The Dead Circle

He pushed himself up out of the mire, giggling quietly to himself. Despite his roll in the mud, he'd manage to keep a firm hold on his beer, not allowing a single drop to spill. He slumped back to his feet, sliding against another large cypress as he rose shakily. He wiped most of the mud from his white tank top and staggered further into the Floridian swamp. As tipsy as Bruce felt, he had actually only had a single 40 before this. He didn't know where this stupor was coming from; maybe it was just the result of a night filled with loud music, rowdy friends, and fast women. A quick roar down the Turnpike in his trusty, old Cyclone brought him down into the heart of the everglades. On an only-slightly-inebriated whim, Bruce had decided to stroll a ways out into the marshes, just to take in the sights and enjoy nature... and one more drink.

Bruce jerked his foot from a particularly clingy pool of sucking mud. As foul as the marsh may have smelled and as inconsiderate as the terrain was, Bruce was enjoying himself quite a bit. He drank in the sights offered by the moonlight-bathed everglades, the whir of tens of thousands of crickets filling the night, accompanied by the grumblings of rooting boar and slumbering gators. As much as he loved traveling around and living the big life, even he got tired of all the noise and crowds after a while. He tilted his head back and admired the diamond-cuffed sky; he'd never seen stars this bright in the black silk of the slumbering firmament. It was so horribly peaceful.

The sounds of wildlife were suddenly cut short. All of the everglades grew still. Even the moon, like a monstrous eye, seemed to contract and zero in on the swamp. Bruce unthinkingly froze in place, not daring to be the only moving thing in the environment. It could've just been the solitude, the feeling of being so unbearably alone out there in the mire, but Bruce suddenly felt the overwhelming sense of being hunted, stalked. Bruce tried his hardest to keep from shaking.

I need to head back to the car, he thought through his buzz, slowly. It was never safe out here. What was I thinking coming alone?

Bruce turned slowly, quietly around to face in the direction of the road. The beer bottle fell from his hand, clattering against a hard root and rolling in the mud, its ambrosial contents trickling out and mixing with stagnant water. In every direction Bruce looked, all he could see were everglades.

Did I really wander this far? I thought I left the car within sight!

Bruce wrestled his panic under control. The road couldn't be that far away; surely, it was just hidden behind that cluster of trees. Then came that feeling of being hunted again, stronger than before. Bruce began to shake, and spun around, looking for the invisible predator. Fear began to chill him to the bone as he began to stumble in the direction he thought the road might lie in. His faltering steps became slower and slower as faceless terror continued to weigh him down. He found himself wishing for nothing more than his safe motel room. Bruce dropped to his knees in the muck as unexplainable horror overcame him; his body simply wouldn't move any further, as the unseen predator drew nearer.

There was a deep, breathy snarl from a darkened thicket not a stone's throw away, and then, with a thrashing of brush, something massive and dark-furred came roaring out of the bushes, ambling on all four of its long, muscular limbs in an otherworldly gallop that was awkward to watch, but terribly fast. Before he could gather enough breath to scream, Bruce was lifted from the filth and tucked under one hairy arm, as easily as one might a child, and then carried away into the waiting night.

Bruce struggled for a good while against the mass of tooth, claw, and matted fur which was dragging him through the swamps of Florida, but finally he grew still; he might have even blacked out for a time, but he couldn't be sure, bumping against the beast's bony sides. Its black, dampened fur reflected barely the tiniest hint of moonlight. Slowly, Bruce regained his senses, forcing himself to fully wake up as he heard on the horizon what might be music.

What strange music though--it was discordant, wild, passionate, and raucous (and Bruce considered himself an expert on raucous music). He resumed his struggle against the creature, eliciting a savage snarl from his ebony-furred kidnapper. Bruce grew still again, satisfying himself with the fact that the monster hadn't simply decided to tear him to bits or devour him on the spot. The music seemed to be growing closer, as the dark creature continued its romp through the swamp, captive in tow.

Bruce twisted his neck around to try to look ahead, in the direction of the wild music; he could make out voices now, howling and whooping like a party possessed. Through the trees, which were rushing by at a dangerous speed, Bruce began to make out the red glow of a ravenous bonfire. Writhing shadows circled around the blaze in sporadic rhythm with the primal fanfare. The trees suddenly opened into a clearing, and Bruce squeezed his eyes shut as the light of the dancing flames blinded him and heat washed over his face. His bestial captor chose that moment to toss him to the hard-packed ground; at least it was dry here.

