 
## **Contents**

Dark Carnival Titling

Dark Carnival: An Anthology of Horror

Foreword by Jolene Haley

Heaven's On Fire by Kristen Strassel

Sleight of Hand by Meghan Schuler

The Ring Toss by J. Elizabeth Hill

Into The Black by Jessi Esparza

Perceptions by Debra Kristi

Tilt A-Whirl by Ryan Bartlett

Dancing Bear by Claire C. Riley

Blind Sighted by Michelle Ceasar Davis

Exposure by Brian LeTendre

Meat is Murder by Ken Mooney

Precious Payment by Eli Constant

The Strong Man by Mari Wells

Til It Pops by Lucas Hargis

Permanent Ink by Kat Daemon

The Mastering by T.A. Brock

The Closest Kind by Calyn Morgan

Sticky Sweetness by Emily McKeon

Tabbi's Petting Zoo by Gregory Carrico

Whack-A-Mole by Kristin Hanson

The Hollow (A Witch Hunter Saga short story) by Nicole R. Taylor

Wait for the Wheel by Cara Vescio

Nothing But Net by Brian W. Taylor

The Devil's Game by Kate Michael

The Monster Comes At Midnight by Ezekiel Conrad

Whites Of Their Eyes by Jamie Adams

Likeness by Bobby Salomons

Wicked Smart Carnie by Mark Matthews

Walk the Line by Jamie Corrigan

The Hallow Fest Queen by Kristin Rivers

Once For Me by Kristen Jett

The Carousel by Sheila Hall

Arts and Crafts by Suzy G

Dead Meat by Kim Culpepper

The Pendour Cove Siren by Ruth Shedwick

Hook The Duck by J.C. Michael

Grawr!!! by Wulf Francu Godgluck

Sticky by Ashly Nagrant

A Seat for Every Soul by Amy Trueblood / Tilt-A-Kill by Vanessa Henderson

Conjoined Sins by Tawney Bland

Love Consumes Us by Julie Hutchings

House of Mirrors by Stevan Knapp

About The Editors

Acknowledgements
Dark Carnival:

An Anthology of Horror

Presented by Pen & Muse Press

Dark Carnival: An Anthology of Horror

Pen & Muse Press

Copyright 2014 by Pen & Muse Press

This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purse an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to an e-book retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of these authors.

All of the short stories contained herein are the property of the author by whom they are written. Any resemblance to persons, places, or events is purely coincidental as these are works of fiction. Any references to historical events are used in a fictional manner and may have been altered to accommodate the storyline.

Pen & Muse Press, Pen & Muse, and the authors and illustrators of this anthology collectively recognize trademarks used and their respective ownership. We do not claim to hold any rights to any trademarked names contained herein.

The stories contained in this anthology may be made available by their respective authors via other publishing formats. Please contact the author for details on potential release of their shorty story outside of Dark Carnival: An Anthology of Horror.

Dark Carnival: An Anthology of Horror All rights reserved.

Published in the United States of America by Pen & Muse Press.

Pen & Muse Press is a registered trademark and its related logo is a registered trademark of Pen & Muse Press.

Summary: Several authors and illustrators imagine and explore the dark and hidden dangers that lie within a carnival that has come to town.

No part of this e-book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

For information, address Pen & Muse Press. www.penandmusepress.com

Title: Dark Carnival: An Anthology of Horror

Author: Multiple

On Sale Date: October 31, 2014

Format: E-book

Ages: 14 up

Smashwords Edition

Cover design for the Dark Carnival by C. Elizabeth Vescio. More information can be found on her website. http://fictionalchick.com/

Formatting by Pen & Muse Press.

Productions Edited by Jolene Haley, Kristen Jett, and Jessi Shakarian.

Foreword

by Jolene Haley

What is so captivating about fall and carnivals? Authors and readers around the world find themselves enthralled with visions of rustling leaves, cotton candy, and the screams and shouts of children on rides.

Ray Bradbury's Something Wicked This Way Comes changed my life. At a very early age I found myself with a high regard and fascination with things dark and macabre. As I savored Bradbury's book in my hands, I knew that I was forever changed—my perception of carnivals had been permanently altered. No longer were carnivals happy, safe havens for children. Carnivals were maelstroms of evil and dark magic, oddities and eccentricities unexplored, that disappeared almost as quickly as they came.

In fall 2013, Kristen and I, decided to host a writer and illustrator showcase on our blog Pen & Muse. The theme? The Dark Carnival. We couldn't resist the temptation of asking some of the most talented creative minds in existence, to explore the shadowy underbelly of a dark carnival that has come to town.

The response was thrilling to say the least. The Dark Carnival had almost one hundred participants! Today we present to you, some of the best and brightest, twisted and creepy, haunting and deadly stories and illustrations from The Dark Carnival. Contributors will be exploring the dark and hidden dangers that lie around every corner, threats that dance at midnight.

A carnival has come to town. But it's no ordinary carnival. It's The Dark Carnival. When The Dark Carnival comes to town, there's no promise that anyone can leave...alive.
Heaven's On Fire

by Kristen Strassel

The crowd gasped as Katrinka tumbled from the sky, wrapped in her silks. That was my cue.

Compared to Katrinka, I was a chicken shit. She twisted herself in silks high above the crowd, relying on nothing but her strength and grace to keep her whole. All I had to do was rely on my brain short circuiting.

It hardly seemed fair as the lights fell so the crew could clear Katrinka's silks and the crowd erupted in a chant. For me.

"Holly! Holly! Holly!"

My heart thrummed in my throat and I had to close my eyes and swallow deep to keep the emotions at bay for just a few minutes longer.

"Ladies and Gentlemen!" The emcee boomed. "Please welcome the hottest girl in Sin City...Holly Octane!"

I walked slowly as a dim spotlight trained on me to the beat of "She's Gone" by The Black Keys. A small fire awaited me in the middle of the ring. My costume shielded me from the crowd. I couldn't expose that much skin. Yet. Bad things could happen. Like Katrinka, I had little room for error.

I tipped my top hat to the audience, circling the fire as I dropped my cropped black blazer. I gyrated my hips to the slow beat of the song, exaggerated by the bustle skirt attached to my blood red corset. I tossed my hat to the crowd, and then ran my hands down the length of my fishnet clad thighs. I concentrated on the crackle of the fire. Peaceful and beautiful.

I plucked the batons from the fire like any other girl would take a rose from a garden.

The burn was beautiful.

I twirled them thoughtfully, moving them slowly through my fingers. I twirled the flames around me, over my head and underneath my raised leg. As the song ended, I threw the sticks high in the air, the fire illuminating the audience. Their faces flashed in my soul. Fireworks exploded in my brain as I ripped open the front of my corset, whipping it around over my head as the batons fell in the dirt at my feet. I tossed the garment in the dirt hard enough it left a cloud as it skidded away from me.

Now just in glittery star pasties, sparkly booty shorts, and fishnets, I dropped to my knees and crawled toward the fire where one more baton waited for me to pluck it the from the flames. The crowd knew what happened next. I rolled back on my heels and rose to my feet. As Paul Stanley wailed the opening of "Heaven's On Fire", I swallowed the flame.

The theater went dark as the song kicked in to full gear. I let the fire course through my body, flooding my belly, and making my limbs tingle. I opened my eyes; with the fire inside me, I could see as if it was midday. This was the first time I let myself look at the crowd. I saw them gaping at me, lust in the eyes of some, disgust in the eyes of others. Good girls couldn't eat fire.

Every night I saw the same faces. The ugly, twisted, taunting faces. Judging me. Calling me a freak. They were right.

Good girls didn't burst into flames.

Fire dripped from every pore. It surrounded me like a cocoon. This is where I felt safe. No one could reach me here. I raised arms over my head and did a forward flip through the air as the crowd erupted. I jumped the metal pole that held up the imaginary tent, swinging my legs in midair as my hands slipped around it. I shimmied up to the top, and then slid back down, into a full spilt. The flames exaggerated my every move. Coming back to my feet, I put one leg back up on the pole, again circling it in a split.

I stopped for a moment, my back to the pole, the flames licking the metal. I took 3 cartwheels to make it to the chemical shower. I had just enough time as the song ended. As I pulled the cord, the foam fell and extinguished me. The lights went down so the crowd wouldn't see my body, exposed. No fabric could survive my act.

Silence. Every time. Like the couldn't believe what they just saw.

I didn't like to talk to anyone after my act. Performing drained me too much. Emotions conjured my flames. I saw things I shouldn't. Things I didn't want to. The same things over and over. It was a vicious cycle I didn't know how to stop. I needed to be alone until I could get my thoughts in order.

Darkness greeted me in my dressing room. I never turned on the light right away. Instead I leaned against the door and listened to my heart throb against my eardrums.

Let it drain, Holly.

"Bravo." A male voice in the dark startled me. My eyes flew open. No. Not again.

One person applauded. Was there more than one of them? I could feel the heat rising inside. Not now, not here. Too dangerous. I squeezed my eyes closed to tamp down the fear. The flames.

When I could move again, I wiped my hand against the wall looking for the light switch. My eyes widened when I found Cash Logan in my dressing room.

He laughed at my expression. Obviously, he liked scaring people. Or at least, he liked scaring me. He moved around the room, running his finger over the clothes I'd laid on the back of my chair to change into.

I shuddered. The most powerful magician in the world was in my dressing room, violating my things. He might as well have put his grubby fingers right on my soul. There had been rumors that Cash would move his show from New Orleans to Las Vegas. No one in our show wanted that. Cash Logan in Vegas would mean the end of Le Cirque Macabre.

Why didn't Rainey tell me he was in town? Her booth was right in the lobby. My girlfriend was a seer, more than a fortune teller, more than a medium. She could see the future like most people watched the evening news. Unless...

Shit. Cash Logan was a vampire.

"What do you want from me?" My voice shook, and I had to almost scream to make it more than a whisper.

He approached me, coming way too close, pawing at a handful of my plush robe. I couldn't breathe. "How do you do that, Holly?"

"Do what?" It was as good a time as any to play dumb.

His lips spread into a lopsided smile, making his beard rise. If I wasn't terrified, maybe I could appreciate the view. He looked down at me, unblinking as his free hand rested on the door above my head. His eyes looked like the sky, mesmerizing and beautiful.

"You know what I'm talking about, Holly." Now his lips moved against my cheek, the tips of his long, dirty blonde hair tickling the opening of my robe. "Your fire dance. How do you do that?"

"I've always been able to do it." I looked away from him, but he moved my face back to his, his cool fingers burning my skin worse than any flame ever had.

"No, you haven't. Something happened to you. It brought the flames to life."

I couldn't breathe. He knew. "Stop it." I whispered. "I know you can't survive fire."

"And that's why I need you." He said. "I know you can hear what the crowd thinks. I know that's what sets you off, so to speak, every performance."

How did he know that? I'd only told Rainey. Rainey'd never rat me out to some freaking bloodsucker.

"You think I'm going to help you? You'll put us all out of a job." I wrestled my face free of his grip and pushed myself off the wall.

Cash grasped me, fast and hard. Any harder and he'd snap the bones in my forearms. "This is more than just a circus act, Holly. I'm talking about survival for my kind. For you."

"If you're going to kill me, just do it now. I'm not going to let you use me like some science experiment and then just suck me dry." I forced myself to meet his eyes. I felt foolish, still covered in extinguishing foam and smudged stage makeup, challenging this monster.

"You don't know what you are, do you?" He actually looked surprised. He loosened his grip and I rubbed my arms to bring the feeling back to them.

I sighed. He was right. I opened my mouth to speak and closed it more than once. I had no snappy comeback. No need for bravado. "What am I?"

The truth couldn't be any worse than not knowing.

"My god," he said almost to himself. "I think you need me more than I need you."

Kristen shares a birthday with Steven Tyler and Diana Ross. She spends each day striving to be half as fabulous as they are. She's worn many hats, none as flattering as her cowboy hat: banker, retail manager, fledgling web designer, world's worst cocktail waitress, panty slinger, now makeup artist and aspiring author. She loves sunshine, live music, the middle of nowhere, and finding new things to put in her house. Her New Adult series (Night Songs) reminds you that vampires can be simultaneously terrifying and sexy.

Find her at http://deadlyeverafter.com/
Sleight of Hand

by Meghan Schuler

The greatest illusions begin backstage. The once-white stripes of the tent moldered into yellow, sun-bleached bone between slices of black void. The space around the tent remained empty, dust and mud and rot. Posters littered the ground, crumbled up and decayed, an accurate portrait of the magician within. Percival Creepe stood bent and withered, his thin frame hunched, his hawk nose as sharp as his eyes were dark. The man on the posters was younger, not quite so bat-like or scarred, but never could he be considered handsome. He stared at himself in the dingy mirror, at the decades etched on his face, unblinking, unfazed as he held the dove trap before him, clasped between long, twisted fingers. They sprang open. The white bird vanished along with the cage.

He removed the wire trap from his left sleeve and shook the feathered corpse out before offering the cage a new victim. It fluttered its wings, blood dyeing white feathers sickly red.

Vera sat across the room, long legs crossed, studying the dirt caked under her fingernails. She wore last night's makeup and a blonde wig that bared her ratty brown curls beneath. She flicked the dirt away with a penknife, one of the same Percival would hurl at her on stage. Her sequined get-up glinted abominably. Percival hated it. The flash, the drama, the cheap, pathetic gimmicks.

The stage crouched in the small tent, rusted stains splattered across the old wood. The knots stared up like so many demonic eyes, watching, waiting, eager. The pit yawned, chairs like so many teeth prepared to gnash.

Vera strode to the curtain and pulled it back. Percival growled, but watched all the same. The chairs began to fill, a trickle of sticky children covered in candy floss dragging decrepit stuffed animals and bored-looking mothers and fathers, all filthy false-pressed trousers and dull dresses topped with sagging feather caps and snarled woolen hats. Cigar smoke added to the musty stench of the tiny tent.

His assistant turned, lips pursed and eyebrow raised. He held up a hand to stay her, stuffing a deck of cards into his jacket with the other. Vera crossed her arms and tapped her foot, click click click.

"Patience," he rasped. "Magic cannot be hurried."

The spotlight hit the stage with a familiar zap of electrical currents firing, the loud pop of switches thrown. It glittered through the threadbare curtain and Percival shoved Vera aside, stepping out into the murky glow. A cough.

"Greetings, ladies and gentlemen. I am the Prestigious Percival Creepe, Master of Magic and Sorcerer of Sleight of Hand. Thank you for choosing to take part in tonight's act. Vera and I are delighted to have you."

Vera stumbled out from behind the curtain and inclined her head. Percival's brow arched at her nonchalance. She click her way to stand beside him, offering the audience a half-hearted wave. He signaled for her to begin the first trick and she removed the deck of cards from his pocket.

He unwrapped the gray silk and tossed it into the air. Slowly, carefully, he spread the cards, a full fan in his skeletal hand. Then his fingers flew. The hiss of sliding cards, the mark—the Ace of Spades, signed by a disinterested A. G. in the audience—, the vanish, the transformation—the Eight of Hearts, A.G. in the same slanting letters—, and the reveal. He snapped his fingers and the Eight of Hearts became the Ace of Spades, still baring the initials.

Silence.

He plucked the gray silk out of thin air and bound up his cards, picking up his wire trap dove cage. He invited a boy from the audience to inspect the cage, to make sure it was solid and sure. The boy reached for it and ...it was gone. The boy pulled his hand back, eyes wide. Percival grinned with one side of his mouth, hoping the boy and his parents wouldn't notice the blood on the boy's shirt and fingers.The boy stuck the stained appendages in his mouth to clean off the taste of candy floss.

Percival's grin faltered.

Levitation.

He raised the prop table, running a metal hoop over it to prove there were no wires.

He looked at Vera. Vera shrugged. He cleared his throat.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, changing veins, my lovely assistant Vera will now bring out the tank. A 3500-gallon contraption into which I will be thrown, chained and blindfolded, and from which I have a mere four minutes to escape." Percival motioned to the hourglass sitting on the table. "Vera, chain my hands."

Vera did as told, if a bit roughly. She tugged the metal links. She locked his ankles as well and ran a chain from his neck to his feet, a neat, snug, bundle ready for a cold isolation of a water tank. She helped him up the stairs to the edge of the water.

"Now, should I fail, I will drown unless Vera manages to shatter the tank," Percival added. Vera awkwardly hefted an ax, listing to the side with its weight. "There is a large risk of death, but that's the price of magic. Vera?"

She dropped the axe with a thud and picked up another object. The burlap sack closed over Percival's head. Vera, unceremoniously, shoved him into the water. She set the hourglass, inverted, on the table with a click.

The stage lights went dim, a single point illuminating the magician's struggle. He wriggled free of the sack and set to getting his arms freed. The hourglass poured precious minutes, bubbles beginning to escape Percival's mouth as he thrashed. One arm came free of the chains, then the other. The sand ran out as he tried to untether his feet. The lights went out. When the lit the stage again, the tank was empty, a rather apathetic-looking Vera holding her arms out in display.

Percival walked up to the stage from the back of the house, suit dripping. The weak sound of applause echoed through the theatre. The anger welled inside his chest, burning. He spun on his heel.

"Is that it? I present you with mystifying feats, illusions, magic and all you do is sit there? What is wrong with you?" he spat. "I've been at this for decades and I've never been treated so disrespectfully. You have no idea what magic is."

"You escaped the box using a series of mirrors to make it appear as though you were underwater," a voice calmly stated from the back. "The escape was simple. A child could do it."

"I could see the strings on tha levi'tating table," came another.

Percival glowered at the crowd, cursed the lighting that obscured the faces of his hecklers. He'd show them. Oh, yes. He mounted the stage, spoke sharply to Vera and turned to the audience.

"For our grand finale, I require a volunteer from the audience." He voice rang out, smooth as an oil slick. A woman in a feathered cap snickered at one of her companions. A sharp gloved finger pinned her, the spotlight following. "You. Come on stage."

The woman looked around, nose turned up. She approached at stage after an urging from her friend. Percival offered the woman a hand and she snubbed it. His mouth twisted into a leer, then smoothed as quickly as a flawless shuffle. Vera returned, pushing a rolling table with a large container on top. It was the size and shape of a casket, black, wooden and plain.

One by one, the lids flipped open. Percival motioned for his volunteer to come closer. She stepped onto the table and lowered her self down, smoothing her skirts before shoving her arms through the openings in the box. The lids slammed down and locked. Percival tucked a small handkerchief into her palm before reaching under the table.

Percival brandished four blades and a smile, moving around the box and plunged two into the woman's chest and two above her hips. The one blade caught on her breastbone. He grabbed her head and pulled back, the blade slipping neatly into place. With a shove, the woman broke into three, hand still flailing, feet still twitching, handkerchief fluttering.

"She's a plant," a third voice called out. "Or one of them freak show people. Ain't got legs or something."

Percival narrowed his eyes. "Is that so?" He kicked the middle box, sending the woman's torso rolling off the edge of the stage. The box opened, spilling red. The audience leapt from their seats, horrified cries echoing in the small, tented space.

"Clean it up, Vera," he snapped, a wicked smiled spreading across his face. She glared, walking off the stage to right the fallen box and tuck its contents back inside. The rest of the woman looked ill. Vera set a plank against the stage and wheeled the torso back up, spinning it around to connect it with the woman's chest. She slid the dividers out and tossed them behind her, spatters of red joining the darker stains on the wood.

The woman thrashed her currently-detached legs, the wheels squeaking as the box moved. She spat curses now, long phrases of some foreign language mixed with English. Vera looked at Percival, who merely shrugged in response. Vera took the handkerchief and stuffed it in the woman's mouth. She lifted one high-heeled foot and kicked the box over, latches breaking on impact.

Percival grinned.

"Now, ladies and gentlemen, behold the real magic," he pronounced, bringing his foot down on the box. The sides split open, revealing the woman's body connected, except for her legs, still on the other side of the stage. She crawled from the wreckage, leaving a trail of viscera behind. Vera folded her arms and watched, a small smirk quirking up her lips.

"Well, looks like you were right," Percival chimed, gesturing to the remaining box with one hand and motioning to Vera with the other. "I suppose her legs aren't attached after all."

Percival took Vera's hand and the act shared a bow as the curtain dropped.

A fan of Edgar Allen Poe, Meghan Schuler allows the beauty of the dark , and the romance of long ago year to enter her literary worlds. She's an avid reader, sometimes sketcher, antique enthusiast and rock concert goer. She also spins fire and contact juggles.

Find her at: http://exquisitelyodd.com/

The Ring Toss

by J. Elizabeth Hill

Jace closed his eyes, letting his other senses describe the carnival to him. Voices of the other carnies called the few visitors at this early hour to the games and shows. Bells and sirens rang out, alerting all to a winner. He smelled smoke from cigarettes, the grease of the fried food, and the sugary sweetness of the nearby cotton candy machine. The air around him was cooling down as night set in, with no hint of rain.

He smiled. It would be a good night for the carnival. For his carnival.

Well, all right, it wasn't really his yet. He worked for the owner and ringmaster, Ruben Trent, but that was just for now. He'd have it all one day. He'd show his whole family, all of his supposed friends back in Williams, how wrong they'd been to make fun of his dream. Only his little sister, Helen, had believed in him. She loved the carnival almost as much as he did. She'd told him to go, when Ruben's Carnival Extravaganza had been packing up to leave. She'd come in, all of twelve, and told him to grab his stuff and go with them, that she'd cover him with Mom and Dad long enough for him to get away, even if she had to lie.

The sounds of the carnival rolled on around him, but for the moment, he was still alone. Jace let his favorite fantasy play out in his mind, the one where he went back to Williams as the ringmaster of his own carnival. He'd invite Helen to come with him when he left that time. He didn't care what she decided to do as part of the carnival. He just wanted her to have the chance to live her dreams as he was. The chance she'd given him.

Returning himself regretfully to reality, he opened his eyes and movement drew his attention. A mother and young son, perhaps eight, approached his booth. The child's expression held a familiar excitement. The ring toss had been Jace's favorite game as a kid. He'd worked long and hard to perfect his technique. Even now, he could drop a ring onto any bottle in the field he wanted. He smiled in welcome at the boy, while taking a few bills from the mother.

The clink of plastic on glass came next. He loved the sound, as much as he loved watching the kids try for the biggest prizes. The younger ones were so earnest about it and he rooted for each of them. It wasn't like the teenage guys who showed up, strutting for the girls and trying to impress them. Jace laughed silently as they missed with almost every toss. He liked to impress girls too, but at least he could in this game, unlike the others.

The mother led her son away after two rounds, a small stuffed tiger held tight in his hands. There wasn't another customer in sight, but Jace wasn't worried. It was early still. The sky had only just begun to darken toward night. There would be plenty of people later. It was Friday night, after all.

"You stare after them like you know them, Jace."

He jumped and knocked a few bottles off the edge of the table as he whirled to see who'd spoken.

The fortuneteller, Lilia, stood by the other end of the booth. The red scarf that held her black curls back, loose white blouse, and long brown skirt were a costume, but he'd never seen her out of it. He thought she looked silly, but wouldn't have told her that. The truth was she creeped him out, especially the way she was always staring at him. This was the first time she'd spoken to him though. Her voice drew him in, despite his unease about her. It was lyrical and entrancing. He suspected it was a hit with the carnival goers who believed in fortunetelling.

"Do you know them?"

For a moment, his voice deserted him. "No. I don't know anyone outside of Williams except an aunt in Montana."

She leaned against the post. "Then why watch them leave like that?"

Jace hesitated. "I was that kid once."

"Not so long ago, either."

His hand paused as he straightened one of the small plush fish hanging from the side post, but he finished and turned to her before it became noticeable. He hoped. "What are you implying?"

Lilia's grey eyes were merry as she took a step closer. "Ruben might have bought your line about being eighteen but I'm not fooled."

He turned and bent to pick up the bottles, wanting a chance to hide his reaction. "You're barking up the wrong tree, Lilia."

"Try that on someone else."

Irritated, he turned back. "Look, I'm here and pulling my weight, so I don't think Ruben's going to care, even if you do tell him this story of yours. Now, is there something else you wanted?"

She laughed. "Actually, I stopped by to ask if you're happy. Is this really what you dreamed about for all those years?"

Before he could stop himself, he said, "How do you-"

As she laughed, he heard another laugh, deeper and darker, buried in hers. Then it was gone, leaving only a shiver running up his spine. "You don't have to believe for me to have power, Jace. And you might like the ring toss, but this isn't what you joined us for."

He looked down the row of booths, wishing someone would come over. "I was looking for work and this seemed like fun. That's all."

"More lies." She hitched her skirt up and sat on the low counter. "How long do you think it'll take you to work your way to the top? Ten years? Fifteen?"

He shrugged, unwilling to say that he thought those were optimistic guesses. But it was his dream, so he'd do what he had to. He replaced the bottles and began gathering up the rings strewn across the ground. Lilia's next words brought his head up.

"It can happen sooner, if you know the right path to walk."

He stared into her eyes, noticing how dark they'd become as night fell. They were almost black now. He hesitated, trying to figure out how to answer and if she meant what he thought she did. "I do know the path. I'll work hard and learn everything I can. I'll make friends and eventually find the backing I need. It'll happen. I just have to keep at it."

She shook her head and a low chuckle drifted through the booth. "Such a long, difficult road you're proposing to travel. I have an alternative, if you're interested."

She looked off into the distance then. Was she giving him time to think about it? He didn't really believe she had a faster way or even that there was one, but she sounded so certain.

"I don't really see how there could be."

Lilia turned back, smiling. "Two years, Jace. You could lead this very carnival, be its ringmaster in two short years."

He laughed, unable to help himself. "Impossible."

"And a seventeen-year-old boy knows everything that's possible in the world?"

Her words were spoken lightly, but the glint in those now-black eyes stopped him. What the hell was he in the middle of? He decided to play along, at least until he could get away from her or she lost interest.

"Let me guess. You know how I can do that." She didn't deny this, so he took it a step further. "Are you offering to tell me what to do?"

"It doesn't work that way." She slid close enough that he felt the heat of her body. Another half inch and she'd be brushing up against him. He couldn't back away without tripping over the half-wall of the booth. His mouth dried up.

"You'll know the next step when it comes up. Think of it like a dance through the dark. You'll feel it when it's time, even if you don't know what comes after."

"And what would it cost me, this path?" God, was he really considering this? Really taking her seriously enough to ask that?

"The path costs less than doing it your way. Two years versus ten, Jace. Versus twenty, or even thirty."

"And you'd give this to me, what, out of the goodness of your heart?"

Lilia laughed as if he'd told the best joke ever. Again, that chilling edge came into the laugh. His heel hit the wall behind him as he tried to back away and he jumped.

"What is it you think I'm after?"

He didn't want to say what he was thinking. He knew it was stupid, the result of watching too much TV before he left home. But her eyes bore in on him, her amused half smile teasing him into saying something. "My soul."

She shook her head. "Doesn't even interest me."

His eyes narrowed. "Then what?"

"Nothing of yourself. I have other interests."

Jace waited for her to say more, but she didn't. "So, let's say I believe you. How does this work?"

"You only have to say that you accept my offer."

"And?"

"And the first step of the path will make itself known."

"That's it?"

She smiled at him, her eyes now the deepest black imaginable.

He tried to think this through but the brilliant image unfolding in his head made it hard. There he was, not even twenty, standing in the center ring under the big tent. The crowd watched him. The mic was in his hand. He looked handsome in the ringmaster's suit and he knew the girls would pay attention at last. Him, Jace, the youngest ringmaster in history. He was barely aware of his lips moving as he contemplated this image.

"And it would be that easy?"

It shouldn't be. There was no way what she offered could be possible. And yet it was tempting. The vision was so vivid.

"Yes, but only if you accept the offer."

He turned it over, wanting to consider it from all angles and see if there were any hidden strings. But the vision continued, threatening to suck him in all the way. In it, the crowd's applause roared out, washing over him. The allure grew by the second and he just wanted to sit and enjoy it.

"Well, Jace? Do you want it or not?"

As soon as she uttered that last word, the vision disappeared, popping like a balloon. He blinked, bereft already at the loss. "Yes, I want it. I accept your offer. Now bring it back."

Her laugh rang out in the night, dark and frightening this time. It came not from Lilia but from all around them. How could she make such a horrible sound, one that grated on his entire being? "You'll be living it in no time at all. You don't need that vision to distract you from the path. Now, go about your business. I'm sure you'll find the first step in no time, maybe even tonight."

Without another word, she slipped off the counter and walked into the night toward her tent.

Jace stared after her, trying to figure out what had just happened. If there'd been any humor in her laughter, he'd have decided it was all a joke. Could she mean what she'd said? He didn't feel any different, didn't know anything more so far as he could tell, but she'd said he wouldn't know until it was time.

If it was real, there had to be a price for what she was giving him, no matter what she said. That worried him. He might still be able to change his mind.

More laughter broke his consideration of Lilia's offer, but this time it wasn't from her. A large group of teens walked along the aisle. One pointed at his booth and they all came over. For the first time since joining Ruben's, Jace wished they'd just leave. He needed to think about what he'd just done.

The teens were into their sixth round of rings, his impatience growing with each minute, when a hand landed on his shoulder. He flinched and looked around. Instead of the midnight eyes surrounded by pale skin he'd been expecting, a man in his forties stood next to him. Andy, Ruben's right-hand man, pulled away, looking shocked and distressed.

"You okay, Jace? Didn't mean to startle you."

It took a moment for him to find his voice again. "Sorry. Got caught up in something. What do you need?"

"You're going to have to close up the ring toss for the night. The boss needs something important done and thinks you're the right guy for the job."

Before Jace could ask what Andy was talking about, his attention was consumed by a single thought. Rather than argue or ask questions, he had to agree, because Ruben needed him to assist with the performance tonight. Jace knew this without a single doubt, and understood. This was the first step.

He heard another clink, metal on glass and looked down. A silver circle shone in the lights that had come up around his booth while the teens were playing. It was too big and would have fallen through, except the bottle it had landed on stood touching another.

The silver circle was familiar. It only took a second to place it. A bracelet that belonged to his sister. A bit of red marred the smooth surface. Blood, only a drop, but frightening anyway because he was sure that too belonged to Helen.

He looked around for Lilia, and found her watching him from the next booth over. The triumph in her eyes, the smug tilt to her smile nearly made him throw up. The price.

Though she hadn't moved, the fortuneteller's voice whispered in his ear. "She's mine now. She was what I sought. You have no idea what I will make of her."

He was too frozen in horror to even shake his head, let alone speak. This wasn't what he'd agreed to. If he'd known this was the price, he'd have said no. She'd tricked him.

"I only said I wanted nothing of yourself. I never said it was free. You didn't ask. And know that refusing the path won't get her back. I promised knowledge, not results."

Just as he thought this moment couldn't get any worse, Lilia shimmered. In her place, a middle-aged man appeared, grinning. His eyes glowed blue. "Your sister and I are going to do great things together. She's ready, eager. Well, not at first, she wasn't. But then I told her my plan and she begged to start right away. How could I refuse such a sweet face?"

No, he wanted to say. She doesn't know what you are any more than I do, Jace thought, but his voice wouldn't work.

"Soon, she'll be capable of everything she needs to do, though no one will see how she's changed. Then she'll create a darker carnival than you can imagine. The world will flock to hand us their money and their souls."

Souls? His scream remained locked in his throat, as was his desperate plea for his sister's freedom. The man shimmered again and vanished. Jace looked back down at Helen's bracelet, the one he'd saved up for months to buy her. The last word of the inscription on the inside was just visible, and the whole thing ran through his mind. For my high-flying sister. Dream big.

"Jace? Are you coming or not?"

He'd forgotten Andy standing beside him. The first step was there, waiting for him. He glanced at the spot where Lilia, if it had ever really been her, had vanished. He considered throwing it all away, leaving to try to find them. Where would he begin to look? Back home? It would take him days to get back to Williams. Something told him he didn't have that kind of time. The strange man had said Helen was eager for his plan, whatever that was. It was already too late, if that creature was to be believed. The idea of sweet Helen volunteering for whatever was coming turned his stomach. Worse, he didn't think that had been a lie. It already had what it wanted. There wouldn't have been a reason to lie about it. Even if he found Helen, the creature would have done its work on her and she wouldn't be his sister anymore.

He snatched the bracelet and tucked it into his pocket, trying not to cry as he spoke the words he knew would lead him on the path he'd paid for.

"Anything the boss needs, Andy. You know that. Tell me what to do."

"It's your lucky day, kid," Andy said, grinning big enough that Jace wanted to punch him. "Might even be your big break at this carnival, if you do this right."

And he would do it right. Jace knew it, because that would be part of the path too. He'd know every bitter step as it carried him to his one-time dream, the one he could never share with Helen now.

THE END

Born in Toronto, Ontario, Julie Elizabeth Hill exported herself to Vancouver, British Columbia after many years of staring longingly at the map following every snowfall. For as long as she can remember, she's been making up stories, but it wasn't until high school that someone suggested writing them down. Since then, she's been hopelessly in love with story crafting, often forgetting about everything else in the process.

Find her on her blog: http://jelizabethhill.wordpress.com/
Into The Black

by Jessi Esparza

Coins clinked into the open canvas satchel in front of Bernard. He looked up and smiled at the elderly man and his granddaughter, who turned her face away once their eyes connected. Bernard understood. Seeing a man with his thighs thrown backwards over his shoulders could be unsettling the first time. After the man and child walked away, Bernard unfolded himself and grabbed the satchel before another crowd could form around him. He counted about five dollars in both coins and paper.

The sweet, greasy smell of funnel cake wafted past, drawing him to Tully's cake stand. Its purple and yellow striped banner fluttered in the autumn breeze. It would rain tonight. Bernard could feel it in his knees. He hovered near the corner of the stand, letting the patrons in line buy their fried floury goodness first.

"Hey Bernie, here for a cake?" Tully was a large man with a heart of equal size.

Bernard nodded, holding up the satchel.

"Been working the crowds again? You know how Jackson gets when you perform outside the tents." Sweat dripped down his forehead and he wiped it away with the back of his hairy forearm.

Jackson, the boss-man, ran Zedler's Wondrous Carnival like clockwork, with strict rules about performing that no one ever followed. But what he didn't know wouldn't hurt him.

Bernard dug out the bills, placing them in Tully's jar. "For a new card reader."

Tully rolled his eyes. He'd been talking about getting a new one for years, but somehow the money never lasted long enough.

"How's it feel being back in your hometown? See anyone you recognize?"

Bernard shook his head and shrugged. Surprisingly, he felt almost nothing at all. It was just another stop on the tour. But he made it a point to not leave the campgrounds. Oaks Valley wasn't a bad place to live. Actually it was a pleasant little town with warm summers, cool winters, and an extraordinary amount of cows. Bernard was eight when he left Oaks Valley and joined Zedler's, already having a knack for fitting himself into tight spaces. No one came looking for him. He never expected them to look for him.

Bernard preferred to keep his past in the past. And Tully didn't pester him about it.

"One funnel cake coming right up." The big man turned his back and called out the order to his son who ran the fryers.

Bernard tapped a little rhythm on the counter and watched the crowd. He liked people watching, probably because unless he was twisting himself into the shape of a pretzel, Bernard was rather unremarkable. Average height, skinny, short dark hair, and a forgettable face, except for his bright green eyes. Leaning against the booth in his cotton pants and grey shirt, no one noticed him.

"Hey, two cakes for me and my nephew here."

A shiver crept up Bernard's spine. His mind went blank and sharp. He zeroed in on the customer behind him.

"We just ran out of our first batch so it'll take a few minutes," Tully answered "And cash only."

"Eh, fucking a..." the customer grumbled. "Only got a couple bucks. How much?"

Bernard curled his fingers into fist to keep them from shaking.

"Twelve dollars."

"You kidding me! Matty, you still want this funnel cake?"

Bernard peeked over his shoulder. A man with a round face, red around the nose, stubble about his chin, caught the shoulder of a boy who was probably no older than twelve. "Whatever," the boy said clicking away at his cellphone. Bernard swallowed hard, his mouth going dry.

My My, Hey Hey, rock and roll is here to stay...

"Forget it. Come on, show's about to start anyway." The round faced man grabbed the boy by the scruff of his sweatshirt and tugged him towards the main tent.

Bernard watched the man's back roll in his navy windbreaker as he limped away, favoring his right leg. The man wasn't large but still round about the middle, his fair hair thinning in a circle at the back of his head. He walked straight-backed despite his lameness. For a second he paused at another vendor and turned back towards the funnel cakes stand. His eyes met Bernard's and Bernard thought he would surely recognize him. He'd walk right back and say something. Smile even. But the round faced man broke their gaze a second later and took in the rest of the carnival.

"Bernie, you feeling all right?" Tully was staring at him, holding the funnel cake out on a flimsy paper plate.

"What?"

"You're lookin' pretty pale. Are you all right?"

"Oh," Bernard let out a shaky laugh. "Yeah, just got a cramp." He made a show of stretching out his side.

"Not as young as you used to be." Tully handed him the cake but kept his skeptical expression.

Bernard nodded, taking the dessert, but no longer having an appetite to eat it. He pivoted on his heels and stalked back to his trailer. The sounds and smells and sights of the carnival faded into nothing, his mind swirling around a single point in his buried history.

Angus Shaw.

It was a twenty five year old nightmare Bernard wished wasn't real. He'd blocked most of it out, tucked it all into a steel box in the back of his mind and threw away the key. But after seeing Angus Shaw that afternoon, the memory exploded and rushed back to him. He'd forgotten that she had blonde hair, that her jean shorts were frayed, and that her shirt had been sleeveless. A song floated out of the open window of the rust-colored Range Rover with dents in its side, mixing with the angry sound of the running engine.

Out of the blue and into the black. They give you this but you pay for that...

The headlights drained them of color, just two shapes fighting in the night. Angus Shaw slammed her into his truck over and over, calling her a whore and other profanities. She fought back, her pleas frantic, "No, daddy! I'm not keeping it! Stop!" and rammed her heel into his left knee. He roared, grabbed a fistful of her yellow hair and thrust her head backwards. Her skull made an ugly sound when it cracked against the truck frame. The next second she stopped moving. Angus let her crumple to the ground and cursed, not out of grief or shame but frustration, as if she'd died just to annoy him.

Bernard clamped his hand over his mouth and held his breath. His stomach twisted when Angus heaved the girl into the driver side of the Rover. At eight Bernard didn't understand the mechanics of a car, but somehow Angus managed to send it over the embankment with the girl inside. No one ever thought it was anything more than a scared sixteen year old running away from home.

It made Bernard sick knowing that Angus Shaw, was still out there, that he was never punished. Bernard's skin burned with anger. He'd always felt fear, or utter helplessness when he thought about the night he had run away from one of his father's drunken tirades only to end up huddled under a bush watching his father's favorite drinking buddy, Angus Shaw, kill his own daughter. For the first time, he felt fierce anger, because it was all so wrong.

Jimmy, the kid, although he was twenty one, shifted in the bunk above Bernard's, whimpering like a puppy. Suzanne, who never went by Suzie, slept perfectly still in her bunk across from them, except for her expanding and compressing ribcage. They were a performing trio, a "family," they didn't have secrets from each other. But Bernard kept this one.

He needed some air. Silently he slipped out of his bunk, throwing on a hoodie and padding with bare feet through the trailer. The night was cold and damp. Rain had come down hard during the last performance, making the earth soft. His toes dug into the muddy pathway leading to the wooden archway at the entrance. Mist settled over the campground, making odd shaped creatures out of the tents and cryptic omens out of the signs. Slowly the mist drifted out the archway and down to the main road to town. He followed it unconsciously, not realizing it until his feet met asphalt.

The sleeping town rose out of the fog around him. After twenty years, much of it had changed, but most of it had stayed the same. What he remembered as being small mom and pop stores were now chain stores with their large logos splashed across their windows. The layout of the town remained unchanged. Main Street still had gas lamps lining the sidewalk and a line of brick inlaid in the pavement. Bernard's feet made no noise on the road, which was still damp from the earlier rain, sending a chill through his soles. He veered left at Fifth Street, right on Rosethorn, then travelled down a series of roads that had long ago lost their names and signs.

The silhouette of a massive oak, one for which the town was named, materialized out of the fog. Bernard delicately stepped onto the lawn it inhabited. As if by magic, the fog cleared and there stood the house of Angus Shaw. A squat, one level house with blue panel siding, dark shutters, and a twisting, unkempt yard. On multiple occasions in his childhood, Bernard had accompanied his father to the house, only to ensure that his father didn't end up in a ditch at the end of the night. He was still surprised that Angus hadn't recognized him.

Dull light flickered in the window farthest to the left. Possibly from a television. Creeping up to the darkest window, Bernard checked the pane and felt it give. Silently he slid it open and shimmied in. He had no clue what compelled him to enter the house, or what he would do now that he was inside. He began exploring the room. It was mid renovation, though renovation had come to a halt a while ago. Two of the walls were half painted, the others still in need of dry wall altogether, their beams exposed like ribs. Suddenly the sound of the television cut off and he was momentarily plunged into silence. His hearing adapted and he listened to Angus' footsteps travel back into the house.

Bernard threaded himself through the naked beams. Silently, he slipped through the interior walls, adjusting his body when they became narrow, and relaxing when they widened again. It was stifling in the passages, and beads of sweat rolled down Bernard's back. Cobwebs brushed his face and he felt a roach scuttled over his foot. At one point he came to another hole in the wall, a small bruise on an otherwise unblemished room. He peered through it. Angus kept his living room remarkably tidy. A single recliner flanked by two small tables with thin lamps poised on each, situated directly across from a large flat-screen television. Bernard always assumed that the man was a slob. His lack of clutter annoyed Bernard. He moved on, following the sounds of Angus readying himself for bed. A toilet flushed. A door clicked close.

Eventually Bernard came to a patch of wall and gently pressed his ear to it. A bed squeaked on the opposite side. Yes, Angus was definitely off to sleep. Eventually he quieted, his breathing becoming low and steady, edging on a snore. Until this point, Bernard had only a half formulated plan. Honestly, he wanted Angus to remember that night like he did. He wanted it to haunt him.

The melody floated back into his mind. And Bernard began to hum.

Angus rustled inside the room, his heavy breathing started abruptly. Bernard stopped. His heart pounded in his chest. What was he doing? Several long minutes passed before Angus fell back into his rhythmic snoring.

And again Bernard began to hum. The lyrics floated into his mind:

The king is gone but he's not forgotten...

"Who's there?" Angus grumbled into the dark. Immediately Bernard stopped. The floorboards creaked as Angus climbed out of bed and limped across the room. Bernard listened to the sound of the window opening, allowing the sounds of the night to enter the room. The chirping crickets were silenced soon after. Angus slammed the window closed, having found no one outside.

Bernard waited a beat longer before humming again. He elegantly drifted back the direction he came, bending backwards over a pipe in his way.

"Is someone there?" The smallest streak of fear lived in Angus's voice. It was exactly what Bernard had hope for, but somehow was not enough. Did Angus even recognize the song? Did he remember what it meant?

When he got no reply, Angus asked again, this time angrier. "Matty, if you're playing a prank it isn't funny."

Matty? Bernard wasn't aware there was anyone else in the house!

"Stupid little shit," Angus muttered. "Matty, are you here! I will whoop you and your daddy will too if you snuck out over here."

Bernard exhaled silently with relief. No, it was just him and Angus. He shimmied a few feet over, coming to a sharp corner and twisting around it. Humming the tune as he went.

"Who's there?" Angus whispered again, the fear seeping back into his voice.

Bernard paused, going stock still, then whispered back. "Good night, Angus Shaw."

The cool air whipped past Bernard as he sprinted back towards the campgrounds. It was a harmless trick, he told himself. But it felt so satisfying. His skin was buzzing with excitement. Adrenaline pumped through his blood, fueling his bare feet to go faster. Laughter exploded from his mouth once he passed the wooden arch. To hear Angus's shrill gasp when he spoke his name was too hilarious. He only wished he could've seen the man's expression.

The carnival was still asleep but the mist had cleared. He calmed himself and walked quietly back to his trailer, snickering occasionally.

"Bernie? You still up?"

Bernard nearly leapt out of his skin. "Oh, Ed, you scared me."

Ed ran several of the games and had a penchant for fine marijuana. He liked staying out late just to watch the stars go by. "Sorry. Pretty night."

Bernard glanced up. The sky was a thick dark blanket of gray.

"Not getting into any trouble are you?" Ed knew trouble like the back of his hand.

Bernard shook his head.

"Just seeing the old haunts?"

Bernard shrugged.

"Enjoy it. We've only got three more nights here." Ed gave him a cocked smile and kept on his way.

Yes. Three more nights.

It wasn't long enough for a proper haunting but it would have to do. Bernard spent most of the next day planning. Mainly he just wanted to try again for the thrill of it. Suzanne asked him why he was so distracted, and Bernard shrugged, but was more careful to conceal his thoughts. He again waited for his companions to sleep before slipping out and hoofing it to Angus's house, his feet unadorned. The ground was less giving and the air significantly cooler now that the clouds had rolled out. Without the cover of mist and fog, Bernard felt exposed under the moon's beams. It watched him accusingly as he slinked around town. He almost lost his nerve when he came to Angus's lawn and saw the man climbing out of his obscenely large pick-up.

Bernard dove behind a neighbor's bushed and watched Angus through the foliage. He was so sure the old man would be in bed by now. Instead Angus was swaying up to his front door, whistling off key. After fumbling around with his key, he finally got the door open and fell inside.

Bernard crept across the lawn to the window from the night before. Again it was unlocked and slid open easily. Angus rustled around loudly throughout his house, slamming doors and stomping through the hallway. Finally he settled and turned on the television. Bernard wove through the beams inside the wall, curving his back over a pipe and slipping under a fallen beam. He was like vapor, effortlessly moving through the space. After some time he reached the living room, evident by the small hole he discovered last night. He peeked through it. Angus was sitting opposite the television in a worn brown leather chair that reclined back, propping up his swollen feet. He swigged his beer and belched.

Disgusting, Bernard thought as he shimmied through the wall, coming to a halt approximately behind Angus. Then he began to hum.

The leather recliner creaked. The volume of the television dropped suddenly. Bernard could hear Angus's labored breathing.

"You still there?

He didn't sound frightened. Just drunk.

"You still botherin' me?" Angus slurred.

Bernard clenched his jaw. Angus wasn't going to be easy to scare tonight. He continued to hum.

"Whaterya doin' anyway? Got nothing better to do with your time?"

Angus was so good at pushing the right buttons. Bernard stopped humming. And the old man chuckled.

"You gave up quick."

Not quite. Bernard shifted in the wall and came around to a gathering of electrical wires he assumed connected to the television. He made a mental note, and began humming again.

"What is that song you keep hummin'? Never heard it before."

Every muscle in Bernard's body froze. How could he not know the song? How could he not remember it? The bastard had no idea what this was about, not even a hint! This man, who did nothing but enable Bernard's father and destroy his own daughter's life, had no guilt, no shame!

Bernard scooped up a thick chip of wood and chucked it at a pipe extending across this space. It made a satisfying ping. But a second later, Angus just laughed, a wet, slurpy sound. It built upon itself until it was a soupy mess of cackles.

"Getting' mad at me, eh?" His mocking laughter enflamed Bernard's anger. Angus was just laughing for the sake of laughing now, totally taken by the drinks in his system.

The night was completely ruined. Bernard exited the house quickly and stormed back to the campground. He needed a new plan. Tomorrow night, Angus would know what the song was, what all of this meant. Bernard would make sure of it.

The weather turned nasty again. And the wind swirled around the trailer angrily. It matched Bernard's mood.

"Bernard, have you seen my new lipstick? The dark one with the gold ring around it?" Suzanne asked, digging through her make-up kit.

"Why would I?" Bernard shot back.

She looked at him and scoffed. "Well, excuse me!"

Immediately Bernard regretted what he said. "Sorry."

She tilted her head, studying him. "Are you feeling ok?"

"I'm fine."

"Obviously not. Is...is it being here, back in this town?" Suzanne knew a little about Bernard's childhood, more than anyone else. "You've been really on edge lately and—"

"Just drop it, Suzanne. Please." Bernard cut in. She was making him feel guilty about sneaking out at night. More than once did his lack of sleep affect his performance and his partners definitely noticed. He began to think that maybe he should tell them, or at least Suzanne.

No. He couldn't. She didn't need to be involved.

Her pretty blue eyes bore into him, as if she were trying to read his mind. She had been trying to figure Bernard out since the first day they met.

"Let's just go to bed. I think I just need some sleep." Bernard said softly.

She nodded, though the concern never left her face. Bernard pretended to sleep long enough for her and Jimmy to be completely out, and then crept into the night.

Bernard braced himself against the howling wind, but he barely felt it. His fingers fiddled with the Swiss army knife in one hand and the small cylinder in the other. Suzanne would be furious if she knew he'd taken her lipstick, but he couldn't think of another option on such short notice.

His mind tumbled over the name of Angus Shaw's daughter. It began with an "S" but that was the most he could remember.

Sarah, Sally, Sandra... no it was slightly uncommon, different. It was so long ago.

Then he remembered.

A smile crept across his face as he slipped in through the window. The massive truck sat in the driveway, and the television blared down the hall. Quickly Bernard crawled into the wall and navigated his way to the small opening in the living room. Angus was already seated but didn't seem too inebriated.

Bernard snuck back to the room and carefully opened to door to the hallway. He listened to the buzzing of the television, the creak of Angus shifting in his chair, the hum of the heater. He was completely exposed, Angus could lean over slightly and spot him, but thankfully the television was too enthralling. Carefully, Bernard uncapped the lipstick and ran the soft waxy stick across the wallpaper. Once he was done, he stepped back, giving his work a quick glance and practically dove into the renovation room. The door closed with a soft click, and Bernard's heart pounded. He listened for Angus to come charging down the hallway, but all was still. The smile found its way back onto Bernard's face when he dissolved into the darkness inside the walls.

The gathering of electrical wires behind the TV was easy to find. And the cords were even easier to cut. Bernard ears rang from the sudden silence when the TV went dead. Angus cursed, stomped up to the set, and Bernard could hear him fiddling with the buttons and settings. When nothing worked, Angus growled loudly like some animal and went off to the kitchen for probably more beer. Bernard made his way back to the hallway, tapping the knife against a few pipes along the way. It took a while, but Angus started to catch on.

"That you messing with me tonight?" He left the question in a prolonged silence. Bernard tapped another pipe in response. The floorboards creaked at Angus approached the hallway. Once he was close enough, Bernard began to hum.

My, my, hey, hey, rock and roll is here to stay...

Slowly Angus's footsteps carried down the hallway. Bernard couldn't tell if he had flipped on the light or not, if he would see what Bernard had left for him on the wall, but he continued to hum, luring Angus to him. He bent under a skewed beam in the wall and knew he was almost to the renovation room. He couldn't let Angus go into it without revealing his secret entrance. He paused and waited.

The wind howled outside, shaking the outer walls. The house groaned in protest. "You still here?" Angus whispered. Bernard crawled away from the room, about to where he had left his message. He hummed once more.

And a strangled scream was his response.

Bernard rushed to the room and out the window, listening with satisfaction as Angus scrambled around his house in a panic. Rain began to fall as Bernard climbed out the window and dashed into the night.

Written across Angus Shaw's hallway, in dark red, was one word:

SABRINA

Three late nights were wearing on Bernard. Suzanne and Jimmy both noted how tired he looked. He worried that Suzanne might make a fuss, hover around him to make sure he wasn't ill. But she couldn't know, even if he was going to dip into her make-up supply again tonight.

It was the last night that Zedler's Wonderous Carnival would be in town. Their final performances were their best. And Bernard had something extra planned for his own special audience.

Now he just needed Jimmy to go to sleep. He just kept chattering like a monkey, hanging his freckled face over the edge of the bunk. He was still running off his performance high. Thankfully, Bernard was saved by Suzanne.

"Hey boys, all the performers are going out to get some drinks! Let's go! You can show off your shiny new ID, Jimmy!"

The kid leapt off the bed and threw his jacket on. Bernard didn't move an inch. Jimmy was already out the door when Suzanne turned back to Bernard. "Not coming?"

Bernard shook his head. "I'd rather not go into town." Suzanne pursed her lips together, but dropped it and left him alone. Once her footsteps faded, he sprung into action.

Quickly, but carefully, he settled down at Suzanne's dressing table and began to apply a mask of make-up. One layer after another after another, just as his mentor had taught him. Eventually Bernard couldn't recognize the face in the mirror. It was dark, with red streaked across it, highlighting the eyes and mouth, carving out the cheeks and brows. It was a demon's face. And it smiled, white teeth against black lips.

