Muffled Heartbeats and Haphazard Greasepaint - Brian Barnett

Main Street in Elsinor, Kentucky has always resembled a Norman Rockwell painting. It was almost as if the outside world had never tarnished their Main Street way of life. It was one of the last of the small slices of Americana left in the world.

That was until one Saturday in June. It was like any other Saturday. The sidewalks were relatively busy with shoppers and restaurant patrons. There were plenty of smiles and kindly nods until the distant thud was heard. It was a bizarre, almost unearthly sound. Its cadence was like a rhythmic muffled heartbeat in the distance

The sound steadily built on the other side of the hill that Main Street rested behind. The street came alive with Elsinor citizens. They exchanged confused whispers as the heartbeat drew closer. All eyes were fixated on the horizon. Through the wavering midday glare, they saw it.

What looked to be a parade slowly marched into view, cresting the hill and approaching the small township of Elsinor. The people involved appeared alien as their bright clothes shimmered from the heat waves on the asphalt.

“Is there a circus coming to town?” Donald Raeburn asked his wife.

“No, I don’t think so.” She answered, shielding her eyes from the afternoon sun.

Still the rhythmic heartbeat continued as the procession came closer. More people filled the wide sidewalks, exiting from the local shops. Bill Johnson’s shave was only half done as he stood in the doorway of Benson’s Barber Shop.

The first section of the parade was comprised of clowns. None of them were cheerful. They didn’t run around, or laugh, or throw candy–they just marched. Grease paint was smeared haphazardly across their faces. Their faces were an intermingling of white, black, blue and red. Their clothes were dingy and tattered in places.

They walked slowly with the rhythm of the heartbeat. Their eyes, never observing, only stared trance-like as they marched in perfect unison with the heartbeat.

Behind them marched strongmen carrying cages. Each cage contained a person, each sitting expressionless and staring forward like the clowns, with expressionless, unblinking eyes.

“Is that Nadine Pinkerton and Joe Mitchell?” Donald Raeburn asked his wife.

“No, surely not. I’d say they are performers that just look a lot like them.”

He stared for a moment, and then nodded unconvinced, “Yeah, I’d reckon you’re right.”

Behind the cages marched another clown. He was hammering on a large bass drum, the source of the heartbeat.

Large horse-drawn wagons followed. Even the horses seemed to stare ahead. They were in step with the drum beats as well. The wagons themselves were painted yellow, red and green. But the paint was old, faded and chipped making the text unreadable. Large cracks had formed in the grayed wood beneath.

A man marched behind the wagons. He wore a crimson coat-tailed jacket and a black top hat with a crimson ribbon. He looked over to Donald Raeburn’s wife.

He stepped out of the strange parade and approached her. His eyes were yellow with black slit pupils. “Hello, my dear. Would you care to join us?”

Instantly her demeanor changed. Her expression went from appalled and disgusted to blankly obedient, “Yes, I would like that.” She said barely above a whisper.

Donald Raeburn grabbed her shoulder and the man in the hat shot him a look of simmering anger. “Tell him it is a part of the show, dear.”

“It’s a part of the show, dear.” She confirmed, never looking at Donald.

The man in the hat grinned, revealing an alligator smile. “You can collect her after the parade,” he turned to Donald’s wife, “Come along, dear.”

With that, she joined the parade and slowly, with the heartbeat, she marched down Main Street. Donald Raeburn stood, dumbfounded and annoyed.

Within a few minutes, the strange parade was beyond Main Street. It marched out of sight and the heartbeat once again became muffled before disappearing entirely. The stark silence after such an event was somehow even more unsettling. Slowly the town began to murmur back to life. Most people had been visibly shaken by the parade, others – primarily the children – seemed impressed by the performance.

Donald Raeburn climbed into his car and drove to the town limits, but never saw a site for the circus he assumed had just announced itself. There was nothing more than the rolling hillside and the highway.

He returned home and called every resource he could find to no avail. There simply was no known circus that fit the description he gave.

Elsinor is a little darker now. Sure, the people still frequent the local shops. But ever since Nadine Pinkerton, Joe Mitchell and Mrs. Raeburn disappeared; the townspeople were on constant alert for that slow, rhythmic muffled heartbeat on the horizon. 

