Peach Fuzz
©Adrian Ludens
The setting sun was a crimson half-sphere, sinking below the edge of the world. A few scattered clouds raced across the sky like children who have lingered outdoors too long and now must scamper home. Another gorgeous sunset as seen from Highway 16.
Pete craned his neck, watching one gray wisp of cloud swirl from the pink sky of the west to the dark blue of the east. The line was moving slowly and he felt restless. Pete was beginning to wonder whether the line was moving at all. As he stood there, Pete shifted from one foot to the other impatiently gazing at the darkening hills. Melody, he was sure, would be wondering where he was. She might even be waiting for him. Too bad, Pete decided. She had pushed him too far this time.
The October evening breeze, seemingly more self assured with each passing day, blew blustery and cold. The gusts buffeted the thrill seekers standing in line, hurling dust and grime into any eyes not protectively facing away. The canvas of the enormous red and black tent bucked and bulged, but stood resolute. Like the people in line, the tent would not give up an evening of fun just because of the weather. The winds, as if sensing the futility of their quest, abated. Crickets chirped in the distance.
Pete thought that a tourist trap used to be here. Something with a giant cement seal out front and a dolphin show. But it had closed years ago and the building was bulldozed to the ground. The circus-style tent which someone had resurrected on the vacant lot accounted for the only activity in nearly a decade.
Pete scuffed a work boot idly against the ground, and squinted toward the head of the line. There, a diminutive man with a sallow complexion and watery eyes was ostensibly selling tickets.
“Five dollars,” he croaked at the next customer. As Pete watched, the ticket seller clutched the green bill briefly in a shaking hand, and then squirreled it away in a sturdy black box.
Instead of handing over a ticket in exchange for the admission, the slight man gazed past the patrons toward the entrance of the tent. He seemed to be awaiting some secret signal that indicated the occupants were ready for the next in line.
Murmurs of conversation had begun to taper off, replaced by impatient remarks. Finally the person in front of Pete, a lanky teen wearing a Devildriver t-shirt and ridiculously baggy pants, shouted out his displeasure.
“Come on! I'm gonna die of boredom instead of fright! Move the line!”
This brought laughter from several thrill seekers and murmurs of agreement from some of the others. Encouraged, the kid sounded off again.
“I'm growing a beard back here!” he crowed, swiveling his head to grin at Pete and the others who were standing in line behind him.
Pete flashed an indulgent half-smile at the kid, and then turned away. In Pete's opinion, there was only one thing worse than standing in a slow-moving line and that was standing in a slow-moving line behind some nitwit who thinks he's a comedian.
When the would-be jokester had turned around, clearly enjoying that second round of chuckles, Pete got a good look at him. The youth had been cursed with lank blond hair, red constellations of acne and yellow teeth. Pete thought the coup de gras on this facial disaster was the peach-fuzz mustache the kid had attempted to cultivate. Because he remembered his own awkward teen years, Pete resisted the temptation to shut the youth down with a little cruel humor of his own.
“I bet that sorry looking peach fuzz mustache of yours is the scariest thing I'll see all night.” Pete mentally hurled the insult, but voiced nothing. He had to grudgingly admit the kid had a point.
Just when it seemed that the line would never move again, the man selling tickets addressed the crowd.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he shouted. “Thank you for visiting us this evening. We here at Red Tent Entertainment will do everything in our power to give you a bigger scare than any other spook house or haunted attraction you have ever entered.”
A few chuckles and hoots of approval followed this statement and the speaker continued.
“Please be patient as we have a small staff and wish to do everything we can to give each and every customer a night of fright they'll never forget!”
Scattered applause followed this announcement, broken abruptly by a piercing shriek coming from deep within the darkness of the canvas carnival tent.
The ticket seller theatrically held out his arms and said, “Another satisfied customer!” The people in line burst into a fresh round of laughter and applause. Pete clapped absently for a few moments and watched as the woman at the head of the line reached out to receive a little red ticket.
Pete's eyes followed the woman as she approached the flap in the tent that served as the entrance. She glanced back at the rest of the line, apparently self conscious over her sudden hesitation. The woman giggled, sounding embarrassed. Then she turned and disappeared into the darkness within.
Slowly but surely, the line moved forward. The youth in front of Pete had fallen mercifully silent. Pete heard crickets and murmured conversations and suddenly found himself wishing for Melody's company. He could go back right now. First he'd apologize, and then they'd put this whole silly tiff behind them.
“Screw that,” Pete thought. He was always the one who came crawling back. Not tonight. Let Melody wait and worry about him. He knew her well enough to know that if he failed to at least call her, she'd stay up all night, convincing herself that some horrible fate had befallen him. Then when Pete showed up at the doorstep of her West-side apartment in the morning with flowers she could feel like a fool.
Pete smugly resolved to make Melody wait. After he finally got a look inside the spook house, he'd find a bar to hole up in for a while, and then crash for the night at his own apartment. Pete realized that he'd nearly reached the head of the line. The loudmouthed kid with the peach fuzz mustache was next. When the kid exchanged a portrait of Lincoln for a little red rectangle of admission, he turned around to Pete with an excited look that lit up his face.
“Here we go, huh?” the youth said to him. “This is gonna rock!”
