At first it was only aware of the dark. Dark was all around it, and dark was all that there was. Mostly it slept, and its sleep was deep and dark as well. The dark sleep was unbroken as Leowl remained still and dormant. All who saw him thought he was dead, but deep within his dark sleep, a small spark of light burned dimly.

“Hey there folks. Come one, come all, come see Leowl, the amazing half man, half beast. Only 50 cents gets you a chance to see the missing link. Only half a dollar. Stay as long as you want and gawk in astonishment and terror at a perfectly preserved monster.” Jake watched the crowds hurry past. A few kids stopped and stared at the large, lurid poster on the side of the show trailer; but, when they asked their parents for money, their pleas fell on deaf ears.

“It’s just a rip-off, dear,” said one mom as she dragged her son past.

“Money back guarantee,” Jake yelled after them, but his spiel was mostly half-hearted. It was still early in the afternoon, and the crowd at the Salin Fair still consisted mostly of families with young children wearing Hostess Ride-All-Day-For-Five-Dollars wristbands. They would ride the kiddie rides, check out the agricultural exhibits, see the racing pigs, and then they would go home before it got too dark.

Jake wouldn’t really start to make any money until then. The crowds would swell proportionally as the sun went down, and the atmosphere would change. After the 4-H members, parents, and little kids left, the teenagers, bikers, and punks would arrive. The beer, insults, and profanity would flow freely as the security guards and deputies looked on warily, moving quickly to defuse any tense situations.

That’s when the strutting, slightly drunk, adolescent males with their wife-beater T-shirts would arrive at Jake's trailer and plunk down their money in response to his subtle taunting. Their scantily-clad girl friends would reward their bravery by shrieking and clinging tightly to them. More often than not, they would cough up an extra dollar to get a souvenir photo.

But, dusk was still several hours a way. After a few more nonproductive minutes, he gave up and went inside to eat his early dinner and cool off for a little while. “Hey there, Caveman.” He slapped the glass display case irreverently as he spread his meager meal on the table next to it. “Gonna scare some yokels tonight?”

Jake had been a carny for his entire life. He’d hawked the World’s Smallest Horse for years, but then in a stroke of luck he’d made a terrific trade with an old guy who’d somehow gotten spooked by Leowl. Peering into the case, he admitted that he could understand how someone could get a bit unnerved. Whoever had preserved and posed the body had achieved maximum effect.

It was odd to see a body and face that were so unmistakably human even though they were covered in long, shaggy, black fur. The wickedly coiled claws at the end of each finger and the razor sharp, curved teeth that split open the mouth were downright scary. But, it was the haunting, yellow eyes that seemed to be staring right through you, even though they never moved, that made people’s skin crawl.

Dark.

So cold and dark and hungry.

Jake finished his supper and tidied up. “That’s odd,” he thought, stopping to peer more closely at his prize display. He could have sworn he saw Leowl blink his eyes. “Don’t you go playing tricks on me, Leowl.” He wagged his fingers at the beast. “We’ve got money to make.”

Jake stepped back outside and looked around. The crowd was starting to shift. He began calling out loudly, and was rewarded with a small, gathering crowd.

Once, millions of years ago, Leowl and his kind had ruled the earth, but as the world changed, species had to adapt or die. Leowl had adapted. In his youth, he had fed on the giant reptiles. Now, his monster appetite had been tamed and he spent his life waiting in a deep, dark, energy conserving sleep, waking only when his energy stores were depleted.

“Remember folks, no one under sixteen will be allowed in.” Jake heard a noise behind him, but he knew that if he stopped to investigate, he would lose his marks, so he kept on talking. “We don’t want to give the kiddies nightmares.”

Leowl sniffed deeply as he flexed his limbs, carelessly breaking open the glass case. It had been seventeen years since he had last eaten.

“Remember, no photographs are allowed,” Jake finished as he turned to open the door.

Leowl was very hungry.

“You look like hell,” Nick greeted me at the fairground entrance. “Poets!”

I ran a hand guiltily over my stubble. “Linette was my muse,” I said simply. “And it’s hard to write about taking joy in life when your heart’s been shattered. I guess I’ve been distracted…”

“A little! Look, that girl was half-mad anyway. She was ruining your life, mate! She’s still doing it. A little fresh air and sunshine is just what you need. That and maybe a shower.” Nick mimed sniffing the air.

“This was a mistake,” I shook my head. “Thanks for the invitation, but it’s no good. I can’t get her out of my mind.”

“So melodramatic. You can’t be depressed at the fair! There’s goats and prizes for quilts, for heaven’s sake. Get on the Tilt-A-Whirl and puke Linette right out of your system, I say.”

I threw myself into the raucous glee of the fair with an attempt at abandon. Nick took me on the wildest rides, and stuffed me full of churros and cotton candy. But the more fun I had, the more a strange feeling settled on me. A certainty crept into my mind that I was being watched. I caught myself looking over my shoulder more and more often, scanning the crowds for whoever was looking at me. When I turned away, the back of my neck prickled.

