Led By Beasts E-Book

Clark Roberts

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

Led By Beasts is a terrifying collection of short stories and essays paying homage to the most powerful voices in horror from the past 50 years: Stephen King, Bentley Little, Peter Straub, Clive Barker, and Laird Barron.

Featuring the Deadman's Tome Meatgrinder Contest winning story, "Craftsmanship for Food," Clark Roberts draws you near the campfire and spins his dark tales.

A boy seeks cosmic revenge on the adults in his life. The darkest of carnivals rolls into the neighborhood. The Devil haunts a man's entire life in a possession story unlike anything you've ever read. A Nazi officer is tormented by time's most cursed seductress. The whole world is truly held in the hands of Gods-and much more.

Take his hand and follow the beast into its lair, from where there is no escape.

Leseprobe

LED BY BEASTS

CLARK ROBERTS

CONTENTS

1. Why Horror?

2. Led by Beasts: The Boy

3. King Me

4. Vengeful Fangs

5. Buffoonville

6. The Witch’s Mushroom

7. More Than a Little Influence

8. Carny Bob

9. Craftsmanship for Food

10. Costumes

11. Peter’s Gate

12. A Lifetime of Devilish Haunts

13. The Chosen Deaths of the Faceless

14. Sometimes…

15. A Child of Clive

16. A Reunion on Zonbi Praya

17. The Path to Lust

18. Lilith

19. Lord Laird

20. The Devil’s Fingers

21. The Vdova Goddess

22. The Whole World in Their Hands

23. Led by Beasts: The Man

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About the Author

Copyright (C) 2021 Clark Roberts

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2021 by Next Chapter

Published 2021 by Next Chapter

Edited by Darci Heikkinen

Cover art by CoverMint

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author’s permission.

To my parents

For Mom: because before Stephen King, there was Dr. Seuss, lullabies, and even a story of a mouse who walked so far he had to keep buying new feet (I wonder if you even know about the last).

For Dad: because after Dr. Seuss, there was Stephen King, He-Man figurines, and even a nuclear monster who never had to purchase a single new foot no matter how many cities he trampled (I’d bet you know of which monster I’m writing).

1WHY HORROR?

I think that almost anybody can find in his imagination really dark places and can spin them out. [Essentially] everybody is a book of blood; show me a teaspoon of blood and I will reveal to thee the ineffable nature of the cosmos, naked and squirming.

Hell, look at the Bible: gods, devils, ghosts, witches, giants, resurrections. That’s one big horror story—all our fears add[ed] up to one great fear. All our fears are part of that great fear: an arm, a leg, a finger, an ear. We're afraid of the body under the sheet. It's our body; wherever we’re opened, we’re red.

PETER STRAUB, CLIVE BARKER, LAIRD BARRON, BENTLEY LITTLE, AND STEPHEN KING.

They search for me, hunt me out of my home,

like intrusive toddlers picking rocks

to dig up worms;

my fears are huge, 

and when their fat fingers touch me

my only safety is to hole-up where it’s darker.

CLARK ROBERTS

2LED BY BEASTS: THE BOY

Later in life, he would ponder how different life might have played out had he not followed the beast on that day.

But the little boy did follow, and the beast led him away from his home. 

Soon, as if in a dream, the landscape changed so entirely they might have been crossing the surface of a distant and dying planet.

“Should I be scared?” the boy asked.

The beast eyed downward and regarded the boy. It nodded—yes.

“Well…” the boy began. He hesitated as goose-pimples feasted on his neck. Still, he proudly filled his chest with the cold air and proclaimed, “I’m not.” 

Only now did the beast offer a claw-like hand; it was desert-bone dry when the boy grabbed ahold. 

They walked until the boy’s feet were sore and his legs knotted in cramps.

They reached foothills, where the eye of a cave stared back at them. The looming mountains beyond were so massive they couldn’t possibly have been of Earth.

Together, beast and boy entered the mausoleum-sized lair.

Inside, a perfectly centered fire warmed the cave. It burned industriously, feeding through a copious amount of dead wood. The flames danced shadows against the rock walls—the shadow shapes of four more beasts.

