The Human Face

Highway 99 was backed up for miles. My GPS directed me toward a backroad, claiming the re-route would cut two hours from my trip. It was almost midnight, and if I did not return home soon, my wife would worry herself sick. The backroad was dark and desolate, possessing a nighttime serenity. Jeksylvar fields rolled under the new moon as I passed at sixty miles per hour. Listening to the radio, I whistled, pitying the drivers stuck on Highway 99. Suddenly, I passed an old, faded sign, half shrouded by weeds. The letters were barely legible - but the ancient recesses of my memory pieced the advertisement together. The familiar colors and cursive lettering were redolent of a long forgotten childhood. ‘Take the Next Right, For The Gangley Corps. Freak Show!” The orange and purple sign read. The Gangley Freak Show… It must have been about eight years since it birthed a thought in my mind. Jeksylvar’s finest collection of freaks, wild animals, and occult artists from all over the world. When I was a child, I would visit the show frequently with my parents and my younger sister, Cherry. Such idyllic times - the times before Cherry went missing. I don’t favor thinking about her disappearance. It was a mysterious and sudden occurrence. Nearly a year after she vanished, the Gangley Freak Show was shut down permanently. When I read the news as an adult, I discovered that strange rumors had plagued the show for decades. Particularly about that deranged man, the one they called ‘The Human Face’. The freak’s name was a misnomer, as his face was anything but human. It was a deformity, like a clay pancake with lashless eyes and a mouth carved by a child. The eye sockets were hollow caves, housing bloodshot eyes that never blinked. His desultory smile and dimples signified childlike joy - betrayed only by those eyes, the eyes that pleaded for death. The Human Face was the only real freak at the circus. Him, and that strange mystic from an unexplored island in the southern oceans. Every other attraction was quite mundane. The mystic brought guests from around the country. People came from across the world to get a glimpse of The Human Face. Slowing to an idle roll, a dim light appeared in the distance. Peering with fascination, I could barely see the large central tent, which hosted the fair’s main event. This was the final site of The Gangley Fair’s journey. Eerily, that singular light was the dying flame of many children’s fascination. The nostalgia made me feel like a child again; curious, and mischievous. I absolutely had to take a look. Even a quick drive through would have sufficed. If my wife questioned my tardiness, I would simply use the highway traffic as an excuse. Driving onto the fair grounds, I observed the deserted premises. The old trailers and tents stood muddied and vandalised. A dead wind sounded the rustling of tents instead of the jovial circus music. I inspected the area for signs of occupancy, careful to avoid a trespassing charge. Positive the grounds were abandoned, I stepped from my car and wandered toward the main tent, lined with red and white pinstripes. The forgotten scents of cotton candy and cinnamon sticks manifested through each step. Forgotten memories surged through my brain. The Freak Show was the shining star of my wonder as a child. Why had my brain suppressed so many precious experiences? Riding the carousel with Cherry, ringing the ‘Test of Strength’ bell with my father’s assistance. There had to be a reason why I could not remember the sounds, the images. When I cautiously approached the entrance of the main tent, everything began to make sense. Everything, down to the very drops of crimson blood. The Pinata The first time I saw The Human Face, I was only eight years old. Ringmaster Gangley was ecstatic to introduce his newest freak to a crowd of thirty people. That was a large audience for the Freak Show’s nascence. The moment The Human Face wandered onto the stage, I clutched my mother’s shirt. “How can he look like that?” I questioned with fright. He beheld the crowd with something like embarrassment. His expression hid constant pain, masked by a corporate smothering of happiness. But just as The Human Face masked his hatred, my terror masked a deeper curiosity. Fascination twinkled in my eyes, my first craving of the utterly dark. I can’t remember if Cherry was with us. I can’t remember if it was before or after she vanished. But I remember his performance, The Human Face seemingly cutting off his pointer finger. The crowd cringed, and my father attempted to shield my eyes. I pried his hand away from my face, desperate to witness the uncanny act. The fifteen minute performance left me astonished. I wanted to come back to the show the next week, or the next day. My parents, however, were appalled. My father wandered off - perhaps to use the bathroom, or to buy some funnel cake. My mother frantically expressed her worries to a crowd of irrelevant gatherers. All the while, my mind was ablaze. I wandered off unsupervised, my parents too occupied to notice. With childish stumbles about my steps, I walked past the main stage, through an opening at the back of the tent. I entered a hallway lined with