Page 6 of Hell of a Thing

“Tag that one for the oak barrels. It will pair well with his boldness and give him the most deliciously rustic bouquet,” I whispered. A rush of wind let me know the mist demon had gone to do my bidding. The girlfriend whimpered, drawing my attention back to the couple.

“Careful! I don’t want to get kicked out of here.”

He wrapped his arm around her, pulling her to his side protectively.

“Nothing says we can’t touch them. If he wants to get that close, he can deal with the consequences. Either he’s paid enough to take our shit, or he should ask for a raise. Not my problem.” With confidence, he turned on his heel, casting a glance over his shoulder as he pulled his reluctant girlfriend towards theFerris wheel.

Too bad I didn’t have time to linger here and enjoy the show. With a sigh, I turned to The Devil, finding him transfixed.

“I like that one,” The Devil said with a smile revealing sharp pointed teeth. He sniffed the air, his eyes gleaming as his tongue darted in and out. His eagerness thrilled me, but there was more to see, and hopefully the night would end with him permitting the carnival to continue and The Devil’s black-forked tongue flickering against my clit.

I could only hope this carnival would be enough to satiate him. Enough to earn some reward. All I needed to do was find the perfect soul to present to him. One forged through fear and desperation. A shining example of what the circus can provide.

The young cat lady lowered the camera and backed away, unwilling to take her eyes off the scrawny goblin-demon who chased after a couple of boys running in her direction. Apprehensively, she watched it all with a guarded expression.

I grinned. Smart girl. I’d have to watch that one. She could be the perfect addition to our special collection.

Smiling up at The Devil’s glowing eyes, I gestured with one arm. “Come, my King. You’ll want to see this.”

Chapter 3

Astonished, I wandered around each booth, taking in the games. Some looked mostly normal, if not a little strange, like throwing darts at balloons filled with fake blood. Only the consistency of it was something unlike anything I’d seen before—viscous but oozing in a way corn syrup simply wouldn’t do. Shelves of various imitation eyeballs stocked the walls behind. Pausing, I took a few pictures, admiring the shine of the lacquer on the wood. The eyeballs were incredibly lifelike. Some even oozed a creamy fluid, despite how vitreous they were. Damn, this place was impressive.

But when I came upon the dunk tank, I started to question the legality of this place. It seemed normal, a plexiglass cylinder with a target in front and three ratty tennis balls the customer could throw at a dinged up metal target. A plump version of the weird goblin thing I’d seen earlier, but with a pig face, sat in the tank on a platform, jeering at the passersby until a guy with a fake mustache and a cowboy hat arrived.

After paying, he stepped up to a line of tape, his arm winding up like I’d seen pitchers do, and he launched the projectile with a steadiness that spoke of some long-ago baseball lesson. He hit his mark. The pig-like creature plunged into the vat with a squeal, and no sooner had he splashed into the liquid than bubbles and steam erupted, as though it were boiling. Words can’t describe the gut-wrenching garbled scream that came from that poor thing, its open mouth revealing a pitifully few broken teeth in a sea of gums. I told myself they had to be in costume and acting for the crowd. Except the clear water became a murky maroon, and by the time it found the rope and pulled itself back onto the now flat ledge, their femurs dangled with bits of meat falling off. They flailed in and out of the liquid, screaming as it sloshed over new flesh and were still writhing when two men dressed as decaying clowns begrudgingly moved to assist them.

Many of the onlookers cried out, some covering their mouths or averting their gaze to the scene. A lot, though, including the cowboy himself, pointed and laughed at the pained cries of the mutilated thing. As much as I hated to look, I took a few pictures in the hopes of understanding the trick later, when I had time to properly analyze it. I couldn’t understand how they’d created the nauseating smell surrounding the area as the steam wafted over the crowd from the bubbling water. Something like putrid bacon being fried. It made my stomach heave. Quickly, I turned and moved a few buildings away in the hopes of avoiding the toxic fumes.

