The Somnambulist
A Sinister Tale wrapped in Carnival Lights
Taking a long drag from his cigarette, Mosley blew out a velvet cloud of saccharine tar towards the sumptuous selection Jones County had to offer. As the aroma of candy apples wafted in the air, he couldn’t help scouring the tantalizingly rich, creamy skin, cherrypie lips, and sugar cotton pink cheeks. Their girlish giggles cascading from their delectable mouths, crisp and tart as champagne bubbles.
“Ain’t you got enough women sore at you?” Washington chided in his deep pulpit voice, “You must have—what?—five women in every county who sore at you?”
Mosley smirked, stretching his nimble limbs to see if his bones would creak or pop. Unlike Washington, who’d rest when he dropped dead, Mosley understood the value of a break, particularly when a lovely coquettish crowd gathered near the carnival’s entrance. It wasn’t like it wasn’t earned after setting up this god-awful red tent for the good part of the day. Leave it to Mr. Galambos to place a ten-man job on the shoulders of Mosley and Washington. Already they had spent the week setting up tents, booths, and rides, Mosely certainly had better things to do than to be Galambos’ rented-out workhorse.
It wasn’t even for one of their own. Just another shyster leeching off a free space in a freakshow for an easy penny. Though, this one came prepared in wallet and supplies. Unfurling one of the banners for the act, Mosley scratched his head at the printed words: Boiko’s Somnambulist. His snippets of education would have failed him, he doubted any of his teachers held the word in their known vocabulary. The sloppily painted images decorating the banner certainly offered no hint. A dark silhouette standing prostrate on a stage with candelabras he was supposed to be setting up. A colorful showman with a blotted face was painted beside the androgynous figure, not that it in any way resembled the Mr. Boiko Mosley had seen. An off the cobb with stiff, shoe polish hair and a doughy middle jutting out from his beanpole frame. Dulled and weathered, the only refurbishment on the banner was the name.
“Washington, you’re a self-educated man,” Mosley remarked.
“I get my learnin’ when I can. Usually between playin’ a Zulu warrior in The Savages of the World show,” he huffed as he picked up another bench, “Or puttin’ up benches unassisted.”
“Just tell me what on Earth a somnambulist is? Is it somethin’ scary or naughty? Says here no women and no boys under eighteen are allowed admittance.”
Wiping the perspiration from his neck and brow, Washington blew out an exhausted reply, “Someone who does things in their sleep, I reckon.”
“You’re pullin’ my leg, what kinda show is that? Naw, that can’t be it,” Mosley decided, catching sight of Mr. Galambos’ daughter walking towards them. “Maybe your gal knows.”
Washington smacked his arm, but Mosley only laughed. It was Washington’s own fault for not hiding his mooning when he stole quick glances at Fanni, risking a skinning or worse. Not that Mosely saw the appeal.
Lacking her father’s charisma, and certainly not possessing her mother’s beauty, Fanni’s role in the carnival was limited to invisible dogsbody. If she had been a looker, she might’ve played a part an in the Kootch Show, perhaps attracting a proper man who’d take her far away. But truth was Fanni would always remain under her father’s thumb and her mother’s scrutiny.
“Hey, Fanni!” Mosley called as her lanky, jittery form approached them, “What’s a somnambulist?”
“Um,” her wispy voice scratched out, “I’m not sure. Washington’d know.”
Buttoning his lip, Washington set about busying himself with lugging benches and candelabras into the tent.
“I know tonight’s show is sold out,” she added, her wide eyes soaking in the unusual tent, “Mr. Boiko’s even payin’ me to assist before the show.”
Washington stopped. “What’s he makin’ you do?”
“Nothin’ much!” she belted out, startling herself. Then wringing her fingers, whispered to her feet, “I’ve made some lemonade, if you’d like some?”
“Ain’t I allowed lemonade, Fanni?” Mosley asked.
“That’s for people who sweat for their work,” Mrs. Galambos hissed, appearing out of thin air, the old witch.
In her glory days as a burlesque girl and snake dancer, Mrs. Galambos was a beaut. Sadly, age, marriage, and bitterness had since knocked her down to the part of fortuneteller. It was thanks to her, her husband hired Mosley and Washington. She had since become one of the sorest women at Mosely and reminded him often.
With her less poisonous accessory slinking gently around her broad shoulders, she gripped her daughter’s scrawny bones, pulling her out of the way. “Your father wants you, git!” Mrs. Galambos spat through her teeth as Fanni recoiled at her mother’s pet. Then turning to Washington added, “When you’re finished, Mr. Boiko wants you to carry a crate from his caravan. Teddy’s gonna help you.”
Watching everyone set about, Mosley snorted, “Must be heavy if he needs both Teddy and Washington. Won’t Teddy be busy?”
“Teddy won’t be doing performances for a while; he’ll be monitoring the entrance to Mr. Boiko’s show.”
Mosley openly cursed. Mr. Boiko might as well run the whole joint. Bad enough Jones County banned the burlesque show, which conveniently left an opening for Mr. Boiko to slither into, now the strongman act was nixed.
“Must be some kind of show to need Teddy for a bouncer,” Mosley unknowing mused aloud.
A malicious curve crawled into Mrs. Galambos’ smirk. “No admittance into Mr. Boiko’s tent after nine, but don’t worry he ain’t even stayin’ a week. You’ll get your strongman act back.”
Mosley nearly spit. “Barely a week?! You got me and Washington breakin’ our backs settin’ and he’s not even gonna be here for the whole carnival?”
“You’re back ain’t breakin’ yet,” she scoffed, stroking her pet, “And you’re workin’ the booths until eleven after you finish here.”
“I take it this is out of Mr. Boiko’s pocket,” Mosley retorted reaching for another cigarette, “So, what’s the price for a ticket? Gotta be a lot if the joker ain’t gonna be here long.”
Her viper eyes veered ever so slightly in his direction as she answered with devilish mirth, “More than you’ve ever saved.”
Whirling around, she sashayed away from the tent to attend to other matters, her nimble fingers caressing the snake resting around her neck. An enjoyable display, but Mosley was still curious about high-and-mighty Mr. Boiko’s private show. Running after her, he friskily begged for her to tell him the price. A heinous eruption of laughter burst from her lips as she wickedly thrusted a sharp finger under his nose.