These new beasts hunkered on sitting logs around the fire. Their eyes rolled to the boy when he entered. 

A spot was offered, and the boy sat.

Before taking its own place, the boy’s guide lumbered to a rock shelf where sat a metal cage filled with rodents. The beast unlatched and opened the top. With one massive claw, it dug out a squeaking rat. Drool slavered from upper to lower lip in strings when the beast yawed open its toothless maw and dangled the rat by the tail.

It dropped the rat, and squeal became hellish screams.

The beast’s mouth snapped closed and swallowed the meal whole. Sated, it found its place near the fire and sat with the others. 

The boy gazed into the fire, seeing capering shapes that seemed to act out stories.

When the beast across from him spoke, its voice was lower than hell but also as tempting as hell’s games. It conspired with the fire’s warmth to lull the boy.    

The beast said, “Shall we share our tales?”

Thoughtless, the boy nodded.

“Then I’ll start,” the beast agreed. The crevice of its mouth formed something of a grin, and story time commenced. 

Once upon a time and in a cave, a young boy slept near a fire...

3KING ME

As a writer, this beast most likely needs no introduction. If the section’s title hasn’t already released the creature from the cage, so to speak, I’m writing about none other than Stephen King.

Since the publication of Carrie in 1974, you’d be hard pressed to name a more influential figure on horror than King, and personally, I don’t think there’s a debate to be made.

King’s influence on me reaches all the way back to even before I was actually reading any of his work. I can recall as a child seeing King’s tomes resting on the side table near my father’s couch. Those books were often splayed open and face-down, displaying those terror-inducing covers. As it turned out, those covers would also be very impressionable. I bet any horror fan can conjure a few images of King’s covers to mind. For me: the monstrous claw grasping the sewer grate on the front of It, Night Shift’s bandaged hand with the staring eyeballs growing from the fingers and palm, and don’t forget Annie Wilke’s ominous shadow with the ax draped over a despondent Paul Sheldon from Misery.

What young boy with a healthy imagination wouldn’t have been fascinated by those covers?

With somewhat morbid curiosity, I’d ask Dad to explain the goings-on in those books.

Dad never went too far, but he’d offer up enough to whet my appetite; I loved it.

So yes, King’s influence has been with me from an early age, and later I became one of his Constant Readers. 

Each story in this section, in some way, reflects King’s influence on me as a writer. 

Much like the recurring staple throughout King’s obviously much longer works, with “Vengeful Fangs,”I aspired to create a young protagonist for which the reader could root. “Vengeful Fangs”came out the cleanest first draft I’ve ever produced. I tightened up some of the prose, and it was ready for publication.

Dedicated King fans will note the parallels towards the end of “Buffoonville”and King’s “Children of the Corn.”Of course, I’m referring to the short story found in Night Shift and not the corny 1984 movie—pun intended.

“The Witch’s Mushroom”was written for a specific submission call, an exercise that rarely works for me. Usually, I run with whatever idea I’ve been mulling over and then search out fitting publications. The anthology I aimed for with “The Witch’s Mushroom”rejected it, so I sent it to the first re-issuing of Sanitarium, and they quickly accepted the story. When I wrote it, I kept King’s advice in my head—get to the story.

Mr. King, you’ve been THE beast in the horror business for decades. Thankee-sai, for the chills, for the characters, but mostly for the stories.

4VENGEFUL FANGS

Aaron was alone and shirtless in the backyard. The grass felt cool pressed against his back. 

Dusk arrived, and with it, shadowy shapes flitted above him. He shouldered his most cherished birthday present from months earlier—the sharp shooter pellet gun—the last present he’d opened that evening, and also the last gift he’d ever receive from his father.

Aaron pointed the barrel skyward. With earnest concentration, his breathing naturally slowed. He closed one eye and squinted the other down the length of the barrel. Setting his jaw, he drew a beat on one of the darting shadows. His father’s challenge from his birthday night rose in his mind—kill a bat with a pellet gun, and you can do anything. 

The gun popped when he squeezed the trigger. 

Ffffft, the BB shot into darkness.