He dressed in a simple, black uniform, which was skin-tight and easy to move in. Covering himself with his hoodie and black warm-ups, he once again didn't bother with shoes and slipped outside. He sunk down behind the trailer and watched the cloud covered sky. It was hours before his partners returned, giggling and stumbling. They hardly noticed that he wasn't in bed. And if they did, they didn't ask. Gradually the sounds of the carnival troupe faded as everyone fell asleep. Then, he moved.

Getting to Angus's house was automatic. He paused only briefly at the row of bushes at the edge of the property to step out of his hood and pants. Creeping inside was instinct, except he forwent the gaping hole in the wall and headed out into the hallway. The house was completely dark and Angus was asleep. Without a sound, he entered the man's room, eerily calm. A dresser sat a few feet from the end on the bed. The night stand by the bed had a few picture frames on it. None of which contained Sabrina Shaw. Angus had erased her from his history. But tonight he would remember.

He climbed onto the dresser, careful to not knock anything over. Bracing his hands against the polished oak, he bent his hips back, up, and over until his thighs rested on his shoulders. Bending at the elbows, he lowered himself until his feet touched the dresser. Once he had a stable foundation, he curled his arms around his knees, and watched Angus's sleeping form. Then he hummed.

Angus snorted awake. He moved sluggishly, lifting his head and looking across his bed. He yelped when he saw the thing poised on his dresser, his eyes growing wide and fearful. He covered his eyes with one hand and rubbed as if to clear the image from his mind. It took the moment and dove off the dresser, out of view. Angus panted heavily, making small frightened noises. The creature scuttled across the floor to the side of the bed, waiting for Angus to calm himself.

"What do you want?" Angus whimpered. "Where are you?"

It waited long enough to torture Angus with the answer, and crawled onto the bed, disjointed and twisted. The old man's mouth gaped open but no noise came out. His eyes bulged as if they were going to pop out of his skull. He twitched and stiffened when it folded itself into a squat on Angus's chest.

"Wh-wh-what do you want?"

Its head tilted to the left.

"Please...why ... what did I do?"

Its hand reacted, grabbing the man's round face. The demon hummed the familiar tune, but it came out as a growl.

"I'm sorry... Oh God... I didn't mean to...she was my baby girl..."

Pathetic. The flesh under his fingers was soft and slightly moist with sweat. Disgusting. It's gripped tightened and received at guttural whimper.

"No...no, please..."

What a blubbering waste of a human. Vile actually. Smelling of alcohol and gasoline. It would be so easy to dig in, to squeeze until he simply stopped making noise, stopped breathing, stopped existing. That's what he deserved after all.

A jolt ran through Bernard. What was he doing? Looking down at Angus Shaw, he finally saw what this man really was. Old and sickly with the weight alcohol and abuse on his body. He lived alone, in a half dilapidated house with nothing but beer and TV to comfort him. He truly was pathetic.

Could Bernard really kill him?

No, he only meant to scare him! He just wanted Angus to remember!

In that moment of hesitation, Angus acted, shoving Bernard off and throwing himself out of the bed. Bernard gracefully landed on his feet and shook his head, a shiver running through him thinking about what he had almost done. Angus clamored to the closet and a second later pulled out a double barreled shotgun.

Shit.

Bernard saw him load it and turned toward the window. He made a split decision and went crashing through it just as a gunshot went off. His feet hit the ground and pain radiated up his right ankle. He yelped but kept going, fearing another gunshot would follow. He ducked behind the bushed, grabbed his clothes, and raced into the dark. Three more shots echoed behind him, growing fainter as he put more distant between himself and that house. Tears and cold night air stung at his eyes but he wouldn't stop. He couldn't stay in this town a moment longer.

Relief washed over him as he passed through the wooden archway of Zedler's. He was safe. He was home. Tears were streaming down his face when he burst into the trailer and scrambled to the bathroom. He slammed the door shut and locked it. A second later Suzanne pounded on it, calling to him, begging for him to let her in.

Bernard leaned against the door, feeling the vibrations of her knocking. He glanced in the mirror and saw a face that wasn't his own. Immediately he switched the water on, filling his hands, and rubbing furiously at his face. When he looked up, black and red was smeared over his skin. He attacked his face again until he found himself peeking through.

"Bernard! Baby, are you ok!"

His breath was unsteady. He inhaled deeply and slowly let it out, watching the water droplets running off his face. "I'm fine, Suzanne."

His hand passed over his face one more time, smearing the paint away.

"I'm fine."

The headline read "Deranged Man Claims Demons Exist." The article was about an alcoholic old man in the next town over, who was found wailing in his house, shotgun in hand, saying that a demon was haunting him. The author of the article was sympathetic, weaving the story into a cautionary tale of drug abuse and the treatment of the mentally unstable. The story told of the old man's past, how he had lost his wife and daughter only a few years apart, and that his brother still lived in the town. It was short, and sad, and buried deep in the paper where no one would ever read it. Except for one performer in the back area of the main tent at Zedler's Wondrous Carnival.

The radio sang a classic rock tune, loud and driving, pumping the performers up. Or really, just Jimmy. Suzanne never cared for loud rock and roll. A moment later, the song ended and a new one began, just as loud and aggressive and nauseating.

Bernard shuddered and switched the radio off.

"Hey," Jimmy whined, "that was a good song."

Bernard simply shook his head.

"Come on boys, time to go on anyway." Suzanne straightened out her costume and stood at the tent entrance, her head held high. Jimmy came to her side and rolled his shoulders out before taking her hand. They stood there a moment longer before looking back at the third member of their act. "Bernard?"

He looked at them, coming out of his daze. Suzanne's hand extended towards him. Her skin was soft and inviting. Bernard slid his palm into hers, standing up and coming to her side. Together, the three walked through the tent opening.

Bernard inhaled, scanning the unfamiliar crowd of faces. It was a new town, a new audience. Here, under their excited stares and elated expressions was where he belonged.

In the moment when the music began and the gasps of astonishment followed, another song entered Bernard's mind. And quietly, under his breath, he hummed along.

Jessi is equal parts designer, writer, and nerd of all trades, who loves cuddly animals, witty people, and yummy food.

Find her at http://jessiwritesthings.tumblr.com/

Perceptions

by Debra Kristi

Breathe.

Just breathe.

A shiver swept through me, the night's brisk breeze not to blame. I laid that squarely upon the ride standing before me. A deeply rooted prejudice festering in my belly. One seeded a lifetime ago and since, reinforced tenfold. I didn't like carnival rides. Hated them, actually. Especially fast ones, flipping ones, twirling ones, spinning ones, and tumbling ones. Anything tempting the laws of physics. I straightened my shoulders, dug my heels in, and shoved my courage to the forefront.

Tonight was different. The tragic events of the Claytonville disaster would not be relived. The past was behind me. I wasn't going to think about sixth grade, all the people I had known, or the Zipper taking a flying leap into the crowd. There were no repeats, and a silly whirl and twirl wasn't going to get the best of me.

Pull it together, Sara.

Breathe, breathe, breathe.

The mental pep talk was going nowhere. Did nothing for my fortitude. I gritted my teeth and pushed forward, an insatiable chill swirling around my ankles. My first step wobbled, unstable on the makeshift floor. Instinct bubbled up, willing me to back away, skitter the opposite direction. Only that would paint me yellow, a shiny bright coward in Matt's eyes. The last thing I wanted.

What was I really afraid of? I speculated, staring at the whirling lights awaiting.

There was no reasonable answer. No answer that made sense. It was nothing more than a carnival ride. An over hyped, light-up-the-park, spin-till-you-yak thrill.

Its latest victims spilled out, nothing other than happiness filling their expressions. Joy and enthusiasm in their jaunt. Twenty-three, twenty-four, twenty-five, I counted. Where was Mr. Tall-dark-and-red-cap? Or the gal with the silver flashy jacket? I couldn't find them. My lips were already slipping into a sour frown and I drew closer to Matt, trying to hide, protect myself from disappearing, as well.

"Where did the guy with the red baseball cap go?" I squeaked, layering the worry on thick.

Matt looked at me, his brows pinching heavily at the bridge of his noise. "You're not looking to replace me already, are you?"

I balked. Surely he teased. If he knew how I felt he would never... "No!" The word flew from my mouth with the force of a wrecking ball. I took a deep, calming breath. "I've just been watching and counting. I don't see the same number coming off as going on. And I can't find the guy with the red cap, or the girl in the silver jacket!"

I sought Matt's deep brown eyes for reassurance, for comfort, for strength. They softened at my unease, his hand finding the curve of my back―the spot guaranteed to send warm tingles of security rocketing through my system.

"They're there," he reassured. "The guy probably took off or lost his hat in the spin and the girl is hidden by all the people coming out all at once." He shifted his weight, pulling us closer, and brushed his hand along my spine. "No one went missing." He tossed me an encouraging grin, one that said I knew better and was above silly panics. "Now come on!"

He grabbed my hand with a never-gonna-let-you-go grip, dropped his brows and tossed me a daring smile. Step by step, up he pulled, guiding me toward the spinning cyclone that screamed with anticipation and excitement and fear.

Which scream would be mine? Excitement or fear?

The metal grates creaked and groaned beneath each foot fall I braved. I feigned a front I barely held onto, kept wrapped around me like a false mask, a makeshift armor. The massive machine's motor, wailing like a yowling cat, scratched at my self-control and I clutched the railing beside me until my fingers drained white to steady my tremble.

Steam billowed around us, kicked up from the motor below. Sweat trickled down my neck, my blouse clung to my damp skin, and my heart hammered an overwrought jig in my chest. People pushed, shoved, herded us through the entrance. I searched the faces around me looking for something besides anticipation. I sought foreboding, the emotion tacking my feet to the ground like tar, slowing my approach. Everyone rushed. Everyone except me.

Wait! I don't want to go.

I planted a determined scowl on my face and forced my legs to keep moving, stiffly, forward. Let Matt lead the way.

Inside the beastly contraption, a ghastly adapted Roulette Wheel spinner, the atmosphere dropped upon us, heavy and oppressive. I shuddered, feeling the presence of death. Anything but welcoming. Mirrors lined the interior walls, casting an unnerving peep show in the dim, strobing light.

Smoke and mirrors, all part of the trick. I knew that.

The illusion.

The game.

The terror.

It had me quaking on my feet.

My reflection gazed at me and the girl I saw, the girl looking back, was unrecognizable. Death resided behind her eyes. A shudder moved through me, an icy chill squeezing the heat from my limbs, even Matt's leather jacket did little to provide comfort.

I leaned forward into the warmth Matt's body provided. Brushed against his back and whispered playfully, "Why did I let you talk me into this? Fly-by-night rides are insanely dangerous."

"It's all part of the allure." A beautifully wicked grin spread across his lips and he yanked me around the circle to two empty spots. To two spots with our names dripping across the back wall.

I gulped, then blinked. Squeezed my lids tightly closed, wishing the nightmare over. Not our names. Wasn't possible. I reassured myself. Only my imagination. It had to be. Our names couldn't possibly be written inside the ride. And in what? Was it blood? No. I didn't believe that either. It was too ridiculous.

When I opened my eyes again my breath escaped in a whoosh of relief.

Blank.

The back wall was blank. Nothing but grey metal. Of course there was no writing. Never had been. That would have been far too inconceivable.

As if to escape my proposed ride imprisonment, I leaned into Matt and the safety his body heat provided. "Let's skip this and go to the Ferris wheel, like I wanted. This one freaks me out," I said, trying to cloak my anxiety.

A silent laugh rumbled through his chest, the kind that would have had me turned on if I weren't so uneasy. With strong arms clasped around me, he leered over me and pretended to gnaw at my neck. His playfulness soothed me; I relaxed like putty and laughed sharply, then swatted him away. I loved the attention, but had to play a little hard to get. It was only our third date, after all.

Even though I was pushing him away, my hands enjoyed the chiseled lines he'd worked so hard to maintain. My blood warmed, percolated like coffee, and possibilities for our future, for what lay in store, it all thrilled me. "Doesn't it bother you that every direction we took to get to the Ferris wheel led us here?" Fear had me whispering, forcing him to edge closer to hear.

Matt's lazy eyes suggested he didn't harbor the same concerns. He confirmed with a shrug, suggesting it didn't matter. "Makes the night more exciting." He edged up against me. His breath tantalizing my ear. His cold nose slipping in a curve along my cheek. I shivered involuntarily. The night air or oppressive atmosphere or the ride's squirm factor having nothing to do with my reaction.

Overhead the light flickered, then blew out. A theatrical display of sparks showered upon us. Droplets of heat landed on my arm. Burned my skin, if only mildly.

I nudged Matt and jabbed my finger straight toward the omen. "If that's a sign of things to come, maybe we should leave. Leave now."

He laughed, amused, brushed my hair behind my ear, then adapted a dead-serious frown. "Don't be scared. I'll protect you." He squeezed my hand, then stepped into the bay beside me, and latched his harness.

I took a deep breath and reminded myself he was brave. I could be brave, too. I latched my harness, pulled down the safety bar, and swallowed my cowardice. I tried not to think about the inconsistencies. Matt was right, I had nothing to fear. It had been silly of me to count the people getting on and off the ride while we waited our turn. I'd clearly miscounted. It was the only thing that made sense. How else could a ride end with fewer occupants than it started? Yeah, that's it, I counted wrong. Nothing to fear.

Scarred and ugly, the ride operator shoved into my personal space. Each waft of his rotting breath sent creepy crawlies skittering across my skin. My stomach churned a thick mucid spin and twisted into a thorn riddled knot.

He pulled and jiggled my harness, and all I wanted to do was shove him and his B.O. drenched body away. His ratty, clumped mop for hair and tobacco-beer cologne induced an automatic hurl response in my esophagus.

"All good," he said. Words spoken in such a manner I wasn't sure if it was a question or a statement.

I just wanted him gone. As far as he could possibly go. I turned away, averted my gaze. Maybe avoidance would move the process along quicker.

"Yep." I mumbled, trying to keep my voice steady, nonchalant. "All normal." My eyes volleyed, settling on the rusty metal at my feet.

"Ya think?" he retorted with the hint of a cackle.

My muscles, tendons, all went ridged, stiff and tight. There was something about the way he moved, the tone of his voice. So Stephen King-ish. Even as he helped the person on the left of me, he baited me, teased me. I couldn't help myself. I looked up.

"Carnival wouldn't 'ave gotten its rep if it were normal." His face contorted, took on an all knowing smirk. "She liken to show you things." He leaned closer, whispered in my ear. My insides churned and I shivered, jerked away. Ignoring me, he clipped and jiggled my harness, then continued moving around the ride's ring. In the flap of a bat's wing he was gone.

Unjustified panic burrowed deep within my belly. Nausea bubbled, burned up my throat. My eyes darted, searched for the exit. I wanted off. Had to get out. Had to move before it was too late.

The ride lurched, began to spin. My heart sank, froze me with fear.

Already too late.

In a circle we swung. Slowly at first, then faster and faster and faster with each rotation. Riders, lights, machinery, all blurred into a haze.

I reached for Matt's hand, flailing in the dark. What I found was cold and clammy. It made my skin squirm. Fighting the force of the gravitational pull, I twisted my head. Turned toward him. He wasn't there. The face of a rotting corpse stared back at me. His eyes brown, like Matt's. The hair falling from his scalp, the same dirty blond. But it couldn't be. It just couldn't be Matt.

My scream erupted, ripping up my throat and out of my mouth faster than I could drop his hand.

"Don't worry, Sara. I'll protect you," he said. Words almost lost in the sounds of a bizarre musical track and an insane combination of screams and savage laughter. Words I would have sworn were meant to soothe me, yet had done anything but.

My head snapped forward and I screamed again. Screamed with every ounce of blood curdling might I could muster. I screamed for him. I screamed for me. I screamed for all the things I didn't want to see. I wanted to escape, run, get away, but the ride moved at astronomical speed and my body melted to the wall with the force of it all.

The back wall seeped in around me. Held me with a dry ice grip and werewolf claws. Frost encased me, molded around me, torment splintering through my chest at the speed of my rapid, thump-thumpidy heart.

I'm going to die.

The thought dropped in my gut like a RV in a minefield, leaving a bitter taste in my mouth.

I wasn't ready to die. Not yet.

I grasped at the handles and held out for hope. For a chance I'd make it through alive.

Matt shouted, his voice pitching like a little girl. Was he scared, too? The message was garbled, words gobbled by the grind of the motor, the gale of the wind, and the gorrific screams within. He was a monster―an ugly symbol of death. And I refused to look.

Instead, I focused on tobacco and beer. The eerie ride engineer. He knew. He said as much. He said the carnival wasn't normal. This was a Krypton's throw from normal. My heart accelerated like God had slammed his foot down on the gas petal of my life.

Then it froze, suspended mid-beat.

Breath rose, hitched in my chest, time and time again. Splotches danced, made tracks across my vision, fading in and out and in and out. I was hyperventilating.

It was too much. Too much panic and fear and anxiety and unknowing.

Something rough―gnarly, knotted skin―clamped around my ankle. My shriek trapped within my throat. The tiniest of yelps escaped.

What this side of Hell's Gates could move contrary to the centrifugal force flattening me like a pancake? I didn't want to look, but I tried to look, yet I couldn't look. It was like my head had been strapped. I couldn't move.

Fire flared across my neck muscles as I pressed forward, determined to see my feet. My arms, my shoulders, they ached from the strain. And that something, that thing clamped around my ankle, it continued to scratch and paw as it climbed up my legs. Fear froze my responses. My mind colliding, tripping and falling over all my thoughts like a pile of dirty laundry.

Then I saw it. Saw her.

She was me, only dead.

Like the dead Matt in the bay beside me. She dragged her torn and bloodied body up mine, climbing until our eyes met. Then I squeezed mine shut and refused to look. Trying to press and hold the positive and beautiful moments behind my eyelids.

No use.

Her voice slithered through the recesses of my mind. Detached, slow, scary, and weary. "There's no evading―"

Siren song swooped in all around me, signaling the ride's end. The tilt and whirl lurched, slowed. A pop―my body ungluing from the back wall. All motion shifted to a crawl. With hesitation I opened my eyes and watched us slowly spin to a stop. She, the dead version of me, was gone and Matt was normal again.

A tremble shuddered through me, my psyche crumbling into wreckage.

Internally I was screaming, kicking and ripping at my restraints.

The engineer flashed around the circle, releasing the riders with a Jesse James quick draw. His mangled, wicked grin focused on me. "Did you see it? See what you refuse?"

A nervous giggle bubbled up. It camouflaged anxiety, fear, and uncertainty.

I stepped away from the harness, away from ride. I slipped, skipped, skittered as quick as I could, pulling Matt at my side.

When the spinner's metal cage fell behind us and the crisp night air kissed my skin, I yanked Matt closer, wanting nothing more than to melt into him. "I hated that," I said, my voice low and horse, refusing to cry. No matter how frazzled the experience had been I would not give in. I was stronger than tears.

We stood, two wrapped lovers, among the carnival crowd. Whispering couples, laughing families, kids of all ages, even kids with balloons, all passing around us. I laid my head against Matt's chest, and stared at the festive magical lights splaying ahead. No longer the impossible find, the Ferris wheel loomed before us, twinkling high into the midnight sky. In the damp night air the glowing, shimmering lights blurred, casting a come-hither emanation.

I wanted to go. I knew we soon would.

Matt squeezed me. His arms fitting firm and secure around me. It wasn't the kind of hug you gave on a first date, or even a second date. It was a sincere melding of bodies. The kind you felt all the way to your core. My fingers clenched at the fabric of his shirt, wanting to pull him around me, into me. He gently kissed the top of my head. "It wasn't all that bad. A lot better than our second date," he murmured. "You remember that, don't you? Damn big rig ruined everything."

Every ounce of every bit of me went infinitesimally ridged. I stared at the rides, at the game booths, at all the kids with their Mylar balloons. In every single reflective surface―every one―dead versions of Matt and me stared back.

Shows you the truths you refuse. That's what he'd said. The eerie engineer.

My skin chilled like an arctic wind rolled over me. My heart stopped with a ka-thump. My eyes hardened, steeled with purpose. And I focused on the tall man in the grey suit with a fedora, standing in the mist by the Ferris wheel.

I knew he waited for us. He was our Reaper.

I remembered now.

I died that night―our second date. It was time I accepted it.

Time to face the Reaper.

Debra Kristi didn't always know she wanted to be a writer. Growing up, it was the furthest thing from her mind. She was far too busy envisioning driving a big rig, raising and working with horses, moving to the modern beat on the Broadway stage, and designing New York make-you-stop-and-stare store windows. Though she may not be saving the world through jaw-dropping stage performances or by slaying vampires daily, she did finally give in to the muse hounding her incisively for years. The results―you can find here. She writes in multiple genres and for various ages. Seeking to follow her father's advice, she's decided not to put all her eggs in one porcelain basket.

Find her at DebraKristi.com
Tilt A-Whirl

by Ryan Bartlett

Dancing Bear

by Claire C. Riley

Dancing Bear loved his job. It wasn't what he strived to be when he was a young boy sporting too-short pants and a dirty face, but when the opportunity arose, he knew well enough not to turn it down.

He sat in his tent waiting for the next lot of children to arrive. Poking a stick into the fire pit in front of him, he cursed himself for having drunk too much the previous night. Now he was stuck with a damned hangover from hell.  
He smirked—hangover from hell. Now that was ironic.

The pitter-patter of the children's feet drew close to his tent, and with that sound, he threw some herbs into the fire pit to create more smoke. He closed his eyes as the curtain drew back and the children entered with a mixture of gasps and giggles.

Dancing Bear always played his part perfectly, and with his heritage, the part was fitting. His father, filled with old Native American DNA in his blood, passed down the family genes in abundance to Dancing Bear. And now as a tall man of twenty-five, his long black hair hung low to his waist, and reflected handsomely against his golden brown skin.

"Come in, come in." The steward ushered the children inside with a wave of his hand. "Sit down...just here, yes, yes, sit, sit."

"Mister? Where's the dancing bear? I was promised I could see a dancing bear."

"THIS, is Dancing Bear, boy," came the steward's reply.

"So there's NO dancing Bear?" the snotty little child sounded annoyed.

The air felt thick around him, the steward's temper flaring, and Dancing Bear had the urge to lash out and tell him to calm down before he ruined it all. But as quickly as the air thickened, it dispersed, and things returned to normal.

Dancing Bear felt the movements of the children all around him, a special heat coming from his left. He had an urge to peek at them, but resisted. Can't go ruining the illusion. Ringmaster would have his guts for garters, and that was not something to laugh about.

"Just give him a minute children, he is deep in meditation..."

"Sir? What's medit...mediat...mediaption?"

"Meditation, boy, is a way for Dancing Bear to clear his mind of all things," came the gravelly voiced reply.

A snort of laughter. "That sounds kinda lame," said a voice to his left.

Dancing Bear took a deep breath and opened his eyes. He looked around slowly, eyeing each child's face for their merit, until he found the one he was looking for. Yes, there he was. A little boy that reminded him of himself at that age, his hair too long and hanging in front of his cold grey eyes. A smirk of immature arrogance lay upon his face.

Yes, this one would do just fine. Ringmaster would be pleased.

The children's eyes widened and froze on him as he opened his mouth to speak. They waited in expectancy for what would happen next. Dancing Bear kept his position: legs and arms crossed in front of him, straight back, and a calm face—only his eyes moving among the children, eyeing each candidate for their qualities.

The boy to his left shifted uncomfortably, giving a huff of annoyance, yet his face still held a look of interest. "Told you this was lame," he murmured to no one in particular.

Edmund: the short steward who looked very much like an evil little dwarf—mainly because he actually was an evil little dwarf, both tutted and snickered equally at the boy's comments.

Dancing Bear turned his head to look at the child, keeping his face calm and relaxed when really he wanted to smack the little beast around the head. Yes, a beast, that would do nicely. He began his story, keeping watch over this particular child.

"In the beginning of the world, it was Bear who owned Fire. It warmed Bear and his people on cold nights and gave them light when it was dark. Bear and his people carried Fire with them wherever they went. One day, Bear and his people came to a great forest, where they found many acorns lying on the forest floor. Bear set Fire at the edge of the forest, and he and his people began eating acorns. The acorns were crunchy and crisp and tasted better than any other acorns Bear and his people had ever eaten. They wandered farther and farther away from Fire, eating the delicious acorns and seeking out more when the acorn supply dwindled." Dancing Bear spoke low. The children hushed, their tiny mesmerized faces transfixed by the story and the flickering of the flames. All but one child.

Dancing Bear continued. "Fire blazed up merrily for a while, until it had burned nearly all of its wood." Dancing Bear looked at the little beast to his left. "It started to smoke and flicker, then it dwindled down and down. Fire was alarmed. It was nearly out. 'Feed me! Feed me!' Fire shouted to Bear. But Bear and his people had wandered deep into the forest, and did not hear Fire's cries. At that moment, Man came walking through the forest and saw the small, flickering Fire. 'Feed me! Feed me!' Fire cried in despair."

Dancing Bear threw his herbs into the fire, and smoke and crackling brought the room alive in a flurry of brightness. The children oohed and aahed, giving little claps of joy. Even the little beast seemed impressed.

"'What should I feed you?' Man asked. 'I eat sticks and logs and wood of all kinds,' Fire explained. Man picked up a stick and leaned it on the north side of Fire. Fire sent its orange-blue flames flickering up the side of the stick until it started to burn. Man got a second stick and laid it on the west side of the fire. Fire, nourished by the first stick, burned brighter and stretched taller and eagerly claimed the second stick. Man picked up a third stick and laid it on the south side of Fire and laid a fourth stick on the east. By this time, Fire was leaping and dancing in delight, its hunger satisfied."

Dancing Bear threw more wood and herbs into the fire. Smoke began to pour out of the flames, and the children coughed. The children stayed in their seats listening intently, breathing in the acrid poisons. Dancing Bear chanced a look at Edmund who was making his way around the backs of the children, making sure they all stayed seated inside the circle. Satisfied, he smiled at Dancing Bear, who rummaged in his little animal skin pouch and withdrew a small silver blade and some purple herbs. He sprinkled the herbs into the growing flames. The flames changed colour from orange and yellow to green. The children drew in their breaths, amazed at the magic before them, and Dancing Bear smiled and carried on with his story, slowly sprinkling more of the sweet smelling herbs. Dancing Bear looked at the beast child. His arms were wrapped tightly around his middle, a pain beginning to radiate in his stomach like Dancing Bear knew it would.

"Man warmed himself by the blazing Fire, enjoying the changing colours and the hissing and snapping sound Fire made as it ate the wood. Man and Fire were very happy together, and Man fed Fire sticks whenever it got hungry." Dancing Bear spoke softly, almost sing-songy, as he carried on with the story, continuously poking the growing green flames with his sharp silver blade.

A long time later, Bear and his people came back to the edge of the forest, looking for Fire. Fire was angry when it saw Bear. It blazed until it was white-hot and so bright that Bear had to shade his eyes with both paws. 'I do not even know you!' Fire shouted at Bear. The terrible heat rolling off of Fire and drove Bear and his people away, so they could not take it and carry it away with them."

Dancing Bear drove his knife into the flames again and again...

"And now Fire belongs to Man."

Edmund clapped his hands loudly, and a whoosh shot upwards into the air from the fire pit, making the children jump up and scream. Dancing Bear turned to the boy on his left and grabbed his hand, thrusting it into the fire.

The little beast screamed and tried to pull his hand back, but Dancing Bear kept hold of his wrist until the flames formed a ball of green fire on the boy's palm. Only then did Dancing Bear let go. The boy pulled his hand free, his eyes wide with fear and confusion at the green fireball floating in his hand. His irises glowed, mesmerized, transfixed by the vision in front of him. Dancing Bear drew his blade and plunged it through the green fire and into the boy's palm, but no blood was drawn. The boy did not flinch. The fire extinguished immediately.

The children stopped screaming and clapped, giggling happily at the magic that they had just witnessed.

"All right, time to go, go on, GET!" Edmund ushered them all back out, his hand resting on the little beast's shoulder as he passed him. He peered down into the child's face, examining him before he left. He smiled and showed his rows of sharp, pointy teeth to the boy, satisfied the ritual was complete. The boy did not appear bothered by the gruesome image of Edmund's face, like most children would be. His soul was awakening, ripening ready for the Ringmaster to collect.

"See you in a few years, boy," Edmund whispered, finally letting the child pass.

Claire C. Riley is a Best Selling British Horror writer.

Her work is best described as the modernization of classic, old-school horror. She fuses multi-genre elements to develop storylines that pay homage to cult-classics while still feeling fresh and cutting-edge. She writes characters that are realistic, and kills them without mercy.

Claire lives in the UK with her husband, three daughters, and one scruffy dog.

Her works include, old school vampires and apocalyptic zombie ridden worlds, with several full-length books, and short stories to her name, with plenty more coming up in 2014.

Stalk her at: http://www.clairecriley.com/

Blind Sighted

by Michelle Ceasar Davis

Devin licked his lips. Sawdust and manure, with a touch of salt. Yuck. The carnival had arrived to town on a sweltering July night. At 9 o'clock, it was 90 plus degrees with a humidity far too high for comfort and no trace of a cooling breeze. Everyone he knew was standing in line for the swing ride or the beer tent. Everyone but Josie.

No, Josie wanted to walk the midway and have him spend his week's paycheck winning her all those crap prizes that the carnies drag from town to town. She didn't have to spend 14 hour days in a stamping factory where the sweat ran into your boots like a river. She sat in an air-conditioned beauty parlor and gossiped to the old ladies about who was fooling around with whom at the nursing home. That money was his reward for losing five pounds of water weight every day he crossed that threshold into hell and he wasn't going to let any woman with a pretty face tell him when he could and couldn't go the beer garden.

Except.

Except whatever Josie wanted, Devin gave her. Tonight, Josie wanted to walk the midway and throw balls at milk bottles that were glued together and squirt water into balloons that had holes in them. He watched her stretch on her tiptoes as she selected the large monkey that cost him over $25. Her tank top rode up, revealing a beautiful bronze belly and glittery belly button ring. He smiled. Yeah, he wanted to drink beer out of that belly button tonight.

He reached out and cupped Josie's ass, his fingers lingering along the frayed edge of her cutoffs.

"Not here," she said, swatting his hand away. "People are watching."

"When has that ever bothered you?"

She stomped her foot, raising a small dust cloud. "Hold this." She pushed the monkey into Devin's arms, sidestepping him completely.

Devin rolled his eyes. He picked up the stuffed pink alligator and three mirrors from the counter and followed Josie. "At least let me take this shit to the car."

She stopped and turned, her hands on her hips. "I told everyone that you were going to win me everything at this carnival, and I'll be damned if they don't see us with everything."

"It's too friggin' hot to carry this crap around. Let's go cool off with a few drinks in the beer tent."

"We haven't done everything yet. There's still that ring toss game, the guys who guess my weight and age, oh, and that boy who does the drawings."

"What the hell are you talking about?" He tried to change the arrangement of the prizes in his arms but his sweat made the animals cling even closer.

"You know, the boy who draws faces. I want to have our faces done."

"Can we do that and then find some place cooler?"

She smiled. She quickly closed the gap between them and linked her arm through his, pushing the plush monkey even closer to him. "Whatever will make you happy."

The caricature portrait booth was on the other end of the midway, providing Josie with many opportunities to have Devin win her more prizes. By the time they reached their destination, his skill at games of chance rewarded them with two more large stuffed animals, an extra-large beer mug, and a few Metallica and Iron Maiden tee shirts. The chair was empty when the couple approached and Josie skipped to sit in front of the boy.

"Make me look gorgeous," she said, pulling down her tank top to reveal even more cleavage.

Devin noticed the young man's eyes didn't move to her. In fact, they seemed to be everywhere but on Josie. "Is he all right?" he asked a much older woman who stood nearby.

"His name is George, and he's my son," she said, placing a protective hand on his shoulder. "He's perfectly fine, just blind. And mute."

"Blind? How can he draw?"

"God gave him the power. We don't question why He did, only use it to support us."

Devin waved his hand in front of George's face. His eyes didn't focus on the hand, only darted in different directions. "How much for the drawing?"

"Twenty dollars for just her," George's mother said, pointing at Josie. "Twenty-five to include you."

"Devin, just pay her the twenty-five dollars. I really want this." Josie's bottom lip protruded slightly.

That damn pout. Nothing was sexier on her than that. "Fine." He removed the bills from his money clip and took a seat next to Josie.

"If he's blind, how does he know what color my hair is, or how long it is?" Josie asked. "Or the shade of my lip gloss? Or how tan I am?"

"Stop talking so he can do his work," George's mother said.

Devin saw a tall man with grayed brown hair approach from his left, a caricature portrait in his outstretched hand. "I want to talk to you!"

"We're in the middle of a seating. Come back later," the older woman snapped back.

"No, I want to talk about this now." He put the drawing in front of the mother's face. "What the hell is this?"

"It's a drawing of your wife. I remember her from yesterday."

"And what's this?" He pointed to something else on the drawing, something Devin couldn't see.

"It's a car." She rolled her eyes. "We do lots of drawings with cars in the background."

"But it's not my car," he said, his eyes rimmed red. "And it's not her car either." He paused for a moment. "Whose car is it?"

"It's just a car."

"No it's not. A car identical to that one hit my wife today when she was crossing the street. She was in the damn crosswalk! Do you know where she is now?" The man stepped in front of the mother. "Do you? Do you know where she is? She's in the fucking morgue! The fucking morgue! This car ran her over! I want to know why it's in this picture." He moved in front of George and started to shake his shoulders. "Why did you draw this car? What do you know?"

"Stop it! Leave him alone! Security! Help! Help!" The mother tried to pull the man away from George. "He's hurting him! Make him stop! Make him stop!"

"Do something," Josie said, pushing Devin toward the commotion. "You can't let him hurt our drawing."

Devin got up, walked to the shouting two-some, and tapped the man on the shoulder. "Hey, leave the kid alone. He didn't drive the car."

The man turned around. "Who the hell are you? Stay out of this!"

"Tell him," George's mother said. "Tell him what I told you."

"The kid is blind," Devin said. "He didn't have anything to do with it."

"She could've done it. Obviously she can see."

"What's the point, man? It was an accident, a coincidence at best. Just go and grieve for your wife."

"These two are responsible for her death, I know they are. This," he pointed to the car in the picture, "can't be a coincidence."

Devin looked at the picture and understood what the man meant. That car wasn't a non-descript silver automobile that Detroit or Korea or Japan turned out by the millions. No, that was a 1969 Ford Thunderbird with a custom metallic blue paint job and white hard top. In fact, it looked so good, it almost looked brand new, like it left the showroom floor only minutes before.

"That's the car that hit your wife?" Devin asked, shaking his head.

"Yeah. It happened about three miles from here. And of course it was the only intersection without a working closed circuit camera."

"Still, you'd think the police would be able to find a car like that that needed a lot of body work."

"They can't find anything around here. All the garages service new vehicles, nothing this old. The guy probably works on it himself."

"That's another reason why it can't be the kid," Devin said. "He's blind."

"But he can draw."

"I know, but that's different."

A rent-a-cop ran up to Devin and the other man. "Which of you is going to jail tonight?"

"He's the one, officer," the mother said, pointing to the widower. "He's the one that threatened me and George."

"He didn't threaten anyone," Devin said. "He's upset and looking for someone to blame for his wife's death. Just let him go home."

The security guard grabbed the other man's upper arm. "No can do. We have a zero tolerance policy about violence, mister, and this guy needs to cool off in jail."

"Whatever," Devin said. "You're gonna do what you think is right anyway."

"Don't get involved," Josie shouted. "Get back here so we can get our portrait finished."

He rolled his eyes. Get involved. Don't get involved. If it weren't for her body and looks, there would be no reason to stay with her.

Instead, he resumed his pose next to Josie and waited for George to finish the drawing. Ten minutes later, George put down his pastels and handed the picture to his mother.

"Very good, dear," she said, placing a loud kiss on the top of his head. "This one is excellent. You really captured the soullessness in her eyes."

"The what?" Josie asked, walking toward George.

"It's nothing to worry about. He prides himself in depicting the essence of his subjects."

"I don't like that way that sounds," Devin said.

"Again, it's his style. All the art critics like that about his portraits."

"What's this?" He pointed to a small line drawing in the background of the caricature.

"Oh that." The mother took a magnifying glass out of her bosom. "It's obviously a train."

"Really." Josie bit her lower lip. "Maybe he thinks we're going on a cross country trip somewhere. Maybe to California or Seattle." She tugged on Devin's arm. "Wouldn't that be great? A real vacation!"

The expenses of a vacation flooded his brain. "Sure, a vacation out West. Maybe we're also supposed to rob a train to pay for it."

"Stop being that way." Josie took the picture and held it out at arm's length. "I think this is a great picture of us. Probably better than any photographer could do."

"Sure." He gathered up their prize winnings. "All I know is I can finally get a drink at the beer tent."

"It's too hot. Let's go for a drive with the air conditioning on instead."

"You were fine with it before."

She stomped her foot again. "That was before we sat there for, I don't know, like 20 minutes. I want to get cool and sitting in a tent with a bunch of your beer buddies is not my idea of getting cool."

"Josie, I have done everything you asked here. I've carried all this shit around with the thought that I'd have a few beers at the end of the day."

She slid against him and ran her finger down the side of his cheek. "But if I can get out of this heat and cooled down, I'll do something that can get us all hot and sticky again," she whispered near his ear.

Beer or screwing? It was no contest, screwing would win every time.

The search party found the 2004 black Chevrolet Impala two days later near the railroad tracks. According to witnesses and the official police report, it appeared the car had been struck by a train, even though the train stopped running through town 25 years ago. A resident who lived near the scene, Mrs. Vivian Rasmussen, told authorities she heard a train whistle that night and thought she even saw the light from an engine.

The bodies of Devin McClinton and Josie Fitzgerald have yet to be found.

Michelle Ceasar Davis is a cryptic writer - you'll find little trace of her anywhere. She does enjoy submitting her short stories to Pen and Muse's writing showcases. Find them at: PenandMuse.com.

Exposure

by Brian LeTendre

"An old time photo booth!" Kylie exclaimed, almost pulling Jeff off his feet as she dragged him over to it. "C'mon–we have to get our pictures taken!" She stared wide-eyed at the pictures displayed all over the front of the small booth. They depicted everything from Civil War-era soldiers and Wild West saloon girls to old movie monsters and murder scenes.

"Seriously?"' Jeff asked, rolling his eyes at his girlfriend. "I only have like twenty bucks, and we haven't even seen the whole carnival yet. I kind of wanted to go on some rides."

"Yeah, and I'm not really into the idea of putting on a bunch of old clothes that haven't been washed in years," Sarah agreed.

"Oh, I don't know," Dave considered as he read the sign adorning the front of the booth. "Haunted Harry's Old Time Horror Pics–it might be kind of fun."

Kylie jumped as a scruffy looking old man poked through the curtain that formed the back wall of the booth.

"Fun, you say?" he asked, raising a bushy white eyebrow at toward Dave. He vaguely resembled Uncle Sam, except his beard was unkempt, and his outfit was a black coat and top hat bereft of stars and stripes.

Before anyone could answer, the man stepped a black boot up onto the counter and pointed at Dave. "Sir, I personally guarantee that not only will you have fun dressin' up in the fine garments I have available here, but you'll be creatin' a memory that will last a lifetime. And Aare you tellin' me that you fellas don't want to get your pics taken with these two visions of beauty here? Because if you are, then I would have to question your mental well beingwell-being, gentlemen."

"Oh my god, we freaking have to do this!" Kylie squealed.

"Fine," Jeff surrendered, "but we better be going on some rides after this."

"Excellent!" the old man said with a slap of his knee. He pulled out a large portfolio from under the counter and opened it to the first page. "Now you just pick out your backdrop and then we'll find the right dressins for ya."

"Since you're dead set on doing this Kylie, let's at least pick something original," Jeff said.

"Fine," Kylie sighed, flipping through the book with the others looking over her shoulder. Among the usual backdrops were plenty of well-known horror locales like the Black Lagoon, Crystal Lake, and the farmhouse cellar from Night of the Living Dead. But Kylie's attention was drawn to an unfamiliar backdrop that featured a hanging gallows outside of a large jail building.

"What's this one?" she asked the old man, who sprang forward excitedly to explain.

"Ah, the Charleston Gallows!" he said, clapping his hands. "That's where they hung Lavinia Fisher, the first female serial killer in US history. She and her husband John, in fact. The two of 'em ran a hotel where they killed a whole bunch of the guests over the years before they got caught in 1820. Chopped 'em all up in the basement. Old Lavinia was hanged in her own wedding dress, spittin' and cursin' till her last breath."

"Do you have a wedding dress?" Kylie asked, mesmerized by the old man's story.

"Young lady, I have a replica of that dress that's so good, even Lavinia would think it was her own."

Kylie slapped Jeff on the arm and turned to Dave and Sarah. "Let's do this one, guys! I can be Lavinia, Jeff can be my husband, and you two can be our executioners."

"Sounds good to me," Dave replied. "You don't know how many times I've wanted to kill the two of you, between your stupid arguments and your make-up sessions."

"I'll second that," Sarah agreed.

"Whatever," Jeff said. "Let's just do this so we can see the rest of the carnival."

"Well then," the old man said with a smile. "Just step through the curtain into my studio and we'll get you folks gussied up."

****

The tent that comprised the old man's photo studio was much larger than the small booth outside suggested. Most of the area was filled with racks of costumes and boxes of props. The entire back wall of the tent was used for the photo shoots, and the amount of lighting kits, backdrops and projection equipment was impressive.

"You make enough money for all this stuff working a carnival?" Jeff asked the old man as he fastened the buttons on the plain gray suit he'd been given to put on.

If the old man replied, Jeff didn't hear him. He was completely dumbstruck when Kylie stepped out from behind the room divider in her dress. The cream-colored silk wedding gown looked like it was made for her. The hand-stitched netting and lace sleeves were the perfect length and the bodice hugged her form like milk poured over her skin.

"What do you think?" Kylie asked.

"You look so–" Jeff started.

"God damn!" Dave blurted out, cutting him off and causing Kylie to blush.

"Watch it," Sarah warned, slapping Dave on the back of the head. "I'd look good too if I wasn't wearing a frumpy prison guard uniform."

Dave swiveled around and grabbed Sarah by the waist. "I happen to love ladies in uniform," he said in his best seductive voice. "And those long black boots are hot," he added, raising an eyebrow suggestively.

"And you guys think we're bad," Kylie chuckled. "Now let's do this!"

The old man positioned the backdrop of the prison yard and then used a projection of the gallows to make it appear that the foursome was standing on the scaffold, ropes hanging from the long beam above them.

"And this will all look real in the picture?" Dave asked.

As real as if these two were hangin' from the gallows themselves," he replied. "We just need to add one more touch."

The old man fished around in a wooden box and pulled out two hangman's nooses with about a foot of rope attached to them. He approached Kylie with the first one, and she took a step back.

"I'm not crazy about having a rope around my neck," she said tentatively.

"Think of it as a necklace and nothing more, my dear," the old man reassured her. "I'll just be draping the rope off yer backs and the projector fills in the rest. When the picture comes out it'll look like you're hangin' from that beam above. No one will be able to tell the difference."

Kylie nodded and the old man slipped the noose around her neck, tightening it just enough for her to feel the press of the coarse fibers, but not enough to restrict her breathing. He did the same to Jeff, and then positioned Dave and Sarah to each side of them on the scaffold.

When he had the lighting right where he wanted it, the old man ran to the corner of his tented studio and rolled over a large, antique-looking camera.

"What the hell is that thing?" Dave asked. "All this high tech lighting and you're shooting with a fossil like that?"

"She may not look like much, but this here camera is special. It adds a real lifelike effect to the finished product. If you don't love it, I'll refund yer money. Deal?"

"Yeah, yeah–that's fine," Jeff snapped. "Just take the picture."

The old man smiled. "On the count of three, everybody say Lavinia Fisher. One...two...three!"

"Lavinia Fisher!"

****

"Now you all just come back in a half hour or so, and I'll have that picture ready and framed for ya," the old man promised as he handed Kylie a receipt.

"I can't wait to see it!" Kylie replied, beaming.

"Alright weirdos, where to next?" Sarah asked.

"Let's grab some grub," Dave replied. "I'm freaking starving."

The four wandered around until they found a food stand and ordered a combination of fried dough, cheeseburgers and beer.

"We may not want to head right to the rides after this," Dave noted a few minutes later as he took a large bite of his fried dough.

"Screw that," Jeff scoffed. "Man up–first one to puke pays twenty bucks."

"You just said you didn't have any money!" Dave argued.

Jeff smiled. "I don't. But I'll have twenty bucks once you blow chunks like a lightweight on his twenty-first birthday."

"You two are a couple of jackasses," Sarah said with a chuckle. She looked over at Kylie, who was staring off into the distance. "Kylie, why aren't you eating?" she asked, noting her friend hadn't touched the food in front of her.

"I think I had a reaction to that stupid rope," she said, rubbing the front of her neck. "It's all irritated and itchy."

Jeff took a swig of beer. "It didn't bother me," he said. "Who knows how long those things were in that box, though."

"I've got some Pharmadryl in the glove compartment of my car," Sarah offered. "My allergies are brutal this time of year. "I'll run and grab it with you and we can meet the boys at one of the rides."

"I vote Tunnel of Love!" Dave said, raising his hand for a high five from Jeff, who obliged him.

"In the meantime, we'll hit the Rotor so I can get my twenty bucks," Jeff said, planting a kiss on Kylie before standing up to go. "Let's go, crummy tummy," he said to Dave, and the two of them headed off toward the midway.

****

"I don't know what the hell we see in those two," Sarah mused as the two girls walked across the large grass field that served as a makeshift parking lot.

"Uh-huh," Kylie replied. She was staring off into the distance, absently rubbing her neck.

"What is up with you?" Sarah asked, starting to get concerned about her friend. "I want to take a look at that when we get to the car."

"I'll be fine," Kylie said with a wave of her hand. "A couple of Pharmadryl and I'll be good to go."

They made it to Sarah's car, a beat up hatchback she'd gotten years ago as a high school graduation present. The driver's side door creaked as Sara threw it open and slid inside.

"Bend down and let me see your neck," she told Kylie, who did as she was told, unzipping her sweatshirt slightly.

"Jeezus," Sarah said. "You've got bruises all around your neck. Are you sure that rope wasn't tight?"

"I...don't think it was," replied Kylie. "I can't really remember."

"Let me get you the Pharmadryl, she said, reaching over to the glove compartment. "Shit–I forgot the stupid lock's broken."

Sarah leaned back up. "I have a screwdriver in–hukkk!"

Sarah's eyes went wide as the flathead screwdriver entered under her chin, split the roof of her mouth and then buried itself in the center of her brain. Kylie's smiling face was the last thing she ever saw as the world blinked out.

****

Dave had just finished throwing up in a trash barrel when his phone started buzzing in his pocket. As he stood up, Jeff shoved a handful of napkins in his face.

"Easiest twenty bucks I ever made," Jeff laughed, slapping Dave on the back.

"You're a dick," Dave replied, wiping his mouth and then fishing his phone out of his pocket. It was a text from Sarah. Kylie's on her way back. I'm waiting for you in the car. Now.

"Dude, I need to go meet Sarah," Dave told his friend. "Kylie's on her way back here."

"Are you freaking kidding me?" Jeff said, shaking his head. "Can't you two even wait until you get home?"

"What can I say, man?" Dave replied with a shrug.

"Yeah, well you might want to chew a piece of gum on your way there," Jeff advised. But his friend had already taken off at a sprint.

****

Dave arrived at Sarah's car in record time. As he walked up behind the car, he could see one of her Sarah's feet peeking out over the back seat. Starting to unbutton his shirt, he made his way to the back passenger side door, where he knew she'd be waiting.

"Here I come baby," he said in his best Elvis voice as he opened the door.

When Dave saw Sarah's dead eyes staring back at him, his breath caught. A groan slowly began to work its way from his gut into his throat. It never reached his lips, as something heavy smashed into the base of his skull, causing his knees to buckle. He pitched forward, hitting his forehead on the roof of the car and then slumping down on top of Sarah's dead body.

In a haze, Dave tried to right himself. His hands were covered in blood as he pushed himself off of Sarah. He tried not to look in her eyes as he groggily backed out of the car. He turned his head just in time to see the car door coming at his face, and then the explosion of pain was quickly followed by darkness.

****

Where the fuck are you? Jeff texted Kylie. It had been a solid fifteen minutes since Dave had left and Kylie was supposed to be on her way.

"Finally," he said as his phone buzzed with Kylie's reply.

At the photo booth. Meet me there.

Jeff was thoroughly annoyed by the time he got back to the photo booth, and even more annoyed that neither Kylie nor the old man were anywhere in sight.

"Screw this," he said aloud. "Kylie can just get the stupid picture herself."

He turned to head back toward the midway, when his phone buzzed again. It was Kylie.

Waiting for you inside, the text said.

"For shit's sake," Jeff sighed, shaking his head. "You never said you were inside."

He walked around the counter of the booth and through the black curtain into the tent behind. It was pitch black inside, the only sliver of light coming from the curtain that swung closed behind Jeff as he entered.

"Kylie?" he called out.

His phone buzzed again. He held it up and glanced at the text. It was just one word. Here.

Jeff looked up and gasped, as the soft glow of his phone revealed Kylie's face a mere foot from his own.

"Jeezus, Kylie," he stammered, finding his voice. "You scared the shit out of me. What happened–"

Before he could finish his sentence, the lights inside the tent came on. Kylie was standing in front of him in the same wedding dress she'd worn earlier. There were deep circles around her eyes, and thick, dark bruises forming a line around her neck.

"I loved this dress so much, the old man said I could keep it," Kylie said, smiling.

Jeff took a step backward. "What's going on here? Where is the old man, Kylie?" he asked as he scanned the tent.

"He went to get Sarah and Dave for me," Kylie said, stepping toward Jeff. She took her hand out from behind her back to reveal a bloody screwdriver.

"I don't know what's wrong with you," Jeff replied, taking another step back, "but I'm getting the fu–arrrghh!"

Jeff's hands went to the side of his neck, where the handle of the screwdriver was jutting out. His breath came in wheezes as he tried to grab the blood-slicked handle and pull out the five-inch steel bar. As he grasped clumsily at it, he could feel the tip threatening to poke through the other side.

Kylie watched with an eager smile as Jeff's legs gave way and he crumpled to the floor, his life spilling out of the puncture wound in his neck.

Jeff's vision started to blur as he fought to stay conscious. He could no longer lift his arms to fight off Kylie as she knelt down and cradled his blood-soaked head in her arms. She leaned in and kissed him softly on the forehead.

"In a few minutes, Dave and Sarah will be back," Kylie whispered in Jeff's ear.

He closed his eyes for the last time as her words carried him to the abyss.

"We're all going to get our picture taken again. I want to remember this night forever. Don't you?"

A gaming, comics and horror lover, Brian has co-hosted and produced a podcast about geek culture called Secret Identity since 2006, producing well over 1000 hours of programming. He also hosts and produces a podcast about writing called See Brian Write. He loves podcasting so much wrote a how-to book about it called Making Ear Candy, which was released in 2013.

Brian's Parted Veil horror series currently includes the books Courting the King in Yellow and Lovecraft's Curse, as well as the short story Private Showing. The next book in the series is called Lovecraft's Pupil, and will be released by the end of 2014.

Brian also currently writes a webcomic about an alien mustache and his human host called Mo Stache, which can be read for free online at www.mostachecomic.com. You can get info on all of Brian's projects at www.seebrianwrite.com.

Meat is Murder

by Ken Mooney

"Hot dogs! Get your delicious hot dogs!"

Kl'vin warbles in front of my face again, doing his job and being damn good at it. We make a good team, the best of the last thousand years if we're to believe all those Employee of the Month awards.

He shifts slightly, mimicking a smile and I know that someone's coming. My eyes move on their stalks from the back of my head, sinking into the little dimples that Kl'vin has left for them.

We almost look human, almost, but we don't look out of place.

At the carnival, nobody stands out just because of their buggy eyes.

Before you lecture me about wearing a Parasite Skin, about body image and Demon Pride, we all do it. If you saw what I really looked like under here, your brain would probably melt. So we wear the Parasite Skins so we don't scare you off. (Well, most of us do. But there's that creepy

Native American guy with his campfire, the one that uses some sort of magic to conceal his true form. Even we think he's creepy, so he doesn't count.)

