"Peter And The Carnival Of Evil" Page 2

Peter tried to see the man’s face, but all he could see was a pointed, bony chin and a thin, lipless mouth. The rest was hidden in the shadows of a top hat.

“So,” a deep voice said from the center of the room. “What brings you here?”

Peter turned back and saw that where there once had been empty space, now stood a small, wooden table. Behind it sat a man, dressed in a wifebeater t-shirt, overalls, and a funny hat, the kind that a city slicker might wear in an old western. There was a bottle of whisky in front of him, and a half-filled glass that he held in one hand.

The man was ugly. He had an upturned nose, kind of like a pig’s, and long greasy black hair that hung loosely under his hat. There were dark circles under his black eyes, which regarded Peter with a kind of curious detachment. He wasn’t overly muscular, not like a bodybuilder, but his arms looked like they could beat the living crap out of anybody who made him mad.

Maybe it was the tattoos. Small, swirling bands of black reached across his powerful shoulders. Each one looked like a demon’s arm, and each ended in a grasping claw. The man had monster hands creeping their way across his skin.

Behind the man were more bales of hay and a large oval mirror, six feet tall in an old-fashioned wooden frame. It was the kind a grownup woman might have in her fancy bedroom so she could see herself head to foot.

Beyond the mirror, in almost complete darkness, stood something humongous. Peter couldn’t see what it was – just that it looked as tall as a man, but big around as a small car.

“You know you’re here forever, right?” the man at the table asked, his voice so deep it could have rattled windowpanes. He smirked. “We’ve decided to make you a permanent addition.”

Peter didn’t like the tone the man was using, and backed away. He bumped up against the tall, incredibly thin man, who placed a pincer-like hand on Peter’s shoulder.

The ugly man laughed, and was joined by other voices. A rattling wheeze of a chuckle came from the skeletal man behind Peter. A meaty, guttural guffaw boomed out of the mountainous shadow in the corner.

“The funniest thing is,” the ugly man leered, “you think this is all just a dream.”

Peter tried to turn and run, but the pressure on his shoulder turned into two snake-like arms circling around him, constricting the air out of him. He couldn’t hear his own scream, only the laughter of the evil voices swirling around him.

***

Peter flailed his arms against the twisted bedsheets that had somehow entwined him during the night.

He looked wildly around. He was back in his bed, in his room, and everything was normal – no snow outside the window, only a half-lit gray sky.

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Copyright © 2009 Darren Pillsbury. All rights reserved.