The Carnival of Lost Souls : A Handcuff Kid Novel (5 page)

“Concheta, come sit next to me. I’ll hold your hand so you don’t get scared,” Jack said as he plopped down on the Oriental carpet, trying to ignore the skulls.

Concheta hurried in carrying two mugs of hot chocolate, her purse hanging over her arm. “No, I’m leaving you two to your ghost stories and going home,” she said, handing Jack his cocoa. Concheta wrinkled her nose and ran her finger over one of the filthy shelves.

The professor walked up behind her, catching her in the act. “Thank you, my dear. See you in the morning.”

“I don’t see why you don’t let me clean in here,” Concheta said, setting the professor’s drink onto the nest of papers on his desk.

The professor paused, his mouth twisting up, an eyebrow arching in contemplation. “Ah. Um,” he continued, “I have highly sensitive academic accoutrements in here. Things that could get you in trouble. I wouldn’t want anyone to touch them.”

Concheta made a little
humph
sound and twisted up her mouth. “Well, your
accoutrements
are covered with dust.”

The professor patted Concheta on the shoulder. “I know, I know, my dear. Have a good night.”

When she had left the office the professor turned a serious gaze to Jack. “I need you to give me your word, Jack, that you will never touch anything in here. Is that clear?”

“Sure, I get it. I won’t touch anything.” Jack glanced around at the piles of books and was certain he wouldn’t be touching any of those, ever.

“Do I have your word?” The professor leaned down and looked Jack in the eye and extended his hand.

“You have my word,” Jack said, shaking the professor’s sweaty hand.

“You don’t want to face the consequences if you break your word.”

“Yes, sir,” Jack mumbled. “Consequence” was just
another word for “punishment,” and the professor was right, because Jack didn’t need any more consequences.

The battered leather armchair groaned as the professor eased back into the seat and sipped from his mug. He had slipped on a dark brown jacket that blended in with the surroundings, making his face look pale in contrast. He drummed his long, bony fingers on the armchair. He cleared his throat and a silence settled over the room, which suddenly darkened as Concheta clicked out the lights in the hallway.

“When I was a boy, I spent most of my time roaming around outdoors, building forts and exploring the woods around my home. I didn’t have television and video games to entertain me. So you can imagine my excitement when one brisk fall day the carnival rolled into town,” the professor said. “The entire town buzzed with anticipation as the carnival tents rose high into the sky. The smell of roasted peanuts and cotton candy floated on the air, and I wandered around all day, riding the Ferris wheel, playing games, and gawking at the attractions.” The professor leaned his head back and closed his eyes, recalling the memory.

Jack’s eyes drifted around the professor’s office, seeking out the forbidden “academic accoutrements.” “Mildred won’t let me go to carnivals. She said the rides are rusty old death traps run by drunks and lowlifes.” Jack smiled. “Sounds really fun to me.”

The professor peered at him through half-open eyelids. “Ms. Crosby does have a point. I think some of the rickety rides from my youth are still barely in service today.” The professor leaned forward in his chair and wagged one of his pale fingers in the air. “But I was more interested in the strange and macabre acts that filled the side tents: Siamese rattlesnakes, tattooed ladies, sword-swallowers, and the Dog Boy.”

“Dog Boys! Cool!” Jack sat up on his heels. “That sounds like the good stuff.”

The professor seized on Jack’s wide-eyed attention. “But there was one man who was a legend in the strange carnival arts, who loomed and crept behind the scenes. A dark, massive conjurer, he was a jack-of-all-trades: knife-thrower, fire-eater, and magician. He captivated the audience with the grace of a snake charmer. His name was …
the Amazing Mussini
. In the dark recesses of the carnival, he performed the most magnificent tricks of all.”

“What kinds of tricks?” Jack asked.

“Mussini had traveled all over the world and
beyond
. He knew things no ordinary man knew. That night, his amazing feat was selling
secrets
.” The professor dug his fingers into the soft leather of his chair.

“Secrets? What kind of secrets?” Jack asked, thinking that was as good a trick as fortune-telling, which he didn’t buy for a second.

