Mr. Alexander Garrick's Traveling Circus Read online

  Mr. Alexander Garrick's Traveling Circus

  L.A. Detwiler

  Published by L.A. Detwiler, 2021.

  This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  MR. ALEXANDER GARRICK'S TRAVELING CIRCUS

  First edition. April 20, 2021.

  Copyright © 2021 L.A. Detwiler.

  ISBN: 979-8201364274

  Written by L.A. Detwiler.

  Also by L.A. Detwiler

  The Flayed One

  The Journal of H.D. Wards

  The Flayed One

  Standalone

  The Diary of a Serial Killer's Daughter

  A Tortured Soul

  The Christmas Bell: A Horror Novel

  The Redwood Asylum

  The Christmas Bell: Rachel's Story

  The Arsonist's Handbook

  Mr. Alexander Garrick's Traveling Circus

  The Butcher's Night

  The Witch of War Creek (Coming Soon)

  The Delivery (Coming Soon)

  Watch for more at L.A. Detwiler’s site.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Also By L.A. Detwiler

  Dedication

  Mr. Alexander Garrick's Traveling Circus

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Further Reading: The Flayed One

  Also By L.A. Detwiler

  About the Author

  To my husband

  The chilled autumn grass caressed her ankles as her fingertips grazed the plastic-like canvas of the tent. The ring was empty, but the stage was set. In a few hours, the remainder of her town who hadn’t made it to the circus would fill the seats and watch the acts with a sense of wonderment she could only imagine. Now, all seemed quiet, the impromptu fairgrounds on the edge of town desolate, as if the circus had vanished after last night’s final act.

  She pulled back, turning to look at the sea of tents in its entirety. Chatter floated here and there, soft and muted by the vastness of the circus’s temporary home. The moon was a crescent tonight, but her eyes had adjusted to the darkness on her forest walk.

  She knew she should be at home in her bed, where her mother had left her to cry herself to sleep. Despite the girl’s pleas, the mother had refused to take her to the traveling circus’s final performance. Her mother had said it wasn’t the sort of show for their kind of people. It wasn’t right. She’d left it at that.

  She’d sulked as her bedroom door shut, imagined dreams of circus amazements swirling in her twelve-year-old brain as she envisioned herself, sparked with joy and entranced by oddities, sitting in the crowd. She was dying to see it. She simply had to explore the enigma that was the traveling circus. It had never come to their town before. Who knew if it would come back? She couldn’t miss her chance to see the perverse wonderments of the big circus tents.

  Certainly, others would say it was a good thing that Mr. Alexander Garrick’s Traveling Circus hadn’t come to their town before. The angry chatter at the local stores, the elders’ disapproving glares, and the scathing newspaper articles confirmed the town’s disgust. After all, who were these people in the traveling circus, and what deviant desires would they try to fulfill while invading the town? Hollidaysburg was a place of lifers, as they were called. Born and raised, the residents were familiar to each other, had created a network of comfort that is common in small towns. These “guests” were unwanted, untrusted, and certainly dangerous. No sound people, after all, would choose a life such as theirs.

  The lore surrounding Mr. Alexander Garrick and his team of vagabond entrepreneurs did not assuage anyone’s fears. Rumors had quickly circulated in the town, like so many towns before them. Stories of disappearing children in previous towns. Tales of the disfigured circus freaks kidnapping boys and girls who wouldn’t be missed. Discussions of why Alexander Garrick had taken up residence on a traveling caravan of society’s shunned. The legends told around cups of coffee in the diners spread to the most effective gossip spreaders: the children of the town. Once they took possession of the lore, they widened it and heightened it. The stories grew wilder by the day of cannibalism and torture and horrors, the things of childhood nightmares.

