Story Time: The Shortcut

By Mark Ivan Cole

(Stream-of-consciousness illustration by the author)

Why do we assume that abandoned amusement parks are haunted? It’s a cliché, really, a trope, a cheap setup. Just say “abandoned amusement park” and we instantly expect cannibalistic clowns, feral Ferris wheels, horrifying halls of mirrors, and murderous merry-go-rounds. The ease with which these things alliterate is a dead giveaway.

Surely, this particular abandoned amusement park was not haunted. Surely the age-old “it was a stormy night and my car broke down so I took the shortcut” was just a plot device for a campfire tale. But it was storming, and my car had broken down, and going through the abandoned amusement park was a shortcut. Of course it was.

I probably shouldn’t have bothered with the shortcut since I was already soaked to the skin. Climbing the wall wasn’t too bad, but I landed in the brambles on the other side. I tore my pants and shirt and was pretty scratched up by the time I extricated myself. Now I wasn’t just cold and wet; I was muddy and bloody, too. Quite a sight, I suppose, considering I’d just come from what was supposed to have been a nice, quiet Halloween party.

I don’t drink much. Anything that messes with my head makes me nervous. I steered clear of the spiked punch after one small glass. Still, parties deteriorate quickly for the only sober guest. I hung around for half an hour, hoping the storm would subside, but when the host wheeled out some clothes racks, and costumes started getting passed around, I quickly made my escape. Nobody noticed me driving away in the rain. I should have been home free.

Did you know that lightning can fry the electrical system of a modern automobile? It fried my cellphone, too. I suppose I shouldn’t have been charging it but I didn’t expect to get struck by lightning. Who does?

I sat in the car for a long time, waiting for the storm to die down. It didn’t. I got impatient. I figured if I wasn’t electrocuted when I touched the door handle, I was probably okay. I didn’t die, but I was drenched almost as soon as I exited the vehicle. By the time I got over the wall, I was a walking disaster.

They say misery loves company. I disagree, especially inside an abandoned amusement park on a stormy night. I just wanted to get through there without meeting any ghoulies or ghosties or long-leggedy beasties or things that go bump in the night. I used to run steeplechase back in college, but I can’t go that fast in the dark. It’s hard to see anything close by when the nearest streetlights are all the way on the other side of the park, outside the wall. I doddered forward like a decrepit zombie, uncertain where to step next. Periodic lightning strobe-lit everything, giving me random fleeting glimpses of rusted-out thrill rides and decaying concession stands. One doesn’t realize how garishly these things are decorated until their peeling paint is illuminated in a flash like that.

I kept reminding myself that this was all some cosmic joke. I reminded myself again after I lost first one penny loafer and then the other in the sucking mud. The socks were next. It hardly mattered. I was getting close to the gate now.

After my wall-climbing debacle, I wasn’t sure how I would get out. The huge, iron gate was locked from the outside, of course. The chain hadn’t rusted enough to be yanked apart, and I didn’t happen to have any bolt cutters. I had to climb again, this time without shoes.

That proved difficult. They don’t make gates to be climbed over easily. One would think that they might be less concerned about people trying to get out, though. I suppose the few horizontal supports on this side were evidence of that. I tore some tender skin trying to get purchase on those little toeholds. Desperation overcomes all kinds of pain.

Once up there, though, I had to negotiate the spear tips on top. I could see a bit better now that I was within range of the streetlights’ sulfuric glow. There was just enough room for me to ease over the spiky bits while hanging, sloth-like, from the skeletal arch that used to support the welcome sign. I almost made it. My wet trouser leg got snagged and ripped stem to stern as I crossed over. I suffered a bit of a gash, too, but I was glad to be mostly out of the park.

Shaking, I clung to the gate, looking for a safe way down to the sidewalk. There wasn’t one. My grip failed and down I went. If my feet hurt before, they hurt worse now. So did my knees, my hip, my elbow and my palm. Somehow, I avoided slamming my head on the concrete. Lucky me.

I limped to the streetlight, hoping to hitch a ride. Apparently, everyone smart enough to stay home had done so. I seemed to remember there being a bus stop near here somewhere, so I staggered on down the sidewalk.

Headlights coming up from behind threw my shadow ahead of me. I pivoted awkwardly and stuck out my thumb. The car slowed a bit, but before I could be grateful, the engine roared and the car zoomed past, spraying me with roadside runoff. I think I cursed.

I don’t know how far I dragged myself. At some point, I remember a pickup truck pulling up beside me.

“You need a ride?” someone yelled. A guy. Sounded all right.

I made noises to the affirmative.

The passenger door opened and the light came on inside the cab.

I couldn’t see the driver. All I could see was the passenger holding the door open. Bright orange, frizzy hair rimmed an otherwise bald head that was too white, even for a Caucasian. Wild eyebrows arched wickedly over heavily shadowed eyes. A bulbous, red blotch of a nose hung above a nasty, toothy grin that split the face literally from ear to ear.

“Get in!” yelled the clown, still holding the door open. “Get in!”

Did I mention I ran track in college? I came in fourth in the steeplechase my junior year. That was the closest I ever got to the winners’ stand. On this night, though, inspired by such an invitation, I probably would have come in first. For all I know, I outran a pickup truck. Not until I was standing in my apartment, still shaking, did I remember it was Halloween.

