Harry watched Val go through the motions of her job without any presence of mind. “Whoever that old creep was… He must a meant a lot to her,” thought Harry. As the hours passed, Harry felt less and less needed, deliberating over whether to appeal to his cousin for dismissal or not. He decided to remain with her until closing. Whatever Val was mixed up in – with the older gentleman and the younger, brutish local – it had obviously shaken her up, and Harry thought it insensitive to leave. The hours dragged on and Harry found himself sitting alone, reflecting on his father’s death. Aside from Val and her parents, Harry didn’t have any family left. Harry and his father, Duke, had a difficult relationship. Toward the end of his life, Duke went out of his way to deride his son’s wish to become an actor, finding ample opportunity to say as much. As Harry looked into the crowded bar, imagining the dreary future that proffered itself to him should he stay in Texas, he felt confident that he was making the right choice in moving to Tennessee. He and his father had never gotten along and, despite the awful feeling that he was defying his old-man’s dying wishes, he knew what he had to do.

Harry had auditioned for parts in commercials and roles at the local theater, but hadn’t received any call-backs. In the wake of his father’s death, Harry’s confidence began to wane, inciting torrents of self doubt within the would-be actor’s heart. After exhausting all of the potential jobs in his area, Harry had turned his attention to finding work a bit farther away. Amidst a plethora of information on the web, Harry found an article pertaining to an avant-garde theater troupe called, Ernest Eldritch’s Charybdian Circus. In it, Harry read about the collection of misfits comprised of classically trained actors, who were each equipped with a skill set of strange and dangerous stunts. The article described the show thus: “Cotton-candy carnies, stunning illusions, death defying feats, and breathtaking theatrical performances all amount to a show gorged with gory gravitas. A must see, but leave the kids at home.” Harry was impressed by the write up and had decided to send his headshot and resume to the theater, which was in Tennessee. Everything changed for Harry when he received a letter back, personally signed by Ernest Eldritch, inviting him to audition for the part. The letter also said that the Charybdian circus wasn’t currently considering anyone else for the part, and the inclusion of that last line was what sealed the deal for Harry.

Harry walked Val home after she closed up the bar. He said goodnight to his cousin, hoping that she would feel better soon, and walked home alone in the early morning hours. After he responded to Eldritch’s letter, accepting his offer to audition for the part of Vesuvio, the young thespian got a bus ticket to Tennessee for the following week. The days had been long and unforgiving to the young man, who was anxious to leave town. Harry found an apartment just outside of Nashville, which was only half an hour’s bike ride from the theater, that belonged to a man named Alex Croft, who was looking for a roommate. He had worked everything out. All the peripheral details had been tended to, but none of them would matter if he didn’t get the part. It was a risk, but the shy, melancholic young actor, who had never been much of an adventurer, decided that it was a risk he needed to take. He got home around five in the morning, excited for his impending journey, which commenced on the bus in a few short hours.

The bus ride was gruelingly boring, but Harry brought along some reading materials, intending to research Eldritch’s bizarre theater a bit more before his arrival. In one of the theater magazines he subscribed to, Harry found an article about the circus, introducing each of the principal members. Mort, Master of Pain, was an old timey carnie, who Mr. Eldritch found working at a sideshow in the sixties. Mort was famous for the bed of nails, glass eating, and skin piercing, which he, like the others, incorporated into his role. Rita, the Fire Eater, looked like a wild woman. She was tall and thin with big, frizzy hair that surrounded her pallid face like a halo. Conrad, the Knife Juggler, wore a tuxedo with tails and a bowler hat for his picture. His expression was decidedly serious and Harry laughed to himself, finding the whole thing mildly ridiculous. Samuel the Salamander was a contortionist, and also the only one to smile for his picture. Ernest Eldritch, a man who seemed to have lived more lives than most, was an elderly gentleman with a broad, toothy grin. He was the producer, manager, playwright, and director of the quirky theater troupe, famous for traveling across the world to find his talented performers. Following that detail, the magazine concluded its bios of the Charybdian circus with the troupe’s most famous member, Oksana Verona.

