Page 7 of The Knucklebone Brothers

The Clown Mask walked beside us, his gloved hand occasionally reachin’ out to give me a little push, sending me swingin’ again. He was laughing, with a low, delighted sound.

"Don't you worry your pretty little head, now," he said, his voice a sickeningly sweet murmur right next to my ear. "We're gonna take real good care of you. You're gonna be our new favorite project."

He leaned in closer, his masked face just inches from mine. I could smell the faint, sharp scent of cigarettes on his clothes.

"You think you're tough? Think you're feral? That's cute. Real cute. But you ain't seen nothin' yet. We're gonna break you down, piece by piece, until all that's left is the good parts. The parts that know how to behave. The parts that belong to us."

He chuckled, a sound that made my blood run cold. "You're gonna like it. I promise. By the time we're done with you, you'll be beggin' us to keep you."

They walked toward a beat-up, old-school truck parked off to the side of the trail, its engine idlin’ low. It was covered in mud and rust, a relic from another era, with a rifle leaning casually against the dashboard in the open window. The Burlap Mask opened the tailgate and, without a word, tossed me into the back. I landed on a pile of rough blankets, the smell of old leather and sawdust filling my nose.

The Clown Mask climbed in the back with me, slammin’ the tailgate shut behind him. The world went dark, except for a sliver of moonlight that filtered through the dirty back window. He covered me with the blankets, the weight of them suffocating, trapping me even further. I could hear him settle in beside me, his breathin’ a steady, calm rhythm in the dark.

Then the truck lurched forward, the tires wobbled on the dirt as he peeled out onto the main road.

Chapter 3

The ride was a nightmare of jarring bumps and swayin’ metal. Every pothole in the mountain road felt like a punch to the ribs, my head bouncing against the hard floor of the truck bed. I groaned into the gag, my body throbbing, my eyes squeezed shut.

Then, silence.

The truck slowed, the engine idlin’ in a low, throaty rumble. I heard a heavy thunk and a metallic clank, like a gate swinging open. We started creepin’ forward, the suspension groaning under the weight of the truck. The air changed, smelling of pine needles. I knew we weren't on the main road anymore. We were climbing.

Finally, the truck stopped. The silence was absolute.

Suddenly, the blankets were ripped away. I gasped, my eyes snapping open, but the sudden exposure made them water and sting. I was finally allowed to sit up. Through the blur, I saw them. Dozens of them. Glowing jack-o'-lanterns, their carved faces grinning and leerin’ from the shadows, lining a path up the side of the mountain. It was a sick, festive welcome to a nightmare.

Then a rough, scratchy bag was pulled down over my head, plunging me back into a murky, suffocating darkness. It wasn't completely black, though. The weave was loose, and through the scratchy fibers, I could make out a distorted, watery world of light and shadow. I could see the faint, orange glow of the pumpkins flowing like river embers, and the hulking, menacing silhouettes of my captors movin’ against them.

Before I could even process the terror, I heard the snick of a knife. The Clown Mask leaned over me, the cold steel grazing my cheek through the burlap. He moved to the ropes binding my ankles. With a sharp snip, the ropes fell away. Then he sliced the ones connecting my wrists to my feet. My legs were free.

"Walk," he whispered, muffled by the sack over my head.

The tailgate creaked open. The Burlap Mask stepped into the back of the truck, his shadow a darker shape against the faint glow. He reached out, grabbing the rope still tied to my wrists. He pulled, yanking me towards him, and tied another piece of rope through the loop, creating a makeshift leash.

"Come on, pretty thing," he grunted, and with a quick jerk, he started to drag me out of the truck.

I stumbled, my shoes scraping against the metal floor, my body swinging behind him like a broken marionette. I fought back, trying to plant my feet, but the loose gravel gave way beneath me. The clown just laughed, a low, menacing sound.

"She's a fighter," the Clown Mask called out from behind us, his voice laced with amusement. "I like that."

"Good," the Burlap Mask grunted, his grip tightening on the leash as he hauled me over the tailgate. My feet hit the ground with a thud, and I nearly fell, my bound wrists making it impossible to catch myself. "This might be fun after all."

They were talkin’ to each other like I wasn't even here, like I was just a piece of luggage they were hauling up the mountain. I thrashed, my body vibrating with rage and fear, but the leash only tightened, pulling me forward. We were walking up a steep path, my feet slipping, my shoes scraping against the rough bark of trees as he dragged me deeper into the dark, past the grinning, glowing faces of the pumpkins that swam in my distorted vision.

We stopped. I heard the heavy clank of a thick padlock being undone, the groan of an old door, and then I was being dragged inside. The air changed instantly, growing thick with the scent of sawdust, old leather, and something old. The door slammed shut behind us, the sound echoing in the sudden, suffocating darkness, followed by the decisive thunk of the lock sliding back into place.

A moment later, rough hands grabbed the sack on my head and yanked it off.

I blinked, my eyes struggling to adjust in the dim light. We were in what looked like a converted circus wagon or a trailer, the walls lined with dark wood and shelves crammed with jars, bones, and rusty tools. It was a claustrophobic nest of horrors. The Clown Mask moved to a corner, striking a match. The flare illuminated his painted grin before he touched it to the wick of a small oil lamp. A warm, flickering light pushed back the shadows, revealing the space in terrifying detail.

The Burlap Mask stood in front of me, his face a blank, unreadable void. He reached out, his fingers brushing the leather strap of my gag.

"If I take this out of your mouth," he rumbled, his voice a low, gravelly hum, "will you behave?"

I was desperate for the feeling of the rag gone. I nodded my head, a sharp, jerky motion.

His fingers were surprisingly deft as he worked at the knot. He slowly pulled the leather strap from my mouth, and I sucked in a ragged, painful breath of air. The rough rag came out next, and I worked my jaw, my mouth dry and tasting of dust.