“Step right up! You sir.” Huckleberry pointed at the tall guy with glasses. “You’re a big fella, let the famous Huckleberry guess your weight.” The man laughed and approached the stage. The Clementine estate hosted a fair every fall to fund it’s upkeep, odd how the place still looked run down.

He hit the nail on the head with two hundred-sixty two pounds. Huckleberry offered the participant a trip to the green tent placed behind them. “Half man, half wolf back there. Let ya’ view him for a buck.” The man dug deep into his pocket and handed Huckleberry two. “Gotta take my new lady friend with me.” The man and the woman disappeared.

Huckleberry dropped his mic and turned the dial on the clock sign to 6:30, gone to lunch it read.

“This never gets old.” The man whispered to Huckleberry. The two were familiar with one another having hustled people in the carni life for sometime now.

The wolf-man grabbed his cage, shaking the metal bars until they broke loose. His hairy paws reached for the girl, missing her by less than an inch. She ran and the three followed. Her only chance of escape was to run into the abandoned Clementine mansion that sat on the property.

Huckleberry and his friend stopped as the freak of nature caught up to her on the inside. Out of breath, the two money hungry fools slapped their knees and laughed eerily as the blonde headed beauty ran by each window with a wolf following close behind. It was an entertaining sight.

“Over there, no there, down there! Uggggh… Gross!” Their final remark when Wolf-man caught up to her on the bottom floor in front of the half shade covered glass.

“You bring him back to the tent.” Huckleberry walked away.

It’s sails waved quickly, carrying its passengers through the midst of the sea.

Taking us from a land haunted by something that couldn’t be.

We barely escaped with the clothes on our back.

Whatever was spared, we placed in woolsacks. 

The dark skies followed with each wave we rode.

Was it a storm or the monster – like the stories we were told?

He had taken our crops, our supplies, and much worse. 

The first-born babies of the maidens were cursed.

Tossed in the water as the journey went on.

Their eyes filled with blood, all except for one.

He spoke his first words, loud and clear, as he excited the womb.

He painted a picture of our impending doom.

For months we travelled to reach the opposite shore.

Something beat us there; our new home was prepared for the gore. 

The settlers before us, carrying torches, yelled towards my people.

“You murderous filth, we hold no place for your evil.”

The well captain begged and pleaded, explaining our truth.

They set fire to our boat, killing us at our roots.

We were disease stricken; but they would never know.

Our journey had nothing to do with food that could not grow. 

The fever we carried changed all of our lives.

Reality distorted, trying just to survive. 

We weren’t murderers, just sick, not knowing our minds lied.

We hadn’t been on that boat at all, we actually died.

“Where did they go?” I followed Malachi through the newest and most profound living area for those who practiced Luciferology. A fake and created religion named after Lucifer, adding the ology to make it official.

The mark of the beast – painted in red jumped out at me. I wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t fallen for Malachi when we met at church last month.

“Why do you know about these places?” This was the fourth lair we visited today. I probably should’ve asked this earlier. Each camp normally exceedingly full by his expectations, now empty, not a single soul in sight.

“The lady that lives upstairs from me lost her daughter to this. I’ve been watching from the sidelines trying to figure out exactly what it is. The other night, the girl was kneeling in front of her mother’s door, crying, though she hadn’t seen her in months. I tried to speak but she ran.”

He stopped and looked around. “There.” He pointed. “Do you see the ABI painted in black?” 

“Yeah.” I was creeped out.

“That’s what they call him, ABI father. He’s returned and taken them.”

“Why would you believe that? Who would willingly go with the devil?” 

He pulled me close, my stomach filled with butterflies. “The same reason you’ll go. He’s beautiful, attentive and every woman’s dream. Weren’t you just thinking how in love with me you are?” His laugh was high-pitched as we descended upon a locked cage door. Screams and panting filled the air. He pulled a set of brass keys from his pocket. He couldn’t unlock the vault. His fiery red eyes gazed at me. I called upon the name of the Lord. I fell from his arms as if I were poison to him – Freed by truth.

He pushed me through the door, the knob hit the glass so hard that it shattered. All I could think was that he had finally ruined the one place I found solace: my safe-haven. I didn’t scream, it was pointless. How many times before had I begged for mercy having not done anything that required forgiveness.

He shoved me to the floor. I quietly moaned, not giving him the satisfaction of knowing the pain I felt every time his shoe connected with my ribcage. I placed my hands on the wooden slats and lifted my head enough to peer through the gaps. A small bug crawled across the dirt. How I wished I were it.

I knew he was finally walking away by the sound his feet made against the pallets I had broken apart, creating a deck to build my planthouse. He was satisfied when I saved money. 

