Chapter 4: Little House on the Nowhere

The ride in the back of the truck is much shorter than it feels. To me it feels like a never-ending roller coaster ride on which I can actually die. I simply grasp at the ruts in the bed and hold on. The road that leads back through the country is old and unpaved and will probably stay that way for a long time.

But I do notice that several times it becomes smoother for moments before descending back into the ungraded goat path that I had become used to. At one point David pushes open the back window and yells something to me. I look up and just growl at him. He laughs and leans back inside the cab. Everything's a joke to these men.

Finally the truck swings hard to the right and climbs a huge hill in the road, launching me up off of the bed for just a moment before I slam back onto the metal and exclaim in pain. I hear both David and Daniel laugh like idiots and just yell curses at them over the rushing wind. I think they hear and it makes them laugh even more.

After a while, the truck slows down and the old brakes screech to a halt as the truck bumbles over a little rut in the road. When it stops entirely, I slide forward a bit and, before I'm able to move, both of my duffels slam into my side. Once more I scream, more in frustration than in pain.

The doors screech open and the truck shifts weight. Moments later the doors slam again in quick succession and the two men begin to walk along the ground. I pry my fingers from the little indents I've made in the metal and then roll over onto my back. Looking upwards, I watch as a cloudless sky drifts by up above.

David and Daniel stand on the side of the truck and then look over me, tilting their heads forward and blocking out the sun. I can hardly see either of their faces as they peer down at me, their arms resting on the side of the bed. Daniel snorts loudly and then spits onto the ground before clearing his throat.

"You all right, boy?" He asks me.

"Never better," I sarcastically reply before sputtering and coughing.

"There's nothing like a ride through the country to make you feel alive, huh, kid?" David mocks.

"Well, get your crap and come on inside. We have the attic all set up and whatnot for ya." Daniel says.

David pats the metal side of the truck and then disappears while Daniel leans a little closer to me, looking directly in my eyes through the black dots of his aviators. He smiles a little bit, frowns hard and then sniffs as if he has a cold, his mustache moving around as if it were alive.

"Just walk it off, boy, you'll be fine."

Then he disappears and I am alone. Their boot steps, as I know damn well they're wearing cowboy boots, disappear across the sandy, gravelly ground and then I truly am alone. Groaning, I lift a hand up and cover my face. Running it along my forehead and then down the right side of my face, I make sure I have all my parts.

Eyes, nose, mouth, chin, it's all there, just making sure. I run my fingers back through my hair, pulling it back into its waxed-down position. I expected it to be all over the place, but, in fact I feel as if it is actually tighter pressed against my head. That is a ride I don't want to go on again.

Rolling over onto my side, I curl into a ball for a second, pulling my knees into my chest. A few deep breaths later and after the pounding my ears goes away, I flip onto my chest and then begin to pick myself up. As I climb onto my knees, I grab the side of the truck and hold myself as the world spins about.

The white truck seems to make three until my eyes finally focus. I must have left half of my brain about ten miles back. I'm just waiting for it to catch up with me. Grabbing my forehead with my free hand, I look around and see that most of the scenery really hasn't changed.

Everything around me is just endless grasslands dotted with scrub brush. In the distance towards the north, I can make out a small copse of trees that don't seem to be doing too well in the dryness, but, that is most of the change. To my direct right, is the house I'll be staying in?

The large farm house appears to have been built about sixty or seventy years ago. It's painted white with red accents, but, the paint has been weathered away over the years. The shingles are black but a few are missing and a few hang loosely off of the front of the house.

A white picket fence rings a makeshift yard, but some of them have been broken off, probably by simple weathering. A large screen door leads into the house from a porch that runs the perimeter that is held up by several white wooden posts. An air conditioning unit hangs from the second-story window but doesn't seem to be running.

Turning my head and looking over the cab of the truck, I see a brown barn standing at the end of the dirt driveway I've been holding on to dear life from. It's much older than the house, or simply worse kept, as most of the walls are molded and bowed from age. It has wood shingles and the doors hang at a strange angle. No electricity seems to run to it, and the entire building seems to be slanted slightly to the left.

"Oh Jesus H. Christ," I mumble.

Looking back to the house, I watch as Daniel appears from inside the house again, pushing open the white screen door and letting it bang shut behind him. He plants his eyes on me, crosses his arms and widens his stance as if waiting for me. But then he spits on the ground and walks to a white chair sitting on the porch.