Harry had read about Oksana before, but his fascination grew with each additional piece of information about her. During his youth, while traveling in the Ukraine, looking for talent, Ernest Eldritch discovered Oksana Verona, the Un-harmable Harlequin. Without question the star of the show, Oksana played the love interest in Eldritch’s show. Only with a performer as bizarre and eccentric as Oksana would the illusions that she was famous for be overshadowed by her appearance. The artiste wore only one costume and no one, allegedly, had ever seen her face, except for Mr. Eldritch, who consistently refused to comment on her outside of her role. Oksana, effortlessly earning her circus name, dressed in the same dingy, white jumpsuit every night, but the most disturbing and alluring detail of her getup was her mask. The round porcelain mask covered her entire head. It was fastened in the rear with leather straps and its face, if one could call it that, was a chilling mockery of a visage. It had cadmium red caricatures for lips, two ridiculous, faded pink circles for cheeks, and eyebrows forever frozen in a gesture of surprise. She was something of a mime, being a mute since her teenage years, and acted all of her character’s scenes out with exquisitely anguished choreography. No one knew how her stunts were executed, either. Of all the performers, it was Oksana who put fear and worry into the audience’s heart. If not for the fact that the sullen clown returned to the show again each night, witnesses would have surely believed her dead.

While Mort could eat a wine glass after drinking its contents, and Samuel could squeeze himself through a hole no bigger than a Frisbee, the audience always rested comfortably in the knowledge that practice and dedication were the principle elements of their tricks. Oksana, on the other hand, removed every conceivable aspect of understanding from her illusions. The other members of the troupe participated in her grizzly feats at different points throughout the play. The magazine used one such act involving Mort, Master of Pain, to illustrate just how formidable her talents were: “At the end of act III, Mort, playing the part of Clara’s (Oksana Verona) father, runs headlong into the macabre mime with a spear. Clearly penetrating her abdomen, Mort then raises the pole into the air while the impaled illusionist slides down the lance into his hands.” Harry put the magazine down, sighing as he vividly imagined the scene, and looked at his reflection in the bus’s window. As excited as he was, Harry also felt unprepared to approach such an accomplished, albeit deranged, troupe.

The seemingly endless trip finally concluded and Harry happily got off of the bus, feeling thrilled to stretch his legs again. He was preoccupied with thoughts of the Charybdian Circus for the duration of his cab ride to his new apartment. His new roommate warmly greeted him at the door, helping him to carry his things, which were few, up the stairs. Harry and Alex spent nearly an hour together, acquainting themselves with one another, before Harry excused himself and went to bed. He wasn’t particularly tired, but his audition with Ernest Eldritch the next morning kept him in an agitated state and he wanted to be alone. The next morning, after eating breakfast without tasting it, Harry rode his bicycle to the theater, finding the brisk ride to be calming. As it turned out, he had passed the theater twice before realizing that the shabby, seemingly burnt old playhouse, which he took a casual interest in, was actually the home of the Charybdian Circus. He dismounted his bike in disbelief and cautiously investigated the charred façade. A rectangular booth with a glass window, which displayed a sign that read: TICKETS, sat in the middle of the entryway under the marquee. It too showed signs that it had been beset by a fire at some point. Harry shook his head, feeling suddenly unsure about the theater, and continued inside. He passed through the large wooden doors and found himself in a beautiful, red-velvet lined hall. The incongruity between the theater’s interior and exterior suddenly seemed brilliant as Harry considered the illusionists responsible for the venue.

He followed the winding hall to another set of doors and, opening them a crack, peered into the main hall, finding the troupe all rehearsing on stage. A cranky elder man stood before them, waving his hands, which held bundles of loose leaf paper, in the air. “Mr. Eldritch,” Harry whispered. He slinked inside the theater’s coliseum-style-seating auditorium and walked noiselessly toward the stage. As he approached, Harry could plainly see all the performers that he had read so much about. He stopped about fifty feet from Mr. Eldritch, whose back was to the young actor. “No, no, no!” he shouted. “Mort, stop. Conrad, listen to me. This scene isn’t just about your ability to fillet your own hands. Where’s the passion? Huh? Anyone can see a knife juggler juggling knives at the fair! We need to feel you.” Eldritch sighed, tossing the pages of paper onto the lip of the stage before him, and said, “Okay, let’s take it from the top of scene fifty-six. Ready… and scene!” Harry watched the actors take their queues from the animated old man, feeling his sense of awe renew itself. Rita, in between scenes, nodded her head in Harry’s direction, alerting Mr. Eldritch to the young man’s presence. “Excuse me. This is a closed rehearsal, my boy, and I’d thank you to leave at once!” Harry, backing up instinctively, stammered, “Oh, I’m sorry – my name is Harry Tanner. I had an audition for the part of Vesuvio today… I can come back la…” Mr. Eldritch cut Harry off, gesturing apologetically. “Oh, do forgive an old man for his failing memory. Have a seat, I’ll be with you in a moment.”