We ducked into a tent to watch the acrobats. “Did you at least get the other girl, then?” Nick asked quietly.

The words were well meant, but they tore open the wounds again. “No. Haven’t heard from her since the night Linette caught us. Like she disappeared off the face of the earth. Or maybe never existed. Maybe it never happened, and Linette just left because she couldn’t stand me.”

“Watch that imagination,” Nick said sharply. “You’ll go mad thinking like that.”

“Go mad,” I mused. “There’s an option.” There was something bothering me about one of the acrobats. I stared at her, unabashedly, trying to figure it out. And then she looked up, and our eyes met. She was Linette.

I staggered back, horrified, rubbing my eyes.

“You all right?” Nick asked.

“Yes…” I muttered. Of course it wasn’t her. The acrobat looked nothing like her. But for a moment…those eyes had stabbed into my soul.

I pushed my way into the light of day. I must have looked like I was about to be sick; someone grabbed my elbow. “Poor boy,” a voice clear as a crystal and rich as a cello murmured. Linette’s voice.

But when I looked up there was only an elderly woman’s startled face. I was going mad. I reeled through the fair like a drunken man, and everywhere I went I saw her. She gazed at me from posters, she hawked funnel cakes. I saw her hands plucking at guitar strings on stage. There was no accusation in her eyes, only watchfulness. It was far more terrifying.

“What do you want of me?” I demanded. Passers-by laughed behind their hands.

I stumbled away from her image, away from the color and the sound and the chaos and the memories, and ran blindly towards the riverbank. I shoved tickets at a vendor and hurled myself into a gently bobbing swan boat. I pedaled like mad across the river, away from it all.

And then I looked up, and she was there beside me. Linette, as beautiful, as mind-maddeningly enchanting as she ever had been. Was the phantom at last made flesh? I gave a strangled gasp, and raised my hand to touch her cheek, pale in the cold air.

And let it drop. “Linette, Linette,” I groaned. “Do you think I don’t know what you are? I, the hopeless romantic? You’re just the ghost of my guilt and pain, tormenting me for my sins. But I’m tired of the heartache, Linette. Let me go, and I will let you go, and we’ll both find our happiness where we may.”

She looked at me with those glorious eyes, and her lips parted. “Never.”

My hands were around that lovely throat before I knew it, my lips peeled back in a snarl of rage. And I pushed her over the side, held her down under the cold depths until the thrashing stopped and the bubbles ceased to rise. The memories in my head, the voices and the laughter of our time together, fell silent at last. I could hear only the screams and panicked splashing of the nearby couples.

Someone brought me ashore, and I wept with relief as the steel closed around my wrists. And in the sudden silence of my mind I heard these words, crystal-clear and cello-rich.

“A short separation only, my sweet. There’s a place all murderers go. We’ll be together again, forever.”

Sam walked through the gates of the fairgrounds and was immediately struck by the unique smell of sawdust mixed with exotic excrement. He could hear the children around him.

“Mommy, I want some candy floss.”

“I want a teddy bear.”

“I'm bored. I want to go on the rides.”

Parents clutched their children's hands and threatened or cajoled as the mood took them. They bought pink and blue candy floss, corn dogs on sticks, elephant ears, and gallons of watery pop. By the fixed looks on many of their faces, they knew they might as well be renting the food. When the rides started, the lease would come due.

Sam hadn't come for any of these children. The child he was looking for was .....special. He allowed the bump and press of the crowd to move him toward the midway. She would be there. He had a feeling. The “You must be this tall to go on this ride.” signs weeded out the young and under-grown. She wouldn't be on the kiddy rides. Only the big rides for his girl – the scarier the better. He could imagine her with her blond hair floating free and her eyes wide with excitement.

The screams from the roller coasters taunted him. They were going too fast for him to see if she was there. He didn't think she would scream, but she would smile. Those white teeth would shine in the darkness of the early night. Sam watched the people coming off the coaster. The youngest chattering with excitement, the teens working overtime to maintain their cool facade, the parents just looking long suffering. The last were the green ones. Their lease on the junk food was up.

She wasn't there. She wouldn't be part of a group of giggling girls. She would walk alone as if the fair was there just for her. Sam moved toward the whirling rides. Then he saw her, just up ahead. Her hair blew free around her face in the soft breeze. She wore denim shorts and a pink t-shirt.. Sam's heart began beating faster. He wiped his suddenly sweaty palm on his jeans. He would swear that she winked at him before the crowd swallowed her.

For a moment he thought he had gone deaf. He heard none of the screaming, none of the music. He stood thunderstruck in the center of the aisle until a stray elbow caught him in the ribs. Sam shook his head. This wasn't his first time, and the hunt was on. He needed to focus. He began to slip through the crowd in the direction he saw her last.

