Painful Memories Part 3 of 3
By: Chris Darkes
Tags: Short Story, Creative Writing, Fiction, Art, Writing

For Part 1, or Part 2

Headlights flicked on as the car navigated the empty streets. The coppery dusk was deepening to crimson night. Thoughts were drilling away at him —the wiped out expense account, the golden spike of commission, and his brother who had just simply…vanished. Life was on the line, and all he had to go on was a jacket sitting on his passenger seat.

The roads twisted and turned, edging towards what he thought was the outskirts of town. The few remaining houses disappeared and were replaced by huge, bulky oak trees that squeezed against the road. The road slanted downward, before leveling off. Views of the carnival slipped through some trees. Neon lights reflected across the pavement. Steven was going on pure adrenaline, and almost preternaturally found the place in the near dark. He slowed down, and turned the wheel cautiously.

Through the windshield, he could see that the entrance was marked by a towering 20ft. bronze miner holding a bold sign labeled “Old Orchard’s Fair Grounds: A Monstrously Good Time.” The parking lot was expansive, and unsurprisingly, empty. Empty except for a few cars. Maintenance workers or carnies were the most logical guess. After all, the place looked ready for customers.

The car stopped as he reached the front; his eyes glanced at the car’s clock. He could almost hear the grains of sand falling to floor of the hour glass. If he did make it out of this with the answers he needed, a big pile of questions awaited him tomorrow morning. One last time. He stabbed a button on his wheel — turning the radio up…only static. No time to waste. He shut the car off, and slid out.

The Old Orchard Fair Grounds were fenced in, not only by trees but an imposing gate. The place must have gotten pretty busy, judging from its size, and the money put into it. The entryway was no exception. Several ticket booths lined like soldiers. All freshly painted and framed by tiny light bulbs. Beyond that were those turn-style rows you’d see in a subway. As Steven approached the ticket counter, he noticed stacks of those mustard yellow tickets sealed off in a plexiglass lock box. Bingo.

He looked over his shoulder. A huge billboard fixed at the far edge of the parking lot. It was for a sterilized instrument cart. The same one Steve was attempting to buyout. But that town was miles away, or was it?

And then something a little closer.

The car — who’s owner had been watching him earlier — was parked under the lot’s yellow mercury-vapor lamp. Things weren’t adding up. He snapped his look back towards the counter and moved on. Towards —

The turnstile chambers. The flashy lights from the carnival danced above, and the faint sound of organ grinder music could now be heard. For the few cars that had been parked, nobody seemed to be guarding the entrance. He hopped over the metal bar, and made his way in.

The rides and booths were positioned in long rows, creating a maze of grassy, zigzagged lanes. There was no map, but something inside him — perhaps the echo of the Thrift Store owner “…look for the fortune-teller booth. Can’t miss her” — told him he’d find his way. He could feel a cold hand pushing him towards the truth. Beads of sweat began pooling near his hairline. The humidity out here was like a dog’s hot breath that clung in the July air, making his steps feel like sand bags.

Passing through rows of game booths with stuffed animals and characters from who-knows-what. Twisting Tilt-a-Whirls that hung in the air like metal spiders. Turned a corner. His eyes scanned across the grounds for workers or something that’d pop out. Nothing. Down the next row.

At the far end of this one sat a big neon sign in old script: MADAME VALSIP’S TAROT READING. There was no mistaking it. Even in a sea of lights, it stood out with startling clarity. Steve rushed towards it…

He stopped just shy of the entrance that was covered by two plummy colored velvet curtains. On top of the sign, sat a towering crystal ball filled with a cloudy, fuchsia liquid. Steve didn’t hesitate. He yanked back the curtain, and stepped forward. His heart charging.

The curtain slid quickly behind him.