The Dark Man

The carnival ebbed and flowed around him, the gaily dressed dancers and performers in stark contrast to his own blackly esthetic form.
Standing close to him the noise of the carnival became muted, like a tinny recording of itself. The colors that were so fantastic, close to him, were muted and dull. The very air seemed thinner and colder by far, with out those good carnival smells of hot fried things and the odor of so many frenzied bodies.

He stood there, in the midst of this revelry, with his own funereal air, gazing out from beneath razor neat dark hair. One large worn hand clutched a book close to his chest, while the other rested by his thigh.

His stance was wide and assured, feet planted firmly in dark work man boots, legs clad in dark pants, suit coat open to reveal an iron-creased white shirt of startling cleanliness.

The dancers and barkers moved around him as if his presence had been choreographed. A circle of space remained around him, no one seeming to realize they were avoiding him, but doing so, each and every one.

He did not smile, frown or in any other way seem to be expressing any emotion. He simply stared from those cold black eyes, into mine.

I was standing before the Pitch Till You Win booth, my booth, with the crowd buffeting past me. This was my favorite time of day, when the carnival got started with the traditional dance and feast, before the gay colors and music seemed cheap and tired. Usually, I felt masterful here, part of something larger than myself, and far more sophisticated than the rubes that walked the midway.

With his cold dark eyes on me, I felt like a small child again, unloved and unlovable, unable to bring forth any joy in my own life.

I found myself thinking of the time my father had touched my breast, consideringly, before passing out from drink. It had happened many years ago, and I had long ago relegated it into the fastness of the past.

Now, staring at the dark man, it came crashing back, the fear and secret shame, the bastardized sexual thrill that left me confused for years. I could taste pennies in my mouth, cold copper fear, just as I had then.

I shook myself from the memory, wondering what had caused me to think of such ugly things, only to see him walking towards me.

Suddenly, I didn't want to see him, didn't want him near me. I watched with apprehension, bordering on terror, hoping he would take a turn, and go elsewhere with his circle of cold and silence.

His lips quirked up in a little half smile, as if he sensed what I was thinking, and I shuddered. There was something wrong with his teeth. I couldn't place what it was, but it made me deeply uncomfortable.

By now he was only a foot in front of me, and I had become part of his mirthless silence. It seemed I was drowning, here in the middle of my carnival, drowning in the brimstone stink of him, in his colorless silence.

"Would you be Maryanne Mae Thompson?" he inquired. When he spoke his voice was all sibilant whispers, and his breath traveled the space between us to hit me with its' heat. I felt my cheeks must surely be seared, and tears came to my eyes involuntarily.

"No." I breathed, whether in negation of his question, or of his very existence, I wasn't sure.

"No? Then who might you be?" he asked, a slight smile upon his face.

"I'm Abigail. Abigail Morison." I quavered, taking quick peeks at his face, my hands twisting around and around themselves, sweat pouring into the cups of my bra, making little pools.

"I see. Abigail. Well, Abigail, it's not you I'm looking for, at least not yet. Such a pity, too. You see me so clearly. I would have rather liked to spend some time on you. Too bad. Maybe some other time." With that, he began to walk away, taking his heat and stink with him. I watched his retreating back with something like regret, wondering what it was he meant for this Maryanne, and what he had meant by the comment that I saw him clearly.

Suddenly, the sounds and colors and carnival smells returned, crashing in on my head and forcing me to release the breath I wasn't aware I had been holding. I stumbled against my booth, causing the stuffed animals and trinkets to shake, and retched into my own cupped hands.

I looked wildly around me for the dark man, but could see him nowhere. I took a deep shaky breath to recover, and marched off to clean myself and calm down.

As I passed the booth for Ring Toss, I saw the back of the dark man's head, as he had a whispered conversation with the booth's owner, a young girl whose name I didn't know. She had a curiously blank look on her face, though her hands were white and pulled tight into claws.

Suddenly, I didn't want to be at the carnival anymore. I simply started walking, and never looked back.

All that was ten years ago, now, and I have a life again, one that I like. I'm married, and have two children. Each year when the carnival comes to town, we take a trip out of state. It just seems like a good idea. I don't think too many people really see the dark man when he's here, and I'd prefer that he never catch a glimpse of me, and remember.