Harry walked into a row of seats, which were similarly upholstered in red velvet, reminding Harry of his first theater experience. He sat down and watched the troupe rehearse the new draft of the script that Eldritch had come up with for their impending three month run. To Harry, the Charybdian performers were larger than life, but, as he anticipated, his attention remained affixed to the enigmatic harlequin standing center stage. Of all the actors, Oksana Verona was the only one in costume. She wore the same ratty jumpsuit and mask that Harry had seen in her photos, but what he didn’t realize, looking at the static images of her, was that she possessed a morose majesty, which was evinced by her movements. Like a sublime dance viewed in slow motion, Oksana languidly floated across the stage. When Mort, acting as Clara’s father, yelled at Oksana, it became clear to Harry why she didn’t need to speak. Her body language expressed years of abuse as she flinched from Mort’s shout, intimating a softness and sadness that a well trained actor couldn’t portray, even with a spoken part. “Good, good.” exclaimed Ernest Eldritch. “Okay everyone, take a break. We’ll meet back here in half an hour.”

Inside of Mr. Eldritch’s office, Harry found a myriad of artifacts from all over the world. Eldritch had a stuffed crocodile mounted to his wall above his desk with a plaque underneath it that read, “Smile – even when you don’t mean it.” A mess of books and papers littered the old playwright’s desk, which he sat down at, gesturing to the empty chair in front of it. Harry sat opposite the old man, who could see the boyish wonder glowing in Harry’s eyes. Mr. Eldritch said, “Well, thank you for coming all the way out here to audition for the role of Vesuvio, mister…” “Tanner,” exclaimed the overzealous young thespian. “Tanner, yes. Well, I’ve recently revised the script to include some pretty exciting stunts for our Vesuvio. We here think that the audience deserves every penny’s worth of their admission tickets, and we aim to give it to them. Oksana, as you may know, is a real crowd pleaser – or crowd queaser, as I like to joke – but it’s time to spruce things up a bit!” Harry considered Eldritch’s remark and worried that the director might have gotten the wrong impression of him. “Well, sir, I must say, I’d very much like to win this part. I’ve memorized all Vesuvio’s lines already and everything… but I, uh… well, I don’t have any experience with stunts or magic.” Mr. Eldritch, his face frozen in an expressionless gaze, looked across his tabletop into Harry’s eyes. Suddenly, Eldritch erupted with laughter. He slapped the desk with his hand and, still laughing, said, “My boy! Of course you don’t. I like you, son. Let’s have you do some reading, hmm?”

****************

“So you got the part?” inquired Harry’s new roommate, Alex. “Yeah, I can’t believe it, but yes.” Alex congratulated Harry, feeling genuinely happy for him, but also relieved to know that he would come through on his share of the rent. “When’s opening night?” asked Alex. Harry explained that there was still two weeks until the show’s start, during which time he would be rehearsing for his role and training for his stunt, which Eldritch planned to keep secret until the last possible minute to avoid the leakage of details. Confiding in his new roommate, Harry said, “I have to admit… I’m a little nervous. Mr. Eldritch said that he plans to revitalize the show by bringing me in, but after reading about Oksana Verona’s stunts, I’m horrified to think what he’s got in store for me.” Alex smiled reassuringly and asked, “Which one is Oksana Verona again?” Harry, remembering the quirky performer and feeling honored to have joined her ranks, said, “she’s the clown who dies every night.”

Back at Eldritch’s theater, where his troupe of misfit actors also lived, Oksana Verona lied awake in her bed. The performer rarely slept, but that was her least eccentric habit. She kicked the sheets off of her bed, exposing her form to the dark space consuming her. Oksana, always dressed in her jumpsuit and mask, walked from her bed to her makeup table on the other side of the room. She sat down, avoiding her reflection in the mirror as always, and opened a small drawer in the table. A little book, its edges tattered and withering away, was the object of Oksana’s attention, and she delicately removed it from the drawer. Silently, the bizarre belle’s shoulders rose and fell, intimating a sigh, as she opened the book of clippings and photos. She turned the pages with her gloved hands, which were dingy and blackened from years of wear, and stopped on an aged, yellowed photo of a young man. She pressed the soft tip of her cotton covered finger into the photo, gently caressing the face that appeared within it. For years, Oksana remembered the young Ernest Eldritch’s face perfectly, but as the decades passed and her old lover’s face wrinkled and dimmed, she found it comforting to revisit his youthful visage. The photo was crumbling into dust, though, like everything around her did, and Oksana reflected on this, cursing herself for the decision she made all those years ago. What seemed so right then, had revealed itself, after almost fifty years, to be the naiveté of a young girl in love. Oksana returned the photo to its resting place and crawled back in bed. Her expressionless masked countenance, gazing passively at the ceiling, contained an invisble wealth of sadness within it, which the mute performer hoped would soon lessen.