I pulled myself over to the refinished chair, covered in a floral pattern to match my blooms. Too weak to lift myself, I reached for the pillows, allowing them to topple over and down, sliding them underneath me. I would have to lay here until my strength replenished. 

I squinted my eyes when I heard the trees rustling outside, scared he had come back for more. 

“Dear?” I recognized the voice. My best friend was exactly twice my age at seventy-two. “Oh, dear.” Her knees popped when she bent down beside me. She rubbed my hair back away from my face and sat with me for hours until I was able to move. 

She returned the next day with a get-well plant, and the secret to a better life. “You’ll prepare his favorite food. A dash of this deadly nightshade will do you both good.” Her thin lips created a smile.

That rickety white house on the corner of Elm and Main, wasn’t a general store like the sign on the porch said. Old Mrs. Maples tried to disguise the funeral parlor as something else, make it look more inviting.

  Strangely enough, the checkers outside on the antique table didn’t go without play. I will never forget when my Uncle David invited my daddy to a friendly competition. My Granny warned ‘em not to do it. Me-Maw was tucked away in a pine box, it just wasn’t the time to slide and stack black and red wooden discs. They didn’t listen though.

  The graveyard was about half-a-mile up, so momma drug me and my sister on to the car. We sat in that champagne-colored Thunderbird with maroon leather seats for nearly thirty minutes. Even with the windows cranked down, the heat was unbearable. We were stuck to the seats by the time daddy came running. He fussed at momma, blaming her for not insisting he come on. She turned and glared at him, her face red, hair stringy and temper held tightly on the inside. She didn’t say a word, but I knew when we got home, he was going to be all kinds of profanities. 

  He hit the gas, sending us flying up that hill doing about forty miles per hour, running over a row of tombstones. Thank the Lord they were the ones that laid flat against the ground. We even parked over a couple. 

  I could see my grandmother fuming, legs shaking in her seat. Daddy rushed to her side and bowed his head like he’d been there for the whole prayer. “I’d bet you lost that game; I pray you don’t lose your soul.” She whispered; teeth clinched as the preacher continued. Granny was mad as fire!

“Don’t be a fool, Arlin!” He stood there with his arms crossed, his extra lengthy tie hanging out from underneath them, dangling far enough to surpass the waistline of his baggy navy slacks. I could read his mind. The way he crinkled his mouth and nose up towards his eyes.

He exhaled and reached over the stanchion barrier to touch the piece. An alarm immediately sounded. Three men clad in security uniforms rushed over to reprimand him for his actions.

He held only one hand up and mocked them. “Don’t shoot! I am the Ar-teast!” He always caused at least one scene during every show offered to the public.

He tightened his grip on the brass handled cane he now required, his fingers turned blood red. “Please, not this time, dear.” I begged him to cease his attempt for inspiration, something he lost after the plane crash ten years ago.

This painting was concocted after he struck a homeless man who mistakenly entered his last exhibit. The man fell to the ground, taking a lady with him. A nurse in the crowd quickly went to their aid. A fourth person, in order to subdue Arlin, bear hugged him with so much strength, he couldn’t break free until the authorities had him in cuffs.

He lifted the walking stick high into the air. I’d had enough! I snatched it from him, he began to wobble and this time he was the first on the floor. I imagined there would be no more art, and a strong probability that our marriage would be shortened.

A month later, he racked in 2.1 million dollars for the piece he titled – Angry wife, free mind, and a little time. He proved his love for me once again by staying and painting our own self-inflicted show misfortune.

Her gold-plated spoon clanked against the hand-painted cup as visible steam rolled into the air. Hot tea was her favorite though most of the household preferred caffeinated coffee. She always put her family first, not sitting down for a meal until everyone was served and then eating just the back of the chicken she fried so that others got better pieces. I guess that’s why we couldn’t cast blame upon her for…….. anything.

I sat beside her at the kitchen table, unable to hear the gentle sip she made after blowing the heat away. She brought out the good china only because the preacher was coming to brunch, luckily for her, he also preferred tea.

I was tempted to grab one of the home-made biscuits covered in peach preserves that she’d stood for hours stirring around in the big metal pot. A few pieces of country ham that grandaddy cured himself sat waiting on a dinner plate. He had only been gone a couple of months – the sight of the pork nearly made me cry.

The squealing of brakes alerted us to the minister’s arrival. My grandmother stood up from the table and straightened her apron, the one embroidered with pink roses, a Christmas gift from her cousin Martha. “Sit down. I can answer the door.” My offer declined as she said that wasn’t a proper way to great a “Man of God.” She was the lady of the house and would do it herself, the respectful way.