So Kl'vin lures in the punters and then it's my turn to shine, to give them the old razzle-dazzle. But I try not to roll my eyes when I see the guy that's coming over. All awkward and skinny with his pale skin and greasy black hair. I've seen the type before: they're fun to torture, but they're not that good for business.

He wears skinny jeans and a pair of glasses, rims too thick to be fashionable, lenses too thin to truly need them. And there it is, across his chest, his raison-d'etre: a The Smiths T-shirt, proudly and obnoxiously telling the world that 'Meat Is Murder."

My thoughts ripple up through one of my tentacles, subsonic communication that I know only Kl'vin can hear.

Another vegetarian? Really?

Don't complain, Dark One. Business is business. Besides, it's fun to watch you work.

There it is again, the casual mention of the job title: ever since I got the promotion, he's been using every chance to slip it in. He thinks it's tongue-in-cheek respect and maybe it is: Kl'vin works hard, but there's always a joke of some sort. If we didn't know each other so well, I might take offence: I don't feel comfortable with anyone thinking I do this job for the title or the glory.

It's all about the product.

My tentacles slip into the arm-holes of Kl'vin's form, taking control and making our link complete as I stretch and flex our fingers. When we talk, I make the noise, but he lip-syncs along to every word. It's more fun than it should be: it's all part of the show, and we spent long enough practicing in front of a mirror to make it work. All inspired by a drag queen, but that's a story for another day.

"What can I get you, sir?"

His shoulders are set, something like a scowl on his face: he's not here to buy.

Yet.

"Do you have any vegan products? Under state legislation, you're obliged to provide options." When he talks, it's with the confidence of someone who has read all the facts on the internet, but never said them out loud. He can't be more than seventeen in your human years.

Oh, state legislation! If this kid knew how much state legislation was made for our benefit, he'd never be able to sleep at night.

We wave our arm towards the other side of the carnival where we know he can get falafel or popcorn from the human stalls.

"I'm sorry sir, you might find something at one of the other stalls. But we specialise in serving meat here."

It's not meant to sound sinister, but Kl'vin licks our lips and suddenly it takes on this menacing edge.

Stop it!

"They make good food, but you'd never know what could be in that stuff."

I'm right, but he doesn't know it: I don't like this street food boom, too many people cooking with their grandmother's recipes, too many unwashed hands and missing hairnets. Kl'vin and I have won awards for our hygiene, and they have pride of place at the back of the stall. We shift aside to make sure that he can see them.

The shoulders stiffen again and the kid decides it's time to play aggressive, another trick he must have learned from watching protests on YouTube. He snorts, trying to make it sound like a laugh, but it comes out like the whimper of someone with a sinus problem.

"And you know what's in all your hot dogs?"

Kl'vin responds like he's been slapped in the face; he knows how I'll react to that, and whispers back at me.

Don't start!

It's too late: I've already taken offence and decided this kid is getting the full package. If only he could see under Kl'vin, he'd see me flashing my scariest, pant-wetting snarl.

"Of course. All of our meat is one-hundred per cent A-grade, ethically and sustainably sourced. We can trace it back straight to its place of origin and is served within twenty-four hours of being harvested."

I choose my words carefully and I can see his ears prick up: kids like this thrive on words like 'ethical' and 'sustainable' and now he's reminiscing about the hot dogs he used to eat with daddy and grandpa at the ball park, wondering if his life choices are still valid. He ignores the word 'harvested'.

That's my cue to move in with the kicker.

"We only use meat from animals that are already dead, so we have a company promise that no animals were harmed to make our product. Would you like a sample?"

My tentacles have been working underneath the counter-top, knowing that this would come up. We reach our arms down and grab a small tray where we've sliced up a couple of sausages, pierced them with small cocktail sticks, ready for any passer-by to sample our wares.

We lean forward and give him a rehearsed conspiratorial wink.

"Don't worry, we won't tell anyone."

He thinks about it for just a moment, but his mind is already made up: he reaches forward, finger and thumb gingerly pinching around a cocktail stick. The piece of sausage he's chosen looks good: thick and juicy and probably a fraction bigger than the other slices around it. He may be a vegetarian, but he still has that teenager's desire to have the biggest piece.

He pops it in his mouth. One bite and the wedge of sausage explodes, juices gushing over his tongue and activating his taste buds. He tries to resist, but by the time he starts to chew, the taste has overwhelmed him, his jaw working slowly, his eyelids starting to fall as he savours the flavours and tastes he's been denying himself for who knows how long.

He likes it.

Of course he likes it. Nothing quite tastes like that first bite.

"Tastes good, doesn't it?"

We smile as he opens his eyes again, his pupils wide with hunger. He wants more, might even make a purchase. He nods, licking his lips and looking to the tray once more.

"Yeah, it does. But it tastes a little...different."

I glance down at the rest of the pieces on the tray. Each one tells a different story, but it's all there in the fibres of the meat, ready for any master craftsman to read.

"That's a German sausage. It's a little bit more grainy; it's from drinking all the beer."

And this one drank a lot of it. Enough to kill his own wife.

We laugh, while he just looks blankly at us: like most of you humans, he doesn't get the joke.

"We also have Australian, British, Portuguese. And of course, plenty of classic American dogs too."

"What's the Australian like?"

Stringy. Today's batch is picked from the bones of an adulterous sex addict. Second Circle meats aren't going to convert anyone.

We point at the boy, a smile growing on our lips.

"It's an acquired taste. But I have the perfect one for you. Portuguese."

Straight from the Third Circle of Gluttony. Nice and juicy. Perfect for him.

My tentacles work underneath the counter once more, although we make a great effort to put on a show with our hands, slicing the bun and getting the various condiments ready. The hot dog gets a fine line of ketchup, another of mustard and a smattering of onions. We present it to him with a flourish and a smile, half wrapped in a napkin, the tip of the sausage sticking out of the bun, just enough to tease.

He rummages in his pockets for a wallet, but we shake our head. Sure, we're a business, but sometimes a free sample is worth a thousand sales. The brat's pride, combined with that T-shirt, will give us both enough stories to keep the guys in Head Office entertained for a few hours.

"This one's on the house. Tell all your friends to pop by. We're here until the end of the month."

His face crumples in confused thanks, but he nods, mouthing something unintelligible.

His eyes lower towards the hot dog and I smile, but Kl'vin doesn't move: if anyone saw us, they'd see a wide mouth, filled with three rows of sharp teeth. But he won't look at us, and it's too dark for anyone nearby to have caught the display.

But it doesn't matter. I can still see his face as he takes his first bite, that eye roll of delight, that hunger to chew and swallow so he can have another taste.

He's already walking away, but I know he'll be back. He'll probably bring his friends too.

They always come back for more after their first taste of human flesh.

Ken Mooney was born in Dublin, Ireland and still lives there. From an early age, he wanted to be an author or a writer, going all the way back to when he used to write continuations of his favourite TV shows, films and comics: it's too embarrassing to discuss the contents here and now.

Ken attended Trinity College Dublin where he studied English Literature, furthering his love of genre fiction and the act of storytelling. A variety of desk jobs helped to pay the bills, but Ken was always found tapping away at a keyboard, and just couldn't get certain ideas out of his head.

Godhead was one of those ideas; it was originally written nearly fifteen years ago. Like most things, it's changed significantly since then, but the bare bones are still there. What it's turned into, however, is something completely different. Godhead is his first book, and is the first entry in The Last Olympiad series: he is currently working on the sequel and an unrelated non-fiction book about the End Of The World.

Find him at: http://kenmooneybooks.com/
Precious Payment

by Eli Constant

A moment is a brief experience.

But everything can change in a moment. Everything can be ruined or the ruined can be healed.

When the carnival came to town, Lilly Logan was fifteen. When the carnival left town, Lilly Logan went with it and no one missed her. Not her parents, her best friend, or her pet hamster. She simply faded away. All because of a moment.

****

Lilly stood outside the decaying Victorian home turned duplex. Her family lived in apartment #1; she hadn't seen Mr. and Mrs. Donahue in weeks, the elderly couple in the second unit. She'd knocked yesterday and heard movement, but no one answered. She'd smelled something too, something that didn't seem right- like that meat her mother left in the fridge too long before cooking, metallic and acrid. Lilly had told her mother and father, but they'd brushed her off: "You and your imagination, Lilly. You're fifteen now and you need to start acting like it."

They were always treating her like that. She'd never lied; never given them a reason to mistrust her. Of course, she'd take words like that over... her left hand reflexively moved to her right arm and the eight black, circular burn scars in various stages of healing. Lilly frowned, the cupid bow of her lips distorting slightly with the gesture.

Her parents had tried to sober-up once; they'd even gone to half a dozen AA meetings. That's when they'd gotten Lilly her hamster, Honey Ham. Lilly just called her Honey though. She dreaded the thought of Honey dying. She only had two friends, Honey and Charlie Sue. And she didn't get to see Char very often; her parents wouldn't let her come over anymore, not after Mr. Greene saw the burn marks on Lilly's arm.

The train was late today. It always passed by her house at four o'clock in the afternoon without fail. She walked forward, crossing the narrow street in front of her house to reach the five foot wide expanse of grass that separated train tracks from asphalt. She looked to the left, her gaze following the tracks until they curved and disappeared. Lilly loved it when the train barreled around that curve, horn sounding to alert vehicles, the long red and white partition arm dropping quickly. The train schedule was a constant in her life; she felt let down today.

Balancing on the rail, Lilly began to walk toward the curve, humming to herself. The sound was high and haunting, carrying strangely through the air. Her arms were out now, lifted parallel to the ground. Her upper body rocked slightly from side to side as she maintained her balance, placing one small foot in front of the other in turn.

She didn't hear it coming. Trains were normally so loud. This one was silent, painted in swirling shades of dark red and silver. The rails beneath her feet alerted her; the vibrations caused by the stealthy train gave her mere moments to react. Lilly rotated her body quickly - too quickly. She fell sideways, landing stretched across the tracks. The thin material of her floral shorts and pink cotton tee were little protection against the stones beneath her. Lilly pushed her overgrown, home-cut bangs out of her face; holding back the strands of copper, her eyes widened.

Even if she were lightning fast, she'd never be able to move in time. Lilly closed her eyes, took a shallow, shaking breath and said goodbye to an unfulfilling life. I love you, Honey Ham. I'll miss you, Char. You both made me feel loved.

Lilly was prepared for pain. What she wasn't prepared for was the sensation of nothingness. Her bellybutton became a black hole, widening into an abyss. The surrounding flesh and skin began to collapse, sucked into the anomaly. Lilly felt like she was going to throw up, but she had no stomach now. Then she had no chest and thighs...Then no throat and calves...Then no... Lilly's thoughts were silenced, her head melting into the obsidian nothing.

When you die, you should never wake up again. Resurrection is wrong, soul-bending.

The landscape was a colorful haze. Lilly's eyes were slow to adjust. As her vision cleared, she beheld a parade of fluorescence -tantalizing neon rising out of the dark evening. She was still splayed across the railroad tracks, but everything around her was changed. The train was stopped, the writing on the caboose clear: Dark Carnival: A Feast for the Senses.

Lilly slowly stood, gingerly testing her body for injuries, but she felt unharmed. No, she felt perfect. Like nothing bad had ever happened. Like nothing bad had ever happened to her. Her fingers moved to the cigarette tattoos. They were gone. Her storm-cloud eyes focused on her arm. It was unflawed, beautiful- an expanse of ivory skin punctuated by a dozen amber freckles.

When she stood fully erect, Lilly twirled, taking in the full wonder of the carnival around her. Rides ran without operators or people riding them; popcorn popped in an antiquated red and white machine- the smell of it made Lilly's stomach grumble. She hadn't had anything to eat today. There wasn't any food in the house. Any grocery money went to beer and smokes. A tune played softly, dancing in time with flickering lights strung across a bright white tent. The music was familiar; it was the same haunting song Lilly had hummed balancing on the tracks.

She walked forward, hungry for the buttery, salty snack. After only a few feet though, Lilly was plunged into a dense, confusing fog. The carnival was gone, obliterated by the grayness surrounding her. She twirled again, faster this time. Her heart began to thud erratically. She gasped, struggling to breathe. Every time she sucked in a breath though, there seemed to be less air to inhale. Her chest constricted, her lungs rebelling against the lack of oxygen.

Running...she was running. Nothing made sense; there was no color or life. Life didn't matter. But she kept running, farther into the dark cloudiness. She ran even faster now, thinking that speed might push her back into reality... the reality before this with the dreamlike carnival, not the reality with the crumbling house and corroded family. Salty, hot tears streamed down her face, obscuring her sight. That's why she did not see the tall, distorted building blocking her path. Her body felt it though as she had slammed against the structure. Lilly fell backward and was surprised when her body was cushioned by fluffy lumps, like piles of pillows that had been malformed by years of washing and drying.

When she stood, she looked behind her to see the softness on the ground, but there was nothing - just flat, fog-kissed ground. Her eyes traveled forward and focused on a booth, too tall to balance out its width, with a singular, very dirty window above a five inch wide opening. Suddenly, bright lights exploded- the word 'Tickets' emblazoned in incandescent orange.

"Hello?" Lilly called tentatively, tapping on the glass. "Hello?"

Behind the dirt-streaked window, a greenish, dismembered finger approached. It seemed to hover in the air, floating without hand or arm or body to guide it. Slowly, it rubbed away the filth, forming letters across the glass, writing backwards so Lilly could read the strange words:

A ticket for a price, precious and small;

A single wish to enter this dark carnival.

"A wish? Like... on a birthday?"  Not that I've ever had candles to blow out. The finger wrote no more words. Lilly hesitated. One wish. She looked down at her arm, thinking what life might be like if her parents were happy and loved her. "Um... okay." She swallowed hard and then expelled the words in a hurried rush of wind. "I wish that my parents had never had anything to drink, that they were sober forever."

The full gnarled hand pushed against the glass, the hard surface rippling to allow the appendage to move easily through. Lilly reached her own hand out and gripped the small paper between her fingers. It was odd-looking; circular burns nearly obscured the word 'ticket.' She counted the small, black circles- eight.

When Lilly looked up from the ticket, she was immediately plunged into the world of the dark carnival, her body standing adjacent to the buttered popcorn. Her nostrils flared and her stomach responded with loud growls of anticipation. She walked the few feet to the food stand. As she neared, a woman materialized. She had no hair, her naked head shining like a lovingly polished bowling ball. Her eyes were strangely obscured by shadows.

"Um." Lilly hesitated, realizing she didn't have any money. "Never mind." She started to turn, but the woman stopped her with a gesture. Lilly waited as the woman folded a paper treat box and filled it to overflowing with golden, delicious popcorn. "Thank you so much!" Lilly exclaimed, greedily taking the food. She stuffed a huge handful in her mouth. The woman watched her...or Lily thought she was watching her; the shadows still played over where the woman's eyes should be. So strange.

"What was your wish?" It was a harsh whisper, escaping a damaged throat.

"My wish?" Lilly asked, her mind concentrating on eating and not the question.

"What did you wish to enter hell?" The whisper was hoarser now; the strain of speaking obvious.

"Oh..." Lilly swallowed, choosing to ignore the woman's word choice. This wasn't hell; this was a carnival, a children's playground full of wondrous things that made her forget about her parents. It made the pain and the scars disappear. "I don't have to tell you that."

"Want to know what I wished for?"

Lilly had a feeling she didn't want to know. She kept silent.

"Sure you do." The popcorn vendor began to move awkwardly from behind the stand; she gripped the rim of the steel counter to move herself along.

"No...no, I really don't" Lilly stammered. But the woman was already in view, the shadows lifted from her eyes. Black, sunken holes where the eyes should be. Lilly screamed and took several clumsy steps backward, dropping the snack box. The warm popcorn spilled across the ground.

"I wished that I wasn't anything like my mother."

The woman was fully visible now, her body's every detail on display. She hadn't noticed how flat the woman's upper body was and her shirt was stained, two red-brown circles positioned where her breasts should be. And... no legs. The woman's upper body rested on a rolling chair, her legs bloody stumps. Sinewy, smelly flesh hung limply over violently severed thigh bones.

"My mother's hair was red; like mine. My mother's eyes were brown; like mine. I had her legs and her breasts." The half-a-woman laughed hysterically. "You see... you see. This dark carnival is hell. You're in hell, kid. And you're too stupid to see it."

Lilly turned; she wanted to get away quickly, but she stumbled, falling forward and catching herself with one hand against the ground. Her mind worked at high speed. How do I get out? How do I get out? She risked a glance behind her; the popcorn stand was gone and with it the bloody attendant. Her pulse began to slow, the building panic breaking into great glass shards to settle in her stomach. Uncomfortable, but bearable.

The white tent with flickering lights beckoned her. Maybe it would be safe there. She stood, brushing dirt from her palm. Something was wrong with her hand. It looked...slightly paler, had almost a translucent quality. Strange. It only took a few steps to reach the tent, which confused Lilly. It had seemed much further away when she'd started walking. She reached her hand out to lift the tent flap, but it moved of its own accord, lifting and folding into a precise accordion fan angled to the side.

Inside, a hundred candles dripped wax on a discolored rug. It might have been a deep blue at one point, but now it was bleached and sun-worn. In the middle of the carpet sat a young boy, maybe seven or eight.

"What was your wish?" His voice was high and sweet, a child's voice.

Lilly walked over and knelt next to him, trying to avoid the many candles littering the floor. "Are you okay? What's your name?"

"Timmy."

"That's a nice name. Why aren't you home?"

"I can't go home. And the ticket master said I can't take back my wish. What did you wish for?"

"That my parents didn't drink anymore. What was your wish, Timmy?"

A single tear rolled down the small boy's cheek. "Our house caught fire and Bernie didn't make it out. I just wanted him to be okay."

"Bernie?"

"My puppy. Mommy and Daddy gave him to me for my birthday. He's brown with white spots."

"I'm so sorry Bernie died. I have a hamster at home. Want to know her name?" Lilly waited until Timmy nodded. "Honey Ham." She smiled when the little boy giggled. It was a nice sound.

"Bernie's okay now. I really miss him, but the ticket master says that he's happy with my mommy and daddy."

"Then why are you still here, Timmy? You should go home and be with Bernie."

"You can never take your wish back."

With those words, the candles began to fall over one by one. The carpet caught fire quickly, then the tent. Lilly yanked on Timmy's arm. "We have to go, Timmy." She pulled with all her strength.

"You can't take back your wish!" He screamed, the words full of pain and despair... a child's voice should never sound that way.

Lilly yanked again, but Timmy was rooted to the floor. The flames were licking his legs, crawling up his pants material. He screamed again. And again. Lilly fought her way through the flames, the smell of searing flesh lingering in her nose. Outside the tent, the air was cool and brisk. She turned, catching a last glimpse of the burning boy as the tent flap unfolded and fell. His body was black, his eyes wide, the white of them looking hopeless in the flame.

I can't take back my wish... I can't take back my wish. What does that mean? What have I done? Everything was twisted here. I have to get out. As she moved, structures and rides began to materialize, each manned by a twisted, deformed soul. Voices called after her as she passed- low haunted murmurs of desolation.

"What did you wish?"

"You should never wish..."

"All I wanted was to be smart."

"I wanted to be pretty."

"My nana had cancer... what choice did I have?"

Lilly reached an end; somehow, she could move no further. She turned, but the path she'd travelled no longer existed. Four mirrored walls barricaded her.

Images began to flash- the popcorn vendor, the burning boy; soul after trapped soul whispering the wishes that had sealed their fates. Then, out of the mass of desperation, arose a singular figure dressed in a dark, asymmetrical suit.

"Your wish is a particular favorite of mine. The kind of request that wipes out a life, a light."

"What do you mean? I'm still alive." Lilly's voice was weak; she looked at her hands. It hadn't been a trick of light. Both hands were even paler now; she could see the ground filtered through the disappearing color of her skin. "All I wanted was..."

"For your parents to have," the voice changed, becoming a perfect imitation of Lilly wishing at the ticket booth, "never had anything to drink, that they were sober forever." The suited figure laughed. "Your parents were drunk when they conceived you, Lilly. Now, they're married to different people. They're happy without you. Your mother has a daughter named Grace. Your father has twin boys- Luke and Bryan. You. Never. Existed."

Tears began to slide down Lilly's face. She was nothing... nothing. And it was all for a handful of hot popcorn, a single wish in a misguided moment.

"Don't cry. You were dead either way, wish or no wish. Hit by a train is a pretty definitive death. You'll be in good company though. My favorite type of wish, truly." The mirror rippled and the figure stepped out, becoming solid and real. He was horribly disfigured, his face seeming to melt downward, icicles of skin hanging from a flaccid jawline.

Lilly's body was fully transparent now, her feet feeling unstable against the ground, like she'd fall through at any moment. A moment...if she could go back and change a single moment. Make another wish.

"No more wishes, no going back. The fun house is your home now, the mirrors your playground." The figure motioned and Lilly felt herself floating toward the mirror. It moved, undulated like a living, breathing entity.

It was the strangest sensation, the feeling of her body merging with the mirror. She closed her eyes tightly. When the odd feeling was over, Lilly risked a glance. Her new home was a maze of wavy reflection. Thousands of spirits moved through the glasses; they looked at her curiously.

So this is the only life I've ever had. She thought, as the soul of an elderly man neared, his silvery luminance a spark of light. Could be worse. She thought of the burning boy.

****

When the carnival came to town, Brianna Hammond was twelve. When the carnival left town, Brianna Hammond went with it and no one missed her. Not her parents, her best friend or her kitten Ferdinand. She simply faded away. All because of a moment. All because she said "I wish my mother hadn't miscarried my baby brother." All for the price of a ticket and a ride on the tilt-a-whirl.

Eli Constant is a genre-jumping detail junkie obsessed with the nature of humanity. She believes that there is beauty at the core of most everything, but that truly unredeemable characters create the best stories. She is the author of Dead Trees, Dead Trees 2, Mastic, DRAG.N, and is a contributor to several current and upcoming anthologies. It took two years working in Histology/Pathology for her to realize she wanted to be a writer. Eli lives in Virginia with her husband Damion, their two children (with their third on the way), and her rescue hound. Find out more at www.eliconstant.com and keep posted on upcoming publications.
The Strong Man

by Mari Wells

The performers' mouths water as they looked over the audience. A man dressed in a fur loincloth and nothing else takes his place when the Ringmaster announces him as "John, the strongest man in the world". His greedy belly grumbles, as he scans the crowd. This audience would bring in lots of meals. That was the only thing the strong man cared about, how full he could keep his belly. The Ringmaster could overwork him without fear of retaliation as long as his appetite was satisfied, well two appetites were satisfied, but the ringmaster only had to worry about one. The women of this show cared for the other one.

The strong man begins his part of the show, lifting barbells above his head as the ringmaster comments on the weight of each barbell. The largest ones are bent in half. Those seated don't see the cruel looks John aims towards the ringmaster as he imagines snapping the puny man's neck. John's thoughts are brought back to the moment, when the acrobat girls wrap their tiny delicate hands around the thick bands of muscles in his extended arms. The two girls in white tutus hang from John's arms for a moment before they start to swing, in a blink of an eye and a gasp of the crowd; they are doing handstands on John's arms. The girls do a flip in the air, landing in a bended curtsy.

"Now, John will perform a feat of strength like no other," the ringmaster began. John takes his place at the far end of the ring. A group of clowns roll out a cannon and positions it on the opposite side of John. The men and women in the crowd gasp, excitement murmurs through them. This is what they've come to see. John roars with laughter causing his body to tremble. One of the clowns rolls a cannon ball from the cannon to John; three other clowns struggle to pick up the heavy sphere and drop it into the cannon.

Bending down, John picks up the cannonball and tosses it into the air a few times before letting it fall to the ground. The clown pulls gloves from his back pocket and hands them to John before scurrying away. His arms swing across his chest twice, shoulders lifting up and down as the ringmaster prepares the audience. Pulling on the gloves, and raising his hands to those seated, showing them the perfect leather palms, John nods once at the two clowns standing by the cannon.

The tallest clown strikes the match across the side of the cannon, and lights the wick. A blast shakes through the tent. Some of the audience cover their ears with their hands. John's hands wrap around the lead ball for a brief second before slamming it on the ground. Palms in the air again, showing burned leather. He bows then runs out of the ring to his next task of the night.

John ducks out of the tent and walks in large strides to the strength meter game on the other side of the fairgrounds. His deep voice bellows over the noises filling the dark night. "Win a diamond for your girl." His voice trails off as he searches for someone to take a chance. Swinging the sledgehammer over his shoulder, his wide shoulders and tall frame look formidable even beside the fifteen-foot tall tower. A tall young man stops in front of the strength meter. The girl his arm is wrapped around presses into his arm, as she eyes John cautiously. "Hit the light and win a diamond for your girl."

The sledgehammer moves from John's hands to the young man's. John looks over the young man; he was tall with broad shoulders. Muscles flex in his arms as he hoists the hammer into the air. The young woman is plump and curvy with warm hazel eyes. As the hammer slams into the pedestal, the puck moves higher and higher into the air, but not hitting the top and ringing the bell. John looks over them both one more time, "Three tries son." The young man tests his grip on the handle, then takes another swing. The puck glides up the meter ringing the bell.

A sly smile spreads across John's face. He takes the man's hand in his and pumps them, as he congratulates them. A clown runs towards them.

"I take you to your prize."

"Jared will take care of ya." John says smiling. He watches carefully as Jared leads the couple to a tent farther behind them. Inhaling deeply John's voice fills the air as he calls for someone else to test their luck, covering the screams coming from the tent behind him.

A smile curls at his lips as he hears one more muffled scream fade. Three tall lanky teenage boys near his game. They hold out papers to him. Gladly he signs the photographs and waits patiently as each boy takes a turn slamming the platform with the hammer. He waves as the boys walk away and his voice echoes his call. Two men stumble along the path. John spotted them a few steps away and has watched them carefully; he slides his left hand across the back of the meter's tower. Stepping out in front of the two men, his arms go around their shoulders as he leads them towards his game.

"You both look like strong men," he flatters.

The men mumble to each other as John hands one the sledgehammer.

The first drunk spits on his hands and lifts the handle into the air, letting it fall. He startles when the bell rings. His friend slaps him on the back in congratulations and pulls the hammer away. As he picks up the sledgehammer, he stumbles backwards before righting himself. His chest rises as he hefts the hammer up over his head and brings it down with such force, the platform cracks. The puck shoots straight to the bell.

"You both won," John says as he begins to shake each one's hand. "Bart will take you back to get your prize."

Bart glances at the two drunkards; a crooked smile reveals a line of sharp teeth. "I thinks we out of prizes John."

John nods once and slides his hand behind the tower again.

A step in front of the strength meter John's voice moves through the air. Pushing anyone walking in this back area of the fairgrounds towards the front.

"Ralph, our lion is eating." He says.

Pulling the fabric gate across the back area, he closes off the strength game and the old train car behind it.

John opens the door and steps inside the old railway car. Ralph the lion rests inside of the iron bars at the far corner of the rectangle room. Bound at the hands and ankles, rags shoved in their mouths, are four bodies. The three men have bloody spots on their heads. The first young man's wound on the right side of his forehead has dried, clumps of blood stick to his hair. The drunkest of the last two men has a gaping wound at the back of his head. John pulls the other drunk from the pile. Once he's moved the body a few feet from the others, he plummets his fist into the man's face. There's little movement from him. Allowing him to fall to the ground, John accepts the knife Jared the small clown holds out to him.

Shoving the knife into the drunk's chest, John makes a cut big enough for his hands. He pushes his hands into the man's chest and pulls, snapping the rib cage in half.

"I get dibs!" the small man bounces up and down.

Large hands dripping of blood remove the heart and lungs. Dropping them into a bucket Burt has placed beside the bleeding corpse, John digs back inside the open chest bringing out more insides.

Two more handfuls have cleaned out the cavity. With skill only seen by a surgeon, John cuts into the shoulder. Using his strength to snap the bones apart, he removes the arm from the torso. A quick bend backwards and he breaks the elbow before tossing the broken severed arm at Bart the clown. Bart begins to cut the skin and tendons at the elbow. John repeats the process with the other arm, then the legs.

Jared sits beside the head, waiting patiently.

John looks up from severing the neck, "What'll it be Midget."

The small man looks the head over licking his lips. "Eyes, eyes. That be my prize."

John roars with laughter before prying the eyes from their sockets. Jared takes them from the skull and pops them in his mouth before anyone can take them from him.

"You?" John asks the clown.

"I'll take what I want." He says pulling the head and torso towards him. "Start the next one." He nods towards the pile in the corner.

John pulls the second drunk to where the first was separated and begins again. He looks up at Bart to see him in the process of cutting out the tongue.

"I'd thought you'd want her tongue, not his." He laughed.

"I'll take it too." He said before taking a bite of the tongue.

They work silently dismembering the bodies, until they came to the woman's body.

The three men looked at each other, nod, and pull her by the ankles to the centre of the room. "Midget," John whispered holding his hand out.

Jared places a syringe in his hand. John injects the contents of the syringe into her right arm. The three wait a few moments before ripping her clothes off. The clown brings a few more buckets to John. A little more tenderly, John cuts into her chest. The small man cuts the shoulder length light brown hair from her head. The clown begins to separate her arms from the shoulders.

John carefully removes the breasts from the torso and drops them into a new bucket. He snaps her ribs open and begins to remove what's inside. A knock at the door calls all three men from their work. Another three quick knocks sound. Jared stands up. Two more knocks. He begins to move towards the door when one knock sounds.

"Mama Grey?" He asks.

"Boy, open this door before I feed your midget ass to Ralph."

Before the small man can open the door, the fat woman with a grey beard pushes her way into the train car. Her eyes move over the lines of buckets.

"I knew this audience would bring in enough to eat." She licks her plump red lips. "And she stew too, don't eat it all this time John. Or we won't have enough until the next show."

By candlelight, she writes, creating worlds full of magic, myths, mystery, monsters, and mayhem, during the midnight hours. Using words of romance or suspense and her knowledge of paranormal creatures, she covers the screen. Characters are pleased to be given her attention for the night and they happily do her biding.

Her stories will take you to lands where vampires, werewolves, and witches interact in magical ways. Journey with her to places where myths take on exciting twists, monsters may not be what you expect, and death isn't final.

Allow her to question all that you know to be true, while enjoying the tale she takes you on. Once you've been drawn into her world things that go bump in the night is something you will anxiously await.

Mari Wells has appeared in anthologies, magazines, and websites.

Find her at: MariWells.wordpress.com/
Til It Pops

by Lucas Hargis

The whoosh of the nearby Tilt-a-Whirl blows Maisie's hair back from her cute, little face. She sticks out her tongue and drops the last tuft of cotton candy onto it. The floss melts away into dark blue that matches the sugary stains on her lips.

"You're a mess," I say with a smile. I wave the strip of tickets in front of her. "No more stalling with carnival goodies. I already bought these and you have to ride something. It's big brother law."

Maisie frowns as she wipes her sticky hands on her favorite purple-sparkle shirt. "I hate when the bars squish down."

With deflection skills beyond her five years, Maisie's sticky hands tug me to the Ring Toss booth. Her eyes widen at the stuffed ponies dangling overhead.

"Please, Cody, can I play? Pleaaase. I wanna win one, and when we get home you can add a horn to make it a unicorn."

"Nice try," I say. "The Mega Slide doesn't have a retaining bar. After you ride the slide, you can play a game."

It takes her two days to trudge up the stairs, but once she's ten feet into the untethered slipping of burlap over plastic, her squeals begin and don't stop. My cheeks ache from grinning as Maisie quickly uses up all the tickets and begs for more.

I scoop her up. "That wasn't fun at all, was it?"

"Not as fun as winning a pony's going to be!"

I piggyback her to the Ring Toss where a dozen players dish out dollar after dollar. For five minutes we watch the red rings ping and skitter off the tops of the bottles. Not a single one hits its mark and slips around a bottle's neck. "

This one's rigged," I whisper over my shoulder. "Nobody wins."

Her soft breath tickles my ear. "That man taking the money's a big cheater. And he looks mean, like he might hurt me."

My guts twist at the thought. "That'll never happen. I'll protect you forever and ever."

She twists around my side so we're face-to-face. Her curly lashes don't blink as she asks, "Even if you get hurt while protecting me?"

"Especially then."

"I thought so," she says, then kisses my nose.

"Let's find another game with ponies and better chances."

She lets go and drops to her feet. "One we can't lose?"

"Exactly. Keep your eyes open for a good one."

Like always, Maisie hooks her finger into my belt loop so we don't get separated as we push into the crowd. It's warmer in the midst of the other revelers, taking the bite from the October night air. The scents of strangers and perfume mix with that of funnel cake and deep-fried cheese. I scan the sidelines for an easy game either Maisie can win or one I can win for her.

She lets go of my jeans and points. "Cody, look! A winner every time!"

I pluck a chunk of candied apple off her sleeve—a souvenir from carnival treat number one of three.

"Do they have ponies?" I ask.

She answers by dashing to the Until It Pops game and perching herself on a stool. The other seven seats are unoccupied, and if it stays that way I can let her win. I take the stool next to Maisie and test-swivel the water gun. Brightly painted clown heads gape at us with wide open maws. The prizes of plush ponies, boy-band posters, rubber food, inflatable aliens, and foam hats hang above them.

Way up, all alone on the top shelf, sits a prize unlike the cheap toys. Faceted, purple crystals swirl over the hand-carved wood of the horse's flanks. The tail and mane look velvet-soft. But it's the twisted horn glittering on the sculpture's forehead that matters the most.

Without taking my eyes off it, I lean towards Maisie. "Do you see it?"

She doesn't answer.

Her jaw hangs open. Her eyes shine big and round, sparkling like an anime girl.

A shadow falls over Maisie as a creepo clown blocks her view of the unicorn. And by clown, I mean an old lady who accidentally looks like one. Her sunken and saggy face is slathered thick with makeup. She's miserably failing at her attempt to look sixty years younger. Bright-orange hair frizzes out from her too-skinny head. It gets worse below the neck where a midriff tank showcases the old lady's pierced navel and flabby bat-wing arms. A money apron, thankfully, hangs lower than her cut-off jean shorts.

She open-mouth chews bubble gum—toothless—like she forgot to put in her dentures. "Y'all gonna play or just stare at the pretties?"

Maisie sits up straight and responds in her best-manners voice, "What are the rules?"

Clown Lady twirls her ratty hair. "First, you pay me five bucks each."

Her mascara-caked lashes wink as I hand her the money.

"Once the buzzer sounds, you squirt the juice in the clown's mouth to fill that tiny balloon underneath until it pops." Clown Lady calls over our heads to the passing crowd, "Step right up! Plenty of seats left!"

Maisie slides her hands into the pair of knight's-armor-gloves attached to the gun. "There's a winner every time?"

"Bet your bottom," Clown Lady answers. Then she barks at the midway again, "A winner every time!"

The massive gloves swallow Maisie's tiny hands.

"How do they fit?" I ask her.

"They're kinda big, but I can reach the buttons. Where's the water come from?"

I help her kneel on the stool. "The water flows from that metal pipe, through the clear tube,and up to the gun."

A white-haired couple ease themselves onto the stools on the far side of Maisie. The grandpa pays Clown Lady as the grandma dotes on my sister. "You remind me of my granddaughter. You're a big girl, though. I bet you're going to beat me and win a big ol' prize!"

A deep voice intrudes from behind me. "I'm gonna beat you all."

A bearded guy about my Dad's age, and twice his weight, plops next to me. Now we've only got a two in five chance of Maisie winning. I pivot my stool towards bearded guy, who's gawking at the unicorn.

I hold out a five-dollar bill."Will you let my sister win?"

His eyes sparkle for a second, then turn dark. "Hell no. That antique unicorn's going home with me."

"What do you want with it? You're like forty years old. Unicorns are her favorite and she really wants that one."

"I really want it more. I'll have it listed online and sold before the carnival shuts down for the night." He stretches behind me. "Good luck, little girl, but that unicorn's mine."

The bearded man, now officially Jerkhole, steals the cash out of my hand and waves it at Clown Lady. "Hey, carnie. You gonna come get this or not?"

Clown Lady saunters to him swinging her non-existent hips and wobbling in her high heels. "This carnie has a name."

"Is it Bozo or Krusty?"

She grabs his forearm and lifts it like she going to kiss it. She bares her black-rot gums. "You can call me Leech."

In a flash, she latches onto his arm with her mouth. Jerkhole tries to yank his fat arm out of her grip, but Leech hangs on like a sucker fish.

"What the hell? Get off me, freak!"

She finally disengages, but leaves a bright-pink hickey marring Jerkhole's skin. Leech snatches his cash—my cash—and shoves it in her apron. She flashes a crazy-eyed, toothless grin, blows a bubble, then flicks her tongue at him. She wobbles back to the far left side of the booth to a panel of over-sized switches straight out of Frankenstein.

"Squirt your gun and fill your balloon until it pops. The first one wins."

Leech flips a switch. A buzzer sounds, followed by music that would ooze out of a dying ice cream truck. She flips another switch, the buzzer sounds again, and water trickles from our gun barrels. I shove my hands into the gloves and squeeze the triggers.

Down the line, water arcs out from all five squirters. Maisie's concentration face is in full effect: eyes intense, jaw tight, tongue hanging out of her mouth.

A third buzzer sounds. My gun jerks in response and the gloves tighten around my wrists. It's uncomfortable, but the snugness might be better for Maisie. She's doing great, pumping every drop straight into her clown's mouth. I back off my triggers a bit and check out the competition. The old couple obviously don't care about winning. They're giggling and playfully squirting back & forth into each other's clown. Jerkhole is way ahead, his balloon swelling faster than Maisie's.

I swivel my gun and aim for her target.

Jerkhole whines, "That's cheating! Bozo Leech! The kids are disqualified!"

She smacks her gum. "There ain't no rule against it."

Maisie's balloon droops heavy like a cow's udder past due for milking, stretching tight, quivering with the weight and tension of the liquid inside.

Maisie screams.

I try to let go of the gun, but my hands are locked in place. I jerk against the death grip of the metal gloves, but they're shackles clamped around my wrists.

Jerkhole's balloon explodes, sending cold spray all over me.

Maisie's still screaming, louder than the twisted ice cream music.

"Hush child!" Leech barks. She hits the three switches in unison.

The water stops pumping, the eerie music dies, and the gloves release their stranglehold. The grandma's already rocking Maisie before I can even get off my stool.

"What the hell was that?" I yell at Leech.

"The gloves have a mind of their own sometimes," she says, popping her gum. "A leftover from when this used to be the Deadly Knights game."

"Told y'all I'd win," Jerkhole announces. "I'll take that top-shelf unicorn."

Leech cackles. "You wish, hot shot. You can pick something from the bottom row."

"I don't want that cheesy Made In China crap."

"Then I'll choose." Leech selects a squeaky, rubber hamburger and line-drives it at his forehead.

Maisie rubs her wrists and asks, very business-like, "How many little prizes does it take to trade for the unicorn?"

The ancient carnie leans in. Close-up, I can see the thick layers of make-up crammed into her wrinkles like spackle. For the first time since we entered the booth, she stops chewing her gum.

"You can't trade-up for the unicorn. That's a special prize that's been with me a long, long time. Many have tried to win it, but all have failed."

I don't like the way Leech is looking at her; like she's hungry, like she gums little kids to death. I force myself between them. Leech smells like old pennies.

"What does it take to win it?" I ask.

"A special game." She turns her back to us. "One that costs a lot more than money."

Jerkhole stands up. "I'll pay whatever it costs."

Leech peers over her bony shoulder and licks her chapped lips. "It costs a payment worthy of the unicorn." She opens her mouth and scrapes her tongue against her top row of rotten gums. "I've tasted you already. You can't afford it."

"The old-timers are in," the grandma says. She pats Maisie's shoulder. "Don't worry, honey. If one of us wins it, we'll give it right to you because I know you'll love it forever."

Jerkhole shoves his meaty hand into his pocket. "I'll buy it outright. Do you take plastic? Of course not, you're a backwoods carnie. Cash then. I've got eight hundred on me and can get more."

Leech pulls a tube of lipstick from her apron and smears on even more bright-red. "The unicorn's not for sale. It can only be won."

Maisie pleads with me, eyes big as the moon. "Can we play again, Cody? I'll give you all my birthday money when we get home."

I peer deep into her baby blues. "We're walking out of here with that unicorn."

Maisie throws her arms around my neck and squeezes like the gloves.

"One of you might," Leech smirks. "But I doubt it."

She plucks off the used balloons and replaces them with fresh ones. "If any of you can walk out of here, I swear by the Dark Carnival you can take my unicorn with you."

For the first time, the grandpa speaks. "Did she say if we can walk—"

"Last chance!" Leech punctuates the warning with a pop of her gum. Her knobby fingers wrap around another one of her switches. "Once I pull this, there ain't no mind-changing. Stay seated if you want to play Leech's special version of Until It Pops."

Jerkhole bounces the rubber cheeseburger off her chest. "How much cash will it cost us to play, swindler?"

Leech's voice comes out low and gravelly. "Not a dime."

"Then pull the damn switch already."

She does.

Heavy, red drapes slide closed behind us, separating us from the carnival beyond. The music, laughter, and whoosh of the rides fall dead silent as the two halves of the fabric smash together. The air in the space instantly feels thicker, heavier, older somehow. I grab Maisie's arm. Unicorn or not, we're getting the hell out.

A buzzer pierces the silence. The tinny ice-cream-truck music is tangible. It clanks through the closed space and sways the stuffed animals like it's generating its own wind.

"Grab your guns," Leech orders.

The air vibrates with ickiness, like the feeling you get when your face smacks into a spider's web. My brain screams for me to grab Maisie and rush to the safety of the midway, the warmth of the crowd, the open air thick with the scent of fried things on a stick. My hands shake as they slip into the gloves and grip the cold triggers.

Maisie stares intently at the gaping clown head in front of her. I focus on my own and aim my barrel. Leech flips the second buzzer-rigged switch, but it doesn't trigger water to trickle from the guns this time. Instead, the gloves constrict and clamp down even harder than before. Maisie muffles her screech behind tight, cotton-candy-blue lips.

"Stay calm," I say, fighting to keep the fear out of my voice. "Focus on winning the unicorn. Nothing else matters, okay? Fill that balloon as quick as you can—until it pops."

Her eyes sparkle with tears. Her bottom lip trembles as she nods.

"What are you doing?" the grandpa cries.

I look over, but Leech has already side-stepped away from him and in front of the grandma.

The grandma lifts her chin. "You are not sticking that in my arm. I no longer want to play. Set us free this instant."

Leech pinches the woman's lips shut. "It's much too late for that decision."

Her crooked hand traces the top of the water gun, slides down the tube, and to the pipe. She plucks the clear tube from its water source. Wet rust covers the tube's pointy, metal tip. Like a skilled nurse, Leech stills Grandma's wiggling arm, punctures her skin, and shoves the tip into a vein.

Maisie whimpers.

Leech moves to her next and strokes her curly hair.

I grit my teeth and strain against the gloves until my wrists feel like they're gonna rip out by the roots.

"Sunshine," Leech says, "don't worry. I'm not gonna stick you."

I exhale.

Leech pops her gum. "Not yet, at least. We're going oldest to youngest."

Jerkhole squirms on his stool, kicking his legs wildly. "Don't fucking touch me, old hag."

"But you said you'd pay whatever it costs to get my unicorn. Now's your chance to put your money where your loud mouth is."

He wails a high-pitched scream. "This bitch is crazy! Somebody help us!"

"Yell all you want," Leech chides. "My curtain muffles your sissy-girl screams. Can't nobody hear you and can't nobody help you."

She thrusts the metal into his arm hickey.

"Motherfucker, motherfucker! Shit! Shit! Shit!"

The wrinkly carnie stretches out her over-chewed gum and lets the pink strand hang from her mouth like a foot long worm. She winks at me with a crow's feet eye, and tickles my forearm with the nasty, spit-tainted crap dangling from her lips. I won't recoil. I refuse to cringe. Maisie's watching and I have to stay strong. I don't know how Leech's game is going to end. I just need to make sure Maisie somehow gets back home to Mom and Dad, her rainbow-painted room, her tiny bed piled high with stuffed unicorns.

Leech slowly sucks her gum back in. The cold, wet point of the tube rests against my skin.

The eerie ice-cream-man music thumps in my head like a pulse.

"How is this game different than the other?" I ask. Ten minutes too late.

"Isn't it obvious? You're playing for my most prized possession." The rusty needle bites my flesh. Burning pain shoots through me. "Just like last time, you'll fill the balloon until it pops."

I'm dizzy. Fire and ice thrash inside my veins. Blood leaks out of me, into the clear tube leading to my gun. The cheap toys and stuffed animals hanging across from me blur into a swirl of neon. I want to grab my head, steady it, but my hands are clinched tight by vice of the gloves.

A little girl cries. Maisie.

I slough through the fog in my brain, fight my way back to her. Leech's craggy fingers caress her tiny, pale arm.

"Cody, does it hurt?"

"Yes," I say, "it does."

"For the pretty unicorn," she says, squeezing her eyes shut.

Liquid red eases into her tube. My precious Maisie's blood flows like cherry syrup sucked through a straw. Tears stream down my cheeks. If she squeezes the triggers, her tiny body will drain in seconds.

Leech moseys to her panel of switches. With one hand, she flicks the belly button ring dangling from her saggy stomach. With the other, she engages a handle and the buzzer sounds.

"As with the previous game, there's a winner every time, but in this version, the winner is always me. Mercy! I forgot one very important rule: you must be alive to claim your prize."

She juts out her tongue, forming a bubble. "Fill that balloon until it..."

pop

A flash of red catches my eye. At the end of Maisie's gun, her precious blood is already trickling out.

"Don't squeeze your triggers!" I tell her.

Then swiveling my gun towards the clown in front of Maisie, I squeeze hard on both of mine.

The tube in my arm jerks taut from the pressure. Blood arcs out in a stream and into the clown's mouth. It runs down its throat and into the clear balloon hanging beneath it.

"No!" Maisie cries.

"Cheater!" Jerkhole yells as his blood arcs into his own balloon.

Leech stomps towards me, a gnarled finger wagging. "No cheating!"

The grandma barks at Leech, "You said there's no rule against it."

Grandpa stretches over, and the old couple share a kiss. Then two red streams join mine in filling Maisie's balloon.

"No fucking fair!" Jerkhole yells.

His balloon is the size of a sad strawberry. Maisie's grows heavy, drooping like a juicy, ripe apple ready to drop. Blackness creeps into the edge of my vision. My head is floating, like it's pumped full of helium.

"Leech," I rasp. My mouth is so dry. "My sister goes free—with the unicorn."

Leech spits out her gum and smears her lipstick across her face. "I always win."

Jerkhole's stream stops. He slumps forward on his gun.

Only two dying arcs feed Maisie's swollen balloon. The grandpa is gone, too.

"You swore," I manage.

"By the Dark Carnival," Maisie whimpers.

My bloodstream is the only one left.

Leech crosses her arms. "So be it."

Cotton candy stains Maisie's face.

"Your lips are blue," I say.

"Yours are too," she answers.

"I love you."

"Forever and ever."

The dying-ice-cream-truck sings inside the vacuum of my head. Buzzers echo through my empty body. My heart gives a final thump. Its last drop spent.

The gloves no longer hurt.

I swell bigger than the booth.

The last thing I see: Maisie's eyes glittering like the horn of the unicorn.

The last thing I feel: wet warmth splattering my face.

The last thing I hear: pop.

Lucas is an incurable nomad, YA writer, artist, spreadsheet guru, and lover of all things weird. He's repped by Louise Fury, with whom he [metaphorically] dances, wrestles, skydives, and occasionally kickboxes. If Lucas could be anything other than human, a platypus & winged unicorn combo might do the trick.

Find him on Twitter: @LucasMight

Permanent Ink

by Kat Daemon

There was nothing exciting about my dull gray town. Each day a repeat of the last. The next would just regurgitate the present. Yet there was one week during the year that changed everything. The routines were broken, the work put aside. Our bodies were scrubbed, our hair combed neatly. The threadbare clothing darned and pressed, all so that we might look presentable when the carnival rolled into town.

The world we were accustomed to was so void of color. Our faces pale, our lives brittle, dry and stale. Harvesting wheat, and walking on dusty roads was the trademark of our day. But when the Carnies arrived, time stood still.

I always wanted to leave with the carnival. Always wanted to know what waited beyond the town limits. Realistically, I knew it would never happen. I had no talent. Nothing that would ever gather a crowd and get them to pay attention to me. So I was doomed to grow old and die here in midwestern hell. Never leaving my mark. Never seeing the world.

The arrival of the carnival also meant that I would be seeing the woman who had infatuated me for the past fifteen years, the tattooed lady. The others saw her as a freak, but to me she encompassed everything beautiful about the world. She was different and daring. I openly admit, I found myself fantasizing about her throughout the year.

When I was ten, a bunch of the boys in town dragged me behind one of the Carnies' tents. My older cousin, Brad, was in the mix. He told me that I needed to become a man. I had no idea what he was talking about. He barked orders at me to keep my head down, my mouth shut and my eyes peeled on the prize. Finding an area of the tent that had a tear large enough for us to crawl through, we entered the chambers of the tattooed lady.

It smelled heavily of incense, a smell I had prior only associated with church, making this intrusion feel more like a ritual with each passing second. My heart was beating fast and hard within my chest. I was certain the other boys could hear it, for it was pounding in my ears like a rapid drum. The tent was alive with the light of dozens of candles. each casting exotic shadows on the walls making the hanging fabrics dance like they were alive. Then the vision of the most beautiful woman I've ever seen swam into view.

The tension between the boys was tangible. A few of them muttered things like, "Holy shit!" and "Nice!" I didn't feel a need to react that way, because I didn't feel that I was looking at her naked. Her body was saturated with ink, the tattoos became her very clothing. They wove a tapestry of stories around her body painting her skin like an artist would a stretched canvas. I tried to get a closer look, and failed to see the rope that my foot haphazardly had gotten intertwined with. The section of the tent that we were spying from came crashing down.

The boys began to curse louder as they scattered, my cousin leading the pack in a sprint toward the woods. I was still somewhat tangled in the rope, and had just pried my foot loose, ready to follow their lead. That's when I felt the searing pain coming from the crown of my head as the tattooed lady grabbed a fistful of my hair and dragged me deeper into the part of her tent that was still standing. She let go of me, and I fell to the floor, my head screaming from where she had twisted the hairs on my scalp. The candle light caused her skin to glow, the faces of dozens of people twisting all over her skin. What seemed beautiful only moments before was now frightening. I swallowed hard, prepared for her to call security.

She didn't.

Walking slowly behind a dressing curtain she soon emerged with a stunning red and gold kimono robe on. She looked like a phoenix rising from the ashes ready to strike. Instead she pulled up a chair for me, and laid down on her cot. Rolling over to one side, her head resting on the palm of her hand, she looked at me intently. With her body now covered, I was able to concentrate on her face for the first time. She was beautiful, skin pale like porcelain. Short black hair cut to a bob at her chin, bangs falling like a curtain to her brow. Her eyes were such an interesting color, a pale green that was almost a translucent gray. They were made even more appealing by her eye makeup, which was dark and dramatic, the lines pulled out on the sides like Cleopatra. We had just watched clips of the film in history class, and she very much reminded me of her, at least from the head up.

"So tell me, do you make it a habit to spy on others?"

"No m'am. Never." the words stumbled out of my mouth.

"What is your name?"

"Joshua." I said swallowing hard.

She stared at me for a minute, making the fear in my stomach spin into a tight ball. My hands were sweaty, my heart was racing again. Finally she spoke.

"My name is Amanya." I'm not sure why, but hearing her speak her name made me very calm. In fact the calm washed over me, reassuring me that the worst of this night was over. She lazily allowed a leg to slide out between the slits of her silky covering. It was like she knew that I needed to see the tattoos once more.

"You can look." she said with a smile. Cautiously I made my way closer and allowed my eyes to run over her leg. So many faces, all adorned with intricate and elaborate details to make each one unique. They were distinct in their own way so that they didn't become one massive colorful blur. Some seemingly famous people from the past that caused me to smile. One on her back calf, I was easily able to recognize due to my mother's obsession, as Mozart. He was wrapped in frames of sheet music. Looking into his eyes, I could almost hear the familiar violins.

There were two young children playing hop scotch beneath a stern faced man with the red and bronze headdress of a Roman soldier who rested on her knee. My eyes traced the colors down to a serene looking woman who lived forever on her ankle. She was wearing a high white wig and a fancy pink dress while holding a rather restless looking poodle. There were so many more. I wanted to see them all, but I dared not ask.