Mosley spat out his cigarette.
A dollar?! No wonder Galambos was letting Mr. Boiko run his show. Curse Mrs. Galambos, the old she-devil was right, a dollar was beyond his slippery savings. Yet he could hardly imagine any fool wasting a hard-earned dollar on a show. Couldn’t be that thrilling or exotic, the stage was too small with most of the tent’s space accommodating a potential crowd.
“Where’s the great bread now?” Mosley chided casually, offering the lovely lady a spare cigarette.
Sauntering close into his space, Mrs. Galambos’ slender, sharp fingers took their time to draw out the offering. “He’s promotin’ in town,” she breathed, before striking a match to simultaneously ignite both their cigarettes. Blowing out a cloud of smoke between her pert lips, she added, “Galambos is out too.”
Without breaking eye contact, she swayed her hips in a sultry turn, giving him one last beckoning sparkle over her shoulder before meandering over to her and her husband’s empty trailer. Mosely grinned, happily giving her a head start. Mr. Boiko’s tent was pretty much ready and he’d be useless putting up heavy tarnish candelabras. Besides, while the cat’s away…
He suddenly glanced at the abandoned caravan keeping its distance by half a mile from the carnival ground. Washington said it was a Vardo, but what did he know of cars or caravans? He’d never own a car, let alone drive one. Naw, Mosley balked to himself, it was some kind of old gypsy wagon pulled along by a two-door Dodge Coup. A nice car, a nice wagon even, too nice for a huckster.
It wouldn’t take long for a peek, just enough for Mrs. Galambos to get nice and hot-tempered. Women of advanced years, experienced as they are, would need a little time to warm up. And the fierier Mrs. Galambos got, the better.
Unguarded and unobserved, Mosley snatched his chance, ambling over to the caravan to glimpse through its dirty windows. Opening one of the unlocked shudders, he found what he expected, but he wasn’t going to leave disappointed. Taking out his rusting pocket knife, he jimmied open the pane. Shoving the glass up, Mosley tried to lean in for a better look only for metal bars to halt his intrusion. Whatever Mr. Boiko kept inside, he spent good money on its security. Too bad he couldn’t afford a broom.
Even through the bars the whole place reeked of rotting food, bathtub gin, kerosine and expensive pomade. In the waning light that dared slip through the window with Mosely, he could see the barely devoured meals on tin plates, an unmade bed, and strode about clothes. Yet, so much of the tight space kept to the shadows. One corner, in particular, refused to be seen, blocked by some opposing object that swallowed the space. He would’ve dismissed it had it not been for the clippings of hair which led to the spot. Strands of gold or finely spun threads of honey, he couldn’t tell nor did he care.
He slid out of the window ready to cover his tracks when a heady sigh claimed him. All the foul stenches of animal shit, saturated frying oils, syrups and sweat vanished in a single breath that held a scent of unparalleled deliciousness. The salt of skin mingling with tingling spices and the fresh crisp bite of a handpicked fruit. It smelled ancient; sweeter, tangier, juicier where a single drop could drown a cable swimmer.
These taunting flavors exhaled hot on his neck as ghostly tendrils tickled against his cold earlobe. A hollow, desperate caress glided over his shoulders, rolling down his chest to dig its phantom nails into his shirt.
Headlights broke the spell, sending Mosely tumbling backwards, drenched in a sea of perspiration. A Dodge Coup was tearing up the path, its yellow beams cutting into the purple evening shade. Voices grew louder as electricity buzzed with the clanging familiar tune which promised joy and laughter.
His whole body shook, aching from a stiffness he couldn’t recall earning, yet his feet and knees popped as he scrambled away, his breath miles ahead of him. Only Mosely ran from one uncertainty to another when, by the funhouse, Mr. Galambos snared him by the collar, demanding to know where he had been.
Just over Galambos’ shoulder Mosely could see Mrs. Galambos in the distance, her python resting its head on her open palm. Both were staring venomously in his direction. He was acquainted with the look and knew fully well he was going to have to check his bed for the next few days.
Hearing not a word from his employer, Mosely felt the irate man shove him towards a booth with a warning he had heard too many times to feel any concern. Nevertheless, he found himself shaking, no doubt pleasing Mr. Galambos. If only the man truly knew. Mosely still felt the tight, desperate clutches.
He caught a glimpse of Mr. Boiko stumbling out of his car, laughing to himself as he grabbed hold of the skinny banner he brought into town. It was nothing special, just a poorly painted fabric on a dismal pole with only words to entice. Even Galambos would’ve taken an animal or a freak. It was a pathetic endorsement and the stranger couldn’t be drunk enough to believe it would work.
Unlocking his caravan, Mr. Boiko shouted for Washington and Teddy with Fanni, always at the ready, tagging along. She waited dutifully beside the showman while the two large men dipped into the caravan, emerging moments later with an oblong crate. Under the gleaming eye of Mr. Boiko, they took it in the tent. The showman then reached halfway into his caravan to retrieve an old carpetbag, slugging it into Fanni’s arms. He ushered her to the tent just as Teddy and Washington returned to retrieve a collapsible coffin with a glass lid from the caravan.
Mosely gawked, too fascinated with the scene to entice attendees to try their chances at his stall. He couldn’t figure what it was that Mr. Boiko had so much confidence in. Until, under the festive lights, Mosely saw him pull out a thick lock of honey-gold hair from his sleeve.
A ribbon of sweet, ripened delight graced the air, wafting in his direction. A cold, slender hand seemed to run up his shoulder to caress the back of his neck. Sorrow-drenched eyelashes fluttered against his sensitive throat as full, plump lips kissed pleas for deliverance.
The harsh, sharp smack of an impatient hand on the stall drove away the ghost, leaving Mosely’s senses whirling. There had been many warm bodies he had slipped from without mourning their absence, yet this fleeting, dreamed-formed specter had left an imprint of loneliness. It was akin to having a pleasant dream without being able to remember what made it so pleasant. The inability to reconstruct the elements that made the dream sweet was more often than not the frustrating part.