Pete grinned back, infected by the kid's enthusiasm despite himself. He suddenly felt glad he hadn't made the peach fuzz mustache crack.
The kid headed inside and Pete was suddenly struck by a thought that filled him with an absurd sense of panic. What if he didn't have enough for admission?
Pete mentally chided himself. He knew this irrational fear was just a trick part of his mind was playing on him, trying to find any excuse to return to Melody. He pushed that part of him aside and turned his attention to the diminutive fellow who stood by the cash box.
Now that he stood at the head of the line, Pete was finally close enough to note the little fellow's features. He seemed almost lost in the red satin suit and black crushed velvet cape. The ticket seller's face looked oddly expressionless. Pete was unable to see the color of the man's eyes, his hair may or may not have been a light brown, and his nose and mouth were equally unremarkable. It occurred to Pete that if he had to guess the man's age, he'd be hard pressed to even narrow it down to the right decade.
“Can I ask you a question?” Pete finally asked the little man.
“No,” the ticket seller responded. There was flatness and finality in his tone that kept Pete quiet.
The little man went on looking over Pete's shoulder. Pete scratched his cheek idly, feeling foolish. He glanced up at the night sky, almost completely filled with twinkling stars. The vast expanse above him made Pete feel small and insignificant. When he looked back down at the ticket seller, he was startled to realize the fellow had been gazing at him intently. Their eyes locked.
“Can I ask you a question?” the ticket master inquired archly.
Pete tensed up, suddenly feeling nervous, but not knowing why. Maybe he thought Pete was the smart ass kid's buddy and was going to give him a hard time. Pete's mouth felt dry and he tried to swallow.
“Sure,” he croaked finally.
The little man continued to gaze at him in solemn silence for few more moments.
“Do you have five dollars?” the man asked mildly, holding up a red ticket between his thumb and forefinger.
Relief flooded over Pete and he thrust out a handful of ones. The little fellow snatched them from Pete with one hand and immediately offered the ticket with the other.
Surprised, Pete took it and asked, “I can go in now?”
“I wouldn't give you a ticket if it wasn't time for you to go inside,” the little man responded.
Pete turned and sauntered twenty yards to the big canvas tent's entrance, which was still flapping in the now halfhearted Black Hills breeze. He paused, peering intently into the dark void. He thought he heard the chirping of crickets again; this time coming from inside the tent. Realizing he probably looked foolish to everyone still standing in line, he stepped inside without a backward glance.
Engulfed in darkness, Pete paused to let his eyes adjust before proceeding. Black canvas ‘walls' on both sides made moving forward the only option. Pete walked through the narrow passage until he realized he had stepped out into what seemed to be a large open area. Pete proceeded forward tentatively in the darkness. He jerked his foot up skittishly when his work boot landed on something fleshy and pliant laying on the ground. A few lamps strung high above him flickered on then, illuminating the inside of the tent with a weak green glow.
Scattered in the dirt, Pete saw piles of what vaguely resembled dismembered arms, legs and torsos. The props were cheaply made, though, and reminded Pete more of dried corn husks than of ‘severed limbs'.
A scuffling sound came from behind him and Pete turned to look. He felt his jaw go slack with amazement and his arms hung heavy at his sides. Scuttling towards him in the sickly green light was an enormous mockup of a praying mantis. Pete gaped, looking for the wires. Was it a puppet? Some kind of projection?
Then there came a metallic warble that grated his ears. Pete realized it was the chirping he'd been only dimly aware of outside the tent. One spiked foreleg tossed something aside. It flew past Pete and he heard the dull thud as it landed somewhere behind him. He gazed in horrified amazement at the giant puppet-mantis-creature. The insectile eyes of the thing were no more than bulbous domes, yet they seemed to gaze down at Pete as if waiting for him to make the next move.
Pete suddenly wanted to be far from where he was. He imagined Melody in panties and a halter top, curled up under the covers, awaiting his return. Pete imagined kissing her softly on her forehead and apologizing for his foolishness and anger. He imagined gently kissing her lips…
The giant mantis swiveled its head angrily and clawed up dust as it darted forward several yards. Its shrill cry made Pete want to cover his ears. Instead he turned to run, but his foot landed on a boulder. Pete felt a sharp jolt of pain shoot through his ankle and he sprawled awkwardly into the dirt. Pete looked back and saw the mantis rear up, its first thoracic segment flexing and stretching. The creature's spiked forelegs snapped forward and backward so quickly that Pete's eyes could not even begin to follow their movements.
Logic still maintained a finger hold in Pete's brain. “No way is this real,” he told himself. “It's a spook house; they're supposed to scare you.”
Pete glanced at the boulder he'd fallen over and realized it wasn't a boulder at all. This was what the mantis had thrown past him… Suddenly unmindful of the colossal threat hovering above, he crawled forward and picked the object up.
Pete knew he could no longer deny the truth; he was going to die. Pete gently cradled what he had mentally predicted would be the scariest thing he'd see all night. The most recognizable trait of the severed head he now held in his arms was a very familiar peach fuzz mustache.
***
Adrian Ludens is a radio announcer in the Black Hills of South Dakota. He majored in journalism but prefers to stretch the imagination via speculative fiction. Visit him at www.myspace.com/adrianludens.