The next day the troupe began their dress-rehearsals. Harry was exhausted. He hadn’t expected the seemingly frail old man to be such a task master, demanding nothing short of excellence from his actors even during practice. He stopped Harry twice, pulling him off to the side, and, though whispering, conveyed the ferocity of a shout as he gave Harry direction. “More! More, more, more!” Eldritch fumed. Harry was sweating bullets in his white jumpsuit, which looked akin to Oksana’s. Being dressed similarly had excited Harry, since, in his mind, he was being groomed to exist on her strata of performance. But after several hours in his thick cotton jumpsuit, his sweat pouring down his suffocating skin, Harry began to despise his new costume. He felt as though he would pass out from being overheated, but pushed to continue, consoling himself with the belief that all the Charybdians before him had likewise suffered for their trade. Harry, in between scenes, watched Oksana sullenly glide across the stage without any signs of struggle. He wondered what the strange performer’s secret was, hoping that they might become closer after working together for a while.

For a large part of the second act, Harry’s character disappears from the stage, arousing fear and longing in his lover, Clara, who Oksana played with unbearable angst despite her silence. During this time, Harry discarded his heavy jumpsuit and sat in an empty chair behind Mr. Eldritch, watching the old man vehemently direct his actors. Harry couldn’t take his eyes off of Oksana as she removed the imaginary knife, which would be quite real during the actual show, from her back for scene sixty two. He wondered again, for what seemed like the thousandth time, how she accomplished such stunning illusions, hoping that his own trick, when revealed to him, would shed some light on the subject. The image from the magazine of Oksana’s Grande Finale, showing her silhouetted form facing the ceiling of the theater, hanging limply atop the spear as though truly dead and impaled, haunted Harry’s thoughts. He felt a chill pass over his back, which just began to dry in the theater’s cool air, and buried his incredulity under a more favorable daydream of fame.

After the day’s rehearsals concluded, Mort and Conrad invited Harry to join them for drinks, but he politely declined, planning instead to approach Oksana. After the theater cleared out, Harry waited for Oksana to emerge from her rather secretive meeting with Mr. Eldritch. She remained in his sealed office for nearly half an hour and Harry occasionally heard Eldritch shouting, but couldn’t make out what he said. Harry decided to try and see Oksana another time and was half way out of the theater when the office door swung open. A furious Mr. Eldritch stormed out, turning around to face his open office, and, shaking his finger accusingly, said, “One way or another, I’ll get Vesuvio’s death out of the boy, but I swear, if I hear one more word of this from you, I’ll…” Harry, clandestinely watching the irate theater producer threaten his lead, was stunned at the implications of Eldritch’s words and remained perfectly still so as not to alert the old man to his presence. Ernest Eldritch shook his finger at Oksana, who was still out of Harry’s view, and, failing to come up with a proper threat, stormed off in a huff.

Harry waited for Mr. Eldritch to disappear from the theater before approaching his office. He peeked around the doorframe, cautiously peering inside, and found Oksana hunched over in the chair in front of Eldritch’s desk. Her head was collapsed, it’s expressionless porcelain gaze staring unblinkingly at her lap. Harry straightened up, deciding to try and console his co-star, and stepped into the doorway, clearing his throat. Oksana whipped her downcast face in his direction, returning his gaze with the lifeless black slits of her mask, and sat up. “Oksana, I’m so sorry..” said Harry, looking over his shoulder for Mr. Eldritch. “I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop, I swear, but I overheard Mr. Eldritch.” Harry walked in, assuming that Oksana was in need of assistance, and helped her to her feet. “I can’t believe that he yelled at you like that… Here, let me help you to your room.” Oksana obliged Harry, allowing him to hoist her limp form up and carry her to her quarters backstage. “You’re so light!” exclaimed Harry, who was surprised to find that his co-star weighed less than he anticipated, since he expected her to weigh very little in the first place.

