Facedancer in Fiction that has nothing to do with exercises

“Skinwalkers. Old legend from around here, these days it’s about people who can look like anyone else, but it used to be they killed people and wore their skin.”

A couple of the kids eyes were shiny in the firelight, a couple were laughing nervously, one kid punched another. The counselor slapped his knees “Ok, guys …”

“Wait,” little Johnny Warkowski. His eyes weren’t shiny or wide, he wasn’t laughing, and no one knew him well enough to punch.

“I’ve got one. You ever heard of facedancers?”

“That’s stupid.”

“No, don’t want to.”

“You’re a face dancer.”

“You’re just switching around skinwalker.”

Everyone talked at the same time, one kid threw a stick; it landed short and kicked up an ember. Johnny just answered the last one he heard, “No, skinwalkers are solid. That’s an old story, might be true, might not, but they’re solid. Face dancers got nothing inside them.”

A piece of green wood popped, a log crackled and broke in half. Crickets chirped in the field.

“They call them face dancers because that’s how we read people; someone raises an eyebrow, or smiles sideways or flares their nostrils when they talk. That’s how we know they’re real. I mean, we expect em to real, you, me, him …” he gestured to the counselor, one of the camp clowns raised an eyebrow in doubt, his friend laughed, “so it’s easy, but if their faces didn’t dance, you’d know right away.”

A couple of kids leaned in closer. The counselor folded his arms, snuck a look at his watch, but didn’t shut it down. The soft matter of fact way Johnny spoke even had the arm punchers listening.

“There’s a whole town of them,” Johnny pointed up the river, “it’s got a little carnival with pony rides, they charter fishing boats, tourists come in the summer time … there’s even a few summer cabins but they aren’t near the town, back up in the woods ---“

“Yeah?” said one of the punchy kids “What’s the name ---“

“Bingen ---“

“I been there lots. And, my dad is from Bingen.”

“The Face dancers have only been there a few years. But maybe your dad ---“

The kid started at Johnny, the counselor put a hand out to stop the kid but he didn’t get that far, even though his fist was cocked “… moved before the trouble started. You ever been there at night?”

“Lots of times.”

“In town?”

“Lots of ---“ the kid stopped in mid sentence “You know, no. Dad wouldn’t let us. I mean, not like that, he always made something good to eat or set up the Nintendo or brought a new game.” He looked around the campfire “Shut up you guys, I thought it was weird, I’m not just making it up now.”

“Yeah,” Johnny went on, soft, matter of fact, flat affect like maybe a face dancer would look if he wasn’t fooling. “I don’t know if it’s like the old skinwalkers, I mean, I don’t know if they killed the people there , but … it’s not much of a town, wouldn’t be hard to do. I don’t think your dad is one, but he knows enough to keep you in at night.”

One kid burst out laughing, a nervous kid, skinny, with thick glasses. Everyone looked at him. He covered his mouth. His best friend put an arm around him. Last year when they went to the skinny kids’ grandpa’s funeral the kid had bust out laughing to. His buddy could make him stop. Affection, he made him stop with affection.

One kid made a wide exaggerated, loud yawn, broke a stick in half and threw the two pieces in the fire, “So? So Bingen is a town of hollowed out face dancers. That’s not a ghost story, there’s no story to your story.”

Johnny looked into the yellow flames. “What’s your name kid?”

“I don’t have to tell you fart knuckle.”

The counselor bit his lip to keep from laughing.

“Ok, kid,” Johnny emphasized the word kid, “What’s his name?” the kid stuck out his tongue, “His name?” He went around the circle until he got to the counselor “Mr. Warren,” the kid without a name said, “And you’re Johnny Warkowski.”

“Where are you from Mr. Warren?”

“Champagne Urbana,” Johnny gave him a blank look, “it’s near Chicago. Illinois” Mr Warren held up his right hand, palm out, sideways, poked the pad under his index finger.

“Yeah, I’m from St. Louis. How come you and I are the only ones with names.”

Twenty minutes later Mr. Warren was naked and turning on a makeshift spit. His skin hadn’t started crackling yet, at least he’d stop screaming.

“Why?” he asked Johnny hoarsely.

“Because they are empty. They’re always hungry. Because you didn’t need to be hunted, you were right here.”

Mr. Warren spun two more times.

“Why not you?”

“I don’t know, exactly. I’m immune. The face dancers in St. Louis didn’t mess with me either.”

Mr. Warren’s lips cracked. His voice was too sore for screaming and it sounded to Johnny like he didn’t have any more questions. Johnny stood up and brushed the pine needles off his knees.

“I hate this part. I’m going.”

No one stopped him. The big kid who had faked yawned walked him into the woods.

“You’re not immune you know.”

“I know,” Johnny said, “Stop me.”

The kid stood there as Johnny walked off. “I might, one day, I just might,” he said softly to the darkness.