smaller rooms. Within one room, I could see the Thousand-Year Lady applying her makeup. In another, I saw the Iguana Man drinking from a nondescript bottle. Screams protruded from the end of the hall. It was accompanied by familiar laughter - deep and jovial, fused with malice… Stealthily, I approached the screaming room, and poked my head inside. Inside was a private birthday party. A group of children gathered around The Human Face, as he chuckled and danced between them. Oh, the jealousy I felt at that moment. How unlucky I was that my birthday had recently passed. From beneath a tablecloth, The Human Face retrieved a pinata. It was the size of a dog, crafted from a material I had never seen before. Confused, uncomfortable, the children stepped backwards. Their laughter and amusement shifted to temporary silence. The Human Face tied a rope to the ceiling of the room. From the rope, a rusted metal hook dangled, swaying and swinging. He dug the hook into the back of the pinata. The hook pierced the back with a ripping, tearing sound. Like stabbing a haunch of meat. The pinata swung from the ceiling with bulging eyes and an open mouth. Typically, one uses a bat to break open a Pinata. But The Human Face obtained a dirty machete from underneath that mysterious table cloth. He softly handed the machete to a timid boy. The boy accepted it with wonder, like it was an alien egg. It was too heavy for him, and the blade fell to the ground. The Human Face kneeled down, guiding the child’s effort. Together, the freak’s hands atop the child’s, they swung at the pinata. The blade tore into the stomach with gory clumsiness. No candy fell from the Pinata’s stomach. Only blood and intestines gushed forth, coating the nearby children with red spray. The child took another swing, rending the pinata’s throat. Like a sprinkler of blood, the slit throat doused the children in crimson liquid. They cheered, jumping up and down with excitement. The Human Face laughed wildly, stomping his feet like a mad monkey. I covered my mouth, shivering. Something about the scene was too much for me to bear. Thinking back on the experience, I can recall each detail clearly. But there was still something I saw in that room, something that permanently tainted my young mind. Suddenly, The Human Face darted his gaze toward me. I could see the veins in his eyes. The dry, unblinking texture of a desert. The pupils were small, black dots, screaming out for help. All at once, each blood soaked child turned their head toward me, dropping their laughter like the sudden drop of a knife. ******************************************************************************** I clawed my way to the present, escaping my own memories, gasping for air. The cold Jeksylvar night howled with wind. I could not believe that I had found the abandoned Gangley Freak Show. But the nostalgia was overcome with disgust. My body trembled as I looked at the tent. In the back, there was that room. The very room where those children slaughtered the pinata. My feet were tired and wobbly. My head spun, and my mouth grew dry. Dryer than the cracked pupils of The Human Face. Looking throughout the cold, empty grounds, I knew that there would be no water nearby. Luckily, I had kept bottles of water in my car. At that point, I was eager to depart anyway. My hand clutched my palpitating heart as I walked to my car. I thought I could hear cheering children and carnival music from the main tent. The theatrical intonations of Ringmaster Gangley calling to me, beckoning me to take a look. To remember what I could not. But I refused to enter the unspeakable past again. My entire detour had been a mistake. I should have waited in the thick traffic, just like everyone else. To my left, a bang startled me. The wind roughhoused the open door of a nearby trailer, slamming it against the frame repeatedly. Within the trailer was a dim light, barely visible through a blinded window. This trailer was cleaner than the others. It had been recently inhabited. The portent should have sent me scrambling for my car. But I continued to stare into the dark doorway of the trailer, as if I held an innate craving for death. Like a skeletal horse galloping across the barren fields, the wind lifted a single newspaper article from within the trailer. The piece of thin, yellowed paper tumbled across the dirt and weeds, directly toward my legs. It wrapped itself around my calf, refusing to let go. I knelt down quietly, and obtained the newspaper from my leg. Using the luminance from the main tent, I read the smeared words. Someone had scrawled notes and annotations between the lines. The headline, in bold black letters, read: “15 Dead in Massacre at the Gangley Corps. Freak Show. Suspect still at large.” My eyes rolled back in my skull. My head jerked back on its neck, my nose pointing towards the moon. Powerful memories rushed back to me, stunning me with their deathly secrets. In my first year of college, I held that very newspaper article, right between my own hands. I knew why the Gangley Corps. Freak Show had been shut down forever. The wilting newspaper, combined with the annotations of Ringmaster Gangley, left me mortified amid the