The shadow he’d aimed at swooped low, and for the briefest moment, an untrained eye might have suspected his accuracy was amazingly true. Aaron, however, knew differently. The BB must have passed through the bat’s sonar with impeccable timing. 

The bat elevated to its original circular path unharmed, more likely bewildered than anything else at discovering no meal where its hunting skills demanded one should have been.

Glumly, Aaron estimated his kill rate stood roughly in the realm of zero for a kazillion, if kazillion was even a real number.

From inside the trailer behind him, a shouting match erupted—his mom and his uncle at each other’s throats. 

A clatter of pots and pans followed by breaking glass.

A breath of silence—then his mother screeching something about Uncle Joe already proving he was more bastard than man.

Uncle Joe, Aaron seethed and instinctively began grinding his teeth. 

He worked the bolt action and checked the breach to make sure a silver BB had chambered. 

“Uncle—Fuckin’—Joe.” The words practically boiled up his throat.

He imagined pressing the barrel of the pellet gun into each of Uncle Joe’s eyes and pulling the trigger. The deranged fantasy was so complete he envisioned the BBs bursting through the tissue of his uncle’s eyes and burning straight through the asshole’s pupils.

Fuckin’ and asshole, just when had Aaron started speaking and thinking in those terms?

When Dad didn’t come home—that’s when.

No, that wasn’t entirely true. He’d been worried when Dad was absent that Friday night. The following sunrise, there was still no Dad to prepare the Saturday morning pancakes, and Mom called the cops. Aaron’s worry had morphed into a cold sense of fear because Mom’s concern sounded authentic enough on the phone, but after disconnecting, she’d drank her coffee at the trailer’s wobbly kitchen table and too casually smoked her cigarettes.

But fear was a completely different beast compared to the anger that born this new love affair with swearing.

The anger had swelled with Uncle Joe’s arrival just two weeks after Dad’s disappearance. Uncle Joe stayed the night—and then stayed the next night, and the next, and the next—not once sleeping on the couch but instead slipping into the parent’s bedroom, as if he was a stand-in husband and father.       

Aaron knew, absolutely knew, Uncle Joe was behind his father’s disappearance.  

“Christ almighty, woman!” Uncle Joe’s voice bellowed out one of the trailer’s opened windows. “How many damn times I gotta tell ya’ the insurance money is comin’? We just gotta play it cool and be patient.”

“Look around us, Joe!” Aaron’s mother returned. 

Aaron could picture her in his mind, standing taut as a pulled rope and her shaking eyes nervously searching all the corners for something else to throw. Similar mutations into a madwoman had occurred when his dad was still tucking him in bed each night. 

“You seen any new money sittin’ around this shithole?” his mother raged. “You seen any gold coins fall from the sky? ‘It’s a sure thing,’ you said, ‘We’ll have the money to scram in a month.’ Maybe you can’t read a calendar from the Chinese bible, but it’s been two months, and all I’ve seen is more cops kickin’ up and down this bog of a road. I’m tellin’ ya, they’re onto us, Joe. All they gotta do is find his...his...his you know what, and we’re toast.”

Find his you know what. 

The thought rolled over Aaron’s mind like a road paver pressing the permanent final touches.

Find his body is what his mother meant—find Dad’s body.

Once again, Aaron lifted the pellet gun and peered down the sights, attempting to focus on anything other than that God-awful idea.

“They ain’t findin’ my brother,” Uncle Joe stated. “They ain’t, ‘cause I made for damn sure there ain’t nothin’ left tofind.”

Aaron cringed, and for a moment, his vision blurred wetly. A sob, a hiccup—something terribly powerful tried working its way up from deep in his stomach. He swallowed hard, forcing it down like trying to cram shut an over-packed suitcase of emotions. 

This time he fired wildly and knew he wasn’t even close to striking either of the bats above him. He needed to concentrate. Dad had been an emotionally strong man, so he could also be strong when the time called for it.

Kill a bat with a pellet gun, and you can make anything happen. He let those words ring clearly in his head, relishing his father’s unendingly encouraging tone.

...make anything happen.

