“Can’t you put the show on anymore?” Donald asked. Anthony shook his head at him to be quiet.

  “Oh, there’ll still be a show,” Crispin said. “There was always going to be a show. We’ll simply have to improvise, won’t we, my friends?”

  Rukus chuckled, his head bobbing in agreement. He licked his lips lasciviously.

  “I want to see my dad,” Anthony said.

  Anthony saw the complete bewilderment in Donald’s eyes. “You’re dad? What are you talking about? He’s…dead.”

  Rukus suddenly burst out laughing, a hideous wet cackle. “Oh, he’s dead all right! But then again, so are we!”

  Donald searched all their faces; Anthony could see his friend wasn’t sure if Rukus was joking.

  “Don’t, please!” Anthony cried as he tried to squirm free of Crispin’s grasp.

  All the performers began to laugh in unison. The boys watched as Crispin’s face started to melt, a fire suddenly erupting from the top of his hat. Rukus began to dance a jig, the candy-stripes of his vest running with fresh, flowing blood. Celeste’s throat was slashed by an invisible blade, followed by her arms and luscious legs. Kaskaraken opened his cloak and a great serpent slid out of from his hollow rib cage.

  “I want to go home!” Donald shrieked. “I want my mom!”

  Crispin wrapped a rotted hand over the boy’s mouth and gazed right into his soul, with opaque eyes that swam in blackened sockets.

  “You can’t leave now, Donald. The show’s just about to start and I’m afraid all tickets are non-refundable!”

  8

  Their hands tied together, Anthony and Donald trembled against each other as the All-American Travelling Troubadours set up their grotesque stage in the middle of Keaton woods.

  The pair watched through tear-soaked eyes as Kaskaraken conjured the elaborate construction from thin air. With a wave of his hands, thick red velvet curtains rained down, thread after thread. With a snap of his fingers, orbs of iridescent green light pulsed into existence, illuminating the arena. The light and the shadow were in a constant battle for dominance of the stage, players in their own right. Then with a bow to the boys, the unholy magician departed and was replaced by the vile Mister Crispin who trod the floorboards with unrivalled enthusiasm.

  The sun was burrowing into the horizon, pushing the creep­ing shadows ever closer, like skeletal fingers reaching out for salvation. Donald tried desperately to loosen his bonds, but all Anthony could do—or wanted to do—was weep.

  “I’m sorry, Donald,” Anthony said. “I’m really sorry.”

  “Did you know they were…monsters?” Donald said, fear shaking his voice.

  “Of course he knew!” Crispin called from the stage. “We instructed him to bring children here, but still he failed miserably—so now our little deal is off!”

  Donald frowned and fresh tears rolled down his face. “Deal?”

  “Your friend Anthony there agreed to bring four new souls for us to feast upon in exchange for the freedom of his dear old daddy!” Crispin explained.

  Donald turned to Anthony. “But your dad’s dead!”

  “Yes, but we kept his soul for dessert,” Crispin said, his lipless maw somehow still capable of a smile. “Sadly, Mr. Moore has lost his sweetness and I’m not entirely heartless. Well, almost!” He gestured off stage. “But enough about me… Let’s meet the former man himself! Celeste, if you please…”

  Celeste Renoir appeared from behind the curtain pushing a great iron cage with a dim specter squatting inside—the ghost of Dominic Moore. He was in the foetal position, fading in and out of reality like an incandescent light bulb about to expire.

  “Dad!” Anthony cried.

  “Here’s your daddy!” Crispin rejoiced. “He’ll take center stage during the show, but I’m afraid your indiscretion, Anthony, will cost you. When the show’s done, he’ll be our first meal!”

  “No!” Anthony cried, fighting his bonds.

  “Oh, yes, my boy. You just sit back and relax as we present our Tragical History Tour!”

  “Wait! Wait!” said a voice from behind them.

  Anthony and Donald turned to see Rukus dragging Catherine and another girl from the bushes, his foul mummified hands clamped tight over their mouths.

  “Oh, Mister Crispin!” Rukus said, his sing-song voice rising through the trees. “Looks like we’ve got a few stragglers here, and they don’t have their tickets!”