  The girl had been fascinated by the tales told at recess. She had also been chilled. The juxtaposition of both terror and intrigue was a delectable feeling that she couldn’t simply resist. So when her mother ignored her pleas to go see the circus, the girl had done something she didn’t often do—she disobeyed. She snuck out the window, crept through the forest, and found her way to the emptiness of the field on the outskirts of Hollidaysburg. She had to see it for herself, after all. The child’s attraction to curiosities is only heightened by the fortitude of the whispers and gossip.

  Now, she stood in the middle of the scene, wondering if she could get a peek at one of the circus freaks, as the town called them. Shoving aside the thoughts of how angry her mother would be if she learned of the girl’s disobedience, she crept over the bumpy ground. The stars were dutifully alight above as she made her way around another tent. The big tents with the colorful stripes glowed through the darkness and seemed normal from the outside, to her surprise. The circus rings in the tents, banners and posters of all the oddities to be seen. Still, as she peered in another tent that was to her great disgust also empty, a soft chill stirred her from the hollow of her core. Suddenly, the darkness overwhelmed her and the feel of terror swallowed her. The eeriness of the desolate tents mixed with the lore of wide-eyed children crept into a part of her knowing she did not yet recognize.

  Craving now the sleep of normalcy and the warmth of her bed, she turned as a breeze lifted her hair. Before she could even know what was happening, she thudded right into him. The wind knocked out of her, she was maddened by the fact that she hadn’t sensed him so, so close.

  The being towering over her stretched endlessly to the sky. He was dressed in a suit and tie, his formal attire wildly out of place for a Pennsylvania field at night. He studied her with a sneer, snickering a bit and showing his partially broken, crooked set of teeth. They aligned in an expression more snarl than smile. He winked as if to tell her not to be frightened, but she backed toward the tent. And as she took in the odd detailing around his showman’s hat, she felt his gnarly fingers press over her mouth, the too-long fingernails scratching her skin.

  “You’ll do just fine, won’t you, Love?” he growled with a lilt to his voice and a stunning annunciation the child knew was from a faraway place.

  And then, before she could scream or make her daring escape, at the hands of the Ringmaster, she felt herself slip away.

  SHE BLINKED THROUGH the pain in her body as the blackness morphed into a consciousness inked by a dreamlike quality. The garish lights strung along the tent’s ceiling were disorienting, and her eyes leaked both from the harshness of them and from the fear of her coming to. Despite her blurred vision and the surreal quality inside the tent, she knew this was no dream. It was no nightmare. It was something much, much worse.

  There was chaos and action about her, the canvas tent grazing the back of her body. She lay on her side, and she quickly remembered why she was seeing the world cockeyed. Her legs were strung up behind her, tied to her arms. Her shoulders pressed back at a terrible angle, and pain shot through her body. Everything ached, and her throat was so dry. She tried again to spit out the dirty cloth that had been shoved in her mouth, but it was as pointless as struggling to break free. Sweat formed again on her head as her stomach sank. The words of her classmates echoed in her brain like a dire warning of wha
t awaited her. Suddenly, none of it seemed like a legend anymore.

  Music and applause sounded far away in another tent. She was in a smaller tent, still impressive in size but lacking what she desperately needed—the familiar townsfolk. Her eyes batted about, taking in the sights of the unfamiliar, frightening inhabitants who waddled and stalked about before her. They murmured and dressed in flashy costumes, grabbing bits of food from a table nearby. There were too many odd sights for her to appraise, for her to gain an understanding. She couldn’t make out any particular conversation; a gentle hum of indistinct murmurs buzzed like mosquitos about her. Their voices were hushed as if in sacred appraisal of the show they were participating in, as if in reverence to the god that perhaps was the Ringmaster. Perhaps it was for something else she did not yet understand.

  Her breathing quickened at the thought of the vile man, a shiver rattling through her as the scratches on her cheek burned in response.

  “Oh, she’s awake,” a voice murmured. Even sideways, she noted the lascivious way he looked her body up and down. “The prized one is awake,” he repeated as he coughed up a giggle. His face was covered in makeup, but it was crooked and off centered, giving him the appearance of a sneer instead of the signature, goofy smile so many children delighted in. As he closed in on her, she wriggled and tried to back up. But he knelt down, his black shoes almost touching her nose.