If literally anything was on the table, Aaron knew exactly what he’d make happen, whom he’d make disappear. 

He missed on his next two attempts but sensed he was closer than ever before, that innately he was figuring out the secret, and then the possibilities would be endless.

From the trailer behind him, his mother’s voice: “I’m just tellin’ ya, Joe, if we ain’t outta here soon and they do find somethin’ I ain’t going down as hard as you will.”

Uncle Joe, agitated: “One last time, there ain’t nothin’ to find.”

Mom: “Maybe not, but if that money don’t show up quick my own mouth might start leakin’, ‘cause I’m gettin’ the thoughts I was better off with him than your sorry ass.”

Uncle Joe: “You wouldn’t.”

Mom: “Keep testin’ me and see.” 

Aaron heard not only the conviction in his mother’s tone but also the smirk.

Next came a commotion of struggle. He envisioned Uncle Joe rushing forward, his face aflame with unbridled fury. He could see them locking arms—pushing, shoving, spitting on one another in what must be the world’s craziest dance. He heard someone flung to the floor and then his mother’s banshee screams.

A loud whack! —followed by the briefest of silence in which Aaron popped off another round and just barely missed.

“Who the fuck you think you’re dealin’ with here?” Uncle Joe roared. “Maybe my brother was dead on ‘bout you, and you just some bat-shit crazy woman he never should’ve tangled with!”

“He never said that ‘bout me!” Aaron’s mother shrieked. “He never would’ve said nothin’ like that ‘bout me!”

“Yeah, keep singin’ that tune,” Uncle Joe spat.

Next was the familiar sound of his mother’s long and desperate wail until it lost steam and became sobbing. “He...he...he loved me. I know he did, and I’m sorry for what I agreed to.”

Uncle Joe mumbled, but Aaron couldn’t make it out. Boots thundered loudly on the trailer’s floor, tracking Uncle Joe’s movements. The back screen door screamed open and banged shut with an unnatural force. Uncle Joe stomped down the weathered porch. 

Aaron twitched his eyes. Uncle Joe’s march slowed as he approached, and by the time he reached Aaron, he was nearly ambling.

Standing over him and upside-down to Aaron’s vision, Uncle Joe said, “Well shit, kid.” 

Uncle Joe dug deep into his pockets and pulled out a lighter and a plastic baggie. He opened the baggie and carefully selected before squatting next to Aaron’s side. 

The lighter flamed to life, and soon a familiar skunky, pungent aroma filled the cool night air. Uncle Joe hit the doobie, sucking deeply before holding his breath. When he spoke, it seemed the smoke had filled his voice with effort, “That’s the shit right there, kid.”

Aaron glanced. Uncle Joe held the doobie between his thumb and pointer. His other fingers fanned into three small arches.

Uncle Joe took another toke. His lips sealed, yet in the same instant, he managed what sounded to Aaron like a painful coughing fit. 

Aaron pointed the gun back to the sky. Fired. Ffffft. No luck.

“Did you a solid favor is what I did,” Uncle Joe said. He thumped on his ass and then was lying supine in a similar fashion as Aaron. “Your old man and all those pipe dreams he had for you—college or some shit. You wouldn’t’ve done nothing but disappoint him in the end. You oughtta be getting’ down on your knees and thankin’ me.”

Aaron didn’t speak, only forced even more of his focus above on the tormenting targets.

“On your knees,” Uncle Joe repeated before taking another forceful toke. 

Distantly, Aaron heard Uncle Joe chortle, but he ignored it. He honestly couldn’t fathom what might be funny about being thankful from one’s knees.

Uncle Joe flicked the blunt, spinning it into darkness. He expelled a great, satisfied sigh. 

Then his hand lashed out and leeched onto Aaron’s leg. The hand squeezed much like Aaron’s dad’s hands had squeezed before Dad would playfully proclaim—theclaw! the claw! the claw!—except there was nothing playful about Uncle Joe’s demeanor.

Aaron popped off another round and again missed.

“Thankful and on your knees,” Uncle Joe said a third time. Deadly serious, maybe even angry, he continued, “But you ain’t gotta worry about that kinda crap with Uncle Joe. No way, kid, I ain’t no weirdo.”