Now, it seemed that all the fairgoers conspired to slow him down to protect her. He was jostled and pushed. The noise was overwhelming. Rock music and screams from the rides mixed with the whines and arguments of parents and children. Popcorn and candy floss assaulted his nose; flashing lights blinded him. Sam persevered and came to the haunted house.

He saw her just as she entered the house. Sam slipped around to the back, to the maintenance door. It was unlocked. He slipped inside. From this side the haunted house was as scary, but it was more dangerous. He had to watch and dodge the moving arms that flung skeleton and monster at screaming children. He found a place where the each child would need to walk through by themselves. Sam waited. His heart was pounding, his palms slick.

There she was. That perfect face, those mocking eyes. He grabbed her and pulled her off the track. She made no sound, just looked at him and smiled as blood dripped from her teeth. Then she threw him across the room. He barely missed being impaled by the back side of a screaming ghost. Sam reached for his gun, but she was too fast for him. She was past him and to the back door.

He heard a new note in the screams behind him – a terror that wasn't part of the fun. Sam pulled his gun and ran after the monster. The door was still swinging shut when he hit it and was through.

“There he is. That bad man hurt this little girl.” Sam swung his gun toward the voice. She was clutching the arm of a police officer. The cop scrabbled his gun out.

“FREEZE,” he yelled. “Drop your gun or I will shoot.”

Sam pointed his gun at the monster that looked like a child. He didn't hear the shots. He tried to compensate - to aim, but the cop kept shooting. Lilith laughed at him and licked her lips as the blackness swallowed him. With all his strength he tried to pull the trigger.

Even as he died Sam didn't know if he succeeded.

Gary weaved his way through the crowd, not remembering where he was or how he had gotten there. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered except his next fix. He could already feel the burning sensation in his skin. He needed to score, and to score, he needed money.

He was at some sort of carnival, he knew that much. He was assaulted by a dizzying potpourri of sights, sounds, and smells: the bright lights and clanging bells of a carousel, the sugary smell of funnel cake, an endless procession of people.

Gary quickly selected an easy mark — an elderly man buying cotton candy. He watched as the old fool slipped his wallet into his back pocket after making the purchase. With surprising stealth for a drug addict, Gary sidled up beside the man and "bumped" into him.

"Oh, sorry," Gary said, slipping the wallet into his own pocket before hurrying away. "Guess I should watch where I'm going."

Gary scanned the river of people rushing past, looking for another ignorant rube. Instead, he spotted a police officer a short distance away, standing beside a lemonade stand and muttering into a walkie-talkie.

The cop was looking right at him.

Swallowing nervously, Gary quickly disappeared into the throngs of people, strolling along with his hands in his pockets like any tourist enjoying the evening. As he passed a garbage can he quickly tossed the wallet inside.

Gary walked past the Ferris wheel and the parachute ride, then ducked behind a pretzel vendor and looked to see if he had been followed.

To his dismay, he saw that the cop and another officer were trailing him. They weren't running or shouting, just walking purposefully, taking their time. Their eyes were fixed on Gary.

Cursing, Gary retreated, fighting the urge to run, knowing it would be foolish to make them chase him. This way, if they caught him, he could always try to bluff his way out of it. After all, he had ditched the wallet, and he didn't have any dope in his pockets.

Gary kept walking, feeling dizzy and sick. The smell of all those people was nauseating. The colorful lights of a dozen attractions swam in front of his eyes.

Wait a minute, he thought. Is that the cotton candy stand again? Is that the same parachute ride I passed before? Am I going around in circles?

Out of the corner of his vision he saw the cops closing in. This time he did run, as fast as his legs could carry him, badly needing something to stop the jitters, knowing it would be a while before his next fix. He knocked people aside, oblivious to their protests. When he could run no longer he stopped to catch his breath, bent over and gasping. After a moment, he looked up.

He was standing in front of the cotton candy stand.

That's not possible, that simply isn't —

"Mr. Myers?"

Gary looked up at the calm faces of the two officers who had been pursuing him. They didn't appear in the least bit winded despite the chase, and their eyes were twinkling with amusement, as though they shared a private joke.

"Mr. Myers?" the first cop repeated. "Gary Myers?"

"Uh, yeah?" Gary said, too strung-out to wonder how the policeman knew his name.

"Do you know where you are?" the cop said. "Do you remember how you got here?"

"Sure," Gary said. "I'm just here to enjoy myself, maybe play the ring toss and win a teddy bear for my girlfriend. I'm not bothering anybody."

"You don't have a girlfriend. The closest thing you ever had to a girlfriend was that drunken redhead you groped at a frat party last year."

"Huh?" Gary stammered. "How do you know about —"

"You don't remember how you got here?" the cop said. "You don't remember anything about the car?"

Wracked with pain from the withdrawal symptoms, Gary tried to focus his thoughts and regain his composure. He seemed to remember a car, but he couldn't recall any details. He heard distant sounds, or perhaps it was only a memory ... a shout, a siren, the breaking of glass.

