How had this happened? Where had he gone so wrong? On a cool November night in his miserable little hovel, somewhere in the middle of Nowhere, Indiana, the Illustrated Man stared at the faces of the children on his hands. On one there was Will Halloway, a child of All Saint's Day, bright eyes edged with suspicion and a strained smile. The other palm portrayed his best friend, Jim Nightshade, born on All Hallow's Eve, always grinning with reckless abandon, even when running headlong into danger, despite the darkness that hid behind his eyes. It was looking at their faces, at the children whose innocence he had spoiled, that made him begin to recall what had driven him to this.
It was the man in Wisconsin: the one with the fascination, the one with nothing better to do, the one to whom he spilled his heart. The one that ran away before he died.
Or, rather, was killed.
The Illustrated Man didn't have to see what his back held to know what it showed others. The man ran before he was choked to death.
The Illustrated Man had been relieved at the time. Relieved that he didn't have to add another death to his conscience. Relieved that the other man hadn't doubted his story about why he got his tattoos. Relieved that he was alone again, and when he was alone, no one around him would get hurt, and he didn't have to worry about images of him killing people appearing on his back and chest.
After that man left him on that asphalt road in Wisconsin in early September, he had gone to a carnival. Just to see if he could get a job. And there she was, out in the open, with her sewn-shut eyes and smiling mouth and nimble fingers. But she was different, younger.
And then the Illustrated Man remembered that the Dust Witch that had cursed him with the tattoos that now defined him had claimed to be from the future.
He had gone up to her. She smiled, and held out her hands, asking for his hand. He had given it to her. She traced the rose on his palm, following every line with her delicate fingers, knowing what was there despite her unseeing eyes. After she finished, she had turned her gaze up to him, and asked him where he got his "stories".
He, of course, replied, "I got them from you."
She hadn't said anything in response.
The Illustrated Man looked away from the backs of his hands, away from the faces of William Halloway and Jim Nightshade. Away from the reminder of how the darkness had overcome him, how everything had changed.
He knew that when Charles Halloway had shot the Dust Witch with his smile-marked fake bullet, she hadn't died. No, she was in the past, now, waiting for the un-tattooed, overweight, "I broke my leg" William Philippus Phelps to come along so she could make the future happen.
He still wanted to kill her when he saw her again. She had manipulated him, even if it wasn't her fault that he had these horrid, cursed tattoos.
After he had told her the origin of his tattoos, a sad smile appeared on her face. Then, she got up, walked up to the manager of the carnival, and quit the show. The manager had just sighed and paid her for the week, then sent her on her way. She had scurried back to him, and promptly latched on.
"Do you want to start a carnival?" she asked.
"I've had a bad experience with carnivals," he had replied.
"Oh, don't worry. I have a lot of friends who've been rejected by the freak shows too. We could be our own band of traveling oddities! It'll be fun!"
He had wanted to say no again, but she had such a pleading look on her face, he had relented.
It was a mistake.
They had left that carnival behind, and traveled across the western United States in the Dust Witch's balloon, collecting her friends. There was Mr. Cooger, who had worked as both a Mr. Electrico and a manager before. There was Emma, who had carved the most beautiful woman in the world inside a block of ice. There was the Thin Man, the Strong Man, the Dwarf, the Bearded Lady, the man who designed mirror mazes, and, most importantly, the carousel owner.
The Dust Witch had refused to introduce him as the Illustrated Man. She hadn't wanted to present him as a spectacle, portray him as a freak. She wanted him to run the show. She had rechristened him as Mr. Dark. (Not that he had ever been christened in the first place. Besides, William Philippus Phelps was a bit of a mouthful.) She had come up with the name of the carnival, too. Cooger & Dark's Pandemonium Shadow Show. The newly named Mr. Dark had thought that the title itself was dark, and wouldn't attract families, but the Dust Witch had laughed and said that it would attract exactly the right kind of attention.
That kind of attention turned out to be that of over-curious, possibly mentally unstable children.
The first time they performed with the entire crew was the job in Green Town, Illinois. Mr. Dark had been apprehensive about the use of the carousel, especially considering Mr. Cooger's dubious history with it, but the Dust Witch had reassured him that everything would be fine.
Of course, the lightning rod salesman just had to fall in love with Emma's ice vacuum woman. He died. Then it was a whirlwind of confusion and fear, with the Dust Witch pulling the strings in the background. Then Will's father shot her with a smile, and she burst into nothing and disappeared into the past.
The Illustrated Man sighed, still staring at his hands. He had put more people in danger. More people had gotten hurt. Charles would never forget seeing his son and his son's best friend on the stage like that, sewn up and controlled like marionettes. Those two now-fourteen-year-old boys would never forget what terror they had experienced, either. Will would certainly never forget seeing Jim almost die. The Nightshade boy would be messed up for the rest of his life… though arguably there was something wrong with him to begin with…
Jim had reveled in the fear that the carnival had created. He had climbed up on his roof to see lightning strike the rod the salesman gave him. He had purposefully followed suspicious people and actively sought out things that terrified him, dragging Will unwillingly along behind him. He had not found anything wrong the rather intense fixation that Mr. Dark had with him. If there wasn't something inherently disturbing in that, the Illustrated Man mused, I fear for the safety of all pubescent children, and the sanity of all adults.
He shook his head, clearing his mind of the enigma that was Jim Nightshade. The main issue was the fact that he had terrified children who had never done anything to him. He would have liked to blame it all on the Dust Witch (she never had told him her name), but there was more to it than that. He himself was not blameless.
He was the one who had let himself go. He was the one who had agreed to get tattooed so he could keep his job. He was the one who had strangled his wife, confirming that the tattoo on his chest was a self-fulfilling prophecy. He was the one who hadn't died that day he killed her, even though the freaks thought he had. He was the one who had almost killed that man in Wisconsin. He was the one who had walked up to the younger Dust Witch, and let her take hold of him. He was the one who had let her manipulate him, bringing terror to innocent people. He was the one who had fixed the terrifying gaze of Mr. Dark upon a child born on Hallowe'en, and developed an obsession with the boy.
He was most definitely at fault as well.
He almost wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it all. He was starting to get old. Not visibly, of course, but living for over seventy years was beginning to take its toll.
When he finally found the Dust Witch, he was going to kill her. Then, finally, he would be able to bring it to an end.