The Traveling Vampire Show

But then a concerned citizen named Fargus Durge entered the picture. He said, “You don’t have orgies and pagan sacrifices going on in the town squares of Grandville or Bixton or Clarksburg, do you?” Everyone agreed on that. “Well, what’s the difference between the town squares and Janks Field? The squares’re in the middle of town, that’s what. Whereas Janks Field, it’s all by itself out there in the middle of nowhere. It’s isolated! That’s how come it’s a magnet for every teenage hoodlum, weirdo, malcontent, deviate, sadist, satanist and sex-fiend in the county.”

His solution?

Make Janks Field less isolated by improving access to it and making it a center of legitimate activity.

The council not only saw his point, but provided some funding and put Fargus in charge.

They threw enough money at the problem to bring in a bulldozer and lay a dirt road where there’d only been tire tracks before. They also provided funds for a modest “stadium” in the middle of Janks Field.

The stadium, Fargus’s brainchild, consisted of high bleachers on both sides of an arena.

A very small arena.

The county ran electricity in and put up banks of lights for “night games.”

On a mild June night a little over two years ago, Fargus’s stadium went into operation.

It was open to the public unless otherwise booked for a special event. Anyone could use it day or night, because the lights were on a timer. They came on at sundown and stayed on all night, every night, as a deterrent to shenanigans.

Fargus’s “special events” took place every Friday and Saturday night that summer. Because the arena was so small, there couldn’t be anything the size of basketball games, tennis matches, stage plays or band concerts.

The events had to be small enough to fit in.

So Fargus brought to the stadium a series of spectacular duds: a ping-pong tournament, a barbershop quartet, a juggling show, a piano solo, a poetry reading, an old fart doing card tricks.

Even though the events were free, almost nobody showed up for them.

Which was a good thing, in a way, because Fargus’s big plan for the stadium hadn’t included a parking lot. This was a major oversight, since most people drove to the events. They ended up parking their cars every which way on Janks Field. Not a big problem if only twenty or thirty people showed up.

But then one night toward the end of that summer, Fargus charged a five dollar admission and brought in a night of boxing and about two hundred people drove in for it.

Things were so tight in Janks Field that some of them had to climb over the tops of cars and pickup trucks in order to reach the arena. Not only did the field get jammed tight, but so did the dirt road leading in.

Regardless, just about everyone somehow made it into the stands in time to see most of the boxing matches.

They loved the boxing.

But when it came time to leave, all hell broke loose. From what I heard, and my dad was there trying to keep order (not on duty, but moonlighting), the logjam of cars was solid. Not only were there way too many cars in the first place, but some of them got flat tires from the broken bottles and such that always littered the field.

Feeling trapped, the drivers and passengers, in Dad’s words, “went bughouse.” It turned into a combination destruction derby/brawl/gang-bang.

By the time it was over, there were nineteen arrests. countless minor injuries, twelve people who needed to be hospitalized, eight rapes (multiple, in most cases), and four fatalities. One guy died of a heart attack, two were killed in knife-fights, and a six-month old baby, dropped to the ground by its mother during the melee, got its head run over by a Volkswagen bug.

After that, no more boxing matches at Janks Field.

No more “special events” at all, duds or otherwise.

The stadium became known as Fargus’s Folly.

Fargus vanished.

Though the “night games” were over, the huge, bright stadium lights continued to remain on from sunset till dawn to deter lovers, orgies and sacrifices.

And the grandstands and arena remained in place.

The Traveling Vampire Show would be the first official event to take place in Janks Field in almost two years—since the night of the parking disaster.

I suddenly wondered if it was official. Had somebody taken over Fargus’s old job and actually booked such a bizarre event?

Didn’t seem likely.

As far as I knew, the county had abandoned Janks Field. Except for paying the electric bills, they wanted nothing at all to do with the scene of all that mayhem.

I doubted that they would even allow a show to take place there-much less one featuring a “vampire.”

Unless maybe some palms got greased.

That’s how carnies got their permits, I’d heard. Just bribed the right people and nobody gave them trouble. A show like this would probably operate the same way.

Or maybe they hadn’t bothered.

Maybe they’d just shown up.

I must’ve let out a moan or something.

“What is it?” Slim asked, her voice little more than a whisper.

“What’s a show like this doing at Janks Field?” I asked.

Looking puzzled, Rusty said, “Why do you care?”

“I just think it’s weird.”

“It’s a great place for a vampire show,” Slim said.

“That’s for sure,” said Rusty.

“But how did they even know about it?”

Grinning, Rusty said, “Hey, maybe Valeria’s been here before. Know what I mean?” He chuckled. “Maybe she’s done some prime sucking in these parts. Might even be the one who put some of those old stiffs in Janks Field.”

“And she likes to come back for old time’s sake,” Slim added.

“But don’t you think it’s odd?” I persisted. “Nobody just stumbles onto a place like Janks Field.”

“Well, if you trip in a snake hole…”

Rusty laughed.

“I mean it,” I said.

“Seriously?” Slim asked. “Somebody came out in advance to set things up. Don’t you think so? And he probably asked around in town and found out about the place. That’s all. No big mystery.”

“I still think it’s weird,” I said.

“Weird is what you want,” said Slim, “when you run a Traveling Vampire Show.”

“I guess so.”

“The only thing that really counts,” Rusty said, “is that they’re here.”

But they weren’t.

Or didn’t seem to be.

We followed Slim out of the forest. The dirt road vanished and we found ourselves standing at the edge of Janks Field.

Way off to the right across the dry, gray plain stood the snack stand and bleachers. Overlooking them, gray against the gray sky, were the panels of stadium lights.

We saw no cars, no trucks, no vans.

We saw no people.

We saw no vampires.