Page 73 of The Knucklebone Brothers

Emory, sittin' next to me, kicked her feet, her heels thumpin' against the bench. She looked over at me, her eyes wide and excited.

"So mind your step. Keep your hands inside. Do not wander where the lantern light doesn't reach. And whatever you do…"

His voice lowers to a whisper.

"Do not look behind the curtain."

A pause.

"Because what walks these grounds after dark… may follow you home."

The iron bell tolls once.

"Now, step right up. The show is about to begin."

Then the lights came back up, but not as bright as before. They were dimmer, more intimate, and a faded red light now shone down on Knox, illuminatin' him in a hellish glow. He was shirtless now, his bare chest a canvas of wild, chaotic tattoos that seemed to writhe and move in the strange light. He stood tall and proud, a long, wicked-lookin' sword held loosely in his hand.

He brought the sword to his lips, his tongue dartin' out to lick the flat of the blade, a slow motion. Then, he tilted his head back, and when he reached the tip of the sword, he slid it down his throat, the metal disappearin' inch by inch. He turned, a slow, graceful pirouette, so everyone could see it from all sides. The dead in the audience sat in silence, but the livin' ones, the ones who could, clapped, their hands a dry, rustlin' sound.

Emory leaned in close, her voice a whisper against my ear. "I wonder how it feels to be gutted from the inside out," she said, her words a strange, morbid curiosity.

I watched him, my eyes fixed on the impossible sight, the way his throat moved around the steel. I was impressed. It was a show of control, of a power so absolute it could bend the very laws of nature. And in that moment, I felt a strange, twisted sense of pride, pride in this wild, dangerous man who was, for better or worse, a part of my world now.

Then, just as Knox was pullin' the sword from his throat with a final, dramatic flourish, the lights went out. Pitch black. A collective gasp went through the audience, a sound of sudden, sharp fear. Then, Momma started playin' the piano again, the same strange, melancholic melody as before, but this time it was slower.

The red light snapped on, illuminatin' nothin' but a small, weird box in the center of the stage. It was just a plain, wooden box, like a crate, but it seemed to hold the entire attention of the room. The creepy tune played on, a slow, hauntin' rhythm.

Then, somethin' started to happen. A hand, pale and long-fingered, emerged from a small slit in the top of the box. It was followed by another. Then, a head, Cricket's head, his painted face a mask of what nightmares or made of. He pulled himself up, his body unfoldin' from the box in a series of slow, impossible movements. He was doin' a show, a creepy, contortionist's act, his body bendin' and twistin' in ways that made my stomach clench.

Then, he dropped from the stage, landin' with a soft thud in the aisle. But he didn't land on his feet. He landed on his hands and his back, his back arched at an impossible angle, his head tilted back, his face lookin' up at the ceiling. His legs were bent backward at the knees, his arms stretched out in front of him. He started to run, his hands and feet paddlin' against the floor, his body a nightmarish, scuttlin' thing. He moved down the aisle, a human spider, his movements a sick, scuttlin' rhythm that was both fascinatin' and terrifying. Momma's piano music followed him, the tune speedin' up, a frantic, haunted melody that seemed to be the soundtrack to his madness. He ran right past me, his face a blank, empty mask, and disappeared into the darkness at the back of the tent.

The red light faded, plungin' the tent back into a deep, spooky twilight. For a second, there was just silence, the sound of Cricket's scuttlin' feet still echoin' in my mind. Then, I heard a little giggle from beside me.

"I'm up!" Emory chirped, her voice a high, happy sound that was completely out of place.

She grabbed a doll from a small, wooden crate beside the bench. It was a thing that could curdle your blood, made of dark, gnarled wood, like it had been carved from the branches of an old, twisted tree. Its face was a creepy, painted-on smile, the eyes two black, hollow pits. It wore a little, tattered suit, the fabric stained and worn. She skipped up to the center of the stage, the doll held tight in her arms, and sat down on a small, wooden stool.

She introduced the doll, her voice a sweet, childish lilt. "This is my friend, Vincent," she said, her voice a little too loud, a little too bright. "He's got a story he wants to tell you."

