We arrived in the cemetery around four o'clock, stepping off the grumbling school bus into the crisp fall air. I wrapped my scarf tighter around my neck, pulled my hat further over my ears, and blew into my gloved hands.
"Are you alright?" My teacher, Mr. Cainson asked. His dark eyes were full of concern.
I stared up at him and nodded, bending my head again so my hair fell like a curtain over my face.
"Good," he said, patting my shoulder gently and walking with me toward the slabs of gray stone.
My classmates followed behind us, walking amongst the bare trees and chattering about what they were doing over the weekend. This field trip held no significance for them. I blew on my hands again, rubbing my palms together through thin cotton, fingerless gloves, and tugged on my scarf, which did nothing to keep the creeping cold out. White puffs of breath followed me as I walked over rocks and stepped into leaves. My father was not buried here, but the memories were strong.
The field trip was to a cemetery in order to learn about local history and do gravestone rubbings. Mr. Cainson directed the trip every year in the fall, but I had doubts as soon as the school bus had passed through the tall gates atop which read in spiraling letters "Est. 1780."
"Pay attention to the dates on the stones," Mr. Cainson had announced, peering over his shoulder at the rest of the bus' occupants. "Was it a parent? Teenager? Child? Maybe an entire family? In the 17th and 18th centuries, it wasn't uncommon for folk to die early from disease, fire, or even childbirth. A single sick family member could infect an entire community."
There was a story he told about a circus coming to town during a particularly bad epidemic. The town used the circus tents to house the ill and dying, until one day someone set those tents on fire.
Something like that.
In bed this morning I had thought of pretending to be sick and spending the rest of the day reading safely indoors, but the sun was out, the leaves outside the bedroom window were glowing orange and yellow, and I realized that countless other classes had gone on this trip, done research on an urban legend, and come home. They had touched graves, looked at them, and walked among the spirits of the dead in this old part of the woods surrounded by rock fences. They had come home alive and happy.
Perhaps it was not the frightening, crumbling stone that faltered my steps; the skull's heads with angel wings and grimacing, empty eyes, but my own inhuman grief. Perhaps sometimes a deep hole dug by sadness was avoided by bolting in fear. Death was simply one of those things that I couldn't help but to shy from.
My friends followed close behind me as I took hesitant steps into the cemetery, then diverged off their different ways. My teacher stayed by my side.
We sauntered forward, stepping over broken twigs and branches as the trees churned overhead in the crisp gale.
I stopped walking abruptly. There in the leaves was a tombstone almost as tall as me. A poem was etched in the stone and atop it was a sneering gargoyle.
Ludwig Von Tökkentakker, it read. Died 1898. An owner of a carnival who gathered many players who was perhaps never killed but stole the souls of his slayers.
I pulled my hat down over my ears again as a blast of wind picked up the leaves and made them swirl in the air. Such a sight I always thought was beautiful. Now, I shivered.
"I..." Mr. Cainson said gently. "I wouldn't take the words literally. The poem was probably a joke...there are several legends surrounding Ludwig Von Tökkentakker and more than likely someone long after his death put an epitaph on his grave based on those legends. There are photos of his grave and when it was new there was no writing on it. It was simply put there to frighten people into believing silly stories. You can imagine the sorts of people who would do that."
Further down the hill, Dylan and Rob, two hockey players from my class, were guffawing loudly and throwing sticks and leaves at the girls. "Don't get eaten by graveworms!" They shouted.
Carissa and Melissa shrieked behind pretty smirks, fluttering their eyelashes. Melissa's hair was shiny and dark brown beneath a perfectly positioned wool beanie, and Carissa covered her mouth in mock terror, her platinum curls falling over her shoulders.
"Boys," Mr. Cainson said sternly, walking away from me and towards them.
I touched the word carnival with a fingertip, then jerked my hand away. "It seems old to me," I muttered.
I turned away to find something less weird when the shine of something caught my eye.
There - partially covered by dry leaves - I walked toward it without thinking, taking my hands out of my pockets and swooping down to cup it in my palms.
A golden coin - heavy, the size of a field hockey ball, and nearly half an inch thick. I had to have it. It was so delightfully shiny, and the weight was pleasant in my hands.
"Anna!" Beatrice was shouting for me.
"An-na," Carissa mimicked in a mocking tone.
Barely readable were the words Admit One to Carnival. Instantly I glanced around, my eyes searching for the grave. On the tombstone lay a round indentation; as though someone had taken a large hammer and pushed the stone back an inch or so.
"Come over here and see this!" Bea called.
More shrieking. The sheen of leaves was getting kicked up by running feet. The boys hollered, giggling.
"Let's get focused, people," Mr. Cainson called.
My hand, with the coin, reached toward the place on the tombstone where it belonged, and pressed the coin in. The indentation clicked, then the coin fell into a hole.
"Cool," I muttered.
Rustling of leaves. My classmates shouting to one another and stirring up the forest floor. Birds twittering overhead. The hillside roared, rushing up to meet me
I would have figured the coin popped back out somewhere. I mean, I did find it out on the grass. I looked around the back of the tombstone to see where it came out, but there wasn't anything there.