Far more frustrating was how cruelly the ability to flirt with the most naïve, unaccompanied beauties, sopping in that nectar of innocence and affection, had been bled from him. Every wink or coquettish smile coated in a candy lacquer twisted him with guilt, and every pang of it caused his gaze to drift over his shoulder, fearful of being caught. And always his envious eye swerved towards Mr. Boiko’s tent filling up with fools eager to part with a dollar.
From the game booths and ride podiums, Mosley witnessed dozens of men present their ticket to Teddy before entering the red tent. And at a precisely nine o’clock there was no one else admitted, thanks to the strongman. Mosely, however, was a poor swindler that night, letting patrons win more than in the history of Galambos’ carnival. He was not the only victim of the tent’s allure. Its line alone had people asking questions with elusive answers.
Infuriatingly, the tent’s dense material prevented the tease of shadows and sounds. Mosely couldn’t even bribe a kid to peek under. Not with Teddy being too wily and the tent being too heavy to lift. He was going to have to wait to catch a departing fool to give him the gist of what was so special about this show.
But it was an agonizing hour of patience. Mosely felt his surrounding all too much. The annoying laughter, the blabbering idiots believing they could win a game, the indecisive night air, the squeals, the grating sound of that blowhard Galambos trying to stir up more excitement.
It was only interrupted by the deep cackling of men exiting the red tent. Mosely surveyed as they streamed out, many jabbing each other with their elbows, enunciating with a coarse laugh. Others were rubbing their hands together, licking their lips in delight. For the rest, they mumbled and milled about, gawping in the directionless dark. Happy or bewildered, they all appeared as half-men, resembling the poor souls who finished a hard shift in the mines.
Mosely closed his stall in the midst of a game, heading towards the slowest, ambling man departing Mr. Boiko’s show. He called to the stranger, who stumbled at the sound without peering in its direction. Mosely was about to reach for the man’s arm when a fat-fingered grip snatched him by the collar. Galambos, pissed and fired-eyed, could have grown bull horns the second Mosely met his face.
Pulled to the side, Galambos laid it in hard, smacking Mosely in the throes of his tirade. None of it new to Mosely. A nogoodnik, lazy-sonofabitch or, the popular, screw up one more time threat that would never come to fruition. Or at least it wouldn’t as long as Mosely kept Mrs. Galambos entertained. A debatable matter now. From his twisted innards, Mosely dredged up an apology that sounded halfway sincere. Too bad his employer wasn’t halfway impressed.
Galambos ordered Mosely to close up for the night, a lazy punishment since Washington was already going to be busy fulfilling Mr. Boiko’s demands. Or at least that was the impression. Mosely had yet to see much action outside the tent long after the audience had left. It was only during the latter part of the carnival closing that anything worthwhile happened. Fanni was ushered in the tent first, a bucket of suds and a towel in the crook of each arm. After motioning her in, Mr. Boiko stood outside cracking open a bottle tucked away in some secret compartment of his flashy attire. He must’ve swallowed half the contents before Fanni came back out. Then it was Teddy and Washington’s turn to go inside the tent.
Mosely wasn’t able to see the rest, he was told to finish up and get some shut-eye. Sore and actually exhausted, he defied his screaming curiosity and went to the trailer he shared with Washington. He expected the man to return within the hour, but the hours were passing, placing Mosely in a state of misery.
It wasn’t just the labor that made his body ache, it was the loss of a need. It grew warm and balmy against his flesh, with not a cool touch to relieve him. The air was bland, stifling in its emptiness. He couldn’t stay. He threw the covers off of him, a long white strand of snake skin flying out from the flung sheets. He shuddered. Mrs. Galambos had a taste for blood on her fangs. At best she might give Washington the trailer and force Mosely into a tent, possibly on the rainiest day. At worse, she would put more than a snake skin in his bed.
Let her be sore, he thought, the memory of her body felt hollow and rough. Beds had lost their appeal even for the pleasure of sleep. His secure trailer was a sardine can, fit for nothing but dead fish. He craved the air, the scent of nature, the freedom of his surroundings. An urge that came so strongly and so swiftly, he was heading towards the vacant space of the open field the carnival resided on, before realizing he was no longer in the trailer.
Tripping over his awareness, he fell, rolling onto the grass. Flat on his back he stared at the vastness above him, spices and flora trinkling in with each cumbersome inhale. A smooth, flowing pressure, tender as a finger, moved along the surface of his body. Was that a hand he felt pressing over his heart? Something lay on top of him, though he couldn’t see it. Nor could he see the invisible slender digits gliding up to his chin. Or the warm kiss teetering at the corner of his lips. Fingers or lips, he tried to feel them, a warring struggle he attempted throughout the night, only for the ghost to vanish into vapors at the first touches of morning light.
Mosely sat up, his face wet, his flesh cold, his member unaroused, only his heart fluttering with fervor. Dawn was passing, waking everyone an hour behind Mosely. Rhythms and routine went thoughtlessly into full swing except for his own. Trapped in a glass jar, he moved separate from everything and everyone around him, a world muffled by a change that had taken hold of him.
Was it just him? What about Washington, Mosely thought, he hadn’t even returned to the trailer. He sought out Fanni finding her at her parent’s trailer washing her mother’s delicate costumes. And in an instant, the pitiful sight of her made all thoughts of Washington disappear.
“No women are allowed in the red tent,” Mosely blurted out, startling her.
Bending her head down, she scrubbed harder. “No. Not even mama’s allowed.”
Mosely propped his foot hard on the washtub. “Then what makes you special?”
“I ain’t,” Fanni murmured. “That’s why I can go in.”
He began rocking the tub, making the water slosh over her. “To do what?”
“Cleanin’. Dressin’. Settin’ up,” she wobbled out, grabbing the sides of the tub.
Mosely rocked the tub harder. “For what?”
“For his show!” she cried.
“But what’s in his show?”
“I don’t know!”
Mosely kicked the tub. “How can you not know if you help set it up?”
Picking up her mother’s soiled costume, Fanni hunched over, keeping her back to Mosely. “I don’t know,” she whimpered.
