were rolling fields of green farmland, accentuated by the smell of cow shit, which lingered in the air all year round. The huge Oakwell Forest loomed ahead of them, a black ocean of treetops stretching for miles. Suddenly, and without warning, Dwayne slammed on the brakes, the car fishtailing as it struggled to stop, leaving great dark lines on the asphalt.

“
What is it, what’s going on?” Kenny mumbled as the car came to a halt and Dwayne switched off the engine. Kenny’s question was ignored. Dwayne was staring out the window, and Randy watched him carefully, wondering why he was getting that nervous feeling in his stomach that he usually got right before a big wrestling match.

“
What’s up man?” Randy asked, looking out of the window to try and see what had been so important as to stop and stare.  He could see nothing but the road, shrinking away into a thin vein which draped over the horizon. Without the throaty growl of the engine, there was a thick silence, broken only by the monotonous sound of the crickets as they sang to each other. Randy flicked his eyes towards Kenny, and now he too looked a little more apprehensive as he sat perched in the middle of the back seat.

“
Dwayne, what is it, what’s wrong?” Randy asked again. Dwayne didn’t answer.

They sat in silence, listening to the crickets and looking up into the sky at the stars. Without warning, Dwayne turned and looked at Randy, the small smile transforming into a grin, which Randy thought belonged to the hidden thing that lived somewhere deep inside his friend.

“You guys ever hear of Jorell Samsonite?”

“
Who?” Kenny asked as he let out a boozy burp.

“
Jorell Samsonite,” Repeated Dwayne.

“
I have heard the name, not sure who he is though.” Randy said, watching his friend and liking what he saw less and less by the minute.

“
He’s a farmer, lives out here on the edge of town.” Dwayne said, reverting to that wistful smile. “They say he’s a recluse, a hermit. He hasn’t left his house since his wife died back in 57’, lives off the land and all that shit.”

“
What about him?” Randy asked, unsure if it was a question he wanted answered. Dwayne continued.

“
Word is he’s crazy. You should see his house, all boarded up and broken, and that’s not even the best part.” Dwayne grinned, and in the dull glow of the moonlight, he looked just a little bit crazy. “He grows all his own food, he has these scarecrows. Only, he doesn’t just have one like any normal person. This guy has dozens of them.”

“
Bullshit.” Kenny said as he opened another beer and took a long drink.

“
No, it’s true. A buddy of mine drove out there and saw it for himself. He said the old guy gets really defensive, screams and shouts at anyone who goes anywhere near the house.”

“
Guy sounds like a loon.” Kenny said, then sat back in his seat and took another drink of his beer.

“
People say he talks to them,” Dwayne went on, “they say he stands out in his garden for hours and chats to the damn scarecrows like they were people.”

“
What does that have to do with us?” Kenny asked, and although he wasn’t the brightest bulb, or the sharpest tool, Randy thought that the question was the right one, and its answer would define how things were going to proceed. Dwayne licked his lips, and then flashed a wide grin over his shoulder.

“
I wanna go see for myself what the old fuck is up to.”

“
It’s a waste of time.” Randy said, not sure why he was so against the idea.

“
Hell, count me in,” Kenny grunted. “better than doin’ nothing anyway.”

Dwayne nodded, and turned towards Randy.

“What about you, man?”

Randy wanted to say no, but peer pressure counted for a lot, and as he looked Dwayne in the eye, he could still see a little bit of that instability that made him nervous lurking there. And besides, he figured anything that would get him out of the driver’s seat for long enough to sober up, could only be a good thing.

“Sure, whatever. Count me in too.”

Dwayne grinned. “Alright then, let’s go.”

He gunned the engine, and streaked away, the car struggling to find purchase with the asphalt.

As Dwayne and Kenny cackled and laughed, Randy wondered why he was half hoping they would crash before they
arrived.             

The
Samsonite farm was at the end of a narrow dirt road which snaked across the outer edge of Oakwell Forest. The red convertible bucked and shook as Dwayne teased it down the road.  Despite his intake of alcohol, Dwayne expertly controlled the vehicle, and just before the road curved out of sight, he pulled over, and switched off the engine.

“
Why are we stopping?” Kenny asked.

“
We can’t just drive up there you idiot, he'll see us coming. We need to get out and walk now.”

“
I hate walking! Is it far?”

Dwayne shook his head, and Randy tensed up, unsure how it was going to play out. Eventually, Dwayne broke into a grin.

“Come on, the walk will do your fat ass the world of good.”

“
Hey, it’s not my fault.” Kenny whined.

“
It never is for you lard-asses. Come on.”

Dwayne got out of the car, and Randy and Kenny followed.

The heat of the day was still lingering, and the sky was a breath-taking blanket of stars. The wind gently nudged the trees, and the three boys stood at the front of the car, waiting until Dwayne lit his cigarette.

“
You girls ready?” He said as he took a long drag. “Then let’s go.” He added without waiting.

They walked down the edge of the dirt path, and Randy was a little uncomfortable at the total isolation. Not a single car had passed them, and he wasn’t surprised. There was nothing out here but acres and acres of green, and although there were a few farmhouses scattered around, they were spread far from each other.

Dwayne was in front, Randy keeping pace and Kenny was a little way behind, red faced and breathing heavily as he followed. Randy jogged ahead, and pulled level with Dwayne.

“
How you holding up?”

“
I’m fine.”

“
You sure man?”

“
I said I’m fine.”

“
I was just thinking that you might want to be with your family...”

“
Drop it Randy. I know what’s best for me.”

Randy didn’t say anything else, and they walked in silence, broken only by Kenny’s grumbles. They had walked about a quarter of a mile, and as the road curved uphill and left, they could just make out the yellow glow from the Samsonite Farm.

“Well, at least he’s home.” Kenny gasped as he leaned into the hill.

“
He’s always home, you dumbass, he’s a recluse remember?”

“
Oh yeah.”

“
So,” Randy said, “what’s the plan when we get there?”

“
I don’t know yet, I just wanna see the scarecrows. See if it’s true about how many he has.”

“
Then what?”

“
Then nothing.”

Randy nodded, not sure why he was still feeling so uncomfortable.

They walked on.             

             
Even before they got close to the house, they could see the scarecrows. Knowing how rumours and the ever knowledgeable ‘
they
’ exaggerated things, Randy expected to see a few scarecrows, ten, maybe twenty tops, but as they neared, he could see that on this occasion ‘
they
’ were bang on the money.