Panicked, I sifted through the leaves. I wanted that golden coin back; I wanted to take it home, to feel its cold weight in my pocket, to hold it and prop it up next to my bed.
The ground felt like it was quaking, and my lightheadedness didn't fade - everything looked a little fuzzy. I glanced around for my classmates, but they seemed to have moved on.
I whipped out a pad of thick paper and wrenched one page free, my hands quivering as I ran the gritty charcoal stick haphazardly over the paper, until Ludwig Von Tökkentakker appeared on the page. I stuffed the paper in my folder and grabbed another clean one, which quickly became smudged with the charcoal dust off my gloves. I started rubbing the inscription poem, when suddenly the sun went behind a cloud and cast strange shadows on the grave.
"Anna?"
I jumped.
Mr. Cainson was shivering. "Everyone is headed back to the bus." He jerked his head in motion for me to follow.
"Okay," I said. "I'm just finishing."
As I finished rubbing, I began thinking rapidly about what I was going to write. I rolled up the finished grave rubbing and stuffed it in my bag, then turned to Mr. Cainson.
Sudden, high-pitched laughter echoed throughout the trees.
I whirled around.
"Mr…Mr…Cainson?" I stuttered.
"What?" He asked. He didn't sound alarmed, but his eyes were darting back and forth past me.
"Let's go," he said gently, optimistically.
I realized that it wasn't a gargoyle on the top of the stone, it was a jester. A skeletal face staring at me with red eyes and sticking out its tongue...
It took all my effort not to sprint down the hill to the bus, which I could barely see through the trees, waiting patiently for us. With each walking step, I took as large a stride as I could, in an effort to warm up and get as far away from that tombstone as possible.
At last the doors to the bus, friendly and open, and I hopped up the steps with Mr. Cainson right behind me. Sweaty, leathery bus seats haphazardly repaired with duct tape filled my nostrils.
Ahhhh, sweet safety.
"About time," Melissa grumbled. I turned to shoot me a look, when she suddenly paled and stared at something behind me.
A hand closed on my wrist and I jumped around with a cry.
"Don't move. Close your eyes," a voice hissed.
I stood rigid and closed my eyes as tightly as I could.
"Open them..."
I felt my eyelids lifting though I didn't want to. It was as though something was summoning them to open against their will. Around my wrist were wrapped long, white fingers. I followed the purple-and-gold silken shirtsleeves up till I met the face of the jester on the tombstone. It was even more horrifying in person...his face was pale, like shining smooth stone, with large, sunken eyes, and a bared, lipless smile full of long, sharp teeth. His pupils were black and took up most of his eyes, and which flashed red as I stared, open-mouthed. A purple hat with arching pieces and bells topped his crown.
Without meaning to, I tried to pull away, but the jester chuckled and pulled me back.
"Welcome," he hissed.
"To what?" I whispered back fearfully. I tried to turn my head but the jester's cold hand cupped my chin and turned me back.
"What the hell," one of my classmates whimpered.
"CarnEvil," he said, and laughed in his high voice. "Come see freaks, magic, animals, and of course...the best part..." He lowered his face so his eyes stared into mine. "Me."
Oh no. Oh God. Oh no.
I shuddered and turned away, jerking my wrist and trying to get out of his grip, to run. Where? Somewhere, anywhere...I grunted with the effort but the jester held fast and he pulled me arm up in the air. A stinging ran down my arm and my knees buckled with a gasp I couldn't control.
"I wouldn't try that again," he sneered, "if I were you."
He pulled on me again and I struggled to my feet. "Where's Mr. Cainson?" I cried.
The jester smiled once more and pointed off to me.
I followed his thin white finger and cried aloud, clawing at the jester holding me. "Let him go!" I cried angrily. "Let him go!"
Two ugly men held our wonderful teacher to them. Neither wore shirts but had tattoos all over their grimy chests. One of the men gripped the back of his neck (his dirty fingers wreathed in his long dark hair) and the other held him by the back of his shirt and pointed a jagged blade at his neck. His head was pulled back and up which seemed to me extremely painful. "Stop-don't worry about me," he said calmly, with a smile. "You need all your concentration and an abundance of wit about you now. Don't expend your energy."
I shook my head. "No, no..." I struggled, pushing against the jester's grip, but he simply jerked me back to him. "Please," I whimpered.
"It didn't take long to make you beg," Umlaut sneered.
One of the boys from my class laughed.
"You can't do this!" I howled. Now I was embarrassed that everyone could see me crying…a sign of weakness. I kicked in the air. I couldn't move my arms and I pulled and pulled. "You can't do this!" I screamed, and screamed, and pulled, until I was bucking and gasping for air, like I had laughed too hard.
"Stop it, Anna," Mr. Cainson said softly. "Let it be."
"No! I won't let you get hurt," I cried. "I won't let them. I won't." I reached for him but the hands around me wrists stopped them in midair.
The world was growing dark, and I felt myself sit in one of the bus seats. I could hear the girls whimpering, crying, whispering.
I had done this. This was my fault. My fault.
The jester's voice sang out above the dim, dark, fuzzy shapes around me as he shifted the bus' gears.
"Let's go for a little ride, shall we?" he giggled.