Pulling out a cigarette, he asked where her daddy was and with her scrawny arm, pointed to the edge of the grounds where a group had formed around Galambos and his wife. Mosely left the trembling girl to join Galambos’ other workers to listen in on what was going on. He didn’t see Washington or Mr. Bioko, though it seemed the crowd was here for the latter.
Some found it a disgrace, others wanted to speak to the man himself. There were offers, threats, questions all aimed at Galambos with Mr. Bioko nowhere in sight. A headache like that usually got someone booted out of the carnival, but ever the opportunist Galambos believed all attention was positive.
Mr. Bioko was a lucky sonofabitch, whatever he was showing, must’ve been a sight. One dollar for one hour’s entertainment seemed like a poor draw, yet they came, salivating and hovering around the carnival from noon until nine at night. More came on that second night, more than anyone would guess. Galambos supposedly asked Mr. Bioko if he’d do his show twice a night, but the recluse refused.
One show at night, for four nights. The stranger never practiced, never advertised, not even going into town a second time, and, as Mosely began to realize, Mr. Bioko never left his caravan except an hour before the show. With the crowd growing, Teddy needed help. And against his wife’s warning, Galambos’ lent more of his men to Mr. Bioko to keep the curious at bay while Washington carried the large crate from caravan to tent.
Eagerly awaiting menfolk was one thing, dealing with the womenfolk was another. There were church women who protested against the wickedness of the show, though none could answer why it was wicked. Others were housewives complaining the temptations of the red tent had seduced their husbands into squandering money their families desperately needed. Some were just uptight biddies looking for a complaint. When Galambos and Mr. Bioko challenged these morality warriors as to what made the show so evil in their eyes, none could give justification.
“They won’t tell us,” they’d say, “But our men want nothin’ else ‘cept to come here and spend money we can’t spare.”
Mr. Galambos suggested their respected pastors come at half price and see the wickedness for themselves. And as smug as Galambos was that second night he’d no doubt regret it by the third.
He could handle protesters, picketers, angry housewives any hour of the day, it was all part of a businessman’s job, particularly a traveling entertainer. It was no secret that Galambos was the slick son of a snake oil salesman. If his business didn’t ruffle feathers he wasn’t doing an adequate job. But when it came to dealing with half of his workers shirking their work, that was handled less delicately.
It wasn’t so much Mr. Bioko paid them more for their small service of keeping the public at bay, more that they clamored over each other to see what was in the tent. The heat of distraction sweltered in their brains and hardly a booth, a ride, a sideshow was in fit order to entertain. Not that much of the public was interested, not when nightfall descended and the craze of rabid patrons all dying to see Mr. Boiko’s show set upon the carnival.
A few hired hands pulled their money together to go see the show, leaving Mosely alone to watch over their booths, much to the chagrin of Galambos. Hell even, Mrs. Galambos was too overwhelmed trying to keeping her husband’s employee in line to fix her revenge on Mosely.
Next to everyone else, Mosely was a model employee, keeping away from the tent and Mr. Bioko’s caravan. But in truth, Mosely was both terrified and entranced by the tent. Since its arrival, he moved through the day in a glassy haze, plagued with nights spent in the comfort of a dream that refused to take shape. When the wild open night called, he abandoned the security of the trailer to lay in the dewy field. All around him the earth was vibrating with the creatures that crawled within it. The hum of cicadas filled the air as the taste of spiced fruit danced on the tip of his tongue. Never there, but always there, somewhere between awake and living, her lips caressed his chin, trailing closer to a mouth she would never kiss.
It was worse the second night, even worse by morning. He thought she would evaporate at dawn, leaving him starving once more. Only he could still feel her arms wrapped around him; her face buried in his back while her wet, plush mouth formed words desperate for salvation. But from what?
Suddenly, his eye drew upon the red tent, triggering the sensation a hundred-fold. The clinging of her frame against his body, the faint traces of incenses, the warm brew of a saccharine elixir. As it plagued him throughout the day, he slowly began to realize the sweetness didn’t lead to the tent, but to the caravan where Mr. Bioko hid throughout the day. What he did there, Mosely couldn’t guess, but by the third night the showman was staggering more, his words slurring, yet hard to miss as he blasted them into the sky. The attendees didn’t seem to care.
The crowd, bigger than the night before, were waiting hungrily, waving dollars like flags. At the sight of them, the swaying showman laughed, calling them damn fools all the while welcoming them. He could insult their mothers and still they would pay him for his show. Out from the dark, unattended corners of the carnival, Mosely saw Mrs. Galambos, snake around her shoulders, storm up to the inebriated man and warned him to either clean up or clear out. God, that woman’s riled voice could curdle milk.
With a sniggering grin, Mr. Bioko tapped the snake’s head before shoving a wad of bills in the woman’s weathered hands. Mosely had never seen Mrs. Galambos look so stunned, but she snapped out of it quick enough.
Clutching the cash in her hands, she yelled, “Your final night is tomorrow! Don’t be here next morning!”
Mosely hid just as Mrs. Galambos barreled past, blinded by the flames engulfing her eyes. Her large thick snake swung its buoyant head towards Mosely, its eyes glassy and strangely aware. A low hiss rang out. Nails were digging into his flesh, leaving no mark. What was the feeling saying to him? Could he endure another night, feeling her body on top of him, her lips pressing coldly on his face, the tears that never fell? The sharp tip of a knife penetrated his heart from the mere thought of another tormenting night. Yet how he craved it, all of it. He was no better than the stragglers, either too poor, or just the poor loved ones abandoned for the red tent, wandering aimlessly around the carnival. Painted lights and disjointed music flashed with manufactured joy. There was no laughter or clapping, no excited shrieks from winning a prize.
It was a blessing of a sort to Mosely if not Mr. Galambos. He could slip away from his booth to hoof it to the crowd of men hobbling out of the red tent. The pastors, who were invited at a cheap price, stumbled out smiling in a daze, dark circles impressed under their eyes. They mumbled and laughed at each other while their wives and daughters rushed to support them.
“What happened in there?” Mosely heard one old bird ask.
Her husband ripped out an obnoxious hoot. “You’re purty hun. Have I told you that?”