As fast as Uncle Joe’s hand had grasped him, it released.

“I ain’t no perrrrrv when it comes to kids,” Uncle Joe growled as if answering an unasked question from the night. His voice carried a dangerous edge like he wanted to be tested, like he wanted a reason to strike out.

I don’t like you, Uncle Joe. 

The voice in Aaron’s head was calm, so reminiscent of his father’s voice. 

I don’t like how you seem to know what happened to Dad. 

I don’t like how Mom lets you sleep in their bedroom.

I don’t like hearing the two of you yell about insurance money.

I don’t like you out here in the grass with me. 

But what I really don’t like, what I actually hate is you, Uncle Joe. 

You.

Aloud, Aaron asked, “Do you love my mom?”

In the ensuing silence before Uncle Joe replied, Aaron sensed a grin forming in the darkness. 

Uncle Joe said, “When she’s on her knees and thankin’ me.” He erupted with laughter.

Aaron still didn’t get the joke, but he definitely comprehended the mean spirit in that laugh. Whether it was directed at Aaron, his mom, or the both of them didn’t make the difference of blue on black.

The control inside Aaron began bubbling.

You gotta stay calm, son. There was no doubting his father’s voice this time. You gotta stay calm and think if you want to win in life. Shoot a flying bat, and you know the rest.

“But it’s too hard,” Aaron confessed. “I can’t hit ‘em.”

“Hit me?” Uncle Joe dumbly voiced. “You best watch that mouth of yours, kid. Don’t get yourself to thinkin’ I won’t wallop you the same way I walloped your momma in there.”

You have to lead ‘em even more. Keep the BB out of their sonar’s range. Son, don’t ever say you can’t because you can. You can shoot a bat, and then…

A part of Aaron badly wanted to believe the voice truly was his father speaking, that their father-son bond in life had been tethered by a thick chain even death couldn’t snap. That side of Aaron, the still-a-child side, hoped his father was reaching out to him through a magical conduit connecting the living and the dead. Yet the other side, the side that understood life’s circumstances as dealt to him, now required he mature faster than normal, knew the truth of it.

This knowledge was solely Aaron’s. It only manifested in his father’s voice. You have to lead ‘em even more. You can shoot a bat, and then...

With a new resolve, Aaron pushed the pellet gun’s stock tighter than ever into his shoulder. He squinted and singled out a bat. He shut his mind off from the rest of the world—the whirring of crickets, his uncle beside him, his mother inside the trailer most likely blotting a tissue to her bloody mouth. The barrel did not wobble but steadily tracked, memorizing the bat’s repetitive pattern. Instead of squeezing tight, this time, Aaron’s lips slightly parted. For the first time ever, his tongue steadily ticked against the roof of his mouth—a trait directly passed down from his father indicating deep concentration.  

...tick...tick...tick...tick...tick...tick…

...fire.

Ffffft.

In an instant, the bat plummeted and decisively struck the ground, a one in a million shot.

“Jesus,” Uncle Joe gasped. “Nice shot, kid.” 

“Yeah,” Aaron sneered. Without hesitation, he racked in another BB and once more smoothly guided the barrel skyward, only this time he settled the sights on the night’s first star. It twinkled, the tiniest diamond light-years away. 

He licked his lips before they parted. Star light, star bright, first star I’ve seen tonight, I wish I may, I wish I might...

“Kid, you won’t hit that second bat,” Uncle Joe scoffed. “That last shot was pure luck.”

“Shut up.”

...tick...tick...tick…tick...

...shoot a bat…

...the star...

...Uncle Joe’s eye... 

...tick...tick...tick...

...shoot a bat…

...the star is his eye…

...you can do anything…

...it is his eye...

...tick...tick…

...his eye…

...star…

...eye...

...tick…

...fire.

Fffffffffffffffffffff...

The BB flew into darkness.

Aaron breathed, concentrated.

Get there.

He blinked.

Get there.

He waited...waited...waited. 

Get...THERE!

