Page 70 of The Knucklebone Brothers

He let go of my face, but only for a moment. He turned and grabbed a thing of paint, but it wasn't in no normal container. It was a small, human skull, the top cut clean off, filled with thick paint. He dipped his fingers into the skull, then came back to me. I turned my head away, a small act of defiance, but he wasn't havin' it. He set the skull down on my lap, the bone cold against my thighs, and grabbed a hold of my chin, his fingers wrapping around the underside, squeezin' tight. He wasn't just holdin' me; he was pressin' on my throat, makin' it hard to breathe, a silent, constant threat.

He started paintin' my face, his fingers rough and cold, the paint thick and greasy. Then he started to hum, a low, tuneless melody that turned into words, a nursery rhyme that made my blood run cold.

"Jingle, jangle, circus bells, Listen well and hear the yells. Paint a smile to hide the frown, In this sleepy, hollow town. Pretty thing, don't you fly, Stay right here and don't you cry. The show's not over 'til you're dead, With pretty paint upon your head."

I just watched his eyes, dancin' in the dark holes of the mask, and I felt like we weren't alone. I couldn't see nothin', not clearly, but I kept catchin' movement in the corners of my eyes, random shadows shiftin' and swayin' in the distance, just beyond the reach of the lights. It was like the whole tent was breathin'.

"You always hide behind that thing," I said, my voice a low, steady challenge. "What's the matter, Maverick? Can't face the world without your mask on?"

He stopped paintin', his fingers stillin' on my cheek. For a second, there was nothing. Just silence. Then he lifted his mask, revealin' his face. His eyes were serious, his mouth a flat, hard line. There was no humor there, nothing but a cold, hard intensity.

He dipped his fingers into the black paint in the skull. He brought his fingers to his own face, all while starin' right at me. He painted a jagged, crooked smile on his own mouth, the black lines harsh against his skin.

"Is this better?" he asked.

Then he leaned in and kissed me, his mouth pressin' hard against mine, the black paint on his lips smudgin' against my skin. It was a rough, possessive kiss, a claim. He backed away, a low, rumblin' laugh buildin' in his chest, a sound that was more scary than amusin'.

Just then, we heard it. A sound in the distance, faint at first, then getting louder. It was the sound of bells, the kind you'd hear on a carnival ride, mixed with the sound of hollerin', a wild, joyful sound. Maverick's smile widened, a genuine, happy look on his face.

"Well now," he said, his voice full of a dark, cheerful glee. "It's dinner time."

He unfastened my wrists first, then my ankles. He pulled me to my feet, his hand gentle but firm on my arm, and led me to the large, tarnished mirror, its surface warped and silvered with age.

He stood behind me, his hands movin' over my body, a slow, possessive caress. His fingers traced the edge of the corset, the curve of my hip, the line of my jaw. "You're so beautiful," he whispered, his voice a low, intimate murmur against my ear. "So perfect."

I looked at my reflection, at the girl starin' back at me. My face was a canvas of black and white, the jagged smile he'd painted on my mouth a black, crooked thing. I looked like a ghost, a doll, a beautiful, broken thing, and in that moment, I didn't know who I was anymore. I just knew I was theirs.

We were approachin' a line of lit pumpkins, their grinnin' faces casting orange light on the ground. Ahead, I could see the big top, its massive shape lit up in the center of the trees, a ghostly beacon in the night.

As we got closer, I saw the rest of it. An empty booth, its paint peeled and faded, with a skeleton slumped inside, a bony hand still wrapped around the handle of a sledgehammer. A rusted-out popcorn wagon, its sides caved in, with a pile of tiny, animal bones scattered on the floor. Luckily, it wasn't a super cold October night, but with random gusts of wind, it felt cold. Leaves flew around in little swirls, and the candles in the pumpkins flickered, making' the grinn' faces look like they were laughing at me.

The big top looked old, but cared for, which made sense. This night seemed like a huge deal. Maverick looked antsy, still with the smudged black paint on his face, leadin' me toward the entrance. He was pullin' me along, his hand wrapped around my wrist, his grip tight. I could feel the energy coming off him, a wild, restless energy that made my own nerves feel like they were buzzin' right under my skin.

We walked past the main entrance of the big top, dodgin' the flickerin' lights and the smell of old popcorn. There was a heavy, dusty fabric strung up, blocking the main show area from view. Maverick didn't hesitate. He pulled me down a side hallway, and pushed aside a black cloth into a small, shadowy room that seemed to be an extension of the tent itself.

The room was packed tight, a chaotic collection of old furniture and macabre decorations. There was a long, scarred wood table covered in lace doilies that looked like they were rotting away, surrounded by mismatched antique chairs. Candles lit every corner, their flames dancing in the drafts, and pumpkins with cracked, frozen smiles sat everywhere. From the ceiling, masks dangled on strings, and various forms of torture devices— corn stocks, tobacco stocks, and old wooden cages—hung in the corners like trophies.

