Voices From Beyond Volume 1, Page 3

  ***

  I had no choice. Honor lives long after the creatures of the dirt eat your flesh—long after your sun-bleached bones poke through the shallow grave. Legacies live on the tongues of others.

  At first, they shared glances across the fire. Night covered her face, but not the sparkle in her smile. Hane tried to mask his feelings, but the eyes always mirror the truth.

  Sasha would greet me from the hunt with a kiss, a slight touch of hands.

  “I am happy for your return. I will prove my love to you,” she would say, leaving her passion unspoken, untapped.

  The seasons cycled, and her greetings faded like the ebbing tide of the Great Sea. The distance grew over time.

  “Welcome” replaced her original expressions.

  Sasha served me through empty, ritualistic motions. Her change made me aware but did not lead me down the path of revelation. What one treasures as new and exciting often turns routine, predictable. Through the flames of the fire, I saw the magnetic pull of Hane’s eyes on her. And I knew.

  ***

  Generations had hunted the abundant game and used the sprawling canopy of the Northern Woods for lumber. I turned to her in my time of need, holding out a hand for the solution I desired. She revealed it during the heat of the summer season.

  I followed the ancient trail into a secluded valley. The Sun God blasted the One World with unforgiving heat. Even in the shade of the living sentries, the oppressive air filled my lungs like cotton. A small stream ran through the floor of the valley on its eternal voyage to the Great Sea. I stopped on the trail to pick up a large, green leaf and placed it under the band on my forehead, which kept the salty sweat from burning my eyes. Creatures of the Northern Woods buzzed with midday activity, although some chose to hide from the scorching rays of the Sun God.

  I heard it before I saw it. The cry reached my ears and pulled at my heart. I determined that the sound originated from beast, not man, and I left the trail. Through a copse of trees I spotted the utter blackness of rich earth. The chasm dropped the length of one man, and it must have occurred through a natural settling of soil. This explanation did not console the fawn struggling for life at the bottom of the pit. Tufts of fur floated in the dense air, and some stuck to the thin, spiny roots crawling from the walls. The creature’s ribs pressed hard against its skin. I looked down into the dark eyes of the animal and raised my bow. The arrow delivered instant death, piercing its heart with chiseled stone and compassion.

  The Sun God descended behind the horizon of the One World. I made camp for the night. I had packed sufficient food, so I did not have to eat the body of my unfortunate acquaintance. I jumped into the cavity. With arms extended, my fingertips touched the sides. The rotting, earthy smell of decomposing leaves soothed my nerves without dulling the senses.

  My body recognized the solution before my mind realized it. I grasped the front legs of the dead fawn and swung it up onto the edge of the hole. The internal organs burst when it landed, flooding my nostrils with the sickening smell of death.

  The leather satchel I carried provided no tools made for this kind of work. I reached for a low-hanging branch and pulled myself out of the chasm. I would need to double the hole’s width and depth.

  The Lady of the Light rose underneath the glaring white face of the moon. She struggled to shine in His bright luminescence. Sitting next to a small fire, I pulled a scroll and ink from my pack and began to write. The deed would fade into obscurity if I did not record it. Hane’s death would stand as a warning to those considering adulterous dishonor.

  ***

  I maintained husbandly duties to the best of my ability. I kept to the hunting cycles of the forest and managed to return with the expected kills. The gods frowned on my nightly poaching of the creatures, a practice forbidden to the hunters of the One World. It would be a small price to pay.

  The Lady of the Light failed to reach her previous mark of the night before, a sure sign that the gods of the north would appear with the next cycle of the moon.

  The task consumed me. I paid no notice to my wife’s behavior. I ignored the frenetic rumormongers and their ravenous appetites. When our farmers pulled the last harvest from the fields, I knew I would have to double my efforts to finish before the encroaching winter froze the ground solid.

  Vengeful thoughts protected my body from the chilly days spent in the Northern Woods. The sentinels of the forest dropped their cover to the ground, spreading bright hues of red, yellow, and orange everywhere. The leaves crunched under my feet and helped to cover the yawning maw I had created in the soil. I left the remains of the fawn on the edge of the cavity—its skull kept me company with secret stories of infidelity. By the time the trees bared their bodies to the autumn wind, the labor neared completion.

