31 Days of Halloween

FunHouse

The smell of burning diesel filled the air, as one by one a convoy of big rigs rolled swiftly into the open field. Heat from the day held the choking fumes at ground level, as they permeated everything in a close radius. The trucks closely followed by numerous battered motorhomes. Parking on the opposite side of the vehicles, the men and women which had occupied them climbed out and began their rituals. For six months out of the year, each week brought them to a new city. They were capable of building a small town in a matter of hours, piece by piece, until whatever field they were in for that week, sprang to life.

Carnival life. Bringing together people from all walks of life - the nomad and gypsy type, others with criminal records, those seeking to be paid under the table, and those who chose to live a life with more freedom to see the country. Even if that freedom ties them from midway to midway. Carnies don't have an easy life, and this summer had been challenging for the Mangellan Bros. Only eight stops into the season, there had been ten women between the ages of eighteen and twenty-five reported missing. Their last known locations were at the carnival. Between police investigations and their own private investigations, tensions were running high.

"Something has to give, man. This is unreal," Tony Mangellan told his brother, "Can't have the police breathing down our neck in every town we stop. Bad for business, really bad."

"Yeah, but what else do we do, boss? I mean, these women are missing. Wouldn't you want someone to investigate if it were Trish or one of your girls?"

"Don't be stupid. Of course. Doesn't mean I have to like it now," he steamed.

Sweat rolled off his greasy forehead onto the white, stained, wife-beater style tank top he wore. Two sizes too small, it had seen better days.

"Let's get this done, we got us a carnival to open tomorrow night."

In the back lot, a man sat calmly staring out the window of a beat-up motorhome. Tendrils of smoke from a cigarette wafted in the air of the enclosed vehicle, a sinister smile turning up the corners of his mouth. Fresh out of prison, Jimmy Lyons had needed a job, Mangellan Bros., had needed an employee. It was a perfect match. Going by the name Roger Masters since as a carnie, a background check wasn't required unless you were driving one of the trucks, he was able to avoid any possible altercations if his past came out. He had learned to like opening nights in new towns, he got to have eye samples of what would be around over the course of the week. Had to be careful, though, those small-town girls could be trouble when it came to being underage. Hell, they were built differently than they were when he was younger, and being locked up for sixteen years didn't help any either.

Short shorts, halter tops, some wearing just bikini tops, tanned, sweat glistening on their bodies under the hot sun and humidity. That was during the day. At night, it was an entirely new ballgame. Women of all ages, barely dressed, revealing clothes. His job with the show left him unidentifiable without his costume. That alone enough for him to accept the position. He had been glad he did. His first night on the job, his urges got the better of him, he couldn't stop himself. He didn't want to hurt her, but she struggled and rejected him. Grabbing her and covering her mouth, he pulled her deeper into the FunHouse. As a clown, he had unfettered access to every inch of the goliath structure. The twists and turns, the hidden passageways, all there for him to take advantage of.

She fought too much. He convinced himself he had no other choice, one quick snap of her neck and she went limp. Grappling with what he had done, he felt the shift inside him. They said he was rehabilitated. He agreed. It was his ticket to freedom. He might be insane, but he wasn't stupid. Playing their game had been easy. They only saw what they wanted to see. Now he was free, working as someone else, paid cash, and had the pick of his victims.

You don't want to do this, Jimmy, one of his voices said. He called it his good voice. His therapist told him to always listen to the good voice. The good voice wasn't fun, it got annoying after a while.

Yes, you do, Jimmy, yes you do. She laughed at you, don't you remember? Pointed at you and laughed, the other voice was quick to point out.

Conflicted as the voices inside waged a war in his mind, pushing him over the edge. He snapped. They were right! She deserved to die. He loved to look at women, but deep down he hated them. Scorned by many different women until he went to prison, he had decided if they ever let him out, it wouldn't happen again. If it did, he would fix it so they couldn't do it to anyone else. He couldn't think about it right now, he had to sleep. Knowing tomorrow was opening night, it would be a real treat.

Earlier in the day, he spoke with the boss man about his makeup. Asked if it would be okay if he found a mask to wear, the grease makeup bothered his skin. With the head dudes approval, he took off in search of a mask. He found it with ease and knew right away it would work beautifully. Now, all he had to do was wait for show time.

Time had come. Dressing for his part in the funhouse, he slipped the blue and white striped clown jumpsuit over a pair of shorts and a t-shirt, followed by the over-sized, clumsy red shoes. The finishing touch to his masterpiece - his new mask. Looking into the mirror, all he could do was laugh. A slow, evil, disturbing laugh. In costume, he never spoke out loud, other than his laugh. The past few weeks he worked diligently to find what worked for him. He did, and now it had become second nature.

With shocks of orange and red hair tufts, the white mask portrayed the real evil which resided within Jimmy. Screened over eyes gave him the appearance of black empty eye sockets, and the red makeup lines were replaced with what looked to be blood. The mouth of the mask was the disturbing part. Large, yellow, pointy teeth in lips curled into a gruesome smile. He looked terrifying.

Watching as the ticket booths opened and people filed in, he stepped inside and took his place. It was show time. Tonight, he planned on making the voices proud. Behind the curtain of hanging plastic strips, he stood silently, still, waiting. The mask of horror his crowning achievement, he also held tightly onto his ax. He had to look the part.

Don't let us down, Jimmy. We're proud of you, you can do it.

They were working him up. Tonight would be a thing of beauty. His blood coursed through his veins, heart racing, barely able to stand still. He was the only clown on his end, so he had to make it count. Through the open air vent on the side of the building, he saw her. It had to be her. Blonde hair, long legs in those denim shorts, a cropped t-shirt. He wouldn't be her type, he knew women like her, they thought they were too good for him. Not tonight, he would show her that he was exactly her type. Yes! This would be an excellent night, he could already see more in line, but he wouldn't rush. There had to be ample time to savor their moments together. After all, it would be a once in a lifetime opportunity for both of them.

There she is! She's inside now. You know she's been making fun of you this whole time, right? You know what to do next. Don't let her past, Jimmy. Block her way. Ooh there she is, she's going to be yours.

As the blonde haired young lady pushes her way through the hanging strips, she runs into him. Startled, she laughs and tries to maneuver past him. He stepped to the side and blocked her. In a dance of cat and mouse, she tried to duck under his arm. Somehow, she's been separated from her friend, here's his chance. She won't laugh at him ever again. Grabbing her by the hair he pulls her behind the plastic. Her terrified screams go unheard as the rock music blared through the overhead speakers which line the ceiling. He swings, she tries to block him with her arm. The gash opens wide and blood sprays over the plastic, dripping in what looks like a realistic special effect. On the ground, she has almost lost consciousness. Swinging again, the blade sinks into her skull, blood and flesh splatter the wall and ground, it's on his mask and clothes. Over and over he swings.

Don't stop, Jimmy, she deserved it. Who cares what they say. Oh, Jimmy, they're coming for you, they're right outside, they know it's you. What have you done? The sing-song voice in his head taunting him.

Hit after hit, the ax connects with its target. Police storm the funhouse as he is taking a final swing. Covered in blood, he drops the ax. His victim, unidentifiable on the floor, a mass of broken bone, chunks of flesh, and pools of blood, the walls painted red. As officers approach him, all he says is:

She shouldn't have laughed at me.

 © Sherrie Weynand 2016