The Funhouse

Mother of God, hear me, help me.
        Please, please, please. Mary, help me, Mary, please…”
        The electric power was restored, and Ellen cried out at the unexpected light.
        Under her, on its back, blood still running from its nostrils and its mouth, the child-thing stared up at her with glistening, bulging, bloodshot eyes. But it couldn't see her. It was looking into another world, into Hell, to which she had dispatched its soul-if it had a soul.
        There was a lot of blood. Most of it wasn't Ellen's.
        She released the child-thing.
        It didn't return magically to life, as she had half expected it would. It didn't attack.
        It looked like a huge, squashed bug.
        She crawled away from the corpse, keeping one eye on it as she went, not entirely convinced that it was dead. She did not have sufficient strength to stand up just yet. She crept to the nearest wall and sat with her back against it.
        The night air was heavy with the coppery odor of blood, the stench of her own sweat, and the clean ozone of the thunderstorm.
        Gradually, Ellen's stentorian breathing subsided to a soft, rhythmic lullaby of inhalation, exhalation, inhalation…
        As her fear dwindled along with the steady deceleration of her heartbeat, she became increasingly aware of her pains, there was a multitude of them. She ached in every joint and every muscle from the strain of wrestling with the child. Her left thumb was bleeding where the nail had been ripped off, the exposed flesh stung as if it were being eaten away by acid. Her scratched, scraped fingers burned, and the gouged palm of her right hand throbbed. Both of her forearms had been scored repeatedly by the thing's sharp fingernails. Each upper arm was marked by five, ugly, oozing punctures.
        She wept. Not just because of the physical pain. Because of the anguish, the stress, the fear. With tears she was able to wash away much of her tension and at least a small measure of her heavy burden of guilt.
         -I'm a murderer.
         -No. It was just an animal.
         -It was my child.
         -Not a child. A thing. A curse.
        She was still arguing with herself, still trying to find a comfortable set of rationalizations that would allow her to live with what she had done, when the trailer door flew open and Conrad came inside, backlighted by a strobe-flutter of lightning. He was wearing a plastic raincoat, streaming water, his thick black hair was soaked, and strands of it were plastered across his broad forehead. Wind rushed in at his heels and, like a big dog, circled the room, sniffing inquisitively at everything.
        Raw, throat-tightening fear gripped Ellen again.
        Conrad pulled the door shut. Turning, he saw her sitting on the floor with her back against the wall, her blouse torn, her arms and hands bleeding.
        She tried to explain why she had killed the child. But she couldn't speak. Her mouth moved, but nothing came out of it except a dry, frightening rasping.
        Conrad's intensely blue eyes looked puzzled for a moment. Then his gaze traveled from Ellen to the bloody, crumpled child that was on the floor a few feet from her.
        His powerful hands curled into large, hard fists. No,” he said softly, disbelievingly. “No… no… no…”
        He moved slowly toward the small corpse.
        Ellen looked up at him with growing trepidation.
        Stunned, Conrad knelt beside the dead creature and stared at it for what seemed like an eternity. Then tears began to track down his cheeks. Ellen had never seen him cry before. Finally he lifted the limp body and held it close. The child thing's bright blood dripped onto the plastic raincoat.
        “My baby, my little baby, my sweet little boy,” Conrad crooned. “My boy… my son… what's happened to you? What did she do to you? What did she do?”
        Ellen's burgeoning fear gave her new strength, though not much. Bracing herself against the wall with one hand, she got to her feet. Her legs were shaky, her knees felt as if they would buckle if she dared take even one step.
        Conrad heard her move. He looked back at her.
        “I… I had to do it,” she said shakily.
        His blue eyes were cold.
        “It attacked me,” she said.
        Conrad put down the body. Gently. Tenderly.
        He isn't going to be that tender with me, Ellen thought.
        “Please, Conrad. Please