  I moved the excavated earth to the stream, where the current tossed it towards the Great Sea. High above the new cell, I built a small stand in a tree. From this vantage point, and with the perspective of the eagle, I would sit with my ink and scroll. I strung a leather sack of unleavened bread and a flask of water from one of the branches. I would not miss a single moment of Hane’s agony.

  ***

  “But, Rankin, I have all the game I need for the winter season. My wife stocked our hut with dried fruits and salted meats.”

  I shuddered at the mention of his wife and wondered if she knew what I knew. “A surplus can serve you well, Hane, especially with the soothsayer predicting a long, dark season.”

  He nodded his head in agreement and motioned with one hand to the trail.

  “Follow me,” I said.

  “What will this cost me?”

  I led the man into the forest. I buried my head, making it impossible for him to see my face when I answered the question. “Only what it should,” I replied.

  Hane followed me through the Northern Woods and into a chilly evening. He chatted about mundane things, and I answered without thought.

  “I have stored the skinned animals deep in the earth to protect them from other predators and lazy hunters.”

  “You are a wise man, Rankin. How much farther must we hike? I need to be back for the evening fire.”

  I winced and cried in pain at his mention of the fire. I saw Sasha’s face in my mind and blamed the outburst on a sharp stone that cut my foot.

  When we approached the pit, I took a long look at the dimensions. Hane would not escape. I glanced upward at the stand and smiled in anticipation. The autumn wind stole sweat from my forehead and the moisture from my mouth. I shook as I turned to face him.

  “Down there. I tied a rope to the tree. You may choose two pieces of game, and then we will negotiate the payment.”

  He suspected nothing.

  ***

  Things deteriorated on the seventh day. Eyes began to see things that did not exist, and ears heard sounds never made. Last night, the plotting, adulterous lovers looked down upon me, hoping to see a corpse inside the earthen cell. I could still feel Sasha’s hands upon my back, pushing me into the trap created for Hane.

  He kissed my wife in the maddening light of the moon, a final taunt before I would die at the hand of my own vengeance. The fawn’s weathered skull spoke no longer, and I heard them laughing.

  Everyone in Western Pennsylvania has memories of Kennywood Park. Mine range from blissful childhood experiences to primal fear. Every autumn, the park opens on weekends for Fall Fantasy Days, a time when October chills the air, the apple cider, and the plastic seats of the roller coasters. I remember being fascinated by the emptiness of the park and the aroma of an impending winter. This story is dedicated to Ray Bradbury.

  * * *

  Fall Fantasy Days

  The crow cried from atop the plaster giraffe, looking with sorrowful eyes at the dead asphalt footpaths. It dove for the shriveled, half-eaten French fry as Scott ran past the counter, squashing a discarded ketchup packet that splattered red on the wooden siding. He ducked under the frozen turnstile of the Thunderbolt and sprint
ed up the ramp towards the loading platform. The sweet autumn breeze tugged at Scott’s Pittsburgh Pirates cap and rustled the golden leaves of the oak centurion hanging over the coaster’s control house. Sticks of chewing gum slid from his pocket along with a nickel and a stub of a number two pencil.

  He heard her again.

  Scott slid off the platform and onto the track. He winced, expecting the thrill ride to come to life and send a car thundering down the track to crush him. He thought of his mom’s warning about getting too close to the edge.

  Stay behind the yellow line, she would say as though she had already lost a son in a freak roller coaster accident.

  He wiped a tear from one eye and walked down the middle of the track towards the first steep incline. Scott thought about the countless times he had prepared for the drop. The car would clink ahead until the chain pulled it up the hill with even, jerked movements. He remembered the nervous smile of anticipation and the low mumblings of the adults behind him. They said the same thing every time, always trying to convince a child that it was “just a ride.”

  Yeah, some ride, Scott thought.