“Mussini claimed to know
all
. He knew things that
you had done even if you’d never told a soul. Secrets big and small. He knew if your best friend was really a foe. He could tell you the secret strategies in school yard battles. Or what your teacher would put on a test. He could tell you anything for a price. Well, my boy, I was instantly hooked. I just had to buy one, but I didn’t have any money. And as a foolish boy, I wanted the most expensive secret of them all.”

“What’s the most expensive secret?” Jack slurped down his hot chocolate, the liquid warming his whole body.

“I don’t believe that when we die, we rot into nothingness, food for worms. I knew there was more to learn about the underworld, and I wanted a glimpse into this land. It is the secret of where we go and what becomes of us.” The professor reached down and pulled Jack close, just for a second. His mustache twitched against Jack’s ear as the professor whispered, “The most expensive secret of all is the secret of the dead, of course.”

“The dead! You mean like spirits or ghosts?” A shudder cascaded through Jack, and he pulled himself up from the spell of the story.

The professor took a drink and licked the marshmallow from his mustache. “There is a land for the dead, for the poor souls who have not passed on—the ghostly ones that drift once they leave their cold boxes, roaming into a dark forest that awaits them.”

“Like another world?” Jack asked. It sounded kind of like outer space, or time travel, or an undersea city. He could almost believe in a place like that, where stories were real in a made-up way.

“Exactly like another world, my boy.” The professor’s eyes darted from side to side. His voice deepened. “But a world that is rarely spoken of, a shadow world beyond death. It is the Land of the Dead, and it can be reached by the living.”

“If the Land of the Dead is real, then how do you get there?” Jack asked, trying not to get sucked into the story. “I mean, besides dropping dead.”

The professor held up his wrist, and the gold watch sparkled in the light. Jack’s eyes widened, for while listening to the story, he had completely forgotten about the tattoo.

The professor curled his finger and motioned for Jack to move forward. “This tattoo is the mark of the Amazing Mussini, the magician. It is my passage into the underworld. It guides my steps out of the now and into the dark abyss of the dead.”

Jack kneeled at the professor’s feet, totally captivated. “How’s the tattoo work?”

“Well, here in the land of the living, it appears to be just an ordinary tattoo. See?” He pulled his watch and sleeve up in one motion so that the tattoo faced
upward. “But if you look at it differently, the mark points the way.”

Jack marveled, because from his viewpoint on the floor the tattoo no longer looked like a clock. The hour hand was really an arrow. “It’s not a watch! It’s a compass!” Jack exclaimed.

“Exactly!” The professor held up his finger and ran it along the outline of the tattoo. “The mark of Mussini is a compass to the domain of the dead. It is the only way I know of to get into the world of Mussini.”

Jack jumped up to his feet and paced around the room. “Wait,” Jack said, his brow furrowed. He wanted to believe the story, to believe in a mysterious world of magic, but he didn’t want to be a sucker for a spooky story. “If you didn’t have money, then what did you pay him with?”

The professor’s deep-set eyes and bushy brows made it look as though he were peering out of the depths of a dark cave.

“Mussini’s a trader. And to receive the most valuable secret, a person must trade their most valuable possession. You see, Jack, where Mussini comes from, money doesn’t mean much.”

“What did you trade him?” Jack pushed, needing to know the answer. “Come on, tell me! What did you give him?”

The professor smirked. “I think that’s enough for tonight.” He stood up, collected his cup, and made his way to the door. “It’s getting late.”

“Wait, you can’t stop now! That’s cheating. It’s not fair to tell half a story.” Jack frowned but didn’t move from his position, hoping the professor would come back.

“Then think of it as a puzzle. You’re a smart boy. You will probably figure it out anyway. What would I trade to Mussini? What is our most valuable possession? What might a magician want?” And the professor walked out of the office, flipping off the light and leaving Jack in total darkness.

“A puzzle? Sounds more like a trick to me.” Jack swallowed the chocolaty dregs of his hot cocoa. It was a good story, but he was still on the fence about whether he believed any of it or not. Either way, he was determined to figure out what a magician could possibly want from a kid.

