stood in the middle of it. On the table was a crystal ball and a set of tarot cards in a black silk pouch.
Behind the table sat an old gypsy woman. The lighting made it impossible to determine her age. Maybe she was fifty; perhaps she was one hundred fifty. But there was a fire in her eyes that burned bright even in the deceptive light.
"O-o-o-o, spooky,” Jim whispered and elbowed Diane in her side.
"Silence!” the gypsy woman bellowed. Jim jumped at the sound of her voice. It was hard to believe such volume came from the frail woman. “The spirits do not like to be mocked.
"Come. Sit.” The gypsy woman waved her hand through the air and two chairs pulled away from the table.
Jim smiled. Impressive. He'd been to so-called fortune-tellers before and their shows were filled with cheesy parlor tricks: unexplained voices, mysterious winds, and candles that extinguished themselves, but he'd never seen this kind of trick before.
The Andersons sat across from the woman with the wiry hair and yellow, crooked teeth. “What is your pleasure?” she asked. Her voice sounded as if she spent way too much of her free time smoking unfiltered cigarettes.
"You're the big guru. You tell us.” Jim was usually more guarded about what he said, but the beer made him giddy, and the words just fell off his lips.
The fortune-teller shot Jim the evil eye. “All right, James Anderson, I'll tell you that what you want to know."
Pulling the crystal ball forward, the hag gazed deep into the glass. The smell of cinnamon grew stronger. A gray mist swirled and clouded the orb. The light shifted and concentrated on the old crone. Their breath puffed in front of them as the air got cold.
Jim had to stifle a giggle. Parlor tricks. All of it. And they weren't very good.
The gypsy looked up and stared at Jim. “You think I'm a fake, don't you, James Anderson? You think all you see and smell and feel here is done by machines. Well, let me tell you, James Anderson, what I have seen in the glass."
She pushed the crystal ball aside and leaned forward. Her breath smelled like onions, and her ragged clothes reeked of mothballs. Her eyes sparkled like rubies in the crimson light. “You have been with the dead. I could smell their stink on you the moment you walked in. They have darkened your soul.
"Your wife desires another man's cock. She wants to take it in her mouth and taste his seed.
"Your daughter, too, has secret desires. But her will is not her own and it will drive her insane.
"And there is your son, Travis. There is a dark veil over his face. That veil is death."
The color drained from Jim's face. “Fuckin’ freak.” He grabbed his wife's arm and stood up. The back of his legs hit the edge of chair and toppled it over. “Come on, Diane, let's go."
As they moved toward the exit, a wind, as hot as dragon's breath, whispered past them and opened the tent flap. They were halfway across the midway before they could no longer hear the mad cackling of the fortune-teller.
"What was that all about?” Diane asked.
"Nothing. It was all bullshit,” Jim replied. His face was still pasty white. “Let's find the kids and get the hell out of here."
* * * *
Reverend Timothy had just finished his nightly ritual and was about to leave when he first noticed the smell that reminded him of raw sewage.
On occasions, a mouse would get trapped behind the altar, die, and decompose. But that wasn't the case this time. The only thing the reverend found was a mess of cobwebs and a small red spider.
Timothy walked across the sanctuary. He noticed the stench was more foul as he approached the baptismal font. Could something have died back there? He didn't think so. There was much-too-much room around the font for any kind of vermin to get stuck. Still, the stink really was the strongest here.
Timothy lifted the silver lid from the font and gagged when the stench rose from underneath. The blessed water had spoiled. It was black and oily.
The reverend
Behind the table sat an old gypsy woman. The lighting made it impossible to determine her age. Maybe she was fifty; perhaps she was one hundred fifty. But there was a fire in her eyes that burned bright even in the deceptive light.
"O-o-o-o, spooky,” Jim whispered and elbowed Diane in her side.
"Silence!” the gypsy woman bellowed. Jim jumped at the sound of her voice. It was hard to believe such volume came from the frail woman. “The spirits do not like to be mocked.
"Come. Sit.” The gypsy woman waved her hand through the air and two chairs pulled away from the table.
Jim smiled. Impressive. He'd been to so-called fortune-tellers before and their shows were filled with cheesy parlor tricks: unexplained voices, mysterious winds, and candles that extinguished themselves, but he'd never seen this kind of trick before.
The Andersons sat across from the woman with the wiry hair and yellow, crooked teeth. “What is your pleasure?” she asked. Her voice sounded as if she spent way too much of her free time smoking unfiltered cigarettes.
"You're the big guru. You tell us.” Jim was usually more guarded about what he said, but the beer made him giddy, and the words just fell off his lips.
The fortune-teller shot Jim the evil eye. “All right, James Anderson, I'll tell you that what you want to know."
Pulling the crystal ball forward, the hag gazed deep into the glass. The smell of cinnamon grew stronger. A gray mist swirled and clouded the orb. The light shifted and concentrated on the old crone. Their breath puffed in front of them as the air got cold.
Jim had to stifle a giggle. Parlor tricks. All of it. And they weren't very good.
The gypsy looked up and stared at Jim. “You think I'm a fake, don't you, James Anderson? You think all you see and smell and feel here is done by machines. Well, let me tell you, James Anderson, what I have seen in the glass."
She pushed the crystal ball aside and leaned forward. Her breath smelled like onions, and her ragged clothes reeked of mothballs. Her eyes sparkled like rubies in the crimson light. “You have been with the dead. I could smell their stink on you the moment you walked in. They have darkened your soul.
"Your wife desires another man's cock. She wants to take it in her mouth and taste his seed.
"Your daughter, too, has secret desires. But her will is not her own and it will drive her insane.
"And there is your son, Travis. There is a dark veil over his face. That veil is death."
The color drained from Jim's face. “Fuckin’ freak.” He grabbed his wife's arm and stood up. The back of his legs hit the edge of chair and toppled it over. “Come on, Diane, let's go."
As they moved toward the exit, a wind, as hot as dragon's breath, whispered past them and opened the tent flap. They were halfway across the midway before they could no longer hear the mad cackling of the fortune-teller.
"What was that all about?” Diane asked.
"Nothing. It was all bullshit,” Jim replied. His face was still pasty white. “Let's find the kids and get the hell out of here."
* * * *
Reverend Timothy had just finished his nightly ritual and was about to leave when he first noticed the smell that reminded him of raw sewage.
On occasions, a mouse would get trapped behind the altar, die, and decompose. But that wasn't the case this time. The only thing the reverend found was a mess of cobwebs and a small red spider.
Timothy walked across the sanctuary. He noticed the stench was more foul as he approached the baptismal font. Could something have died back there? He didn't think so. There was much-too-much room around the font for any kind of vermin to get stuck. Still, the stink really was the strongest here.
Timothy lifted the silver lid from the font and gagged when the stench rose from underneath. The blessed water had spoiled. It was black and oily.
The reverend
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