Hell's Army

Chapter Four- The Wittikins Puppets' Funhouse

Ingleseid sat in Holly's chair, tapping her bobble-headed dog as she ushered a balding man out who was convinced he was being followed by aliens. She came back in, shooed him off.

"So, I got a call from Mrs Connelly," she said as Ingleseid perched on the side of her desk. "Apparently, her husband told her everything. They're going on their anniversary this month. Hawaii or something like that. Can you imagine that? Being married to a werewolf?"

"This from the girl who's friends with a zombie," he pointed out.

She shot him a look. Whoops. He'd forgotten that mentioning Tatters was forbidden ground.

"Yeah, but I don't sleep in the same bed as him." She thought for a moment. "Do you think he sheds?"

Ingleseid shrugged and went back to tapping her dog.

Up and down, the little head went. Up and down. Up an-

Holly leaned in and sniffed him.

"Holly," he said seriously, "what are you doing?"

"Are you wearing cologne?" she asked.

"Not the last time I checked."

"You smell really weird."

He frowned at that thoughtful compliment, said, "Good weird or bad weird?"

"Just weird."

"Holly," he said after a few moments.

"Yeah?"

"You can stop sniffing me now."

For all he knew, she might have kept going, if it weren't for the bell tinkling as a greasy looking man with a shock of ginger hair hanging onto his head like an alarm and pimples cratered across his skin as if his face was dotted with miniature volcanoes hurried inside. He pointed a chewed fingernail at Ingleseid.

"Fawkes?" His voice was small and squeaky, and for a minute Ingleseid had to take another look at him to make sure a man had just spoken, and not a five year old girl.

Ingleseid pointed to Holly, and the man hurried over to her.

"Can I help you?" she asked.

 "You guys deal with-" He lowered his voice for a second. "Weird cases, right?"

"You'd better take a seat," she said. He did. "Can I get you anything? Tea? Coffee?"

"Nah, I'm good. It's Figley, by the way. Allan Figley."

"What seems to be the problem, Mr Figley?"

Figley looked down, wrung his hands anxiously. "So, I-I work at this funhouse. For kids, I mean. Like bouncy castles and ball pits and stuff. But lately...things have been happening. Like, strange things."

Holly leaned in. "What kind of strange things?"

"Lights turning on and off, doors closing, stuff like that."

"That is generally what doors and lights do," Ingleseid said, but Figley ignored him.

"About eleven o'clock each night," he continued, "whoever's on duty has to take the toys down to the basement. It's completely dark down there, and...sometimes I hear things." He pulled out his phone, clicked a few buttons. He placed it on the table, and a searing squeal ripped through the tiny speakers.

"What is that?" Holly asked.

"Laughing," Figley whispered, his dull little eyes going as wide as a goldfish's.

"Is it?" Ingleseid asked suspiciously.

"Every time I go down there- things start laughing," he insisted.