That night, Jack sat up in bed; panic swept over him. He swatted at the air, the webby shadows of a dream clinging to him. He didn’t know where he was. The wind rushed through the eaves, circling the house like an animal trying to get in, sniffing out every crack and crevice. His heart pounded wildly in his chest. A word escaped his mouth before he could stop it:
Mom
. It caught in his throat as the shadows of the room settled
into familiar shapes and he realized where he was. Jack remembered the professor’s story, remembered he was in his new bedroom.

Something stirred. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and let his bare feet rest on the wood floor before standing and walking across the creaky floorboards to the door.

Making his way down the narrow corridors of the old victorian house, Jack crept down the hallway and paused on the landing. A strange noise filtered up from below: a heavy thud, followed by scraping. He inched closer and closer toward the light and peered through the bars of the stairs, down into the hallway.

The professor hunched over a large, dark mass on the floor. He bent down and pushed at it, as if the thing was too heavy to lift. A black canvas covered the top. The light in the hall was dim. The professor grunted, heaving the thing a few feet down the hallway. Stopping to rest for a moment, he sat on the top of the black-covered mass. The professor wiped the sweat from his brow and when he stood up, the drape caught his arm and slid off. Jack gasped. The sides and top of the object—it was the shape of a trunk—were painted with dull red and black diamonds like something from an old-time circus or a
carnival
. A shiny new padlock dangled from the latch.

The professor pushed the trunk toward his office. Then the dog, Little Miss B., who was walking down
the hall behind him, suddenly stopped. She glanced up in Jack’s direction and started barking. Great. She was as blind as a bat, but her doggy radar worked just fine. Jack leaped to his feet, ran back to his room, and shut the door. He jumped into bed and pulled the blankets up over his face.

His breathing was loud underneath the covers. He had panicked. The professor had to have heard him. Jack closed his eyes and pretended to go back to sleep, trying not to imagine what was locked inside of that trunk.

Early Saturday morning, Little Miss B. scratched at Jack’s door. Jack threw on a pair of not-too-dirty jeans and a ratty sweatshirt. He clipped the thin blue leash to her collar, and the two of them headed out in the cool fall morning. As Little Miss B. strode perilously close to the mailbox, Jack tugged on the leash. She was a good dog, but Jack refused to call her Little Miss B. in public. He chose instead to call her B. or her new nickname: Bruiser. He admired the way she held her little head high and marched fearlessly out into the world even though she was blind. Although she probably had more than a few bruises under her fur from plowing into any and all stationary objects that crossed her path, still she was a tough girl.

The wetness from the dew-drenched grass soaked into his sneakers. Jack took the back way to the park, cutting through the trees that divided the houses and the park, which bordered a strip mall. As he wove through the trees, he noticed that a trail of paper, bright yellow scraps, caught on the wind like leaves. He chased one and snatched it up from under his shoe. It was an advertisement for a carnival. It would be in town for one more week. That was a strange coincidence. His stomach fluttered. He would have to tell the professor about it when he got home, and maybe they could go.

As Jack walked Little Miss B. through the park, he saw a few kids tossing a ball around in the distance. When Jack got closer, he realized it wasn’t a ball at all they were throwing, but a roll of toilet paper. There were three kids total, one bigger and two smaller, in the process of TP-ing the jungle gym and the swing sets.

The prank reminded him of this time in the group home when the boys on his floor had a toilet paper fight in the bathroom. Every surface was covered in toilet paper, including this kid everyone called Rat, because he always ratted on anyone who took food from the cafeteria to hide in his bunk. Stashing food in the dorms was against policy. (Like a pack of Twinkies was gonna attract the mother lode of roaches or something!) For payback, Rat was mummified in two-ply, and the entire floor of B Group was forbidden to use toilet paper for
a month. After wiping his butt with scratchy recycled paper towels, Jack had a newfound respect for sanitary products. Toilet paper became sacred. He smiled to himself at the memory and tried to skirt the edge of the playground, but the kids spotted him.