Clockwork Little Happiness

2

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We were minutes away from hitting the road again, checking our bags to make sure we had everything before shutting the tailgate and filing out to the backseats of Blake's truck, but oddly enough instead of feeling immense relief, my stomach was in nervous jumbles. I didn't like the fact that we were separating but at least Carly or Wade weren't by themselves... walking blind into a virtually unheard of town would have made anybody a little apprehensive, but I counted on the fact that they knew what they were doing even if our side of the group didn't. The other part of me worried that'd we'd miss the football game all together, but at that point, Blake was the only one still excited to see it. The rest of us were just along for the ride now... and to enjoy each other's company.

I was halfway to the truck when I realized I was still carrying my cameras with me and I doubled back to the hatch to put my camera bag away so we'd have more room to be comfortable in the car. When I reached over to wedge my bag between our rolled up tents, something silver and shiny sticking out of Carly's purse made me freeze. Slowly, I reached out and plucked it from the front pocket, my heart dropping slowly and heavy like a brick on top of a bowl of honey when I realized what it was. And who it belonged to.

I gripped the object tightly in my hand as I shuffled to the front of the car, hearing Nick yelling at me to hurry up and I wondered how everyone would react to this. Especially Blake... he was thrilled to go see that football game. Hearing one more bit of bad news might've made him combust.

"Guys, Carly left her phone," I announced.

Blake's head popped out of the driver's side window then. "What!?"

"You gotta be fucking kidding me." That was Nick's exasperated cursing and I heard his fist dully smack against the leather seats in irritation.

"Okay, so what?" Dalton chimed in, confused.

"So now Carly won't be able to call us, dumbass," Nick snapped at him.

"Well, we can't go now." That was Paige's calm voice. "Let's just go after them."

"If we don't leave now, we'll never make it through traffic-"

"Babe, we're gonna be late anyway. We can't leave them out there with no way to call us."

"I can just walk over and bring it to them," I suggested between their bickering and they all turned to stare at me in surprise at the idea. It might have been a long shot but it was better than leaving Wade and Carly in an obscure community with no contact. Did small towns have pay phones?

"Morgan, that guy said the next town is fifteen miles away," Paige reminded me. "It's too far."

"It'll be okay. Look, if you guys go right now you can still buy the tickets. If we wait they'll just sell out and we'll never see the game."

Blake was definitely on board with that judging from the way his eyes danced with enthusiasm, glancing at Paige who was looking at me with a disapproving frown. "Okay," she finally relented. "But promise you'll call us when you get there. If you get lost, we'll come back."

"Yeah, don't worry, I will. Drive safe, okay?"

I listened and waited as Blake started the ignition, carefully pulling out onto the deserted country road and I smiled when Paige waved at me from the passenger seat, returning the gesture until I couldn't see them behind the trees anymore. All I had now was my camera bag and Carly's phone. It wasn't much but it felt like plenty to me, as I knew where I was meant to go and what my friends needed... finding that hideaway gas station was the tricky part. Most cities and small towns had road signs pointing to the correct route, didn't they?

Remembering the direction the trucker drove away with Wade and Carly, I started from the animal pit and walked down the right side of the lane. My camera bag bounced heavily on my hip with every step and the longer I walked, the more I realized just how narrow the paved road was and how there was almost little to no noise coming from either side of the woods. A polar opposite compared to what we'd experienced yesterday night - you would think that we'd hear some kind of echo of small-town life being camped relatively close to it but there was nothing at all.

I fiddled and twisted with the strap of my camera bag across my chest, sneakers thudding and squeaking over twigs and pebbles scattered all over the street and I wondered if the sun would still even be out by the time I caught up to Wade and Carly. Where was that man taking them again? I tried to remember.

"Need a lift?"

I jumped slightly at the friendly voice parked right next to me and turned to see the same man as before looking at me through the rolled down window. A white and black spotted dog sat beside him, tail wagging happily.

The man didn't seem to recognize me at first, then his eyes glittered with surprise. "You lookin' for your friends?" He drawled. "Dropped them off up at the stream. I would've took them all the way, but they insisted on walking." He said the last part with a slight edge as if offended that they didn't stay in his car longer, but my mind didn't linger on that detail for long and automatically switched to the fact that they made it there in once piece.

"My friend forgot her phone," I told him. "I'm bringing it back to her."

"Well, that ain't no good," the trucker remarked, adjusting the short brim of his hat. "Hop in if you want and I'll take you to them."