As he sits down, he crosses his legs and reclines back into the wicker. David has disappeared somewhere either inside the house or beyond it. He took his box with him, whatever in God's name it was, and has gone to fiddle. I can't believe my mother would send me to live with these two chronics.

Shaking my head, I look down and then lift myself up onto my feet. At first my weight feels a bit strange, but then I get my wits about me and climb up and over the side of the truck. As I fall to the ground below, my knees bend and a shockwave climbs up into my head, making me groan quietly from pain in my heel.

But, ignoring it, I stand up straight and turn around. I drag my duffels over the side of the truck and then shoulder them. Turning back towards the house, I begin forward. I follow the fence to a short space where a dirt path leads to the house. The door has been removed and leans against the fence, dirty and useless.

Daniel watches me through his glasses as I walk to the porch and climb the stairs. His eyes seem to bore through me from behind those black shades, but his face is plastic and unemotional. I quickly go through the screen door and away from the prying eyes of my uncle.

Upon entering the house, I feel a sense of safety and sigh with relief. In the foyer of the house, I find that it is even more stereotypical inside. To my right is a parlor with old sitting furniture scattered around a coffee table with a record cabinet up against the far wall.

Turning my head to the right, I see a dining room is directly to my left. It has a long cherry table surrounded by similar colored chairs. In the corners are display cases filled with glassware and china. It almost gives me a feeling that a woman lives here, but, I'm sure it is all very old.

Ahead of me is a long set of stairs and running beside it to the back of the house is a hallway terminating in a sixties-esque kitchen with black and white tile floor and wood-paneled cabinetry and appliances. I shake my head and then tromp up the stairs, hoping that this month-long stay won't be long.

I round a corner at the top of the stairs and follow the banister to the left until I find a set of stairs leading up into the attic. The stairs are compact into the corner of the hallway and that said, are steep as mountains and tiny as the ledges on one. It also spirals around until it finally ends on the attic floor.

The climb actually makes me bust a sweat and I'm happy to finally reach the attic. After dropping my bags near the stairs, but out of the way, I hold onto the banister and gasp for breath as I examine my surroundings. I moan a little bit as to what I'll be required to stay in, but don't think too much of it.

The room is about the size of my room back in Baltimore, but the ceiling is much lower and slanted towards the sides. At the far end of the mostly-empty room is a brass-framed bed with a mattress and blue covers on it. Beside it is a small wooden nightstand with a brass lamp on top of it, accompanied with a matching shade.

Running along the wall on this side of the room are boxes, crates and stacks of old stuff that include old clothing, old pieces of furniture and just random crap strewn about the empty wooden floor. Across the room are several desks, most of them broken, a dresser and a large, ominous wardrobe. In the corner to my right is a standing mirror.

"Well, it could be worse." I say loudly.

I take a deep, cleansing breath and then begin to slowly stroll across the room and towards the bed. Each step seems to reverberate through the attic and amplify as it travels down the stairs and through the house. My ears seem to buzz and hiss as each noise is emitted.

Suddenly in the middle of the room, I stop. I begin to hear a loud hissing noise and then something like feedback from an amp after a string is plucked, the same note growing louder and louder. My eyes widen and my arms pull out at my sides. A few muscles in my face convulse.

Then my eyes go to a hand mirror on the nightstand and focus there. Quickly they shoot over to a hanging mirror on the wall above a box filled with old records. My shoulder twitches and I look to my right where a shard of a mirror sticks from a box beside a broken desk. Finally, I hear a whisper from behind me and see the standing mirror out of my peripheral.

I gasp for breath and then quickly rush forward. My boots slam against the floor as I gallop across the attic. Swiping the hand mirror up from the nightstand, I open a drawer up and shove it in. As I slam it shut, I take a few steps back and turn towards the hanging mirror sitting on the floor amongst the junk.

I quickly go to it, pick it up and shove it back in its place, this time with the reflecting side against the wall. I swing around and then sprint to the shard of glass in the box. When I reach it, I take a piece of cloth sticking up from one of the many boxes and throw it over the glass surface.

Finally, I turn about and go to the standing mirror. I avert my eyes as I approach as not to see myself and upon reaching the mirror itself, quickly swing it over, as it's one that can be reversed. Then I press it against the wall and prop it up with a nearby chair so that the mirror is exactly against the wall.