By her sour look, the answer appeared to be unlikely and when she asked what went on in the tent, her husband’s sunken eyes sobered. “I’m tired. Take me home. Ain’t nothin’ but foolishness you got in that purty head.”
Aghast, but obedient, the pastor’s wife led her husband home while the rest of the sallow faced men meandered out. Mosely managed to pluck one of Galambos’ men and shoved him to a secluded corner.
“All right,” Mosely proposed to the starry-eyed fool, “I know you didn’t get in with Galambos’ permission. And he won’t hear it from me if you tell me what’s inside the tent.”
The fool’s head lulled from side to side, childishly evading a simple question. “Thought you could read?”
“Thought you were smart. Not sure what’s so interestin’ about a somnambulist. So, what’s the real thing?”
Again, the head lulled. Mosely smacked him hard on the jaw.
“Wake up!” he ordered, pulling the fool up against the wall by his shirt. “What’s worth a dollar in there? What’s he got?”
“I-I-I…” A drunk man’s confusion began to cloudy up in the fool’s gaze, fear pluming in the mist. “I don’t know.”
Mosely slammed him against the wooden siding. “You don’t know? You were just in there!”
“Get off of ‘em!” bellowed Washington, prying Mosely’s grip from the fool’s collar.
Tripping over his own feet, the fool scrambled away.
“The hell is wrong with you!” Washington snapped.
“What’s wrong with him!” Mosely snapped back, “Ain’t anythin’ clear comin’ from him!”
“Ain’t none of them comin’ out of that place clear. Just forget it, Mosely.”
Forgetting was an impossibility. Running his hand through his hair, Mosely was ready to spit. “What’s goin’ on, Washington? Nothin’s been right since he showed up. I mean, he’s been here three days and its horseflies to shit.”
“You ain’t wrong,” Washington clicked.
“But what’s he do? Not in the tent, in his caravan. I never see him come out ‘cept at night. Is he sleepin’? Makin’ brews? Whorin’? What?”
“He drinks and he cries.”
Mosely froze. “You’re pullin’ my leg. What’s he got to cry about?”
“Nothin’ you’d know about.”
“Try me,” Mosely dared, pulling out a cigarette.
Washington eyed Mosely good and hard. Finally, he let it out with a click, “Love.”
“You’d know all about that, huh?” Mosely balked, lighting his cigarette, “Is that why I don’t see you sleepin’ in the trailer?”
Washington shoved him against the wall, before stalking off. “You ain’t sleepin’ there either,” he threw over his shoulder.
The company of smoke was abysmal, the flavor dismal. It couldn’t compare to the coaxing scent around him. The fermentation of forbidden plump fruit spiced and sugared with an ancient secret was dancing faintly, but oh so alluringly, in his nose and mouth. Spitting out the cigarette, he crumpled the rest of the pack, tossing it to the ground.
He took in the unsatisfying night, finding a balminess in the usually cool, early autumn air. He wasn’t surprised when he felt a light pressure slither delicately from his belly to the edge of his jaw. A billowing warm cloud brushed against his neck, numbing him to everything save that which had now ensnared him.
Slave to that precious weight of nothingness pushing upon him, he let it bring him to the ground. His hand moved, tempting fate, and was rewarded by the sensation of soft hair running like silk between his fingers. Goosebumps decorated his skin. It wasn’t fully solid but, even hollow, he made out flesh, plump, smooth, yet nearly fragile. Fingers clung to his clothes, ample breasts flattened themselves at his ribs, a leg intertwined with his own. She was mouthing something, a trace of words on her lips etched gently on his cheek. A warning of now or never, the threat of a loss that would forever haunt him.
All night she clung to him, letting him feel a hint of her writhing presences, her promising warmth. But on this night, when he could finally just taste her scent, there came a repeated disruption of weeping from a hoarse disembodied voice. Who was crying? His cheeks were dry, the grass was dry, the cold outline of her lips were dry. She came to him pleading, but not weeping. No, this wallowing was too deep and too gruff for a delicate ghost.
A twofold torment that nearly drove him mad by morning, nonetheless it finally led him to a decision. Even if opportunity, like the daylight hours, was slipping through his fingers. He thought first about purchasing a ticket. It wouldn’t be hard to come up with the money. He had worked the booths long enough to know how to skim off the top without that skinflint Galambos finding out. Only the attraction of the tent had robbed him of that chance.
There was Washington’s savings he hid in the husk of a book. Idiot. Just because Mosely didn’t read, didn’t mean he wouldn’t look at a book. Every so often Mosely would inspect the amount and lately, it had lightened.
He cursed his squandering; he cursed the speed in which the precious tickets were selling. The crowd was ravenous, even the pastors had returned, whereas their wives did not. Usually, Galambos would relish having such a crowd, but as none were willing to spend their money at his carnival, he put a stop to the early arrivals. He warned that either they arrive at the appointed time for Mr. Bioko’s show or not bother at all. To hammer home the threat, he got police involved.
Mr. Bioko, unaffected, remained holed up in his caravan. Mosley was tempted to knock on the man’s door, but with the carnival in disarray, he was given little chance to do so. Galambos gathered all those he employed that morning for a hard talk. No threats, though; his wife’s serpentine glare did that. Still, the man was no fool, Mr. Bioko’s show had made every man in the surrounding area desperate. If God’s men could be lured, a layman would leave their employment without a reasonable thought just to peek inside the red tent.
Galambos was desperate, too. To drive up his carnival’s attendance he cut prices, ensuring people would come from miles around as well as ensuring his men would be too busy to even think about the red tent. And miraculously, Galambos even reinstated the burlesque show, by invitation only. Mosely had no idea how much the bribe was for the police to turn a blind eye, nevertheless everyone was so fixated on the red tent that it seemed to go unnoticed.
In the end, Galambos’ gamble paid off, to a point. The crowds came, filling the place till it could burst. It was a rush. Stalls had lines, rides had lines, entertainers had crowds, but Mr. Bioko had a hoard ready and waiting. The show had sold out before the midday sun began to sink. Mosely never had the chance to buy a ticket, not that he found the money anyway.
