Joyland

with Mysterio’s Mirror Mansion, pausing briefly to regard ourselves drawn tall or smashed squat. With that minor giggle accomplished, we followed the tiny red dots on the bottoms of certain mirrors. These led us directly to the Wax Museum. Given this secret roadmap, we arrived well ahead of the rest of the current group, who wandered around, laughing and bumping into the various angled panes of glass.
    To Tom’s disappointment, there were no murderers in the Wax Museum, only pols and celebs. A smiling John F. Kennedy and a jumpsuited Elvis Presley flanked the doorway. Ignoring the PLEASE DO NOT TOUCH sign, Erin gave Elvis’s guitar a strum. “Out of tu—” she began, then recoiled as Elvis jerked to life and began singing “Can’t Help Falling in Love with You.”
    “Gotcha!” Tom said gleefully, and gave her a hug.
    Beyond the Wax Museum was a doorway leading to the Barrel and Bridge Room, which rumbled with machinery that sounded dangerous (it wasn’t) and stuttered with strobe lights of conflicting colors. Erin crossed to the other side on the shaking, tilting Billy Goat’s Bridge while the macho men accompanying her dared the Barrel. I stumbled my way through, reeling like a drunk but only falling once. Tom stopped in the middle, stuck out his hands and feet so he looked like a paperdoll, and made a complete three-sixty that way.
    “Stop it, you goof, you’ll break your neck!” Erin called.
    “He won’t even if he falls,” I said. “It’s padded.”
    Tom rejoined us, grinning and flushed to the roots of his hair. “That woke up brain cells that have been asleep since I was three.”
    “Yeah, but what about all the ones it killed?” Erin asked.
    Next came the Tilted Room and beyond that was an arcade filled with teenagers playing pinball and Skee-Ball. Erin watched the Skee-Ball for a while, with her arms folded beneath her breasts and a disapproving look on her face. “Don’t they know that’s a complete butcher’s game?”
    “People come here to be butched,” I said. “It’s part of the attraction.”
    Erin sighed. “And I thought Tom was a cynic.”
    On the far side of the arcade, beneath a glowing green skull, was a sign reading: HORROR HOUSE LIES BEYOND! BEWARE! PREGNANT WOMEN AND THOSE WITH SMALL CHILDREN MAY EXIT LEFT.
    We walked into an antechamber filled with echoing recorded cackles and screams. Pulsing red light illuminated a single steel track and a black tunnel entrance beyond. From deep within it came rumbles, flashing lights, and more screams. These were not recorded. From a distance, they didn’t sound particularly happy, but probably they were. Some, at least.
    Eddie Parks, proprietor of Horror House and boss of Team Doberman, walked over to us. He was wearing rawhide gloves and a dogtop so old it was faded to no color at all (although it turned blood red each time the lights pulsed). He gave us a dismissive sniff. “Must have been a damn boring day off.”
    “Just wanted to see how the other half lives,” Tom said.
    Erin gave Eddie her most radiant smile. It was not returned.
    “Three to a car, I guess. That what you want?”
    “Yes,” I said.
    “Fine with me. Just remember that the rules apply to you, same as anyone else. Keep your fuckin hands inside.”
    “Yessir,” Tom said, and gave a little salute. Eddie looked at him the way a man might look at a new species of bug and walked back to his controls, which consisted of three shifter-knobs sticking out of a waist-high podium. There were also a few buttons illuminated by a Tensor lamp bent low to minimize its less-than-ghostly white light.
    “Charming guy,” Tom muttered.
    Erin hooked an arm into Tom’s right elbow and my left, drawing us close. “Does anyone like him?” she murmured.
    “No,” Tom said. “Not even his own team. He’s already fired two of them.”
    The rest of our group started to catch up just as a train filled with laughing conies (plus a few crying kids whose parents probably should have heeded the warning and exited from the arcade) arrived. Erin asked one of the girls if it was scary.
    “The scary part was trying to keep his hands where they belong,” she said, then squealed happily as her boyfriend first kissed her neck and then pulled her toward the arcade.
    We climbed aboard. Three of us in a car designed for two made for an extremely tight fit, and I was very aware of Erin’s thigh pressing against mine, and the brush of her breast against my arm. I felt a sudden