* * *

Brian Barnett is the author of the middle grade novellas Graveyard Scavenger Hunt and Chaos at the Carnival. He has over three hundred publishing credits in dozens of magazines and anthologies such as the Lovecraft eZine, Spaceports & Spidersilk, Blood Bound Books, and Scifaikuest.

 

Seeds from the Blasted Heath - Brian Barnett

I was west of Arkham, Massachusetts, driving back to Kentucky, when I noticed the old man selling irresistible tomatoes on the shoulder of the road. I pulled to a stop and was overwhelmed by the quality of the plants. The man, however, was another story.

He was hunched over his upturned crate that he used as a table. His gray, patchy hair hung in clumps, partially obscuring his deeply lined face. One eye was fogged over and the other dully watched me with a keen dark intelligence. His flaky lips parted into a smile, revealing brown teeth. “Care for a plant? Top quality only at my stand.” His voice was like sandpaper.

I bought a plant. How could I resist? They truly were magnificent. As I drove away, he watched me until he disappeared over the hill behind me.

I became suspicious of the tomatoes not long after crossing the first state border. I rolled down the window to allow the stench out. It was unlike anything I’d smelled in my life. At first I thought it was the soil, but whatever it was stank of corruption, and I thought nothing so magnificent as those tomatoes could grow in something so putrid. After an hour or so I became noseblind so long as the window was down.

As I neared Kentucky, the sun had nearly set. My headlights carved my path through the country roads to home. An odd sort of light dully illuminated the back of the car. I repeatedly checked my mirrors, thinking a pair of headlights were following me, but I was alone. As the night fully settled in around me, only then did I notice the light was coming from the plant itself.

It was an indescribable color. Almost as if it was off the spectrum of classification, somewhere beyond ultraviolet and I was forbidden to even witness it. But there it was, radiating enough to light the interior of my car.

I pulled into my gravel driveway and stretched my legs, surprised at how crisp and fresh the air smelled compared to the corrupted scent I was exposed to for fifteen hours. Oddly, the clean air nearly repulsed me. My eyes were very dry and burned. I assumed from the drive.

I removed the plant from the car and placed it on my porch, not wanting the smell to permeate through the entire house. I looked forward to adding it to the garden in the morning. Whatever the twisted old man had done to them, they were blue ribbon tomatoes.

In the morning I awoke late. I assumed I overslept due to my exhaustion due to the long drive. My dreams were of the strange color that emanated from the tomato plant. The weird dream made the color seem as if it was sentient. It lived in a well and it burned.

I stepped out on my porch and was saddened to see the tomatoes had all putrefied. The vibrantly green plant now supported deflated dripping skins where my prize tomatoes were as recently as last night. Brown fluid drooled from splits and the awful stench nearly turned my stomach.

I quickly salvaged whatever seeds I could find and replanted them in a starter tray in my dining room. After several hours I turned off the grow light. Miraculously, tiny twin-leafed sprigs had sprouted from the soil. It took me a moment to realize that the leaves retained the strange radiance of the grow lamp bulb despite my having turned it off.

The air around me seemed exceedingly dry. My lips were cracked, and my throat was parched. I scratched my elbow as I downed a glass of water, but nothing seemed to satiate my sudden thirst. The plants, however, were thriving. Somehow, they’d grown another inch in the past few moments.
 

I realized what I needed to do. I needed to sell them in the farmer’s market. Imagine how much money people would spend on plants such as these. More importantly, imagine how many people will propagate the magnificent seeds.
 

I eagerly loaded the seed starting tray into the backseat of my car and drove toward town. I parked near the farmers market set-up. Most of the vendors were already taking down their booths. I slowly climbed out of my car, my back pulled a bit as I did. I caught my reflection in the window after I shut the door. My face was deeply lined as if I was terribly dehydrated. One of my eyes had fogged a bit.
 

None of that mattered. All that mattered were the plants. The beautiful plants had to be sold. I placed the seed starting tray on my trunk and waited.
 

The plants sold themselves. I could see by the expressions on people’s faces that they were repulsed by my appearance. But the plants sold. One by one my beautiful plants sold.

* * *

Brian Barnett is the author of the middle grade novellas Graveyard Scavenger Hunt and Chaos at the Carnival. He has over three hundred publishing credits in dozens of magazines and anthologies such as the Lovecraft eZine, Spaceports & Spidersilk, Blood Bound Books, and Scifaikuest.