Thomas O`Callaghan - The Screaming Room

“Thank you, God. Thank you,” said Peterson. “And this time you’re to take all your medication. The Lexapro, the Wellbutrin, and the Zyprexa! Is that clear, Everett?”

“Okay,” whimpered Luxworth.

The Lieutenant chose not to dwell on the combination of medication. From conversations with his sister’s pharmacist, he had become familiar with the drugs and what they were used for. He said a silent prayer for Luxworth as he headed for the door.

“Step right this way, ladies and gentlemen! Right this way! See the sword-eating Claudius and the tiger-faced lady! Right this way, ladies and gentlemen and children of all ages!” The circus barker stood behind his rainbow-colored podium at the entrance to the Midway, a corridor of wonders that led toward the circus’s big top. “Our Midway is now open, ladies and gentlemen! And later tonight, our big top will open for the main event! A wonder of wonders! Not to be missed!”

The Pie in the Sky Circus was a traveling extravaganza that toured the East Coast, delivering weekends of joy and pleasure. Under three multicolored tents, it featured a “barrelful of clowns,” a troupe of trapeze artists, and a host of animal acts.

It was a bright Friday afternoon when Margaret arrived on the fairgrounds outside of Lester J. Coddinton Elementary School in Cherry Hill, New Jersey. The caller to the Tip Line, a clown named JellyBeans, had told the police to look for a red and yellow camper, just to the right of the big top.

Margaret walked to the camper and knocked on its door.

No one answered.

Just as she was about to knock again, a voice sounded.

“Who ya lookin’ for?”

Margaret followed the voice to the back of the camper, where she found a wafer-thin midget seated on a stool.

“You JellyBeans?” she asked.

“Nope. Ya lookin’ for work. Are ya?” said the little man.

“No. I’m looking for a clown. Goes by the name of JellyBeans.”

“Jelly’s my friend. Whaddya want with him?”

“He’s expecting me,” said the Sergeant.

“He’s expecting you, is he?” The little man squinted as if examining the Trojan Horse.

“That’s right. We spoke on the phone.”

“What’s this all about?”

“It’s personal,” said Margaret, amused.

“I’m on to you Immigration people, ya know. Always buttin’ in and stirrin’ up trouble. You people make me sick.”

“You gonna tell me where JellyBeans is or do I have to bust you for interfering in the investigation of a crime?” Margaret flashed the tin. JellyBeans! Good God!

“You callin’ my friend a criminal? Come down off that high and mighty horse of yours, sister, and fight like a man!” The dwarf climbed down from his stool, not a simple task, and squatted, kung-fu style.

“You’ve gotta be kidding,” said Margaret, laughter now erupting. “Look. I’m not here to arrest anyone. I’m just here to ask your friend a few questions. Like I told you before, JellyBeans is expecting me.”

“Scared the pants off ya, didn’t I?” the dwarf gloated.

“That ya did.”

“Well if you must know, my bestest friend, Jelly, is sleepin’ it off right here in this camper. He drank buckets of swill last night and the show goes on in less than three hours.”

“Would it be asking too much to wake him for me? I’m asking this as a favor, mind you,” said Margaret, fighting the impulse to squat down to the little man’s level.

“Well…okay,” said the dwarf. “Give him a minute to freshen up.”

The dwarf disappeared inside the camper. Shortly after that, he stuck his head outside.

“Da-da-da-dah! His highness, Lord Jellsworth, will see you in his royal chamber! Step right this way.” He held open a rusted screen door.

Margaret entered the narrow camper.

“Follow me!” the dwarf ordered, leading Margaret into what could only be described as the master bedroom. In miniature.

There, stretched across a diminutive bed, lay a second dwarf.

“Please, world, stop spinning,” he pleaded.

“I’m gonna brew us some fresh coffee, Jel. It’ll fix ya right up,” the tiny man said. Then turning to Margaret, “How ’bout you, sweetums? Sorry, I didn’t get your name.”

“Margaret. And, yes, I’d love some coffee.”

“Glad to meet ya,” the dwarf said, exiting. “They call me Hot Stuff.”

With a burst of energy, JellyBeans hoisted himself out of bed.

“Tough night?” asked Margaret.

“My birthday.”

“Well, happy birthday! You’re the one who called the police, right?”

“Sure did!”

“Feel well enough to tell me about this guy they call The Thing?” Margaret asked.

“He done it.”

“He done what?”

“The killings. That’s what he done. There’s no hiding place for him now. Not with his mug all over the news.”

Margaret took out the sketch and handed it to JellyBeans.

“This the guy?”

“The spittin’ image. Bragged about the murders, he did.”

“Where can I find him?”

“Where he always is this time of day, the rascal. In his cage! Look for the red tent.”

“And where would I find that?”

“At the top of the Midway.”

Margaret left just as Hot Stuff reappeared laden with a tray supporting three cups of coffee and a box of Krispy Kreme doughnuts. The two would have to eat without her.

Outside, Margaret spotted the red tent and approached it. At its base, “The Thing” was inscribed on a wooden placard advertising the macabre oddity that was featured inside. Some curious thrill seekers had already gathered, waiting to be entertained by what was sure to be a ghastly experience.

The barker lectured the crowd. “The creature you’re about to see once roamed the deserts of Arabia. He is the first of his kind to be captured alive. Do not trust your eyes, gentle visitor. For the manlike being is not human. He only assumes human shape to induce in you a sense of security and safety. Stare bravely into his eyes. Pay attention to his every move. For, if he feels you waver, he will change into an abomination, and before you can say ‘Boo!’ he will feed off your very flesh. Be warned, this exhibit is not for those of you with coronary weaknesses. Pregnant women, and children who suffer from insomnia, should likewise avoid entering these fright-filled halls.” He pulled back a portion of the crimson curtain. “All other brave souls are now invited to enter. Once inside, follow the dimly lit arrows embedded in the stone floor. They will lead you to a wooden door that marks the entrance to his lair.”

They lined up to enter. When it came to Margaret’s turn, the barker asked, “Have you listened closely to the warning, madam? Do you believe in the supernatural?”

“I do.” She lied.

“Are you prone to nightmares?”

“No. Are you?”

“Ghouls have been known to invade dreams.”

“Can’t be any worse than my day job.”

“Enter, then, at your own risk,” he cautioned, gesturing theatrically toward the opening in the curtain.

Aligante did just that and followed the illuminated arrows, which led through a winding corridor. Howling and yelping sounds echoed around her. Some twenty feet in, she came upon the door, which opened automatically. She ducked inside and found herself in a small auditorium that had stadium seating. The crowd that had preceded her had already taken their seats. Margaret joined them. An eerie silence filled the theater, broken intermittently by the giggles of wide-eyed children.

A drum sounded, sending a chill through the audience. Lights came on, illuminating a small stage. In its center stood the barker holding a cattle prod.

“Ladies and gentlemen, this is your last warning,” he cautioned. “What you’re about to witness will frighten the most courageous of men. Remember, The Thing is not of our world, nor, sadly enough, since his capture, his own. This creature belongs to a species long cursed by all of humanity, a living anathema to God. And mind you, he has not eaten human flesh since his nightly foraging in the Arabian desert, where he feasted on unfortunate nomads. But he can wait hundreds of years for his next meal. I further caution you, ladies and gentlemen, if you wear a cross, you are warned not to wear it inside your clothing. Display it boldly as an emblem of your faith. Your faith, the very essence of safe haven for you. An abomination for him.”