"You stole a car," the cop said. "About an hour ago. You stabbed the driver and took the car, drove maybe a mile before you slammed into a telephone pole. It caught fire and you were trapped inside and you died. Any of this ring a bell?"

Suddenly Gary remembered everything, and when he looked at his hands, they were charred to the bone. He shrieked.

"This sure is a great place, isn't it?" the cop said. He laughed as his face began to run like melting wax, and he reached for Gary with fingers like razor blades. "There are lots of fun things to do here ... and we're going to try them all."

The people all around Gary suddenly turned and closed in on him. Their razor-blade fingers flashed and glinted in the carnival lights.

“Tickets are ten pounds.”

The elderly ticket vendor stands before us, his mouth a thin line of distrust.

Jenna looks up, suddenly wide-eyed and attentive, as though she fears that the high price will drive me to change my mind. I pull a twenty from my back pocket and drop it into his outstretched hand. The gnarled fingers close over it like living branches and his face twists in an unexpected smile. The deep lines of age mark his face and give him the same timeless quality as a statue that guards a tomb, forgotten for millennia, waiting for one foolish enough to trespass.

“Thank you very much. I hope you enjoy the show.”

As we draw away from the vendor and closer to the big top, I feel a gentle tug on my hand.

“That man is scary,” she whispers, glancing back over her shoulder. I follow her gaze. He now faces the opposite direction, in wait of more customers.

“Jenna! Don’t say things like that! He’s just a friendly old man.”

“He’s scary,” she whines, defiant. A glint of a teardrop shines in the corner of her right eye.

I decide to let the matter go. Night is drawing in around us, it’s ten minutes to the start of the show and I just want to get this over with.

“Look, the show’s going to start soon. Do you want to see it or not?”

“Yeah,” she sniffles, though the hint of terror has left her voice.

I pull my blue scarf tightly around my shoulders, warding off the cold. It doesn’t help. I whip around, sure that the old vendor will be watching us with that ghost of a smile on his ancient face.

Nobody is there.

“Well, come on then,” I say, pulling her towards the mouth of the tent, a swell of vivid yellow against the twilight sky.

The air is full of exciting smells: the sickly-sweetness of cotton candy, the rich scent of burgers and hotdogs grilling behind the various counters and the aroma of the circus: earthy and almost indescribable. I notice the smells more than usual because no one is talking or breathing, although we stand at the heart of a bustling crowd.

I raise a foot and bring it down. The sand beneath crunches and crackles as expected. I breathe relief into the frozen air.

Hand in hand, we stride over the threshold and into the circle of chairs. All but two of the chairs are taken. Behind us sits the elderly man in the crumpled jacket. I smile at him. He says nothing, gives no sign of recognition, so I turn back to face the ring and wait for the show to begin.

The minutes stretch out in cold silence. No one breathes a word, not even the other children. Finally, the curtain is swept aside to reveal a figure in a dark, glimmering cloak and purple top hat.

“Tonight,” the man booms, his voice clear in every corner of the tent, “I will show you things no living being has ever seen!”

This, the audience respond to--rising to their feet around us in a chorus of screaming and applause. For just a moment, sweet relief washes over me. The silence is gone and normality has come to take its place!
“Casey?”

“What is it now?” I snapped, losing patience. Jenna did not, or could not, respond. Her face was pale and her breath came in shudders of deep emotion. My anger faded instantly. “What is it, Jenna?”

A trembling hand directs me to the seat behind us.

I cannot react to what I am seeing in a sane manner because it’s sane, it’s not normal. Mind and body both are frozen in a terrible mixture of fear and disbelief. Worse than this, no one else seems able to see it at all.

The elderly vendor has thrown aside his coat, and his skin has begun to recede, like a time-lapse film of melting ice. There’s no blood, just blackened muscle and rotting flesh that glimmers darkly in the dim, stark light.

I look from one blank face to the next. No recognition. For the first time, I notice the glassy quality of their eyes--like painted marbles. One by one, they turn to face me, skin yellowing as it peels from their fetid flesh.

A short, sharp shout brings me back to myself. Jenna is gone; darting through the rows of empty strangers, heading for what she thinks is the exit. My eyes dart to the place where we entered the big top and around the inner perimeter of the tent, desperately searching for something to disprove this horror, this unreality.

There is no exit.

A clammy hand closes over my throat.

I scream, knowing that no one can hear me.

"Why, that's my dainty Ariel! I shall miss thee;
But yet thou shalt have freedom. So, so, so," he had proclaimed, handing her the ticket.

“Thanks, Dad,” she mustered up her best smile through her weariness. He was a professor of English with a particular penchant for Shakespeare; hence her name. “How I wish I were that sylphid, that free spirit of the air,” she had thought.