Holding the airy artiste in his arms, Harry meandered up the steps to the stage and passed through a slit in the massive, black-velvet curtain in the rear. Behind the theater there was a series of hallways, each one littered with miscellaneous building materials. Plywood, pressboard, two-by-fours, and the like were propped up against the walls, awaiting their time to serve Eldritch’s patchwork theater. Harry weaved in and out of the clutter, occasionally checking over his shoulder for Mr. Eldritch, and arrived at Oksana’s door, still surprised at the quirky clown’s weightlessness. She reached down from her perch in Harry’s arms to open her door, and gestured with her masked head for Harry to take her inside. The young actor’s heart soared when he saw the countless relics that Oksana had collected from all over the world. The macabre mime’s quarters was filled with books and paintings, which were so many in number that she had them stacked against the wall. Harry gently lowered Oksana onto her bed, feeling perplexed by the paradox of such a meek individual performing her grizzly death each night. “Your room is awesome,” said Harry, his eyes dancing around the space. “I think Mr. Eldritch was way out of line earlier. He shouldn’t talk to you like that. You’re the star!”

Oksana’s porcelain visage remained affixed to Harry as he scanned her dwellings. Three swords were mounted on the wall behind her makeup table, it’s mirror framed with flourishes whose gold leaf had long since faded. “Oksana,” began Harry, “what did Mr. Eldritch mean when he said that he’d get Vesuvio’s death out of me?” Oksana turned her unflinching face away from Harry, which had a chilling effect on the young actor’s conscience. “How do you do it, Oksana?” Harry asked as he peered at the mute refusing to look at him. “How does your trick work? Eldritch won’t even tell me how my stunt will work – he says it’s the sort of thing that has a habit of reaching the papers and ruining the effect, but I’m starting to get a bad feeling about it.” Oksana, slowly returning her gaze to Harry’s face, somehow expressed a profound sadness to him, despite her utterly expressionless countenance. “What is it?” asked Harry. Oksana pointed to her makeup table and Harry, looking in the direction of it, wondered what she intended him to do. He walked over to it and looked at her, awaiting further instructions. The forlorn performer gestured for Harry to open the drawer. When he found the decomposing journal, feeling reluctant to touch it for fear that it would crumble, an electric excitement rushed through his body. His eyes darted back to Oksana, pleading for permission to examine the relic, and she nodded her assent.

He sat down on the edge of her bed and she took the book from him. She opened it up to a photo of a young man, who Harry immediately recognized as Ernest Eldritch. “Wow, he’s so young!” exclaimed Harry. Oksana flipped the page, exposing a folded piece of newspaper, which she opened up for Harry. The headline read, “THEATER MANAGER SUSPECTED OF MURDERING CLOWN LOVER.” Harry, his adrenaline suddenly pumping, said, “Oh, my god.” Oksana turned another page, moving slowly so as not to tear the paper, and showed Harry another picture. This one was of a beautiful young girl with long dark hair, wearing the selfsame jumpsuit that Oksana was famous for. Underneath the young woman’s arm, Harry saw the porcelain mask and knew right then that the photo was of Oksana. “What does this mean?” Harry inquired, groping for understanding. Oksana languidly shook her head from side to side and turned another page, revealing yet another staggering headline, “ELDRITCH’S HARLEQUIN HEARTTHROB NOT DEAD – ALL PART OF THE ACT!” Harry was confused. The second newspaper clipping had a picture of Eldritch standing beside the Oksana Verona that Harry had come to know. In the photo, her immaculately white suit and mask seemed brand new in comparison to the dingy, sooty outfit that encased her now.

Harry, reflexively looking Oksana over, discovered something about her suit that he’d never noticed before. What he had mistaken for patterns on her attire were actually a tapestry of silken-floss stitches and similarly colored patches. He thought of her stunts, drawing the connection between the suit and the various objects that pierced it, but refused to accept that the illusion was real. “What is this?” asked Harry, becoming unsettled by the dubiousness of their interaction. Oksana raised her hand in the air, pretending to be holding a knife, and plunged the butt of her fists into her abdomen right where a large patch was. Harry, his skin instantly clammy, thought of her Grande Finale and said, “But it’s an illusion, right? I mean, it’s all part of the show!” Oksana shook her head from side to side and then sat up with an unexpected speed. Harry jerked away, flinching from fright, but it was too late. Oksana Verona descended onto the boy, pinning him to the bed underneath her. Harry tried to toss her off, but the performer, who a moment ago weighed nothing, was immovable. His arms were trapped under her thighs as she straddled Harry’s chest, rendering him helpless. Reaching behind her head, Oksana began to remove the straps that affixed her mask to her face. A hissing sound escaped the back of the mask as it became undone and Harry began to scream for help.

