Anathema (8 page)

"Nonsense. You know how people are the first time you meet. It always seems a bit weird."

"Yeah, but the way they stared at me..."

"They weren't staring, Diane. Besides, if they were, who could really blame them. You are the best attraction at this carnival."

"Oh, you!” Diane smiled and gave Jim a playful slap on the shoulder.

Jim pulled his wife close and gave her a peck on the cheek.

"Look. A fortune-teller.” Diane pointed to the canvas tent just past the dunk tank. “Let's go get our future told."

As they trekked across the midway, they waved to Molly and Travis, who were patiently waiting in line for an ice-cream cone. They gave five dollars to the old man in the booth next to the black tent and waited to be called.

They waited less than a minute.

The inside was much larger than it appeared from the outside. Bathed in red light, the strong scent of cinnamon hung in the air. A pentagram was painted in the center of the plywood floor; a table, draped in red cloth, stood in the middle of it. On the table was a crystal ball and a set of tarot cards in a black silk pouch.

Behind the table sat an old gypsy woman. The lighting made it impossible to determine her age. Maybe she was fifty; perhaps she was one hundred fifty. But there was a fire in her eyes that burned bright even in the deceptive light.

"O-o-o-o, spooky,” Jim whispered and elbowed Diane in her side.

"Silence!” the gypsy woman bellowed. Jim jumped at the sound of her voice. It was hard to believe such volume came from the frail woman. “The spirits do not like to be mocked.

"Come. Sit.” The gypsy woman waved her hand through the air and two chairs pulled away from the table.

Jim smiled. Impressive. He'd been to so-called fortune-tellers before and their shows were filled with cheesy parlor tricks: unexplained voices, mysterious winds, and candles that extinguished themselves, but he'd never seen this kind of trick before.

The Andersons sat across from the woman with the wiry hair and yellow, crooked teeth. “What is your pleasure?” she asked. Her voice sounded as if she spent way too much of her free time smoking unfiltered cigarettes.

"You're the big guru. You tell us.” Jim was usually more guarded about what he said, but the beer made him giddy, and the words just fell off his lips.

The fortune-teller shot Jim the evil eye. “All right, James Anderson, I'll tell you that what you want to know."

Pulling the crystal ball forward, the hag gazed deep into the glass. The smell of cinnamon grew stronger. A gray mist swirled and clouded the orb. The light shifted and concentrated on the old crone. Their breath puffed in front of them as the air got cold.

Jim had to stifle a giggle. Parlor tricks. All of it. And they weren't very good.

The gypsy looked up and stared at Jim. “You think I'm a fake, don't you, James Anderson? You think all you see and smell and feel here is done by machines. Well, let me tell you, James Anderson, what I have seen in the glass."

She pushed the crystal ball aside and leaned forward. Her breath smelled like onions, and her ragged clothes reeked of mothballs. Her eyes sparkled like rubies in the crimson light. “You have been with the dead. I could smell their stink on you the moment you walked in. They have darkened your soul.

"Your wife desires another man's cock. She wants to take it in her mouth and taste his seed.

"Your daughter, too, has secret desires. But her will is not her own and it will drive her insane.

"And there is your son, Travis. There is a dark veil over his face. That veil is death."

The color drained from Jim's face. “Fuckin’ freak.” He grabbed his wife's arm and stood up. The back of his legs hit the edge of chair and toppled it over. “Come on, Diane, let's go."

As they moved toward the exit, a wind, as hot as dragon's breath, whispered past them and opened the tent flap. They were halfway across the midway before they could no longer hear the mad cackling of the fortune-teller.

"What was that all about?” Diane asked.

"Nothing. It was all bullshit,” Jim replied. His face was still pasty white. “Let's find the kids and get the hell out of here."

Reverend Timothy had just finished his nightly ritual and was about to leave when he first noticed the smell that reminded him of raw sewage.

On occasions, a mouse would get trapped behind the altar, die, and decompose. But that wasn't the case this time. The only thing the reverend found was a mess of cobwebs and a small red spider.