“Ya’ alright, kid?” The edge that was so often present in Uncle Joe’s voice had completely disintegrated. Uncle Joe sounded like a man staring down a holographic train barreling straight at him, but not entirely certain it was a hologram.

“Come on and get there!” Aaron urged through clenched teeth.

From far, far, far, far above, there was a sound like a small object punching through tinfoil. 

A short laugh escaped Aaron—quiet but loony.

“Look, Uncle Joe, there’s a hole in the sky,” Aaron whispered. “I shot a bat. I can do anything. I can make holes in the sky and make things come out of them.”

“You best knock this crap off right now, kid.”

Aaron ignored the warning. He dropped the pellet gun to the side and reached up to where the star was supposed to be and pointed. In a familiar tune, he sang, “There’s a hole in the skyyyyy…dear Uncle, dear Uncle...there’s a hole in the sky...dear Uncle, a hole.”

Aaron’s arm extended, unfolding at the joint. 

“There’s a hole in the sky…dear Uncle, dear Uncle...”

His arm reached farther, extended more, unfolded more.

“...there’s a hole in the sky…”

Joints that shouldn’t have been there, more and more elbows continued unfolding; lengths of arm that shouldn’t have existed continued extending.

“...dear Uncle…”

Aaron’s finger poked the new hole in outer space, and he wiggled his finger snugly tight.

“...uhhh hooollle.”

Gently, Aaron tugged. He adjusted his grip and evenly and smoothly unwrapped the night sky like a Christmas present.

A sudden brightness blinded him. His one arm shot up for protection, and he dropped his face from the unbearable light. Squinting tightly, he saw Uncle Joe hadn’t bothered creating a shield. 

“You’re done, Uncle Joe,” Aaron uttered. Then he chanted, “Bats. Bats. Bats. Bats. Bats.”

Uncle Joe groaned like he was about to vomit. His face reminded Aaron of the times he’d gone bullfrog hunting at night with a flashlight and net. Dad had taught him that freezing the quarry was as simple as pointing the beam straight into their faces. Uncle Joe looked as zoned out as any of those bullfrogs. His eyes were wide and empty. His mouth hung agape and drooled.

That was enough for Aaron. As much as he could stand, he turned back to the burning light and continued his eerie chant, now stressing the word with more force. “Bats. Bats. Bats. Bats. Bats.” 

The massive cloud, blacker than graveyard midnight, erupted from its celestial lair. It crossed the distance of light-years in mere seconds. They rapidly descended as one, such a large number that Aaron felt the warm gust of wind they created ripple the skin of his face. 

The first bat dropped like a stone and latched its claws deep into the roped vein at Uncle Joe’s neck. The bat screeched and bared its sharp fangs before attacking Uncle Joe’s cheek with such a fury that its head tremored when it pierced skin. Thin tracks of blood immediately ran down Uncle Joe’s cheek. 

As they dropped and assaulted Uncle Joe, Aaron could make out the individual bats. They were all fangs, claws, and leathery wings; their number must have reached well into the thousands. Good God, the awful noises they made. Aaron raised his hands to his ears but couldn’t block out their hellish shrieks.

It was obvious the colony had one goal, a goal for which Aaron wished, but each individual bat fought and clawed and snapped with its own selfish hunger. Aaron was afforded one last glimpse before the colony’s numbers completely covered Uncle Joe, and this was Aaron’s only regret because he hoped to see the exquisite pain, hoped to hear Uncle Joe join the chorus of bats with a painful scream. Instead, Uncle Joe remained in a silent, dazed stupor even as his clothes ripped and his skin shredded.  

The colony of bats rose. It paused as if testing the weight.

Satisfied, it exploded upwards into the night.

Aaron thought, they’ll finish feeding back in their lair.

The colony raced home with the speed of a cosmic aircraft. 

No more noise. No more bats. No more Uncle Joe.

Aaron reached upward and deep into space from where the light spilled.

Deeper, deeper, deeper.

He grasped the unfolded universe—the thin texture felt like wrapping paper—and he folded outer space back properly into place. It wasn’t quite seamless where he’d opened the sky; the smallest of cracks etched out where he’d unwrapped. Aaron licked his finger and traced it over the showing edges, and the edges sealed tight.

