A few hours before…
“Busier night than usual.”
Pokey leaned against the wall separating our booths and flicked his toothpick between his teeth as he attempted to make conversation.
I’d shared a trailer with him since I arrived at the carnival, whenever that was, and he frequently complained about the few times I was able to scrounge a cigarette—said it was a nasty habit, that it smelled foul. I was so tempted to make a comment about how it was hypocritical to bellyache about my vices when he had that nasty piece of wood in his mouth all day, but I was trying to be the bigger person, and Pokey had looked after me ever since I could remember, which wasn’t very long. He was a good enough guy.
“Sure is. My brain is like mush by now.” I picked up the guitar—playing helped clear my mind—and had my back to the carnival, just picking at the strings. Another one had broken earlier so I was down to three. The challenge of playing melodies like this was good for me.
Most days, I had maybe five or six customers, but today I’d had double that and only gotten a second to breathe the past few minutes. Thankfully, it was almost closing time. I’d worked my magic and made people happy with my words, or at least the words that had come to me, through me, through the board from… somewhere.
“You the poet guy?”
I turned and found a twitchy man standing before my booth. He was ordinary-looking, in light blue jeans and a gray t-shirt, his black hair cut short, his bright blue eyes shiny, his smile wide. He rested his hands on the lip of the booth and tapped his fingers.
He took my breath away, only it wasn’t in the way folks wrote love songs about. This was like the crushing weight of a knee to the chest, a garrote around the neck being pulled by strong arms, or a plastic bag pulled tight over your head.
Why those specific images came to me, so vividly, I had no idea.
“I’m the poet guy,” I finally said, gripping the lip of my work table in my hands. He was a mere three feet away, and his abrasive energy washed over me and left a metallic taste in my mouth. Like iron.
Pokey turned away from his goldfish and leaned a bit more over the wall between our booths. He watched the stranger intently, as did the fish. They weren’t like any fish I’d ever seen, creepy little buggers. I supposed since he was the one who’d apparently brought me into the carnival, Pokey felt the need to protect me? Normally it bugged me a bit, but tonight his presence was welcome.
“So how do we get started?” The young man pulled out his wallet and held it open to show off a thick wad of bills. “I’ve got money. You gonna use your board?”
He had a lot of cash for a guy dressed so plainly. Something told me it might not all belong to him.
“Well,” I rubbed my hands together, “we’re kind of wrapping up for the night—”
“Oh, come on. I came by several times and you always had a line. I just want a poem from the… Troubadour. That’s you, ain’t it? Come on. Use your talking board. Write me a poem.”
His smile was too wide, like the corners of his mouth pulled out so far it looked painful. His teeth were clenched in his mouth, and he was way more excited than he should have been about a silly poem.
There was something wrong about him, and I couldn’t put my finger on it, but I knew he shouldn’t be here.
Maybe I could just make something up. I could leave the board out of it. I wished I had rhymes inside my head. I felt like I should have them—used to have them—but something kept them from me. I wouldn’t even have to ask him a question if I could do it myself. He couldn’t contaminate me with whatever darkness he was carrying if I didn’t—
“Ain’t you supposed to ask me for my question? I watched you do it with some people before. You ask for their question and then they tell you. I want you to ask me for my question.” He’d pressed himself up against the front of my booth, and his belt buckle kept scratching against the wood, the sound like fingernails on a chalkboard. My teeth hurt at the sound and ringing started in my ear.
“Right, right,” I said, rubbing my jaw. “A question. You gotta know, though, you may not get the kinda answer you think. Sometimes—”
“You’re not talking me out of this. I've been waiting all day. He told me I’d find you here, so let’s get going.” He rubbed his hands together and the sight turned my stomach. Once more, I found myself fighting for air.
I cleared my throat and ignored the blackness creeping in around my vision. I cracked my knuckles and gazed up at the guy. He was built a bit bigger than me but was still slim, and only a few inches taller than my 5’7”. He licked his lips and that smile stretched even farther. The guy was giddy. I had half a mind to make up some excuse. I wished for an interruption. Anything to not touch the planchette.
“Come on! Carnival’s gonna close soon.”
His smile slipped a little and his upper lip curled. The scar on my face began to itch, but I resisted the urge to scratch it.
“All right then. What’s your question?”
His beady, soulless eyes flared and he licked his lips. “I wanna know how you got here.”
I frowned. What an odd question? I blew out a breath and placed my fingers gingerly on the planchette.
The blackness creeped a little closer, sending cold spikes up and down my neck. I sucked in a breath and saw the swirl of words coming toward me.
“What do you see?” His words broke through, sending waves through the vision like disturbing a still body of water. I was about to reprimand him when his arms shot out and he planted his hands on the planchette, plummeting us both into the blackness.

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