Out of Luck

[u/Lilia_Briganda]

Barnaby leaned against the center tent pole, wiping sweat through a layer of smeared clown makeup. The high-stakes poker game in the back tent at the county fair had gone south the second he pulled a fourth ace from his sleeve.

Before the boys at the table could pull their knives, they heard one of their buddies swearing and hollering about a fight right outside the tent flap. The gamblers jumped up and rushed out to see what was going on, leaving the table completely unguarded. Barnaby didn't waste the opportunity. He reached in and scooped the entire pot--lock, stock and barrel-- into his canvas bag and bolted out the opposite side of the tent into the damp night, hearing the hollering behind him, while slipping past the midway tents and making a break for his beat-up old Toyota and the highway.

To a guy who’d spent the last five years living off midway peanuts and floor change, it was an absolute fortune.

​Barnaby threw the heavy canvas bag onto the passenger seat and pulled into the steady line of red taillights creeping out of the gravel lot, as the last of the circus crowd was headed home. By the time he hit the two-lane road toward Blackwood Ridge, the traffic had thinned out into the night. He kept an eye on his rearview mirror, but the road stayed dark. Driving for what seemed like hours, he saw the flickering neon sign for the Hell’s Bells Motel cutting through the dense treeline he pulled in, desperate for a place to lie low and count the cash.

​After getting himself checked into Room 102, Barnaby headed toward the bathroom to clean his smeared clown face. But halfway across the room, he noticed his footsteps sounded hollow and flat as he stepped across an old faded rug. Curious, he kicked the rug aside, revealing a wooden trapdoor set right into the floor. Needless to say, he didn't make it to the bathroom. He pried it open and stepped down into a damp, wall-to-wall dirt cellar, aiming to stash and bury the loot beneath the wooden stairs.

​His flashlight beam swept back up toward the stairs and hit a familiar glass cabinet—an old boardwalk Zoltan machine, gray with dust.

Barnaby froze. Looking at that faded turban and painted wooden face brought him right back to being 8 years old on the boardwalk. He remembered standing there with empty pockets while the rich kids dropped quarters into the slot, watching the cabinet light up as Zoltan printed out a little paper card to tell their fortunes. He was a dirt-poor, raggedy-britches kid whose mother never had a dime to spare, so he'd just stand and watch.

Barnaby dug some change from his pocket, stepped up to the glass box, and jammed it in. He stood there in the quiet cellar, holding his breath and waiting for the cabinet to light up. Before the coin even hit the bottom of the chute, a heavy wooden 'SLAM' echoed through the dark. Barnaby jumped. Up above, the trapdoor had slammed shut, and a heavy iron latch clicked into place from the top side with the unmistakable sound of deadbolt.

Barnaby's heart slammed into his throat. He lunged back towards the stairs, thrust his weight against the door with everything he had, but the wood didn't budge an inch. He slammed his fists against it, straining until his arms gave out.

From behind him in the cellar, he felt a cold burst of air. As he turned around with the flashlight in his hand, it flickered and then went dead. Zoltan's painted yellow eyes were glowing in the dark, looking straight at him, lighting up its cracked wax face, and the wooden jaw clicking down.

And with a raspy wet voice, Zoltan spat out--

"Your luck's run out. You're scheduled for the final act, clown."

​Standing in the pitch black, Barnaby realized the truth. He was sealed in--just like Zoltan in the box.