I glanced down the winding stretch to that mysterious small town and I knew it'd probably be at least half an hour if I decided to go on foot as well. As much of a red flag entering a stranger's car was, my gut told me to take the chance. He must have been alright if Carly and Wade were already there.

"Thank you," I said, moving around to the passenger door.

"Name's Lester," the man introduced himself then and flashed a lopsided grin when the dog's inquisitive bark startled me. "Don't worry, he don't bite."

I smiled despite the intimidating size of the dog and his nose slowly reached out to smell my arm, wary and curious but still good natured as he softly licked the back of my hand.

"I'm Morgan," I said back, rubbing the dog between his ears.

When Lester stepped on the gas pedal, I reached up at the corner of the passenger door to fasten myself in, touching a flimsy but leathery strap hanging by the headrest, definitely worn out with age and use but it would've had to do for the ten minute trip.

"So where you kids headed anyway?" Lester asked.

"To Baton Rouge for a football game. Well, that was the plan... but it's all gone kind of wrong."

"Yeah, the country can really deal you in if you're not prepared for it."

"Have you lived around here your whole life?"

"Sure did, born and raised. I've been tending to the animals for about ten years. It's a dirty job, but someone's gotta do it." The truck cruised smoothly around a shallow corner then, the roads expanding in width as we approached town limits. "It keeps my family fed."

His words sounded odd to me and I couldn't quite understand what he was trying to get across until I carefully turned my head to the rear windshield, spying more dead wilderness animals rustling about in the truck bed. "You mean... to eat?"

"Well, why not?" Lester responded as if it was the most natural thing to do in the world. "Tastes just about the same if you cook it right. My brothers got no time fussin' over putting dinner on the table so they leave it to me."

"Do they live close by too?"

"Yeah. Not far."

From what I'd seen of Lester's personality in that moment, his answer was uncharacteristically curt but I didn't press for more details about his private life. We were still strangers to each other. And even though he was doing me a great service, he wasn't obligated to tell me his life story. I guessed I wasn't either.

His dog grew more affectionate as the car ride went on, eventually inching his way over to lie his head on my knees so I could massage and scratch at his ears. It was a bizarrely calm motion. He wasn't even my own pet, yet he provided a sense of security and familiarity like the moment after waking up from a good nap on a rainy day or the prickle of warmth in your fingers when holding a steaming mug of tea when you were sick - the feeling that things were okay or certainly going to be. And it was even weirder to have these sensations riding in the truck of a man who worked as a roadkill grim reaper.

Lester slowly eased on the brakes with a creak then. In front of us was a collapsed road flooded with water and just beyond that, a sign that read AMBROSE in faded white letters, the peaks of colonial style homes and buildings just past the tree tops.

"There she is," Lester announced, hanging an arm over the steering wheel. "Don't suppose you'll want to be let out here too?"

"Yeah, I really don't mind. It's not far."

Clicking off the seatbelt, I popped open the passenger door and slid out, about to close it shut behind me when I heard the clink clink of the metal bit of the dog's collar as he jumped down to follow me.

"I think he's taken a liking to you," Lester observed with a grin. "Why don't you take him along? He knows the way back home."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah, he could use the fresh air."

I nodded, smiling as the sweet dog skipped happily by my side as I turned to trek up through the deluge blocking off Ambrose from the rest of the country side. The water rose up to my ankles, making my sneakers and socks soak up like a dish sponge but it slowly drained back out over my ankles as I trudged through stones and soggy clumps of dirt while the dog loped across the divide like he'd done it many times before. He didn't stray too far though. If he got more than fifteen paces from me he'd either stop in his tracks and wait for me to catch up or simply turn and come running back.

It was like he was guiding me, knowing the foreign area made me restless.

Ambrose was a very quaint town like something described in a children's story with very eccentric neighbors and stores with rich backgrounds. Several cars lined up along the curbs but as I wandered down the sidewalk, I didn't see a single other soul in the street. Or through the store windows as I passed. They had nearly everything a regular city would... a grocery store, pharmacy, clothing boutiques, diner, and I even spied a movie theatre at the corner end but what made it absolutely irregular was that nobody was around. No one behind the shop counters, crossing the sidewalks or milling about in their yards.

No one but me. It was completely deserted.

Maybe they were all at home?