deadly grounds. The Halloween Slaughter For years, The Human Face was the lifeblood of the Freak Show. It was a life synonymous with that of a caged gorilla. Day after day of entertaining drooling, acne ridden children, only to return to a lonely tent by night. Ringmaster Gangley, and a handful of other freaks noticed The Human Face’s misery. No longer was he the laughing, bumbling prize of the show. He moped around the fair grounds, barely acknowledging anyone’s presence. And when he did, it was with a violent stare. His head always hung downward, the greasy black hair obscuring the clay face. The smile held strong, like it was plastered to his face. But the eyes burned, the pupils tinged with blood, like they sought a murder. Ringmaster Gangley held deep compassion for The Human Face. Not only had The Human Face ushered in a golden era of wealth for the Freak Show. He was like a son to Gangley. And Gangley was the only father The Human Face would ever know. As every human grows curious of their true origins, so did The Human Face. No one ever heard him speak real, legible words. But rumors whispered that he talked to Gangley in his tent, in the small hours of the morning. Shrill cries of sorrow and anger echoed discordantly. They would barter and plead with each other. The Human Face wanted to know his true origin, the true circumstances of his creation. And every day this knowledge remained a secret, The Human Face grew angrier. A week before Halloween, a young boy’s cries pierced the Freak Show. The Human Face gripped the child’s wrist, squeezing it like a vice-grip. Circulation ceased, cutting off blood flow to the fingers. The child cried for its parents. An off-duty police officer rushed to his aid. As the officer extricated the child, The Human Face erupted into a blood frenzy. With inhuman strength, he thrashed at the police officer. The officer drew his pistol, forcing The Human Face to surrender. But even so, the freak’s intense stare beckoned release. As though those eyes begged him to pull the trigger. Ringmaster Gangley bartered with local authorities before the incident spread to the news. The crime threatened to destroy the Trade Show’s business, and The Human Face was threatened with prison time. After days of conversation with Gangley, police determined the freak’s sanity to be in ill-repair. Certain officers felt contempt and pity for the sullen monstrosity. So he was acquitted with a warning - one more incident, and The Human Face would never grace the stage again. Gangley was relieved, but he could still see the anger eating away at his son. The anger that had almost murdered a child. The arguments from Gangley’s tent grew especially loud. The Human Face would scream and smash furniture. Demanding to know how it exists, and why it had to live with such deformities. The other fair folk never knew of The Human Face’s true origin. But it was believed that on the night before Halloween, Ringmaster Gangley revealed the truth to his son. Rather than roars, moans, or anger, there was silence. A long, dreadful silence, until the very next night, Halloween. The Gangley Corps. held two grand festivals annually - on Halloween, and May-Eve. A crowd of up to ninety travelers would assemble to witness the miracles rehearsed throughout the year. The crowd made no secret of who they came to see. They wanted The Human Face, the world renowned abomination. Gangley pitied The Human Face as he sat sullenly behind the stage, staring at the floor. The freak had not muttered a sound since the incident. Gangley feared that the most important performance of the year would be ruined. Kneeling before his son, Gangley reminded him of his origin. A creation that had rendered him so monstrous in form. Those accursed defects also made him special. The Human Face would plague pages of the history books, leaving his mark upon the imagination of the world. As the crowd cheered his name, Gangley patted his son on the shoulder, and sent him to the spotlight. Embarrassed and ill tempered, The Human Face glared at the crowd. They demanded that he perform various acts with impatience. ‘Pull off your nose!’, ‘Remove your teeth’, ‘Do that gross thing with your arm’, they yelled. The Human Face trembled. That smile wavered for the first time, the corners of his lips attempting to break free of the permanent smile. The eyes shook like a volcano, brimming with molten lava. Walking to a chest of stage props, The Human Face obtained a set of gloves. The fingertips were fitted with sharp copper blades. Standing before the crowd, The Human Face began to cut himself. He drew sharp cuts across his face, down his chest, and across his arms. The crowd fell silent, unsure of the proper reaction. A perverse few cheered, cackling with amusement. The rest of the crowd fell in like a herd of sheep. They grew wild and anarchic, begging The Human Face to mutilate himself. He stood frozen, absorbing the pleas for self harm. Blood leaked into his eardrums. Once more, a crowd of perfectly normal humans wanted The Human Face to degrade himself. All for their selfish enjoyment. Perhaps there was an indicator; a visible snap in those eyes, before The Human Face dove from the