The center of the table was a feast, a spread of strange and wild food. In the middle sat a roasted pig, its mouth stuffed with an apple, surrounded by fresh sprigs of rosemary. But the most disturbing part was the table itself. There were jars of strange body parts—eyes, fingers, teeth—stacked neatly like condiments. And in some of the chairs, real skeletons sat, their bony hands resting on the arms, their empty eye sockets starin' at the room.

Almost everyone was there. Miss Delia, her slow, shuffling movements barely moving her frame. Cricket, the contortionist, was twisted into a knot in a chair, his limbs bent at impossible angles. Emory was there, her face bright and eager, and Amos, the giant, was sitin' quietly in the corner. Knox was there too, a silent, brooding presence. Then there he was, the demented clown from the ritual, sittin' in a chair next to him. But it wasn't just them. There was Sue. She was there, naked and bloody, her body still limp and lifeless, sprawled across the clown's lap like a ragdoll. But Momma was missing, and Blythe wasn't there.

Maverick's hand was a firm pressure on my lower back, guidin' me through the crowded room. He led me to the very head of the long, scarred table. It was a large, imposing antique chair, carved with twisted branches, some looked like they had faces that seemed to watch me as I approached. As I sat down, the heavy wood groanin' under my weight, a strange silence fell over the room. Everyone, every twisted, masked, and skeletal figure, stopped what they were doin' and turned to look at me. They weren't just lookin'; they were watchin', their eyes—whether real, painted, or hollow sockets—fixed on me with a strange, expectant reverence. It was eerie, a heavy, palpable thing, but in that moment, sittin' there in my corset and jagged paint, I felt a strange, twisted sense of power. I was the matriarch they had been waitin' for. In this fucked up corner of the holler, I was their hope, their queen of the freaks, the bride of the monsters.

Then, just suddenly, Maverick was gone. He melted back into the shadows, leavin' me alone at the head of the table. Amos leaned forward, his massive frame blockin' out the candlelight for a second. He picked up a heavy, crystal glass and filled it from a dark, decanter. The liquid inside was thick, a deep, murky red, lookin' for all the world like fresh blood. He set it down in front of me, his movements slow and careful.

I looked at the glass, my brows furrowed in question. Before I could speak, Miss Delia's voice, thin and reedy like a dry autumn leaf, drifted over from the other end of the table. "It's just elderberry wine, dear," she said, her ancient cloudy eyes crinklin' at the corners. "Good for the nerves."

Hesitantly, I lifted the glass, the crystal cool against my fingertips. I took a small sip, the liquid coatin' my tongue. It was a shock. The taste was deeply earthy, like damp soil and fallen leaves, but with a musky, almost wild undertone. Then came the tartness, an intense, sharp tang that made my mouth pucker, a flavor as dark and complex as the woods outside. It was strong, and it did feel like it was calm in' the frantic beatin' of my heart.

As I set the glass down, the spell was broken. The room came alive again. Low, murmurin' conversations started up, punctuated by the clink of glasses. From a corner, a record player began to play a slow, melancholic waltz, the music scratchy and full of a haunted, timeless sorrow. Emory, sittin' a few chairs down, was a whirlwind of chaotic energy. She played with a collection of old carnival toys that made strange, janglin' noises—a monkey with cymbals that would crash together, a calliope that let out a mournful toot, and a set of clickety-clackin' teeth that chattered in her hands. She laughed, a high, clear sound that was both innocent and deeply unsettling.

My eyes drifted to the clown. He was sittin' quietly now, his painted face a mask of stillness. He reached down and, with a strange, gentle reverence, lifted Sue's naked, bloody body from his lap and placed her in her own chair next to him, proppin' her up like a doll. He arranged her limbs, her head lollin' to the side, her glassy eyes starin' at nothin'.

I sat there, takin' it all in, the strange, dark beauty of it all. The music, the talkin', the laughter, the fresh dead woman sittin' at the table. And I wondered where the boys were, where Momma was. And my mind drifted back, to all the other dinners I'd known.

I thought about sittin' quietly next to my dyin' Momma, the only sound in the trailer her ragged breaths and the hum of the old fan. The only food was the thin broth I'd spoon into her mouth, a broth that never seemed to bring back the color in her cheeks. I thought about my stepfather, and the leftover scraps he'd throw on my plate, the gristle and fat he wouldn't eat himself, the food always cold by the time I got to it. I thought about the small, faded-out Papa's Diner, the one most folks went to after church. It was a small place, all rusted chrome and cracked red vinyl booths. The air always smelled like stale coffee and fry grease. I'd sit in a corner booth, hopin' no one would see me, and sometimes, if I was lucky, one of the waitresses would bring me a plate of leftovers. They did that 'til he died, and then his family, who never liked me much anyway, ran me out of the diner.

Then there was the hospital. Even when I was allowed to eat with everyone else, no one could talk. Everyone looked half dead, their faces pale and their eyes empty. The guards and nurses, they'd watch us, their faces twisted in disgust, like we were nothin' more than insects they were forced to tend to. Not here. Here, they looked at me like I was somebody. Like I was the one they'd been waitin' for.