"Does it hurt?"

"Every time."

"I'm sorry." I said, and I was. I couldn't imagine having all that pain, but it only caused my admiration for her to grow in my eyes. She sat up on her makeshift bed and looked at me thoughtfully. Then, peeling her robe away slightly, she revealed a naked patch of skin where her heart beat beneath the flesh.

"This I'm going to save for you." She said sweetly, although she sounded very serious.

"What do you mean?"

"One day, you'll understand. Go home now, I'll see you again, of that I am certain."

****

After that I became a bit of a legend around the school boys. The rumors of me being trapped with the tattooed lady spread around our dusty town. The fact that I wouldn't embellish on our time together only further spread the tale of the boy who escaped the demon. I knew they meant it as a joke, something to entertain themselves. I never found it funny. She was exotic. She was powerful. She was everything I never knew I wanted, and that's when my obsession began.

Each year, I'd stop by her tent and exchange a shy hello. She was happy to point out the patch of her skin that remained unscathed by ink. The patch that waited for me. I was changing. Childhood had slipped away. Adolescence took hold of me and threw me on a wild roller coaster ride then left suddenly. A man was what remained.

I was twenty-five now, I felt confident and strong. I was so different, yet Amanya looked exactly the same, as if time held no meaning for her. Even now, years later, she captivated me like no one else.

The day the carnival arrived, I woke up two hours earlier to make sure that all my work would be done no later than midday. By two o'clock, while the rest of the town was still immersed in their chores and laborious activities, I was lending a hand to the carnival workers, helping them drive spikes into the ground and pitching tents. I had been doing that since I was sixteen, most of the guys knew me and no one was going to turn down free labor. It was exciting to feel like I was part of the team, but mostly I did it to get a peek at Amanya before the welcoming parade that would tear down the main road at five o'clock that afternoon.

Sure enough I saw her clad in her trademark black fringe bikini walking arm in arm with the bearded lady, holding an ivory umbrella over her head to shield her precious skin from the sun's rays. I knew she was just protecting her tattoos from fading. They looked as fresh as they did years ago, the colors so vivid, the images crystal clear. She looked over in my direction, but I wasn't sure if she saw me, because just then one of the men pulled me over and had me help him assemble the tracks on the haunted house.

****

I watched her on the stage entertaining the crowd of lewd and vulgar men, dancing in front of a mirror to showcase the tattoos that covered the back of her. You would never know that just hours before she was sitting with the children who, armed with crayons, giggled happily as they pretended to color her skin. Her ability to become a chameleon fascinated me. This was just the act. This erotic figure that wound her way around the stage wasn't who she truly was. I could see the real her. She was an artist, performing her pain on the stage, and all they saw was skin. It made me sick that they couldn't see her like I could. She was a person, whom they treated her like an animal.

"Still following her around like a puppy, I see." It was my cousin, Brad who had pulled me into the tent those many years before. "You don't actually think you have a shot with her, do you?"

"I wouldn't expect you to understand." I said embarrassed that he could see right through me.

"No, you don't understand. Listen to me, and look at me when I'm talking to you." I reluctantly pulled my eyes away from Amanya and turned to face him. He hadn't shaved in a few days. His baseball cap was hiding his balding head. He still had his work uniform stained with milk from the dairy on. Basically, he looked like shit. Everyone else was so presentable, I was embarrassed to even be seen socializing with him. I felt myself wither against the wall, I didn't want Amanya to see me like this.

"That chick is fucked up beyond recognition." He said a little louder than I would have liked. "Just look at her, from her neck to her toes, every inch of her is covered with that shit. Not to mention all the people on her body, some celebrities, some no names, her decisions seem so random. You don't want to get involved with a freak like that."

As if my fingers had a mind of their own they clenched together into a tight fist, then my bawled hand hurled itself at my cousin's jaw. He went down. Hard. The audience gasped. I knew all their eyes were on us, but I refused to look at them. The silence was deafening.

"What the fuck, Josh?" Brad asked feeling his teeth to see if they were all intact.

"She's not a freak." I growled. He was just like the other men, he didn't understand her. Why didn't anyone understand her?

Brad forced himself up, pushing away the men that tried to help. Stumbling in front of me he grabbed me by my clean shirt and got in my face so only I could hear him.

"Yes, she is. Sure she's entertaining once a year, they all are. But this is their life, having the public gawk at them because they're good for nothing else. Don't fall into her trap."

"There is no trap." I said through gritted teeth.

"You think I'm stupid? I know you work here for free. I know if they asked, you'd jump on that train. But you're not like them. I'm trying to save you, man!"

"Well lucky for you, I don't need to be saved."

When I looked up at the stage, Amanya was smiling at me.

****

"So are you still saving that spot for me?" I said to her six days later as I entered her tent that night after her show. She was still in her fringed black bikini, but tonight she wore a black sequined headband across her brow with a bright blue feather plume.

"Always." she said with a smile. I had visited Amanya every night while she was here, but we never spoke about anything that I wanted to discuss. She handed me a glass of whiskey, I hoped it would give me the confidence I needed.

"Train pulls out tomorrow." She said, stating the obvious as she took a slow sip from her own glass.

"This week always goes by so fast. I hate that."

"We always come back." she said casually.

"I know. I just wish I could go with you. See the world, know what it's like to be on the road, to see the things you see."

"All you have to do is say you wish to stay with me."

"It's that easy, huh?" I scoffed.

"It always has been. You hold the power in this decision, not me."

"You know that's all I've ever wanted." I related sadly. It hurt to openly admit this to her.

"So, you'll come with me? Live the infamous Carnie life?"

"Are you serious?"

"I wouldn't offer it if I wasn't. But, I do need to hear the words."

Knowing I'd never get another chance like this, I slammed back the whiskey and embraced the moment. "I want to stay with you."

"Forever?" She pursued.

"Forever." I confirmed.

"You have just made me very, very happy." She carefully set her glass down on a folding table and took a seductive step toward me. Placing her tattooed hand tightly over my chest, I could feel her dark painted nails pricking at my skin through the shirt. As if sealing our fate by some intimate ritual, she raised my hand up to the bare space on her own skin. The spot she had always said was saved for me. It was the first time I had ever touched her, and my fingers were trembling. Her skin was warm...no, hot... blistering hot! I wanted to pull away from her fiery flesh, but found myself unable to. It felt like I was melting into her.

"I am sorry my love, but this is going to be very painful for you. I told you once before, it hurts every time." She said with a twisted grin, her eyes wild with the satisfaction of obtaining what she had waited so patiently for. I could hear myself screaming, the pain traveling through my veins extending to every atom of my being. The sight of the blue feather swaying calmly was the last thing I saw as I felt myself falling into her.

****

It was dark. Pitch black. I felt stretched and tight, like I was pressed up against something. I tried to blink, but I couldn't. I tried to scream, but no sound escaped my lips. Then suddenly a spotlight was shone in my face. I heard the muffled sounds of someone making an announcement. I felt like I was being projected forward, but I couldn't feel my limbs, so how was I moving?

My eyes began to adjust to the harsh light. They were locked in place unable to turn away from the horrors that stood before me. A crowd of people staring at me. Gawking at me. I felt so vulnerable, so exposed. Why were they pointing, and shouting at me? Why wouldn't they look away?

Then I felt movement again, like I was being spun around. A mirror came into my view, and the reflection that it held was Amanya. Wearing only her fringed black string bikini, it was easy to see the artwork that was scrawled across her body. Something was different though. That spot she had always kept bare. The spot she had saved for me was finally occupied.

My eyes bore into the mirror, and my face upon her skin looked back at me.

THE END

Kat Daemon grew up in New York where her imagination always seemed to get the best of her. When she's not hanging with demons, she's usually armed with a strong cup of coffee and dreaming up her next tormented character.

She is the author of the The Darkness Saga. Book one of the saga,Taming Darkness, the story of the world's most infamous fallen angel and the one woman who was able to hold temptation over him, is available now.

You can find out more about Kat and her books at KatDaemon.com

The Mastering

by T.A. Brock

Control was never a thing I wished for, it was a thing I pined after like a first love gone wrong. Not in the way of Romeo and Juliet, but wrong like Heathcliff and Catherine. Too many failed chances, hurt feelings, and lost causes. I am Heathcliff and it is Catherine and I plan to haunt it for all my remaining days and even into my death.

Control.

Not your normal choice for a lover. Nevertheless, it is mine. And right now, I'm losing it.

"You will do this." My voice is barely above a whisper but the woman standing on the platform thirty feet above me hears every word as if it's whispered into her mind. In a way, it was. "You will walk the highwire and you will not fall and you will do it now, before our crowd loses interest. Or else..." The command didn't need to be finished; the 'or else' was understood on a level not even I can fully explain.

She takes a tentative, shaky step, one foot still on the platform and the toes of the other on the line.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, quiet please, as Esmerelda attempts this terrifying feat." My voice booms for all to hear but really, it's for show. I've got them so tuned in they can almost hear my thoughts. So much about being the Ringmaster is for show. Like these tights and this jacket that doesn't fit quite right since the master before me was a man. The only thing that fits well is the top-hat. Perfect whether I choose to hide my hair. Or not.

"I told you, my name is not Esmerelda," the woman above me grates as she takes the step that moves her fully onto the wire. She is fighting the control more than most others. It's unfortunate because if I can't bring her to fully submit, she will definitely not make it across the wire. Maybe if she understands her survival rests in my hands...

"You have exactly two choices. You can shut up and do as I say. And live. Or you can fight me and I promise, you won't make it out of here alive." It's not that I want her to die. Actually, I desperately want her to live. I've never had one die on me. Several close calls and more than a few tragic accidents but I haven't lost one.

I find her family in the audience. I hate when they bring their kids. Something about a carnival is inviting to families but clearly they don't pay attention to the advertisement for my carnival—Carnivoule. Especially the part at the bottom where it warns, Come expecting a chilling and terrifying experience!

I keep my voice low, casual. No need to give away how exciting this battle of wills is. "Don't look now, but your little boy is watching from the front row and your husband has turned an interesting shade of pale. If you want to make it back to them, you have to trust me. I'm the only one who can get you across that wire." To show her my meaning, I let the hair-like thread of control slip away. As expected, she begins wobbling uncontrollably, swinging left and then right and then too far left. Her arms pitched forward, circling the empty air for some invisible stability. The crowd gasps as if they were one instead of several hundred.

A panicked squeal that sounds like the word 'okay' splits the space between us and just like that, the bond goes from hair-like to steel cable.

I smile. Can't help it. The lady was safe—a bonus. The crowd was terrified—a necessity. And I was in control once again—a privilege.

"Alright, Esmerelda, walk. And do it like you're a human and not an ape." Immediately, her back straightens, her shoulders lifting. She has the posture of a runway model. Hm, I wonder if I could make her strut across the wire. Better not. This stunt is taking entirely too long already.

To the amazement of all, she crosses the remaining wire without hesitation. Not a wobble to show her fear. Not a tremble. Not a millimeter's worth of misstep.

When she's back on solid ground, I release my hold on her. Regretfully. It wasn't every day I was able to achieve such a strong connection. It's intoxicating.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, the amazing Esmerelda!" I give a flourishing wave in her direction as the audience cheers a standing O. Unfortunately, Esmerelda doesn't bow and I have to make her. This time hair-like is enough to accomplish bending at the waist. When I release her again, she stumbles back to her seat. I'm sure she'd rather leave now, but no one is allowed to go once they enter.

Until the show's over.

Then they can return to their boring, insignificant little lives, armed with a new appreciation for it. Losing control for even a small amount of time can do that for people, make them realize what they had might not have been the drag they'd thought it was.

I turn in a leisurely circle, scanning the audience. They are absolutely rapt, eyes wide, breath hitched, waiting for the next thrill. Tamping down the giddiness that rides my insides like a baby sloth, I ferret out my next helper.

The perfect one is perched on the very top row, left of the exit. It's not that he's particularly submissive looking, even with his slight stature. It's that his eyes are following my every move, not the least bit interested in the swaying tent lights or the others I've taken from the audience to help with the animals. His gaze isn't bouncing from one dark corner to another waiting for something frightening to jump out. The way he's watching me, I am the frightening one.

He's right on target.

I stifle a grin. "And now, prepare yourselves. Hold your children tightly. Our next attraction is a beast so ferocious even I cannot tame him." A lie, but whatever. I juggle my control until I find the thread binding me to the animal. "Our fortune is, well, misfortune this evening. The beast, unfortunately, is... angry." Roar. He obeys right on cue and the sound is soul-shattering. How he does it is a mystery to me but, his roar is misery, rage, and vengeance all rolled into a rippling sound wave that feels like it could penetrate the depths of the earth and return with hell's demons.

A baby cries and for a spare moment, I remember what I once was. BeforeCarnivoule. A park. A swing. Laughter. Fuzzy. Warm. Love. There were three of us. A man. A child. Me. We walked hand in hand through the red and yellow striped big top, grinning at the warbling organ music.

Like a thunderclap, I return to the shivering people and growling beast.

I'm where I belong.

Control. My love. My only love. You smell sweeter than the cotton candy wafting on the breeze.

"Yes, our beast is very furious indeed. But alas, he demands his time in the spotlight." I glance at the trembling husk of a man who stands ready to drop the curtain from the lion's cage. "Ladies and Gentlemen, boys and girls of all ages, without further ado, I give you our great and mighty... Pharaoh."

Like a choreographed dance, the curtain is drawn, the bar holding Pharaoh in his cage is released, and he bounds into the center of the arena, roaring and snarling in every direction.

"More," I whisper, and he obliges, bounding forward and stopping within inches of the front row. Shrieks flutter straight into my heart, a lovely sound.

"Now, Pharaoh," I chide, for all to hear. "Don't eat the people. They're here to see you. Come here, lovely." He struts over to me, his snarls making him sound like a petulant child. He plays this part so well. A ribbon of pride ties a bow around my heart. Reaching a hand forward, I feign trying to pet him. On cue, he snaps razor-lined jaws at me, his hot breath reminding me of kerosene and peanuts.

Addressing the audience, I say, "It seems he has no time for me. But I have the distinct feeling one of you might have better luck. Who would like to try?" The crowd stirs, mumbling their fear. Heads shake in desperate disagreement. "Anyone? Step right up! Who would dare to tame the ferocious Pharaoh?" I wait, once more, knowing there won't be a volunteer. "A shame," I sigh. "It seems I'll have to choose then. Let's see... you. You in the back, with the dreads." My choice weakling raises his eyebrows. His gaze darts to the tent exit only steps away.

I laugh. "Yes, you. You will tame the cat tonight."

His head shakes back and forth, no, even as he stands and begins climbing down.

"You will help Pharaoh put on the show of a lifetime and if you are lucky—which I truly think you are—you will live to tell the story."

Pharaoh hisses threateningly at the new addition to the ring, pawing at the dirt-covered floor. The sound sends an odd shiver across my skin because... I didn't tell him to do it.

Control.

Reigning in the feeling, I focus on my helper. He has stopped several feet in front of me and up close I can see he is much taller than I first thought. Not as thin either. What makes me, for the first time, think twice about my choice is what I see when I look into his eyes. Fear mixed with excitement. A bubbling cocktail of terror and joy—on the rocks. I see in him what I feel. Like looking into a mirror through somebody else's eyes.

It sends me grasping at all my strings. I catch them just before they slip away.

In my bold voice, "May I present to you the Great and Powerful Cordova!"

Applause booms but I hear him clearly when he says, "Cordova? I like that name."

Ignoring him, I snap the cord connecting us until it is tight as a bow string. Going by the jerk of his head, he feels it. Good. Complete cooperation will be needed for this one.

But instead of bringing him to heel, it does something else. Something that leaves me aching and reeling at the same time: he snaps back. And when he realizes what he's done and the effect it has on me, he does it again. The feel of the bond going both ways leaves me breathless with panic.

This has never happened before. I don't like it. To be clear, I loathe it.

Glaring up into his eyes, it's like a butterfly being birthed from its cocoon. Look at these wings I have now. Look at this thing I can do. What do they call it? Flying?

"Well, now. What do we have here?" he whispers gleefully. There is another snap of our bond and I'm jerked off my feet.

Steel cable—and that's with me resisting.

His smile is wide and revealing. He takes a deep breath and it feels like he's sucking all the free air out of the tent. Maybe the world. There won't be any air when he's done, I just know it.

"I feel it," he says, everything about him sparkling like a newborn. "I understand now. This is... exhilarating."

He circles, scanning the now silent audience as I did only moments ago. He is tall and firm and dominant. In charge. Even Pharaoh is silent. The only sound I hear is me, inside, screaming and snarling and desperately yanking at my leash.

"Give me your hat," he says. His command threads through me, becoming an urge I can't resist.

But I do. I resist.

He comes close, cupping my cheek, a tender threat. "Give me your hat. Now."

My hand reaches up, fingering the silk brim. No matter how much I fight I can't stop myself from lifting it off my head and passing it over. He spins it in his hand, admiring, before fitting it over his dreadlocks.

"Fits perfectly," he says with a grin. "The jacket."

No. I won't do it. I give him the jacket, I give him everything. I won't. I can't.

Control.

This is my Carnivoule. Mine.

"No," I say, loud and clear.

His head cocks to the side. My top hat fits so perfectly, it doesn't even shift with the movement. "Aw now," he smirks, "don't you realize what has happened? For the first time as Ringmaster, you've met the one you can't control. You've failed Carnivoule and now Carnivoule has chosen another to do its mastering." His smile is filled with mock pity as he places a deceptively gentle hand on my shoulder. "Carnivoule has chosen me. Now, give me the jacket."

No. No, no, no. I have not failed. I am Ringmaster. I am. Control. Control...

Somehow, he has the jacket. My leash is tight. I can't hear the crowd. I can't feel them.

"Ladies and Gents, allow me to introduce myself. I am Cordova, Master of the Carnivoule. A round of applause for my lovely assistant..." he gestures to me, "Indora."

The applause is deafening. It steals what's left of my breath, my dignity.

THAT'S NOT MY NAME. That's not my name. My mouth is frozen shut but my mind screams. He can't call me that. I'm not Indora.

I'm... I'm... not the master. I'm forever Heathcliff. I'm... Indora.

I am alone. Control has left me, divorced, a beggar on the street. What I wouldn't give for one more taste of it. But there is nothing. Nothing but my leash and my master. My Carnivoule.

T.A. Brock spends her days gleefully plucking words from the chaos of life and dressing them up so they look pretty. Then she calls them stories and tries to convince people to read them. She resides in the great land of tornadoes (Oklahoma) with her husband, two children, and her beloved Kuerig machine.

Find her at http://www.tabrockbooks.com/

The Closest Kind

by Calyn Morgan

The bright lights of Reckless Rick's Carnival and Emporium overpower the glittery backdrop of the night sky. The moon hangs low and round over the rickety carnival that popped up overnight in the parking lot of the abandoned strip mall near City Hall. No one knows where the carnival came from, but it being here is the most excitement this town has seen in years. Practically everyone I know is here.

Food carts promising the world's best corn dog and ice cold beverages line the main pathway, with games of chance and skill that my boyfriend Greg insists are rigged littered between them.

An energy pumps through my veins as if I'm somehow connected with each person here. A central link that binds us all together in carnival bliss. The energy comes with a subtle déjà vu. I can't recall any time in my life when I've been this aware of myself and my surroundings, but the familiarity is as strong as if I had. This level of awareness feels inhuman and unnatural.

"Emily, you okay?" Greg asks, embracing me from behind.

"Yeah, carnival high I guess." I turn in his arms to meet brown eyes.

He pulls me closer, and our lips meet softly. I don't care that we're standing in the middle of the carnival or that families are passing around us, most likely casting judgmental stares in our direction. Being the small town that it is, this will no doubt make it back to my mother, with exaggerated heated passion I'm sure, and I'll get an ear full about how to be a proper lady, but I couldn't care less. When I'm with Greg, nothing else matters, and that's both exhilarating and terrifying.

"Hey, check this out," Myra calls from up ahead with her boyfriend – my older brother – Sam.

I look up the pathway where she and Sam are standing, but instead of them being off in the distance where I had expected them to be, they're suddenly right beside me. For a quick moment, I had thought they must have run the distance between us with lightning speed, but then I realize they aren't the ones who moved. I am.

To my right, Greg is standing there like nothing happened. Noticing my stare, he gives me a closed lip smile and raises an eyebrow, "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," I say unsure how to explain.

The shock of the sudden change feels heavy in my heart. Looking back to where I thought we were standing, between the ring toss and the corn dog stand, a large patch of what looks like oil stains the asphalt.

I try to picture us standing there, try to remember if the oil stain was beneath our feet as we kissed. Though, like a dream, the more I try to remember, the harder it is to recall.

"Let's get on it," Sam says, pulling my attention back.

Sam, Myra, and Greg are standing in a uniform line, neon lights reflecting off their faces. Sam's arm is outstretched, mindlessly pointing to something as if I didn't just defy the laws of physics. I follow his finger to a spacecraft with U.F.O. flashing in bright neon letters above it. The craft is spinning entirely too fast, extended out on a retractable arm, no doubt causing disarray to the people inside who are immobilized against the interior wall by the centrifugal force.

"Look, there isn't even a long line," Sam says giddily. I don't think I've ever used the term giddy to describe my brother, yet there he goes running up the queue like a mad man who won the lottery. Myra gives me a wide grin and turns on her heels to follow Sam, her pony tail whipping the air behind her.

Greg reaches out for my hand, and I take a step toward him, but he doesn't move, and I bump right into him.

"Whoa," he says holding me steady. "Easy there tiger."

"Sorry," I laugh. "Do you not want to get on?"

He looks at me with worried eyes. "No I do. I mean, we've already been waiting for like five minutes so might as well, right?"

"We what?"

I look over his shoulder to find that I am no longer looking at the ride from a distance, but up close and personal, standing in line with a dozen or so people behind me.

"What the hell?" I say louder than expected, unable to hold my panic inside any longer.

"What's wrong?" Greg asks, placing a hand on each of my shoulders. "You're freaking me out."

"What the hell is happening?" I demand, eyes stinging with the threat of tears.

Sam, Myra and a few of the other patrons in line look at me like I'm a crying baby in a movie theater.

"What are you talking about?" Sam says annoyed. "The ride's almost over. We're about to get on."

"But," I lower my voice and lean in closer, "but we were just standing over there."

I point to our previous spot about twenty-five feet away, and just as before, an oil patch covers the ground where the four of us once stood.

"Yeah, and we walked here," Sam says, using his fingers to mimic walking then pointing to the ground at his feet.

"No, you walked here. I watched you. I took one step and suddenly I was already here."

"Calm down," Greg says in a softer tone.

"Don't tell me to calm down!" My voice is strained. "I don't understand what's happening."

"You're acting like a child. Stop making a scene," Sam says, and then turns around to face the front of the line.

I glare at the back of his head and turn to Myra, pleading for some kind of an answer.

"Emily, honey, Sam's right," she says. "We walked over here and we've been waiting in line for about five minutes, I think."

"What have I been doing for five minutes?" I ask looking between her and Greg. Myra shrugs.

"Hanging out," Greg says, more like a question than an answer.

I'm on the verge of hysterics. I can feel myself about to let loose all of the pent up energy running rampant in my body.

"Greg, I need you to think for me, about what I've been doing for the past five minutes. Did you rub my neck, or kiss me? Hold my hand? Did you talk to me at all? Did I sneeze or cough?" My voice sounds as desperate as I feel.

"I don't know." His voice cracks and his eyes are nervous."We were just standing in line."

"You can't remember, can you?" I ask in realization.

Before he can answer, the carnie opens a hatch on the front of the spaceship. He has brown hair pulled back in a low, short ponytail. His shirts wrinkled and his jacket is frayed at the tips of the sleeves. There is something oddly organized about his disheveled look.

The current occupants spill out of the open hatch, with looks of daze and bewilderment. Some are hunched over, holding their stomachs. Others are looking around as if they're lost. It's hard to explain on top of all the other weird shit, but watching them look around the carnival as if they just walked into a new world is the icing on the unsettling cake.

I feel myself letting go. About to burst, I lock eyes with the carnie, who is weirdly enough already looking at me. His face is slack, completely void of emotion.

His eyes follow as I make my way up the line, toward the vessel. I have a sudden strange fear that if I were to look away from him he would disappear. As if maybe, he isn't real. Maybe nothing that's happened today has been real.

I smell a faint waft of cinnamon as I pass by the carnie, too close for comfort. Even in the moonlight his eyes are impossibly blue. It feels as if he's piercing into my soul, digging up my innermost secrets and worst fears.

Earlier, I felt I was connected to everyone here, but the only connection I feel to the carnie is my fear and his ability to cause that fear.

A magnificently large smile erupts across his face, and he places a heavy hand on my shoulder, squeezes lightly, and tells me very simply, "Everything is going to be alright," and I believe him. The smoothness of his voice washes away the ominous feelings plaguing my judgment, and to be honest, I don't know what I was getting so worked up for anyway. I'm sure there's an obvious explanation for the odd things that have happened here today. I shouldn't let it get to me. We're here to have fun after all.

I return the smile, and he nods towards the ride's entrance.

I follow Greg up the stairway and into the vessel. The entire circumference of the ride is a flat sheet of grated metal. Vertical sections are partitioned off by wobbly poles and thin wire fencing. A dingy piece of rope connects the poles in front of each pod; I have to duck under it to get inside.

I pull at the rope testing its strength and durability. If something were to malfunction, I highly doubt this rope would save any lives.

Greg takes the compartment to my left, and Sam and Myra take the two spots directly across from us. A few more people hustle in, filling every compartment with an eager body awaiting a cheap thrill.

"Alright," the carnie says, hopping through the hatch and onto the platform.

His emotionless face is traded this time for one full of exaggerated excitement. He whirls around the ship with too much energy, spot checking the useless ropes.

"My name is Finley," he says with a slight bow, "and I am your tour guide for all things unidentified. Please keep your feet firmly planted on the ground at all times."

He walks into our proximity and stops short of Greg, sticking a finger out towards him. "No showing off for the pretty lady," he says, looking from me to Greg, accusation in his smile.

My cheeks grow hot, and my stomach flutters from the attention.

"What!" Greg says with a laugh, surprised for being called out. Though, in Finley's defense, Greg does have that mischievous look about him.

Finley spins, waving his arms outward in a grand gesture. "Are you ready to have an out of this world experience?"

"Yeah," a few people call out weakly. I roll my eyes at the obvious cheesiness of the line.

"I think, you can do better than that," Finley says, placing a hand over his heart. His facial expressions may be convoluted but his words are so infused with emotion it's mesmerizing. "Are you ready..." he starts once more, each word more enthusiastic than the last, "to have an out of this world experience?"

A roar of nervous excitement tears throughout the room and vibrates off the walls.

"That's what I like to hear!"

He jumps around the middle once more and stops just shy of the hatch, then turns to face us all.

"I do have to warn you," he says, looking around the room at each person one-by-one. "This ride is one of the most intense we have here at Reckless Rick's. If at any time it becomes too much for your little hearts to handle, close your eyes and go to your happy place..." His eyes fall on me and lingers, "...and know it will all be over soon."

Finley shoots me another abnormally wide smile and winks. He disappears out the hatch, closing the door and locking us all in. My nerves heighten, and I white knuckle the metal bars. I look up to find Sam pointing his finger at me and laughing. Myra's shaking her head with amusement.

"How did I let you talk me into this?" I ask Greg, even though I know neither one of us remembers.

"Because you love me," he says plainly, catching me off guard.

I look over to him between the thin metal fencing separating us, confirming without words, that I am very much in love with him.

"And I love you too," he says, as if reading my eyes, and my heart explodes in the best way.

I wind my fingers in the thin metal fencing separating us and he laces his fingers over mine.

The lights black out, and in total darkness the platform begins to spin. My hands reach out and grasp for the metal bars once more,gripping tightly. Small nervous laughter escapes my throat as a strobe light flickers to life. The momentum of the spin picks up, and I can feel the sensation in my stomach as my body is increasingly pushed to the metal backing until I can barely move.

I tilt my head to the left. Greg is smiling, and I'm smiling, and we love each other, and everything is perfect.

Thrust into darkness again, the strobe light stops, but the ride powers on. An odd green orb barely illuminates the space, from in the center of the vessel. A body appears in the shimmering light, though even in the dimness it's easy to see it's anything but human.

Another body appears.

And another.

And another.

And another.

"Whoa!" Greg calls out, along with other exclamations of excitement from the other riders. This must be part of the ride's attraction.

The body closest to me turns around, and I find myself locking eyes with a stereotypical gray alien. It stands there, with its round head and pointed chin, looking just as solid and made of flesh as Finley did when he stood here not a minute ago. I'm impressed with how a dingy carnival like this can afford such amazing special effects. They look so real, so life-like.

Unhindered by the gravity forcing the rest of us against the walls, the alien creeps forward, eyeing me like a lion does its prey.

The aroma of cinnamon tickles my nose as it raises an arm towards me. Each bony finger is at least a foot in length with five knuckles protruding out under thin alien skin. I want to scream with nervousness, but laughter comes out instead. Its eyes are a brilliant blue that seem to glow in the low light.

"This is crazy!" I yell to Greg, but he doesn't answer. I struggle to look over at him, his eyes are staring incessantly at the green shimmer as if he's hypnotized by the light.

Glancing around the alien and across the ship, Myra is just as dazed as Greg. Sam has an alien approaching him too, a look of stunned surprise on his face. In fact, looking around the compartments, most of the occupants are out of it like Greg. The only people moving have an alien approaching them like me – and Sam.

The alien extends its long fingers closer and closer until they appear to be mere inches from my cheek. It brings its other hand up into view and I notice it's holding what looks like a large metal seed.

My forehead wrinkles as I focus between the seed, the fingers near my face, and the big blue alien eyes, trying to decipher the illusion. What's the purpose of the seed? What story are they trying to tell?

For a brief second, I swear I feel a light brush against my cheek as its fingers slide past. My eyes widen in panic as the fingers latch onto the side of my head, full contact, definitely not a special effect. I suck in a breath that gets caught in my throat. Screams erupt around me – blood curdling, scared-out-of-my-life screams.Nightmare fuel.

It raises its other hand higher and balances the metal seed between two fingertips. My mouth remains open in shock and it forces the two fingers into inside. I can feel them slide down my throat, and I gag uncontrollably. My eyes water instantly and I try to move. I try to kick, punch, or claw at the alien's arm, but moving against the centrifugal force is almost impossible.

Unable to breathe, my instincts take over and I bite down as hard as I can until the alien yanks its fingers from my throat. I suck in labored breaths between terrible coughs. The metal seed is nowhere in sight. The alien nurses its bitten hand against its chest, the other hand remains on the side of my head, holding me in place as if I could go anywhere. The alien takes a step closer and my body jerks out of instinct, but I don't actually move. The force of the ride is stronger now.

Its bitten hand lowers out of my sight and cold fingers pull my shirt up, exposing my stomach. I look down as far as I can manage to see a single finger press against my belly button. Lightly at first, then harder, and harder, until the finger passes through the skin and into my body. I wouldn't call it painful as much as extremely uncomfortable, but I scream anyway.

The alien's finger moves inside my body, pushing aside internal organs, like an examination of sorts. Withdrawing its finger,it leans in, its large face inches from mine. Its small mouth, a complete contrast to the large almond shaped eyes, twitches as it studies me.

And it blinks for the first time.

****

The sun is setting, and the light is perfect for collecting fireflies. Greg, Sam, Myra and a few other people from town are running through the meadow in the center of the cornfield. The stalks are neatly woven under our feet, giving us perfect traction for chasing the hundreds of fireflies that surround us.

I run up to Greg, and he throws his arms around me, and we spin like they do in the movies. Grinning from ear to ear.

My white dress flows in the wind.

"I love you," I whisper, afraid someone will overhear.

"I...I love you too," he says,but his face loses his spark and his eyes aren't focused on me anymore. They're looking around the clearing, watching everyone in their crisp white uniforms chasing the blue glowing bugs.

"Where are we?" He asks concern in his voice.

"Where we need to be," I say.

"Something isn't right," he warns.

A waft of cinnamon is carried in the breeze.

****

"We have to get out of here!" Greg yells. He ducks under the dingy rope and grabs my hand, pulling me under mine in haste. The ride has already come to a stop, and the hatch opens almost as soon as we get to it.

"Greg," I say after we clear the stairway. "What's wrong?"

He doesn't stop walking until we're completely across the pathway from the ride.

"Dude, what's going on?" Sam asks as he and Myra catch up to us.

"Are you serious? What the hell just happened in there?" Greg is officially freaking out.

Sam, Myra, and I exchange worried glances.

"Do you feel sick?" Myra says, holding her own stomach.

"No," he protests.

I glance over to the ride watching the rest of the people exit, looking deranged and I notice the carnie watching us intently. He lifts a walkie talkie close to his mouth but doesn't say anything.

"Come on. You're making a scene," I tell him. "Just try to calm down."

"Don't tell me to calm down!" He turns to me and puts a hand on both shoulders. "Please, please tell me you remember." His voice is panic-stricken, and his eyes are full of un-fallen tears.

"Remember what?"

"Before the ride, you were freaking about something weird – like time jumping or something. You were in one place then all of a sudden you were in another."

"I don't know what you're talking about, Greg."

"Damn it," he says, shaking his head. "Listen to me..."

He looks like he's holding something back, something he wants to say so bad but doesn't quite know how to put it into words.

"They're messing with your memories."

"Greg, you're scaring me," I say, but he doesn't stop.

"What you experienced today, was a...a crack. Our minds can only take so much working. Finley, the carnie, is one of them." He points to the man with the walkie talkie.

"One of who?"

He pulls me closer and his cold stare chills my bones. "Aliens," he says pointing a finger to the sky.

"Did you hit your head or something?" Sam asks. "You're not making any sense."

"Everything is making sense for the first time in a while. We've been here before."

"This is the first carnival in this town since I was a kid," Myra says.

"No, we come here regularly. They just don't let us remember."

"The aliens?" I ask confused, and he nods. "And why would they do that?"

"The crop circle,where everyone's wearing white, the perfect sunset – it's not real. Think about it. Really think about it. Fireflies don't glow blue."

I can feel something on the outer reaches of my consciousness begging for my attention, but I can't grasp it. I want to understand him, but he's not making sense.

A chirping sound rings out and my attention goes to the carnie. "We have a witness," he mutters into the handset.

Greg's head whips around to the carnie. "What the fuck did you just say?"

"Greg," I say, but he pretends not to hear me.

The carnie just stands there, unwavering as Greg takes off for him.

"I know who you are, you son-of-a-bitch," Greg spits."I know what you are!"

The carnie seems almost amused. Greg manages to get a few short feet away from him when two men in black suits swoop in and snatch Greg up by the arms.

"What are you doing to us?" He yells, pushing against the suited men.

The suits pull him away from the carnie, dragging him toward an un-plated, black SUV.

Greg turns to the people gathered around, watching the commotion."Wake up! Can't you see what they're doing? They've been using us for years," he says, though the carnival goers only look half invested in his words. I can't help but to feel a little embarrassed for him.

"They can't get away with this," Greg continues. "We have to stop them before it's too late."

"It's already too late for you Greg," the carnie yells."You think this is the first time we've hauled you away from this carnival."

Greg's face falls slack with defeat. They throw him in the backseat and I can hear him yell, "Run Emily! Don't ever stop running!"

They slam the door closed and with a shriek of the wheels, the SUV takes off. I watch the rear lights until they disappear around a corner.

****

It's been two weeks since Greg stopped coming to school.

His front porch creeks under my feet, as I bang on the door for what feels like the hundredth time, hoping Greg, one of his parents, or even his sister, will open the door. They never do.

My brother lays on his horn and I abandon the porch and climb into the back of his car.

"No luck?" Myra asks from the passenger seat.

"No," I say, watching the house grow smaller as we drive away.

I was really hoping he would go with me to the carnival tonight. It just popped up out of nowhere last night, everybody's talking about it. No one knows where it came from, but it's the most excitement this town has seen in years. Practically everyone I know is going – well, everyone except Greg.

Calyn Morgan is a writer of YA Science Fiction, who is obsessed with the unknown and and all three Back to the Future movies. Self-professed fangirl, she gets overly excited about almost anything. Currently, she is finishing up her second manuscript in hopes of diving into the query trenches in the near future. She lives with her husband, daughter, and two fur-babies in Baltimore, Maryland.

Sticky Sweetness

by Emily McKeon

The cotton candy was a dark pink. Bobby hated pink.

"Do you have any blue?" he asked the woman running the booth.

Behind the splintered counter, Aunt Nancy perched on her stool. Paint peeled off her sign, peppering her white hair with faded colored flakes. Long, spindly arms rested on the counter in front of her, the skin papery thin and brittle. Despite appearances, Aunt Nancy was anything but weak.

"Sorry, all we have today is pink." The old woman's voice was a whisper, lost among the shouts and laughter of the Dark Carnival.

Bobby frowned and turned away. The carnival was full of food vendors. Why should he settle for girly-colored cotton candy when a booth on the other side of the Tilt-a-Whirl boasted popcorn in ten different flavors?

Inside her booth, the old woman watched Bobby walk towards her competitors. He was the third sale Aunt Nancy's Cotton Candy lost that morning. All because of the color. If she had access to other colors, she would gladly use them. As it was, pink was the only color available. If she added more coloring, she might make it red. Would fair-goers eat red cotton candy or would they shy away from her wares more than they already did?

Aunt Nancy grabbed a handful of the sugary confection and stuffed it in her mouth. The taste was slightly off, a little bitter on the tip of her tongue, but no more than usual. The sweetness clinging to the roof of her mouth overpowered any lingering taste the coloring provided.

It wasn't the best cotton candy, but it wasn't the worst.

Small, blood-red dots fell from her lips onto the counter. They left behind strands of candy, connecting themselves to Aunt Nancy's mouth. The old woman reached up and wiped at the stray pieces.

"There will be none of that," she muttered.

In the darkness, she blinked. Black circular frames gave her an almost cartoonish look. Thick, uneven lenses magnified and multiplied her eyes. Each of these eyes, real and illusion alike, watched the festivities taking place around her.

Families out for the day laughed and fought over which rides to go on. Lovers, both young and old, strolled down the midway holding hands. Couples generally headed towards the Tunnel of Love or Ferris Wheel in hopes of getting some alone time.

Obscured in the shadows, Aunt Nancy lost her appeal to customers. Less flashy than the other rides and attractions, she had been tucked behind the Tilt-a-Whirl and Crazy Eights. Few people opted for the Tilt-a-Whirl when there were better rides to be ridden and the Crazy Eights constantly broke down, drawing only a handful of people to that corner of the fairgrounds.

Burning sugar wafting through the carnival and promising a sweet treat was all Aunt Nancy possessed to lure customers in. Once, it had been enough. Now there were too many distractions. Popcorn and hotdogs drowned out her sweeter offerings. The lights of the rollercoaster attracted the braver ones like moths. It was all Aunt Nancy could do to get by.

She considered moving her shop to another corner of the carnival, but the bright lights and loud noises were too much for her. She preferred her solitude.

A family approached the booth. A mother and father out for the day with their two pigtailed daughters. The girls chatted away, the curl of their hair bouncing. In the weak light, their hair gleamed a dull gold.

"Two cotton candies," the father said, pulling his wallet from his back pocket.

"Oh, Harold. I want one, too," the mother said.

"What the heck. Make it four. Might as well all have the same opportunity to get sick." He flashed Aunt Nancy a smile. She clicked her teeth together and handed him cones topped with spun sugar.

"What happened to your fingers?" one of the girls asked Aunt Nancy, staring at the spaces where most people had pinkies. With a slight hiss, the old woman withdrew her deformed limbs.

"Now, that's not very polite," the mother said.

"Sorry, but she's missing two fingers. I only wanted to know why."

"It's ok. I was born without them," Aunt Nancy clicked from her perch. She tried to smile, but the effort resulted in a grotesque twisting of her face.

"Here, girls," the father said, turning away from the horrid display in the cotton candy booth.

"Thank you, Daddy!" the girls squealed, grabbing their treats from him. With a bubble of laughter, the girls took off toward the Crazy Eights. Their parents trailed after them, putting the first gobs of cotton candy into their mouths. The ride was closed as usual, but Aunt Nancy didn't bother telling them. They'd find out soon enough, not that it would matter.

She waited a few minutes before putting up a sign stating she'd be back in a few minutes. Fresh ingredients were needed for a new batch of cotton candy. It took only a few moments to gather her materials and return to her booth. No one missed her or even knew she had left her station.

With no one else in line to buy her wares, Aunt Nancy settled herself into a dark corner. She pulled out a few bags and set about filling them, spinning her threads into the bags. Wouldn't do to be out of stock when customers came.

She sat quietly, spinning her candy. Each batch was tinted pink with the secret ingredient kept hidden in the back. It was what made it extra sticky and sweet.

The sun went down. Inside the carnival, lights went on. Neons and bright whites, flashing on and off in random patterns designed to attract the rider's eye. The stimulation was too much for Aunt Nancy. She tucked herself away in the darkness, waiting for the carnival to close for the night.

Four sales, that's all she made. But four was much better than none. She'd take what she could get in order to survive. Four sales meant enough secret ingredient to last a few weeks. By then she'd make more sales and procure more ingredients. Aunt Nancy's Cotton Candy wasn't closing its doors yet.

Around the edges of the carnival, lights began to flicker out. Closing time. Time for shutters to be drawn and the empty remnants of the day to be swept up.

Lingering crowds shifted towards the exit. Groups of teenagers and lovers, trying to steal the last bit of fun before it was yanked away from them.

Aunt Nancy scuttled forward in her booth, eight long slender fingers tightening around the shutter's pull cord.

"Wait up. I want to buy some candy before you close." The boy from that morning ran to her, slamming his hands onto the counter before the shutter came down.

"Thought you didn't like pink," Aunt Nancy clicked between her teeth.

"Changed my mind. Isn't a real carnival without cotton candy." Bobby placed his money on the counter. The old woman grinned, her mouth creaking. She now had five sales.

The money disappeared from the counter, replaced by a bag of pink fluff.

Bobby took the candy, pulling some out and popping it in his mouth. "Sure is sticky."

"It's a special recipe." Aunt Nancy leaned over the counter, her eyes all fastened on the boy.

"Well, thanks." He turned to leave and stopped. Cotton candy filled his mouth and throat.

"Do you have any water?" he asked, the fluffy confection muffling his voice.

"Sorry. All I sell is cotton candy." Saliva glistened at the corners of the old woman's mouth as she watched Bobby gasp for air.

"Can't. Breathe."

"Don't fight it. Relax." Aunt Nancy's hands grasped the front of the counter, hauling the rest of her body up onto it.

Red dots, so tiny they were barely visible, ran through the candy. The piece of sugar he had stuck in his mouth was growing. It filled his mouth and throat. Threads of it slid down into his lungs. A spray of stickiness tumbled over his lips, sealing them shut.

Bobby tried to run. He needed to find safety somewhere. His legs wouldn't move. No part of him, save his eyes, responded to his wishes.

Aunt Nancy escaped her booth and stood looking him over. Another week's worth of ingredients, at least. With a satisfied nod, she dragged him over the counter and into the back of her booth. Burlap sectioned off part of the booth, forming a small room hidden from casual carnival-goers' eyes. No flashy lights to attract them here.

In the gloom of the fading carnival lights, four bags hung from the booth's ceiling. Red liquid dripped from each, collecting in buckets set below them. The curl of pigtails peeked out of a bag in the middle, the bounce long gone.

Standing Bobby in the center of the space, Aunt Nancy began spinning. Strands of sticky thread appeared from beneath Aunt Nancy's faded cotton skirt. She spun the boy around with her arms, letting the threads bind him tighter with each rotation. His final thought before losing consciousness was how sugary-sweet his prison smelled.

She's a writer on the go! Her first book, WHO WILL DANCE WITH ME? is now available.

Find her at: http://www.theabsenteeblogger.blogspot.com/
Tabbi's Petting Zoo

by Gregory Carrico

Tabbi had never touched anything as soft as the rabbit she held in her lap. The sensation of its smooth, silky fur gliding between her fingers and the contrasting hard bumps made by the trembling creature's elbows and shoulders delighted her. If there was a word that described how this felt, she hadn't heard it.

"Want to trade?" Tabbi's sister, Clara, asked, offering up her toad.

"Iew," Tabbi said, wrinkling her nose. "No thank you."

She and Clara sat knee to knee in their foster-brother's tree-house. Except for their animals, either of the twelve year old twins could have been the other's reflection. They insisted on wearing perfectly matched outfits and hairstyles, and always wore pretty dresses with hats or decorative accessories in their long black hair.

"I wanted a pony," Clara said with a disgusted frown at the toad. "Why couldn't you be a pony?"

"Mother said you couldn't get a pony, but you had to try anyway, didn't you?" Tabbi asked.

"At least mine isn't a deformed monster," Clara said.

"Well, at least not anymore," Tabbi said with a wicked smile.

"Conner! Dinner time."

It was Mrs. Graham, their next-door neighbor. Clara looked up from her toad with wide, startled eyes.

"Conner, time to come home," Mrs. Graham called again.

Both girls giggled.

The tree-house door swung open and Arlene, their adoptive mother looked in. She pretty and always very kind, even when one of her children caused trouble. The floor of the tree-house was about five feet above the back yard, and Arlene had to step on the bottom rung of the ladder to see inside.

"Oh, hi girls," she said. "I thought your brother—Oh dear lord! Is that...? Where did you get that rabbit? Is it wild?"

The rabbit squirmed in Tabbi's hands, but she pulled it into a firm hug.

"Please tell me you didn't take that thing from the carnival," Arlene said.

"Oh gross. It peed," Clara said, holding her dripping toad away from her pretty yellow dress. It hopped out of her hand and Arlene promptly scooped it off the floor and cupped her hands around it.

"No. On second thought, don't tell me," Arlene continued. "I don't want to know how you got it. But you have to take it back. Tell your brother I said to drive you to the carnival and help you return that poor thing to its proper home."

"But we can't take it back," Clara whined. "We didn't..."

Tabbi pinched Clara's arm and pushed into her thoughts. Shut it, Clara! Let me handle this.

"Arlene," Tabbi said as her foster mother started walking away. "Mom, wait. We walked home from the carnival. We haven't seen Ryan or Connor since we left."

"Girls, please just take the rabbit back to wherever you got it. If you walked here with it, then you can walk back, right? And hurry home. It'll be dark soon." She turned away and walked over toward the fence and Mrs. Graham, setting the toad in the grass along the way.

"What are we going to do?" Clara asked, wide-eyed and near panicked.

"Get a hold of yourself," Tabbi said. "I can't hear you think when you get so emotional. Honestly."

****

The rabbit seemed heavier on the walk to the carnival. They carried it between them in a white painter's bucket, stopping a few times to switch sides and rest their arms. Clara's anxiety bothered Tabbi. It interfered with their twin connection, and Tabbi wanted to talk about their plan without the risk of being overheard. It would have to wait until Clara calmed down.

Stepping through the carnival gates, Tabbi inhaled the refreshingly chaotic atmosphere. She loved the carnival. It was a place of risk taking, of rule breaking. It was place where the outsider and the misfit could feel at home, where weird was normal.

Countless discordant sounds bled together, combining the voices of man, machine, and beast into a joyful chorus. The frenetic, insistently happy music, the cries of vendors and game masters, the rattling, creaking, clacking of the rides, and the screams of children and adults all made a lovely song.

The aromas of every imaginable kind of food cooking in deep fryers battled with the stench of animals, garbage, and strong perfume. This place was the best and worst of humanity in a giant blender, and it gave Tabbi a delicious smoothie of the emotions that she could only pretend to feel.

Dressed in identical yellow dresses with green sashes at their waists and crocheted handbags over their shoulders, they looked as much a part of the carnival as Tabbi felt.

They put the bucket down outside the petting zoo gate and took a moment to rest. The petting zoo was little more than a tiny paddock with two goats and an alpaca, with a enclosed pen that could hold a couple of children and six or so rabbits.

"Is he okay in there?" Clara asked, pointing at the bucket.

Tabbi shrugged and pried the lid off. The rabbit didn't look well at all. It was sprawled out on its back with three of its legs in the air, breathing in quick, shallow gasps through its open mouth. Its front right paw lay limp at its side, covered in angry pink skin instead of soft rabbit fur, except for a straggly patch on its elbow about the size of a quarter. Instead of a normal rabbit foot, two very human-like fingers protruded from a twisted, misshapen hand. One of its ears looked nearly human, too: pink, hairless and much shorter than the other.

A couple of teen boys walking past tried to look into the bucket, but Tabbi snapped the lid on and sent them packing with a glare that would have chilled the sun.

Clara nudged her and nodded toward a woman inside the animal pen. She pulled a photograph from her handbag.

"There she is," Tabbi said. The woman inside with the animals looked more like an average person than the witch they knew her to be. Her bright green tie-dyed shirt camouflaged the dirt and stains of her job. The same could not be said for her ragged, discolored jeans and brown work boots. The well-dressed woman in the photo with Tabbi's mother would have been mortified at being seen in such a state, but this was, without a doubt, her. Aside from her position in the world and her fashion sense, the last ten years had changed her very little.

"It's hard to believe she and our mother were friends," Clara said. "What if she recognizes me?"

"She hasn't seen us since we were babies," Tabbi said. "All you have to do is keep her occupied and keep a clear head. I'll do the rest. If you get into trouble, just start crying and yelling for your mommy. That should draw attention, and she won't do anything to you with a crowd of people staring."

"Couldn't we just tell her what we did and ask for her help?" Clara asked. She seemed much more nervous now than when first saw the woman earlier that day.

"Certainly not," Tabbi said. "Now get in there and pet those bunnies."

Drying herbs, tiny bottles and frail wooden racks took up every flat surface, and strange abstract art prints and Broadway musical posters covered the walls. The tiny herb and spice vials on the table were labeled, priced, and sorted into wooden racks. At the far end of the small trailer, a narrow door opened to a storage closet and a tiny bathroom.

Tabbi wasn't sure exactly what she was looking for, but when she saw the intricately carved wooden chest at the bottom of the closet, she knew that was it.

She dragged the box into the main room and heaved it onto the table, scattering and breaking many of the tiny vials of herbs and spices. The whirlwind of aromas mingled with the lingering ghost of incense, inexplicably bringing her mother to mind. Would her mother be proud of her? Would she understand what Tabbi was trying to do?

The white bucket thumped against the floor, reminding her to hurry. The spellbook had to be in this box, but she didn't see a way to open it. The catch had to be hidden among the intricate carvings in the pale, worn wood.

The trailer door opened and Tabbi spun around to see the witch stepping inside with a black rabbit in a wire cage. She put the cage on the floor and smiled at Tabbi.

"Can I help you with that, dear? It can be a little tricky until you know the secret."

The black rabbit stood up in the cage, shaking its head at Tabbi.

"Yes, that would be helpful," Tabbi said, reaching into her handbag. "There's something I need to find, and I'm pretty sure it's in there."

The woman raised an eyebrow and stifled a smile. "You are very young to be so sure of yourself. More than one witch has fatally overdosed on self-confidence."

"Maybe," Tabbi said. "Which one of us do you think is in the most danger of that?"

The woman waved a hand at the box and the top swung open on unseen hinges.

"I needed to get in there anyway," she said. "I have a couple of items to store that I don't want to be found just yet." She glanced at the black rabbit.

Tabbi couldn't resist peeking into the box. If it wasn't obvious before, she could easily tell that it was magical. Inside, it was larger than her bedroom at Arlene and Jim's house. It was filled with cages, some occupied by bunnies that cowered in the corners.

"Say hello to your new brothers and sisters. These are the children of witches I have killed, and I have waited a long time for you and Clara to take your place in my collection."

"I have waited a long time, too," Tabbi said. "It's Mattie, right? Mathilda Norman? I'll call you Mattie, if that's okay. You don't know what it's like living in a new house every year, sometimes two or three, with a new group of strangers pretending they love you. Or not. It never really bothered me, but Clara has taken it kind of hard. That's why I've been looking for you, too. You knew our mother."

Mattie laughed. It was a real laugh, a happy one. "Your mother would be so proud of you, she said. "You are just as cold and heartless as she was. I bet you are very powerful, aren't you? No matter. It won't help you when you join the other animals. Instead of terrorizing the world as you grow up, you can bring joy to the children who visit you in my petting zoo." She pulled a handful of dirt from her pocket and flung it at Tabbi, uttering a few unintelligible words to invoke the power of her spell.