  Crispin bounded off the stage, excitement twisting his haggard face to breaking point. He now had his four souls.

  “Well, well, well,” Crispin chimed. “That’s fantastic because there’re some spare seats right here in the front row!”

  Mister Crispin took a long, low bow and removed his hat to reveal a hairless, fleshless pate. Then slowly, methodically, he straightened and replaced the hat as if he was crowning himself King of the Dead. Then he stared at the children, a gaze that was all at once ferocious, beguiling and stone cold.

  Anthony, Donald, Catherine and Cherise were an audience captivated by the fear Crispin generated. Anthony watched Crispin scan their faces; how, with effort, he drew back his gums from his teeth and flames burst from his top hat into the night air. The girls shrieked and the boys trembled. The show had begun.

  “Welcome! Welcome!” Crispin began. “Welcome to the All-American Travelling Troubadours Show! Tonight you will be treated to a plethora of delights, both wicked and wild. Your fears will be realized! Your doubts assuaged! Tonight you will peer into the shadows and see—if you dare—the darkness inside yourself!

  “I am Theodore Crispin, your host and master of the fire!”

  Crispin clicked his fingers and fire engulfed his right hand. The flames twirled and licked at the bones of his blackened fingers, crackling and sparking. He knelt and stretched his arm out towards the children so they could better witness it.

  “I imagine you are all wondering how I could perform such a feat?” he said. “Well, stay tuned, my friends, for we shall share all our life stories with you—tales that you will never, ever forget!”

  Crispin stood and twirled on the spot and in an instant the flames were gone.

  “But first, some light entertainment! I call to the stage our very own mischief maker, Charles Ramsey Rukus!”

  Crispin withdrew from the stage with a flurry of bows and Charlie Rukus appeared. There was music, a cacophony of invisible piano and accordion to herald his arrival. The rake-thin undead troubadour launched into a jig, waving his boater hat, twirling his cane.

  The children stared at his sickening dance; the way all his joints seemed to loll and roll. He was a demonic doll raving and smiling like a loon.

  “Hey-yah! Hey-yah! Hey-yah!” he sang. “Rukus is my name and making a ruckus is my game!”

  His jig morphed into a tap, his shoes clacking on the boards in tune with the terrible throng of the children’s beating hearts. Rukus reveled in their disgust and his hunger was more prominent than Crispin’s, his tongue darting snake-like in and out of his mouth. Anthony turned his face away, instead focusing on the spirit of his father, caged and barren; until Rukus jumped off the stage in front of him with a bouquet of dead daffodils in his gnarled hand.

  “What’s your name, sonny-jim?” Rukus said, his jaundiced eyes flicking about like a chameleon.

  Anthony refused to respond, which only enraged Rukus, who tossed the flowers aside and slapped the boy hard across the cheek.

  “I’m talking to you, boy! Didn’t yer daddy ever teach you it’s impolite to ignore someone when they say hello to you?”

  There was a moan from the cage and Rukus turned to see Dominic Moore reaching out to his son from between the bars.

  “Oh, yer daddy’s right here. Let’s ask him ourselves!” Rukus went to move away, but Anthony gripped his sleeve—only to regret it as the candy stripes smeared blood all over his fingers.

  “Wait!” Anthony cried. “I’ll play. I’ll play your game.”

  Rukus laughed a wet death rattle. “There’s no need—I already know yer name! It’s Anthony William Moore. Hah!” He moved to Donald and the girls, his hands fidgety. “But it’s yer friends here I’m not familiar with.” The demon leant down and breathed foulness into Cherise’s ear, his eyes leering down her blouse. “What’s yer name, sweetie pie?”

  “Please don’t hurt me!” she sobbed.

  Rukus put his lips against her ear. “Then just tell me yer name.”

  “Just let us go, you animal!” Catherine said.

  Rukus whirled on her, his loose jaw almost falling from its decrepit tether. “I beg yer pardon?”

  “Just let us go!” Catherine said.

