The Funhouse

see it, she took a step toward the thing.
        “Want,” it said. “Want pretty.”
        She took another step, then a third.
        The freak seemed surprised by her boldness. He cocked his head, stared at her intensely.
        She took a fourth step.
        The creature raised one hand threateningly. The claws gleamed.
        Amy took two more steps, until she was only an arm's length from the freak. In one smooth, swift movement she raised the gun and extended it and fired into the thing's chest-once, twice, three times.
        The freak staggered backwards, driven by the fusillade. He crashed into a machine, throwing several levers with his outcast arms. The wheels and gears began to turn all over the basement, the belts started moving, and the drive chains clattered from one steel drum to the next.
        But the freak didn't fall down. He was bleeding from three chest wounds, but he was still on his feet. He pushed away from the machine and moved toward Amy.
        Joey screamed.
        Her heart pounding, Amy raised the gun, but waited. The freak was almost on top of her, swaying, eyes unfocused now, drooling blood. She could even smell its fetid breath. The thing swung one massive hand at her, trying to rip open her face, but it missed by inches. Finally, when she was absolutely sure that the bullet would not be wasted, Amy fired another round into the creature's face.
        Again, the freak was flung backwards. This time he fell hard against the heavy, main drive chain that operated the gondolas overhead. The sharp-toothed chain caught in his clothes, jerked him off his feet, and dragged him violently down the aisle, away from Amy and Joey. The creature kicked and screamed but couldn't free himself. The legs of his trousers tore as he skimmed across the floor, and then his skin was scoured off with equal efficiency. His left hand snagged for a moment where the chain passed under and then over a steel drum, for a second or two the mechanism jammed, but then the powerful motors pulled the chain into motion again, the freak's hand came through the huge gear with a couple of fingers missing. Then the beast was being dragged back toward Amy and Joey. It was no longer struggling with the chain, it hadn't the strength left to resist, it was howling in agony now, spasming, dying. Nevertheless, as it passed them, it reached for Amy's ankle. Failing that, it managed to hook its claws through one leg of Joey's jeans. The boy yelped and fell and started sliding after the freak, but Amy moved quickly, she grabbed the boy and held on tight. For a moment the chain froze again, and the freak stopped moving, and they strained in a macabre tug-of-war, but then one of the thing's claws snapped, and Joey's pants tore, and the chain began to clatter again, and the freak was carried away. It was tossed and battered like a rag doll until it finally became pinned in the huge, main cogwheel, where the thumb-sized teeth of the gears ground most of the way through its neck before freezing up.
        The freak was motionless, limp.
        Amy threw down the pistol she had taken from the barker.
        Joey was staring at her, wide-eyed, shocked.
        “Don't be afraid,” she said.
        He ran into her arms and hugged her.
        Suffused with joy in spite of the blood and horror all around her, overflowing with the exhilarating joy of life, Amy realized that the barker had been wrong when he'd said that God could not help her. God had helped hen - God or some universal force that sometimes went by the name of God. He was with her now. She felt Him at her side. But He wasn't at all like poor Mama said He was. He wasn't a vengeful God with a million rules and harsh punishments. He was simply… kindness life and gentleness and love. He was caring.
        And then that special moment passed, the aura of His presence faded, and Amy sighed. She picked up Joey and carried him out of the funhouse.

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    AFTERWORD
        
        IN 1980, WHEN my novels had not yet begun to appear on bestseller lists, Jove Books asked me to write the novelization of a screenplay by Larry Block (not the Lawrence Block who writes the marvelous Matthew Scudder detective novels and other fine suspense fiction, another Larry Block specializing in film writing), which was being shot by Tobe Hooper, the young director who had made a name for himself with a low-budget horror film, The Texas Chainsaw Massacre . I had