  “Don’t worry, child. All will be well soon. Just take in the show for now. Delicious looking, aren’t you?” he said, and he bared his pointed teeth at her, yellowed and foaming. His tongue darted over his incisors and then slipped over his lips. He reached down to her, and she shuddered again, her screams muffled by the foul-tasting rag in her mouth. Up close, she could see that his makeup was a desperate albeit inept attempt to cover the marred skin of his face. Pox marks and indentations rippled through the white makeup, giving his visage a textured appearance that made her want to scratch and pick at him like a pimple popped so the yellow gook could stream down.

  “There, there. Let’s set you up. Wouldn’t want you to miss the sights on this final night. It’s a big, big night for you, darling. Don’t worry, I’m here now. I’ll watch out for you.” He plucked her up in his chilled hands, his fingertips lingering and swirling on her arms as he righted her. He propped her on her knees, which was painful, her bones cracking under the weight of her bottom. Still, she felt more in control now that she was right side up. Her body ached from the contortion necessitated by the bindings. She heaved in air, willing herself to stay right side up.

  Her movement had stirred the awareness of the others, and her eyes danced over the odd sights before her. In the corner, a gargantuan woman turned, her dark beard tickling her bare breasts. She was covered in moles that were visible from across the tent. The large woman eyed her, waved a hand dismissively, and continued to warm up her voice in the far edge of the tent. A gangly man’s head reached high into the rafters of the tent. He turned to her, and she realized he was missing an eye. The other eye winked at her, and she shivered as he stalked toward her in two huge strides.

  He bent down, peering directly into her face. The hiss of his breath wafted over her as he reached out to grab ahold of her neck. She realized that with one swift jerk, she would be dead, her person forgotten, her soul departed from this world.

  A long moment passed where he studied her, his hand wrapped around her neck.

  “Dwight, stop it. You know the rules. Later,” someone bellowed from the other side of the tent. He held the flap back to enter. “You’re up, anyway. Get out there. Wouldn’t do to make the master angry.”

  The man entering the tent now was dressed in a suit not unlike the Ringmaster, but with a checkered pattern and a slightly disheveled look. He appeared to be of Asian descent, his short stature stalking through the crowd of performers who were each in their own world as they dressed and combed hair and warmed up voices and limbs.

  He headed toward her with his poker face and swinging arms. He grinned at her, his hands reaching into his pocket as he pulled out a red kerchief. He wiped first his brow, then the back of his head before reaching down and wiping her tears. The rag was soaked and smelled of stale sweat and something else she couldn’t identify.

  “Don’t fear, child. There’s no use dreading what you can no longer control. It will all be over soon.”

  She wanted to ask him what would happen to her, yet she didn’t. A whimper rose in her throat, sounding like a muffled groan. She thought of Lucinda Berry telling her of the cannibal circus who feasted on children’s bones. She thought of the talk of sexual depravity that William Anderson had laughed about on the school bus, about how the little dwarfs and the twisted clown stole female victims to tie up and violate over and over at their leisure.

  What would become of her? Why hadn’t she stayed home? And most of all, why couldn’t anyone see the truth?

  Perhaps her mother would awake and find her missing. Maybe a curious classmate would go wandering and find her here, bound and gagged, and alert the authorities. Perhaps there was still hope. Behind her trembling body, she needed to believe. Otherwise, it was too terrible. For as she followed the Asian man’s eyes to her left, her eyes fell on the sight she’d overlooked in the chaos.

  A table made of what seemed to be a butcher’s block sat beside her. She could see under the harsh lights splatters of blood indelibly marked on the surface. And, more importantly, she saw the unmistakable glean of a butcher’s knife waiting patiently on the table.

  “Don’t think too much of it. It goes quickly,” he murmured. Again, he toweled at her tears, but she jerked her face back, the sobs uncontrollable now.

