Aimee sighed as she climbed out of the low-slung, vintage red Mustang. This was the last place she wanted to be tonight, but her friend had insisted.
“It’ll be fun,” she muttered, mocking what her friend, Sandra Travers, had said. Aimee would rather have a root canal.
“I heard that.” Sandra closed the car door with a thunk and leaned her arms on top of the roof, peering over it. “I know that you prefer to be a hermit, but honestly, Aimee, even you’ve never been quite this bad before.”
“I know. I’ve just been preoccupied lately. With work,” she added before Sandra could ask.
Aimee knew there was no defense against her friend’s accusations. There was no denying she didn’t like being out in public, much preferred being at home in her art studio. Even as a child, she’d spent all her time with her colored pencils, sketch books and oil paints. In school, she’d constantly doodled when she should have been concentrating on her social studies or math assignments.
Her teachers had predicted she’d never graduate high school or get a job if she didn’t stop scribbling pictures on every available sheet of paper. She’d proved them wrong on both counts. She’d not only graduated from high school, but had managed a year of art school before returning to Salvation. Her doodles, as many had deemed them, not only provided her with a comfortable living, but also allowed her to do something she loved on a daily basis.
Aimee considered herself luckier than most folks she knew, even though her life hadn’t been an easy one. Both her parents had been killed in a car accident when she was seventeen. She’d been in the car with them when the drunk driver of a delivery truck had slammed into them, and she hadn’t escaped unharmed.
Shattered glass had left her face with several scars that had faded to thin white lines over time. Her left arm and both her legs had been broken, but her left leg had been the worst. It had taken several surgeries and months of rehabilitation for Aimee to be able to walk again. She still limped when she was tired, and her left leg would never be as strong as it once was. But she was alive. Her parents hadn’t been as lucky.
By the time she’d been released from the hospital, her eighteenth birthday had come and gone and she was an adult. She’d moved back into her family home on the outskirts of town and adjusted to her new life. Art school had beckoned and she’d gone, but only for a year. Aimee found she missed the mountains and her childhood home, needed the connection with her past to keep her grounded. So she’d moved back to Salvation, lucked into her current job and never looked back.
Even after a decade, the townspeople still called her “that poor Horner girl” in whispers whenever they saw her, recounting her tragic story. It was frustrating, but Aimee had long ago learned to ignore it and to live with the stares that followed her whenever she went into town.
“Aimee.” Sandra’s voice broke through her memories, bringing her back to the present.
She offered her friend a smile. It wasn’t much of one, but it was the best she could do. Sandra Travers couldn’t understand what it was like to be the object of pity and sometimes ridicule. Her friend was tall and slender, with thick blonde hair that fell halfway down her back and framed sultry blue eyes. She had the body of a centerfold model, and men stopped in their tracks whenever they saw her.
The blonde bombshell had unwittingly caused several car accidents just by walking down the sidewalk. Flirting came natural to her and was simply a part of who she was. Sandra was outgoing and vivacious, chatting to everyone. She loved to be out and about among people and drew them to her like flies to honey.
In spite of the protective walls Aimee had built around herself, Sandra had knocked them down one by one when she’d moved to Salvation less than a year ago, and the two of them had become unlikely friends.
It had started with coffee at Kathy’s Kitchen, the local diner. And now they had dinner at least once a week and met for coffee whenever Aimee went to town. They talked often, Sandra regaling Aimee with her stories of dating and all the latest gossip about life in Salvation.
“Aimee, let’s go.” Sandra’s impatient plea got her full attention.
Determined not to spoil their evening out, Aimee hooked her purse strap over her shoulder and started toward the fairgrounds. “Sure.”
Although she felt fine most of the time, she was careful as she walked over the uneven ground. In spite of all the doctors’ best efforts years ago, her left leg would never be strong. It paid to be cautious. The last thing she wanted to do was take a spill on the uneven ground and end up humiliating herself in front of most of the townspeople who’d come here tonight. They talked about her enough without her giving them something else to set their tongues wagging.
Because she lived alone and never dated, rumors abounded that she was gay. That was the best of them. Other rumors hinted at much darker things, mostly because she made her living doing artwork for graphic novels, most of which were horror or fantasy based. Many of the folks around here figured that must put her in league with the devil.
After the dreams of the past few months, Aimee was beginning to think they might be right. But, for the moment at least, the buzz in town was centered on the traveling carnival. It had raised quite a stir in the small mountain town of Salvation. They hadn’t seen this kind of traveling show here in more than twenty years.
Most carnivals of this sort had died out decades ago, losing out to bigger and better permanent theme parks. At first, the town fathers had been uncertain about having a large group of unknown origins setting up shop nearby. But a quick trip to the fairgrounds and a hefty permit fee had gone a long way toward settling their qualms. The carnival was allowed to stay.
Aimee tilted her head back and peered up at the sky. It was well past dusk, and the stars were starting to twinkle in the night sky. The air was crisp and clean, as it can be only in the fall of the year. It was early October. The time of year she loved the most.
It had been a week since she’d had her last nightmare, for which she was eternally grateful. She’d certainly dreamed since then, but her latest dream had taken on a different tone entirely.
“Come on, Aimee. We don’t want to miss any of the fun.” Sandra was already several steps ahead, leading Aimee toward the bright lights and sounds of the carnival.
Even she had to admit that it was impressive for a traveling show. They’d parked their trucks and vehicles around the perimeter of the field, using the natural barrier of the woods to surround the fairgrounds. A ticket booth stood at the entrance beneath a brightly lit marquee that proclaimed it to be SHADE’S CARNIVAL.
As she watched, the red lights flickered and, for a moment, the lights that made up the first S and the apostrophe went dark. Aimee blinked as she read the sign again. HADES CARNIVAL. A shiver ran down her spine, and she stopped dead in her tracks. People continued to move around her, heading to the ticket booth to purchase tickets for the rides and attractions. The S and apostrophe suddenly lit up again, and the moment was past.
“Must be bad bulbs.” She rubbed her hands up and down her arms, glad she’d worn a heavy sweater over her long-sleeved shirt. Even though the days were still relatively warm, the nights cooled off quickly here in the mountains.
Following the crowd, she tried to ignore the sidelong glances she received from some of the townspeople. Even after all these years, she was self-conscious about the faint scars that traced over the left side of her face. Aimee nodded to some folks and said hello to others. They returned her greeting, but then they all looked away. None of them stopped to speak.
A miracle. That’s what she was. A miracle. Or so the doctors had said. By rights, she should have died in the crash with her parents. She’d been in a coma for several weeks and everyone had given up hope of her ever coming out of it. Then suddenly, one morning she’d opened her eyes and spoken to the nurse hovering over her. She could still remember the poor woman’s cry of surprise.