  There was a rapid deepening of Rukus”s brow and his eyes lost their gleam. He grimaced so tightly they all thought his lips would split.

  “Don’t you talk to me like that, you little bitch!” He moved to Catherine in a blur, his ragged fingers grabbing a clutch of her hair. His decay invaded her senses. “How dare you speak to me like that. I was just talking to her, being polite, but you…yer anything but!

  “You’re hurting me!” Catherine shrieked.

  “Leave my sister alone!” Donald said, and Rukus gawped at him in genuine surprise.

  “Oh, hello. I didn’t see you there!” Rukus released his grip of Catherine and strode over to the boy. Donald tried to back away, but all four children were tied tight together. “You’re her little brother, aren’t you?” Rukus asked.

  “Yes,” Donald sniffed.

  “Donnie, don’t!” his sister said.

  Rukus turned to her, his rakish finger pressed to his lips; then when she was silent his eyes shifted back to Donald.

  “Now, you just go ahead and tell me yer name,” he said. “Go on, you can tell ol’ Charlie.”

  Donald tried to look to the other children for guidance, but he was alone, none of them daring to defy the will of the mad jester.

  “Donald,” he said finally.

  Rukus smiled, genuinely happy, his green teeth shining with spittle. “Hello, Donald, it’s so very nice to meet you. My name’s Charlie.”

  Donald gulped and Rukus frowned. “Say ‘Hello, Charlie,’” Rukus said. “Remember yer manners.”

  “Huh, hello Charlie,” Donald said.

  “That’s better. Now, would you like to tell me a little about yourself, Donald?”

  Donald hesitated; the fear had struck him dumb.

  Rukus pouted. “Oh, are you a bit shy? That’s all right. How about I tell you a little about Charlie then? Would you like that?”

  Donald nodded and Anthony was glad he was co-operating.

  Rukus clapped his hands and leapt back onto the stage. He sat and crossed his legs, the sound of his hip joints cracking in the air.

  “Okay, listen up kiddies,” he said. “You won’t hear a story like this every day!”

  9

  Madeline stood at the front door of her house, glaring at the main street out of Keaton and wondered when her son was going to appear.

  He’s in so much trouble when he gets home: she promised herself.

  It was already dark, the points of stars beginning to emerge in the velvet sky.

  Where the hell is he?

  She checked her watch: 6:12pm.

  I bet he got kept back after school again.

  Madeline turned from the door and went to the kitchen to find the telephone. She dialed the number for the school; she knew it well, as Anthony had been kept back a number of times for not doing his homework. Deep down, she knew he did it so he didn’t have to come home.

  Just wait until he gets home.

  The phone rang out. She redialed. It rang out again. No detention today.

  “Damn it!”

  This time she dialed the store; old man Davis answered.

  “No, Maddie, haven’t seen him,” he said. “Is everything okay with you—”

  She cut him off, immediately dialing her friend Suzie on the other side of town. Sometimes Anthony went over to Suzie’s after school to play X-Box with her seven-year-old son.

  “Well, he’s not here,” Suzie said. “Sounds like he’s gonna be in a world of trouble when he turns up, though.”

  Six-thirty-nine and still no sign. A twinge of concern swelled in her gut and as the minutes ticked by it ballooned until she began to think horrible thoughts: of her son being kidnapped; of her husband hanging from the tree in the woods.

  Madeline reached for the phone again and called the Sheriff’s station. Sheriff Dawson answered on the second ring.

  “It’s Anthony,” Madeline said. “He ain’t come home.”

  “He ain’t at a friend’s, or at school?

  “No, I called Suzie too and she ain’t seen him either. I haven’t seen him since last night when he went to bed.”

  Burke let out a long sigh. “Have you two been fighting again, Maddie?”

  Madeline rubbed her temples. “I’m just tired, Sheriff. Tired of that boy not doing what he’s told.”

  “Well, I ain’t his momma, Maddie—that’s yer job,” Dawson said. “You want me to send Burke out to look for him?”

  Maddie licked her lips. “Would you? Please?”

  “Okay,” Dawson said. “But you call me the second he walks through yer door and I’ll give him a talking to.”