stage, into the crowd. He landed on a suited man, tearing into him with the sharp copper claws. Lost in a berserker frenzy, The Human Face flung scraps of flesh and blood over the watching crowd. Most fled in fear, crying for mercy. But a few remained watching, laughing, filming. For them, this was the best part of the show. This was why they flew across the world for the Freak Show. But they were the next ones to fall victim to the copper claws. Ten were killed in the main tent. Five more were pursued ruthlessly, as they attempted to flee the fair grounds. The rusted metal would find its way into their backs, ripping the spines from them. All the while, Ringmaster Gangley stood in a state of shock, incapable of movement. He watched as his trade show succumbed to chaos. As his empire crumbled before him. His prize attraction scalped young men and women while the other freaks fled permanently. There was a final, harrowing stare, as Gangley watched The Human Face disappear into a thicket of wilderness, while the red and blue lights of police flashed onto the scene. ******************************************************************************** I released the newspaper from my grip. It continued its journey atop the wind, disappearing through the very line of trees that The Human Face had escaped through. Once again, nausea and thirst haunted me. My mind was delirious with thought, and I could not find my car. Every direction was devoid of vehicles. In such a state, I could not even remember where I parked. The trailer door slammed against its frame once more, as the vicious wind picked up speed. In a trance, I glared at the door, unable to remove my eyes from the opening. Barely illuminated by dim light, I could see a photograph hanging on the wall. From my distance, the face could not be discerned. It could have been a child, or The Human Face himself. Slowly, I approached the trailer. As I grew closer, the image became clear. It was a young boy, no older than six or seven. He was smiling, missing a front tooth. I thought that I could see another child’s photo, not far to the right. I walked up the steps, and peered my head inside. A candle flickered on the dining table, but there was no living person to be seen. Then, I turned my head to the left, toward the wall of pictures. About thirty photographs were pinned to the wall. Each one depicted a small, smiling child. I stepped into the trailer. An abhorrent odor greeted me, the stench of rotting meat. Flies buzzed wildly within a room down the hallway. Covering my nose, I perused the photographs, a museum of lost children. I inspected each and every child, because I knew the exact girl I was looking for. The very last image, hanging at the bottom right corner of the wall, was my long lost sister, Cherry. Why had I known all along, that the Freak Show had something to do with her abduction? Why had my brain concealed the information from me all along? I bashed my head with my fist, worsening my dizzy spell. Each moment I lingered in the trailer, the wretched stench worsened. The buzzing of flies was maddening, like an infinite chainsaw in my eardrums. I traced the smell, wandering down the hall of the trailer. At the end was an open door, leading to a small bedroom. Next to that door, was the source of the smell. A rotting grave. It was behind a closed door. The faint swinging of rope could be heard from within, obscured by the buzzing insects. The smell was fetid, repulsive. I gasped for fresh air, willing to do anything to escape the torment. Nauseous, I stumbled into the bedroom, clutching a small wooden chair. Sitting in the chair provided brief comfort. Before me was a cheap desk, atop which laid a letter. Next to it was an inkpot and quill, wet with fresh ink, and an empty bottle of scotch. I read the letter, blotted with red blood. The Confession of Ringmaster Gangley Dearest Marmelaide, Oh how I miss you. You, and your red locks of hair, fine like a phoenix’s feathers. Life has been naught but a struggle without you. Every morning, I grope your side of the bed, wishing you were there. Wishing so desperately, only to find nothingness. A void in my heart, ripped open by your sudden passing, and… and by that thing… that thing I call our son! The very thought of him, him and that face… It torments me every day. I will confess that since you have left, everything has gone to hell. The trade show, the pride and joy we spent our lives building, is no more. All because of him. Him, and that face! I tried, Marm. Oh how I tried so hard to give him a life. Never would he live amongst normal folk, never would the deformities allow that. So I explained to him that his curse was actually a gift amongst folk like us. That he could render crowds of the selfish lot fascinated with his appearance. But it was never enough for him. The gnawing hunger within the child deepened. Before long, he started asking why. He started asking how, how such a thing like him could exist. I vowed to never reveal the truth to him, but I grew afraid, Marm. I grew deeply terrified of our own creation. Perhaps, if you were still here, if you could only have met your son for the first time, none of it would have ever