"Carly?" My voice was faint in the air. "Wade?" I stopped dead in my tracks in the middle of the sidewalk, trying to listen in for any commotion: people talking, footsteps, music playing... but no. Nothing. "Carly? You guys here?"

"Morgan?"

My eyes whipped all around to see where that voice came from and across the street, Carly came hurrying out from the gas pump, Wade towering close behind her.

"What happened, what are doing here?"

"You left your phone in your bag," I told her, holding it out as we met each other halfway in the street.

Carly smacked her palms to her forehead then. "Oh my god, I'm such an idiot." Wade smirked over her shoulder at that and as though she had another set of eyes at the back of her head, she whirled around and pointed a finger up at him. "Don't you say a word!"

I choked back laughter at her expression and she shot me a playful glare too for it.

"How'd you get here?" She ended up asking. "Don't tell me you got a ride from-"

"The roadkill guy? Yeah... I might've caved and got in his truck too. I mean, he's not a total basket case if we're all here alive, right?"

"Yeah, I guess." Carly shrugged then and her cell phone buzzed as we started to walk deeper into town. "Hello?" She spoke into the phone. "Really? Why? What happened?" Another pause. "No, no one's at the gas station. I don't know where we're going right now. Morgan? Yeah, she's right here." Carly tipped the phone away from her ear then and whispered, "Paige says hi and she's glad you're not dead."

"Hi, Paige," I said, leaning toward the phone. "How sweet."

Carly smiled and brought her phone up to her ear again. "Why don't you just head up the road we got off at for the campsite? It's washed out at the end. Call us when you get there, we'll meet you."

My attention wandered to the surroundings then, seeing cottage-like houses dot along the sidewalks, shutters painted a chipped but vibrant white, soft green and faded yellow. It was hard to believe tiny knit settlements like that still existed but I understood why people would find their happiness there: it was quiet, private, relatively safe and from what I imagined everyone must've known each other well and got along given the size of the place.

Switching the strap of my bag from my chest to my shoulder, it was then I realized that the dog disappeared. I spun around, but he was nowhere in sight... in fact I couldn't remember Carly or Wade mentioning him when I saw them so he must've ran off long before that. I guessed Lester was right. He knew his way back home.

I heard Wade and Carly trudge toward the church planted right at the apex of the town and I was about to follow them when I spotted a gated cemetery not far from the church's grounds. About a dozen headstones or more filled the square patch of grass sectioned off by the forest border. My mind told me to hurry and catch up with the others before they strayed too far ahead but the other side of my brain, the part that didn't value rationality as much, told myself I would just tip toe over for a minute. But only for a minute.

So that was what I did. The image of a peaceful, maybe decades old burial ground was beautiful and in a way that reading the inscriptions on their tombstones could've told us a little about their lives when they still walked the earth - I already felt like I knew a bit about the people here from the traditional style of all the homes and buildings and bubbles of curiosity formed in my chest as I imagined what more I was about to learn. Ambrose was an interesting place.

I fished out my film roll camera, studying the headstones and taking photos of ones with unique scriptures or images carved on it. Then finally I stood a few feet back from the entire plot where the sun was just visible above the tree line and took one more.

"You get lost?"

I crushed the camera to my chest and spun around, finding an older man in a black suit standing right at the path looking at me with mild confusion in his eyes.

"No, sorry, it's just..." I rubbed at the back of my neck then, feeling awkward and a little uncomfortable at explaining myself to him. I was sure he'd think it weird of me to take photos of a cemetery, finding beauty in it somehow. "I saw all these old graves and wanted to take a couple pictures. It's really peaceful here."

"Yeah, those used to be the pillars of the community," the man said, nodding toward the rows of headstones. "The people who stayed after their kids grew up and moved to the inner city. Now it's just us old timers keeping the place alive." The man strode closer then. "You must be Morgan? I met your friends up in the church."

"Yeah, they were looking for someone to help with their car-"

"That'd be me," the man said with a smirk. "I told them to wait for me at my shop. Come on, I'll walk you there."

His wide palm lightly touched my back, leading me down back to the sidewalk and as I glanced up at the sky I saw that the sun was hanging lower and lower on the horizon. It was mostly covered by bluish grey clouds now.

"So you're a photographer?" The man spoke after a minute, eying my bag still strung on my shoulder.

"It's just a hobby," I replied. "My parents bought me my first disposable camera when I was little, but I didn't really get into it until... until a few years ago."

"My ma was something of an artist too, married more to her creations than to my pa. We had to bury her today."