He was ready to make a deal with any willing force, when suddenly a fight broke out in the roped off crowd. Everyone and their mother had seen Washington and Teddy bring the crate into the red tent as they did right before every show, but it proved too much. There was an hour to go and that was going too slow for them. The chill of unbridled anticipation riled a fury in the mass and the moment the off-balanced Mr. Boiko ushered Fanni inside, pandemonium hit before the drunkard could hit the bottle.
Rushing out, Teddy quickly motioned for the hired-out police, and the few remaining loyal men of Galambos, to corral the wild dogs. How they howled and snarled, barked and bit. It was glorious madness. Fate, in ravenous beauty, lent Mosely a hand. She practically lifted the heavy material of the tent to allow him to slip under. With a joyous roll, he entered the tent.
All the merry screaming, the calliope of carnival music, venders shouting, the rancorous fight outside ceased in the crimson cavern. Mosley never registered how voluminous it was or how disturbing it was to breathe in such deep red darkness. If he were a child, he might’ve believed he crept in the cavities of a giant’s dead heart. And this mute red space was so much like a heart, with a faint pulse slipping into his veins. It flowed deeply, willing his eyes, his chest, his shoulders, even his fingers, off the floor and beckoning him to the stage.
The insignificant world fell around him.
There basking in the candelabras’ light, was love, beauty, life, dreams, and salvation. A creature from exotic lands long demolished under seas and jungles. Moonlit alabaster stone paled in comparison to her radiant, flawless skin. Spices of extinct flowers and nuts perfumed her hair, its thick waves of honey amber resting on her lissome shoulders. And her mouth...God, her mouth! The fallen petals of a sacred flower made that mouth. He had no greater desire than to kiss it and no greater shame for the want of it.
A silk, cream gown hugged her lithe body. An inferior design made of inferior material. But all fabric and jewels would struggle to match her elegance. She was a thing to be worshiped, to go to war over, to lay sacrifices at her feet. Mosley was enamored by the very curve of her pale cheek that was, without warning, slathered with pink chalky powder.
“STOP!” Mosely cried, rushing towards the stage.
Fanni nearly toppled backwards, bubblegum dust flying in the air. “Mosley!” she exclaimed, “Are you crazy? You can’t be in here, Mr. Boiko will have Teddy knock you straight outta Jones County.”
Mosley scoffed, snatching the rouge out of Fanni’s hand, scratching open her skin. How could Fanni truss up such an incandescent creature like some harlot of Babylon? She was so divine, so surreal, so ungodly, beautifully pale.
The bright rouge nearly slipped from his grip. She was more than pale, she was like a corpse, lifeless, colorless. That perfect mouth hardly had a trace of color, though it made it no less magnificent. God, she was even being displayed in a crystal coffin with gilded trim, its bigger, uglier twin of boards and nails lay just offstage.
Breathlessly he uttered, “What is this?”
“It’s a dollar,” Fanni snapped with a temperament that almost, surprisingly, matched her mother’s, “Buy a ticket and find out!”
He was nearly impressed; Fanni had fire after all. Nevertheless, Mosley wasn’t going to risk seeing a secret without some leverage. From his pocket, he produced two train tickets he discovered in Washington’s hollow book. It was a bit of an insult, Washington never uttering a word of his intentions. So much for loyalty.
As for Fanni, she faltered miserably. The fire she had just seconds ago, smothered to an ember. God, how was she a child of Galambos? Quietly, she resumed her chores, smearing a waxy red lipstick on the dormant lady’s soft, luscious lips. Gritting his teeth, Mosely slapped Fanni’s hands away before she could apply more of the putrid gunk, then slapped her again for the disrespect.
A caterwaul of fury roared from the back of the tent. Barreling towards the stage with fire blasting through his nostrils, Washington’s murderous eyes were locked on Mosley. In a quick second Mosley’s fingers threatened to rip the tickets apart.
“Wait!” Fanni cried to Washington, stopping him at the stage. “He’s got the tickets.”
With barely a breath between them, no one moved. All were as still and soundless as the woman in the unclosed glass coffin. Mosley wondered why she didn’t move or intervene. She didn’t even flinch. He was risking it for her, the least she could do was react!
A deep guttural laugh flapped aimlessly about the tent like bats fleeing a wet, dank cave.
“Lovers and blackmailers, is it?” Mr. Boiko shabbily sang as he approached the trio. “Well, now sir,” he addressed to Mosley, “A ticket to my show is a dollar. No early views, not even for a hundred dollars. However, you clearly have something of greater value than pilfered cash. Freedom is a priceless thing,” he goaded turning his sulfur teeth to Fanni and Washington.
Without taking his bleary eyes off Fanni and Washington, Mr. Bioko stretched out his hand to Mosely. “I’ll take those as a fee.”
Fanni nearly broke into tears whereas Washington clenched his fists, throwing daggers from his eyes. Mosely felt none of it as he handed the tickets over. Not missing a beat, Washing took out a wad of bills, offering to buy back the tickets at double their worth.
“All set to leave, eh?” Mr. Boiko chimed, tapping the tickets thoughtfully on his wet mouth. “Very well, I’ll take your trade and wish you a much better future and much better friends.”
Washington took Fanni by the hand and together they fled from the stage, disappearing into the fragrant smells and glowing lights of the carnival. Mosley’s heart wasn’t breaking.
“Now sir,” Mr. Boiko sang, placing a friendly hand on Mosley’s shoulder. “You are certainly not the first gentleman to sneak into my tent, entranced and enchanted by my beautiful spectacle.”
Chuckling under his heady gin-soaked breath, the showman yanked Mosely closer, allowing him to inhale her intoxicating musk. The pulse which had hooked him the moment he entered the tent, pierced further into him. He could feel it fluttering like a bird frantically flapping within its cage. Mr. Bioko’s gaze never wavered from his prize. Cloudy in color his eyes still shined with awe and heartbreak as his boney finger stroked her smooth cheek.
“How easy she makes a man act with bold recklessness,” he muttered, before whispering in her ear, “Why are you suddenly silent to me?”
Mosely shirked from the man’s grip. “What is she?”