Then, she settled the doll on her lap, her hands holdin' its body, her fingers hidden in its clothes. She looked out at the audience, a strange, creepy smile on her face, and then... the doll started to talk. It wasn't Emory's voice. It was a low, gravelly voice, an old, weary sound that seemed to come from the doll itself. I couldn't see Emory's mouth move at all, not even a twitch. It was like the doll was alive, like it was the one tellin' the story.

"I was a boy once," the doll, Vincent, said, its voice a low, creepy rumble. "I lived in a house at the end of a long, dirt road. A house with a big, old willow tree in the yard. I used to play under that tree, but my momma, she told me not to. She said the tree was hungry, that it wanted to eat me. I didn't believe her. Not until the night I heard a scratchin' at my window. A long, thin branch, tap, tap, tappin' against the glass. I looked out, and I saw it. The tree, it had a face, a big, hollow face, and it was lookin' right at me. The next thing I knew, the branch was comin' through the window, wrapin' around my neck, pullin' me out into the night. I felt my bones break, my skin tear, as it pulled me into its bark. And now, I'm a part of the tree. I'm a part of the willow, forever. And sometimes, on nights like tonight, I can feel my fingers growin' back, long and thin, just like branches. And I wait... I wait for a little boy or girl to come and play under my leaves, so I can wrap my new arms around them, and pull them in, too. So they can be a part of the tree, forever."

As the doll told its story, Emory would do weird movements of her head, tilting it to the side, her eyes wide and starin', a creepy smile playin' on her lips. It was like she was a puppet herself, her body a vessel for the doll's dark magic.

When the story was over, the doll's voice faded, and Emory just sat there for a second, a blank look on her face. Then, she giggled, a high, happy sound that was completely at odds with the horror of the story. She got up, grabbed the doll, and skipped off the stage, like nothin' had happened.

I just sat there, my heart poundin' in my chest, my mind racin'. "What the fuck," I whispered, the words a soft, shocked breath. I didn't know how to process it.

Then I saw something bein' lowered from the top of the stage, a slow, silent descent from the darkness above. Whoever was lowerin' it, I couldn't see. They were hidden, swallowed by the shadows. It looked like another puppet, hangin' from a series of thick, black ropes. It was dressed in dirty, clown doll-lookin' clothes, a ruffled collar and a little, pointed hat. The red light got a little brighter, and the music from the piano, Momma's playin', picked up a more cheerful, almost jaunty tune.

The puppet started to move, its limbs dancin' and swayin' in a weird, jerky rhythm. Something was off. I couldn't quite make it out. The closer I looked, the more real the puppet looked, the wood of its limbs lookin' too much like skin, the stitched joints lookin' too much like scars. I leaned forward, my eyes narrowin', tryin' to make sense of it. The head bounced up, a sudden, sharp movement, and I saw it. I saw Sheriff Duffy's face, his eyes wide and starin', his mouth a silent, horrified scream. Then I saw the stitches on his neck, thick, black thread holdin' his head to his body.

I sat there, my breath catchin' in my throat, but it wasn't fear I was feelin'. It was a cold, hard understandin'. I'd been thinking they were just monsters, that they killed and ate and threw away what was left. But this... this was different. This was a purpose. They didn't just kill people. They used them. Every part of them. They turned them into things, into props for their shows, into... whatever they wanted. They had an agenda, a plan, and the people who crossed them didn't just die. They became a part of the carnival, a part of the family, forever.

When the puppet's weird, jerky dance was over, the music stopped. The jaunty piano tune died, and the stage was plunged back into darkness. The lifeless body, given a second, horrifying life as a stitched-together puppet, just dropped. It fell to the ground with a heavy, sickening thud, like it didn't matter anymore, like it was just a toy they were done playin' with.

Then, from the rafters above, they came. Blythe and Maverick, their bodies slowly descendin’ on ropes like dark angels. They climbed down, their bodies movin' with a practiced ease, their faces still streaked with blood and paint. They landed on the stage, their boots makin' no sound on the wood.