Timothy walked across the sanctuary. He noticed the stench was more foul as he approached the baptismal font. Could something have died back there? He didn't think so. There was much-too-much room around the font for any kind of vermin to get stuck. Still, the stink really was the strongest here.

Timothy lifted the silver lid from the font and gagged when the stench rose from underneath. The blessed water had spoiled. It was black and oily.

The reverend fell back against the wall. The lid slipped from his grip and rolled down the aisle like a lopsided wheel. Timothy slid down the wall until he sat on the marble floor. Then, he pulled his knees up to his chin. He looked up at the stained-glass Jesus. The sinners were there again, writhing at His feet. But this time, Christ wasn't crying, He was laughing.

Timothy closed his eyes, but this time when he opened them, the images had not disappeared.

Tears streamed down the pastor's flushed cheeks.

It was happening again.

Chapter 10

Sleep did not come easy for Jim Anderson. He lay awake, staring at the ceiling and thinking about what the old gypsy woman had told him. The old bitch had given him quite a scare.

He hadn't told her his name, yet she called him:
James
. Other than his mother, no one ever called him that. Maybe she wasn't a fake after all, but her ludicrous predictions could all be rationalized away.

A veil of death over his son's face. Of course there is. Everyone's going to die someday. Everybody's face is covered with a veil. That doesn't mean death was going to come knocking tomorrow.

His daughter has secret desires. Sure she did. In fact, he hoped she did. She's a normal fourteen-year-old girl. Molly would probably love to be alone with one of the ‘N Sync guys. Heck, she'd probably like to be alone with all of them. If he were her age, he'd love to be with...

(the three dead whores)

...Marilyn Monroe, or even Madonna for that matter.

As far as Diane lusting after another man, she's been there, done that, and Jim was certain she had no plans to do it again.

Jim rolled on his side and looked at Diane. They had fun at the festival tonight. Fun until they'd gone to see that damn fortune-teller. Then things unraveled a bit.

He supposed the gypsy said those things just to get him riled. A kind of pay back for the attitude he displayed. Still, the fact she knew his name was unnerving.

"I love you, Diane,” he whispered and closed his eyes, hoping sleep would come soon.

Diane felt her husband's eyes bore into the back of her head. They had planned to make love tonight. But when the time came, she couldn't go through with it. She told Jim all the beer had given her a headache.

A headache.

She used the oldest cliché she knew to tell her husband she wasn't interested. Truth was, she did want to have sex, just not with Jim. The old fortune-teller was right. She really did want another man. And, yes, she'd take his penis in her mouth.

Ever since she'd met Jarvis, Diane couldn't stop thinking about him. She didn't know why. Maybe it was his long, slender fingers. Or his charming smile. Or the way his voice lifted at the end of a sentence. Or...

the size of his package stuffed in his pants,
a strange voice whispered in her head.

Diane snapped her eyes open. Where had that voice come from? Was someone in the room with them? Was it ... Jarvis?

Ever since their encounter, Diane had been wet between the thighs. Her panties were so moist they felt like she'd put them on straight from the washing machine. There was an electric tension between her legs that made her insides quiver. She was on fire. Maybe if she touched herself. Just a little bit to relieve some of the pressure...

Go ahead,
the voice cooed.
You know you want to. I want you to.

Diane slipped her hand beneath the covers and touched the waistband of her cotton panties. Just the touch of her fingers against the region sent tendrils of hot passion coursing through her loins.

She slipped her hand inside her underwear; touched the dewy patch of hair between her legs. She shuddered and fought the urge to scream as her fingers searched for her sex.

Then from behind her, Jim whispered, “I love you, Diane."

Diane froze. What was happening? She couldn't do this. Not with her husband beside her. She couldn't do this even if her husband wasn't here.

She slid her hand out of her underwear and let it fall to the mattress.

"I love you, too,” she replied. Then she brought her hand to her face and licked her fingers.

Kitty-corner across the hall, Molly sat by the window and stared at the blaze of neon caused by the carnival lights. In her mind, she was there again, in the midst of the noisy midway.

Travis handed her a ceramic angel he'd won by tossing a softball into a milk can. “Here, this is for you,” he had said. The smile he wore was so big the corners of it rode halfway up his cheeks.

