Page 72 of The Knucklebone Brothers

The stories continued, a macabre tapestry of death and strange customs woven into the fabric of their family. When Emory finished her tale about the trap door, a heavy silence fell over the table, broken only by the crackle of the mournful waltz from the record player. It was Cricket who spoke next, his voice a low, raspy whisper, as if the words were being dragged out of him. He didn't move from his contorted knot in the chair, but his eyes, dark and knowing, found mine.

"You know the Ferris wheel," he said, his voice a dry rustle. "It's a tombstone."

He let that hang in the air for a moment, his gaze driftin' away. "There were two of 'em. Conjoined twins. Leo and Leon. They shared a heart, a liver, and a whole lot of sadness. They knew, see? They could feel it in their shared blood, like a cold seepin' in. They knew their time was comin'."

He shifted, a bone in his back poppin' like a firecracker. "They didn't want no pine box. So, they dug. Every night, when the show was over, they'd sneak out. They dug their own grave, right there, a perfect circle in the hard-packed earth."

He paused, takin' a slow look around. "When the time came, they went there together. Lay down in the hole they'd made, side by side, just like they'd always been. They say on nights like tonight, when the veil is thin, you can see 'em. Just a flicker, like heat lightnin', two small shapes ridin' the Ferris wheel together, goin' up and up, into the dark, forever."

Maverick reached into his pocket, pullin' out a crumpled pack of cigarettes and a match. He struck it, the flare bright in the dim light, just as Momma's voice cut through the air like a whip.

"Maverick! You will not do that at my dinner table," she snapped, her voice sharp and full of authority. "Have some decency."

Maverick's jaw tightened, a flicker of annoyance in his eyes, but he pinched the unlit cigarette between his fingers and slid the pack back into his pocket.

I looked at Momma, takin' her in. Everythin' about her screamed control. Then I looked at the boys, at Maverick's silent frustration, at Blythe's steady, watchful gaze. "Actually," I said, my voice clear and steady, "I could go for a smoke."

Momma's eyes landed on me, sharp and dismissive. "That's not a good idea, girl," she said, her voice a slow, drawlin' poison. "Not good for a woman's body, especially for carryin' children. Forbid you ever have any."

I glared at her, a hot, angry feelin' bubblin' up in my chest. I looked at Blythe, a silent question in my eyes. He saw it. He understood. He stood up and walked over to me. He pulled out a cigarette from his own pocket, his fingers brushin' against my lips as he placed it there. The paper was smooth and firm. Then he lit it, the flame dancin' for a second before he brought it to the tip. I inhaled, the smoke fillin' my lungs, a familiar, comfortin' burn. He sat back down, his eyes never leavin' mine.

A ripple of surprise went through the room. Even the demented clown stopped what he was doin', his hands still on Sue's body, which he'd been adjustin' to his likin'. Everyone was watching.

Momma let out a long, annoyed tiskin’ sound. "I’ve had enough," she said, her voice drippin' with disgust. "The show must begin." She pushed her chair back. "I will meet you all at the stage once you're done doin'... whatever it is you're doin'." With that, she turned and swept out of the room.

As soon as Momma was out of sight, a strange, silent current moved through the room. Everyone started movin', a slow flow of bodies and shadows. The demented clown, with a final, possessive adjustment of Sue's limbs, threw her body over his shoulder like a sack of meat. He then grabbed a jar from the table, a large one with a severed human head floatin' inside, its hair swirling around its face like dead seaweed. He walked out behind Momma, his footsteps heavy and sure.

One by one, the others followed. Cricket, unfoldin' himself from his chair with a series of slithers and crackin' joints, grabbed a long, wicked-lookin' knife from the table. Miss Delia, with a slow, shufflin' gait, picked up a small, velvet box. Knox grabbed a small, intricately carved box from his seat. Even Emory, her face still bright and eager, grabbed one of her noisy toys, a monkey with cymbals that she clapped together as she walked.

They all followed behind Momma, a strange, macabre procession, each of them carryin' a piece of the night with them, a piece of the dead, a piece of the show. They were all leaving, and I was left sittin' there, the cigarette burnin' down between my fingers, the smoke curlin' up into the dark.