Broken from his own spell, Mr. Bioko’s lip curled with scorn as he retrieved the lid to the glass coffin, and slammed it over her. She did not stir.
“Have you not read the banner? She is a somnambulist, she sleeps!” he snapped, “She sleeps far beyond dreams and darkness, no light, no night, stars or suns. She is but a coffin which breathes, my fair creature.”
Fair was a cruel, underwhelming description for the slumbering sprite marred by smears of rouge and cheap lipstick. She surpassed beauty!
Sorely, Mosley wished to touch her, only he hesitated. Such beauty couldn’t really exist. Maybe it was a parlor trick like the living headless woman he saw once. Perhaps mirrors, a very good actor, indeed, or, in the most macabre sense, a perfectly preserved corpse. But corpses usually don’t have black and blue marks, do they? He could see bruises, halfway covered up with snowy powder and foundation. Her mouth was blackened with imprints of rough, calloused lips from monsters who had no right.
A loud smack startled his skepticism. His bewildered eyes fell upon Mr. Boiko’s powerful gnarled hand pressing threateningly on the glass coffin. The harsh impact causing the enchantress’s head to tilt slightly.
“There is something in your eye sir that greatly vexes me,” Mr. Boiko seethed, “I see how you gaze at her and still you doubt! I can tolerate your doubt of me, but do not doubt her!”
“I ain’t!” Mosley barked, “I wouldn’t care if she was real. I’d pay more—”
Mr. Boiko guffawed contemptuously, “You wouldn’t spare a nickel that you rightly earned.”
The showman’s mockery curled Mosley’s fingers into his palm. “I would!” Mosley spat, “I just don’t believe people pay a dollar to watch somethin’ sleepin’!”
A wide grin, ripe with glee, spread across Mr. Boiko’s sunken cheeks. Reopening the lid, he replied, “No, they don’t. Arise my Ophelia and walk forward.”
The thick honey waves rustled and swished, perfuming the tent air with the musk of flowers and wine long forgotten. Joints creaked, boards squeaked as her hands gripped the edges of her coffin, pivoting her body forward. Gracefully stepping out on the stage, her head lulling from side to side with each movement, her eyes remaining sealed. Body straight she continued to walk until Mr. Boiko ordered her to halt. She stopped right at his side, a perfect statue.
Urging Mosley closer, the showman beamed, “As you are not a very educated man, I tell you she is a somnambulist. Sleep she may and may forever, but she is not dormant. Not entirely inactive, if I so choose.”
Mosley scoffed, “If you so choose, she follows your orders, like a well-rehearsed trick—”
Like the crack of a whip the ferocious sound reverberated lengthily in the tent and ten times longer in Mosley’s ear. It might as well have been his own jaw that was so vehemently struck. His heart twisted as her unresponsive snowy face radiated to scarlet. Again, Mr. Boiko struck her again, splitting her lip open. Mosley was ready to strangle Mr. Boiko when he saw the tip of a knife pressed to her throat. The man’s eyes challenged him, yet his hand was unsteady, his hardened eyes revealing cracks of unmistakable misery.
None of this prevented the disturbed man from running the tip of his blade from her neck to the swell of her breast. The gown opened with ease; no knife had to cut it for it to expose the excellence of her breasts. There were bruises there too and small red lines, newly healed. The tip of the knife stopped, dangerously trying to dig at her petal pink nipple. But Mr. Boiko’s nerve failed him and the knife slipped from his hand, clanging at his shoes.
“I’ve done worse things to prove my point,” he exhaled, running his thumb against her lip, wiping away the blood. “Perhaps she feels it, perhaps not. I know she resents me, more so each day. She resents all those who care for her. It never seems so in the beginning, not when she is all honey,” he continued, “But there is a madness to caring for her. It consumes the soul as stormy seas consume wayward ships. Such rage pulses into me that I can make her do anything, except what I most desire.”
Was she listening, Mosley wondered, pleading to wake, incapable of doing so herself? “Is there nothin’ that can wake her up?”
At this the man laughed, “What do think will? The blood of someone who loves her? A kiss from a selfish fool? Fools pay good money to press their rough lips on her to see if she’ll squeal or slap them.”
The thought of all those men bruising her gorgeous, pure lips filled Mosley with disgust. His words shot out like dueling daggers, striking Mr. Boiko who accepted their sharp point. How could he let those men debase her so? How could he care for her in this manner?
“I must provide for her, my somnambulist,” Mr. Boiko answered, “even if it means exploiting her. She is so ravishing, who wouldn’t pay money to look, to touch...you wish to touch her, all men do and your private viewing is at an end. Lift up your arm my darling.”
The woman reached out towards Mosley her fingers unfurling like newborn leaves whispering secrets. Unworthy as he was, he couldn’t resist, slipping those pale slender fingers into his palm. All those nights, a torment of a dream, a long promise of what could be. It was here now, obtained at last. Gently raising her fingers to his mouth, he kissed them.
Her fingers roped around his hand, latching on to him with unmatched strength. Horrified, Mr. Boiko began to pry at her grip, furiously, slapping, clawing, cursing and commanding for her to release her grip.
She would not obey.
Mosley felt colder than a tombstone, frozen as a corpse and between the lush strands of her hair, he glimpsed a faint grin. Suddenly, she released her grip and crumpled on the stage like a rag doll. Mr. Boiko collected her in his arms, summoning her to move, to open her eyes, to wave her hand.
She did nothing.
“Villain!” he cried out into the empty belly of the tent, then repeating softly, “Villain. I am. My price. My punishment. I deserve Hell for you.”
With rivers rushing down his face he shook her, slapped her and screamed to no avail. Then his eyes roved, away from the muse in his arms, rising up to Mosely. The drunkenness had dissolved but not the misery, though it had a new companion. Bright, fiery, frightening.
“I should save you from hell,” he gritted through his teeth.
“I don’t-I don’t understand any of it—”
“Sleepiness nights, eh? The feel of a slender, soft body pressing against your unworthy brittle bones? And yet no one’s there. You smell the sweet concoctions of a bygone era, yet nothing is there. The seduction to madness.”