Tabbi made a casual fanning motion with her free hand, conjuring a blast of wind that scattered what she assumed was grave dirt before it reached her. She smiled. She and Clara had been mispronouncing one of the words in that incantation. Now she knew how to make it work.

"Very powerful? No, not really," Tabbi said. "Clara and I are pretty strong when we work together, but I know someone whose power makes ours pale in comparison. She is here in this room, too. I can't tell you how much she has been looking forward to catching up with you." Tabbi had been fondling a small glass jar in her bag. She removed it and opened the lid. "You remember my mother, don't you, Miss Mattie? You used to do all sorts of wicked things together before you went all Glenda the Good Witch and started killing everyone with a cat and a broom."

Outside, the first pops and flashes of the fireworks display erupted to the delighted noises and applause of the onlookers.

Inside the trailer, a different light show captivated its audience. A swirling cloud of ash burst from the small jar, filling the room. Arcs of power in red, blue, yellow and lavender cut through the cloud, outlining the shape of a person before vanishing as quickly as the fireworks. Eldrich power crackled through the air, flickering like a short-circuiting lamp. Each colorful flash highlighted the vengeful spirit of Tabbi and Clara's mother. Tabbi smiled, entranced by her mother's terrible beauty.

Matti gasped, and a slow, musical moan crawled from her throat. Terror was etched in her wide-eyed, open-mouthed expression as the specter of the woman she'd murdered so long ago appeared closer and closer with each burst of light. Pain wracked Mattie's face, too. Her hair smoldered, and wisps of smoke climbed up from her exposed, darkening skin.

Tabbi had seen this display of power before. In truth, she found it quite beautiful, and not just for the deep, colorful witch-fire that consumed living flesh without harming anything else. The terror, the fear, the unending agony of a person's final moments all played across the canvas screens of their faces like a macabre study of emotional expression. That was the true beauty.

Matti knew what witch-fire did to people like them. It had a special effect on those touched by the spirit world, those able to manipulate the energies of life and death. Witches, as they were called. She knew that her flesh was very painfully dissolving into a fine, powdery ash. Tabbi wondered if the agony of that transformation would overpower Mattie's horror at knowing it would not kill her. Her spirit would abide, bound to her remains, eternally suffering and dying without the hope of death's blessed release.

Tabbi's mother remained visible longer as Mattie disintegrated. She looked like an older version of Tabbi and Clara.

"Hi Mommy," Tabbi said. "You look so pretty today."

The spirit turned to Tabbi as the last of Mathilda's physical remains fell to dust. The witch-fire surrounded Tabbi, but the arcs of power were drawn to the glass jar.

"Mother! Stop that. You know you can't harm me while I have your soul jar. Get back inside."

The cloud, the light show, and her mother were drawn into the vial, and Tabbi closed the lid.

The black bunny thumped the wire walls of its cage.

Tabbi, let me out of here and turn me back. Hurry. This is awful!

See? I knew you could calm your mind with the right motivation. You should have warned me. Now you'll have to wait. There are four other bunnies in here that want to be children again.

She looked inside the magic box at the stacked cages. Some held rabbits, some contained clothes and items that probably used to belong the rabbits when they were children. Four sets of bunny eyes looked up at her. She imagined she could feel the hope and relief of finally being set free in those gazes. She reached in and stroked one of their soft ears with a finger.

"Aw, that's so nice," she said to herself, enjoying the smooth texture.

Tabbi, please! Get me out of here. Don't forget Connor.

Connor. She almost had forgotten him. He was just a normal boy, after all, unimportant and easy to forget.

She opened the bucket and looked in at the suffering, badly transformed rabbit. "Hang in there Conner. You'll be all better in just a second."

She took a pinch from the heap of clothes and dust that had once been Miss Mattie. Witch-fire remains could work in place of any spell component. She would have to craft another soul-jar for Mattie when she got home.

She sprinkled the dust over Conner and uttered the words of power. His misshapen body parts quickly transformed, leaving him a physically perfect specimen of rabbit. He stood up and tried to climb out of the bucket, but Tabbi replaced the lid. She put him and Clara in the magic box with the other rabbits and wheeled it home to her foster-mother's house on the cart Miss Mattie had left outside.

Tabbi restored Clara to her proper shape before they got home, but Clara insisted on being angry. Even when they found a table and chairs set up out back with a cake, soft drinks and a pinata for their surprise farewell party, Clara refused to participate. It wasn't much of a party with only Arlene and Miss Foster from next door sitting together crying. Apparently everyone in the neighborhood was out searching Ryan and Connor.

This had been one of their nicer foster homes and families, and Tabbi was determined to have a fun final day here with her sister. While Clara pouted in her room, Tabbi came up with a plan. She put on her best smile and went out back to recruit Arlene and Mrs. Graham.

Their foster father, Jim returned home later with no sign of the boys. He found Tabbi and Clara each riding a pony in the backyard, while half a dozen rabbits scattered in terror before them.

"Girls!" Jim shouted to get their attention. "Where are Arlene and Mrs Graham?"

They giggled to each other and struggled to control their startled ponies.

"We haven't seen them since the ponies arrived," Tabbi said.

THE END

Gregory Carrico is an Amazon.com Best Selling horror and science fiction writer, and HFA Author of the Year 2013 Finalist. He enjoys crafting bad guys that readers will both care about and despise. When not creating new worlds and plotting their destruction, he advocates for adopting rescue dogs, and politely urges slower drivers to get out of the passing lane.

Find him at: http://www.gramico.com/blog/

Whack-A-Mole

by Kristin Hanson

Carnivals are magical. The swirling lights, the children who stare wide-eyed in awe of the sights and sounds, the pulse of the music blasting through the merry-go-round speakers. Each night, the fairground comes alive, filled with the smell of funnel cakes and deep fried Oreos.

Until it ends.

Until the crowds start heading for their minivans and the safety of their homes. Children yawn and clutch their treasured winnings, winnings destined to be discarded at the bottom of a toy chest and left to collect dust. But for that one night, it is magical.

Carnies aren't the most trusting folk. Most of us had been brought up in this community, and it was rare that we ever hired on someone new. We never stayed more than one night per city, then we were gone, leaving only traces of the previous night. It can get exhausting. This particular morning, however, I felt especially refreshed.

"Hey, Donny! Get your lazy ass up and help me load up the game! I'm dying over here!" came a voice from inside the panel van. A jumble of curly brown hair peeked out the back as my older brother strained against the full weight of the Whack-A-Mole machine. "Yeah, yeah I'm coming", I huffed.

Our family had been running the Whack-A-Mole game for as long as I can remember. Not the most glamorous part of the carnival, but people liked it. We made pretty good money at it too. The machine weighs a ton and is fairly beat up – my dad jokes that it's just "well-loved". I guess I'm pretty "well-loved" too considering I always seemed to wake up with new cuts and bruises I swear weren't there when I went to sleep. However, breaking down tents in the middle of the night definitely leads to some aches and pains now and again.

After Rick and I got the machine loaded into the van, most of the other vehicles were already leaving us in the dust. Taking one last look around, I spotted the hammer for the game propped up against an empty cardboard box. We'd be screwed without that vital piece of the game, so I ran back and grabbed it. As soon as I grabbed it, a deep feeling of nostalgia washed over me. As ridiculous as it sounds, it's like that hammer and me were old friends and it felt right in my hands, the weight exactly right and the handle rubbed smooth from so many people handling it. I remember as a child, barely being able to lift it to play the game. This thing was almost as old as I was, dark wood, splotchy and discolored from repeated use. "What's taking so long??" Rick yelled over the running engine, shocking me back into reality. I jumped into the passenger seat, threw the hammer into the back and we were off. Apparently to San Diego.

I'd always daydreamed that San Diego girls were all tanned, hot and walked around in bikinis all day. Obviously I'd abandoned that teenage dream, but I was looking forward to seeing what they did walk around in. Sure, there were girls my age that worked at the carnival, but most of them avoided me for some reason. My brother said it was because I was intimidating and I guess I might have been, standing at about 6'4'' and fairly well muscled due to years of hard work. I think he was just being nice though, considering the girls were always batting their eyes at him.

After the few hours it took to drive to San Diego, we arrived at the new fairground and started unloading. My dad, tall and bearded, started walking towards us. "Glad you guys finally made it, some of us have been here for hours!" he exclaimed with a chuckle.

"Aw come on, Dad, cut us some slack. We had a long night."

Turning grave, my father muttered under his breath before speaking to us, "I know. Why don't you boys take the day off? Most of the tents are already up and Mike and I can unload the van. You deserve some time off. Plus, you don't want to miss the beach!" he said with a wink.

"Seriously?" We rarely get a day off when there's a carnival to put on that night. But I wasn't going to ask twice.

"Yeah, go on, get out of here."

We started heading towards the beach. Neither of us had been to this city before, but it was pretty obvious we were on the right path. Cyclists zoomed past us trailing beach towels and squealing kids. Most people were barefoot or in flip-flops and we looked totally out of place in our boots and jeans. We passed a group of giggling girls that looked to be around 20 and I flashed them a smile. Two of them blushed and looked away, while the blonde smiled right back at me, unafraid. I nudged my brother and started walking towards the group. The blonde stood up, smoothed her skirt and stuck out her hand.

"Hi, my names Rachel. Were you trying to get my attention?"

My face reddened and she laughed at my embarrassment. "Uh...yeah, I guess I was." I stammered. I looked at Rick and he rolled his eyes. "My names Donny, nice to meet you. And this is my brother Rick. We're only in town for the night."

"Oh, well we were just discussing our plans for tonight." Rachel looked behind her to the other girls, who were still giggling amongst themselves. "This is Natalie and Amelia."

"We're working tonight, remember Don?" Rick said, clearly not interested in the situation. Well screw him.

"Yeah, we work at the carnival that's going up about a mile away. You girls interested in free tickets?" I'll be damned if I let Rick ruin this for me.

"That'd be fun!" squeaked Natalie. Or maybe it was Amelia.

"Yeah, I think that would be fun. Thanks! Which booth do you work at so we can be sure to visit?" Rachel asked, turning towards me.

"The Whack-A-Mole booth. Here you go and hope to see you girls tonight." I said as I handed over three tickets.

"We should probably get back. There's only a few hours until opening." Rick piped in.

"Thanks again for the tickets. See you tonight!" Natalie said as she did a small wave.

As we walked away, Rick elbowed me and said while chuckling, "Man, you need a serious lesson in smooth."

"Ok, Romeo – thanks for the backup. If they show up tonight, that's all that matters. She was into me, I can tell." I said, half trying to convince myself as we trekked back to the festival site to help with what was left of setup.

The first half of the night was a bit of a drag, but it started picking up at around 9pm. I kept glancing over the crowd for Rachel's flowing blond hair, but soon, my line filled up at the Whack-A-Mole booth and I didn't have a moment to spare. At 11:30pm, with only 30 minutes until it was time to close up, I looked up and saw what I had been waiting for all night.

"Sorry I'm late! Natalie and Amelia dragged me to this bar, met some guys and wouldn't leave! I grabbed a taxi over here, but traffic was terrible," exclaimed Rachel, clearly out of breath.

Smiling, I said, "Well, at least you made it! And there might even be time for you to play a game or two." I handed her the hammer and started up the machine. "Go for it!"

Biting her bottom lip in concentration, Rachel pulled the hammer up over her head and as soon as the game started, she squealed with delight as she brought the hammer down on plastic mole after mole. We were both laughing so hard by the end of it, there were tears streaming down our faces. "Oh, that was way too much fun!" she said while setting down the hammer and wiping some sweat off her forehead. "Whew, and exhausting!"

"Ha, ha, you did great! There's still a bit of time left before we shut down if you'd like a quick tour."

"Yeah, that'd be great. You sure you won't get in trouble for leaving the booth?"

"Nah, it'll be fine. Want some deep fried Oreos?"

The next 30 minutes went by way too fast, as Rachel and I scarfed down some deep fried Oreos and I showed her all the splendor that is the carnival. Seeing the flashing lights reflected in her blue eyes made me want to scoop her up and kiss her right there, but I held back – not wanting her to think I was desperate. Every other girl I had been this close to had run in the opposite direction sooner or later and I was determined not to screw up this time.

Soon, the booming voice over the speakers announced that it was time for the carnival-goers to be heading back to their cars...back to their normal, everyday lives. As we slowly walked back to the Whack-A-Mole tent, Rachel looked at me with a sorrowful look and muttered, "Well, I guess I should be heading home. I hate that I got here so late."

Mustering up all my courage, I suggested, "Well, my brother might hate me in the morning, but how about I ditch the clean-up and we go for a walk – I know a really quiet place under the bleachers that won't be taken down until tomorrow morning."

Still smiling, but looking a little uneasy, Rachel said, "Ok...seems a bit creepy though. What if some creep tries to bother us or something?"

Picking up the Whack-A-Mole hammer and slinging it over my shoulder, I laughed, "Don't worry about anything, I'll take care of you. And it's not too far away from the rest of the carnival."

Once we reached the nearly abandoned bleachers, we slipped into the nearest opening and found a comfortable spot to sit and talk. I started experiencing this strange, uneasy feeling, but I ignored it. As I placed the hammer next to me, we started talking about where she went to school, how she lived with her parents, and all the things I wanted to know about her. I told her about traveling with the carnival and how it's just like being around family all the time.

"Doesn't that get annoying?"she said laughing. "That would drive me nuts!"

"It's actually really comforting. Knowing that people would do anything for you. We have our share of problems, but everyone knows about them and in a strange sort of way, we help keep each other sane."

"Huh, I never would have thought of it that way."

As the conversation started dying down and Rachel yawned, I hesitantly suggested, "Do you want me to call you a taxi? I didn't realize it was getting so late."

Rachel seemed to think for a moment and then said, "I'm not normally this type of girl, I swear, but you really make me feel safe," and before I even knew what was happening, Rachel leaned in and gently kissed me on the lips. As much as I was enjoying this, I couldn't shake that sinking feeling that grew by the second but Rachel didn't seem to have noticed anything was wrong. Rachel leaned in again, this time grabbing the back of my head as that feeling devolved into a rising rage I couldn't control.

I tried to ignore it, and just enjoy the moment I'd been waiting for all night, but it was becoming too much. I yanked my head away, leaving Rachel with a confused look. "Sorry, but I don't think I can do this." I said nearly out of breath.

"Aw, you're such a gentleman", Rachel joked. "It's really ok – I trust you", leaning in again.

"I said NO!" I yelled as I shoved Rachel away from me. Feeling more and more sick by the second, my vision started clouding over, and a rising heat from within my body was taking over. Rachel looked horrified and started crawling backwards towards the entrance of the stadium seats.

"I'm sorry", she stuttered, tears beginning to stream down her face. "I didn't know."

Looking at Rachel backing away from me made me want to laugh for some reason. "Well, that's what you get for being a little slut, isn't it??" Rachel turned around, crouching to get out of the enclosed space faster.

"Where do you think you're going now?? I thought you said you trusted me??" I taunted, seeing her fumble over the rocky ground. She looked back with pure terror in her eyes and saw the hammer, which I unknowingly had begun twirling in my hand.

I reached out and grabbed her foot, yanking her back towards me. With a start, she lost her footing, slamming her head down onto a rock, the smell of blood filling the space.

The smell seemed to make my stomach growl with anticipation and my eyes landed on her gaping head wound, seeing the blood run into her panicked eyes. I could barely hear her whimpers over the sound of my own beating heart. I drug her out from under the bleachers, her body futilely thrashing against my hold. All she accomplished was wearing herself out further. When I let go, Rachel didn't even move, just curling up into a choking, sobbing ball. She begged for me to stop, for someone to help.

I lifted the hammer like I had a million times before and brought it crashing down on Rachel's head, a sickening crunch that coursed through my arms. Her body shook, spasming as the last vestiges of life left her. Then there was silence.

I casually nudged her with my foot, rolling her body over so I could look into her eyes – those beautiful blue eyes that had reflected the lights of the carnival not hours before. As blood trickled down her face, filling her nose and mouth, she looked all the more beautiful now.

I leaned down and caressed what was left of her head, running my hands through her matted, wet hair – covering myself in her blood.

Suddenly, everything was clear. I could hear voices. It took a second, but I realized they were calling my name. It sounded like my brother and father – why were they looking for me?

Feeling something warm drip onto my hand, I looked down and immediately grew faint. Without thinking, I dropped Rachel's lifeless body. Looking beside her, I saw the hammer, dripping with something dark and wet. Then, looking down at my own hands, I saw they were covered in that same blood and it all came flooding back to me.

"NO!" I screamed at the top of my lungs. What had I done? What kind of sick freak am I?

"He's over here!"I heard Rick shout. "Oh shit, and he's not alone – hurry!"

I heard boots running towards me and I buried my head in my bloody hands, horrified at what I had done, but there was no use hiding it.

The footsteps came up short and I heard my brother drop to his knees, gasping for air. "Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit." I looked up to see the look of disappointment and pity in my brother's face, an odd reaction for seeing his brother crouched over the mangled body of a girl.

I looked up and saw my father running towards us and my brother stood up, shaking his head. He gestured towards Rachel's bloody form. My father slowed and bent over her, searching for a pulse, but I knew better – there would never be one from her again.

"Oh god", I choked out. "What have I done? I don't know what happened – something set me off – I thought my head was going to explode! She made me so angry, I don't know what came over me!"

"It's alright son. We know you didn't mean to. Let's get this cleaned up." My father said, resigned. What the hell was going on? Why were they so calm?

"I just KILLED someone! I just MURDERED someone! And all you can say is that it's alright??" I screamed in their faces.

"Calm down, asshole – we're trying to help you! Clean up your mess. Like we always do." The last line almost inaudible, but I still heard it.

"What do you mean like you always do?" I said,feeling only fear, disgust and confusion. "Dad, what is he talking about? Has anything like this ever happened before?" I was almost too afraid to hear his answer.

Sighing, my father said "Son, let's just get this cleaned up and we'll explain everything back at the camp." Instinctively, he grabbed a nearby tarp and started rolling it over Rachel's body, something he seemed all too familiar with doing. I was shaking too badly to help and watched in horror as my father and brother rolled Rachel's body up and slung it between them.

As we made our way back to the camp, I kept my eyes down, occasionally looking up when we passed some of the other workers. When they met my eyes, they immediately looked away and pretended not to notice us. What was going on with everyone? How can they not see what I've done?

When we reached the tent my father and mother slept in, my mother was waiting outside with tears in her eyes as if she already knew what to expect. She ran forward and hugged me, weeping into my shoulder. My head was spinning and my hands were shaking so badly, I just stood dumbfounded there as my family surrounded me with looks of pity. My father and brother gently laid down the tarp concealing Rachel's body, which had already begun to leak through with her fresh blood.

I started gagging and didn't make it far before I started retching so hard my eyes felt like they were about to pop out of my skull. I felt my mother's hand patting me on the back and I whipped around, wiping vomit off my chin, screaming with rage, "What is wrong with all of you? Why can't you say anything? What is happening to me??"

"Sit down and we'll explain everything. Martha, get the tea ready." My father said with a catch in his throat. She silently turned back into the tent and put the tea kettle on.

Moments later, my mother came out of the tent and handed me a cup of tea, still steaming. It reeked of chemicals and I didn't have to ask what was in it. Something to make me calm down. Something I desperately wanted to do right then. Then, maybe I could grasp what was going on.

Staring into the eyes of my family, I took a deep breath and downed the tea in one gulp. At first nothing happened, but then the floor began falling towards me as I fell face first into the mud, not waking again until morning.

The next morning, I awoke to the familiar sounds of my fellow carnies packing up. I didn't remember going to bed last night and I must have been in bad shape because my arm had fallen asleep underneath me and I had pounding headache.

"You awake yet, lazy ass?" I heard Rick's voice come from outside the tent. I rose up and slipped on some shorts and stepped outside. Looking across the site, I saw two police cars stopped at the entrance, speaking to the manager. "Wonder what that's about?" I said to no one in particular.

"Apparently some girl's mom called and said her daughter was here last night but that she never came home. She probably just got drunk and ended up at a friend's house." Rick said, a little too quickly.

"Hmph. Oh well, hope they find her. Need help with anything?" Damn, my head hurt.

"Uh, nah I got this. Want to go check and see if anyone else needs anything?"

I found myself wandering over to where some guys were taking down the last of the stadium seating and loading it into trucks. I walked up and offered to help with the last of it, but they all just avoided my eyes and said they didn't need my help. Whatever, less work for me. As I started walking away, I saw something out of the corner of my eye. I headed over and saw the hammer from the Whack-A-Mole machine standing up against a rock. It looked almost shiny in the morning light. "How'd you get all the way over here, little guy?" I said playfully as I picked it up. I slung it over my shoulder like I had a million times before and headed back to the van where my brother had just finished loading up the tents.

"Hey, look what I found?" I chuckled as I threw the hammer in the back of the van.

Rick cringed, I guess from the sound it made, and then gave me a half-smile. "Yeah, we wouldn't want to leave that lying around, would we?"

As I hopped in the van beside Rick, I turned and looked out the rearview mirror one last time at the slowly emptying festival site. I saw the police lights circling in the distance, becoming blurry as we drove towards our next destination.

"Such a crazy life we lead...." Rick muttered, more to himself it seemed than to me.

"Yeah...but I wouldn't wanna miss a second of it!" I chuckled to myself as I leaned my seat back, put my hands behind my head and closed my eyes as the sun beat in on my face. I started daydreaming about the carnival sounds, the flashing lights and the looks on beautiful girl's faces when their eyes reflected it all.

Kristin Hanson is a lover of books and ethical food. The walk into the creepy halls of the Dark Carnival is one of her first ventures into published writing.

Find her on Twitter: @nuclearkrizzle

The Hollow

(A Witch Hunter Saga short story)

by Nicole R. Taylor

My name is Aya and I am a Witch Hunter.

I am the bringer of retribution with white-hot flame. I wield the fire that will take your power and render you mortal. I can burn your soul to ash and make you beg for your life. Vampire. Witch. Hybrid. Creature of power. I am all of these things.

In twelve hundred years, I thought I'd seen everything. That was until I walked into the dark forests of Austria looking for the Devil Who Walks.

****

Bregenz, Austria, 1230AD

It had been a week since she heard whisperings of a horror that lived in forgotten corners of the dark forests of Austria. A feeling at first, a malice that tickled at her skin, and then the stories began spreading. The villages she passed through were alive with tales of a creature that had become known as the Teufel wen laufen. The Devil who walks.

A monster that stalked the forest at night, tearing apart anyone who lingered, and drank their blood. Bodies would be discovered strung up in the treetops and smeared red by huntsmen once the sun rose. Over the course of a few short weeks, people began disappearing more frequently and the stories had evolved to include the constant scent of blood on the air. No one ventured into the forest anymore and to appease the Devil, the bravest of men would go out before twilight and leave offerings of blood and flesh. They believed if the devil was sated, then it wouldn't come into the village and they would be safe.

Aya knew better than to believe in old superstitions. The villagers didn't need a sacrifice... they needed a stake.

The forest loomed around her as she walked, searching for signs of the Devil. A million thousand year old pines that had lost their needles stretching into infinity. They looked like skeletons reaching their pointy fingers towards the sky, piercing out of the mist like hoards of the dead. But when she looked closer, the trees were in fact laced with bones.

Old pagan superstitions were brought back to life by the stories of the walking devil. Human bones dug from graves, fresh sacrifices stripped and boiled of flesh, tied into the trees as a ward to keep old powers from invading the village. It had become much worse than she had feared.

Despite her worry, Aya snorted. Useless baubles. Needless death and desecration. A breeze shifted the mist slightly, bones clicking together in the branches. If she wasn't so devoid of fear, perhaps her spine might have tingled. Should she be afraid of the things that lurked in the darkness? Perhaps, but even she rivaled the worst of them. Her ego told her that they should be afraid of her.

The sounds of sobbing reached her ears long before she found the source. A young girl of around fourteen years was tied to a tree in the center of a clearing. Her head hung in defeat and her terror washing over Aya in waves of nausea.

She wasn't particularly pretty; perhaps that was why she was left here. Poor families married off their daughters for the dowry and the prettier they were, the more they were worth. This girl must have been deemed worth sacrificing by her village. It was horrible and barbaric, and Aya wouldn't let her die at the hands of the devil. She would use her, but she wouldn't die tonight. The girl would be the bait that trapped the devil.

As the forest blackened into night, she didn't have to wait long at all. It was a prickling against her skin at first, then a weight on her shoulders pressing into her lungs. The devil was coming.

As the presence approached, she waited, eyes searching the mist. Soon enough, a form began to appear through the trees, fast at first, but when the devil sensed her lingering, it slowed to a walk. The devil seemed to be a man, or had once been, and he took slow purposeful steps towards the clearing.

Aya could smell him long before she could make out his features. He stunk of old blood and rot, like he had forgotten how to take care of himself. Before he broke through the tree line, he darted forward, intending to scare her, she supposed, but she'd always been light on her feet. As he came for her, her hand shot up and grasped the flesh of his neck, stopping him mid-stride. She stared into black eyes and fangs, but she would have recognized his features anywhere. Curly hair, wide shoulders and a strong brow. It was unmistakable.

"Ser Tristan?" she gasped. How?

"Lady Arrow is a vampire?" he said, cocking his head to the side. "Now I understand why you were so good at killing."

For the first time that she could remember, she was truly lost for words. Lady Arrow was the name she had gone by then, but it was one of many identities she had taken over her long life. The last time she had laid eyes on Ser Tristan was in the Holy Land on the march for Jerusalem. And that was a very long way from the dark Austrian forests in which they now stood.

Tristan seemed almost amused that she held him by the throat and unconcerned that she was much stronger than he seemed to be. "Were the Crusades bloody enough? What does the blood of the Holy Land taste like? I imagine it would be ripe with God. I imagine it would burn one from within like the devils we are."

Yes, it was true she had fought side by side with him during the Crusades, but that had to be forty years ago. The man who stood before her didn't look a day over thirty human years and besides, he wasn't human anymore.

"What happened to you?" she whispered, her blue eyes trying to pierce through the blackness that his had become in his vampirism.

"I'm hungry." His lips curled around each word like they were a delicacy. She knew he wasn't really looking at her - even she could hear the thumping of the girl's heart, the swooshing sound of her blood.

Aya saw Tristan's muscles begin to tense and she pushed a shoulder into his chest, driving the air from his lungs and threw him over her shoulder as hard as she could. His body sailed through the damp air and crashed into the trunk of a pine, the branches of bones rattling violently. The girl let out a blood- curdling scream and began to run back towards the village, but Tristan was on his feet in an instant, ready to pursue, but Aya was on him again.

"You will not feed on her, Tristan," she snarled, pushing him face first into the ground. "Not while I am here. I forbid it."

A horrible, gut-wrenching wail tore from his throat as Aya pressed a knee into his back as she allowed the girl to escape into the night. Struggling with all his strength, he cried out like a wounded animal, clawing and scratching at the ground, teeth snapping. Aya didn't have a patience to calm him down, so she wrapped her pale fingers around his head and twisted. His neck broke with a sickening snap and he fell limply on the ground, eyes open and vacant.

He wasn't truly dead. His body would heal itself in a short while and then they would talk, whether he wanted to or not.

She carried him back the way he'd come through the macabre forest, following his scent of blood and decay until she found the ruins of a once magnificent castle. On the outside it was covered in moss and vines, leaf litter rotting in corners of once grand rooms that now housed nothing but crumbing walls and rotten roofs. The main hall seemed to be intact and this is where she knew Tristan spent his nights when the sun was asleep.

A fire burnt in the hearth and a lone chair stood at it's foot and this is where she set him down to wait for him to wake.

How ironic that he would find the one castle that was devoid of human habitation. As a vampire, he needed to be invited into the home of his would be victims. Here, he was free to come and go in his macabre grandiose, reigning terror on the countryside. For a vampire, he'd made himself right at home. He was indeed the Lord of these forests. The villagers even brought him his meals.

With a loud gasp, Tristan's eyes snapped open, clear and green like she remembered. He clawed at his neck as he gained his bearings once more and when he'd found enough clarity, he turned towards her with a snarl.

"There is no use trying to fight me," she said calmly. "Understand that I am much stronger than you'll ever hope to be."

"Who are you?"

His question didn't really surprise her. "Lady Arrow is but a name. A shell."

"You're a vampire..." he began, trying to understand.

"Yes."

"You say it like it is so simple. Yes," he mimicked her voice. "Were any of the things you told me true?"

"Everything I told you was true," she said. "Just not in the correct context. My family is dead, yes. I wanted adventure, yes. I had no reason to lie to you."

"Did you make me..." He gestured to his eyes. Vampires could make humans do their bidding if they wished, something that she found absolutely vile.

"No, but I see you've taken a lot of amusement with it."

He snarled at her, his eyes misting back in the corners. He was quite unstable wasn't he?

"What happened to you, Tristan? How did you come to be here?"

"There was another Crusade," he spat. "I was compelled to go. I was honor bound. They called me a hero." He leaned back into the chair, a look of disgust on his face. "They said I was the reason they could sack the city. If it wasn't for me, then I wouldn't have had to go down there."

"You remember?" she asked.

"I remember..." he stopped for a moment, a far away look in his dark eyes. "I remember blood."

"Where did this happen?"

"The Crusades went on," he said. "Twelve oh four. I met my end in the sewers of Constantinople. Do you think what I am compares to that of the rats that made me? The rats who were once men living in shit and piss feeding on the unwary? I am civilized, Lady Arrow. I live in a castle. My Lord of a father would be proud of what his son has accomplished. Knights Templar with an Austrian castle."

Aya looked around at the ruin and laughed. "This pile of rubble? This is not a true dwelling Ser Tristan. No one had to invite you in here."

"Enough!" He slammed his fists against the arms of the chair, splintering the wood. "You take away my blood and now you insult me?"

"You insult yourself. This is not the Tristan I know."

"What were we crusading for Lady Arrow? How different am I from what I was?"

"You were different, Tristan. You fought, we all did, but you didn't take it further. You didn't rape or plunder. You didn't relish in death."

"Stop it," he roared, hands in his wild hair. "My blade still sunk into the flesh of children just as my fangs do. The only difference is that now... I like it. I need it."

"There's another way."

"There is no other way." He was on his feet and across the room in a blink of an eye, hands around her throat, black eyes digging into hers. "What does your blood taste like, Lady Arrow?"

He crushed her to the stone floor and she let him sink his fangs into her neck, she let him pull the blood from his veins. If he tasted her, then he would understand what she was. But, only a drop. She kicked him off as she felt his fangs pierce her skin and landed on his back with a grunt, but didn't move to get up.

"You taste like infinity."  
He'd never said anything more appropriate in his life. She was infinity.

"Tell me the rest, Tristan," she held her hand out to him, hauling his weary frame from the floor.

Leaning against the mantle, he looked into the fire, wiping her blood from his lips with the back of his hand. "After the city was sacked, I went into the aqueducts searching for survivors. It was there I was set upon by devils in the darkness. Vampires," he laughed. "Animals. No longer human. I fought, but you already know how that ends. They fed on me until I was almost at the point of death."

"They wanted to change you?" she asked, trying to mask her horror.

"No. Another group of Templar came and scared them away. The took me to the healers, but it was too late and I died during the night, I suppose. But, I woke in the morning and who was around to know? Who was I to understand? When they brought me food and water, it was something else I was hungry for. I killed the servant and..." he choked on his words, seemingly unable to continue.

"Then what happened?"

"Therold came to see me. When he saw the body on the floor and the darkness where my eyes once were... he drew his sword. I didn't understand what I had become and it was so easy. Tearing into flesh and bone. Drinking blood. I was so strong everything I touched seemed to crumble. I didn't want to die, so I fled in the night and it wasn't until the next morning that I understood what the sun could do."

"Tristan..." Aya said, moving to put a hand on his shoulder, but he jerked away.

"Is this what you are, Lady Arrow? A devil? Doomed to wander the night forever?"

"No," she shook her head. "There are parts of me that are the same, but I can teach you control."

"Control?" he spat at her. He was on his feet again, fangs bared. "I'm hungry. Every minute of every day. I'm not satisfied until I tear into human flesh. Until I feel warm blood flow through my cold, dead hands. How can you control that?"

Aya twisted away as he came for her again, his rage simmering to the surface. Any sliver of control he'd had to tell his story was gone. He had regressed into an almost animal state, like that of the ones who had changed him, and he'd fight until he couldn't fight anymore. There was only one way to deal with him and that was to deny the one thing he wanted. Blood.

She was twelve hundred years old and faster than Tristan. As he lunged, she was out of the dungeon, slamming the heavy iron door behind her, the bolt driving home with a satisfying boom. Walking up the stairs into the ruined castle, Tristan's cries of rage followed, but she paid him no heed. Either he'd learn to control himself or he would die at the end of a stake.

Whichever path he'd take was left to him to choose, but his days of stalking humans in the forest like a specter of death were over.

Nicole R. Taylor is a Paranormal, Urban Fantasy and Contemporary Romance author from country Victoria, Australia. Previously, she has written for various small street press music and entertainment publications as a gig and album reviewer before publishing her first Urban Fantasy novel in early 2013. When she isn't writing, Nicole likes to spend time curled up with a good book and her 3-year-old rescue cat, Burger. She gets itchy feet more often than not and has lived in three countries and travelled to three times as many.

Find her at: NicoleRTaylorWrites.com

Wait for the Wheel

by C. Elizabeth Vescio

Come on, it'll be fun.

Famous last words.

For Sara Nichols, it was a demented phrase on repeat in her mind as the fog drew closer.

The rolling thunder in the distance snapped her back to her current reality.

Was it thunder? Or was it... something else...

She opened her eyes and looked around the deteriorating room. The walls were corroding with something too dark to be rust.

I have to move.

She blinked a few times, willing the words to stop. If the words stopped, maybe the fog would too. Maybe everything would stop... maybe.

Come on, it'll be fun.

She had said it a day earlier as she and her boyfriend, Darren, were packing to catch a flight back home.

The two of them had been visiting friends in New Orleans. Sara, a photographer with a flair for adventure, was itching to investigate the theme park abandoned since Katrina hit in 2005. Years of urban decay was calling to her.

"I don't know," Darren said. "I read that they will arrest you if you get caught trespassing. Kids have been vandalizing the place and getting hurt."

"It's because they're doing stupid shit," Sara argued. "We'll hit it up in the morning. No one will be out then. No one will care. It's not like I want to climb on the old rides or anything. I just want photos."

Darren still looked unconvinced.

"Come on." Sara threw out an adorable smile. "It'll be fun." The smile always worked.

Darren sighed and shook his head.

"You have to make sure it's okay with Matt," he said. "He's the one driving us to the airport."

Matt had been their friend since high school. Now, seven years later, Sara and Darren were considering moving their life from Southern California to work with Matt at his thriving graphic design firm.

This trip had solidified the idea for the both of them.

New city and new starts... and best of all, new neighborhoods to take photos of. Sara loved grabbing her camera and getting lost in new places.

"I'm sure he'll be fine with it." Sara shrugged. "I'll ask him."

By 7 A.M. the next morning they had the car loaded with luggage and were on their way. Matt wasn't exactly thrilled but he knew once Sara got an idea in her head, it was hard to stop her.

Truth was, he'd do just about anything for Sara. He kept that to himself.

Darren was his best friend, and he had no intention of messing with that. However, it didn't stop the building feelings he'd had for her since their sophomore year in high school.

"Just remember," Matt said as he pulled off the side of the road near the desolate front entrance "Don't climb on the rides."

Sara got out of the car and focused on the front gate. It didn't connect to anything and did nothing to keep people from walking past the blaring "NO TRESPASSING" sign. Her eyes rose up to beyond where she could vaguely make out the park across the deteriorating parking lot. Beyond that, approaching storm clouds were making their way towards the ninth ward.

Her good mood seemed to be sucked up into the clouds in that instant. She blinked, wondering what happened. A heavy feeling began to weigh on her chest.

She didn't move, even when the boys did.

"You okay?" Darren turned back to her.

Sara swallowed and shook her head. "I just... don't want to go any farther."

"Nerves," Matt chuckled. "Don't worry, I was kidding about getting arrested. As long as we aren't destroying property, we will be fine."

"No, I just..." Sara took a few steps back. "Maybe this isn't a good idea."

The wind picked up, making Darren's shaggy brown hair fall over his eyes.

"Are you kidding?" He frowned. "You put up the biggest fuss to do this, drag us out here, and now you are getting cold feet?"

Sara let out a shaky breath.  
This is stupid. What's wrong with me? Of course I want to be here.

She clutched her camera tighter and bit her lower lip.

"Hey." Matt walked up and put his hand on her shoulder. "You'll regret it if you don't go in. You have been wanting to see this place for months now. Let's just go in and take a look. If you're still freaked out, we can leave."

Sara managed a smile. Matt was always pretty good with logical suggestions.

"Okay," she said. "You're right. Of course, you're right."

Darren rolled his eyes at the both of them. "The sooner we get this over with the quicker I can be asleep on a flight back to San Diego."

The three of them began their walk across the parking lot. The plants had begun to take the area back the moment the flood waters receded. There were large cracks in the asphalt where the bushes were invading. Some of the plant life was so high, it was beginning to hide the park from view.

In the distance, Sara spotted the focal point of the park--the the massive ferris wheel. It was accented by the twisting roller coaster metal on the outer edges of the park. The structural bars were still white and the cars still held their cheerful colors. The darkening clouds behind it made it seem that much more vibrant. Sara should have been comforted by the sight of the ride. It was her personal favorite in any park but the heavy feeling was just getting worse.

"It's weird," Darren spoke up, as they were approaching the front gates. "There's no sound."

"How do you mean?" Matt walked up to the ticket booth and peered in.

"Amusement parks are supposed to be so happy," he said. "Full of life, music and laughter. But there's no sound here."

Sara tried not to let his words get to her as she lifted the camera up to her face and took a picture. She snapped a couple of Matt before turning the camera on Darren. He was staring up towards a caved-in roof of the main entrance building.

"Definitely not up to code," he muttered.

Sara kept walking, putting herself in front of the others. She wanted to get in and see this place. Maybe once she was inside, the bad feeling would go away. She wanted to feel excited, not scared.

"So the park just makes one big loop," Matt said. "Like most parks. We will head left towards the ZScream. It's the coolest looking coaster. Then keep going around."

Sara looked at the abandoned buildings on either side of her. It was a small, cheesy looking remake of Bourbon Street. The buildings, once colorful shades of yellow and teal, were now dirty and decaying at a slow rate. The walls were decorated with graffiti and the windows were all but shattered. There was various debris littering the ground.

"Sounds good," Sara said, squeezing her fingers around her camera.

"You gonna be okay?" Darren placed a hand around her shoulders.

"Yeah," she responded. "I guess I just got more nervous that I expected."

"Typical girl, scared of the unknown," Matt made a goofy face. "There's no Boogey Man here, kid. Just birds and the occasional transient."

Sara clenched her jaw and tried not to look up at the glaring ferris wheel. It stood there like a un-welcoming committee. Now she could see the bad shape it was in. Before it looked so bright. There was a reflection on the broken lights that adorned every inch of the spokes.

Now the sun was quickly disappearing behind the clouds, making the wheel look as dull and lifeless as the rest of the park.

Darren suddenly buzzed by her, running left towards the roller coaster.

"Hurry up before we have to deal with rain," he called.

Sara lagged behind the boys as she reminded herself she was there to take photos. She would stop, periodically, and snap a few. Broken lockers, graffiti, rusted doors... there was no end to the ruin. She felt herself begin to relax into her craft.

She made her way towards the boys' chatter while taking a quick look behind her.

There was a mist creeping into the park from the opposite side. The storm clouds were closing in, bringing the fog with them.

Alarm began to ring through Sara's body once more. The park was getting darker and it felt like she was being watched. She tried to disregard the thought as irrational. It was just her mind playing tricks on her.

She quickened her steps and caught up to the boys.

"I think the storm is coming in too fast," she said. "Maybe we should go?"

Matt looked beyond her towards the clouds.

"This kind of weather happens here," he shrugged. "Don't focus on it. If the thunder gets louder, we will start heading back but I can barely hear it in the distance."

"Hey look, guys," Darren called out. "No hands!"

Sara and Matt turned towards Darren who was sitting in a broken car of a smaller ride with his hands up in the air.

"You're going to get tetanus," Sara rolled her eyes.

The wind picked up, rustling the dead leaves on the ground. Sara looked back towards the oncoming storm. There were weak groans of protest coming from the other rides in the distance. It echoed through the empty park, sending a shiver down Sara's spine.

"That sound," she muttered.

"Better than the silence." Darren jumped off the ride. "Come on, let's get to looking."

They made their way down the weathering paved path. It was still trying its best to look cheerful with wavy teal patterns baked into the surface. However, the facade was slowly deteriorating.

This world was broken. Long forgotten by the crowds of people who used to inhabit it on their days off, the park was a skeleton of wood and metal.

Sara methodically took her photos, her eyes always catching something worthy of remembrance. She kept her eye to the black box, and looked at the park through her camera. It was somehow easier that way.

She stopped to snap a photo of a splintering wooden bench that had the phrase "unfuck my world" scrawled across the top.

"Kinda poetic," Sara said.

Darren and Matt didn't respond.

She turned around towards the main path they had been on. She couldn't see either of them.

"Hey, guys," Sara called.

Silence.

She walked back out onto the pavement and looked around.

"Where did you two go?" She tried to keep her voice calm.

Sara walked forward, stopping when she still couldn't see or hear anyone.

"This isn't funny!" her voice carrying into the park.

A low rumble of thunder was her only response. She lifted her eyes towards the storm.

If she stayed on that path, she would have to walk right by the ferris wheel.

Fear began to cling to her legs and inch its way up her body, into her brain. Darren wouldn't pull a prank, he wasn't that kind of guy.

Maybe Matt talked him into it...

The damn wheel was just sitting there, seemingly smiling at her.

I need to get out of here.

"Fuck you guys," she called out. "I'm going back to the entrance. I'm not playing your stupid games!"

Sara turned quickly on her heel and began to backtrack to the front of the park. She expected Darren or Matt to give in to their joke, but the park remained silent.

Sara couldn't shake the feeling of being watched.

The wind picked up again as she made her way back by the dilapidated cartoon ride. Sara stopped, and surveyed her surroundings. The graffiti was now mocking her with its cruel messages.

She fastened her camera strap over her shoulder, secured the camera behind her, and kept walking. She'd deal with her emotions once she was safely in the parking lot.

Ahead of her, the fog was beginning to hide Main Street from view. To her left, the Arctic Zone roller coaster was starting to take on the mist. The area was slowly being engulfed in the ominous cloud.

This isn't right, Sara thought, breaking into a jog.

She neared where she thought the main entrance broke off, only to see more empty buildings in her way. The fake rendition of Bourbon Street seemed to stretch on forever.

Sara quickly followed the building until she got too close to the mist.

I must have passed the entrance.

She turned back around only to be stopped dead in her tracks. The fog was now behind her as well. It was closing in, slowly hiding the large roller coaster from view.

"Darren," Sara instinctively called out. "Matt! Please answer me!"

Nothing.

Sara made her way back to where she thought the front entrance was. More fog. More looming buildings blocking her path.

She tried to keep her breathing normal while she focused on finding a way out.

A low grinding of metal sounded from the center of the park.

Sara crept along the side of the building, her hands scratching the rough stucco surface. She kept her eyes away from the sound.

What's happening?

She swallowed, and pushed further.

I just want to leave.

Sara's hand finally reached a broken door frame. She took a deep breath and pulled herself into the building. It was a better option than being outside. She had the thought that she could go through the building to reach a park exit.

Once she was inside, she turned to look back out into the park.

The ferris wheel was turning. It was a very slow movement, making the cars dangle and shift ever so slightly. The metal was grinding in protest. It was a nerve-wracking sound.

Sara swallowed and backed away from the door. She turned and focused her attention on the dark interior of the building. It wasn't much more comforting than the outside.

The floors were strewn with dirt and debris. There was a large stage adorned with a metallic circle.

Just find a fucking exit, she told herself. She made her legs walk across the room to the opposite wall where there was another door off its hinges.

"I'll be laughing about this in a few minutes," she said, to no one in particular. "Just you wait."

A lightning flash and booming thunder answered her. It did little to boost her confidence.

She reached the other door and pushed the rusted metal open.

Out in the open again, she felt her whole body go cold. The building seemed to shift into a different place. The ferris wheel was still in front of her. She had no place else to go but towards it.

"That's impossible!" she yelled into the air.

She felt the tears of fear and frustration surface as the sky began to open up with rain.

She was overcome with the feeling of being watched.

Just run.

Sara pushed herself away from the door and ran to the opposite building.

She climbed through another open doorway and collapsed against a dirty counter. The walls were black and painted with horrible neon images of distorted faces. It was a grotesque mardi gras.

The grinding metal wasn't giving up. The sound of buckling tension cables was vibrating into the building. Sara brought her face up to her hands and backed up against the far wall.

She brought her camera back around and hugged it to her chest as she sank into the dirty tile.

A low groan sounded up from somewhere outside the park. A gut-wrenching animalistic sound. Sara closed her eyes tight and tried to cover her ears as the vehement call got louder and louder until it infiltrated everything, mixing with the grinding metal and thunder.

Please stop.

There was silence. Sara opened her eyes.

The silence wasn't comforting in the least. She could still feel eyes on her.

Sara's breathing was strained. She didn't know how to process what was happening.

She raised her eyes towards the glassless windows. Forcing herself up, she walked to the front of the building and peered out into the storm.

The ferris wheel began to turn again.

Impulsively, Sara brought the camera up and snapped a photo.

She turned her back and let herself sink back down to the ground once more.

With shaky hands and her breaths still coming in short gasps, she turned on her viewfinder.

The structures that adorned the outer area of the park, were partially hidden by the fog.

But something was there. It was watching her.

Sara zoomed in on the shadowy figure that was right across the way.

There wasn't much to make out that was human. It was tall and lanky, hunching over from its height. It had long fingers that stretched into needle-like points.

A feeling of dread overcame her as she looked upon the figure. It didn't have much of a face, but from what she could see, it was angry. Its mouth was stretched wide in a frozen scream.

She backtracked into her images... it was always there, watching. The lens could see it.

She turned off the camera and closed her eyes again.

This park wasn't abandoned after all. It had taken Sara to a place she couldn't escape.

Why did I want to come here? Her despair was hugging her chest. I just want to leave. I thought it would be fun.

Come on, it'll be fun...

I was so stupid.

More thunder, shaking her from her thoughts.

I have to move.

She blinked a few times, willing the words to stop. If the words stopped, maybe the fog would too. Maybe everything would stop... maybe...

She crept to her left to get out of the building.

As much as it frightened her, the ferris wheel seemed like her only salvation.

It was the only path for Sara to take.

She emerged from the building and cold rain began to dot her face. It was a moment of relief.

An ear-splitting shriek from behind her made her turn.

She cried out as movement seemed to slice into her arms, making her drop her camera.

It landed on the ground with a crack.

She didn't see anything but she sure felt it. Sara looked down to her arms, both sliced open in four long cuts. Blood gushed out and fell to the ground.

The stench of a rotting corpse invaded her nostrils.

I'm cut, she thought. It cut me. I'm bleeding!

Incoherent thoughts began to rush through Sara's head. She tried to piece together what was happening, but couldn't. She could only think about her camera.

Leave the camera, she willed herself. Just go.

She took a few steps back as the shriek began to permeate the area again.

Sara took off running, leaving a trail of blood behind her.

"Please let me leave," she yelled out in front of her, trying to stop the bleeding with each hand, hugging her arms to her chest.

Sara was soaked with rain, and running back into the depths of the park, towards the slowly turning wheel engulfed in fog.

Maybe that was the out.

Maybe if I ride to the top, I will be able to see Darren or Matt.

She wished so fiercely to hear their voices one more time. All she could hear was the angry cries of whatever was chasing her. It seemed unable to fully pursue her for some reason. She didn't want to stick around to figure out why.

As she approached the massive wheel, she felt herself grow drastically weaker. She looked down at her arms and was surprised to see her shirt and jeans were saturated with blood.

I need to rest.

She could smell the rot again. It was close.

She stumbled through the rusted bars of what was once a line formation for the ride.

The wheel came to a halt as she reached out to steady herself on the broken car.

One more screech made her turn again. This time, she saw it. Her eyes locked with the horrid creature's as she felt a searing pain tear through her abdomen.

Sara's terror mixed with her pain and confusion.

She stumbled back into the car, struggling to catch her footing.

The figure dissipated into the air with another wail, taking the fog with it and giving way to another sound...The sound of someone calling her name.

As Sara tried to sit back up, she brought her hands down to her stomach. Something didn't feel right.

She glanced down and tried to make some sort of noise. The lower portion of her shirt was shredded and her stomach had been sliced open. Her hands were doing their best to hold her insides in.

"Sara!" the voice was now closer.

"Darren," she managed a weak call. "Help me."

The fog was dissipating as Sara's eyes focused her boyfriend running towards the ride with Matt fast behind him.

"Where the hell did you go?" Darren sounded angry.

His face became alarmed as he focused on his girlfriend.  
"Jesus Christ, Sara," he sputtered. "What happened?"

The boys were quick to surround her.

"I was too late." Sara's breath gurgled with liquid. "Too late."

"My God!" Matt cried. "How? What?"

Darren tried in vain to stop the bleeding from his girlfriend's abdomen.

"Somebody help us!" Darren screamed into the storm. "Anybody. Call someone, Matt!"

Matt couldn't move. He was frozen in shock and horror.

In the end, Sara began to understand. She had been able to see it in her camera. She had crossed over into its domain and the wheel had tried to warn her. She should have listened. The wheel was her saving grace. She let her fear drive her away from it. Maybe that's what this thing wanted.

Darren struggled to pick her up and carry her away from the wheel.

Sara felt her body start to go numb as the fog began to circle back into the park.

Matt helped carry her back around to the other side of the park to the entrance.

"What did this to her?" Matt asked. "There are wounds on her arm, too. It looks like she was attacked by an animal."

"My camera," Sara managed. "I made it angry."

Lightning zig-zagged across the sky and thunder was soon to crackle and boom into the open area.

"Darren," Matt choked. "Her stomach."

"Please stop," she cried out, making blood pouring over her lips. "It hurts."

Darren and Matt laid Sara down on the cracking pavement.

Matt struggled to pull out his cell phone. His hands were shivering violently, but he managed to dial for help.

"I need an ambulance to the old abandoned theme park," Matt said. "I know we aren't supposed to be out here but my friend was attacked. She's losing a lot of blood."

Darren cradled his dying girlfriend in his arms.

"You're going to be alright," he looked down on her. "Everything will be fine. Help is coming."

Behind him, Sara could see the advancing fog.

"You should go," Sara whispered. "Before it gets you too."

Sara took one last labored breath.

"Don't look at the camera."

It was coming for her, again. It had won.

Jack of all trades and stereotypical black sheep, Cara has been writing somewhat dark and morbid since that teen angst hit somewhere in the early 90′s- probably because her dad was a mortician. After pursuing a degree in English, she changed gears to photography and design in 2006... although she kept penning stories for fun while reading the works of Edgar Allen Poe, Oscar Wilde and Hemingway (whom she adores even though he was a huge douche canoe).

In 2009, her life shifted considerably and she found herself writing Elegantly Wasted- helping her sort out a bunch of stupid feelings and other lame stuff. She enjoys cynical debates, cupcakes, making her mother-in-law sew her aprons that she never wears, zombies, the Fifth Element and Tomb Raider. She gathers her life inspirations from Neil Gaiman, Julia Child and Paul Simon. When she isn't out photographing her next project, she's studying color, concept and design or writing stuff down in hopes it makes sense one day... or she's on Pinterest.

Cara lives in Las Vegas with her husband, John and their three genetically altered dogs all of which have personal vendettas for the guy who cleans the pool.

Find her at: FictionalChick.com

Nothing But Net

by Brian W. Taylor

For Jolene and Kristen, a muse by any other name would not be as inspiring.

Corey Johnson checked his watch for what felt like the thousandth time. Fifteen minutes until the carnival closed. Finally. He wouldn't have even come if it wasn't for Will—his brother's best friend. The guy was a solid wall of muscle who had played power forward before graduating this past summer. It was the same date Corey's brother, Roderick, should have graduated too.

They passed the Tilt-A-Whirl as the last of the patrons exited. One guy stumbled on shaky legs, apparently dizzy. It had been Roddy's favorite. The realization was like a punch to Corey's gut.

"Man," Will said, as if feeling the same sensation, "I wish your brother was here."