The effects here were outstanding. Like, blockbuster movie level amazing.

Effects.This place was what I’d been looking for. Maybe it didn’t feel like it, but my harness was secure. There was no genuine danger here. Just something safe to make me question reality.

But I couldn’t stop the shaking in my legs as they carried me away from the horrors of the dunk tank. I peered around the surrounding tents for an exit. Not because I wanted to leave, but because a little voice in my head demanded to know a way out. Rolling my shoulders, I worked to clear my head.

I was being stupid. I’d just figure out where an exit could be found and go back to enjoying the carnival. Sure, I loved danger and thrills, but there’d always been a harness, a clip, a parachute, some way of knowing I was safeso I could savor the thrill. This felt different without the safety protocols being shown to me. My breath quickened as I pushed my way through the crowd, not finding an end to the games and attractions lining the long corridor of The Devil’s Carnival. There had to be a way through, a break in the canvas marking the perimeter, but there wasn’t one. I almost walked past the haunted house, but the flickering white lights of their sign caught my attention on the edge of my peripheral—The Devil’s Playground. It was like they were flickering for me, but, no, that was stupid. Childish. Even as I watched, the pattern of the flickering changed in an intentional wave where it had been erratic before.

What was going on here?

I wanted to continue, but my body wouldn’t respond. It was all I could do to stare open-mouthed, long enough that I could taste the sickly-sweet carnival air.

The haunted house appeared to be a converted fun house. The entrance formed in the shape of a clown’s mouth. Someone had fucked up its face by bashing in an eye and knocking out a few teeth. Innocuous, really. The haunted house had always been my favorite attraction, and I had fond memories of laughing my way through the jump scares, unphased by the costumes and cheesy soundtracks.

This one, though. People waited at the gate in a thick line. Carnival workers dressed as clowns tormented those waiting. Two of them held butcher knives, their emerald-green jumpsuits splattered with blood. The fake weapon wasn’t what made me uneasy, though. Yards away from the back of the line, I froze in place when one of the two men locked eyes with me. What I thought would be some cheap rubber mask seemed real enough to make me second guess everything I knew about latex masks and prosthetics.

Thick black thread held together patchwork skin stretched a little too tight, conjoined like a torn-up piece of artwork on the sides of his mouth. One stitch through each cheek pulled the corners of his mouth up into an unnatural, tight smirk. My instincts urged me to run, but I wouldn’t succumb to the fear. Holding my camera firmly, I forced myself to work through the terror and take a few pictures of the clown, who seemed to tilt his head and raise the knife in asufficient pose for me. Somehow, I’d drifted closer to The Devil’s Playground, and I became aware of people lining up behind me.

The patchwork clown watched me with an unwavering gaze, and the unease in my gut grew heavier. I blinked, and he was closer, but I refused to move away.

He turned from me and charged after another group, pausing right before he connected. Amused, their laughter filled the air. Then he turned back to me. One step after the other. As he came closer, I realized how much taller than me he was. With broad shoulders and the outline of large biceps beneath the fabric of his sleeves, he flexed the fingers around the knife. Up close, the knife looked a lot more realistic. Fake coagulated blood stained the part of the metal attached to the hilt. His fingernails were colored with the same substance.

Unwilling to back down, I kept my feet on the pavement as he stopped only a yard away. From here, I could see his pale blue eyes. They would be beautiful if it weren’t for the way they examined my face and body like he was a bear, and I a piece of salmon hung out to dry.

“Can I help you?” I asked.

He moved quickly, his knife flashing when he extended his arm to press the tip against my chest. Fake knives didn’t flash like that, and I should know. I’d handled a few when I’d worked part time at the theater. The next moment, he pressed a very real, very pointy tip into my throat, dimpling my skin near the jugular.

This time, it wasn’t stubborn defiance that kept me in place, though I wished it was. Instead, genuine fear flooded my system with adrenaline.

---