"What is this for?” she had asked him.

"Because you're my sister and I love you. Even if we do fight, sometimes."

She accepted the gift and gave her brother a kiss on the top of his head. But she really hadn't heard what he'd said. Her concentration was focused on the young stud that was about to swing the sledgehammer at the Muscleman game. The way he moved, how he stood, the color of his hair, reminded her of Cruz. And because of that, she couldn't get him out of her head.

Molly saw him almost as soon as they arrived. It was as if some great magnet had pulled her attention in his direction. He was in the beer garden, whooping it up with some of his friends. Molly knew he saw her, too. It was just like one of those romantic movies where lovers-to-be caught each other's eyes across a crowded room, or in a packed subway.

Their paths crossed again near the cheese curd stand, and she gave him her prettiest smile. He winked at her, and she thought her heart would melt. The third time, she stood right next to him while Travis tried to win a framed photograph of some rock star by throwing darts at a balloon.

When he turned and said, “Hello,” Molly felt an electric charge chatter through her body. His eyes were even cuter than Cruz's and his voice was like smooth chocolate over ice cream. There was something else, too, something that made her burn inside, something that made him insatiable. He looked dangerous. And Molly liked that. She liked it a lot.

Molly ran her hand across her budding breasts. The nipples were hard and sore. She wished she was bigger, fuller. He'd like that.

She stroked the inside of her thigh with her other hand and let it linger when she touched her crotch.

This isn't right.

Then another voice, one she'd never heard before, whispered,
But, oh, isn't it fun!

Yes, Molly agreed, but that still didn't make it right.

Molly picked up the gift from Travis, ran her fingers across its features. In the face of the angel, she saw
her
angel.

A smile slithered across her face as she pressed the angel against her swollen vagina.

Bill sat in the beer garden, silhouetted against a glow of carnival lights. He drained the dregs of his beer, shook a Camel Red from its package, and thought about her.

Virgin meat,
said a voice inside his head. It wasn't a voice he recognized, it certainly wasn't his, but somehow he felt a strange kinship with it.
Hot cherry pie!

Bill lit his cigarette and sucked until the ember burned as hot as the fire in his loins. He pictured Molly's soft, untouched lips. He wanted to fondle her young, pure rosebud breasts and break her seal as he tasted her sex.

Bill moaned.

"What the fuck's wrong with you?” Denny Halloway asked. “All that moanin’ and groanin’ shit."

Halloway was Bill's best friend. He was also a small-time crook whose specialty was boosting car stereo systems.

"Nothin',” Bill replied. “I'm bored with this shit. Finish your beer and let's go give Jarvis a hard time."

"Whatever.” Halloway downed the rest of his beer and belched. Then he farted.

They left the beer garden and shuffled to the Stumble Inn. Bill's thoughts kept drifting back to...

(Hot cherry pie)

...Molly, and although the voice inside him told him he'd see her again, he couldn't help but wonder when.

Chapter 11

Jarvis hustled the last drunk out the door of the Stumble Inn about ten minutes ago and turned the lights off in the tavern. Even though he'd wiped down the bar and tables with a solution of Lysol and extremely hot water, there was still a sharp odor of beer beneath the tang of lemon-freshness. But as barkeep, he'd grown accustomed to the unusual smell and seldom noticed it anymore. Tonight, though, there was something different about it. There was another odor layered between the existing two. It was the thick, hot, passionate smell of old sex.

The fine hairs on the back of his neck stood up. Goosebumps rippled down his arms. A cold sweat popped from his forehead. Jarvis switched the lights back on, turned, and saw her standing in the doorway.

She was dressed in a white robe that looked like a lace bridal gown. Her hair was pulled back from her face, and moonlight circled her head like a halo.

"What do you want?” Jarvis asked.

"You,” Diane whispered as she approached the bartender.

"You shouldn't be here,” Jarvis said. He was compelled to take a step backward, but stepped forward instead.

"It's okay. I've done this before.” Diane undid the single button that held her robe closed and it slid from her body.