As the mask, it’s void, mockery of humanity, lowered, Harry was witness to a sight that no one had seen in over four decades. Underneath the porcelain and sooty white cotton of Oksana Verona’s costume was the secret to Ernest Eldritch’s success. Harry screamed as loud as he could, his voice an expression of pure terror, as the meatless skull of the long dead harlequin slowly lowered to his face. Long ago, when Ernest Eldritch was still an enterprising,  handsome young theater director, he had found an amazingly talented Ukrainian mime, with whom he fell in love. They had struggled to earn a living with the would-be playwright’s bizarre shows featuring Oksana, but they couldn’t draw anyone in. One night, Oksana, against Ernest’s wishes, snuck out of their small Ukrainian flat and went to an old Gypsy woman’s house. Oksana had been siphoning money from Eldritch’s flimsy shows, hoping to make an offer the Gypsy would accept. The old woman was a talented conjurer, famous in her village for being something of a healer, but Oksana wanted something else entirely. After convincing the old sorceress of her will to do the deed, Oksana’s wish was granted. She and the Gypsy exhumed a body from the ground and brought it’s yellow skull back to the old woman’s house. After the ritual had been performed, Oksana’s lifeless body was found by the police, who assumed Eldritch to be the killer. To everyone’s incredible surprise, Oksana reanimated, citing an illusion created by her theater manager as the explanation. This, of course, incited an uproar of curiosity in the town, which led to Ernest Eldritch’s establishment of the first Charybdian circus. The distraught playwright never forgave Oksana, who, despite being incapable of dying and thus becoming the confounding illusionist that she was known as, lost all of her earthly traits, such as the flesh on her bones and the ability to speak.

For over half a century, Oksana Verona, who had sacrificed everything, was scorned by the one man she loved. He ran the show, becoming infatuated with it and its success, but treated Oksana like an item of rare and precious value – not a person, and certainly not his lover. She took refuge in Eldritch’s theater, having no other place to go, but her loneliness and regret ran deeper than the seas. She had made up her mind. She would not live for eternity alone. Now, Oksana would once again defy Ernest’s wishes. Harry’s shouts were abruptly silenced as the clammy, damp mandible closed around his mouth. His breath was pulled into the skeleton’s ribcage, expanding the cotton suit, and then forced back into his lungs. Harry, who had been kicking as fiercely as he could, suddenly went limp.

Just then Ernest Eldritch burst into Oksana’s room. “No, no, no!!!” he exclaimed, grabbing his hair with his hands. “What have you done! You… you killed him!” said the frantic theater director. “Damn you, Oksana – I told you I didn’t want your hand in this! I had the illusion all worked out. We didn’t need him to suffer your fate… but that’s not what this is about, is it?” Oksana, slowly dismounting from Harry’s lifeless form, retrieved her mask and turned around, facing the wall to put it back on. Eldritch dashed out of Oksana’s room and returned a moment later with Mort, who looked frightened. “Pick him up,” said Eldritch to Mort, “He’ll be back on his accursed feet in a day or two.” Mort hoisted the corpse onto his shoulder and exited Oksana’s room. “Just in time for opening night,” said Ernest Eldritch, bitterly. He stared at Oksana, cursing himself for his life of regrets, and stormed out of the room, leaving the expressionless clown behind.

****************

Alex Croft received a letter from Harry, apologizing for his abrupt departure. A check for two month’s rent was included in the envelope, which Alex was relieved to see. The letter explained that Harry was going to travel with the Charybdian Circus, receiving room and board from them, and would no longer be able to act as roommate to Alex. With a sigh, Alex scratched his head, deciding to post his advertisement for an empty bedroom online again, and tossed the letter into the garbage. He was disappointed with Harry’s irreverence in backing out of his arrangement, but had bigger things on his mind. Though he never mentioned it, Alex was embroiled in an extortion plot, which he was the victim of. An anonymous package containing photos of him and his boss’s wife had been delivered to his door. A note inside the envelope threatened to disseminate the photos if Alex didn’t do as he was instructed. The letter went on to say that he would be contacted in a day and given his task, and warned him of what would happen if he went to the police. But Alex wasn’t going to go to the police. Alex was going to confront his extorter, since, just a few hours prior, he had discovered who was pulling the strings.