Hell of a costume, buddy. Hell of a costume.

Story Time: Troll Hunter

Troll Hunter

By Mark Ivan Cole

I don’t hate them. I do find them ugly. They’re big, mostly, and inconvenient. Dangerous? That depends.

I hunt trolls because I can. I have to.

Grandma used to say I was the strongest milkmaid in town. I probably was. The Great Famine took everyone in the village but Pa and me. When Pa died, I strapped on his sword and ax and started walking.

I walked a long way before I found a town untouched by famine. They had a different problem. A troll blocked the pass. No one could get through. The mayor offered a sack of coins to anyone who would rid them of the scourge. I was hungry, so I went. When I came back with the severed head, the bounty was mine. I ate my fill, drank my fill, found a room and slept like a queen.

The money lasted three months, but when it was gone no one wanted a milkmaid who could kill trolls. I had become a troll hunter.

Another town, another bounty. A troll had taken over the bridge. The span had been built at great expense, and not being able to use it meant traveling days out of the way. Trade was suffering. Wealthy tempers were short. Every local braggart claimed he would win the prize. I slept on the streets and bided my time. When the braggarts failed, the bounty was doubled. I delivered the head and earned enough for six months’ lodging and victuals. When that was gone, I was back on the road.

This is how I’ve lived in the years since: like a hero or like a dog, well-fed and comfortable or alone in the cold. The difference depends on finding quarry. Trolls are not common; I must always search for trouble. When I find it and fix it, the money flows, but once the flow stops, no one wants me around.

Which brings me to last week.

I heard rumors of a particularly bothersome nuisance near the main road. Much property and not a few lives had been lost. My own purse was nearly empty and I did not want to spend another winter in a cave.

“How much to clear the road?” I asked the pumpkin-faced nobleman in the velvet chair.

He scratched his double chin. “We are a poor people,” he mumbled.

“Not all of you,” I said, eyeing his rings; “and I suspect it’s worth more than what’s on the table to get the trade going again. When was the last time a wagon load of salt from your precious mines was delivered safely and paid for? How much longer before your store shelves go empty? No goods, no buyers.”

He winced. “What makes you think you can do it?” he challenged, collecting himself. “I’ve half a mind to reduce the reward if a woman thinks she can claim it.”

“A bounty is a bounty,” I said; “no matter who collects it. I need no one’s faith. The task is the same, whether or not you believe.” I leaned forward and spread my hands on the table. “A decent offer might make it worth my trouble.”

He pursed his lips and shrugged.

“I can wait,” I said. I left the door open behind me.

Two days later, the last local hero failed to return, and the offer became more reasonable. I secured a small advance, filled my belly and got a good night’s sleep before heading into the hills.

Which brings us to tonight.

I’ve spent several days just watching. This troll is not that big but it’s wary. Skittish. Easily spooked. Sniffs the air all the time. For now, the wind is in my favor, but a storm is coming. Yet I delay.

I know my line of attack. I know the troll’s pattern, weakness and blind spot. That’s not my problem.

My problem is that this troll is not a “he.” And she’s not alone. I’ve seen the tousled top of the young one’s head.

Delaying this kill has nothing to do with any motherliness on my part.

My dilemma is twofold. First, the bounty pays for one dead troll. Just one. If I kill the offspring as well, the rich bastard in town gets a sweet deal he did not negotiate. There will be no bargaining with him after the fact. If I kill the mother first and then say there’s a young one, I will have earned the bounty but not solved the problem. That will not be taken kindly.

Second, trolls are rare enough as it is. If I kill the young one now, it cannot grow up to be the sort of menace that I can kill later for a better price.

I’m the best troll hunter this side of the Western Divide. It’s a hard-won reputation. I make a good living. I eat well because I collect a bounty, and I collect a bounty because I kill trolls. Every dry bed I ever slept on cost some dumb being its life.

I need this troll. I need the next troll, too. I am killing the very thing I need.

The rain has started. Water drips from the boughs over my perch. Every day that goes by without a kill means another night in the cold. In a month it will be snowing. In a moment, the troll will come out, looking for food. I have a decision to make.

Here she comes. Lightning flashes and thunder rolls. She fears it, but she’s hungry, and so is her little one. She must hunt. She heads downhill, as always.

I ready myself. The thunderstorm is my friend. The troll is distracted by Thor’s hammer-falls.

As always, she turns the corner here and hesitates. I am on her in an instant. My ax finds its mark, splitting the seam of her skull, burying itself in her brain. Whatever thoughts she once had are gone. Her body reacts, mindlessly defending itself, arms and torso jerking wildly. If I just stay out of the way, this thrashing will fizzle out in a few minutes.

I leap from her shoulders and slip down the muddy hillside. It’s wet now, and steeper than I realized. I almost slide into the ravine, but I catch myself before I go over. Ignoring the mayhem going on uphill, I claw my way back to solid footing. I stand up only to see the dead troll tumbling toward me. I scramble sideways. As the carcass rumbles past, its flailing arm knocks me off my feet and over the edge.

Face up, eyes open, I feel nothing. I hear nothing. I lie as still as the stones beneath me. High above, lightning silhouettes a tousled head peering down into the ravine.

Go on, little one. A dry bed is no use to me now.