  The tinny, static-filled voice burst through the amusement park’s intercom system, shaking Scott from his reflection. The music came to life through the ancient copper strung when steel was king. “Pop Goes the Weasel” played in lumpy rolls, as if the little fingers cranking the jack-in-the-box could not quite get the handle to turn evenly.

  She’s here and she’s coming for me.

  Scott crawled under the track and dropped two feet into the browning weeds of October. His feet disturbed the crinkly leaves, kicking up the pungent aroma of autumn. He ran along the rusted chain-link fence until the shadow of the Potato Patch protected him from the retiring sun. When the leaves settled, Scott closed his eyes and inhaled the faint ghosts of fresh-cut fries and cotton candy. He licked his lips and tasted the sweet and sour tang of candy apples. His tongue lashed out to catch the phantom candy sprinkle sticking to his bottom lip.

  “You gotta tell Mom, dumbo. She’s gonna wanna know how I fell.”

  Terry’s voice ran through his body like an electrical current. She had not reached the Thunderbolt yet, but she was close, no longer needing the impersonal assistance of the park’s intercom system.

  Scott dashed around the wild growth and tripped over the cross beam supporting the second dip of the coaster. His lone front tooth punctured the soft skin below his lower lip, and he placed a hand over his mouth, trying to deaden the pain and muffle the cry.

  “Dad’s gonna spank you good.”

  Scott wiped the trickle of blood from his chin and jumped on the chain-link fence. The section swayed back and forth under the weight of the boy, yielding enough to make the climb a challenge. He dropped to the other side, darted past the Potato Patch, and ran for the Highway. Two dozen tin versions of the Model-T sat in rows in the middle of the track. The hard rubber tires had left ridges in the dying grass where, weeks ago, sullen teenagers had parked them for the season. Cigarette butts, white as the coming snow, stood at awkward angles. He dove under number 43 and shivered in the waning rays of the sunset.

  “Hide and seek! I love it.”

  Scott pushed back as far as the undercarriage of the automated car would let him.

  “Found you.”

  He saw Terry’s unlaced sneaker dangling over the sideboards, the pink laces swaying like a stranded caterpillar.

  “It was an accident. You know it was,” Scott said, trying hard to rationalize the secret, to bury it under his guilt.

  “I saw the look on your face,” Terry replied. “You tried to knock me off. Maybe not hurt me, but you wanted me to fall.”

  Scott’s chest heaved, and his heart beat like the pistons of a racecar crossing the finish line. He watched as a second shoe dropped beside the first. Scott closed his eyes, straining to block out what he knew was coming.

  “I don’t know how they do things, but you’re in big trouble. That’s right, mister. You’re gonna wish that the only thing you got was a swollen butt from Dad’s belt.”

  “You’re gone, Terry. You’re not here.” Scott opened his eyes as the hem of Terry’s funeral dress bounced off the dried leaves. A bead of brown fluid ran down her leg and stained the white lace of her socks. It smelled like the bottom of the garbage cans left to rot and fester in the closed amusement park.

  “You’re so wrong, big brother. I’m here, waiting. You know what you gotta do, right?”

  He dug his fingers into the asphalt scree and dragged his body from underneath the car. The rays of the dying sun stabbed him through the still spokes of the Ferris Wheel. Scott turned his head and felt the contents of his stomach tumbling, searching for the emergency exit.

  Terry’s red curls held spiders. They climbed through her dirt-incrusted locks, picking off slow and plump insects. The heavy blush of the funeral parlor ran in magenta streaks down her face, revealing mottled gray skin underneath. Scott saw the Jesus Christ medallion around her neck, the one Dad had clipped into place when they closed the coffin. Terry smiled at him with gleaming whites, polished and brightened for all eternity. Her blue eyes blazed.

  Scott accepted her outstretched hand. Her cold skin felt like a dead fish. He felt the tug, the pull of powers beyond his imagination.

  “Let’s ride the Haunted Hideaway!”

  Scott shivered. “I hate that ride,” he said.

  “I’ll ride with you. Promise.” She pulled the corners of her painted lips into a grin.

  “No you won’t. You’ll stick me in there and push the boat down the tunnel like you did last year at the school picnic.”