"I'm sorry. My parents haven't been together for a long time and they barely tolerate each other, but as depressing as it is to be home sometimes... I can't imagine not having either of them around. I think I'd just wanna d-" My words froze on my tongue after I looked up and saw for the first time the hulking sign: HOUSE OF WAX. A house? It repeated in my head. A normal house full of wax? How was that possible?

The man followed my line of sight then and his stride slowed down. "You wanna take a look inside?"

"Well, my friends are waiting for us-"

"Won't take more than minute," the man encouraged. "I'm sure you'll see something that'll strike your artistic fancy." His long legs carried him farther up the path and as we closed in on the entrance, I noticed the white and black sign hanging off one of the door handles.

My feet instantly stopped in their tracks. "But it's closed."

"It's okay." The man climbed the stairs then and swung the door back with his palm. "The owner's a friend of mine."

In a way, it felt like trespassing but the man seemed like the sport that wouldn't ever allow that so I shuffled inside the dimly lit but well furnished house. It was more like a mansion but set up like a tourist attraction with an unattended check-in desk right at the foyer, paintings hung on the walls, humanoid busts and sculptures placed in every corner and inside glass display cases. That wasn't the centerpiece though.

Every single room was adorned with wax figures, made up to look like people during their everyday activities: reading in the library, enjoying a meal at the dining table, couples spending time with each other on the sofa and dancing in one another's arms. It all looked so real. Down to their shoes to the tiniest freckle painted on their cheeks.

I stood there for a second, stunned, and just absorbed everything in. "Wow, it's... it's beautiful." That word was honestly an understatement. The type of art that was exhibited was so breathtaking, it left my mind completely blank and I couldn't do anything except stare at it. A single name was carved on all of the paintings. "Just one person made all this?"

The man strolled by with his hands on his hips, gazing up at the staircase spiraling around to the upper level. "Yeah, the owner's a bit of an eccentric fellow. He was never too good at talking to people, but he sure found his language through sculpting. Maybe that's something all you artists can relate to?"

"I don't really think I'm an artist," I denied, standing in front of an oil portrait of an older woman with graying hair, her hands cupped around her pregnant stomach and I noticed the same woman's face drawn onto other paintings too. She must've been someone important. "Not like him. He's really talented."

"Well, I'll pass along your message when I see him."

"Does he still live here?"

"He comes and goes."

The artist must've been a traveler. He must've been to have created so many different kinds of images, sculptures of people from all ages and appearances, and figurines of the most mythical creatures - people like that had to take inspiration from somewhere and that generally came from seeing the world. Or maybe just a very active imagination. A way to escape because you never saw enough in your life.

The paintings really captured me and I found myself memorizing another oil canvas of a scenic landscape of a snowy plain, bordered by white tipped trees and in the center a tiny ice encrusted cabin.

"I hope my pictures are good like his one day," I whispered to myself.

The man's footsteps came up to my back then and I felt his chest brush against my hair. "Oh, they will be. I know exactly what to do with you."

My fingers tensed around my camera bag as I turned my body to face the man, a brief flash of bare skin and the black sleeve of his suit jacket in my eyes as he took my forehead in his giant hand and slammed the back of my head twice into the wall. Molten hot pain shot up from my neck through my temple and my vision gave out when I felt my legs collapse and sink to the floor.

The sour taste of iron and salt coated my mouth and I realized with a stuttering heart that blood was trickling down my face. I reached up to wipe my eyes clean but then the man's hand gripped the collar of my shirt, throwing me over on my back and then squeezing both fingers around my neck. Just enough to where I could still hear everything but couldn't move, could barely breath or see.

The man grinned above me then, mirth and malice in his eyes. "Don't you worry, girl. Vincent is gonna fix you up nice." He leaned in close to my ear just as the last of my vision faded. "You're gonna live forever."

It was like someone had buried me alive. My eyes gradually peeled open again to a dull yellow glow, and it grew steadily brighter like someone was shoveling dirt off my face or unwrapping bandages from my eyelids but as my sight adjusted to the light I realized I was slouched over a person's shoulder. My arms and hair swung from side to side like a pendulum as the very tall person descended down a long flight of stairs, half melted candles perched on the corners of every step and alcoves on the walls. Where was he going?

What was down there?