Bruce shook his head to clear his vision and rolled over, peering into the darkness of the woods as the monster vanished, a black mass loping into the black night. Bruce pushed himself to a standing position, staggering for a moment as blood rushed back into his legs. It was then that Bruce turned his gaze towards the fire, and his eyes slowly opened wide. Figures danced about the blaze to the music, which seemed to be coming from the woods all around.

The strangest cacophony of figures pranced around the conflagration, a crowd of unearthly revelers, their appearances a perfect match to the unrestrained music tearing from the surrounding woods. Silhouettes danced against the flames, and as Bruce edged closer, he realized with a jolt in his chest that they were all dead. Each damned partygoer showed some progression of decay, from a skeleton dressed in tattered Native American garb, his joints clacking together as he whirled, to a fellow in a suit, with cold, glassy, shriveled eyes.

There is no God in this place. The thought leapt into Bruce's mind. As he prepared to turn and run, out of the smoke and spinning embers the most lovely woman he'd ever laid eyes on stepped forward, with golden hair and eyes so green they almost glowed. She was dressed in a long, red dress and was barefoot. It was then that Bruce noticed she walked across red-hot coals. All of the ground around the fire was covered in smoldering coals, and the forsaken revelers danced upon them, though the sparking charcoal seemed to cause neither pain nor damage. Bruce marveled at the dark miracle as the blonde swayed up to him, stepping off of the bed of hot cinders to stand before him.

"And what brings a fella' like you all the way out here in the dead of night?" she asked, eyeing Bruce up and down with mischievous eyes. Her voice had a southern lilt to it, rich, low, and flat-out enchanting. "Don't you know there are... questionable sorts out here at night?" Her green eyes were devouring him and all of his fears.

"Uh, well, uh..." Bruce stuttered for a moment, looking over his shoulder into the obsidian marsh; he hadn't expected to find a proper lady like this out in the middle of the everglades at night. "I just... went for a walk, but then couldn't find the road again," he explained, slowly finding his tongue again. He chose to ignore the lifeless dancers behind the woman as he turned back to her, drinking in her curves out of his peripherals. "I don't suppose you could point me back the right way, miss?"

The blonde smirked knowingly under Bruce's wandering eye. "Oh, come now!" she smiled, leaning forward and grasping his hands excitedly. "You were brought all the way out here, safely, to us. There must be a reason. Come. You must come dance with us!"

Bruce looked down into her eyes again, and his alcoholic buzz replaced by something completely new, powerful, and exciting. He still hesitated though, his eyes sneaking over the woman's shoulder to the undead merrymakers.

"Oh, don't you worry none about them, sweetie," the blonde breathed, stepping back onto the coals, little curls of steam rising from her white feet, "they won't hurt you; everyone's here to just have a good time."

"They are havin' fun," Bruce found himself slurring. "I guess I c'n stay fer a lil' while." He gave in, and allowed her to start to lead him forward, but then the girl halted.

"Oh, honey," she pointed down, "yer boots. Ya' can't wear 'em onto this dance floor."

It took Bruce a moment to comprehend her words, but he lowered himself shakily to the ground and pulled his alligator-skin boots off. He tossed them to the side and tried to rise. He tottered though, and would have tipped over had not the woman in red slipped a red-nailed hand under his arm and helped him straighten up, both laughing stupidly.

Am I really this drunk? Bruce marveled.

"Thank ya', ma'am," Bruce managed as he righted himself. "Yer a lot stronger than ya' look."

The blonde chuckled. "That's the point."

She tugged Bruce onto the coals. Bruce hissed as his foot touched down, even in his stupor anticipating a pitiless burn, but there was no burn, no heat. The coals didn't even feel rough; Bruce wanted to walk on them. They glowed vibrant orange and puffed black smoke, but did no damage to the soles of the dancing feet, rotted or otherwise.

"Friends!" the blonde cried out across the clearing. None of the prancing liches ceased in their dancing, but eyes and eye-sockets turned towards Bruce and the blonde. "I have brought a guest who wishes to join us. May he dance with us?" Hearty, rasping cries rose up from the macabre crowd, urging Bruce to join in with them.

Bruce had never been so afraid and yet so eager to do something in all his life. He hesitated for a moment, but then the blonde pulled him into the circle, and he found himself swept along by the music. He danced merrily alongside corpses, untouched by the heat from the blaze or the surrounding coals, singing songs he'd never heard before--but knew all the words of. Bruce was in a most unnatural ecstasy, as he made merry alongside skeletons, half-decomposed cadavers, and one lascivious blonde with glowing green eyes.