I excused myself to the living room once they were seated.

He prayed and began to read scripture from his trusty leather-bound BIBLE. He started with Colossians 3:13, the one about forgiving others. I chuckled silently wondering how my grave-ridden grandfather could pardon her for mariticide. How necessary was someone else’s forgiveness, anyways?

As the daylight began to fade, the bells of the cathedral chatted with the town’s people, making them aware that the Princess would soon give birth to her first-born. A child truly conceived out of love, but a love shunned by the royal family. She was without a husband and no suitor worthy of her reachable for hundreds of miles. The fact hidden that the baby had a peasant for a father, a lowly farmer, from across the meadow.

The louder the chime, the more folks gathered on the hillside ready to welcome the one who would be as they and one day carry them through their hardships with an understanding of their truth.

The whispers amongst the people filled the air, no one would dare name the poppa though their suspicions were most likely correct. A young heart cannot hide its endearment but to reveal his identity would surely have him beheaded. 

The candlelight from atop the tower bled through the open window, the curtains blew outward from the night’s wind. A storm was brewing over the horizon, but the pending catastrophe could not be foretold. The excruciating pains of childbirth formed into torturous lengthy screams echoing from the castle.The crowd gasped at the sudden silence – A quiet so still and unnerving, there was no baby’s cry to interrupt it. The clouds formed a silhouette of a mother holding her newborn son.

Towards the back of the multitude, a young lad in his soil covered boots fell to his knees and weeped loudly realizing his one love had become two in the heavens. The town men rushed to his aide bringing him back to his feet, begging him to hide his woes, knowing he too would find his place in the sky should he continue on with his emotions.

The hotel sat hidden, vegetation grew sporadically around it. An elite get-a-way usually filled to maximum capacity with indoor and outdoor swimming pools, an eighteen-hole course, the greens scattered with prestigious statues. Forty years had passed since the owners closed for renovations. A few weed infested scissor lifts still stood raised.

I pulled my camera from its case. Handpicked for this job by the chief editor of the Windy Mills Tribune, having always been curious why no one returned to The Continental Crown to finish the work or claim the property left barren. 

I forced my way through a broken door at the pool’s entrance. My strength filled grunt echoed through the hollow. Graffiti covered walls and empty syringes revealed a class downgrade in the people that now frequented the retreat. I was sure a giant hole in the ceiling gave off enough lighting to capture the images I desired. My work was cut out for me.

The meow from a stray cat sent chills down my spine. “Here kitty, kitty.” I called him with nothing to offer but a quick scratch under the chin. He purred at my touch and was then joined by thirty more felines. One by one they transformed to a height of at least seven feet, their luminescent eyes tugged at my soul, pulling me in nearer to the gang of now furless monsters ringing wet from melting skin. A foreign round metal object moved inside the building as it dragged them closer. My body went limp; paralyzed, they took me with them. The gnawing at my brain led to the realization of where everyone else had gone.

I snapped a photo as I entered the aircraft. My camera crashed to the floor. I hoped the film would be found so it could tell our story.

^^^^^^^^^_____________________________________

The strangely metallic colored hearse rolled down the block followed by another one……and another one……. Ten maybe more. The leader of the pack; maroon, the rest purple. The bass from the speaker filled Cadillac’s dropped in sync with each other, shaking the whole neighborhood.

This was an annual thing, we all stepped out of our houses to witness the monstrosity flood by until they reached their destination – The castle at the end of the cul-de-sac had always been there with no history surrounding it.
Ladies in terry-cloth robes, their hair clad with rollers, hands on their hips, not saying a word but instead sighing heavily as if that could detour the group, their husbands, the same, minus the beauty aids. “Get back inside.” Kids cried, only because they couldn’t witness the event, drawn to the oddity.

Some made themselves feel better, claiming it was a car show or similar, I believed otherwise having researched every aspect of the October 30th fling. It started at midnight and continued until twelve o’clock – late night, the first of November. Candles flickered, lighting the giant rock fortress, no sign of electricity.

It wasn’t until a decade later that the once child resident from our street, little Tommy Tillins, now sporting dreads, threw me the peace sign from the passenger’s seat of the head hearse as they made their way to the palace.

That year, I received an envelope in my mailbox, realizing I had been right all along. “I knew you believed, too. Tommy” written on a yellow post-it note along with two tickets to the “Hearse train show.” Instructions on how to secretly enter the gated and sound proof venue were taped to the back. The act played every Halloween – “Kill ‘em with the beat.” Tommy now went by Double T-Wrex.

After his performance, I swore him to be a lyrical genius. I’m now a huge fan.