  He whistled then, and from underneath the canvas of the tent, a flash of fur appeared beside her. Snarling and barking, the mangy brown dog lunged at her, its teeth bared as it wildly darted and jumped in unhappiness.

  “Gonzo, stop. Here,” the man said, heading toward the table and reaching underneath. He produced a bone that was large and sturdy, blood freckling it. The dog greedily grabbed at its treasure, plunking down too close for her comfort as its teeth sunk in. The man patted the beast for a long moment, and then paused once more before her.

  “Don’t worry. He isn’t one for flesh. Just the bones.”

  And then he turned to head toward the bearded lady, his kerchief again wiping at the back of his head. When he put the red fabric in his pocket, she realized why he’d been swiping at the back of his head so frequently. It wasn’t sweat he’d been mopping up she realized as she closed her eyes, blinked, and looked once more.

  It was drool. Drool from the snarling, scrunched up face on the back of his head. The being looked like the Asian man but slightly askew, his face smaller and seemingly crooked. The eyes, though, pierced into her as the mouth moved belligerently, silently mouthing words and phrases she couldn’t decode. Spit dripped down the man’s back, and vomit rose in her throat. She knew if she puked she would choke to death in the corner. She rocked back slightly, stretching her neck and wishing she could roll herself out of the tent, wondering how much momentum it would take.

  She was just considering it as the cast of circus freaks faded in and out, the slightly off-key music still vibrating through the grounds, when the flap opened again. She held her breath as she took in the sight of him. His blond hair was parted in a way that told her he was more child than adult. He glanced around the tent, and then his eyes landed on her. She thought she saw him jump at the sight of her, but his face didn’t move. His lips were a thin, muted line void of emotion. He looked left and right as if to see if anyone was paying attention to him. At the moment, the performers in the tent were gathered around the hunchbacked dwarf, in awe of his new trick. The blond-haired boy beelined for her. Despite the fact his legs were missing from the knee down, he was fast on his glittering, sparkling legs made of wood and metal.

  She inhaled, looking up at him as he peered down at her. She wanted to ask him his name, to ask for help, but she could say
nothing. He could or would not say anything either, for he stood before her in silence. Still, his eyes seemed to tell her what she needed to know.

  In them, she saw a comradery she couldn’t describe, a sense of awareness or maybe even empathy. Hands in his pockets, he was a stunning sight, even without his legs. The costume he wore was a vibrant red, the long sleeves billowy and whole. The suit stopped at his knees, however, to showcase his disability for the crowd. She wondered what he did, what his role was in the performance. She wondered if he looked stunning out there in the lights of the main tent. Most of all, she wondered how long ago he had been like her, where he had come from, and if he would help her now.

  “Boy, get out here. The Ringmaster wants an encore,” a voice beckoned. He turned to the shirtless man who had just entered the tent. His body was charred and melted, presumably from burns. He carried the stick of fire in his hand, thrusting it down his throat in a flashy, unnecessary show of his gift. He kept an eye on her and the boy the entire time, as if to demonstrate his power or his adeptness or something else. She wondered if he’d come this way or if the fire swallowing had gone terribly wrong.

  The boy looked at her once more. He gave her a silent nod. Was it respect? A reassurance? She didn’t know. She didn’t know anything anymore. The fantastical night had whirled with the fantastical terrors of her worst nightmares. She didn’t think life would ever be the same, even if she somehow escaped the hellish prison she was in.

  A chill whirred through the tent as he opened the flap widely and scooted out of it. The other performers had quieted, some removing costumes and taking off paint. The show was wrapping up. The clown from earlier was sitting on the butcher table now, his fingers tapping out the music’s rhythm on the knife as he studied her. She moaned, wondering what it would feel like to have the knife plunge into her chest. She hoped death would be quick. She hoped they preferred their meals dead and not alive. Her eyes stung again, but she was too tired to cry.