Old Nick’s Conviviality
When you enter a House of Horrors, what if the most horrifying thing inside is you…?
I was crammed into a taxi with a bunch of colleagues from work, on the way to a carnival. The reason? Our latest — my first — hostile takeover. We had made millions splitting up a local business and selling it to a faceless corporation.
I felt ill, the jobs lost. Why did I do this? The money, the girls and the high life? Staring out the window, I vaguely wondered if a painting of me existed somewhere; a painting that slowly became more scarred and ugly as I continued down this career path, losing my conscience little by little.
The taxi weaved and skidded through the shimmering lights of the city. The sounds passed by my open window like beggars scrabbling for loose change, each clamouring to be heard. Sirens wailed and prostitutes bargained. No place like home, I thought to myself. The longer I stayed in the city the more I felt its hooks digging deeper into my soul. The taxi pulled up to the entrance of the carnival. I stared with distaste at the garish squatter spoiling the fresh greenery of the park.
Old Nick’s Conviviality: bright neon letters that burned into my eyes, glaring offensively in red and gold. I had asked them many times on the journey here and I asked my colleagues again — why a carnival? They could not say exactly, only that they felt compelled. I had to admit, as I stood at the gates, I felt a sick wrenching in my chest; curiosity or bravado, I couldn’t tell.
Once in, we filed towards the smell of greasy food. We all settled for hot dogs: reheated, processed flesh wedged in a stale bun; slathered with wet onions and drenched in cheap mustard. Armed with our food-poisoning-to-go we strutted off, cocks of the walk. I hung back, reluctant to give away my soul completely to arrogance.
I don’t know when it happened, nor how, but my colleagues disappeared. I never saw them again; perhaps the devil took them. I laughed at myself for thinking such lunacy and looked around for something to do. I decided to hang by the candy floss stand, cold hotdog getting colder and onions dripping to the grassy floor. I tossed it soon after.
Clearly, it was my lucky night; a group of giggling young women came up to the stand and, between hysterical laughs, ordered some candy floss. They aroused my interest, among other things. I decided to follow my base desires and, by extension, them. They swayed about as if drunk but I knew it all to be an act. The appreciative glances that flashed back towards me were all too sober.
I followed them — seven girls for seven sins; with their purses, alcohol and candy floss dangling from loose fingers — to the house of horrors. An aged carnival hand with a toothless smile grinned at me. I flipped the requisite number of plastic carnival tokens into his bowl; tokens I didn’t remember buying. His grin spread wider, revealing just how little teeth he had; which was to say, none. He smelled of old musty houses and broken promises. Smoke curled out from between his lips, I don’t remember ever seeing a pipe.
“Enter, young man and face your fears…” the hand cackled with just a little too much enthusiasm for my liking. I glanced towards the entrance; the last of the beautiful, round posteriors was swinging through. I ran to catch up, ducking through the chains that heralded the start of my worst nightmares. It was ironic just how right that was.
It certainly felt like it once inside; I was surrounded by a gang of squealing pant-wetters. The sexy façade of miniskirts and push-up bras peeled away to reveal the immature personalities beneath. The giggling girls screamed and clutched each other, flinching from the horrors of the house. It was terrifying — how crap they were.
There was so much dry ice; the revolting smoke condensed on the bottoms of my suit trousers making them crackle as I walked. I sullenly stalked behind the girls. I glared at the vampire mannequin leaping out of the coffin; swatted at the screaming banshee made out of a bedsheet and punched the rising mummy. A pain in my fist, a dull thud and a faint gasp as it fell back confirmed my suspicions; I’d just decked an actor. I soothed my conscience with the notion that he looked scarier lying in the sarcophagus anyway.
The girls giggled again so I stormed on ahead, irritated. I entered a series of winding passageways and came out into a room lined with seven rotting, misshapen doors. My brain did a double take; the girls were disappearing into them, one to each door. I stared as seven pairs of perfect buttocks vanished. The screams began soon after — higher pitched and more desperate — perhaps because they were going solo.
I stood pondering which one of the doors to take, deciding for the moment that the route I’d taken must have been longer than theirs. I grimaced at the idea of wading through a fake cobweb fest with a crying girl clutching my perfect suit while being blinded by strobe lights; then I sighed a little and decided I quite fancied being a hero, a modern suited and booted explorer type complete with damsel-in-distress in tow. I chose a random door and stepped towards it.
That’s when the eighth door appeared. To this day I swear it appeared from nowhere; I’d deliberated on every door before it had arrived and I double checked I was in the same room after. The conscious fore of my mind told me, in a reasonable tone, that it was a rotating room with an opening that revealed the door.
“Like hell it is, the door just came out of nowhere!” the back of my mind complained. I tried to ignore it and stepped towards the door I had originally intended to open.
The next thing I saw was a skull leering out of the eighth door, chattering with a joker-like laugh that Mark Hamill would have been proud of. It was in front of me within the blink of an eye. Impossible.
“How?” I thought to myself, “I must have closed my eyes and walked in front of it.”
“Like hell you did, look around,” the dry voice at the back of my mind whispered. The other doors had vanished.
“Talking to yourself?” I jumped, was that the skull or me? The skull cackled.
“Answer my riddle and enter: What has four legs at dawn, two legs at midday and three at dusk?” I shifted uncomfortably, the Sphinx riddle? No problem.
“A man!” the voice at the back of my head.
“Pathetic,” the voice bit back.
The skull only laughed as I argued with myself. The door opened on to a silent graveyard. I stepped through onto the icy, brittle earth. Real mist flowed around my ankles and the smell of soil filtered through my nostrils. I shivered, chilled to the spine.
I walked among graves chiselled with names: Truth, Chastity and Hope. I stopped at one called Destiny; the earth was freshly turned. Without knowing why I ran my fingers over it then fell back onto my ass as a skeleton leaped out of the grave. It shimmered before me; I couldn’t tell if it was real or a man dressed up. It clicked its fingers at me and led me to a mirror, encouraging me to look in.
Nightmares coalesced in the smoky obsidian; I saw myself. It wasn’t the crude imitation that filled my mirror every morning as I vainly checked for blemishes. It was truly me.
The black, stone mirror heaved and broiled with the darkest secrets of my mind. The lies I told myself, the insecurities hidden by compliments and the veils I quietly drew over my perverse desires. It was all seared away to reveal the painting; my ugly, scarred painting, melting and spitting in the unholy fire of my deepest sins.
I don’t remember the exit. Sometimes I still wonder if I ever came out of that place. I just remember, after looking into that mirror with boiling eyes and crackling skin, I was in the park. All about me lay piles of ash.
“You’re lucky, few see their true selves and survive; even fewer get a second chance from me,” the carnival hand chuckled beside me; as he spoke, I realised the truth. I also knew that my so-called friends were among those piles of ash. The carnival hand disappeared in a wisp of smoke. A smell of old musty houses and broken promises drifted across the wind.
I reached into my pockets to find nothing but ash; my wallet, cards and cash all gone. My phone had only one number left.
“Hi Dad,” a tear rolled down my cheek.
I quit my job the same day and left the city. I’ve never been back since. They never found out who burned the carnival down, but then they never found any survivors.
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