Pleased, Aaron thought, it’s over.

No, son, his father’s voice answered in Aaron’s head, not quite, not just yet.

“Aaron?” his mother called. 

He didn’t have to turn to know she was outside, standing on their small porch and staring skyward.

“Aaron?” This time her call was small, and Aaron loved the tremor in her voice. “What was that?”

“Just a trick, Mother.” 

He grinned, hugely. He reached for the last gift his father would ever give him.

One last time that night, Aaron shouldered the gun. Under his breath, he said to himself, “Just a trick, and I’ll do it again.”

Bats.

Bats.

Bats.

Bats.

Bats.

5BUFFOONVILLE

Whenever Marie had encountered the words ghost town,she inevitably experienced a chill at her spine, but the phrase clown town was doubly worse. Clown town—it sounded so bizarre, so bastardized, and even unsound.

Marie quickly read the historical landmark sign a second time to make sure she hadn’t misinterpreted the information because she could barely fathom the validity of it.

It claimed clowns had built a settlement along the Lake Michigan coastline around 1850. Economically Buffoonville had struggled right up until the Great Fire of 1871 ravaged Chicago. In exchange for a great financial windfall, the politicians and business owners of Buffoonville—did they all wear wigs and clown makeup?—shortsightedly agreed to timbering off the dense forests surrounding the settlement to help rebuild Chicago. The money rolled in, but without the protection of the massive oaks and tall pines, Buffoonville’s days were numbered. The constant winds of the Great Lake, always carrying sand, began burying the buildings, and most of the clown residents fled, leaving Buffoonville a relative ghost town.

The black and white photos accompanying the written record showed huge mounds of sand revealing only the peaks of a few gabled homes and businesses.  

“Greg, I’m not so sure about this,” Marie muttered.

“This is part of our country’s history,” her husband stated. “It’ll be fine. The trail marker says it’s only three-quarters of a mile hike to the beach. The kids can handle it.”

“I’m not talking about the hike.” Marie nodded her head at the sign. “I mean a ghost town buried beneath the sand. It was a town supposedly inhabited by clowns of all things. The state campground is only four miles back.”

The family stood at the trailhead. Despite it being a Friday evening, not one other vehicle was parked in the dirt lot. Now that Marie thought about it, they hadn’t seen another vehicle since they’d zipped past the state campground into what Greg reverently referred to as no-man’s land.

“Suck it up, buttercup.” Greg hitched his shoulders to resettle his backpack. “They don’t even let you set up on the actual beach in the state campgrounds.”

“Yeah, Mom, suck it up,” Barry said from his dad’s side.

“But, Greg,” Marie’s tone was nearly pleading, “the sign says clowns.”

Greg shrugged a shoulder. “I can read.”

Rachel tugged at her arm, and Marie looked down at her daughter.

“It’s going to be okay,” Rachel said, pointing back to the sign. “The sign says the town was buried by drifting sands.”

“You see,” Greg grinned from ear to ear. “Even our ten-year-old daughter isn’t afraid. Come on, we made great time driving. If we hustle, we’ll have the tents up and everything situated before dark.”

They started up the footpath into the woods in single file, Greg leading.

After a couple rolling hills, the forest cleared completely; the trail began cutting a path through tall grass. Soft sand replaced the hard ground, and Marie began to feel the effort of each step in her straining leg muscles. They were passing some large rocks when, in one graceful motion, Greg turned and swung his backpack off his shoulders.

“Whew,” he woofed out. He plopped down on the flattest of the rocks. “Let’s take a quick break before we heft up the dunes. How’s everyone holding up?”

“I’m doing great!” Barry hollered. Searching for some type of treasure, he ran into the wispy grass, which was nearly as tall as his waist.

“How about you?” Greg asked Rachel. “You holding up, princess?”

“I’m fine,” Rachel said. She sat next to her father.

“How much farther do you think it is to the beach?” Marie asked. They’d stopped at the base of a sand-covered rise. Looking up at it, the very top of the rise seemed preternaturally even. Marie could not see its end in either direction.