Taking my hands from the wooden chair, shaking and sweating, I step back several times and look around. My lungs burn for air and my lips twitch and water, but I've covered up all of the mirrors. I cough and sputter and then finally I let out a deep breath and clench my eyes shut as I stumble to the center of the room.

In the darkness that one note dissipates into the silence of the room. I hear only the pounding of my frightened heart and the working of my own lungs and that is the way that I like it. I clench my fingers into fists and then calm myself down. I'm not going to have another one, no, he can't follow me here.

"You okay?"

I yank open my eyes and then look around wildly. I first look to all of the mirrors and see that nothing has changed. Then I look to the stairs and see Daniel's head peeking just above the floor, looking at me without his glasses on. His deep brown eyes look to me with a strange interest, as a doctor watches a mental patient.

"Yeah--yeah--yeah . . . why wouldn't I be, I mean . . . ugh, why, what . . . ugh, no!"

"Boy, are you on them drugs?"

I look at him and then begin to calm myself down. My shoulders, which had clenched up in fear, relax and then I let out a cleansing breath. I close my eyes and then reopen them to see that Daniel's eyebrows have fallen and that he doesn't suspect anything crazy of me anymore.

"Well, if you're alright, come on down. I can warm up something if you haven't eaten." He says slowly, clearly.

"Sure." I say. ". . . s-sure."

He nods his head and grunts before turning around. Then his head disappears below the wooden floor as he tromps back down the narrow, steep steps. I watch him go and then sigh, my mind in turmoil. I wonder how much he saw and what he thinks of me. He no doubt thinks I'm crazy. I would if I had seen what I did just now.

I shove my hands into the pockets of my leather jacket and begin forward. I watch the space between my chestnut-colored boots as I cross the room and descend the stairs. My mind slowly goes over what I just did and wonders if it was rational. But as I blink away the memory, I just guess it was. If I didn't hide the mirrors, he could have found me.

Down on the second floor I follow the long rug that runs the length of the hallway until it turns and plummets down the stairs at the bottom of which it ends. My boots make a lot of noise when they touch wood, but the sound is muffled on the rug. That's a thought, how did Daniel come up the stairs in those rattlesnake boots he wears without making a sound? He's like a damned cat, smarter but equally as nosey.

I run my hands along the oak banister as I descend the stairs to the first floor. Upon nearing the floor, a scent hits my nose and reminds me of something I haven't experienced since I was very little. Rounding the bottom of the stairs, I turn and walk up the long corridor leading to the kitchen.

Upon entering the kitchen, I stop walking and examine the room. It is very normally laid out, with a long counter ringing the back wall, but allowing for windows to look out onto the backyard between the huge cabinetry. Old seventies-style appliances sit into the cabinetry as if they were part of the cabinetry itself. The only thing that stands out is a gas stove made entirely of metal.

A bunch of crap hangs off of the walls which include old paintings, photographs, strange little decorative crap and small statues that hang from a rope tie. A large white metal table and matching chairs sits in the middle of the room with a lazy Susan in the center. Looking to the stove, I see a pot bubbling and know some sort of everything stew is cooking.

I turn my head to the right and look into the only room that I haven't been in yet. It appears to be a sitting room with a large couch and two chairs in it, similar to the parlor in the front. But here is a large mantelpiece flanked on either side by large bookcases. There are a few other tables filling the room, but I hardly notice them.

Stepping forward, I stare towards the mantle and the bookcases. The bookcases aren't filled with books as I would have expected, but instead by photographs, trophies, belt buckles, certificates and other memorabilia. Entering the carpeted room, I focus on one trophy on the left bookcase.

I round the couch and then stand directly at the edge of the wooden bookcase. The trophy is old and worn; its shining sides now faded due to age. But at its base I can easily make out 'Daniel and David Henderson--Cook County Shooting Contest, First Place'. Looking upwards, I see similar trophies.

They are all from some strange competitions, but most of them are shooting contests. Rifles, pistols, shotguns and automatic weaponry, my uncles have ones that range from small to large and old to new. A few photographs show the two men posing with The Gun that Won the West, their faces having hardly changed since then.

A small display shows a check signed by a man whose name I don't know, but beneath it, in small print, it says Colt Firearms: 'Be not afraid of any man, no matter what his size. When danger threatens, call on me, and I will equalize.' The amount is five hundred dollars and the date is June 11, 1972.