Now she had arrived; Venice at carnival time. The gift had been well-chosen by her father. She had been through a difficult few years and this trip would give her the opportunity to be someone else for a while; bring out some of her inner nature that had been hidden for so long beneath the shroud of work tedium, heartbreak, loneliness and fear.

Ariel peered from her hotel window at the hustle and bustle below, the gaiety, the myriad of colours and shapes as those adorned swished between one another. She would need a costume before she could join with all the music and dancing. She ventured forth admiring all the intricate gilding, jewelling and feathers on the masks of the revellers; but that was not for her, to be as a proud peacock displaying its finery, she mused. It was a crisp, bright day so she strolled along the edge of a canal. A glint of sunlight suddenly bounced off the water, blinding her. Through her blinking she heard a voice, “Hey bella! Come with me. I give you my best price”. Trying to refocus, Ariel could distinguish the silhouette of a wiry, young man leaning on a pole.

“Thank you, but I’m sorry I can’t afford a gondola trip”

“For you, bella, my price is gratis. Come!” He grabbed her hand meaningfully, the metal of a heavy signet ring pinching her flesh. He chilled her, but was mesmerising, so she obligingly clambered into the boat. “So where you want to go?” As she sat, she looked up at him at a loss. “I know just right place for you, bella,’’ he smirked, then turned to thrust the vehicle on its passage.

Their destination was a narrow, sunless alley with tall, crumbling houses. One appeared to have a shop front. She entered its dank interior and gazed around in wonder at the jumble of dusty curios strewn along the shelves and counter. A sun-weathered, bespectacled person sat reading a newspaper whilst puffing clouds of smoke into the gloominess. He peered at her intensely over their rim, then placing the glasses down, stubbed out the cigarette; his signet ring clanking against the ashtray. “You need a mask.” She was startled by his intuition. “I have what you need.”

He rummaged for a few moments then, with his wizened hand, passed her a white object made of fine, waxed cloth. The mask was quite plain but the shape exquisitely crafted.

“It’s a proper one and very old; created by a mascherari; mask-maker. She was accused of being Stregoneria and was executed during the witch hunts. Not many of her masterpeices remain.”

“It’s perfect; I’ll take it”

“It’s a larva; ghost mask. You have to wear it with a three-pointed hat and flowing robes.” She turned to leave. “Young woman. Chi cerca trova”

“I don’t understand Italian, I’m sorry.”

“Who searches, finds,” he nodded, knowingly; one bony finger tapping his nose.

Ariel dressed in her costume, and then fitted the larva. Her mood felt lighter already. Maybe she should write that postcard to her father before she went out for the evening? She reached for it on the desk but, as her hand approached, it fluttered up and somersaulted to the ground. “Odd,” she thought, “I’m sure the window is closed and I haven’t felt any draughts in here.”

As she left the hotel, the gondolier was mooring his boat. He waved to her and nodded with an unusual, knowing smile. She wondered how he had recognised her in her garb and mask, but nervously raised a hand of greeting in return.

The revelries of the evening were most enjoyable for Ariel. She had indeed started to feel like a different person; more liberated, breezier, with each passing hour. As twilight drew in, the mists had risen from the canals, tumbled along their banks and swirled low around the party-goers; mantling their feet so making them appear to be floating on air.

As the sun rose, the haze gradually retreated back to its watery origin. In a heap on the cobbles lay a hat, mask and gown. A gentle wind blew, rolling the mask and revealing, on its inner side, the indentation of a pentagram and a quilled inscription that Ariel had not understood. Translated, it read ‘larvae are merely ghosts of their future selves and bear no resemblance to their impending form.’

A gust of air circled around the plaza, picking up pieces of paper, spiralling them around and throwing them down again like a happy child playing with dried autumn leaves. Ariel laughed as she spun around, threw the paper up and the pieces tumbled about her; she was now, truly and finally, free.

Jim smiled quietly to himself as he spied Gilly chatting affably with a small group of bystanders. Officially, no one was supposed to be allowed anywhere near the big top while they were setting up. It was hard to break years of tradition, however, and mostly the onlookers were tolerated, and even encouraged.

Years ago, it had been quite an event when the circus arrived. They’d been met with cheering crowds that lined the streets as the performers, animals, and equipment had paraded into town. Now though, with the insurance regulations and the animal rights protestors, they had to sneak in and set up under the cover of darkness.

Despite the precautions and the ubiquitous warning signs, however, there were still those who felt the pull of the circus. True, some of them were cheapskates trying to get a free peek. But there were others who came because they had circus in their blood. They were like groupies following the performers around. They were the ones whose days were filled with pestering questions and whose nights were filled with dreams. They were also the ones who walked right past Jim without even noticing him.

In truth, very little about Jim was noticeable or memorable. He was a nondescript, middle-aged man with a stubbly beard. His worn blue overalls were streaked with dirt, and he thrust his push-broom with a careless nonchalance. Many kids dreamed of running away and joining the circus; few pictured themselves ending up as roustabouts.

