Twilight Eyes by Dean Koontz

details draped in darkness and distorted by strange patterns of curtain- and blind-filtered light, Gibsonton-on-Wheels had the look and feel of an assemblage of gypsy wagons drawn up against the disapproval of the surrounding natives in a rural nineteenth-century European landscape. As I approached and then walked in among the first trailers, lights were extinguished here and there as weary carnies went to bed.
    The meadow was marked by a quietude born of the carnies’ universal respect for their neighbors: There were no loud radios or TVs, no crying babies left unattended, no noisy arguments, no barking dogs, all of which you might expect to find in a so-called respectable neighborhood out in the straight world. Also, daylight would have shown that the avenues between the trailers were free of litter.
    Earlier, during my break, I had brought my gear down to the rental trailer that three other guys were sharing with me, and while I had been in the meadow I had wandered around until I had found the Airstream that belonged to Rya Raines. Now, laden with coins and with a thick sheaf of dollar bills in one pouch of my change apron, I went directly to her place.
    The door was open, and I saw Rya sitting in an armchair, in a fall of buttery light from a reading lamp. She was talking to a dwarf.
    I rapped on the open door, and she said, “Come on in, Slim.”
    I went up the three metal steps and in, and the dwarf, a woman, turned to look at me. She was of indeterminate age—twenty or fifty, hard to tell—about forty inches tall, with a normal trunk, shortened extremities, and a large head. We were introduced; the little woman’s name was Irma Lorus, and she ran the bottle-pitch for Rya. She wore a pair of children’s tennis shoes, black pants, and a loose peach-colored blouse with short sleeves. Her black hair was thick and glossy and, like ravens’ wings, it had deep blue highlights; it was lovely, and she was evidently proud of it, for much thought had gone into the way it was cut and shaped around her oversize face.
    “Ah, yes,” Irma said, offering her small hand, shaking. “I’ve heard about you, Slim MacKenzie. Mrs. Frazelli, who owns the Bingo Palace with her husband, Tony, says you’re too young to be on your own, says you’re in desperate need of a home-cooked meal and a mother’s attention. Harv Seveen, who has one of the kootch shows, says you look like you’re either dodging the draftboard or maybe running from the cops because they caught you at some small diddle . . . like maybe joyriding in somebody else’s car; either way, he figures you’re a right type. The pitchmen say you know how to draw the marks, and with a few more years under your belt, you might even become the best talker on the lot. Now, Bob Weyland, who has the carousel, is a mite worried ’cause his daughter thinks you’re a dreamboat and says she’ll just die if you don’t notice her; she’s sixteen, and her name’s Tina, and she’s worth noticing too. And Madame Zena, otherwise known as Mrs. Pearl Yarnell from the Bronx, our gypsy fortune-teller, says you’re a Taurus, five years older than you look, and that you’re running from a tragic love affair.”
    I was not surprised that a number of carnies had drifted by the high-striker to have a look at me. It was a tight community, and I was a newcomer, and their curiosity was to be expected. I was, however, embarrassed by the report of Tina Weyland’s infatuation and amused to hear Madame Zena’s “psychic” impressions of me. “Well, Irma,” I said, “I’m actually a Taurus, seventeen years old, never had a girl even give me the chance to have my heart broken—and if Mrs. Frazelli is any good in the kitchen, you can tell her that I cry myself to sleep each and every night, just thinking about home-cooked meals.”
    “You’re welcome at my place too,” Irma said, smiling. “Come meet Paulie, my husband. Fact is, why don’t you stop over about eight o’clock Sunday