"You're the first man to see any of that crap in over two decades, son."

Daniel stands behind me in the doorway, but, I don't turn to look at him. I just continue to read dates and names and to look at faces in old photographs, with strange, distorted colors or none at all. He smacks his lips and then slowly strolls forward. Stepping around the couch, I see him appear in my peripheral and not stop walking until he is standing right beside me.

"How did you know I came downstairs?"

"I could hear you come from a mile away, kid. But don't think it's anything special. I've learned to hear so many things over the years . . . and to not hear other things. For example, I did not hear my dumb brother smash one of his fingers in the gears of that new do-dad he has and scream."

"I didn't hear him either."

Daniel chuckles and then looks up to the display piece above the mantle, which is two rifles crossed over like swords behind a shield. He holds in his hands a handkerchief that is totally white and rubs his hands again and again, probably dirty from his cooking. His eyes seem to gleam as he looks over his possessions, as if now appreciating them in the presence of a newcomer.

"What exactly did you do when you were young?"

"Younger . . ." Daniel quickly corrects, making me turn towards him, ". . . And we did a lot of things. My brother and I found out that we were very good with the iron when were young and your grandfather, the drunken bastard he was, was still alive. Since then, we've done shows, Wild West reenactments, movie gigs and even some carnival work."

"Movie gigs?" I ask him.

I turn towards him and let my lips hang open. He smiles and watches me without his glasses on. I see them hanging in his breast pocket, but don't say anything about it. I suppose even he can't wear sunglasses inside. His mustache contorts and then he takes a deep breath, his fingers busy with his handkerchief.

"I played Wild Bill Hickok in a low budget movie back in 1978." Daniel says, proudly. "That was back before David and I got a steady job in Vegas, playing some dumb Wild West show."

He sighs and then looks back towards the mantle, this time towards several photographs that stand there. His eyes are immediately drawn to one in the center, of him and his brother flanking a thin man with a wire mustache, a van dyke goatee and a top hat on. His black eyebrows are thin, but the eyes they hover over are wide and the pupils seem strange. He almost looks ominous.

"This is the man we worked for." Daniel says. "His name is Sander Payne . . . better known as Blackjack. He was--or is--probably one of the greatest ringmasters to have ever lived. He ran a traveling show that was for a long time bigger than Barnum and Bailey. He used strange black magic and illusions to wow huge crowds. Some even say he could cure cancer, conjure dragons from stone and grant wishes, he was so powerful. Best of all he presented monsters that . . . that no other circus or carnival or--any show by that fact--could ever get . . ."

He pauses for a little while and then crosses his arms. His eyes focus on that photograph and on the figure of that strange, wiry man in it as the silence seems to set across the room like a blanket of snow. His eyes twitch and they dart back and forth, but never leave the print.

"We were his opening act." He slowly continues. "It's so strange, looking back thirty years or more . . . it feels almost like a dream. You know, I think I saw something in the paper about him, or his circus. I'd have to check on it."

Suddenly a door opens behind us and David tromps in, grumbling and mumbling. Turning around, I look through the doorway and into the kitchen. He passes by, his finger in his mouth, as he goes to the powder room in the hallway. A bit of blood was streaking down his cheek as he passed by.

Daniel chuckles and then turns away as well. He slowly goes back through the room and into the kitchen. I steal one last look at the photograph and immediately connect eyes with Blackjack. A shiver goes down through my spine and I turn away in a hurry. I cross my arms and shiver once, uncontrollably.

"Well, that damned glass-throwing ma-jigger doesn't seem like it's going to be working anytime soon." David says as he exits the bathroom.

"It's a clay pigeon machine, David." Daniel corrects. "And the only reason it doesn't work is because you don't read the directions like you're supposed to."

"All I know is that tonight's entertainment is kaput."

I stand in the doorway and watch as David enters from the hallway and goes towards the table. Daniels stands before the oven like a woman, but his eyes never look down into that huge pot that he tends. Instead he looks back towards his brother. Then he motions his head towards the table.

"Look there, David, in the paper. You'll never guess who just showed up down south."

"Who," David asks

"Our old boss," Daniel explains.

David turns towards the paper opened up on the table and takes several wide steps towards it. Putting his hands down on the tabletop, he looks to it and then reads it. After awhile his face basically explodes and then he shakes it back and forth. Daniel smiles and looks to me.

"You ready to see the last show you'll ever need?"