Everyone was part of the tent crew when it came time for set up and break down. Once opening night came, though, the rest of them would trade in their work clothes for glittering outfits and sparkling lights. Jim, however, would keep his dirt spattered clothes, seeing the inside of the dimly lit big top only in between acts when he was called down to sweep aside more dung and sawdust.

Jim, though, was content with his life. A reticent man by nature, he had never wanted to be a star performer. He was content to travel in the shadows. He had left the circus a few times and taken jobs as a common laborer or school custodian, but those pursuits had never given him the same opportunities as the circus. As he stood there leaning on his broom, he sensed one of those opportunities behind him.

“Hey kid,” he whispered without even glancing up. His comment was rewarded with a shuffle, and he didn’t even have to see the young preteen to feel him stiffen. “You comin’ to see the show?”

They boy stammered uncomfortably. “Ummm maybe?”

“Want a free ticket,” Jim asked turning towards him and holding out his hand.

“Really?” the boy gasped stepping into the light.

Jim was gratified to see that his instincts were as sharp as ever. “Sure,” he smiled slightly. “We get a few tickets to give away to every show.” His eyes narrowed slightly. “How old are you, boy?”

“Sixteen?” The rise at the end of his statement combined with his nervous flush confirmed Jim’s suspicions.

Jim smiled more broadly. He liked all young boys, but he especially liked young boys who were liars. “If you get here early, and come over to my trailer, I’ll give you a behind-the-scenes tour. He pointed towards the back of the lot. “It’s the green and red one.”

“Sure thing, Mister!” The kid bobbed his head up and down as he took the ticket. “Will they let me back there?”

“You shouldn’t have any problem. If you do, show them the ticket and tell them that Ronald sent for you.” Jim smiled again. Things wouldn’t go very well for the young man if he got stopped wandering around the back lot with a fake ticket looking for the nonexistent Ronald. Then again, it didn’t look like things were destined to go very well for the boy anyway.

The boy scurried off. Jim whistled softly to himself as he made his way back to his trailer several hours later. He was always careful, but it had been about four years now, and the timing seemed good. He carefully unlocked the door, stepped in and relocked it behind him. He found a well hidden key, and took it to the large trunk at the foot of his bed.

Unlocking it, he whispered soothingly to the emaciated shape bound inside. “Well, my once young friend, it looks like our time together may be drawing to an end.” He patted the boy's matted hair gently, ignoring the way he stiffened and drew back. Jim began laughing loudly. “I think someone new may be running away to join my circus.”

“Sir, the desk have reported another missing person case,’’

Detective Inspector Cummings sighed despairingly; it was the fifth this week. “Yes, Brightman. What now?”

“A young man this time, Sir. He was last seen walking down Park Street two days ago and nobody has heard from him since”.

Detective Brightman handed Cummings the file; Cummings tossed it on top of the other folders. “I’ll look at it in a while. I need some coffee”. Pushing the button on the machine, he sighed heavily again. He could not fathom these cases at all. This was such a quiet town; things rarely happened of any magnitude and now there were several missing persons all at once. It didn’t help either that Brightman, with his expensive education, was rising up the ranks steadily and was snapping at the heels of his own job. At least he would get some respite after his shift. Taking his wife and small daughter to the circus, which was currently in town, would surely help him relax. He slugged back a mouthful of coffee and grimaced a little; “For pity’s sake, can’t they get anything decent in this place?”

The performances had been enjoyable enough. All the usual stuff; trapeze artists almost superhumanly twisting through the air, adroit jugglers, fire-eaters, deft acrobats on horseback. Shelly had a wonderful time and his wife had smiled at him in appreciation of managing to find some family time together. The clowns had bothered Cummings a little though. Shelly had been a bit anxious when one ran over, to their part of the audience, with the fake bucket of water and he had stared directly at Cummings with an insolent sneer on his face.

The trio queued to leave, music jangling in their ears and the scent of popcorn and other edible treats wafting by. “Daddy, Daddy!”

“Yes, Poppet?”

“Daddy, my friend, Jane, came last night and she said that you could go and see all the animals and I want to do that, Daddy. I liked the horses, Daddy. Can we do that? Can we? Please, Daddy, please!”

“Well, it is past your bedtime, but I don’t see why not Poppet.” Cummings stole a glance at his wife for endorsement. She smiled at him approvingly.

The family made their way outside the Big Top towards where the shanty of caravans and animal quarters were. Cummings pulled his overcoat tighter around his neck; it felt nippy now that darkness had fallen. Passing one caravan, Cummings noticed the knife-thrower cleaning one of his blades. “Funny,” he thought, “that doesn’t look like a knife he used in the performance tonight”.