My cheeks grew unbearably hot as the man walked on even ground again, but I could only see the back of his legs as he went, the air becoming stuffy and humid. And plastic... everything smelled of burned plastic. I tried lifting my head, but my brain lost connection to my nerves and I could do nothing except hang limp when the man roughly deposited me on the grainy floor next to an old rusted looking contraption. The crown of my head was sore and throbbing with tenderness that I was sure was bleeding still but the most I could do was bend my fingers, lying on my side with my head pressed against my outstretched arm.

Was I dying?

"Found another stray," the man said, staring at me like I wasn't any bigger than an ant and I wondered who he was talking to because the room was empty-

But then movement. A hint of a body in the corner where another light source came from, a second man just as tall as the one in the suit.

"I'll round up her friends. You get started on this one-" The man in the suit grinned then, making the corners of his eyes crinkle. Delight... he actually looked delighted at the thought of my death. "She'll be a nice addition in the theatre."

He tossed my camera bag that he had hoisted over his own shoulder on the ground then and kicked it with a sickening crack underneath one of those old operating tables stacked with knives and other sharp glinting objects before disappearing back the way he came. His footfalls sent vibrations throughout the floor's surface and I felt it hum against my cheek, listening as the strong thump thump thump of his shoes grew weaker, reaching the top floor of the house until they faded completely.

Then it was quiet.

Please don't be broken, I thought to myself, eyesight fuzzy while I tried to reach an arm out for my camera bag but my mind wouldn't cooperate, body would not wake up. All my hand could do was dig and pat helplessly against the floor, and warm fluid streamed down my cheeks.

Blood?

Tears?

I couldn't tell the difference.

My fingers froze flat against the ground when another pair of boots, dirty and covered in a thin milky film, stopped in front of my head. I quickly shut my eyes, not knowing or imagining what the other man was going to do but I just hoped he aimed for my head. I didn't want to feel anything-

Strong hands grabbed under my arms then and dragged me carefully backwards, the heels of my shoes scraping against the ground then lifted for a second into the air before I felt myself being laid onto something springy but soft. A bed.

The other man towered over me and I blinked in confusion... the same face floated above my own and through the daze I wondered how I could've missed the man in the suit coming back down the stairs. I thought he'd-

My pulse sped up when I realized I wasn't looking at the same person. Although their features were eerily identical, this man was framed by long black locks and a tattered brown apron stained with white paint marks strapped across his chest, the pockets filled with various items, but the one object I caught sight of was a clear syringe in his right hand hanging between two fingers.

He rolled up the sleeve of my shirt with his free hand and plunged the injector into the crease of my arm, thumb sinking the needle down to the hilt. The brief pinch of pain made my fingers twitch and I tried sitting up but the dark haired man squeezed my shoulder and kept his grip there... like he was telling me not to move.

I couldn't anymore. My eyelids fell lower and lower until consciousness left me completely.

MEANWHILE

Dusk was settling over Ambrose as three figures strode up to the dated, slightly misplaced house at the top of the hill overlooking the sleepy country-side town.

"Hey, why don't you two hop in? l'll go get the fan belt and l'll give you a ride to your car," Bo said, opening the passenger door for Carly and Wade but the pair hesitated.

"No, actually, we've got friends picking us up where the road's washed out."

"l'll give you a lift then. It's the least l could do for making y'all wait."

Carly and Wade shared an agreeable glance then, the former shrugging as she climbed up into the rusted truck cab. But before Bo could shut the door, she firmly placed a hand on the handle, pushing to keep it open as her eyes widened in alarm. "Wait, where did Morgan go? We lost her walking to the church."

"Your photographer friend?" Bo clarified. "I saw her in the cemetery. She wanted to stay and take a couple of pictures."

Wade chuckled at the image. "Yeah, that sounds like Morgan."

"We'll pick her up on the way," Bo assured them and couldn't stop himself from smirking when Carly's shoulders instantly relaxed and Wade's subtle sigh of relief. You'll be seeing her real soon, he thought to himself.

But not alive.

A/N: The part in the movie where Wade mentions Bo taking 45 minutes to meet them in the gas station instead of half an hour made me imagine him finding Morgan after Wade and Carly leave the museum and taking the extra time to knock her out and take her to Vincent. The pace of the movie is quite fast so I hope everything makes sense.

Also it seems like the House of Wax fandom calls the Sinclair dog Jonesy but since it's still a mystery in the movie what his/her name is, I'll just leave it blank and let people imagine it how they want.

Thank you for reading!

Title reference: From the 1938 painting The Image Disappears by Salvador Dalí