  Madeline let out a deep breath. “Thank you, Ray.”

  She put down the phone and went back to the front door to stare at the street, Dominic hanging in the woods still a splinter in her mind.

  “This tale begins towards the end of the Civil War.”

  The children shivered from the cold and the dread of Rukus”s voice; his words and gestures.

  “Our troupe came here in the winter of 1864,” he said. “We were desperate and starving and thought the people needed some good humor; some lively entertainment. So we brought our rickety caravans here, into these woods.” Rukus craned his neck upwards to consider his tomb. “Little did we know we’d never leave this accursed place.”

  Rukus got to his feet and danced a jig. “So there we were, dancing and singing, having a grand old time. The people were laughing and showering us with pennies. I was hilarious, warming them up for the grand finale, when all of a sudden—”

  He slammed his shoe on the stage and it rang like a death knell. “Three soldiers stormed in on our show!”

  Anthony leaned forwards. “Soldiers!”

  Rukus stopped, genuinely surprised. “You’ve heard this story?”

  Anthony shook his head and cringed, sickened that he was being drawn in by the monster’s tale. “I just saw an old picture in the store…There were soldiers in it.”

  Rukus sneered. “Yes, that was probably those same fiends! They came in drunk and engorged on the horrors of the battlefield. Their grey uniforms were flecked with their countrymen’s blood!” He gripped his cane so tight the children thought it would break. “And do you know what they did?”

  The children dared not speak and this only raised Rukus’s ire.

  “They chased everyone out of the tent, that’s what they did! Then we watched as they gathered up all our hard-earned money. We begged them to leave us be, but that only succeeded in spurring them on. Their sergeant—a true fiend—ordered his men to stomp on our stage, and tear our curtains, but when they tired of that, the sergeant told them to play with us.”

  Rukus gazed at the floorboards as if there was something beneath it.

  “They wanted their own show, they said.” Rukus continued. “They…wouldn’t take no for an answer. They threatened us and we had little choice but to comply.

  “They dragged me back onto the stage, their rifle butts in my face and back. Those awful men ordered me to perform. “Tell us a joke!” they said. “Make us laugh!”

  Rukus put his hands over his face in despair and his muffled voice sounded as if he were speaking from the grave.

  “I tried,” he said. “Oh, how I tried.”

  He threw his hands down then and the children reeled from the sight of his face contorted with rage, the tears mingling with spittle.

  “But I wasn’t good enough, they said! So they attacked me—struck me down with their rifle butts. I tried to get up, but they just kept on hitting me and hitting me and hitting me!

  “Yet that was just the beginning, children! They lifted me to my feet and while two of them held me the other…the sergeant…took his bayonet…”

  Rukus took one end of the cane and pulled on it. There was a sharp snap and steel glinted in the moonlight; the steel of a short blade, much like a bayonet. Rukus tossed the scabbard end aside and gripped the handle in both hands and held it in front of his abdomen. The children shrieked as he began to stab himself all over like he was a living voodoo doll.

  “And he ran me through!” Rukus cried as the first dozen wounds began to weep. “Over and over and over!”

  Rukus was in a frenzy now, his stomach and chest perforated to the point of collapse. The blood trailed into the candy stripes, running down his white trousers to his shoes to mingle with the soil.

  The children gaped in horror as Rukus fell to his knees. A minute passed and Rukus was slumped on the stage, his breath­ing drawn. Eventually the flow of blood came to a halt.

  “Is he dead?” Catherine whispered, having finally opened her eyes to look.

  “I don’t know,” Anthony said.

  Suddenly Rukus’s body began to shake, not with seizure, but laughter. A deep, guttural guffaw began to build inside Rukus”s wounded torso and he lifted his head to look upon his audience. Mischief blazed in his eyes and he kept laughing—at them. He jumped to his feet and slapped his knees and clapped his hands in sheer delight. Then, when he was happy with himself, he gave a low bow.

  “Thank you! Thank you!” he said. “You were a wonderful audience. Alas, I must withdraw now because there is still more to the tale—too much for just one performer to tell.”