Corey walked on, his head and heart elsewhere.

"He was the best basketball player our state had seen in a long time. Maybe ever," Will continued.

"Yeah," Corey agreed. "I miss him. Being here on the anniversary of his disappearance was a bad idea."

Will gave him a playful push. "What's the matter, Mr. Hot Shot, you too good to honor your brother's memory by having some fun at his favorite carnival? I saw you flirting with that community college chick. Your brother would have been happy."

They walked past the funnel cake stand. The mouthwatering aroma of fried dough hung in the air like a sugary mist. Corey inhaled deeply, knowing his brother would have made them stop to get one. Tinkling music sailed on the autumn breeze as an ancient carousel slowed before jerking to a stop a short distance away. A kid from Corey's school — Dave Neiderman–wrapped his arm around a blonde underclassman. They were sharing a box of popcorn and staring intently into each other's eyes. If only she knew about Dave's other girlfriend.

"I don't see how this is honoring Roddy? I mean, we stay here all night pretending he's still alive...then what?" Corey motioned around the tent lined perimeter of the carnival. "It's not like we'll find him here playing games or pigging out on funnel cake."

"Shut up, Corey. Don't say that. Don't even think it."

Corey shoved his friend hard enough to knock him back a few steps. Everyone always walked on eggshells around him. A guy could only take so much. "Don't say what? That Roddy's probably dead? That some drunken hillbilly probably ran him down after the carnival last year because he couldn't pick out the shape of a black kid walking down the side of a dimly lit road?"

Will opened his mouth but snapped it shut and glared for a long moment. "He's not dead. You're his brother for Christ's sake. How can you say that?"

"You saw the way folks treated him—how they treat me now. They only tolerate me because I can ball. Without me, our team -this town – would be a joke. The only reason I stayed was for Roddy. He's gone. It's time for everyone else to move on too."

Will moved closer and pulled Corey into his meaty arms. "It's okay, bro. I miss him too."

Corey didn't want to cry, but he did. Right there in front of all the carnival workers and anyone else. He felt so small, like he had been wearing shoes that were two sizes too big. His brother's shoes.

A middle aged couple walked around the two teens craning their heads to see what was going on as they passed. Nobody cared if Corey was okay, not really. All they cared about was winning the next game and another state championship. Step right up and watch the freak show, Corey thought.

Will patted Corey's back. "I know what'll make you feel better."

Corey wiped his eyes on the sleeve of his letterman's jacket. "What's that?"

"Old Man Twombly is manning the beer tent. Every time he sees me he gives me a hug asks how Lorna's doing. I think the old guy is losing it." He jabbed Corey in the ribs. "I'll walk in, offer to help him clean up, and after I'm done we'll split a case of long necks. Whaddyasay, bro?"

Corey didn't have to think very hard to know that getting caught with alcohol was a bad idea. He could lose his scholarship. Plus, the last thing he wanted was to end up like his brother. "Nah, I'm good."

"You sure?" Will said, pulling Corey toward the beer tent.

"I'm sure. But you go ahead. Just make sure you raise a toast to Roddy."

"A-fucking-men to that, brother." With a grin the size of the Mississippi, Will disappeared into the darkened bowels of the carnival.

Corey walked past the House of Mirrors and saw his reflection twist to freakish proportions. Two steps later, some guy yelled for him to knock a stack of bottles down with a ball for a prize. He didn't really pay much attention until the wind picked up. There was a frigid sharpness to it, almost like it had teeth. Corey shivered and zipped up his jacket.

A man stepped in front of Corey, forcing him take a quick step aside. "Sink a shot, win a prize!"

"No thanks, I think I've had enough fun for one evening," Cory responded without bothering to look up.

"Whoa, what's got you so down? I know this is the Dark Carnival, but you're supposed to be having fun. Tell you what," the man said in a deep, gruff voice, "since it's the end of the night, I'll make you a special deal."

Corey stopped, looked up. He was in front of a game stall titled Hot Shot Hoops. The corn maze was just beyond. If he cut through there he'd be home in forty-five minutes. He looked from the corn to the stall and back again.

"What kind of deal?"

The vendor was tall, maybe six five, and dribbled a basketball with ease. His long dreads were pulled back in a band and his eyes radiated superiority. Without looking, he sank a shot. Nothing but net. "I'll give you a prize for every shot you sink." The guy's red track suit with black trim looked brand new and fit him like a glove. He smiled but it wasn't a jolly expression. It was cocky; a dare.

Corey motioned for a ball. The guy tossed one. Corey snatched it out of the air, dribbled it behind his back, between his legs, and finally crossed the fool over without breaking a sweat.

"Not bad, kid."

"You like that? Wait till you see me use my good hand."

The guy walked behind the small counter and motioned to rows upon rows of stuffed prizes. The place was littered with them. "Take a look. There has to be something here you like. Something you've been searching for."

Corey looked and saw stuffed bananas with tongues sticking out, penguins in all different shapes and sizes, a huge purple elephant, and a row of Rasta SpongeBobs. Nothing interesting. Just as he turned to leave he thought he saw a purple letterman jacket with white and gold striped sleeves in a darkened upper corner. It looked exactly like the one he was wearing. He squinted to be sure.

"I knew you'd find something." The guy stretched an arm up and grabbed the doll. He carefully sat it on the counter.

Corey rubbed his eyes. No matter how hard he tried to convince himself otherwise, he recognized the spitting image of his brother. The jacket even had the name Roddy sewn above the breast. Somehow, impossibly, the doll had the same scar running parallel to its left eyebrow just like the one Roddy got when he cracked his head on the curb when he was ten. The doll didn't just look like his brother; it was him...only miniature.

"Where'd you get that?"

The guy sucked his teeth. "I suppose it was about a year ago. I won a bet."

Corey took a step back as the words sank in. His brother had disappeared around the same time. He wanted to leave but was unable to take his eyes off the doll. As he stared, the doll's expression changed from indifference to sorrow, eyes drooping and face sagging under an unseen weight. It moved. All by itself. Corey wasn't sure what to believe anymore.

Maybe it was a voodoo doll? And maybe this guy knew something about his brother.

All around the Hot Shot Hoops stall lights were powering down. The tinkling of distant music ceased. The carnival was over and would be gone until next year. Corey looked from side to side seeing only darkness and little else. He was suddenly aware of how vulnerable and alone he felt. Indecision stabbed at him. Stay, or go? Maybe he should come back with Will.

"Last chance, young buck. Five in a row and you can have any prize you see, even this one," he said pointing to stuffed Roddy.

"You some kind of voodoo priest, or something?"

With another easy smile, the guy pointed to some stitching above his right breast. "They call me Big Lou. I suppose you could call me a voodoo shaman. I collect...things."

"Things?"

Big Lou pointed toward the empty space where stuffed Roddy had been. He banged on the wall and a fluorescent bulb buzzed, flickered, and illuminated after a few moments. Corey's mouth dropped. They all looked like people, only doll shaped.

"You down for my challenge? Five shots. Five buckets. One prize."

Stuffed Roddy was up on his feet now shaking his head, waving his arms. He pointed at Corey and motioned him away, like he wanted him to leave. Corey's eyes widened. Either Big Lou was the best ventriloquist ever, or something strange was going on.

"Let me put this little guy back so you can think without any distractions." Big Lou grabbed stuffed Roddy, his little arms and legs flailing in protest, and set him under the counter.

"Is that—" Corey couldn't bring himself to finish the sentence. His heart was rumbling in his chest like a tornado through a trailer park. This couldn't be real. People couldn't be changed into dolls. It was impossible.

Yet, somehow, he knew what he had seen was real.

"Why ask what you already know?" Big Lou held Corey's eyes hostage with the intensity of his stare. He had the look of man with supreme confidence, someone who never lost. Just as Cory's heart sank, Big Lou's eyes changed color—from brown to yellow, yellow to green, green to blue, blue to red, red to black, and all in an instant. Then, just as fast, they morphed into what appeared to be cold, flat lizard eyes.

Big Lou blinked. "Boo!" He laughed as Corey jumped. "Ah, man, that never gets old."

Corey shook his head in a constant slow motion, sweeping it back and forth disbelieving what he had just seen. "That's not possible."

"Forget about me. You came here to find Roddy, right?"

At the mention of his brother's name, Corey's head stopped. He winced as if hit by an unseen blow. Big Lou—this...thing—had his brother. And Corey had a chance to get him back.

"I hope you can shoot as well as you dribble. Feeling lucky?" There was that cocky smile again, like a slap to Corey's face.

"Five in a row and I get any prize, right?"

"You have my word."

"I also want your word that you won't interfere. No trick balls. No sudden gusts of wind. Don't even move until I'm done shooting."

Big Lou's smile lost some of its luster. "You're smarter than your brother, kid. I'm sure I don't need to remind you what'll happen if you fail."

Corey looked up at the row of doll sized people and swallowed. "I understand."

"I won't interfere." With an index finger he made an X over his heart. "Cross my heart."

Movement from the prize shelf caught Corey's attention. All the stuffed people were frantically motioning him away. He knew he couldn't trust this guy, or whatever he was, but he didn't have much of a choice. This was his one chance to find out what happened to his brother.

"So, do we have a deal?" Big Lou moved forward and extended a hand. Corey saw for the first time that he had fingernails as thick and sharp as a demon. The word stuck in his mind.

Any fool could see he should run and get the cops. The cops probably wouldn't believe him though. Hell, he barely believed it and he was living it. For some reason, it felt like making a deal with the devil. Corey looked from Big Lou's eyes to his hand and back again, hesitant. He licked his lips. What if he missed? No. He could make five free throws with his eyes closed. Basketball was his life.

Corey grabbed Big Lou's hand and squeezed noticing the searing heat of his skin. "You've got yourself a deal."

There was a flash of lightning and a clap of thunder.

Much to Corey's surprise, Big Lou didn't snicker, laugh, or gloat. He simply walked behind the counter and bounced a few balls. When he found one he liked, he tossed it over. "You've got five minutes. Time starts after you take the first shot."

Corey nodded, bouncing the ball a few times to steady his nerves. These weren't the free throws that would win a state championship. He had a suspicious feeling they were soul saving baskets. Instead of feeling the pressure, a sense of clarity settled over Corey. It was like being in the eye of the storm.

"I got this," Corey mumbled. He walked behind the line and readied himself.

"Ready?"

Corey jumped at the noise. It was then that he noticed four inch horns poking up from the top of Big Lou's forehead, one on each side of his head. Definitely a demon.

Corey shot Big Lou a dark look. "Not a word, remember?"

"You haven't started yet." A forked tongue darted in and out of his mouth as he spoke probing the air the same way a snake would.

Corey ignored the image and let his first shot fly. A second later the net snapped as the ball passed through the center of the hoop. The row of miniature people threw their hands up, cheering Corey on.

One down, four to go.

Corey's next shot hit the front of the rim with a loud thud. It sat there for a split second before rolling in nearly giving him a heart attack.

Sweat dotted Corey's head even though it was only fifty degrees. Three more shots and he was home free. The next two shots both went in as easy as the first. He checked the timer: three minutes left. He looked at Big Lou and smiled—the same overconfident way Lou had been smiling all night.

Big Lou's eyes flashed red but he didn't move or speak.

Corey got into position to shoot when the shrill trumpeting sound of an elephant shattered the silence. Corey jerked, nearly dropping the ball. He watched as a four foot purple elephant charged over the counter. It tore across the pavement moving faster than any elephant should until slamming head first into Corey's shin. Instead of soft stuffing, bone met bone.

The elephant's head moved with fury, goring Corey's calf with it's all too real tusks. Corey punched it again and again. His foot connected with the thing's jaw, stunning it. He limped back. His eyes flicked to Big Lou who stood calmly by, watching.

"You gave your word," Corey spat.

Big Lou pointed to his mouth and shook his head. Then he pointed up to the timer. Less than two minutes remained.

The elephant rumbled toward Corey a second time. Corey spun away at the last possible second as the elephant thundered by. On its way past he noticed a lone figure clinging to the tail, climbing until it was on the possessed elephant's back. Stuffed Roddy jumped on the rampaging elephant's face, punching and kicking.

Corey limped over to the shooting line, leaving a trail of crimson. Leaning on his good leg he dribbled the ball three times. The elephant shrieked a protest from behind.

He let the ball fly.

Big Lou was straining to see the outcome. The elephant roared as the timer ticked down. Twenty seconds. Nineteen. Eighteen.

Corey turned, narrowly avoiding another charge. He kicked the back of the elephant's leg and watched as the two carnival prizes tumbled over one another in a tangle of flailing limbs. They came to rest with one of the elephant's tusks jutting through stuffed Roddy's back. Everyone froze at the sound of nylon snapping.

"Nothing but net, motherfucker!"

The elephant went limp.

A sound—much like thunder–echoed throughout the small clearing. Over and over it boomed. After a moment, Corey looked over to see Big Lou clapping.

"I'm impressed. You really are a hot shot."

Corey fell to his knees clutching the shredded meat of his calf. "You weren't supposed to interfere," he said through grit teeth.

"And I kept my word. You've got to understand that I work for certain...people. They were expecting a full shipment of...dolls. Thanks to your shooting skills I'm one short." Big Lou walked over and offered Corey a hand. His lips parted revealing rows of sharpened teeth where once normal teeth had been. It was the same cocky grin Corey wanted to slap from his face. "I believe I owe you a prize."

Corey didn't need to think about which prize he wanted. "Just give me back my brother."

With a curt nod, Big Lou waved a hand and stuffed Roddy grew to normal size. Corey watched as stitching and stuffing gave way to flesh and bone, a look of horror washed the thrill of victory from his face. Roddy, human now, struggled to breathe. He coughed, choking on a mouthful of blood. Just below Roddy's sternum Corey saw a gaping, tusk shaped hole.

"No," Corey said in little more than a breathless whisper. "No...God, no."

Roddy stretched a hand toward his brother. "Thank...you."

Corey grasped his brother's hand. "Don't leave me," he begged.

Roddy struggled to take a breath. He smiled. "You...freed...me." His eyelids fluttered before closing a final time.

Corey pulled his big brother onto his lap and cradled him there, oblivious to anything else. All he wanted for the past year was to find his brother. He'd gotten his wish and now Roddy was dead. He choked the bitterness down. Eventually the sound of squawking pierced his grief and he looked up to see an empty field where the carnival had been.

A piece of paper fluttered on a chilled breeze and came to rest on Corey's arm. He grabbed it and read the words: Catch the Dark Carnival again next October. See you then!

A murder of crows exploded from the nearby cornfield blackening out the beginnings of the new day. Corey wasn't sure, be he could have sworn their cawing sounded like laughing.

Brian W. Taylor is a former soldier turned writer with a soft spot for the horror genre, black Labs, and soul patches. He grew up in Rochester, New York watching movies like The Evil Dead with his grandmother before Cancer took her, which naturally led him to seek out horror in literature. It was then that he stumbled upon Dean Koontz and never looked back.

His short fiction can be found in SNAFU: An Anthology of Military Horror, published by Cohesion Press, and all three of his Black Gate Trilogy books will be published in 2016 from Permuted Press. He is represented by Gina Panettieri of Talcott Notch Literary Services. He may also have an unhealthy fascination with Mallow Cups, but don't tell anyone. Oh, and never ask him to touch an Ouija board, because he won't. Ever.

He can be found around online at http://descentintoslushland.wordpress.com/.

The Devil's Game

by Kate Michael

The scrolling letters painted on the gypsy-esque wagon called it The Puppet Dance—a game in which twelve wooden dolls with swirling red capes spun round and round on a black and white wheel. Their heads bent back upon their bodies so their faces turned upright then downwrong, and their cunning eyes beckoned with seductive promise while their grins that were more than grins stretched wide open and wicked, daring you to toss your marble straight into their hollowed depths.

The hundreds of swinging puppets framing the giant wheel within the gilded wagon were rumored to have been fashioned from human bones and hair, the same bones and hair from those who'd landed all three tosses.

But that was just a rumor.

The Ladies of Grace Ministry Group called the game an abomination. The parents in our small town called for its removal every year, but the city council called it revenue and refused. The kids who weren't allowed to play called it unfair, and those too scared to play called it stupid.

Those who dared called it by its true name.

****

"Michelle!" Jessica skipped over to my locker, her dark eyes bright with morbid excitement. "Where were you at lunch today?"

"In the library." I stuffed my Algebra book in my bag.

"Well, you missed the juice. David's playing tonight."

A frisson of alarm swept through me. "Playing what?"

"Duh. The Devil's Game." She tossed her curly black mane over her shoulder and leaned in closer. "Everyone was talking about it, about how he'd waited to do it until his senior year on Halloween. Just like Daniel."

I swallowed hard. David's older brother, Daniel, had been the all-star quarterback and golden boy of Whispering Vale High until the night of his tragic accident just after graduation. His car had smashed right through the iron railing of Falling Hill Bridge and kept on going, down and down and down until the raging depths of the Hawthorne River swallowed him whole.

Along with my sister, Katie.

My best friend only just remembered this. "Oh, God, Michelle. I'm so sorry."

"It's okay," I lied, slamming my locker shut. "I'll see you tomorrow." I slipped through the side entrance and ran to my car.

With shaking hands I unlocked the door and threw my stuff across the seat to the other side, then looked up. David leaned against the hood of his red Camaro parked three spaces away, the black racing stripes seeming angry at sitting idle. A number of his friends surrounded him, laughing, yelling, energized, while he remained silent—the center of a raging storm. His blond hair shone nearly white in the last of the October sun, and his eyes, a pale, piercing blue, could freeze or melt a heart with a single glance. He may have resembled his brother, but he was no golden boy. He was wild and dangerous and his smile promised all kinds of hell.

Was he aware that I knew what he planned? In our parallel existence our circle of friends only circled each other and the lines between sixteen and eighteen, sophomore and senior, and the line of his girlfriend's sight, divided us. But a single thread bound us, a glistening strand of fate spun finer than a spider's web, wrapping us together in pain and loss and shadow.

As if sensing my questioning gaze, he turned his head. I should have looked away, I always looked away, because he was breathtaking and untouchable and I was unremarkably broken.

But this time I didn't.

The bar piercing his right eyebrow winked, flashing silver and defiant, before his blue gaze met mine and held it. I froze, or melted, I couldn't tell which. The ground vanished beneath my feet and my heart swelled to ten times its normal size, cracking my ribs and shredding my lungs to splinters as I fought to breathe.

He shifted, as if he meant to push away from his car and break all the universal laws and walk over to me, but I broke eye contact.

With flushed cheeks and tattered nerves, I got in my car and somehow managed to drive home. Once in my room I trembled and paced and failed to shake the feeling of dread rising inside me. David's playing tonight. Jessica's words haunted me. I opened my laptop and there it was for all the world to see. News of The Devil's Game had been crawling along the web of social media for years, spinning macabre tales from one town to another. Someone always remembered somebody who'd played.

And now, those who remembered and mourned Daniel had placed bets on David—whether he'd play or not, and if he played, whether he'd win or not, and if he won, whether he'd live or not.

I sent Jessica a text. Pick me up on your way to the carnival.

She answered almost immediately. ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!?

I'd been thirteen the last time I bought a ticket and crossed the margins into the realm of neon lights and screaming roller coasters, walked through the rich miasma of funnel cakes and corn dogs. Bold and reckless and blissfully ignorant of the shadowed world in which I tread, I hopped on every ride I'd been frightened of the year before, sneaking along the alleyway and sipping beer from Katie's cup. She'd looked at me and said, "Not such a baby sister anymore," and I'd glowed from her attention.

Then she met up with Daniel and they played The Devil's Game.

No, I sent back. And then, I'll meet you out front.

Mom and Dad knew only what other adults knew regarding the game, which was nothing really. They also didn't know Daniel had tossed all three marbles with perfect precision into those yawning mouths exactly seven months before his death, and that Katie stood with him, kissing each marble for luck.

If I'd thought about it, I might have told them, and maybe they would've believed me. Maybe they would've stopped me from going and we could have gone to David's house and stopped him from going. But I didn't think about it and so I didn't tell them. Instead, I met Jessica at the end of my driveway and got in her car.

"I can't believe you're going after all these years. You—" She looked at me full on. "You look like shit."

Did I? I lowered the sun visor and flipped up the mirror covering.

"Here." She tossed her purse in my lap.

I pulled my tangled hair into a bun then pulled out a tissue and wiped the smeared mascara from beneath my eyes.

Was David already at the carnival? Had he already played? Please, God, don't let him play. "When is he playing?"

Jessica shrugged. "Like I have a clue."

When we pulled into the lot at the carnival, the sky was a deep blue twilight laced with pink and lavender. The autumn wind went skip tripping past us, and crimson and amber leaves ran tumbling after, crackling around our feet and sailing straight through the entrance. I slid further into my jacket.

"We have to find him," I said.

Jessica linked her arm through mine. "Not to be a bitch, but he barely knows you exist. What are you planning to do, beg him not to play?"

"If I have to," I said.

"You don't really believe what they say about it, do you? It's just a game."

But it wasn't and I knew it.

We bought our tickets and took off down the midway. A strange aroma permeated the air. Not the raspberry smell of cotton candy or the woodsy spice of cinnamon or the saccharine scent of caramel and syrup. No, it was the sickly sweet odor of burning flesh. And over the clanging, clashing, and high-pitched whirring from the game booths, the surround speakers prophesied "Lose Your Soul" by Dead Man's Bones.

David.

Please, don't let me be too late.

We passed very few families. Tonight, while parents and children reveled in sugary innocence, the carnival played host to darker elements. And in mockery of this hallowed eve, had invited the denizens of Hell.

This time I saw them immediately. Their empty eyes, their crooked limbs, their stilted gait. They twisted and coiled as they stalked their victims, unseen, unheard, unfelt. Except by me. Tainted with belief, the magic of illusion eluded me. Their hunger assaulted me, slithered along my skin, nipping, tasting, feeding. Fear slid hot and metallic down my throat and knotted my belly. I wanted to run, needed to run, but somehow I knew they'd give chase. A rainbow clown not ten steps away caught my attention. He sniffed the air, nostrils flaring, and captured someone's scent.

Mine.

His rabid eyes glittered. My blood froze and my spine tingled and the fine hairs along the back of my neck stood on end. His barbed tongue unrolled between rows of tiny, serrated fangs, then he dropped to all fours, his body contorting with a grotesque snapping of sinew and bone, and slowly crept toward me.

Jessica tugged my arm. "What's wrong with you?"

I hadn't realized I'd stopped and, to her, stared at nothing. I clenched my teeth to keep from screaming. "Nothing."

"Then let's go."

We pushed and shoved our way through the crowd, ignoring curses and hurled insults. I looked back to see the demon clown had found new prey, snaking its tongue out to sting a woman's ankle. She gasped and walked on, her gaze darting forward and back, knowing but not knowing. Bile rose to my throat.

We turned right and passed the carousel, its discordant melody a haunting torment, its creatures bleeding scarlet tears while their riders laughed in terror. We passed the game booths and entered a darkened alleyway. The Devil's Game sat where it always had, in a far corner away from the lights and noise. Red silk lanterns festooned the ancient wagon, swaying, twirling, their beaded tassels click-clacking and tinkling. A crowd had gathered before it.

Within, I saw the hanging puppets swinging and the wooden wheel spinning with its hideous spinning dolls, and in the center of it all loomed the Puppet Master.

Jessica shivered beside me. "That old man gives me the creeps," she whispered.

Only he wasn't the old man I remembered from years before. In fact, he wasn't an old man at all, but a young one. A beautiful and deadly young man. His hair glittered black as jet under a black top hat and his eyes gleamed gold as an autumn leaf. When I met his stare, cunning and beckoning with seductive promise, he grinned, only his grin was more than a grin, it stretched wide open and wicked. He pulled aside the lapel of his red frock coat and on his black and white striped shirt a sticker read: Hello, my name is Lucien.

He winked at me, as if we shared a secret, he and I, and this frightened me more than anything. I pushed my way through to David, heedless of his friends standing round and his girlfriend by his side.

I grabbed the front of his hoodie and said his name. He looked confused at first, then recognition hit. His hands rose to cover mine, sending an electric shock through us both. I gasped. His normally pale eyes looked cobalt in the night, like the sea beneath shadows. His girlfriend said something but we ignored her and she stormed off.

"You never look at me," he said.

I could barely speak through the fear in my limbs, in my throat, in my breath. "Please, don't play."

"You never look at me," he said again.

"Yes, I do," I whispered.

He smiled sadly. "No. You don't."

"I'm looking now. Please, David. Please don't play. It's real, you know it's real."

But he ignored my plea and, leaning down, whispered, "I've always looked at you."

My heart stuttered then flew as the lines dividing us crissed and crossed then blurred and dissolved. David touched my cheek, feather light, then stepped forward. I wanted to scream, to pull him away, but that glistening strand of fate tugged and tightened, and I turned, helpless against it, to see the Puppet Master waiting patiently.

"Are you ready now?" he asked.

"I know how to beat you," David said.

The Puppet Master grinned. "Then buy your tosses, boy, and play my game."

Then I saw them.

The blood drained from my face and pooled in my feet. Two puppets, damp and bloated, their mouths gaping in pain, dangled from the left side of the wagon. A whimper made its way up my throat then shriveled and died. I grabbed David's sleeve and pointed.

He grabbed my arms. "I know," he said. "Michelle, look at me."

I did, with tears sliding down my face, running down my neck. "Do you trust me?"

I had no voice but my heart spoke for me. Despite the terror soaking my clothes and numbing my hands and screaming in my head, I trusted him.

David turned back to the game, his face blank as a fresh canvas before the artist's first stroke. He placed his money on the ledge and the crowd behind us fell silent. Three marbles, one red, one black, one white, placed atop a flat silver disk, rolled of their own volition into his waiting hand. The Puppet Master stepped off to the side, watching David, the wicked grin back on his perfect face and cunning back in his golden eyes. The black and white wheel spun in dizzying circles and I shut my eyes.

I heard the marbles land, each one with perfect finality.

I opened my eyes. The Puppet Master's expression gleamed feral. Someone slapped David on the back and the crowd rippled with excited fear, surged with low murmurs and hushed expectancy.

I couldn't breathe.

"Congratulations," the Puppet Master drawled. "You've earned your wish. So what will it be?" He opened his arms wide as if offering the world. "Fame and riches? The heart of a fair maiden?" He slid his gaze to me then back to David. "The wisdom of the ages? Come now, don't be shy. Your darkest desire is my deepest joy." He held up a finger before David could speak. "But remember, nothing is free."

Only then, I truly understood. You purchased a chance to prove your worth and won your wish at the cost of your soul. This was it, the end, the finale. I'd not been too late, but I'd done nothing, and now I'd lose him.

David smiled darkly. "No, thanks."

Two words and the world stopped spinning and the wheel stopped spinning and the dolls stopped spinning and time ceased to exist altogether.

The Puppet Master blinked. "I beg your pardon?"

"I said, 'No thanks'."

The crowd and the carnival and the lights and the noise, all disappeared, all but us three. I looked from the Puppet Master, to David, and back again.

"That's not how the game's played, boy. Now make your wish, or I promise you, there'll be all kinds of hell to pay."

"This game's over," David said. "I want nothing from you."

Relief, cool as an ocean breeze, flooded me.

The Puppet Master cocked his head with a thoughtful expression. "Bravo, boy," he said. "Too bad you didn't play first tonight."

Then the world exploded.

Flames reared and coiled and hissed and scorched and the heat of a dragon's breath knocked us to the ground. The crowd screamed and scattered in every direction. David pulled me to my feet, pulled me away from the furnace that had once been a wagon housing a game that had fueled my nightmares for years. We watched it burn, watched it melt, heard the Devil laugh.

"What happened, man?" This came from one of David's friends, Gavin, who stared in awe. "Did you torch the bitch or what?"

"No." David pulled me close to his side. "Are you hurt?" he whispered.

I shook my head.

"Wish this sucker had blown up when Clint played," Gavin said.

David paled and turned to his friend. "What? Did he win?"

"Yeah, man. Never seen two people in one night—"

David grabbed him by the front of his shirt. "What did he ask for?" He shook him. Hard. "What the fuck did he ask for?"

"Easy, bro, it's just a game. Asshole wanted you out of the way. You know he's got a thing for Shelley."

Shelley. David's girlfriend.

Oh, God.

"We have to get out of here," I said, pulling on David's arm.

A series of earsplitting pops burst from the inferno as we ran. Fire rained every which way, alighting on booths and people and generators. Glass exploded, tents blazed, and the stench of fried electrical cords rose. The tide of chaos swept us along the midway and David's grip on my hand tightened.

A booth collapsed before us, its stuffed animals now balls of fire rolling, rolling, gone. We turned to go around it and there stood the Devil, basking in his fiery empire and staring straight at us. He tipped his black top hat as if in farewell just as a car from the Ferris wheel slipped, broke free, and came crashing, stumbling, bouncing our way.

Too fast.

With no time to move and nowhere to hide, David pulled me into his arms.

****

The Whispering Vale Daily News Journal

November 1, 2013

A five-alarm fire swept through the carnival grounds last night. When fire trucks arrived, the entire entertainment facility was fully engulfed, resulting in its complete destruction. Scores of carnival-goers were admitted to Grace Ministry Hospital for multiple injuries, including second- and third- degree burns. Miraculously, only two fatalities were reported. The names of the deceased have been withheld pending notification of next of kin.

****

The Whispering Vale Daily News Journal

November 10, 2013

The reclusive billionaire philanthropist, Lucien Santaniri, whose subsidiary company, Mephisto Enterprises, owned The Faustian Carnivale, offered his sincere condolences to the families of the two teenagers killed and paid restitution to each. His press statement earlier in the week confirmed his decision to close the carnival indefinitely, thus ending its century long tour of the New England States, as well as Whispering Vale's tradition of hosting the carnival in its final week.

Mr. Santaniri has begun construction of a one-acre park to be erected on the carnival grounds, complete with cobblestone paths, wrought-iron benches, and a large wishing fountain at its center in memory of the deceased.

****

The Whispering Vale Daily News Journal

November 31, 2013

Following the catastrophe that occurred Halloween night, authorities investigating the carnival grounds found several fragments of human bones at the site where the fire allegedly started. Chief of Police John Cumberland states no new deaths have been reported and no foul play is suspected. A forensic analysis dated a number of these samples as far back as 1742. Despite further investigation, the mystery of how these bone fragments came to be here remains unsolved.

Kate Michael's favorite stories are those whose roots can be found in myth and legend, imbued with all the magic I loved as a child. That being said, the myths and fairy tales I like are the dark ones. The darker the better. So...not everything she writes has a happy ending. Fair warning.

Find her at: http://kate-michael.com/

The Monster Comes At Midnight

by Ezekiel Conrad

A brief note before we begin:

This story is best enjoyed with the lights low on a fall evening, perhaps with a pumpkin beer in your hand.

Picture if you will, a cold October night in the Midwestern United States. The leaves have just turned and the nights become darker. Spirits begin to roam the countryside searching for unsuspecting souls. Out of the shapeless void of these fall nights comes the dark carnival, an annual fright fest dedicated to warding off these spirits. Disguised as spooks themselves, the performers of the dark carnival are out to trick these phantasmagoria wandering its halls and perhaps give a few paying customers the fright of a lifetime, but amidst the fake blood and pumpkin beer lies a dark heart that no employee or customer had prepared for, this is what happens when the spirits strike back...

The blade thrusted deep into her stomach, her eyes closed welcoming death; she had been running too long. A comical amount of blood began spraying everywhere. Her long black hair covered her face and she slumped to the floor. The screams of the three girls next to her only added to the cacophony.

The killer in the hockey mask turned towards the direction of the group, blood still dripping from his machete. They were next. They managed to run past the killer down the only path the forest would let them go. Not far off they saw a cabin, and they kept running, screaming all the way. The door opened, propelled by an unseen force and the three ran inside.

Warm firelight bathed the room. Slowly one of the girls turned to see the cabin's lone occupant. Rocking in the corner, an old lady was knitting the night away, unaware of the girls who had just invaded, of the terror that had brought them there.

"Excuse me, miss?" one of them said.

The old lady was unmoved, and the rocking continued. One girl moved closer to the chair. Still rocking in the firelight undaunted. She came closer. The chair spun. The hockey-masked killer removed the wig to reveal himself, still terrifying, in a polka-dotted dress. From his hand, he dropped the still bleeding head of the old woman.

More screams as the three girls huddled in the corner. He came closer. One of the girls could swear she could hear chanting. His machete was drawn ready for his kill. It was at that moment that the windows in the cabin all shattered, and the black-haired dead girl floated into the room, the wound still dripping blood on the floor. She held up a book that looked to be covered in human skin.

She screamed a scream so otherworldly you could almost hear demons and other ghosts echoing her refrain.

"Klaatu Barada Nikto!"

The whole cabin shook, and the girls could only watch in terror as their would-be killer was now afflicted with a light that shone through from the cabin floor and seemed to engulf him. Red hands reached up from the floor, and he was being dragged downward through the light finally disappearing. The black-haired girl ceased floating, the book and her dropping to the floor, unmoving.

There was dead silence for what seemed like an eternity; finally a tinny, disembodied voice chimed in.

"Thank you for visiting the Dark Carnival's Forest of Horrors! We hope you had a deadly time! Please exit to your right."

A large green exit sign and doors became illuminated on the right side of the cabin. The girls glanced over to where the black-haired demoness had been, There was nothing now. She was gone. They looked at each other; one had already pulled out her smartphone, the illusion far gone from her mind.

"Oh my god that was so scary! Let's go again!" said one.

"Seriously, fuck this ride," said the other.

They got up and pushed open the wide double doors into the harsh sunlight. The whole of the Dark Carnival awaited them, and they hadn't even reached nightfall yet.

****

In the basement of "The Forest of Horrors" the black haired demoness queen sat drinking Werebeer (The official beer of the Dark Carnival!). Next to her, there sat a one-limbed zombie trying to enjoy his lunch.

"That's just ridiculous," she intoned to the zombie. "How can you say diplomacy has never worked?"

The zombie continued munching Fritos. "Oh, please! Even if you could come up with an example of mediation that had worked, let's talk about all the times that it has failed. Our country doesn't tend to tend to rely on it because to do so would be farcical."

The hockey-masked killer burst through the break room door looking menacing in the light. He dropped to the floor in pain.

"I hit my knee again! Ow! Ow!"

The black-haired demoness rushed over to him and pulled off his mask revealing a mop of brown-haired twenty-something.

"You alright, Fred?"

She looked at his knee, but nothing was bleeding.

"Just hurts like a bitch."

She caught his eye. "I can kiss you and make it better"

He smiled. They locked lips passionately, killer and victim. The zombie put his head in his hands.

"Oh geez guys, who knows how often that floor is washed"

They paid him no mind and continued as if they were the only people in the room. He wished that someone would invent eye sanitizer. The two finally sat up and while the demoness went to finish her beer, Fred went to the fridge to grab one.

"How long are you guys working til tonight?"

"We're done for the evening," said the demoness proudly. "Tonight's HorFor's night in the park."

Fred sat at the table holding two beers. It became clear that both were for him as he began to chug one furiously. A ghoulish woman entered, carrying a plate of caramel apples.

"Hey Fred! Hey Regan!" she smiled, betraying the blood tearing out of her eyes.

"Hey Morgan," Fred said in an almost ghoulish monotone.

The zombie loudly munched his chips, while staring off into space.

Regan snapped her fingers at him. "Tim! Hey Tim!"

"What?" he said, flashing a mouth full of corn chips.

"You want to go with us tonight? Should be pretty amusing!"

"What a terrible pun," said Fred.

She looked at Fred confused. "What? I don't..."

"Sure, I'll go. You guys headed to the Ouija Coaster?" He looked directly at Morgan to gauge her reaction. She was biting into her caramel apple in a very awkward way for someone that beautiful, or at least awkward based on the way movies would have us believe that beautiful people bite into caramel apples.

"You'd better believe it! I've been on that ride every year since I was ten! It's a Schaefer family tradition," she stated as if his question validated her deeply held nostalgia for the ride.

Fred just could not connect with his wide-eyed wonder at a park he knew from first hand experience was as fake as the vomit she sometimes spewed on patrons. It did not phase him in the least. Fake blood and guts, fake terror. Manufactured to capture a brief moment of joy that most felt could be bottled for a darker time. Fred did not believe in such nonsense. Fake is fake, no matter how atmospheric. He wished he could see it as Regan did, with the same wide-eyed wonder of a five-year getting the shit scared out of him by a creepy clown with long fingers.

The haunted halls held no fear.

Regan continued to explain the lengthy game plan of what rides must be done and the rituals that needed to commence for there to be maximum nostalgia. The warm recapturing of a cold October with spice in the air and loved ones huddled in pure horror waiting for the next ghoul lurking in the shadows.

They finished a few more beers, changed disguises from monsters to humans, and headed out into the early evening. The night turned its usual gorgeous hue of blacks and blues and the screams of terror throughout the park grew with the darkness.

Nothing too eventful happened for a few hours. Regan led the group on the ritual dance in a way that would seem to most readers as "ordinary". Most readers ruined by television would, simply imagine sequences of four teenagers, one a couple and the other two strangers, awkward co-workers thrust into entertainment by circumstance, set to "Dead Man's Party" by Oingo Boingo.

Regan knew Fred was trying. She really did, but she knew he wasn't all there. He was a good boyfriend, but it bummed her out that he could not let go and experience the Dark Carnival through her eyes. She could feel the fear and joy that brought nothing but nostalgia shooting through her like a drug; all he could see was red corn syrup and a cheap mask. Still she was thankful for his presence.

Fred sighed and looked at Regan with a half-smile. The liquor at least made him feel something even if the Ouija coaster didn't. Regan was his future, a planchette through which he could divine a good feeling, if only briefly.

"Time for churros and witches brews!" Regan shouted.

Fred followed her over, to the already titanic line. The churros at the Dark Carnival were rolled in a mix of pumpkin and cinnamon spices, and the "Witches brews" were beer mixed with a green cider, a staple of the Dark Carnival since its opening.

As the line wore on, both Regan and Fred ran out of things to talk about and just let their minds wander. Fred stood silently reflecting, staring off the space as he often did, and then something strange happened. Now, strange is a relative term when one is in a theme park of people unknowingly trying to ward off the undead, and Fred had to be sure he wasn't just imagining this, but Fred wasn't prone to imagining much.

A line of static, like kind you would see on old VHS tapes, was running across the sky and down across the patrons of the Dark Carnival. Fred watched it slowly fade as it hit the ground.

"Did you see that?" he said to Regan as it dissipated.

"See what?" she said. She had been staring off the same direction as he.

"Nothing, nothing"

He tried to reassure himself; perhaps it was just his eyes doing something he had yet to experience.

"I see it!" she exclaimed.

"The static? Isn't it weird?"

She looked at him with bemusement. "What? No, the ride over there. I've never seen it before!"

He looked across the way to see a worn and warped structure not much bigger than a shack. Fred didn't recognize it.

"We have to check it out!"

Fred could not take his eyes off it. He'd worked at this park for two seasons, and never once seen it. There were words written on the building but he could not make them out. He had to go there, he had to see what was inside.

The churros and witches brew were delicious and really set one in the spirit, really gave one a sense of the wonderful dark fall evening that the group was having. Fred was having none of it. He could not stop staring at the greying building. As he stared, it happened again. A long line of static streaked across the park landing right at his feet. Several more followed it.

Before, he could think about anything else, he and his friends were standing at the entrance of the building. Tim and Morgan were making out off to the side and Regan was attached to his arm.

He couldn't remember how he got here. When did Tim and Morgan start liking each other? Come to think of it, when did Regan latch onto his arm?

Before him stood the building that had drawn him to it like a moth to flame; the decaying structure had a large clown-like figure taking up most of the real estate at the entrance. The clown's large face with spit curl hair on both sides opened at the wide grin of his mouth drawing them in. At the top were the words "Steeplechase: The funny place!"

Below that and to the side of the face were various exclamatory phrases to draw you in, a silent carnival barker from ages past.

"See!"

"The wreck of the Hesperus!"

"Dante's Inferno will heat things up, feel the devil's kiss!"

"Marvel at the prestidigitation before your eyes!"

At the very bottom and in a different scrawl entirely was the phrase "H.H Holmes. Proprietor."

"You ready?" Regan said, excited at the prospect of doing something at the Dark Carnival he looked interested in. It looked to her that it might be a stupid show rather than a ride.

Tim drew his face away from sucking Morgan's to shout, "This looks boring as shit, dude!"

Fred didn't even hear him; something else had all of his attention. It wasn't just the strange static he was seeing or the draw of a part of the Dark Carnival he'd never been to. Something was calling him here. He chalked it up to the alcohol and continued on.

Walking inside the mouth, Fred could see a line of static so large it covered the building and group. Regan, Tim, and Morgan were briefly covered in snow static mist before reemerging. Fred's eyes started to hurt. The world looked less colorful, like wearing glasses that constantly saw the world as a polaroid.

Before them stood a large building with gas lamp lights flickering on either side, the building itself lit up in brilliant white bulbs with the phrase "The Grand Emporium" in lights. The building reminded Fred of the pictures he'd seen of Main Street at Disneyland, somewhere Regan was dying to go. The building was brilliant in its imposition; Fred wondered how something so large fit into what, from a distance, looked like a dilapidated shack.

Regan stared at the place with a similar wonderment. Tim and Morgan were still making out. Another line of static ran across the sky and down to Fred's feet.

Walking into the grand emporium, they saw that they were now in a single straightforward passageway held up by green steel work in ornate patterns near the ceiling. Etched into the beams were words to be read as the walked down the dimly lit hallway.

Fred seemed to be the only one making note of them as they descended into the unknown. The arches bore lines from the song "Lydia, the Tattooed Lady".

After the arch, which read "and proudly above waves the red, white, and blue", the room opened into a large open area with a curtain that had been pulled tightly in front of a stage. Tim and Morgan instantly snuck off to the darkest corner of this standing theater. Lights came on in front of the theater with a loud thud and the clank of a motor could be heard coughing to life.

A projector wheel began spinning loudly in a location none of them could quite make out. Regan stood against the wall and smiled at Fred, her frame still looking like it was through some type of filter.

Tinny but ethereal organ started playing. A voice disconnected from the group by what sounded like centuries spoke:

"It was the schooner Hesperus,

That sailed the wintry sea;

And the skipper had taken his little daughter,

To bear him company."

The curtains opened to reveal waves that were made from what looked like hard corrugated cardboard, pulled back and forth by some unknown force. A painted backdrop showed a cold but blue sky, a large schooner made from the same material as the waves popped up sailing the ocean once more.

"Blue were her eyes as the fairy-flax,

Her cheeks like the dawn of day,

And her bosom white as the hawthorn buds,

That ope in the month of May."

The voice continued its journey showing us what befell the great Hesperus. The ship hit a great storm acted out by more corrugated cardboard.

"Down came the storm, and smote amain

The vessel in its strength;

She shuddered and paused, like a frighted steed,

Then leaped her cable's length."

The stage showed us the wreck, the ship cracked and many cut-out ghosts heading up from the sea.

"Such was the wreck of the Hesperus,

In the midnight and the snow!

Christ save us all from a death like this,

On the reef of Norman's Woe!"

The short show, clearly meant to most directly affect an audience that was not classified as "Millennials" finished its dance, ending in a brilliant crash of thunder. The curtain came down and a door in the left side of the room opened leading to another hallway.

Fred looked over at Regan. She smiled at him. He had to know what the deal was with this place.

The hall seemed to snake downwards now, a loud wind blowing from below. The path began to wind from side to side becoming steeper and steeper. The walls were more jagged now, as if they were in some sort of cave. Undeterred, the group moved on.

The cave was lit more dimly than the previous hallways. Fred stopped to wonder why they hadn't seen anyone else in the ride, but just assumed it was something that had been kept out of nostalgia for whoever founded the park.

A sharp bend in the cave brought about their first horror of the ride. In the alcove at the end of the corner was a propped up coffin, a skeleton visible through a window in the middle. A gold plate on the coffin read "H.H. Holmes Proprietor" and below the coffin was a steel table. As Fred approached the table, he saw there was an old Ouija board laid on it, the planchette left to the side.

Deep scratches were ingrained in the table almost as if someone had carved into it.

"Leave the dead, dead" - as far as Fred could make out, this is what it said.

An unholy dread began to fill Fred. This was a fucking ride and nothing more, but something in him didn't want to touch the Ouija. How stupid would it be to appear scared now? He'd built a personality out of seeing everything as fake bullshit.

His fingers moved over the planchette and it immediately began to hover over the board. A rumbling in the cavern could be heard as the planchette moved rapidly over two numbers 1-2-1-2-1-2-1-2-1-2-1-2

Another static line descended and as Fred turned around he saw Regan turn to distorted colors. She faded back almost as quickly as she turned, replaced with an even more faded filter to his eyes.

She smiled at him again.

Funny, it looked just like the smile she gave at the shipwreck show.

"The monster comes at midnight," she said with an otherworldly tone. Frightened, Fred looked around for Tim and Morgan but they had vanished.

In a burst of static noise Regan vanished too. Fred had enough. He'd seen a lot of tricks and scares but this one had its teeth in him. He wanted out; he wanted the ride to be over, to be back with Regan and his friends.

The lights over the coffin went out. From down in the caves came a voice singing.

"Let's have a party, there's a full moon in the sky

It's the hour of the wolf and I don't want to die "

He ran further down the caves, down and down, the wind growing louder as he did. The path grew darker, but as it did he could see a bright red shape at the end of it. The shape became clearer as he got closer.

Someone in a devil costume circa the 1910's came into view. He was clearly wearing a costume but it looked as if it was permanently attached to his body.

"Welcome Fred! We've been expecting you. Your judgment awaits!"

"Lenny is that you?" he said fearing the answer. No reply came from the paper mache devil's head. It just showed its only emotion, an evil grin. He pointed the pitchfork at him. "Get moving!"

In a searing display of red lights and cellophane fire, the devil led him into a mock court room seemingly placed in the middle of hell. The devil led him to a podium where a jury of similar looking devils awaited.

A devil in a judge's robe took the bench. Cardboard demons were the crowd. They chanted:

"Put em' in the hot seat! Put em' in the hot seat! Put em' in the hot seat now!"

The devil judge pounded his gavel asking for quiet. The noise from the fake crowd died down.

"Quiet!" thundered the judge.

The devil that led Fred into the courtroom from hell turned to the jury and began to speak like a preacher on the Day of Judgment.

"Ladies and Gentlemen of the damned! I beseech you to condemn this man. Was his crime chasing after a choice bit of calico? No. It was ossification! On a toot of panther piss not seen since the days of Daniel Boone, I tell ya!"

Despite the jarring nature of this "ride" Fred couldn't help at smile at the dedication of the employees; their commitment to this bit was admiral, almost believable despite the horrible outdated and fake setup.

"Bring in the evidence!" he intoned.

Through a hole in the floor a platform was raised with "The Evidence!". Fred recognized it immediately and his whole body began to chill despite the sweltering temperature of the room. Someone was fucking with him. On the platform was Mr. Monster. His Mr. Monster trick-or-treat pail.

Nostalgia mixed with fear. Long dead emotions rising from their buried graves.

The devil prosecutor continued. "Shore up, fellows, shore up and feast thine eyes upon it!"

He gestured to a devil in a cop's uniform that disappeared behind the bench. He emerged wheeling a shelf with a television strapped to the top and a VCR underneath that. The devil brought Mr. Monster over to the podium where Fred was standing and popped open the purple top. Inside was a worn VHS with no label.

Fred stopped trying to figure out just what kind of trick these employees were playing as the devil noisily jammed the tape into the deck. The static on the TV slowly dissipated revealing an old commercial already in throes of its pitch.

The colors in this commercial reminded Fred of the tint of his girlfriend and friends just before they got separated. A ghostly looking pumpkin chatted up a purple monster and a green witch. Fred recognized the commercial. The purple monster spoke in a thunderous tone.

"Me don't know what to be for Halloween!"

The witch and ghost pumpkin tried to console this devastating news.

"I bet we can help you, Mr. Monster!" The witch intoned.

The ghost pumpkin turned to the TV screen.

"What are you going to be this year kids? The clock is ticking; it's almost here! When you are at the Dark Carnival this year, be sure to eat at Pumpkin McBooington's! All kids in costume get one of three highly collectible pails for trick-or-treating! Terrify your neighbors with Regina Witchington, Mr. Monster or me, Pumpkin McBooington! Bring an appetite, as our food is something you can really sink your teeth into! Muhahahaha!"

When he said, "Sink your teeth..." Pumpkin McBooington revealed that they had dressed Mr. Monster up as a vampire.

Static covered the screen taking away the commercial as if someone else had then recorded something over it. The static moved to black. The clack of a lens cap being removed was heard. The black moved to a brilliant white coming to focus on what looked to be the tile floor of a bathroom. The sound of rushing water, most likely coming from a sink, could be heard.

The camera focused upwards to a mother and her child. The child, looking about six or seven, was sitting on the sink counter and had the blue overall leg of his Super Mario costume pulled up. In the corner of the frame, blood washed down the sink. It was clear the child had been crying; a small band-aid was on his arm.

"Mom!" The kid said starting to put himself together. "Mom when do we get to see Mr. Monster?"

"Soon, sweetie, soon you'll see him tonight!"

The mother was in an orange sundress covered in pumpkin faces. She looked at the camera.

"Turn that off, why the hell do you..."

Another static transition.

This one displaying a noisy scene of children and their parents all enjoying a night at a kid-friendly restaurant. A costumed representation of Pumpkin McBooington greeted children, complimenting them on their unique costumes while bored teenagers handed the screaming, laughing, or crying children buckets with the kind of disdain that only comes from the service industry. Fred could smell the pizza, cheap soda, and the faint air of Diaper Paste that hung in the air.

The loudspeaker was blasting music; Fred could almost make out the lyrics to "No One Lives Forever" by Oingo Boingo.

The camera followed the kid dressed as Super Mario over to meet Pumpkin McBooington.

"Happy Halloweeeeeeen little one! Who are you supposed to be?"

The kid looked at the pumpkin, declaring"Where's Mr. Monster? I've been waiting forever for him! I need to tell him a secret!"

The body in the suit stopped its bouncy joy, taken aback by the question. After a moment of deathly silence he spoke:"Mr. Monster is not feeling well; he had to rest up for Halloween!"

The kid continued undeterred, "For how long?"

Mothers and fathers and children were all staring. Across the room the body in the Regina Witchington costume waved.

"Kid, I'm sorry, Regina Witchington is over there though!"

The kid in the Mario costume was devastated. Pumpkin McBooington wrestled a stack of buckets away from one of the employees. He fumbled through the stack and found a Mr. Monster pail, the last one in the stack. (The warehouse had failed to make as many Mr. Monsters as the other characters; the pail itself fetches a pretty good price on eBay.)

He snapped the purple lid on the top to complete it.

"There, there is Mr. Monster."

The boy stared at the pail like he had found the most prized item in all of Odysseus' treasure chamber. The representation of Mr. Monster in pail form couldn't let him down; it could only be filled with candy or food, or Pumpkin McFunbucks. He smiled back at the costumed, overworked employee.

There was scattered applause as the kid returned to his family to enjoy more child-friendly Halloween frivolities.

Barely in frame, his mother was so tired of crying. It wasn't her bruising she was so worried about; it was his inside and outside. She tried to hide it, but the more she tried the more visible it became.

The static brought the scene down and revealed yet another piece of tape. The young boy, in normal clothes this time, sat playing.

Fred could sense every emotion and the surroundings as if they were real. He could no longer tell that he was watching a video screen in the hell courtroom. He was there, back in that house playing with bricks while the Great Pumpkin rose out the pumpkin patch on TV before him.

He remembered the love he felt radiating from his mother's eyes. She always looked so peaceful despite what she was going through then. Who was there from his family to film this? Perhaps there were better questions to be asking while one had entered into his own past through a VHS tape, but they were better saved for when one's mind wasn't reeling.

All Fred could think about was how much he missed playing with Legos. The last lights of autumn were fading in through the windows. Above the TV the VCR clock was blinking 12:00, 12:00, 12:00, 12:00.

A car screeched into the driveway,freezing both he and his mother with fear.

"Go back in your room and shut the door Fred!" she shouted.

Everything fell away. He knew this fear, abandoning his toys he headed for the hallway. It stretched out before him, endless and terrifying. He knew that he could not turn around and look at the front door to his home. He must never look there.

The hallway ended at his bedroom doorway. He made it to the other side, slamming it shut with a loud thud,backing himself into the corner behind his bed. He heard the front door swing open violently. He tucked himself as much into the corner as possible, silent tears staining his cheeks. He knew what was coming.