The makeshift stables smelt pleasantly of clean straw. Four magnificent beasts were stalled herein, their smooth, chestnut coats and distinct muscles glittering in the amber glow of the temporary lighting. One equine whinnied and tossed its head up and down impatiently. Shelly became quite excited. “Calm down, Sweet pea!” her mother chided, “You’ll spook them”. Shelly skipped over to the horses and happily patted them. Then there was a scream. “It bit me!’’ she managed to splutter through her tears.

A globule of blood slid from her finger and was lost in the straw below. “How about we get some candyfloss before we go home?” Cummings asked gently, tying a handkerchief around the injury.

“Yes, please, Daddy,” she sniffed, looking brighter.

The next morning the coffee was still no better. Cummings made an inner groan again as he surveyed the five files heaped up; wait, no, there were six; what had happened last night? He grabbed the topmost file and perused it. “Brightman!”

“Sir?”

“What’s this?”

“You missed the morning briefing, Sir. Potential murder. Someone found collapsed on Park Street. In hospital, but unconscious. Frightful mess made of them. Forensics have no idea yet; maybe a knife attack or someone superhuman, ha, ha,” Brightman half-giggled, nervously, “they are completely puzzled by the injuries.”

“Any information door-to-door?”

“Those inquiries have found no leads, Sir”

“Ok, Brightman. Get me a list of all the people working at that damn circus. We haven’t investigated them yet. And send a detective to the hospital in case they regain consciousness.”

Dark clouds loomed overhead; the teeming rain had seemed to set in for the day. Dripping with water, they squelched through the quagmire from caravan to caravan. “Last one then, Brightman?”

“Yes, Sir. A mister D Nikolaidis. The horse trainer.”

Cummings knocked forcefully on the door of the discoloured vehicle. Alas, another fruitless interview; the man had not known, seen nor heard anything.

“That was weird, Sir?”

“What was?” Cummings snapped. He was ill-tempered now, as well as weary; the cases were weighing on him.

“Well,” Brightman jabbered on, “he said his name was Diomedes Nikolaidis. In Greek mythology, Diomedes had four man-eating mares.”

“Stop your infernal wittering, Brightman! We have work to do!” Cummings stuck his hands in his pockets and trudged, head hanging heavy, through the mud back to the car.

Roberto, the carnival's organ grinder, unexpectedly died in his sleep. The funeral was poorly attended. None of the Carnies were there. We're a superstitious lot, and Roberto was the third organ grinder to die in the carnival that summer. A run of visits by the Grim Reaper will bring out superstition in everyone.

I viewed Roberto's death as an opportunity. Grinding doesn't take much skill, not like telling fortunes or operating the scams that take in the real scratch for the show. A grinder just puts on a costume, turns the crank all day, and keeps track of the monkey. I was tired of being a carnival roustabout, and the Grim Reaper be damned.

Mickey, the business manager, wasn't about to try to talk me out of it--the street organ was a small but stable source of coin, and Mickey needed every cent. He hired me on the spot and brought me to Roberto's trailer.

"Use Roberto's old costume," Mickey said. "I can't afford a new one. You can have his bunk, too," he added. I wasn't keen on wearing a dead man's costume, or sleeping in his bed, but I agreed. I should have heeded my instincts.

Mickey then introduced me to Lucky, the white-faced monkey that accompanies the organ grinder. She was beautiful. "They bond for life. She's yours, now," Mickey said. He left hurriedly. He was as superstitious as the rest of them, or so I thought at the time.

Lucky jumped onto my shoulder, and I gathered up Roberto's few remaining possessions and tossed them into the trash bin. The monkey had a screeching fit and jumped in after them. She emerged carrying a shiny medal on a gold chain, then hopped back up on my shoulder and handed the medal to me. There was a weird symbol engraved on one side, and the name, "Lucky," on the other. By the length of the chain, I could tell the medal was Roberto's, not Lucky's.

I put it into my pocket, but once again, Lucky started screeching and clawing at my arm. "OK, girl," I sighed, and put the chain around my neck. Lucky calmed down immediately. I slept well that night, with Lucky curled up at my side.

The next day I wore Roberto's clown costume and worked the midway. The trick to grinding is to keep moving toward customers. If they like you, they'll tip you. If they don't, you follow them around until they tip you to get rid of you. Meanwhile, Lucky scampers about, encouraging the tippers. We made a great couple.

The job isn't for the thin-skinned, of course--the organ is loud, and folks are as likely to cuss you out as they are to tip you--but that doesn't bother me. Lucky is another story, though: She hates being teased.

That first day, some teenage boys started to rag on us unmercifully. When one of the boys called Lucky a "tree rat," she jumped up on my shoulder, made a face, and pointed at the boy. I felt a little tingle in my chest where the medal was, and then the boy got absolutely drenched by a barfing kid high above on the Ferris wheel. Lucky barred her teeth in a monkey smile and jumped up and down, screeching happily. I laughed.

This sort of thing happened repeatedly over the next few weeks. Whenever people got rude, Lucky would point, my chest would tingle, and something unpleasant would happen to them--a drink spilled on their clothes, a fall into horse manure, a smack in the mouth from a wayward ring toss. At first it was hilarious, and Lucky and I had great fun together.

