Page 67 of The Knucklebone Brothers

They were a grotesque collection, a lineup of freaks after death, each one a different, horrifying story of decay. And I was standing there, lookin' at them, knowin' this was my family now.

Maverick stood up, wipin' his hands on his dirt-caked jeans. He looked at the grim lineup of bodies, then at me, a wicked grin spreadin' across his face. "Alright," he said, his voice full of a dark, anticipatory glee. "Let's go get ready for the show."

He turned and started walking back toward the main midway, Blythe and the old man followin' close behind. I stood there for a moment, my eyes fixed on the silent, dead forms on the ground.

"Enjoy the chaos, pretty thing," Maverick called back over his shoulder, his voice dancin' on the night air. "It's gonna be a wild one."

I took a deep breath, my heart poundin' in my chest, and followed them, the image of the dead burned into my mind.

Chapter 25

I followed them, my feet movin' on their own, drawn by the sound of a fire cracklin' deep in the woods. There was music, too, but it wasn't right. It was a creepy, southern mournful, circus tune warped and out-of-tune. The notes slippin' and slidin' in a way that made my hair rise. It sounded like a party, a wild, chaotic party in the heart of the dark.

As we hit the edge of the trees, I saw them. Figures movin' around the fire, their shadows dancin' long and twisted. They were all wearing masks. Creepy, old masks, the kind you'd find in an antique shop, dusty and forgotten. There were smiling clowns with cracked paint, sad-eyed Pierrots with tears painted on their cheeks, and a blank-faced porcelain doll with no expression at all.

The clearing was lit by candles, hundreds of them, strung up on the trees and stuck in the ground. The wax had melted down, drippin' over the branches and pooling on the ground, makin' everything look soft and distorted in the flickerin' light.

Then I saw it. In the corner of the clearing, there was an altar of some kind. It was a stack of old wooden crates, and on it, there was another creepy mask, this one with long, black feathers. Surroundin' it were skulls, some human, some animal, and what looked like a human spine, curled and bleached white in the candlelight. There were candles, too, but these were different. They were made of a dark, red wax, and they weren't just meltin'. They were bleeding, the red wax runnin' down the sides of the altar like thick blood.

I stood there, my mind blank. I was in shock, a daze. I had no understandin' of what was goin' on, no way to make sense of the scene in front of me. It was a nightmare, a fever dream.

I watched as Blythe broke away from the group, his movements slow. He walked over to a fallen log and sat down, his shoulders slumped. He pulled a faded cream cowboy hat from somewhere and settled it low on his head, the brim castin' his face in shadow. He lit a cigarette, the flare of the match illuminatin' his sharp stubbled jaw for a second before he covered it again. Then he picked up a can of gasoline and poured more on the fire, the flames leapin' up high, hungry and bright.

My eyes darted around the clearing, takin' it all in.

I couldn't see their faces, not with the masks, but I knew them. I knew them by the way they moved, the way they danced. There was Cricket, his body bendin' in ways that weren't natural, a wild, contortionist's dance around the fire. There was Amos, not dancin' at all, just sittin' on a log, his big foot tappin' a slow, steady rhythm against the ground. There was Miss Delia, her movements slow and careful, like she was dancin' in a dream, her old bones creakin' with every turn. And there was Emory, twirlin' and dancin' wildly, her braids flying around her face, her movements a chaotic, beautiful mess.

They were all there, all the faces I'd seen around the carnival, all the names I'd heard whispered. And now, the boys. And me.

I looked for Momma, my eyes scannin' the crowd, but I didn't see her. She wasn't there. And somehow, that made it all even more scary.

Then I felt him, a presence at my back. I turned, and Maverick was there, his face hidden behind a grinn' clown mask, the paint cracked and peeling, the smile a wide, bloody red. He moved with a strange, liquid grace, his body flowin' through the crowd like smoke. He walked up to the older man, who was standin' by the fire, and handed him a mask. It was a thing of nightmares, made of dark, gnarled wood, carved into the shape of a weeping willow, the branches droppin' down to cover the eyes.

"Here, Knox," Maverick said, his voice muffled by the mask. "You can't forget."

Knox took the mask without a word, his fingers, covered in ink and scars, brushin' against Maverick's for a second. He slipped it on, the dark wood disappearin' against his own dark, tattooed skin, and he became a part of the night.

Then Maverick was on me, his hands grabbing my arms, his touch electric. He pulled me to a log near the fire and sat me down, the heat of the flames washin' over me. He put a mask in my hands. "I got this for you," he said, his voice a low, conspiratorial whisper. "For tonight."

It was a woman's jester mask, delicate and strange. The features a mix of beauty and madness. A small, painted-on smile played on its lips.

He took it and slipped it on me, the porcelain cool against my skin. The world changed then, the sounds of the party mufflin', the light from the fire dancin' through the eye holes.

Blythe leaned forward, his movements slow and his muscles contracting under his shirt. He dipped his hand in a bucket sittin' by the log, the liquid thick and dark, a deep, almost black red. He brought his hand up to his face, smearing the blood across his cheekbones and down his jaw. Then he picked up his banjo, the worn wood lookin' like an extension of his own body.

He started to play. The music was wild and chaotic, a frantic, desperate sound that seemed to pull at the very air around us. It was a sound that didn't just come from the banjo, but from the ground, from the trees, from the fire itself.

I watched him through the dancin' flames, my heart pounding in my chest. His eyes would meet mine sometimes, and in the flickerin' light, the intense blue of them would seem to flicker, to change into something not quite him, somethin' older, wilder, and more dangerous.

I could see a few of them movin' around me, their bodies swayin' and twistin' to the chaotic music. They were a whirlwind of motion, a collection of masked figures lost in the sound, and I was sitting in the middle of it all, a part of the storm, a part of the show.

Just then, I felt it. A vibration, deep and low, hummin' up through the soles of my boots and into my bones. It was a feeling that only I seemed to respond to. The wild, chaotic music from Blythe's banjo suddenly became muffled, distant, like I was listenin' to it from underwater. And then I heard it. A low, guttural growl, a sound that seemed to come from the darkness in the woods, a sound that wasn't human.

My eyes scanned the tree line, my heart poundin' in my chest. I couldn't see anything, just the deep, eerie dark. Then I saw it. Something tall, something impossibly tall, darted from behind one tree and back into the darkness again. It was just a flash, a silhouette, but it was there. I looked around, my eyes wide with fear, but no one seemed to acknowledge it. The dancin' continued, the music played on, like nothing had happened.

Then I saw Maverick. He froze mid-motion, his body goin' still. He turned his head, his clown mask a grinn', empty face in the firelight, and looked right at me. He was watching me, waiting to see how I'd respond. I just sat there, my mouth open, my body rigid with fear. He held my gaze for a second, then he turned and walked over to the log where Blythe was playin' and sat down next to him. He didn't say a word. He just sat there, his mask turned toward the woods, like he was waitin' for something to happen.

I was alone. I was the only one who saw it. And I was the only one who was scared.