The door stood silent. Even as untold noises raged on outside it stood shut with just a crack of light beneath it. Fred had no idea how long he had been in that corner, but he just waited for the inevitable. Waited and Waited and Waited.

He looked at the nightstand next to his bed. His Mr. Monster pail sat next to his clock. It was blinking. 12:00, 12:00, 12:00, 12:00, 12:00.

The judge pounded his gavel and Fred was back at his podium. He could feel himself covered in sweat.

"Jury!" He thundered. "We leave it to you!"

The jury of devils rose and in unison shouted.

"The Monster comes at midnight, The Monster comes at midnight, The Monster comes at midnight."

They all laughed maniacally. The hellish room began to grow dim, all he could see was the devils and the purple phosphorescent glow of Mr. Monster. The jury faded replaced by the howl of the wind.

All he could hear now was a voice singing more lines from "No one lives forever".

****

"Fred there you are!"

Fred's head was pounding and the bright lights of the carnival seemed to drag trails. His friends, now in full color, came running over to him.

"Fred, where have you been?" Regan exclaimed.

"Dude, you said you had to yak and we haven't seen you for like an hour! Did you blackout?" Tim asked, with a look of mild worry.

Fred stood up from the bench outside the bathrooms. To his left he could see the area where they had Witch's Brews and Churros. He looked around for the building but could not see it. He must have been hitting the bottle pretty hard this time. Regan helped him to his feet and hugged him.

"You okay?" She asked this with so much concern that it almost broke his heart.

He blinked hard and surveyed the area one last time.

"Yeah, I think so, I just had too much to drink... so what's next?" He gave her a half smile.

The look of concern in her face hadn't changed.

"Regan, I'm fine all is need is 10cc's of a carmel apple ghost, some water and you"

"Well, I haven't seen the all ghoul stage review yet. It might be fun and we could sit for a while, sound good?" She wasn't sure if this was the best idea, but she

"Yeah," he said gathering himself up. "That sounds more than good!"

They started walking in the direction of the show. Fred was shaken, but he was glad to be out of whatever kind of alcohol induced dream that was. Things finally settled back to normal during the walk to the stage show. Jokes were traded again and the evening continued. Regan and Fred finally ended the evening out by his car, making out.

"Hey Regan? You went to this carnival a lot as a kid, right?" he said settling back into the driver's seat.

"Yeah, of course. I only regale you with stories like a 90-year-old shut-in all the time, dork" She smiled at him from the passenger seat.

"Do you ever remember a restaurant in the carnival called Pumpkin McBooington's?" He asked, in the awkward way one might reveal that they had a clubfoot or had an Amish upbringing before escape during Rumspringa.

"Do I? Jesus, what a trip. I freaking loved that part of the D.C. Remember, they had those little trick or treat pails you could get? I had like 10 of them. They might still be in my garage, but for some reason I never got a Mr. Monster."

"I had a Mr. Monster one," he said.

"Wow, that's awesome. I hear they were pretty rare. Wow, I didn't know you even went to the DC as a kid! You've been holding out in this nostalgic goldmine on me this whole time?" She almost seemed aroused by the prospect.

"I didn't think of it till just now," he said as apologetically as he could.

She smiled and kissed him. "I love you Fred"

"I love you too, Regan".

She hugged him,saying good-bye for the evening. A late night mist had settled over the parking lot and he watched her disappear into it.

When he got home, he sat outside of his car leaning against the garage, listening to music and smoking a cigarette. Tonight's events had been so, so real. The memories long thought shipwrecked and buried deep beneath the seas had emerged. The CD finished playing and all Fred could hear was the hum of the streetlights.

He shouldn't have been smoking. He and his mom made a promise to quit together. He finished the last drag and stomped it out. Then he froze.

Across the street, silent and unmoving, stood one of the devils from the courtroom. He seemed to stare straight through Fred.

Fred blinked, and in the same instant the devil had vanished. It really had been a long night.

He opened the door to find his mother, sitting on the couch, still awake despite the late hour. Smoke was rising through the air,hitting the track lighting. He glanced at the clock; it was almost 11:35 PM.

"Mom?"

She turned around, and he could see that she had been crying. He ran over to her."Mom what's wrong?"

She took a long drag and looked into his eyes.There was a long pause before she finally spoke.

"A package..."

"A package? Why..."

"From your father. A package came addressed from your father."

"Someone must be playing a sick joke!" He turned as pale as his mother already was. Both Fred and his mother attended his funeral. They saw him lowered into the ground.

"What was in it?"

"I didn't open it... it was addressed to you." She gestured over to the dining room table. A large square brown package with red handwriting.

From:

Mr. Harold Marsten

3845 W. Sycamore Ln.

Apt #58

To:

Mr. Fred Marsten

11805 Mockingbird St.

He took his keys and cut the box open. Inside was an endless sea of white packing peanuts. He dug through the box until he felt something solid. He dredged it up from the packing sea floor.

He immediately dropped it.

The bright purple plastic lid rolled under the couch where his mom was sitting. His mother looked at the plastic pail smiling at her from the floor, and the wave of fear seemed to transfer from her to him.

Then she saw what was inside it.

A videotape.

Fred kept hoping that he would wake up back in his car with Regan. This couldn't be real.

He placed the bucket back on the counter and pulled the tape out. He dusted off the VCR side of the DVD/VCR combo and slotted the tape in.

Static, but Fred should have expected that.

Slowly the tape dissolved to color.

The camera swayed from side to side as the person walked through a hallway. Faint echoes of laughing and screaming children could be heard in the background. Adoor at the end of the hallway opened. The camera woman spoke.

"Here he issss! Bringing joy and fear to all the good little kids. It's Mr. Monster!"

A mid-thirties man with the bottom half of a purple monster costume on and sat in an overstuffed chair drinking out of a flask. He drank deep and wiped the excess whiskey off his mouth.

"Put that fucking thing away, Barbara!" There was deep anger that only came from years of fine tuning words into wounding knives.

She spoke again, "It's Freddy's birthday! Aren't you excited? You have a job dressing up as his favorite thing in the world!"

"Fuck that little piece of shit.He's your son, I don't give a flying rat fuck if it's his birthday!" He lit a cigarette, not paying any more attention to either mother or child. Fred turned around, looking at his mother. The black makeup of her eyeliner was reaching her chin. He moved from the floor and put his arm around her. Harold took another long swig and finished the flask.

"But Harold, you promised..." she said, almost trailing off.

"Fuck you bitch. Make yourself useful and find me an Amstel!"

He immediately began searching the trailer for more booze. A harried girl in her young teens burst into the room with a clipboard.

"Five minutes and we are going to bring you out to greet the little ones, Mr. Marsten!"

He looked at her almost confused. "Hey bitch, can you bring me a beer?"

The girl rolled her eyes, she spoke louder this time an annunciated everything "FIVE MINUTES, MR. MARSTEN, don't make me get Mr. Demarco."

"Yeah, yeah fine..." He trailed off into more obscenities.

He was smacking the last dregs of an empty vodka bottle into his mouth. Pale and sickly, he turned to the camera.

"I said turn that fucking thing..."

The tape cut to static. Loud piercing static that filled the entire house. It sounded as if all the other TVs in the house were now on and turned at full volume. They covered their ears. The volume button provided no relief the noise just seemed to grow louder.

Fred looked at the VCR, it was now blinking 12:00,12:00,12:00.12:00.

He turned to look at the kitchen clock. 12:00, 12:00, 12:00, 12:00

The microwave, the oven, all echoed the same refrain.

12:00, 12:00, 12:00, 12:00

The static stopped suddenly. The TV turned itself off. Fred uncovered his ears and looked at his mortified mother who was looking down at the floor.

A car screeched into the driveway and his mother's head shot up as if controlled by some force, looking him square in the eyes. She screamed at the top of her lungs.

"THE MONSTER COMES AT MIDNIGHT! THE MONSTER COMES AT MIDNIGHT! RUN! THE MONSTER COMES AT MIDNIGHT!"

Almost as if by instinct Fred shot down the hallway, past the clock stuck or blinking on 12:00, and slammed the door to his room. He huddled back down into the familiar corner and felt the worn grooves in the wall from hidings past.

He stared at the pale white door and did not take his eyes off it.

He heard the front door slam shut.

He kept staring at the door, the light creeping in underneath, but it never moved.

The monster comes at midnight.

The monster comes at midnight.

Eons seemed to go by.

He glanced at his nightstand; there smiling back at him was the Mr. Monster Pail.

A line of static ran across the screen.

THE END

Selections from "The Wreck of Hesperus" by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

Ezekiel Conrad was born under auspicious circumstances in the same year that George Orwell predicted our doom. Having survived that he grew up to the ripe old age of 26, but is still currently living.

Although his current whereabouts are unknown he has been known to live either with his family or alone in a place the television machine like to call "The O.C".

Another fact may possibly be that Ezekiel Conrad fell victim to something the locals call "The Tiki's Curse" and as a result can no longer enjoy Italian food with any lasting results. Use as Directed.

Find him at: http://noalarmplanet.com/

Whites Of Their Eyes

by Jamie Adams

If there's one thing people can't resist, it's the forbidden.

Show someone the unattainable, let them glimpse the untouchable, and they're drawn inexorably in – even if it will destroy them in the end.

That's what all these sweating, red-faced people streaming down the main walk are doing. Destroying themselves. Risking everything. This carnival is a deadly place and everyone knows it. You walk through the doors and you might not walk back out. On carnival grounds, carnival rules reign supreme. Anything might happen here and you can't do anything about it.

But they can't stay away.

Down the road from me, the merry-go-round whips into motion, slinging the riders around as they grip the horses for dear life. The music screams wildly through the dusty games and shows lining the boulevard. A hot wind tosses wisps of my hair against my cheeks as I lean on the splintered wooden counter watching the crowds.

They walk like people afraid – eyes down, expressions guarded, moving in clusters – but that's not real fear. It isn't courage, either, because if they were courageous they'd place those they claim to love over a cheap thrill. This is stupidity, plain and simple, people chancing the danger thrumming in every iron shriek and tinned music note just because the danger makes them feel alive.

That's why the Dark Carnival is such a success.

Stupidity is a profitable business.

Once, I might have pitied them or even been one of them. Now I feel nothing but disgust.

Come to the carnival. Come to play. Come to stay – longer than you think.

Sweat runs down the back of my neck and settles between my shoulder blades. I despise summer. But the crowds are bigger. More people to break the rules. More people to fill the places in my game.

It never takes long for the first person to break the rules. There's no eye contact allowed here. I can't imagine why the carnival goers would want to look into the eyes of the carnies anyways. The secrets we carry inside aren't meant to be seen.

A father looks up, right at me. I point without a word, and Loren goes to them, seizing their daughter by the arm. She must be six or seven, with long golden curls. Beautiful. And now mine.

The mother starts bawling immediately, wailing and flinging her arms around, saying they made a mistake. But that's the thing. There are rules at the carnival. And if you want to play, you better be ready to lose.

Loren wrestles the parents off to the holding area alongside my game while I escort the new player to her post. The little girl goes into the first box. Each shooter's cube has a door to lock behind them, and walls on the other two sides so they can't see anywhere except straight ahead. Every child gets ear protection and a silver pistol. It comes pre-loaded.

When I started at the carnival, I couldn't handle the sight of a gun without flinching. When they fired, I spent half the time behind my counter, vomiting into the dust. Cleaning up the aftermath of the game left me dazed and silent like the walking wounded.

I think that's why the Grand Master put me here. To break me. But I'm made of stronger stuff than that.

In fact, it was my idea for the players to be children.

Traffic on the midway is slim for a time. Carnival goers always avoid a section of the midway after someone's been taken, as if their odds are somehow better elsewhere. The odds are always the same. If you don't want to play, you follow the rules. Or don't. It won't make much of a difference.

The next child to join my game is a willing sacrifice. I've given up standing in the shade behind my counter and come around to the front, spraying the dust off the wooden frame. He runs into me, short, chubby legs and a red-striped shirt, too busy looking up at the balloon dancing on the end of the string to watch where he's walking.

This father takes a swing at Loren, but Loren is much bigger and flattens him with a single blow. Striped shirt boy is number two.

Numbers three and four arrive much faster than usual. The first is another little girl. Loren waits outside the bathrooms sometimes, counting. He always chooses number twenty-seven. He's never told me why.

This time the twenty-seventh bathroom visitor is wearing a blue sundress and has chocolate pigtails that swing energetically as she walks. The instant she emerges Loren seizes her arm and propels her to me without comment. Her parents don't even notice, at first.

A second boy joins them when the afternoon bells go off. He looks up to find them, and meets my eyes instead. His mother sees it happen, she goes pale and stiffens, but Loren is already on his way towards them.

The rules are the rules. Everyone knows them before they walk through the gates. Once they're here, everything hinges on them.

Come to the carnival. Come to play. Come to stay – longer than you think.

We have four. One more to go and we can get started.

The makeup I applied so carefully this morning is puddled at my temples, under my eyes, and along the sides of my nose, blended with my sweat. I can feel the fires of yet another sunburn creeping over my shoulders and back despite having spent most of the morning and early afternoon under the roof. I take a long sip of ice water and drop into my canvas chair beside the game, waiting. The last one is always the most important.

Two of the kids are crying, trying to get out of their cubes and run to their mothers. The shooting cubes can withstand much more than the attempts of children to beat them down.

The striped shirt boy is sitting on the ground, staring at the gun in his hand. He turns it, around and around, staring with fascination at his own reflection in the barrel. If he gets started too soon, we'll have to wait until we find a replacement for him. I keep an eye on him. If he goes for the trigger, I'll have it out of his hands in a flash.

The last little girl meets my gaze. Her pigtails are drooping; one of them is loose and wild from her struggle with Loren. She doesn't cry or look vacant. She says nothing. She stares at me.

She looks like Mattie. My heart stops, plummets like a stone in my chest. This is the moment I've been dreading since I started at the carnival. I've been getting my revenge on the world for my sister's death with every round of my game, every flip of the switch, but every time it leaves me empty and burning inside. Because I've been waiting for this.

Mattie's dead because of me. My parents protected and watched over both of us, while I played with and teased her like a good big sister does. When it mattered most, I failed her.

My parents were only gone for two hours. That's the only time I was responsible for her, those two hours. The doorbell rang, but my favorite show was on so I sent her. One terrible decision has haunted me for ten years. It's only fair that others know their own selfish choices have consequences.

In some ways, my game saves the kids. Some futures aren't worth living to see.

It's getting gray along the horizon and I'm afraid we'll be here until tomorrow, waiting for number five to arrive.

I leave my post and stroll along the midway, watching the people spinning on rides, guzzling lemonade, and kissing in the shadows of the bathroom structure. The crowds part ways for me, like Moses through the Red Sea.

I see her then, and at once I know she will be number five. I could call her out now, but I wait.

She's only four, maybe five, just a little slip of a thing with speedy hands and nimble fingers. Her parents are talking with Alexei over the countertop, but the cotton candy is within her reach. One cone is directly in front of her face, top heavy with lightly spun, sweetened air. Her hand darts out, captures a pinch, shoots up to her mouth.

Alexei screams his rage before the bite is even dissolved on her tongue. It's the mirrors that told him. Mirrors line the entire ceiling of his stand, all the way out to the very edge of the roofline. Every angle is revealed, every secret laid bare, every action projected across a thousand slates of glass. Of course the little thing's action does not go unnoticed.

Loren is with them in seconds, leading all of them in my direction, so I return to my booth. It's time.

The mother and father are both clinging to Loren's arms, trying to wrestle their daughter out of his hands, trying to slow his progress, but none of it is any use.

"A thief," Alexei says, flinging the girl into my legs. "Had her mouth stuffed with candy when I saw her."

"We were going to pay!" The mother says, cheeks stained with tears.

"I had my wallet out! Look, I still have it. Here, here you can have everything in it, take it!" The father shoves a wad of cash into Alexei's chest, roaring when it hits the ground untouched.

Loren grabs the man's arms and pulls them behind him. There's no point in fighting. I don't know why they do it. If they don't like the results of their choices, they should have thought them through more carefully to begin with.

"I don't care about your money." Alexei does have a magnificent sneer. "It was not in my hand before the candy was in her mouth. She's a thief. She plays."

Loren is still occupied with the father so I pull the girl over to the fifth shooter's box myself, wrestle her inside and slam the door shut, twisting the padlock closed. The kid will have to figure out the ear protection herself, if she wants to wear it.

I flip the first switch, goosebumps shudder to life, up and down my skin, as the game bursts into a thousand brilliant lights. The music squeals out through the speakers overhead, crashing into a crescendo and falling low again.

"It's a game of chance and a game of skill. You won't know the winner until the last round is fired!" It's my voice, recorded over ten years ago now. These words have presided over so many different games..

The targets come to life against the far wall, shimmying and dancing. They are painted children, all in primary colors, each one with a ghastly grin etched across its tin face.

The shooter's boxes move.

They are in random patterns, chosen by the machine the moment I flip the switch. I never know how they will arrange themselves, though I've run the game long enough to recognize them all now.

This is pattern twenty-three. Shooting Star.

The little girls with the dark pigtails and inscrutable eyes looks me dead-on, lifts her chin.

The parents scream as if they are one unit, racing forward and pressing themselves against the Plexiglas wall, now separating them from their sweet babies.

There's no way in. Those are the rules.

Come to the carnival. Come to play. Come to stay – much longer than you think.

Their screaming echoes over the music. The muted sound of their hands striking the glass plays a bass line. Loren stands apart from them, arms folded. He'll catch the ones that faint.

I flip another switch and the platforms inside the shooter's boxes rise. Now everyone can see plainly the additional targets, hovering over each shooter's head.

"The rules are simple," I say. "Hit all the targets that match your color. The winner walks away free. Missing your targets or refusing to shoot are not options for you. The game opens up only when someone wins."

I drop onto the cushioned seat on the operator's stand. The music intensifies. The sound runs across the scale, faster and faster. The lights blink on and off, on again, flickering against the maelstrom of melody.

"Take your mark."

I look at the girl who might have been Mattie. Then I look over at her parents, staring them in the eye.

I flip the switch.

Jamie writes books about smart kids, whimsical adventures, and once upon a times. When she's not writing, she takes eats lots of pizza, takes epic naps, and wages war against spiders. The TBR is always too tall, there's never enough coffee, and there is a Parks and Rec gif for every moment. She is a Publicity Muse for Pen and Muse, as well as a contributor to YAgabonds.

Find her at: http://jamieadamswriting.wordpress.com/
Likeness

by Bobby Salomons

Def Leppard's "Mirror, Mirror" seemed to blare even louder in the car's bright interior light. As if the two agreed to ban together against her. Then again, that's how it usually felt on days like these.

"For God's sakes!" Madison cursed, muting the volume, "How can he even listen to that?"

In the background she could hear the noise of the State Fair. Typical carnival music and kids screaming into the late of night.

She sighed as she looked into the vanity mirror on the passenger side, to see her two different colored eyes staring - today her brown eye was sparkling. Her grandmother used to say that on wild days Maddy's green, left eye sparkled and on darker days her brown, right.

Green made her daring and confrontational. Anxious and lethargic when brown.

"Fuck!" She cursed and rubbed her eyes repeatedly, still her brown eye sparkling.

All this time she'd waited for the perfect chance to make a move on him – Harrison. Regardless of her swinging moods he accepted her as she was. She considered him her best friend, but a little more would be nice.

"Alright Maddy, don't fucking blow this! You've waited all year for this!" She cursed at herself, "...Damnit! I should've brought my colored lenses!"

A tapping on the window. "Hey, Maddy? You alright?" It was Harrison, holding a empty, plastic cup of beer.

"Yeah – no! I'm fine!" She said trying to smile.

"...You sure? It's okay, we don't have to stay long if you don't want to?"

How sweet.

"Ugh! No... Don't be silly, I'll be there in a second!" She insisted, quickly applying some make-up.  
After fashioning her thick, curly brown hair she stepped from the car smiling. Or trying to.

"Right-eye day, huh?" He said.

"I know. I'm sorry. Fuck..." She covered her eyes momentarily. "I'm fine – I promise. We call it 'Brown-eye day' though."

"What's the difference? Your brown eye is always your right eye, isn't it? Or have they recently been switching positions?" He joked.

"Heh... I guess not." She replied staring at the thousands of colored lights ahead, glowing almost hypnotically in the night sky.

He grabbed her by the hand, not harsh but gentle and encouraging. Her hand easily disappeared in his, even though his hands were large, they were warm and soft.

"Where are we going first?" She asked, as the carnival noise became louder.

"Shoot some ducks!" He called out over the cacophony of merry sounds. "I want to see how you can shoot, Maddy!"

"'Kay...!"

As they reached the stand she interlocked their fingers. He said nothing of it, but to her the world changed. Her heart raced, butterflies in her belly. The whole nine yards.

The stand seemed old, weathered but meticulously restored, with little wooden ducks going around and around on a somewhat jerky moving chain.

"Wow, how old is this thing?" She mumbled.

"1912! Little Missy!" The stand operator called, "Young men who were sent off to both great wars have played on her!"

"Uhuh..."

"Hey there, mister! How about you show your lady how good a shooter you are, huh!?" He called to Harrison.

"Oh, uhhh – Yeah, why not?" He replied without refuting she was his 'lady'. For a moment Maddy felt like squealing in excitement but quickly controlled herself.

"I didn't even know it was legal to have such old carnival attractions." She whispered to Harrison.

"You betcha!" The operator said, giving her an odd deep, dark look. "She isn't even the oldest, we value the history of 'em. It takes a special kind of crowd to feel it."

Maddy gave Harrison a look, but he was too busy loading a BB gun.

"Lets see it, mister! Are you as good a shot as the many generations of young men before you?!" The operator called, keeping his eyes on Maddy. It began to unnerve her.

"Don't worry – I can do this." Harrison said, "My brother's in Afghanistan."

"I don't think boot camp is hereditary..." She replied as the operator nodded at her.

"You're dead terrorists." Harrison whispered to himself and began firing in rapid succession. All but one shot missed.

"That's too bad, sonny! Good thing we didn't send you to kill Osama, huh!?" The stand owner called out. People around chuckled, Harrison blushed.

"I think you did great, Harry!" A voice called, Cynthia.

"Oh, hey Cyn. I guess I could've done better." He replied embarrassed.

"Awww, don't be sad..." She said dragging out her words for effect.

Maddy never liked Cynthia, the kind of girl attending drama classes just to spread it everywhere. She too had an eye on Harrison even though he seemed oblivious to it. The two exchanged a deadly glare. Like two hungry lions fighting over who could grab the baby gazelle unaware of them both. But the stand owner was aware.

"How about the ladies compete, huh!? What do you say, folks!?" He called grinning. Bystanders clapped.  
With her depressed and negative mood this was the last thing she wanted, but couldn't back down. Not from her and certainly not from him.

"Lets do this..." Cynthia said with a provocative head move.

"Booyah!" Maddy called and gestured the operator to throw her a rifle, grabbing it in mid-air worthy of a marine going through his rifle drill.

"Alright! If the ladies are ready, the ducks are swimming! Remember, girls: A gun's not a blow dryer, don't go pointing them at yourselves now!" He called, the crowd laughing at his sexist joke. Madison hardly took note, she had one mission and one mission only – show that bitch up.

The two shouldered their rifles and took aim, the operator waved his arm to encourage the crowd.

"Five! Four! Three! Two! One!" The crowd chanted and the young women opened fire.

In a barrage of loud pops and clunks the battle between the two was being settled before an enthusiastic group of on-lookers that cheered as if gladiators were fighting to the death. The operator stood comically jumping between the two shooters, riling them up even more.

Things went quiet and the crowd silent as the score was being counted, the stand owner carefully inspected his ducks and turned around. Like a show master he built tension, looking from Maddy to Cynthia and back again. Suddenly he shot forward and grabbed Madison by the arm.

"We have a winner!" He called, the crowd cheered.

"You did it, Maddy!" Harrison applauded and gave her a hug.

"Bitch..." Cynthia whispered at her.

"Whore." She mouthed back.

"How did you do that!?" Harrison was impressed, wrapping an arm around her.

"I'm from North Dakota, my daddy took me duck hunting all the time." She said proudly, squeezing herself tighter into the hollow of his arm, giving Cynthia a look.

"That is so cool! I never knew you could be so bad ass!" He said looking at her different from ever before.

"So... What ride are you guys going to now? ...Maybe I can hop along?" Cynthia was desperate to still hang around him. The defeated lion hoping to get some leftovers.

"Well what about the Crazy Fun House!?" The stand owner called, "Every mirror in its maze is said to have come from an 18th century state asylum. Maybe, if they're willing, you'll see in their reflection the madness they have witnessed."

The story and stand owner's dark, piercing look made goosebumps rise all across her skin.

"Or are you scared...?" The stand operator taunted her further.

"Yeah, you scared – Madison?" Cynthia jumped to the opportunity like a vulture.

"You're not scared, are you Maddy?" Harrison added further to the pressure.

Crap.

"Uhhh, I guess not?" She replied nervously.

"Well, lets go!" The stand owner called, waving a young employee over to take his spot.

"You're coming with us?" Maddy asked unnerved. He grinned devilishly.

"I'm always willing to make some time for the young folk... So they can learn how to appreciate the classic fair attractions. Besides, she hasn't been open in a while, I'll be glad to be giving her something to do."

"Wow! You're opening it up just for us!? That's awesome!" Harrison sounded far too excited.

"You're such a sweetheart! " Cynthia said to him.

Madison felt like scratching her eyes out.

The small group walked across the fair; everywhere stood crowds of people. Eating cotton candy, corn dogs, snow cones or winning prizes. Everywhere the squealing of teenage girls in wild rides flared up in the wind.

But as they walked across a small field, things gradually became darker and seemingly colder.

"So, about that insane asylum – is that really true?" Harrison asked the operator.

"It sure is... It's one of the oldest fun houses in the nation. She's all wood, which comes from the same institution."

"Wow, how did that happen?"

"Oh, the asylum had been around for a long time. After many controversies she closed down and she was sold for scraps. A clever fair owner bought her and took what was useful. The rest of it weathered down, she's a ruin now but in the years she was active a lot of things happened, sonny."

The group remained quiet for a moment. "...What kind of things?" Cynthia asked.

"Back in the day people weren't too nice to people with mental issues. Whether they were handicapped or just plain crazy, they stuffed them away like animals. Abuse and suicide were all too common."

"So that's what they did that to people with mental issues! Lucky you didn't live back then, huh – Maddy?" Cynthia said.

Countdown to cat fight.

The operator turned on a flashlight under his face.

"You youngins wait here..." He said with a creepy smile.

"So excited!" Harrison said to Cynthia. Maddy rolled her eyes.

After a short waiting, the lights flicked on. It looked like a large stately house, colored lights began to flicker on and off. From afar people noticed and came walking.

The operator appeared in his booth, wearing a doctor's coat. "Next patient!" He called, the three approached.

"It looks like a real house!" said Harrison.

"That's because it was modeled after the warden's house." He replied. "Feels like home, doesn't it?"

"How much for the ride?" Harrison asked, as people starting forming a row. The operator smiled.

"For you three? Nothing...!"

Harrison and Cynthia cheered, Madison smiled, painfully insincere. "Ready, Maddy!?" Harrison, pulled her in by the hand.

"Don't let the fun drive you crazy!" said the stand operator.

The wide front doors creaked as they swung open, the three stepped into the main hall. Three paths: Straight ahead into the hall of mirrors, into the basement or up-stairs. The lights flickered every few moments.

"I'm going up..." Harrison said and stepped onto the stairs, they wobbled left and right. "Woo! Careful girls! Wait till I'm at the top!" He called back.

Someone pulled on Maddy's sleeve, spinning her around. Cynthia.

"Just so you know... This battle isn't over..." She hissed.

"Bitch please, this shit was over before it started." Maddy growled back and gave her a push into the basement. With a loud rattling, Cynthia disappeared into the basement down a roller slide.

"...Bitch!" Her voice echoed from afar.

"That's right you ska-!"

Suddenly the lights went dim. Above her she heard stumbling and the noise of gongs.

"Shit, Harry!?" She hollered.

"Ow! Dammit! I'm fine!" He called back down, "Where are you!?"

"I'm still at the start!"

"Alright, well... Don't try getting up those stairs in the dark, you might sprain your ankle!"

"Kay!" She said disappointed.

"You and Cyn take another path, I'll see you outside... Hopefully!"

"Sure... Me and 'Cyn' will do that."

"What!?" He called back, moving further away.

"Nothing! Good luck!" She said and looked around the darkness.

Going downstairs was not an option, as surely Cynthia would jump her. Harrison was right about the stairs, if she hurt herself the fun was over and so were her odds at him. Straight ahead was the only option, into the mirror hall where a dimly shining chandelier reflected a thousand times into the mirrors. A wind blew softly from its maze.

"Maddy...." She faintly heard in the wind, chilling her to the bone.

"Fuck that!" She cursed and tried to walk back out the front, but the doors wouldn't budge.

Over and over in her head repeated the story of the asylum. For a moment she considered banging on the doors. But it would make her so seem uncool in front of Harrison.

"Shit! Shit! Shit!" She stomped her foot on the ground and stared into the mirror hall. "You can do this, Maddy! You're a bad ass!"

Slowly she approached the mirror hall and took a deep breath. One step at a time she shuffled into the seemingly endless maze. Around her she reflected so many times it was impossible to count. The chandelier seemed almost like a universe of small stars.

"See... You're doing it. You bad ass mofo..."

A cool wind glided passed her, "Maddy..."

Her knees turned to jelly. "Oh God! Oh God!" She cried softly and spun around. After just ten steps she could no longer tell where she had come in. "Okay! Stop!" She said to herself, "You're making yourself believe shit because of some troll at a duck shooting stand! Chill the fuck out and get your act together."

She closed her eyes to concentrate on her breathing – happy thoughts. "Puppies. Dogs. Wolves. People being eaten. Cannibals. Cannibals locked up in an insane asylum... Shit!" She opened her eyes. It was calm and quiet around.

"See... Nothing to worry about." She said looking in all directions trying to orientate herself.

As she turned around fully, what seemed like a person stepped out of view around one of the mirrors. She let go of a short, muffled shriek.

"Harry!?" She called – no answer. "Better not be that bitch..."

She backed up, looking around suspiciously for any movement, sound or vibration. A growing ominous feeling of someone, or something, watching her.

With baby steps she moved further down into the mirror maze, her hands out in front. The wooden paneling smelled like old books. Musty. The floor boards creaked with every step. Dust particles passed her as if in a dance to unheard music, followed by a breeze that appeared to be endlessly traveling through.  
As she turned another corner, the most peculiar noise came to her, coming and going in surges. She listened for it to come back again. Carried by the ever wandering breeze it was there once again, more clear and obvious. Every muscle, even her heart, cramped in fear. A woman, young of voice, weeping quietly. "Hello!?" She called out, her voice breaking in angst. The sound stopped, just long enough for her to gather the courage to walk closer. Again the wind swept by and brought back the sound, this time closer and with soft weeping. A sudden guilt fell over her.

"Cynthia? Is that you?"

It sounded so familiar, as if she'd heard it before. Then again everyone had heard Cynthia cry at one point or another, always a drama ready to be acted out.

"Cyn..." Using her abbreviation made her sick inside, "If that's you – I'm so sorry I pushed you... I shouldn't have done that. You didn't hurt yourself did you?"

The crying continued, no longer fading, a constant nearby. She could find her now, all she had to do was walk over.

"Are you okay? Do you want to walk out of here together? Harrison's upstairs. Okay? Cyn?" Through the glass paneling she could see into the next row, there sat someone, a young woman in modern clothes. It had to be her and Maddy sighed with relief.

She turned the corner and froze. All fearlessness she had ever ascribed to herself dissipated into a gut wrenching agony. She recognized her, it wasn't Cynthia. It was she, herself. Her reflection sat weeping in the mirror. Terror paralyzed her as the reflection slowly looked up.

"Nobody likes you!" Her own reflection shrieked at her, the deafening screech echoed through the dim maze.

"Oh... Oh God..." Madison whimpered, tears rolling down her face. "What are you?"

"Everybody hates you!" Her doppelganger growled and pressed up against the inside of the mirror. "Look at you! You're pathetic! Every other day you switch personalities! You ruin my life! Your life! You schizo! Why don't you just kill yourself!?" She screamed before breaking out into tears again.

Maddy screamed and began running as fast as she could, bumping into mirror walls all around. Her heart pounding with the power of a church bell, adrenaline burning through her system like rocket fuel. One turn, then another. Across the straight path, dead end. Everywhere the maze seemed to be but never where she expected. At least the crying had faded. She collapsed on the floor and rolled up into a ball, crying uncontrollable. Perhaps Cynthia had been right, maybe she was crazy. Seeing things, hearing things, feeling things.

The wind swept by again, within a fraction of a second she sat up straight, it seemed a messenger of sinister things. "...Maddy." It echoed in the wind again. She ground her teeth and clenched her fists together.

"Leave me alone!" She screamed.

"But I like you..." It said in sweet, gentle tone behind her.

Maddy turned slowly, another reflection. The same though different, green eye sparkling.

"No, please! Just leave me alone!" She said "I just want to go!"

"Why? It's so much fun in here..." Her reflection replied, pressing its hand up against the glass as if trying to reach out for her. "I like that; Fun."

Maddy screamed as hard as she could but it seemed her shrieks were swept away by the wind that still blew around.

"You should have more fun." The reflection said, "Why didn't you fuck Harrison yet? You know you want to."  
"What!?"

"Are you scared to fuck him? I'll fuck him for you! Take me out of here so I can have fun, Maddy..."

"Get the hell away from me!" She yelled smashing her phone into the mirror.

As it broke into pieces a horrible wail echoed through the halls and the reflection darted away as if in pain. Madison jumped to her feet and hurried off again, corner after corner she turned, just to get away. Around her flashed the silhouettes, the reflections of her, in every mirror. As she sped on another reflection doomed up in the mirror in front of her.

"Look at that anger!" It called enthusiastically. "Did it feel good breaking that mirror?!"

"I'm sorry! Please! Just let me go!"

"Why didn't you kill Cynthia?! You should've killed her, that bitch!"said her alter ego.

"No! I'm not listening to you!"

"That's because you're scared... Scared of your own evil. Afraid to see who you are."

"I know who I am! And I am not you!" Maddy yelled and spit at the mirror.

"Coward! You're a coward, Madison! A weak coward!" It said with evil eyes.

"Fuck you!" Maddy yelled and with all her strength pulled the mirror off the wall. With a loud crash it shattered into a thousand pieces as it hit the ground. "Eat that, you bitch!" She cursed as another wail echoed through the halls. The wind swept by once more and she fled again, aware of how it worked now. The boards underneath her feet moaned as she ran as fast as possible, determined not to give up.

"Maddy. Maddy, please." Another voice spoke. "Are you sure this is the right to do?"

"What the fuck are you talking about!?" She called as she spun around till the reflection approached her in a mirror to her side.

"Don't you see? You belong here, Madison. Right here, in the asylum. You were meant to be here. There's no way out, can't you see?" Her double insisted. "We're all here. And we're all you."

A story up above she heard the shuffling of feet, Harrison. "Maddy!" He called out, "I'm here!" His voice echoed as if from another world.

"Don't listen to him, Maddy..." The reflection said, to her side joined a hundred more. speaking in perfect unison "...Stay here with us, Maddy. Be complete. Be you."

"Maddy, I'm coming!" She could hear Harrison call.

"Stay here, Madison. We'll do the living for you."

"Never!" She yelled and looked around, vaguely in the distance she could see what appeared to be a dimly lit Exit-sign, just behind the mirrors and reflective glass.

"No, Maddy!" The reflections called.

With all the energy left in her she ran towards it, bracing herself. As she passed mirror after mirror, the doppelgangers appeared.

"No, don't do it, please!" Her depressed alter-ego begged. "Don't leave me here!"

"You bitch! You filthy bitch, you think you can escape!? We'll always be with you! We will never let you go!" said her angry double.

"Maddy, it's only for the best if you stay here. Think of the damage you might do." One of her reflections tried to reason with her. Closer and closer came the mirror wall.

"I just want to have fun! Be happy! I just want to live! Take me out there!" Another called popping up inside of the mirror right in front of her.

Maddy closed her eyes and shielded her face. She jumped and threw her full weight in. With the loudest crash and screaming of a thousand souls the mirror exploded into countless pieces. It followed by the noise of a roller slide, the old wooden wheels turning at top speed.

"What the fuck!?" A young female voice called startled.

A harsh bump on her head, doors flying open. Impact on grass. Everything turning, blacking out.

"Jesus! Maddy! It's me! I'm here!" Harrison's voice called, he held her. "Cynthia, call 911!"

"Relax, Harry... She's just being a drama queen." She replied. "She's fine, it's just some cuts! God!"

"Shut up! You're just jealous because I don't want you!"

Everything was peaceful, people gathered around in chaos. One man said he was a doctor, assessing she might have a concussion and called for an ambulance.

After a restless night of sleep, she had woken up, in the hospital. Her bed strewn with 'Get better'-cards. Puppies, flowers, monkeys and internet Meme-inspired pictures welcomed her.

"Hey." Harrison smiled and brushed a few strands of hair away from her face

"Hi..." She spoke with a dry throat, "I'm so happy to see you."

"Yeah, me too."

"Is this real? Am I really out of there?"

"Yep. No more creepy fun house for you..." He assured. "You kept talking in your sleep and everything. 'No! No! Don't get me!' and 'They want to take over my life!'" He chuckled.

"Incredible. I feel so amazing. Can we leave?"

"Leave!? Wow! You're in a hurry, huh!?" He gave her a kiss on the forehead. "I guess since you're so full of life, I suppose it must be left eye day, huh?"

"Green eye day... Yeah." She insisted, looking through all the cards. One was from Cynthia, an apology.

"Oh, right." He said as he pulled back and looked into her eyes. His face changed suddenly, his hand trembling. "So uhhh, do you want to see yourself?" His voice shivered.

"I guess!" She replied, smiling from ear to ear, hugging the card Cynthia had sent.

Harrison reached for a small mirror on the bedside table. Carefully he placed himself behind her, looking into the reflection together and turned pale.

Maddy looked at herself and smiled. Harrison dropped the mirror onto her lap and backed out of the room.

Her eyes had switched positions. Left eye brown, right eye green. She turned to him with a sinister grin, "...I'm just so happy to be alive."

Born and raised in Amsterdam, Bobby Salomons' works are as authentic and distinguishing as the city itself. A tense and mysterious atmosphere combined with a vivid and capturing writing style make his stories a pleasure to read and hard to forget. From a young age he was drawn to creative and inspiring works, striking up a true passion for writing in college. Ever since he has steadily developed himself as a writer, working as a script doctor and faithfully penning down several debut series. With a background in Art-Direction (advertising) and Copy Writing, Bobby is boldly undertaking the effort of establishing himself amongst his writing peers with the humor and sober-headedness expected from a Dutchman.

Find him at d2d-books.com.

Wicked Smart Carnie

by Mark Matthews

Mustard stings the corner of his lips. He swipes it away with a finger, and looks closer at the hot dog. The piece of meat is ripped open like a sliced finger stuck in a doughy bandage. How long was this hot dog sitting out before he bought it? Probably didn't sell in the last town and traveled with the carnival while a powerful army of bacteria infiltrated the casing. And here he was eating it now.

He thinks he should have chosen the elephant ear instead. The fatty fumes are so thick, and even the most ancient of grime would be killed in the deep fryer and then coated with sugar until it went down satisfying and sweet.

His feet kick the dirt, and dust swirls in the air. Shrill bells and whistles shriek from rides held together by bolts tightened with hungover hands. Same rides as the year before, and the year before that, and here he is, 30 years old and still coming back trying to reclaim what belongs to him.

He was just 13 years old when he was here for the first time. His parents thought he was going to the bowling alley and would be back in a few hours, but instead, his feet pounded on his motocross bike carrying him on a ten mile bike ride. The carnival waited.

He dumped his bike on the dark outskirts by a lone tree, and walked the last bit of distance. The darkness of the night framed the shining oasis of the carnival in front of him.

Music thumped in a tornado of noise as he approached. Teenagers older than him stomped about. One boy held hands with a girl who was dressed in tiny shorts and smirked behind lipstick and a hue of perfume. Another boy had his thumb stuck in the back of his girl's jeans, a public display announcing they had gone further and deeper in private. Years from now, maybe he could be one of those boys, but tonight, he was an outsider.

He roamed the aisles as the kaleidoscope of games called for his attention. He passed them all, hand in his front pockets fingering his 5 dollar bill. Carnie game workers knew he had money to spend. They could smell the fresh meat and called out to him.

"A winner every time."

"I got a deal for you."

"You want to play this, I know you do."

"Come on over here kid, come on now..."

Rows of huge stuffed animals in red, yellow, and pink hung like fruit, just out of reach. Elephants of blue and orange with floppy ears and bears with sad brown eyes looked down on him. All of this could be won and presented to your girl if you were lucky enough to win at a Carnival game.

His mouth was dry, and carnie dust was landing on his tongue and making it worse. A pop. He needed a pop. He'd walk one lap of this place, he decided, then a MT Dew before the bike ride home.

"You there! Yes, you with the taste for something sweet, come on over here."

His head swiveled, his feet pivoted, and he was drawn to the front of a dart throwing game. The prizes were black t-shirts with the names of music groups written across, and they shined down like treasure. Metallica, Justin Bieber, Led Zeppelin, One Direction. The ink on most of them looked sloppy and off-center.

These were knock-offs, homemade bootlegs.

"1 dart for 2 dollars. 3 for 5. You're a 3 for 5 boy. Come on now. Everyone's a winner. Pop one balloon."

A man with a microphone paced back in forth. Red and yellow balloons dangled waiting to be punctured. A woman worked as his assistant and followed his direction. There was some unison in them, like they were connected by invisible strings, one the puppeteer and the other the puppet, working in clockwork, collecting money, passing out darts, grabbing them from the floor, sucking in new customers.

The occasional pop of a balloon made him blink. He was scanning the shirts when he felt a warm touch on his forearm. It was flesh older than his, but soft enough to make heat pump through his body. Right in front of him was the dark, luscious queen of this carnival game.

She had white, fleshy cheeks with deep pores, and each one of them threatened to suck him in. Her eyes were exotic puddles of spring water. Stringy black hair was pulled back in a ponytail and her thin lips were dark as if black lipstick had been put on and could never come off.

She smiled deep into him, gazing into his insides until she could read his secret thoughts. He needed to pull away but couldn't.

He finally looked down from her eyes to her black t-shirt. It was one of the prizes they were offering. "AC/DC" it said in front, and had a picture of the whole group, including Angus Young wearing his school-boy uniform and horns coming out of his head. "BACK IN BLACK" was written sloppily underneath. The shirt pressed tight against her braless breasts.

The touch of her hand still warmed his arm. Every last swirl of her fingerprints made him excited. To be touched by her. She was in control. He didn't like it.

"You see anything you like, Hun? Anything you like, Sweety? All you need to do is nail just one, just pop it and you win. Just keep trying. It's why you are here tonight."

His hand became part of the puppet show, and he pulled the five dollar bill from his pocket. The woman bent down to gather darts that had fallen to the ground and he watched as her cleavage spilled forth. He should have looked away but couldn't. His eyes traveled down her AC/DC shirt to the roundness of her breasts and ...

"What you looking at Boy?" said the man, stepping up to him. His teeth were dark and jagged, like a dog's toenails. Black shave stubble was on his face, and his eyes glowed yellow.

"Her shirt. Her shirt is wrong."

"You say her shirt is wrong. What do you mean it's wrong?"

"Yeah, her shirt is wrong. That picture. It's the wrong AC/DC album cover. It's from Highway to Hell but it says 'Back in Black' on it. It's mismatched. It's wrong."

"Hmmm, so you say my good man, so you say. You are a smart lil'fuck. A smart one. Hmmm, yes. Yes. You could work. A little young, but you could work. Smart to know all of that."

The man pointed a finger into the air like it was a light bulb over his head.

"I'll tell you what my good man. We got new ones. New shirts. Back at the trailer. You bring one box from the trailer. Just one box of shirts from the trailer to here, and we give you one. You can't beat that. Now step right out and get going."

He saw himself on Monday at school wearing the shirt and getting attention from everywhere.

The woman bounced over the counter and took him by the hand. She pulled him along like she was walking a puppy. She was even older than he thought, old enough to be his mom. They walked by the Zipper, the Funhouse, ticket booths and the Tilt-A-Whirl. Carnie workers gave her nods of their heads with reverence like she was the queen, like a mother to all.

The whirl of light faded to the darkness of the trailers on the outskirts. She pulled him down rows of RVs and trucks attached to rustic campers of all sizes. Her fingers held his hand delicate as a doll but commanding as a cop. They finally came upon what seemed the hugest of trailers. More like a mobile home.

"Follow me in hun."

The room was full of thick black air, and he could feel the presence of something more inside. Like pets, animals; dogs asleep who were breathing. The slow movement of their chests, in and out, made slight ripples in the air, but none barked. The scent of ammonia stung his nose, like urine or something used to clean up urine was on the floor, but he couldn't tell which.

His heart thumped. This wasn't right. He started to turn back to the light of the door they came through, but she was on him then. Her lips kissed against his. Her tongue was the taste of summer heat. The black lipstick and her breath held the history of all her days and it filled his taste buds with something foreign and exotic.

She peeled her clothes off with speed. He felt the bare skin of her back with his hands as the roundness of her breasts pressed against him. Her fingers worked like a surgeon and pulled down his shorts to his ankles. His brain flashed with the thought;

He was about to fuck for the first time.

Yes fuck.

No, not have sex and certainly not make love, but fuck.

There should have been music instead of the hum of dogs breathing all around him. She should have been someone he could see the next day at school and smile with their unspoken secret. Her lips should taste like strawberry and not black licorice.

But nope, it was too late, because his body was raging hard and she was on top of him. She grinded with all her weight, her bare flesh made him boil and ready to explode. As soon as he entered her, better yet, soon as she engulfed him and was stuck on him like a suction cup, he did explode.

Grunts came forth. He whined for God. He said he loved her. He knew he sounded like a child.

This made her laugh. The grinding stopped and she laughed hysterically. The laughter filled the room and crunched his insides. He needed to leave. He tried to cover up his naked self while she lay on her back, laughing not like a witch but more like a tattle-tale sister.

It was only a few steps to the door. The air would be clear out there, the ammonia would be gone, he was almost free. He opened the door ready to dash out and never to see her again, but hesitated. Maybe one glance back.

Dark shapes were in the room. He flicked the switch.

Light spilled forth like a flash bulb and made a permanent imprint in his memory. There were no animals breathing in this room, none at all. There were only children. Lots of little children.

Cribs and cots lined the walls. Babies too big for them were sleeping in diapers held together with silver duct tape. All of them seemed brown and caked with carnie dirt, like plastic dolls left out in the backyard all summer long.

Children began to stir. One finally awoke, squinted towards the light, and then crawled to feed on a bottle rigged to the side of the crib. The bottle was filled with yellowish liquid and thicker than milk. The liquid dripped down the babies chin while it slurped at the bottle like a hamster in its cage.

More movement in the cribs, restlessness from the children being woken before their time, faster breaths and faster heart beats. Eyes opened, some eyes caught his and kept his gaze. For a moment he felt like their dad, like he should scoop some up and take them away to a safe, clean place.

They all had her stringy black hair. They all had her exotic black eyes. None of them smiled. They reminded him of baby geese caught in an oil spill.

One baby finally started to cry. More followed. Tears crackled. On the bed, the woman laid naked. Tattoos sagged with her skin. A series of scars looked like hash marks on her navel.

"Go on Hun. Let them sleep. Go now my Love. Go find your God."

He feared she may laugh again. He wanted back on his bike. He wanted to go home.

Two steps out of the trailer and the air was fresh and the ammonia stink gone, but somebody was there waiting, seemingly standing guard, right outside the door.

It was him. The man with the dog toenails for teeth. The man's mouth opened and his teeth somehow sparkled in the dark.

"Thanks for the seed my good man. Thanks for playing. We can't just breed carnie on carnie. Really dumb down our tribe that way. We just need a few good men. Smart lil'fuckers like you. Your kid's gonna be a wicked smart Carnie."

Wicked Smart Carnie became the name for his imagined baby, and he peddled home thinking of the child sleeping in a dirty crib some 9 months later.

This was 17 years ago, and today he walks over the same piece of land; buying hot dogs, eating elephant ears, playing games, riding rides, and looking into the eyes of the carnie workers. He hopes to see the trace of his own flesh in some dirty 17 year old. He wants to reclaim what's his, his lost child, and bring the prize home.

Mark Matthews has worked in addiction and mental health treatment for over 20 years, and writing for nearly just as long. His most recent novel, MILK-BLOOD, is a tale of urban horror based in Detroit and is now available on amazon. A companion piece, The Damage Done, is now free on amazon. On the Lips of Children , published by Books of the Dead press, was nominated as a semi-finalist for the 2014 Best Kindle Book Awards.

Follow him at http://www.markmatthewsauthor.com/

Walk the Line

by Jamie Corrigan

Autumn's always so magical. I can't put my finger on why exactly, but I know that it just feels different. Maybe it's the leaves shedding their green skin and falling to the ground in colorful piles. Or is it the slight crispness of the air that makes everyone feel so giddy? Maybe it's both, but I'm a firm believer that what makes this time of year so fantastic is the carnival that arrives two weeks before Halloween.

Every year they roll into town with tents of every color. Inside their majestic realm lies the usual animals: Lions, elephants, monkeys, and so on. Really, it's more like a small circus, but they hate for people to say that. The last time an old man mumbled the word, a tiny red-nosed clown came out and bonked him on top of his bald head with a squeaky hammer. Everyone laughed, but I could tell the workers seemed really angry about what he'd said. That's why I make sure never to even think the word circus if I'm a mile near the place. Not taking the chance of getting hit - or worse, locked out of the carnival for life. That to me would be worse than death itself.

"Danny, hurry up! We're going to be late." I slump against the wall with my arms crossed.

Black shaggy hair pokes out around the corner followed by a pair of dark-chocolate eyes. "Skyler, chill. It's not like it's going to be any different than the last fifteen years we've seen it." He reaches out and flips my auburn ponytail with the tips of his fingers.

I pretend not to be impatient, but fail miserably. Fingers fidgeting with their twins, I sigh. "Come on, Danny. You can eat when we get there. My mom gave me enough to feed you twice."

"So, you're not eating?"

I watch as he shoves a banana half-way in his mouth and stop when he sees my frown. "Of course I'm eating, man-gorilla. It'd feed me six times, but I have to feed you too. Now come on." I don't wait. Instead, I turn and begin walking towards the front door.

He bolts in front of me and opens the door. "Fine. But why do you want to go so early? Some guy going to be there?" And there's the look he's worn for the last two months since we'd lost that stupid game of spin the bottle.

With a shake of my head, I answer his question and he becomes the Danny I've known all of my life. As my foot touches the bottom step, I decide to let him in on everything. "Do you know why everybody's excited about the carnival?"

"Because of the food and shows." He rubs his stomach and licks his lips causing me to giggle.

"That's not it. Well, it's not just that." Images jump through my mind of the faces of the people. "It's like they're sparkling."

Danny stops mid step. "What's sparkling?"

Fingers safely inside of their sleeve shelter, I wave my arms in the air like a magician. "Their eyes! When they see her—they just change. It's so cool, Danny! Haven't you ever noticed?"

Putting his arm around my shoulders, we begin walking again. "If I had a clue about what the heck you're talking about, maybe then I could answer. But I'm seriously lost here, Skyler. You have to remember I'm not a girl. I don't have y'alls built-in elephant memory thing. So, help your BFF out."

The carnival's just twenty steps away and already I can see that look. It's so cool to have my best friend live so close to the carnival grounds. Makes up for Danny wasting our time doing whatever he does before leaving his "sanctuary." I stare for a moment, fixated on their expressions. My body starts shaking and Danny pulls me closer thinking that I'm cold, but I'm not. That's not why I'm shivering like that winter I fell through the frozen pond. It's because for once in my life I can see their eyes a little differently.

They're not sparkling. They're glass!

"Skyler? Hello, you there?"

She's there at the gate, welcoming everybody inside. Normally I don't see her until the show begins, but this year's different. I watch as she shakes each hand and see them leave themselves. Five feet from the midnight-blue haired girl, I stop. Nails digging into Danny's slender arm, I whisper, "Let's just go somewhere else. I'm kinda over this place already."