happened. Perhaps a mother’s touch could have saved all those people from dying. But I had to tell him Marm. He threatened so many things… Every day I withheld the truth, more people were going to die. More children were going to go missing. I only thought of the freak show… I only wanted to save our life’s work. So I did it, I told him everything, the whole truth. Forgive me Marm! What a fool I was to do so, as it only drove him to utter madness! He slaughtered fifteen people the next night… Fifteen hearts of blood on my hands, because I was such a fool. His creation was a mistake. A grave, irreversible mistake. Some things, some people, simply should not exist. You must forgive me. I only sought to give you what you wanted. Your final, dying wish. A young, jumping baby boy! But you had left me before I could see that joy on your face. I could not rest, not live knowing that your dream had never been achieved. But then, I met the accursed witch, the one from the southern islands, untouched by mankind. She taught me ancient rituals, older than time itself, and gifted me the accursed charms and trinkets. She taught me… that if I extract the womb of one recently living, and implant it within a body long deceased… and then… perform the sacred act… Oh what have I done! What a blight I have brought upon this world! You must forgive me for what I do to myself next, as I can no longer bear the blood on my hands. The thoughts torment me day and night - the thought of that thing we unleashed upon this world - And how it still roams free to this day! ******************************************************************************** I placed the letter on the desk. All the while, I looked straight, unblinking, unable to turn my head. I lifted myself from the cheap chair, and walked down the hall. As I passed the swinging corpse in the bathroom, I did not turn my head. I walked down the steps from the trailer, and into the barren fair grounds. It was as if I entered a different land. Though I stood on the same shrub filled grass, surrounded by the same tents and trailers, I felt that the night had become hostile. I felt that I was not alone anymore. Every rustle of brush, every moth that flew past, caused my head to dart in its general direction. The air felt thick and cold. My chest heaved with strenuous breaths. The grounds felt larger than before, liminal. If I ran for my life, I thought I would never escape the place. That it would just grow larger and larger, to trap me within its copper claws. I found myself in the largest clearing, beset by the main tent and the desolate trailers. Spinning, turning, I looked in each direction with a sense of untrustworthy sight. There was only the darkness, and the flickering lights from the main tent. My mind treated every passing second like it was my last. Fearing, knowing that something was going to leap at me from the shadows. But that moment did not come - it did not come yet. Breathing was audible in every direction, but I never saw who, or what stalked me from the shadows. I only thought of The Human Face, and his real name, carved in demonic symbols. Panic gripped me. I ran toward the nearest conceivable shelter, the main tent. Inside, a metallic taste tainted the air. It lingered atop my tongue, sharp and acrid. The iron of blood. The central stage was deserted, but I now saw what the flickering light had been. The spotlight, still shining on the center of the stage. Still lit from its final performance - The Halloween Massacre. Beside the stage were the foldable chairs, many of them thrown awry. The grass beside the stage was tinted brown with dried blood. I thought that within the tent, out of the hostile openness, I could feel safe. But only sheer death surrounded me. From behind came the soft brushing of cloth. The flapping of the tent’s entrance. I rushed past the main stage as the spotlight winked at me. Before me were the back rooms, the very hall I had wandered as a child. Looking over my shoulder, I entered the dark hall. With only the dying spotlight, I could barely perceive the rooms. It was a sensation similar to time travel, and I suddenly felt that I was a child again, myself at the age of eight. Experiencing that fateful day all over again. From a room to my right, The Thousand-Year Lady glared judgingly at me, smearing makeup on her face. Walking uncomfortably past her, I came upon the Iguana man in a room to my left. Tears and anger dominated his face as he took a deep swig from his bottle. Before I sprinted down the hall, The Iguana Man looked at me with a gaze of hatred. Gasping in my childlike body, I came upon the dark room at the end of the hall. I could still hear the cheering of children within, and the deranged laughter of The Human Face. Stuck in a reenactment of the irreversible past, I stuck my head through the doorway. As I watched the children cut the throat and stomach of the pinata, a lost piece from an ancient puzzle completed my shattered memory. After decades of running from fear, doubt, and loss, I had finally known why my brain had hidden these memories under so much black mist. Because that pinata, bleeding and swinging from a rusted hook, had been my sister Cherry.