  Terry stuck her blue tongue out at Scott and attempted to blow him a raspberry. Her dried mouth released nothing more than a raspy whisper.

  “You have to, Scotty.”

  The two children walked past Kiddie Land, holding hands as if the memory of July would smother the oppression of October. They passed the Jack Rabbit and the Racer. Scott looked at the wooden behemoths, struggling between the urge to ride and the fear of the coasters.

  The front of the Haunted Hideaway rose out of the fall foliage. The final beams of light from the October sky gave the weathered wood a golden tone. Rusted chains hanging over faux windows swayed back and forth, grinding like the teeth of a madman. Scott pulled his hand out of Terry’s and turned to run through the tunnel and into the parking lot.

  “They won’t let that happen, silly. You have to go on the ride. Mom says.” Terry finished the sentence with a girlish giggle.

  Scott watched the entrance of the tunnel close as if it were the jaws of an alligator crushing its prey. He spun around as the mechanical skeletons dangling from the roof of the Haunted Hideaway came to life. The sound of a 1920s ragtime player piano blasted through the worn bullhorns held in place with rusted woodscrews. Sickly bulbs inside the letters of the Haunted Hideaway sign pulsed in rhythm with Scott’s accelerated heartbeat. The odor of wet wood wafted from the artificial waterway of the ride. Scott felt the bile rising in his throat and pressed a hand over his mouth.

  “I didn’t mean to hurt you, honest,” he said.

  Terry shrugged and skipped away from the ride. She looked over her shoulder and replied, “They say it’s the way it has to be. Have fun, Scotty!”

  He looked down to see the bottom of the boat under his feet. An oar stuck out from each side, well short of the surface. Beads of green water rose through the floorboards and swirled around his shoes, dampening the untied laces with the smell of decay.

  The track underneath the shallow canal latched on to the gears fastened to the bottom of the boat. It lurched forward, pitching Scott backwards. He swung his arms in circles as though attempting to fly, and he dropped onto a wooden bench, the one closest to the rear of the rowboat.

  I can’t do it. I can’t ride this alone.

  The fake graffiti meticulously painted on the wooden doors read, “Keep Out.” As the bow of the boat released the door trip, Scott lo
oked over his shoulder. The final ray of sun disappeared from the Candy House window as the gas lamps lit the deserted boulevards of Kennywood Amusement Park. He watched the doors swing back and forth, the rusty hinges serenading his final glimpses of buried regret.

  The blackness engulfed him. He reached to his left and received a splinter in his palm before the rubber padding of the starboard side smacked off the inner canal track. Scott threw both hands in front of his face, clawing at spider webs he anticipated but could not see.

  The first bend ended with a blinding red light. The black cape hanging from the plastic skeleton hid the rusted gears of the neck. The miner’s hat on the skull came equipped with a bug light that pierced Scott’s eyes, forcing him to cover his face with an arm. The pitched cackle made him shiver in the confined, humid ride. A pitchfork slammed into the bench in front of him, remaining for a second before the mechanical arm pulled it back to rest on the skeleton’s shoulder.

  “They’re waiting for you, sonny, just as sure as the forty-niners are holdin’ their pans.”

  The canal turned almost ninety degrees to the right, pitching Scott across the rowboat. His hand landed in the bottom of the boat, where the slimy water oozed between his fingers.

  Scott reeled as the ride continued, heading towards the scene that frightened him more than anything else. He felt the irrational fear rising like bile into his throat.

  Not the poker players. Please, not them.

  The dealer’s eye sockets glowed with an unnatural red light, burning a broken filament inside a shattered bulb. A lizard slid down the jawbone and disappeared over the bare shoulder blade.

  “Seven-card stud. Winner takes all.”

  The other skeletons at the table rocked back on chair legs that had worn grooves in the wooden planks. They spent decades at the table, only to lose every hand. The skeleton to the left of the dealer lifted his arm to raise an empty mug, the bottom of which brushed past Scott’s nose.

  Scott put his hands over his eyes, but the sound of the recorded laughter almost split his head. He struggled to decide whether it was worse to see the scenes or hear the shrill recordings.