Mosely’s heart tried with all its strength not to give away the answer but too late. Maniacal laughter bounced out of the man’s haggard mouth.
“I should have seen it. That madness she has placed in your eyes. She has forsaken me, because I wanted her to be mine. I parade her so I can keep her. Live just on the verge, so she is no one else’s but mine.”
Cupping the back of her head, Mr. Bioko gazed upon her. The face was that of a broken man who had no right to hold such a delicate creature. How it twisted Mosely’s innards. He could still feel her fingers holding onto him, feel the pleas she traced on him every night. Mr. Bioko was right, she did resent him, her captivity. She would never be his, because he was undeserving of her. She came to Mosely.
“I was always going to give you what you wanted,” the sick man whispered, his foul breath tainting the fragility of her unblemished skin. “Always. Not like the others. My dying breath yours forever.”
The knife gleamed in the shadows, so close to the villain’s shoe. The dry, contemptable lips were moving closer and closer to her. No, Mosely thought, it’s not you she wants.
Mosely had never slaughtered anything in his life, yet in his hand was the blood of another living creature. Wide eyes rolling up at him, Mr. Bioko clutched his throat, gurgling warnings Mosely spat at. Throwing the knife down, Mosely rifled through the soon-to-be-dead man’s pockets, listening for the jangling of keys.
With Mr. Bioko bleeding out on the stage, Mosely scooped up the showman’s prisoner, placing her gently in the wooden crate. Latching the lid on tight, he hurried over to the candelabras. A hand gripped at his ankle; Mr. Bioko was still clinging on to his pathetic life.
Mosely gave the cretin a hard kick and toppled the candelabras. The little flames took to the spilled blood like oil; the stage was tinder set ablaze, faster than Mosely had intended.
Smoke was slipping out with his timing. He dragged the crate quickly, all the while apologizing to the inert woman inside. The tent’s material felt heavier than ever as he wrenched the stolen crate through to the other side. The tent glowed; a heart set alight. It wouldn’t be long, people were noticing, just too slow to stop it. The flames were already feasting on the fabric, devouring it like amber moths. It was perfect.
Yelling and racing, all attention was on the tent allowing Mosely to haul the crate as quick as he could towards Mr. Bioko’s caravan. No one noticed a thing. No one noticed a man struggling to hoisted a crate into another’s caravan. With his stolen keys, he got her inside the caravan, strapping her down for the long rough journey. All this and still no one noticed, not even when he started up a pinched car, taking off on the dark, high-geared road, with no intention of stopping until the hours passed with the miles.
The last of the carnival he saw was the red tent engulfed as helpless fools tried to put it out. Would they know it was him? He would not be the only one to have disappeared that night. For all they knew, he was dead in a ditch somewhere or off with Washington and Fanni.
He was driving into risks, but he could plan. He could take care of himself and her. And she was there, wasn’t she? He really did save her, didn’t he? This was no dream?
His heart was quickening, panic gushing in the valleys of his mind. The events seemed unreal. He took a life; he saved a life. He saved her. So why couldn’t he feel her gratitude? It had to be real! Yet, he struggled to make out her distinct fragrance in the Dodge Coup. It wasn’t strong enough to penetrate the overwhelmingly inebriating pungency of gin. The only thing he could make out was the mocking laughter of uncertainty.
Mosely yanked sharply on the wheel, pummeling the car into an unkept rugged grassy field. With a bounce, the car smashed head first into a ditch, the caravan flying an inch off the ground. The world tilted as sirens shrilled in his ears. Wiping the blood from his nose, he saw in a detached mirror the caravan on its side. He sucked in a sharp, slicing breath and kicked the bent door out. Engine smoke plumed in the night air as Mosely staggered drunkenly to the caravan.
The Vardo’s door hung limply off the hinges, and, to his horror, the crate had broken from its bounds. But by grace, it wasn’t smashed. It had slid properly on its back while everything around it was in pieces.
Moonlight poured from broken windows draping over the shadows, highlighting with majesty the uninjured crate. The madness of wanting took hold of his senses and wrenching the lid off, his thirsty gaze claimed the beautiful alabaster goddess glowing in the silvery, azure light.
How beautiful she was, how miraculous her existence. And she chose him. Gathering her up in his arms, Mosely held her close to make sure she would not disappear this time. He touched her face, wept in her hair and…he could not resist. It was wrong, he was unworthy, but they beckoned him. Surely, as a token of appreciation…
Her took her mouth.
A slender hand touched his cheek, breaking the kiss. Gazing upon her, he watched her eyes flutter open as the last of his breath slipped between her reddening lips. Sugared roses bloomed in her cheeks, her moonlight skin slowly becoming saturated in strawberry cream. She inhaled deeply, savoring what Mosely could not.
No sweet aroma, no taste from the kiss, no chill from the autumn air. Not a nerve twitched, not a single palpitation echoed through his body. Muscles and joints kept in place, unable to strain to move or pop in resistance. But his eyes soaked in everything, and he saw, in his helpless state, no light in her blackened eyes, no joy, no gratitude, not a hint of love. There was only a vile, haunting happiness glowing from the pit of her. She laughed voluptuously as she slithered around his paralyzed body like smoke without so much as grazing the loose fabric of his shirt.
Was she so repulsed by him, by the mere thought of touching him? He got his answer when her hard palms shoved him into the splintery crate. His body rang with an agony he couldn’t even scream from as he landed on his back, staring up at her cruel, magnificent form. She reached inside, taunting him with the temptation of touch, only to jab two sharp nails into the crease of his brow. Scratching two red lines down his face, she hooked the rim of his eyelids, bringing them to a close, sealing them shut.
As the clutches of sleep dragged him to his oubliette of relentless dreams, Mosley heard the faint echo of a casket lid closing over him.
© 2025 E.R. Dyal/ Escape by the Fireside
Thank you all for joining me by the fireside. I hope you found some escapism. You can support my channel by merely reading my other works. Feel free to like or comment, but please keep it civil. If you’d like to get first dibs on a story, then just subscribe.
Thank you again and see you next time by the fireside.
This one gave me chills! Perfect for spooky season.
Great post. All the characters felt really unique, and the plot kept me reading to the end.