Chapter 28

When I entered, the sight hit me like a physical blow. Rows of wooden benches stretched out before me, all pointed toward a massive wooden stage. Lights were strung up everywhere, not the bright, cheerful kind, but a mismatched collection of bare bulbs and old-fashioned lanterns, castin' a glow over everything'.

The decor was a nightmare come to life. Dried cornstalks, brittle and brown, were tied to the support poles, their tassels droopin' like dead things. Bunches of black-eyed susans, their dark faces watchin' everythin', were stuffed into cracks in the wood. Jack-o'-lanterns, their grins carved into every conceivable expression of agony and madness, sat on every available surface, their candles flickerin' and dancin'.

But it was the stage that held my gaze. It was still a carnival stage, but one that had been claimed by the holler. The curtains weren't the usual bright red, but a heavy black velvet, faded and threadbare in places, but still hangin' heavy and dramatic. Tattered vintage posters from the Knucklebones Carnival of Curiosities were scattered, their once-vibrant colors now muted and ghostly. One advertised "The Amazing Leo and Leon, The Living Two-Headed Man," another promised a glimpse of "The Serpent Goddess, Lilith". To one side of the stage stood an old, rusted calliope, its pipes draped in chains, its brass tarnished and dull. On the other side, a single, high-wire stretched across the darkness, but it was saggin' in the middle, and hangin' from it, like a forgotten ornament, was a skeleton, its bony hands still clutchin' the wire in a final, desperate act. Scattered about the stage were props, a collection of forgotten dreams: a rusted unicycle, a wooden sword, a single, oversized shoe, and a glass ball, cracked and cloudy, sittin' in a pool of its own broken light.

As I walked up the center aisle, I saw that everyone had found a spot to sit. But it wasn't just the family. There were others in the audience, their bodies still and silent in the flickerin' light. They were the dead bodies the boys had dug up from the grave, their clothes rotted and torn, their skin a canvas of decay. Some were just skeletons, their bones yellowed and clean, while others were still wearin' the leathery, mummified skin of the long-dead. They sat there, their empty eye sockets starin' at the stage, a silent, captive audience.

And then I saw her. Momma. She was sittin' at an old piano, her fingers dancin' over the keys, playin' a strange, melancholic melody. It was a beautiful, haunted tune, a sound that seemed to pull at the very air in the room, a soundtrack for the dead.

Just as I was findin' a place to stand, a small, cool hand grabbed mine. It was Emory, her face bright with excitement. "The show's about to start, Rory!" she chirped, her voice a high, happy trill. "Come sit down! I have a special spot for you!"

She pulled me down the aisle, her little feet movin' with a quick, excited rhythm. She led me to the front row, to a corner bench, and I sat down, the hard wood cold beneath me. I looked around, but I didn't see the boys anywhere. The lights started to dim, the bright, jaundiced glow fadin' into a deep, spooky twilight.

Then I saw Knox was approachin' the stage, his tall, tattooed frame a dark silhouette. He looked like he'd been in a fight, or maybe a slaughter. Blood was smeared thick across his face, a dark, wet sheen mixin' with all his tattoos, makin' them look like they were bleedin'. Just as he reached the center of the aisle, a fog, thick and white, started to creep in from a side curtain that had been silently opened. It rolled across the floor, a silent, creepin' thing, and it was eerie as fuck.

Then, from somewhere behind the stage, a heavy iron bell made a low, resonant sound, a single, solemn toll that seemed to shake the very air. On the stage, in the corner, the demented clown appeared, his fiddle held under his chin. He began to play, an eerie, drawn-out tune, one long, mournful note that seemed to hang like a shroud.

Then Knox's voice, loud, deep and boomin', filled the tent.

"Step right up into the shadow of the ridge, folks! Gather close around the lantern light, and welcome to Knucklebone's Carnival of Curiosities. For a hundred years, these deep hollers have kept their secrets buried beneath the mountain. Tonight, the mountain has decided to give some of them back."

"Come see the strange. The unexplainable. The things your grandmother warned you never to follow into the woods. Here, you'll find curiosities no honest carnival would dare display. Things with too many teeth, things with too many eyes, and things that look almost human… until they smile."

The fiddle gives a single, ugly scrape.