But lately, it's getting to be scary. The consequences have been escalating, and my chest has been hurting more and more. People have been injured on rides. A cook at the French fry stand was burned. A local welder cussed at Mickey over a bill, and barely escaped when his truck caught fire in the parking lot. A pregnant woman went into premature labor. Lucky isn't doing this for us any more; it's for her own fun.

It won't be belong before someone is killed, and I don't want to be around when that happens. I want out. I have no control over Lucky. She ignores me when I try to talk to her. Last night I tried to take the medal off, but the chain is now somehow too short to get over my head, and it is too strong to break. I found a pair of metal cutters; I was ready to use them. But Lucky saw me and pointed, and my chest started tingling.

My life is no longer my own. The monkey is in charge of me now.

The last sane thing Mark could remember was watching The Magnificent Willy Squire - King of the High Wire riding a unicycle and juggling fake bowling pins. He bounced and teetered out in the center of the high wire that spanned the two main support poles of the huge circus tent. Below him the midget clowns streamed endlessly out of the tiny clown car as the canned circus music crackled through the speakers.

Randy and Mark found a place to sit about half way up the crowded wooden risers. Randy reached in his back pocket and produced a flattened Snickers bar. Mark wrinkled his nose and said, "Geez, Randy, that looks like dog crap."

"Yeah, nice gooey brown dog crap, you jerk." Randy snickered then popped a melted piece in his mouth. "You know, you aughta be kissin' my royal tush. I saved us fourteen bucks by slipping in under the fence."

Mark rolled his eyes. He never liked the dark or freak shows and being dragged to Big Birtha's Traveling Circus for the late show spiked his creep-o-meter to eleven.

Magnificent Willy was balancing a chair on his forehead when a distant heavy thud-rumble shook the stands. Willy wobbled a bit but didn't let it interrupt his finale. Another huge thud-scrape, this one much closer, shook the stands more violently. Whatever had pounded and slid on the ground had now come to rest high on the side of the big tent and it's weight was slowly crushing an outer support pole.

The crowd fell into a suspended hush. Magnificent Willy had proven his superior balance and now stood bewildered on the high wire. Mark heard a loud twang that reminded him of the sound a low piano string makes when you pluck it with a screwdriver, then a swoosh. The main tent guide wire snapped and whipped the air slicing cleanly through Willy's torso then through the tent roof before connecting with the transformer outside. The crowds gaze followed this series of events in numb silence. The stupor continued as Willy's top half slid off with a squishy wet smack, bounced once on the safety net and plopped right on top of one of the midgets. His legs followed suit but got caught in the net forming a sort of floppy V shape. It wasn't until the flickering lights finally went out that the crowd went into a screaming hysteria.

A stampede of frenzied spectators knocked Randy clean off his feet. He landed hard on his left shoulder ten feet from the bottom of the stands. Mark hunkered down and wrapped his shaking arms around his head. Another loud twang-swoosh silenced everyone standing in a ten foot radius of him. One by one body parts started dropping off until an avalanche of fluid squirting bodies slumped to the floor.

The deafening shrieks continued, but they too were cut off mid scream as several more guide wires were drawn taunt until they snapped. Frozen in the blackness, Mark desperately wanted, no, needed to find Randy. Randy the rock. Randy his best friend. With his fear of moving slightly less than his fear of staying, he made a cautious approach, feeling his way down the bleachers. Crawling over a blood soaked riser, his hand slipped and sunk wrist deep into the warm brain of a half sliced skull. He screamed, jerked his hand out with a stuttering sucking sound and fell backwards onto the semi-decapitated body. He lied there paralyzed with fear until he felt the body beneath him begin to twitch, and that's when the last threads of sanity snapped.

Mark sprang to his feet and ran, slipping, sliding, down the risers. He'd almost reached the bottom when his left foot hit a solid object that sent him tumbling. Still seeing stars, Randy groaned, "Owwww, why'd ya have to kick me in the shoulder, you jerk?"

"Randy, Randy is that you?" Mark hollered with a quivery wave of relief. "We've gotta get out of here Randy, we've gotta go Right Now!"

The sputtering transformer gave up the ghost in one final explosion that sent sparks dancing all over the side of the tent. It didn't take long for the old dry fabric to become a massive funeral pyre.

With strength he didn't know he had, Mark lifted Randy and carried him over to the abandoned clown car and pushed him in. He turned the key and the little car sprang to life. It rocked violently as the tiny wheels rolled over homeless arms and legs. As he punched the clown car through the side of the burning tent the entire framework collapsed in on itself.

About a quarter mile away, and completely exhausted, Mark pulled over and forced himself to look back at the burning tent. All he could make out was a huge mass of twisted metal, and a massive white cylinder with fire licking around the letters, NASA.