It was because of this exultant stupor that Bruce took very little notice when his soul was peeled from his body. The freed spirit whirled up to the canopy which shielded the clearing from the sky and began spiraling through the air and howling down at its former shell, now as lifeless as those others dancing around the blaze. Late into the night, the hellish party dance about the blaze, Bruce's wraith swirling through the branches overhead in devilish merriment. Bruce's senses slowly grew weaker, more convoluted as his spirit continued to cackle mockingly down at him. The wreak of decay became a perfume to Bruce's now lifeless nostrils, the wild tune continuously issuing from the wood, a masterpiece to his stone ears. As he continued to gleefully dance around the flames with his unholy companions though, he couldn't bring himself to care; all he knew or wanted was to dance and bright, emerald eyes to continue filling his mind.

Then, as Bruce's semblance of life and reality was about to slip away, his wayward soul began to spiral downwards towards him, as though it were caught in a whirlpool and he at the bottom. The prodigal soul flowed back into Bruce's dancing carcass, and Bruce started like a guard whom had fallen asleep on duty. He looked around and realization dawned on him.

I'm dancing with dead men, Bruce thought as terror set in. He put on a joyful poker face and continued dancing, but he peered subtly around at his emaciated friends. All of them had their attention turned to him, empty sockets peering at him with a godless hunger even as they partied.

Dear God, I have to get out of here! There was no way he could escape unnoticed, not with all those unblinking eyes on him; he was a captive guest of honor at this dead dance. Would he be the next to join this eternally damned ring of revelers?

As fortune would have it, a mostly decomposed bride with a few strands of grimy hair hanging from her scabby scalp and still dressed in a ragged, mud-stained gown had been so busy spying at Bruce with her remaining eye that the dancer behind her, a yellowed skeleton wearing what looked like a grey Civil War uniform tripped over her heals. Immediately, both let out feral snarls, and the entire party began scuffling. Sides formed as corpses struggled to break up the combatants, and for a moment, none seemed to remember the living in their presence.

For the sake of his life and soul, Bruce didn't hesitate for a moment. He sprinted into the woods, but was then stopped by a soft voice.

"Glad you had a good time, sweetie. Come back whenever you like." Bruce twisted to look over his shoulder. There stood a corpse, with grey, sagging skin, a lipless mouth filled with brown teeth in rotted gums. Brittle, white hair fell lankly down on bony shoulders, wrapped in the remaining tatters of a fine, red dress.

"Have a safe trip back," cooed the carcass, a single, and brilliant green eye glinting at Bruce through the shadows.

Bruce stared for a moment. Then, as the skirmishers broke up and began to gather behind the scarlet-garbed wraith, looking blankly after Bruce. He turned, and ran, splashing barefoot into the everglades. He looked over his shoulder, and the red light of the bonfire flickered away between the trees. He ran blindly, tripping over roots, ripping his jeans and bloodying his knees, but he would scramble to his feet and keep going. Suddenly, there was the sound of glass shattering, and Bruce cried out. He fell to the ground, holding his leg. He reached down and with a groan, pulled a bloodied chunk of glass out of the sole of his foot. Bruce peered over his shoulder to see an empty, broken beer bottle lying on the ground where he had stepped.

Bruce looked around, and started to recognize his surroundings. He pushed himself up against a tree, and looking ahead, saw a strip of pure-black asphalt leading north, out of this swamp, just a stone's throw away; how could he have possibly not seen it before? Bruce staggered and hopped towards the road, and, once he had cleared the trees, immediately laid eyes upon a Mercury Cyclone.

Bruce stumbled to the car as the sun started to rise. He dragged the heavy door open and fell into the driver's seat, fishing the keys out of his sodden pocket. The V8 rumbled to life, echoing in the grey morning of the Florida swamp. Bruce tugged the Cyclone into drive, and started down the road.

Bruce never figured out why it was that the dead partygoers had allowed him to escape, why they hadn't pursued him. He made a vow that day though, as the morning fog parted across the road. He chose from that night on to never go dancing again, until he again danced with the dead.

THE END

Bio: Mr. Collier is a freelance writer based out of South Florida, and is trying to find his feet in the genres of fantasy and horror.

E-mail: Caleb Collier

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