"You sick or something?" When I shake my head, Danny adds, "Weren't you the one who was dying to get over here like right away?"

Her eyes drift over and meet with mine. Her gaze punches me directly in the gut and all of the air rushes from my body. I'm on my knees in a second, gasping for desperately needed oxygen. Danny's doing his best to calm me down, but it's not helping. All I can see is her hot-pink eyes. Hot-freaking-pink! Suddenly everything I once thought was so beautiful about her is scaring me right out of my very own skin.

"Is your girlfriend okay?" A soft, melodic voice asks. My eyes dart up and there are those pink eyes staring down at me.

Danny begins to snicker nervously. "Um, my friend's okay. Just having a panic attack." He finishes his explanation off with a mumbled, "For some weird reason."

My body repels backwards, taking Danny along with me. "Tightrope walker." I know I'm not making sense, but I'm hoping all of our years of being friends will get the message through.

He looks from me to her and back again. "Is that who she is?"

I nod and pray he gets the same weird feeling I'm having right now.

"Huh. Didn't recognize her. Have we ever watched her before?"

A freight train roars through my head with memories of the same exact girl walking the same exact line every year we've been alive. "Yes."

We're too close to the entrance. Must get away.

"Really? Cause I don't ever remember watching that act here." He gives her another look and I watch as she begins flirting with him by twisting her hips in that Victoria Secret model way. He doesn't even look away as he adds, "Is she what you were so excited about a few minutes ago?"

I tug his arm, forcing Danny to focus back on me. "Maybe, but I want to go somewhere else now." My voice is filled full of false-flirt, but it's doing nothing to get him on my side. She already has him hooked and he's dragging me along into Hell with him.

Danny yanks me from the ground and sighs. "I'm hungry, Skyler and we're already here. Stop being rude and let's go get some grub!"

"Is she okay?" Once Danny says I'm fine, she adds, "Good! Then welcome to Carnaval de la Muerte." Her hand slowly grasps Danny's and I watch as the glass curtain covers his once vibrant eyes. His other hand drops from mine as she adds, "I'm Segadora, the tightrope walker."

"Danny?" I reach out, determined to break Segadora's link to him. Just when I'm about to touch him, her hand slips from his and grasps mine. My eyes widen and my heart begins to race. Those pink eyes are locked with mine once again and in a flash, the world fades to a fuzzy realm full of nothingness.

****

The bed shakes as I shoot up. Deep purple and emerald fabric surrounds me, blocking the cool air from reaching inside.

"You're awake. Good," Segadora says.

I try to get up, but something's locked my body into place. Muscles contract, trying to bring much needed oxygen to my lungs. I'm in full-on freak-out mode and Danny's nowhere in sight to help me. It takes all I have just to ask, "Where am I?"

"Ah, I remember asking that question once." She rises and holds out an emerald-sequin leotard, looking at it like it held all of her questions answers. Segadora doesn't stop her examination as she continues, "And before you ask, your little friend's outside in the crowd getting ready to watch the show."

Again I try to move, but nothing happens. "Why am I here then?"

She tosses the outfit on the end of the bed. "Get dressed in that and then we'll do your hair and makeup."

"I'm not wearing that!" My mouth protests everything, but my body's not listening. Instead, I find myself standing and shedding my jeans and tee. Slipping into the soft satin costume, electric tingles crawl up and down my entire being.

Segadora smiles as she releases my hair from its holder. In just fifteen minutes she's turned my stringy mess of a mane into beautiful, bouncy curls. "Now," she says, "just a touch of peach gloss and gold shadow with liner and you'll be perfect."

Tears sting my eyes. They burn. Worse than anything I've ever felt before in my life. The mirror tells me why when I catch a glimpse of my pale green eyes stained with a slight pale pink. "Why is this happening to me?"

"Just relax and allow your instincts to show you what to do. If you freak out, you die. Got it?"

I nod.

"Good. Now let's go. It's show time—Skyler, right?"

Segadora escorts me through a tunnel made from tents of every color into the main one. The worker's eyes finally make sense to me. I always thought they wore colorful contacts to be funny, but it's really their eyes. Something about this carnival makes them that way. Makes us this way.

"You're the one who's doing this to everyone. Why are you doing this?" My brain's screaming at my legs to run, for my fist to punch Segadora, but nothing happens. Instead, I walk forward as the ringmaster announces their brand new tightrope walker, The Amazing Skyler, to the audience. Cheers fill my ears, but it's not loud enough to drown out her response.

"Fifteen years. I've waited for you for fifteen long years."

I find myself for a second and turn to face her. "What does that mean? How old are you?"

Segadora's ruby lips slide into a Cheshire cat grin. "You're here so now I'm free. Fifteen years from now you will find her and then you will be free as well." Her fingers plays with one of my loose curls. "It's not fair, I know. But the carnaval demands a walker. The first was fifteen and she served for fifteen years before she found her replacement. She left at the age of fifteen same as I am right now. In that same time you will repeat the same past until you're released into a new present. Your Danny will be thirty, but you're not into him like that anyway. But you won't complain because you'll be free. I know I'm not complaining."

"I won't do it. You can't make me." My words come out weaker than I intend.

Again she smiles, eyes changing from that frightening pink into a soft baby-blue. "My poor, Skyler. I'm not doing anything to you, nor can I make you do anything. It's the carnaval. She demands you. It's your turn to serve her since my time has ended. And if you can find a way to free yourself when I couldn't, then bravo."

Bright white-light surrounds me and my body swiftly turns and starts strutting towards center ring. From the corner of my eye I see Danny, cheering madly in the front room without realizing who I am. Again, water clouds my vision and it takes all I have not to fight against my limbs as they carry me to the top of the stand. Segadora said to follow my instincts or I'd die, so I do because dying is something I'm not willing to do at the moment. I may be losing myself, but I refuse to lose my life before I figure out how to break this freaking curse.

My heart beats madly, threatening to rip itself from my chest. As my foot leaves the safety of the small wooden ledge and rests on the flimsy metal wire, my stomach flips upside down.

Just breathe and keep going. Everything will be fine. Just breathe, Skyler.

Step after step, I keep walking until I'm in the center of the tightrope. And now I remember what's next. Rising on the tips of my toes, arms raised above my head, I spin and begin doing little hops in place. The crowd goes wild with every little move I make. I know what I'm doing is impossible, but as long as I'm not falling, my body keeps doing what it's told to do. The wire bends and sways, but somehow I stay put. Even when I do a fancy little spin and the tightrope threatens to move right from under my feet, we remain one and I land safely on the exit platform just as Segadora had every year I'd watched her perform.

Night-after-night, town-after-town, the same routine repeats with nothing new happening. Segadora's long gone, but her words are fresh in my mind every second of every day. The carnies all treat me as an old friend, but deep down I know they know one day I'll be gone. A new walker will take my place and I'll be free. Someday I'll be the one to doom a girl to this fate. For the first five years I tried to fight it until I found Segadora's diary. Her words of trying to fall from the tightrope and failing, along with the nightmares that followed scared me enough to realize we are powerless against the Carnival. So for ten more years I will walk the wire until I find her and doom her to take my place.

After it's over, will I even remember this place? Her name? Dear, God—will I remember what I've done?

****

Baby-blue seemed to be the color for her and the costume fit well. I leaned against the pole near the exit and watched as she did our old act. I know she'll be fine. The wire takes care of us and makes sure us walkers don't fall. Her act's almost over now, so it's my time to go.

Walking out into the crisp Autumn air, I sigh. It's been fifteen years since I've felt so alive and I plan on enjoying my new-found freedom. Lucky for me I found her on the opposite end of the country from my hometown. I don't know what I would've done if she'd been there. If she'd been his daughter I know I would've just died and allowed her to be free. That was something I vowed when the thought first came to my mind.

I'm on the edge of the street when I hear it. That squeaky voice that brings tears rushing to my eyes as it exclaims, "Skyler?"

And now I'm face-to-face with a thirty-year-old Danny. Gone is the shaggy hair. In its place is a neat adult cut. But those dark-chocolate eyes have the same look in them that they'd had so many years ago when he last looked at me.

"Um, hi, Danny. How you been?"

He bum rushes me, wrapping stronger arms than I remember him having around my body. I can hear him crying and my heart actually breaks in a way that finally allows me to understand why people say that.

You're fifteen, Skyler and he's thirty. Let it go. Let him go. I'm telling myself this when I hear him rambling on about how he's missed me and how he's never gotten over losing me. And that's when I realize that for fifteen years we've both been walking a tightrope. Me literally and Danny—well, he's been pretending to live while searching for me in secret. I know this because he's whispering in broken sobs as he pulls me close.

I catch my pale green eyes in a side mirror of a nearby car and sigh. "Shhh, Danny. I'm here now and everything's fine. Just chill."

He refuses to release me. "Chill? You sound like it hasn't been forever since we talked." When Danny does pull away, the question comes. "Where have you been, Skyler?"

Those chocolate eyes. I never realized what they did to me. Why I didn't fight about losing the spin when the bottle landed on him. Damn, you're who I was thinking of every night. I raise up, clasp my hands on both sides of his face, and press my lips to his. To hell with age difference. Right now all I want to do is what I should've done back then.

My body trembles with every second I kiss him, but it's not until I catch my reflection again that I understand why it felt so violent. With one kiss I aged to the point where I look like Danny. I can even see the little lines edging the corners of my eyes and mouth from laughing too much. I look back at him, but Danny doesn't seem to notice the change. All he can see is the same girl he was crazy about fifteen years ago. I know this because he's wearing that same stupid-grin he had when I kissed him in that closet. At least this time I don't want to slap him.

Danny shakes his head and looks back at me. "Where have you been?"

Taking his hand in mine, I turn and we begin to walk away as I reply, "You know. Walking a tightrope and being a star." I can tell he doesn't believe me, but he doesn't ask again. As we get farther away from the carnival I feel guilty about what I've done to the new girl. But at least I know there's a chance she'll find happiness. We may walk the wire for fifteen years, but once we're free from the act, we're free to find ourselves and that's something I would've never found without Segadora the Fantastic Tightrope Walker.

"Skyler," Danny stops and gives me a strange look. "What's wrong with your eyes?"

My head snaps to the right and I scream as hot-pink covers the pale-green once again. An explanation starts to tumble from my lips, but when I turn back to him, Danny's gone and I'm standing on the tightrope ledge alone once again.

It was a dream. He's not here and I'm not free.

Tears sting my eyes while the crowd keeps cheering madly. Segadora once thought the walkers were truly what kept the carnival going. That's why we couldn't die. At first I couldn't understand why she'd wanted to die, but now I totally get it. Water streams down my face as I take my first step onto the wire. It bends as usual, but my vision's too clouded to see anything clearly.

Three steps and then spin. As I'm allowing my instincts to keep the instruction firmly in my mind, a sentence from Segadora's diary finally clicks with me. The wire knows what you're thinking so it'll always move to save you. It's useless to even try to leave it before it's time.

I keep thinking left. The word is connected to a series of spins and I know that direction isn't part of the act. When the time comes, I begin to spin. The wire responds under my feet and just when I think about jumping off to the left, the wire sways that way and I leap to the right.

As the air rushes around my body, I see the tightrope above me and I'm wondering if it's trying to catch me again. The ground's going to hurt, but I don't care. To hell with this carnival. I'm done being a walker. The crash shatters every bone in my body, and it's almost impossible to breathe. The glassy look in the crowd's eyes is gone and now they're screaming and running away. As the last person exits the main tent, the sapphire and gold fabric falls around me.

It worked. I'm free.

Just as the last breath's leaving my body I see it. The girl from my dream's standing beside the ringmaster, hot-pink stains her eyes as a demonic smile decorates her face.

The carnival must have a walker. Leaving before it's time is useless.

I fade away as Johnny Cash's Walk the Line is hummed wickedly into my ear by the new girl who is taking my place on the wire.

Jamie Corrigan is a wife, author, a member of SCBWI. She's also one of four Co-Founders of #TwitWits. She is a YA author currently searching for a Literary Agent while simply trying to live her everyday life.

Find her at: http://thiswritersworldplotbunnies.blogspot.com/

The Hallow Fest Queen

by Kristin Rivers

On the main stage of Hallow Fest in the small town of Ashfield, population 1,200, a cape with leopard fur and soft red fabric lies in a flattened heap. Something is sticking out in the middle of the pile. The wind suddenly blows the cape on its side, as if folded by invisible hands.

A golden-painted carnival crown, rubies on its spikes, glowing blood red as if they were taken from the eyes of a demon, was found.

It was like any other Hallow Fest that year. They had the most creative costumes from zombies to farmers; princesses to dancers; gypsies to witches; werewolves to vampires. They had the annual pumpkin contest, the pie eating contests. A traveling circus of magic and trickery.

People say legends are just fairy tales; hogwash, they don't mean a thing. They entertain and frighten. They are told in many forms, nothing more.

That all changed; the night she became Queen.

****

2 days earlier

Pastor Rochester looked outside one of the many stained glass windows that ordained his lovely Ashfield Church, one of the oldest in town.

Hallow Fest was two days away; the annual Halloween gathering. The carnival rides towed by trucks across the county came to assist in the set up. The scent of caramel being stirred so apples could be dipped lingered from the slightly open front door. Bleeps from goats being pulled by their owners on string pulled back against the ropes and were stubborn while being led to their cages for the petting zoo. Swords were polished. Cotton candy machines loaded.

Hallow Fest was a smaller venue compared to bigger, and much more popular spots like the Big E in New England. It didn't have fried Oreos or get much attention, but Hallow Fest had one thing that still managed to bring the masses in.

The King and Queen of the Carnival.

That main source of income nerved Pastor Rochester this year. In past years, he had never felt so nervous, so uneasy, as if his gut was warning him of something evil. He knew the Lord worked in ways that could not be understood, and in this world of free will where evils existed, he knew God would provide for him always.

"Pastor?" a young woman's voice squeaked.

He turned slightly and half-grinned. A young girl, about twenty, with auburn hair and stunning blue eyes, stood by the altar. She had a dark ruby red shawl tucked under her arm.

"Olivia," he says. "How nice to see you. I thought you were helping Marta get ready for Hallow Fest."

"I snuck off when she went to the coffee shop," she chuckles. "I couldn't handle trying on one more dreaded fairy princess outfit."

Pastor Rochester chuckled to himself. "Understandably so my child. Come, sit," he gestures to the pew near where he stood. Olivia sat down. "What brings you here?"

Olivia grows quiet. I hope he believes me. "I...I wish to ask you a question."

"Please, go on."

"Is...the legend true?"

Pastor Rochester was taken aback by her words. "I don't believe I understand your question Olivia."

"About the King and Queen of the Carnival."

The local rumor that ran around Ashfield was during the King and Queen of Hallow Fest being crowned, a scarred young being who endured a horrible death and hid his appearance amongst the fog, would take the Queen as his own, never to return her again. Some said he would get rid of the King and enter himself in the running. Some said he would be runner-up when the King fell ill, and some said he would turn everyone to stone. One part of the legend was true: the Phantom of the Opera was his inspiration for his tricks and seductions, the girls fawned and the guys were inspired.

As the years dwelt on, the legend became less and less of a possibility and more of a joke and scary story among teenagers and children. Olivia, however, was always frightened by the tale, believing it would happen one day, even when told by friends and family it was child's play.

But Olivia was smarter. She loved myths and believed some of them. She spent many hours in the library when not working at the book desk reading on these tales; the stories of Persephone, Cupid and Psyche, stories about pirates, mermaids, and dragons.

But this one—and others like vampires and werewolves— left her frazzled.

Olivia stared at him. "I'm frightened Pastor. I'm not quite sure why I am, but whatever the feeling is...I know something's coming...I'm Queen of the Carnival this year. Shawn's the King...but I'm worried."

The Pastor nods. "You do not have to be afraid for you have God, who protects you in times of trouble. I too understand your worry...I myself have felt an evil presence."

Olivia's mouth fell open. "You believe me?"

"I do child. In all of my years of teaching the Word of God, I have come to believe in the supernatural. They are dark...but they all have one thing in common."

"What?"

"They suffered a horrible fate. Some have, but not all. Some were mistreated, abused, unloved, and were framed. I believe the legend is true...I've said so for decades. It can be stopped, but no one will listen."

"How?"

"Help him or her cross over."

"So you believe...something bad is gonna happen this year at Hallow Fest, don't you Pastor?"

He sighs, glancing at a stained glass window of Jesus on the cross during His final hours. "I'm afraid so." He stands up and walks to the baptismal pool in the far corner. He takes a small flask, blue glass with tints of green and white, and dips it. The pastor hears the young woman's footsteps come towards him. He turns to her. "Take this," he places the bottle in her hands. "When all seems lost, this will protect you. I will have more for you before Hallow Fest."

"Thank you Pastor." She clutches the bottle in both hands. "If the legend really is true, what does he want?"

"Olivia, you should never have sympathy for the devil, but I believe he just wants love; we all can't survive without it. Jesus never judged the adulterous woman when others wished to stone her, so you should try to show pity, but if worse comes to pass, love him, teach him about God, and you will be okay."

"I agree." Olivia nods. "Once again, thank you Pastor Rochester...I just pray the legend is false after all." She walks away, a little more relaxed.

When the door shuts, Pastor Rochester stares at the window of Jesus once again. "Lord, protect Olivia, a much darkened man is coming...and he wants her...there's no more time."

****

One day earlier

Marta was still going through the costumes at the dress shop while Olivia sat down on the cushion, looking down at her ruby red shawl. She hoped the King and Queen would go without incident; but that twinge of fear existed.

"Ugh there has to be something regal here somewhere. You can't run for Queen of the Carnival if you're not dressed like one!" Marta complained, her red hair bunched in a messy ponytail. "The best thing they have here are discounts—and those are gone already!!"

Olivia couldn't resist a small snicker escaping her lips. "Come on Marta you know how silly this is? I don't even like Shawn!"

"Haha very cute Olivia," Marta rolled her eyes. "Just because you could care less doesn't mean I should either. Besides, you gotta be pretty! Ugh," she picked up a sexy Marie Antoinette costume. "Who in the right mind would wear such an atrocity? There's gonna be kids seeing this!!"

Olivia shook her head. "Marta where would I be without you?"

"Great question sister," she chuckles. "I can't believe you're even complaining! I never get picked!"

"I know but..." she trailed off.

"Olivia," Marta huffs, hands on her hips. The Marie Antoinette costume dropped to the floor. "You know that's some silly deal our parents told to make us believe in the supernatural. Besides, they made us behave!"

"But Marta I have a bad feeling about this year. Maybe it's just me—"

"More like those books you keep reading. You know the Greeks and Romans made up those myths right? They still didn't disprove the existence of Atlantis did they?"

"Marta come on!"

"Stories like The Phantom of the Opera or The Hunchback of Notre Dame are fake too!! Speaking of Hunchback, I think Kenny will be dressing up like him this year—"

Olivia slammed her palm against her forehead. At least Pastor Rochester believes me. The myth reader also struggled with her parents telling her to go have fun at the Festival this year and take her crown.

Not only that, but every time she heard the word, that chill came back. She dealt with it weeks prior and after the announcement of the King and Queen, her nerves shot up sky high. Whatever was out there was looking for something, and it wanted her.

Marta's squeals of delight brought Olivia back to reality. "I found it!! This is SO you!!" She held up a purple fairy maiden gown with gold stripes.

"Purple? Really?"

"Come on Olivia, the other ones are out! You're too nice to be an evil queen anyway!"

Before Olivia could object, a scream burst out. Everyone browsing the dress shop froze in place. Olivia glanced outside to see a small crowd gathering near the festival grounds. The chill crawled up her arms again, giving her excessive goose bumps as cold as ice.

One of the shop employees decided to open the door and go outside. Everyone else followed in hot pursuit. Marta dropped her purchased costume, a Huntress, and ran. Olivia remained inside. Marta came back out of breath; red-faced. "Something terrible has happened!!"

When they got to the grounds, they saw nothing amiss. But when they followed the crowd, they discovered the capes the King and Queen of the Carnival were supposed to wear were slashed to bits, pieces of cloth scattered on the floor. The scepters were a huge loss, broken into a million pieces like glass. The crowns were cut in half, pieces of paint missing, an ominous smell filling the air.

At the stage of the Fest was Shawn's body, stiff, lifeless it seemed, knocked out, the chandelier above smashed to pieces over his torso, glass everywhere.

Everyone gasped in fright. A paramedic checked Shawn's pulse and saw he was still alive. "He must've slipped," he said. People whispered.

The mayor assured everyone after the discovery the festivities would continue. They dubbed it an accident and will find who's responsible. Security measures will be increased.

For Olivia, after returning to the dress shop, she knew the worst was coming. She could feel it. Marta tried to put the matter behind them by discussing the carnival. "Anyways...if not purple, what?"

Olivia looked through the dresses, and found one. She held it up to Marta. "Wow. I like it."

It was indeed beautiful. A full-length renaissance maiden gown with draped sleeves. The outside part of the dress was gold, the bust silver, and the entire rest including the drapes, red. Ruby red, just like her prized shawl. A much innocent red.

It was the last thing she would ever wear.

****

The Night of Hallow Fest

Olivia reluctantly walked down the steps of Ashfield Church after receiving more bottles of holy water from Pastor Rochester. Her parents, dressed as an angel and Caesar, told her to go have fun and assured her again nothing would happen.

Walking towards Hallow Fest, she observed some fog beginning to form around her feet. That's odd. Why would there be fog at this time of night? A chill crawled up her spine. She began scampering towards the grounds while holding up her gown.

All around her, little kids with trick or treat bags ran past. A hay ride led by donkey and scarecrow slowly went through the maze. People were bobbing for apples, playing games, riding the Ferris wheel. The parade soon came around the corner; the local high school's dance team performing in various outfits.

Throughout the night, it was the same as every year prior. Minor issues due to underage drinking and rowdiness, the occasional lost kid in the maze soon found. Teenagers making out and telling scary stories by campfire. Adults pranking each other and watching juveniles trying to teepee nearby buildings.

But something was off this year. There was a lot of whispering among the townspeople, children being held tighter by their parents, teenagers and college students laughing saying nothing would happen. Ever since Shawn's near-death by chandelier, everyone was whispering about the Hallow Fest legend. Rumors spread and people began to think the King and Queen were cursed this year; hoping Olivia didn't suffer as well.

The mayor however was unfazed by the gossip. The drama brought in even more droves which lured in the biggest attendance ever. As people drove in, Pastor Rochester was speaking with some old friends, preparing a possible exorcism.

Marta was recanting the rumors to Olivia, who kept glancing around at everyone, paranoid. A young Huntsman was with them, flirting with Marta, making her giggle with delight.

"Marta did you notice before me, other women who were gonna be Queen mysteriously quit?"

"Yeah...I remember hearing about that. Simone was in before you. She got food poisoning. Isn't that funny everyone else was poisoned to some degree? Luckily no one died!"

"Yeah...you see why I thought the legend's true?"

"Funny you mention that," Marta fixed her bow and arrow. "When I was getting dressed this morning, some guy in a black cloak and fancy shoes was staring outside my window. He told me to not be alarmed by tonight's events...and that you would be in good hands. Freaky..."

The Huntsman explained his thoughts to her while Olivia's nerves skyrocketed. I knew it...the legend is true... Olivia clutched her shawl close, another chill suddenly enveloping her being. I have to get out of here. Before she could take off, the townspeople soon gathered around the stage for King and Queen, the small group getting mobbed and pushed the opposite direction.

Onstage, traces of Shawn's near-death experience and the damage from the vandalized props were erased. Pastor Rochester led the crowd in a short prayer. His friends were standing behind him, waiting. When he finished, his eyes landed on Olivia's. He could sense her growing terror and said another prayer for her.

The mayor introduced this year's queen. Olivia slowly walked on stage, the crowd applauding her. Marta accompanied her; slipping something into her arsenal of holy water. She stood to the side, as if regret was taking on her features.

Two women dressed as an evil queen and Maid Marian came on stage and placed a replaced cape over Olivia's costume. A newly repaired crown with blood red rubies encircled her head.

From behind Olivia, a man around her age poked out from the shadows; his shiny black shoes softly touching the floor. Pastor Rochester's friends whispered to him. They got their holy water and Bibles out. Marta saw him before Olivia did but got silenced, landing among a pile of barrels.

Suddenly, the fog returned. Everyone glanced at one another whispering to themselves. The rides suddenly stilled; a silence took over the grounds. Light bulbs exploded. Wisps of the undead slowly rose from the ground, emitting screams from the townspeople. The gates to the fairgrounds soon locked, rusted shut. The undead blocked all the exits. Attractions toppled over and soon burst into flames.

The mayor called security to have everyone evacuate the scene. The King's crown landed on the being's head as he stepped forward.

Olivia stood stiff, frozen in fear. She tried to run away but felt herself stuck in place as if glued to the floorboards. The being smirked at the crowd, his face concealed by his black cloak. Strangely enough, he was gently smiling at Olivia, which perplexed her.

Before she could blink, the floor opened below her, fire erupting and surrounding them. Olivia screamed as the being's arms encircled her in protection, his gentle touch easing her fears. People cried out, realizing the Hallow Fest legend was true. Others tried to save her, but the heat of the fire and the undead army held them back.

Pastor Rochester pleaded with the being to spare her as they tried to help him cross over; but the being looked at the Pastor as if he too regretted what he was about to do. The being asked for forgiveness; and the Pastor reluctantly forgave his sins.

"Please take care of her, don't hurt her." The Pastor begged. His friends tried to exorcise him but failed.

Guns suddenly went off, the bullets melting on contact. A part of Olivia's prized shawl caught on fire, but before she could put it out, she shielded her eyes as the fire consumed her.

The last thing she ever heard were the screams of her parents and Father Rochester's hands in prayer, her crown and fur collar falling away. They vanished beneath the floorboards as she blacked out, the undead following suit.

When the smoke cleared, the crown and fur collar remained. The Huntsman helped Marta. Olivia's parents ran to the stage and saw a piece of her shawl, burnt, left behind. They fell on their knees, sobbing.

Pastor Rochester stood in his place, heartbroken. "God help us all."

****

A while later, Olivia stirred. She sat up in a bed of red satin sheets, pulling back the black laced curtains. It reminded her of the Phantom's lair in Phantom of the Opera with lit candles, mirrors, extravagant clothing in the closets, and a place to rest. It just had no cage, lake, boat, freaky monkey music box, or masks lying around.

She slowly stepped out of the bed, holding her gown as her feet touched the marble floor. Olivia quietly walked around the small place she was brought to, amazed and in awe of how lit and intimate it felt. If she really were brought down to Hell, this could've been some fluke to deceive her, so she recited the Lord's Prayer for strength.

Suddenly, she heard footsteps. She froze in fear and slowly turned around to see the man who brought her here. Olivia lost her footing and fell back against the floor, backing in a corner like Christine Daee. "Please don't hurt me," she begged in fright, her headpiece falling off. She had her holy water in hand.

The man walked back to the bed, puzzling Olivia. He came back with her shawl. "I believe this belongs to you my dear." He said kneeling at her feet and handing it to her. Olivia reluctantly took it, clutching it close to her. "I don't wish to harm you."

"Then why have you brought me here?"

The man brought down his cloak from his face. Olivia's eyes widened in fright at the dead man before her. His eyes were tinted gray, black hair in a ponytail, a gashed scar where dried blood remained from his cheek to the side of his head, numb grey hands, white button-down shirt with black coat, fancy pants and shoes. Olivia reached out to touch his scar but recoiled. He grabs her hand, bringing it to his face, touching the dried blood.

"...You won't hurt me?"

"No."

"But the legend is true though...about Hallow Fest."

"Yes. It's been true for centuries." He helps her up, leading her to a table with a stack of books. "You seem to believe in it."

"Yes...I spend my time reading myths. You remind me of the Phantom."

"You're familiar with the tale."

"Yes, very much." He motioned to a glass of tea. She declined.

He chuckled. "So you have read of Persephone too? Do not worry you will not be imprisoned like she was."

"Then why am I here? Why me...uh...?"

"Casper. Call me Casper my dear." He poured more tea. "I was King of the Carnival in Ashfield many years ago...but my queen was poisoned by a jealous lover. I was blamed and burnt alive, this," he pointed to his gash. "Was a mark they gave me before death. Like the S in The Scarlet Letter. I got stuck between worlds and been here since. Before you judge my dear I am no demon, no vampire, no werewolf. I've spent my days here in solitude, waiting...and yearning."

Olivia felt compassion stir for Casper. "Pastor Rochester told me all you ever wanted was to be loved."

Casper nodded at her words. "His words are true Miss Olivia."

Olivia froze. "How do you know my name?"

"Your friend, Marta. I shouldn't have flung her; I knew she'd interfere."

"I knew before you even came this was going to happen...but why?"

Casper sighed "My heart aches for you, truly. The time came—you remind me of my queen—thus why I took you. I poisoned the other women before you the same way my queen was. That chill you felt was me beckoning to you, to take you from those...people. The same ones who ended me."

"But...you're dead."

"I am. I could not survive without my Queen, so every year during Hallow Fest, I would wait, and when I saw you...I had to have you. I'm afraid I cannot bring you back."

"Am I in—"

"No you are not in Hell. This is my kingdom where I rule over other lost souls. Do not be afraid of them, they won't harm you." He then added, "It seemed Pastor Rochester was the only one who believed in you...but Marta seemed to have believed you, too late. If those townspeople were so concerned for you tonight they would've stopped me when I even arrived. It seems they weren't."

At that moment, Olivia discovered Marta slipped in her pouch a note that proved Casper's words. It said how she too the morning of Hallow Fest joined the Pastor in convincing the townspeople to try and save her; but when they realized the truth, they decided to take their chances and not do a thing. Angry at the people using her as some human sacrifice, she burned the note. She wept, anger filling her body. "They knew...but because they thought it was some fairy tale...they let it go...they let me pay the price."

"I didn't wish to take you, but I had no choice. I was bound. I'm truly sorry."

Olivia's tears dried. Her fate was sealed. "Then I must be your queen. I only have God..."

Casper's heart ached for her. "My dear...tell me more about this God you worship..."

So she did. She taught him and his people all that Pastor Rochester taught her about God. Olivia grew to love the undead man who treated her with kindness and kept his word. He made her his Queen and loved her. The morning after becoming his Queen, she was of the undead. Greyer skin; a fate she knew wasn't of her own. As time passed, she forgot everyone and her former life except for Pastor Rochester, Marta, and her parents, who she blessed every day with the holy water he gave her.

After her disappearance, Ashfield was a ghost town. Hallow Fest never happened again. Olivia's parents moved away and died of a broken heart months later. Marta too moved away; joining Pastor Rochester.

Olivia cursed the town who betrayed her to the undead, having the selfish mayor run out of town and the townspeople stricken by hauntings. Some say her apparition returned every year to attack her former neighbors and friends. No one dared to set foot there ever again; fearing the Queen of Hallow Fest's revenge.

Some legends are real.

Ashfield's came true the night she became Queen of the Carnival.

Kristin Rivers is currently in her third year of college at Smith College and is pursuing a Bachelor's Degree in English Language and Literature. She graduated from Holyoke Community College in May 2014 with an Associate's Degree in Creative Writing. One of her poems, Healing, was published in their literary magazine in Fall 2012. She considers herself a self-proclaimed book addict and literary nut and, ironically, never liked writing until she discovered a passion for it at the age of fourteen. A fiction and poetry aficionado, she focuses on emotions, pain, love, faith and humanity in her works and wants to use her writing to help impact people and be a decent example for others. She hopes to become a best-selling author in Christian Romance and cites authors Karen Kingsbury, Rachel Hauck, Becky Wade and others as her writing influences. She is currently trying to find inspiration for her first novel but continues writing when she has the time. She lives in Massachusetts.

Find her on Twitter: @wordsfrommysoul.

Once For Me

by Kristen Jett

I've been waiting all year for this, choking back blends of anticipation and the bile rising nausea of fear. It's been one year since the carnival came to town. It's only here for one week, the only time of the year where eating almost anything dipped into fried batter is encouraged by everyone.

It's been one year since their last visit. One year since I last crossed these gates. One year since my sister vanished. One year since I started my plans.

Funny how much can change in one single year.

I stand at the gates, almost not noticing the shaking of my legs. Will they recognize me? Will I look like the girl they'd stolen away before? I'd chopped my hair into a shaggy bob the week after she'd vanished. What was once crisp blonde is now a bizarre blend of mousey brown and faded fiery red. I don't even recognize myself in the mirror; how could they recognize me as the twin of the girl kidnapped before?

It doesn't matter though. No one looks twice at me as I walk through the gates. The ticket seller never even makes eye contact with anyone in line, preferring to tap her nails on her cell phone and blow bubbles with her gum.

The noises. The smells. It makes it so hard to think. As soon as I enter, my senses are jostled by what used to be fond memories. The sugary scent of caramel apples and cotton candy. The noise of the midway carnies teasing some young man to show his girlfriend what a catch she has. The squeals of the animals. The whisper of the wind, carrying the adrenaline of the crowd with it.

It's overwhelming. And they depend on that. That's how they do it.

I've looked it up, you see. Once she never came home, I did a little research. She wasn't the only girl to go missing when this carnival came to town. Always pretty girls around the same age. From small towns. It wasn't hard to find a pattern when you knew what you were looking for. Not that the police believed me. I was just the grieving sister, trying to make amends for her mistakes.

And I had plenty of mistakes to amend for. I never should have left her here. I never would have – had it not been for Julian McKane. Leather jacket. A rehearsed but still sexy crooked smile. Smoked too many cigarettes. The kind of boy that just wanted to use and abuse me. But when a boy like that looks at you, you don't care how long it's going to last. You know whatever price you pay will be worth every single little touch.

Except my price was Annabelle.

He'd strolled up to me under the ferris wheel. I never get on those rickety things. I don't trust them. I was waiting for Annabelle, alone in my cowboy boots and the purposefully one size too small tank top. His eyes. My cleavage. And that's when I knew. I had a chance. A chance with Julian freaking McKane. And as soon as my Annie came down, I did what any other girl would do. A whisper in her ear, "Annie, do you mind if I run?" A nod of my jaw in his direction as he leaned against a food stand, crooked smile lit our way. I knew the answer was no before I asked. She knew that boy was my Kryptonite, and maybe all I needed was one little moment to get him out of my blood.

She gave me that knowing smile of hers and tossed her blonde hair his way. "Screw him once for me."

That was the last thing my sister said to me.

Because of Julian McKane and my own selfish lust, I left my sister here all alone. She was the good twin. The responsible one. The one that wouldn't fight back. How foolish I'd been.

I shake my head at myself again, continuing my walk through the carnival. I don't even know where I'm going. I just know that I'll feel it when it's right. Everywhere I turn, I think I see her. Every girl laughing has the same melody as hers. I'm lost without her. Just a shadow of the girl I was before. But I can feel her. I know she's here. She's like my heartbeat, pulling me in. Is she alive? Is she dead? I don't know. I simply know she's here, beckoning me. Calling me. Asking me to come find her.

Twins know these things.

I skim past the midway attractions, barely glancing at the rides. These are the illusions, the smoke and shadows – what you're supposed to see. I'm looking for the heart of the carnival. You always think it's the rides and the food and the carnies that makes the fair...but really there's something more. There's always someone running the shots. The puppeteer playing the strings.

I'm looking for the magician. The ringmaster.

A touch to my hand pulls me from my thoughts. I whip around to see whatever threat this is. "Isabel?"

That familiar voice calls out to me. Of course.

Julian McKane.

What a cruel twist of fate. I don't even acknowledge him. The last time I lost my sister. What other cross can I bear?

"Izzie? I know it's you." Before I know it, his hand is around my waist, his voice a mere whisper in my ear. "You were the best thing about last year after all."

Any other time, this would be a dream. How the times have changed. I shrug out of his touch, almost regretfully, "I- I have to go."

"What are you doing here?" He swallows nervously, not even flashing that crooked smile. "I didn't expect you'd ever come back here."

Even now, he is still my weakness. Still my Kryptonite. It's easier for me to answer him than to not. "Looking for Annie."

"For Annabelle."

A pause. There's indecision in his eyes. Finally, one sharp nod. "Let me help."

We stride through the fair, probably blending in more this way. We're just another young couple, full of adrenaline and young lust. We could be anyone. It's Julian who discovers the trailer I'm looking for, and his nimble hands crack the lock to get us in the door. The same nimble hands clap over my mouth to muffle my scream as soon as that squeaky door swings open.

In all the things I'd imagined, this was not it. I'd imagined some boy with a taste for pretty girls grabbed her to fulfill his carnal needs. I'd imagined she'd been kidnapped and forced to travel with some motley crew. That she'd been hypnotized and convinced to join the circus, or was a zombie slave working in a dusty tent somewhere.

This was not that. I gasp under Julian's hands, reeling backwards as my heart wants to move forwards, stuck in some weird horrific limbo.

She's alive. Barely.

The beauty from her face is faded, with her skin abnormally pale and taut. I have to wonder how long it's been since she's eaten. Her torso is strapped into a chair, but even the leather bindings don't hide the ribs protruding through her torn clothes. The same clothes I'd last seen her in.

"She's actually here." Shock rings clear in Julian's voice. He hadn't believed me. He'd just come because he felt guilty. Or maybe he just wanted another roll in the hay.

Annabelle's head lifts, clearly taking all of her effort. A raspy voice I barely recognize rolls out of her mouth. "Izzie? Leave. Before she comes back."

"What happened to you?" I'm still in shock. I don't...I don't understand.

"Ah, dearie, you'll know soon enough." I turn just in time to see the owner of the voice walk in, her gilded knife pressed against Julian's handsome neck. She oozed Queen Bee, looking like she'd just stepped out of a fairy tale. "Do you think these things create themselves?" She sniffs the air haughtily, her Roman nose upturning. "Do you think success comes easy? Do you think this beauty creates itself? Blood. Blood creates all of it. One girl a year. That's all I need." She sizes me up carefully. "A virgin would be better, but two sisters – twins, yes? – back to back. That ought to be a strong enough sacrifice."

Which is worse, the fact that she can look at me and tell I'm not a virgin, or the fact that she's talking about my death as if it's imminent?

"I'm still alive, you know." Annie croaks from the corner.

Queen Bee rolls her eyes. "I've only done this ceremony about a hundred times. I do know that you're alive, since you have to be kept alive until midnight, darling. Now, do hush. I'm busy with your sister. Isabel, is it not?"

I nod dumbly, trying to figure out how to get us – all of us – out of this one. Queen Bee shoves Julian in the room towards Annabel, while returning her attention to me. "You're stronger than your sister, you know. You could do me well, despite how tainted you are. That anger you have is powerful. That drive to find your sister after all this time."

I can see the rustling of Julian and Annie behind the crazy witch, but I focus on Queen Bee in hopes that she won't notice. "I knew she was here. I could feel her."

Her eyebrows raise. "Pity I don't have time to research this more. Who knows all the things I could do with twins." She eyes her watch. "I just don't have time to find another pretty girl, and I can't risk it. It'll be bad enough if the spirits don't appreciate your fire. Last time they didn't approve, I had to spend a year dying my hair every week to hide the grays. Eternal youth, my ass."

Beauty. Money. These are the things worth killing over? I can't see how eternal youth could be worth murdering someone like my Annie, but then again I'd spent weeks wondering how I could live in a world without her.

"At least I found her," I say slowly. Which is true. My questions are answered. Could I have gone another year desperately waiting for the carnival to come back? Could I have gone another year without the other half of me? I'd spent three hundred and sixty five days being the girl who could walk into a room, and instantly tell you how many ways there were to die in it. My eyes would find them all. Sleeping pills on the nightstand. Belt in the closet. Mirror on the wall. She'd been a part of me for so long that I wanted to join her wherever she went.

"You're not killing my sister." I didn't even know Annie was possible of such a venomous voice. I'd be proud of her if we all weren't going to die any minute now.

Annie looks me straight in the eye and slowly nods her head at Julian. Her pale lips mouth the words "once for me". I see the shimmering of a steel blade being opened, and I know what's going to happen.

Everything stops for a moment.

And then I see my sister die.

The tears streaming down my face only pause for one small moment – when I see hair turning gray, face turning ashen, and her captor dying too.

Into the wee hours of the night, Kristen writes what she calls wonderfully edgy YA - with a taste for the taboo, the delicious, and sometimes the paranormal. She's a co-founder of Pen and Muse Press, as well as a Sparkle Coach at Her Own Blueprints. By day, she hoards books, collects book boyfriends, and is an over-excited marketing consultant and strategist (better known as the Queen of Inbound).

Find her at KristenJett.com or PenandMuse.com
The Carousel

by Sheila Hall

It was a dark and stormy night, complete with eerie wind and rustling leaves.

How repulsive a cliché it was. The clouds looked heavy, pregnant and ready to burst, glowing with the pink tint of the sun's nighttime atmospheric rays. Perhaps the sharp knife of this wind would be enough to cut into them and release me from my misery?

I needed this date to end and not because of him; it had everything to do with his choice of date venues. At first he had made it sound like the kind of place that would offer a first date plenty of options outside a bar; a fun public place to meet a guy and have a good time... right up until we parked outside this particular carnival. Now I was not a fragile flower that wilts in shyness far from a scary movie, nor did I pussy out when things got weird or scary, but even I have my limits.

The entire place looked like it was stolen off an abandoned horror movie set. A strange mixture of the grotesque and gaudy, where primal colored lighting with its stark fluorescent bulbs only enhanced the decrepit scarring on the sides of the neglected vendor's stalls. Flaking paint chips added their contribution to the debris congregating in groups all over the site.

Those working the carnival seem to be in a perpetual state of blank sorrow, eternal zombies that continued to work endlessly onthe rides for time everlasting: The Performance in Purgatory.

I was ready to leave within moments of entering, and would have if I had thought I was safe in walking out alone. The feeling that this place was damned would not leave me and my trepidation continued to rise, despite my date's constant reassurances to the contrary.

To placate me, my date steered us toward the only ride that remotely looked safe to get on: the carousel. A softly-lit beacon within this dark carnival, it brought to mind the beautiful carousels of old. Gold leaf trim and brightly colored animals looked comical against the silent desperation of its neighboring rides. Beautifully intricate mirrors lined the interior, and showcased the realistic seats of animals to choose from. Getting onto the platform, my proximity seemed to emphasize the sheer size and grace of each of them. Choosing a gorgeous unicorn, I climbed aboard and waited patiently for our slow jaunt around.

My saddle, with its old worked leather that softly creaked beneath me, felt cool against my jeans but the unicorn it restrained did not. A slow sweep of my hand over the soft bristles of the neck made it seem that I could actually feel the poor animal's inner warmth. Freaked out, I began to get up when the ride started to move. Settling rather uncomfortably back, I became impatient for this farce of a ride, and date, to be over.

The slow and steady up-and-down motion of the carousel made it hard to concentrate on any one place; the lulling of the movement made me complacent. The combination of the mirrors and lights became a hypnotizing rhythm, which called me deeper into myself and away from the world outside of this little stage. The dreamy feeling it inspired lasted until I glanced over at my date and his chosen steed, a gorilla-shaped monster with a look of insanity frozen on its face.

Turning quickly away from its expression, somehow fearing to meet the eyes attached to such a creature, my eyes cast their way down to the dark and gritty flooring. What I thought was a pretty color of cherry wood covered with the careless spills of countless patrons was, in reality, stained with something much darker and less uniform. A turn of the mirrors and perfect shaft of light exposed its source to my horror-frozen mind; a stream of blood and other bodily fluids seeped slowly down the pole that impaled the animal and pooled around the base.

Frozen in indecision, my eyes were the only thing left that seemed to still have the capacity for movement. A slow sweep of the next animal, a rider-less zebra, showed the slow and tortured expansion of its sides, an animal struggling to breathe through its flight instinct. And its eyes, oh gods its eyes, still rolled back and forth in sheer terror. The whites around the irises were almost cartoonish against the yellow and black of its hide, and the bile in my stomach began to rise. This poor creature set up on display for the masses, ridden and abandoned, while it lay unnoticed in the thralls of death's merciless grip.

Gripping the pole, I threw up all over the side of my seat; the riotous color of pink cotton candy, brown half-digested dinner and yellow bile mixed to create my own morbid Pollock. Resting my head against the shiny brass pole, a cold and comforting weapon, I slowly closed my eyes and began to pray for it all to be a terrible dream, a night terror that I could awake from in sweat-soaked sheets at any moment.

The now inappropriately happy tune playing over the loud speaker seemed to be just a little off beat, a whirl of noise that kept no real tempo. Focusing on anything other than throwing up again and the buzzing in my ears, I tried to place the instrument. An oboe? Cello? What was it?!?

Finally steady enough to move, I found myself sticking to the sap-like coating along the pole. Immediate panic set in and I began to pull and thrash. Yet the more I moved, the tighter the adhesive on the pole became, in the way a web works for the waiting spider. I screamed my fear, a vocal plea against my predicament, but was drowned out by the other calls for help. We became the screaming percussive beat against the morbid melody of the carousel's cheerful dirge.

There, in a creepy parade of victims, the few of us on the ride called out in shared agony as the top of the poles sprayed out a fine mist of molten wax over the entire ride.

As the ride slowly came to a stop, the lights were switched off and we cooled in the autumn air: the newest attractions forever riding the carousel.

Sheila Hall has the honor of being co-founder of Fireside Press. She spends most of her days dreaming up story ideas that range from the sexy to the sadistic. Her latest project, WISHES series, is a three volume anthology that is all about being careful what you wish for.

Arts and Crafts

by Suzy G

If you pull the skin too tight, it tears. That's one of the first things they'll teach you. After they snatch you from the safety of your quiet village. Maybe your parents will mourn you. Or maybe no one will even notice you're gone. But away you'll go, stolen and gagged and shoved into the back of a rickety covered wagon. Trinkets will hang from the wagon's sides all jangling as you go rumbling off into the dark. The caravan will be long and swift, moving away into the blackness in single-file. And then everything will be gone, like they were never even there.

This is a traveling carnival and—sweet hell—they are indeed a-traveling.

The flesh, it gets crackly if it's shaved too thin, so you must take care to skin it just right. Unless you happened to be a butcher's kid before, this will take practice. If you mess it up, they'll beat you. If you cry, they'll sew your mouth closed—so try hard not to cry. Please, try hard not to cry.

After awhile the villages will all look the same. The caravan always manages to arrive at dawn and everything is methodically assembled before the villagers even finish breakfast. Then they will all flock to the bright, jingling circled wagons. From the covered cart where you work you can peek out of the gap in the wool curtains. Villagers will eat the treats and play the games and ride the rides. There is always carefree laughter and a jovial mood, but then you'll blink. And the underbelly of it all will be right there. A writhing blackness low like fog—growing, swelling, and hungry. Right there... right there... shut your eyes, it's right there.

You'll stretch the skin over the circle of bone, centering the inked part, then lashing it tightly. Maybe the picture is of a snake or a dragon or even an ex-lover's name. Some are in color and some are black and white. There are many items used as embellishments, each with their own purpose. Teeth are for wishes and hair is for curses and blood binds them all together. The dangling black feathers are for the soul's voyage to hell, plucked from a raven while it's tortured and screeching. People always think the feathers are pretty. You will know better.

"Wish-catchers, here!" you will be forced to call, your voice dry, your throat parched, and your stomach hungry. You'll take money from each unknowing person, handing them a flesh and bone trinket, never mentioning that it will also cost them a swatch of their soul. "Make a wish, it comes true," you will promise. No one will ever not wish their darkest wish. It is human nature, and hell's delight.

As night comes, the villagers will slowly disperse and the caravan will begin packing—being so careful to leave nothing behind... like they were never even there. Several wagons over you will see the beautiful Natalia flirting with one lingering tattooed man. She will whisper something close to his ear and smile her perfect smile and crook her long, painted finger at him, and then he'll follow her swaying hips behind the circled wagons to the shadows. If you listen closely you might hear his brief, choked cries. But more often than not, you won't—Natalia is good at what she does.

This man's meat will be your dinner. His tattooed skin is your craft. And you will eat it up and skin it off and try not to cry.

Single file, the wagons rumble off into the blackness of night. Remember, remember, try hard not to cry.

Suzy G is a fan of all things beautifully creepy—and gets pretty stoked when she actually manages to write that way. She pens scary stories and ghost stories and Tragic Tales of Strange Girls (which will be a self-pubbed volume of short stories coming shortly). She lives at the foot of the mountains in the snow, but dreams of living near the ocean in the not snow. Her spirit animal is pie.

Find her at www.SuzyG.com

Dead Meat

by Kim Culpepper

"The last place he was seen was at your food stand, Ms. Rather." Every bit of his naturally accusing nature came out with the words.

"I don't know what to say, Detective Rollins. He worked quietly, he ate here sometimes, he left. That's as far as we get around here. Would you like to come around back? You're more than welcome to search my trailer," I said to the short, stocky cop that thought he knew it all.

"I think I'll take you up on that offer." He rounded the corner of my food stand. Trees covered the trailer from behind and the sides of my stand were covered by awnings, lawn chairs, and plain ol' junk. He staggered through the piles of newspapers and broken arcade games to end up at my back door. The once green and white vinyl siding had been painted black and red for a more funhouse look, and the old mats that had to be constantly taken up and set back out were now looking a shade of black unknown to color history.

He stood at the back door, reaching for the handle to the screen. I met him before he could lay fingerprints on it. The cold metal I precariously kept hidden made my hand itchy. My palm began to twitch, begging for the kill. I could feel the adrenaline rising from within as he stood there, shocked that I had moved so quickly. I longed to watch the blood flow from him as I had with the person for whom he searched. He was right. This was the last place he was seen, and it would be Detective Rollins' last place as well.

I swiftly jerked the switchblade from behind and crossed it upon his neck. The glorious red substance that my anxious eyes longed for poured from his body. He reached for his gun but bled out before he could pull it from its holster. His body dropped to the floor of my back door with a resounding thud. His hand landed on my lacy black boot. I kicked it off, with a roll of my eyes at his pathetic existence.

Thinking quickly, I peered around the corner for on-looking bystanders, but luckily found none as I dragged his body within the hapless trailer. Inside, I began my work, chopping and slicing and cutting. I had to have the meat ground and processed before the carnival goers came at two. Everyone ranted and raved over my hamburgers. 'They had never tasted finer meat before' they would say. Everyone except Josh.

I had grown tired of his constant complaints about the smell from my trailer. I loved the smell. The smell of death permeated the back, but the candles out front room kept it from my patrons. All they ever smelled was Cranberry Breeze,. Josh was the antagonistic asshole who ran the Gravitron, but now he served the carnival goers in a new way. He was the missing man Detective Rollins had been searching for. Had he only asked for a hamburger, he would have found him.

I showered before time to reopen the stand, and put on my sexiest outfit. Red and black, just like my trailer. The other carnival patrons began to open their booths and food stands, and I noticed the Gravitron had a new worker. I waved at him flirtatiously. He nodded, sweeping his black dreadlocks across his broad shoulders. They bobbed back and forth. He jived to the music playing at his ride, and I watched him move his body gracefully to the beat.

It's a long night with many annoying orders: a burger with no cheese but extra lettuce or a corn dog without mustard. My feet grew tired as I paced back and forth in my lacy black boots. I long for the TV in my trailer and the beautiful smell of death. The blood was there waiting for me to bathe in on the floor. It helps my skin look positively glowing. Everything about the human body intrigues me. I revel in the luxuries of my own body as I rub my forearm to feel the softness of my skin.

My body had grown weary and I felt ravenous, wanting more of the adrenaline that came when I killed. My tummy growled from within, and I stared at the fresh meat I had procured from the detective. I walked over and dropped a patty of him onto the grill. He sizzled on the grey, metal surface. It gave me slight satisfaction to watch him fry and I wondered if his spirit could feel the burn as I flipped the patty over.

After a few moments, he was done to my satisfaction and I place it on an empty bun. I wanted to savor the flavor without interruption. I close the window to my food stand and lock it down. After midnight, I never got many customers anyway and things were starting to look grim from the crowd. The late night revelers were out and ready to start trouble that I wanted nothing to do with I didn't need the attention since my meat locker was getting a little full.

The first bite melted in my mouth as I squished him between my teeth. Knowing where the meat came from made it all the more delicious as I savored each bite. I coughed at the dryness from my throat and reach for a bottle of water. I washed down the hamburger and kept eating. The last bite wasn't far from my mouth when I bit my lip in my eagerness. I sucked the irony liquid back into my body, not wanting an ounce of myself anywhere but within me.

As I placed the last bite into my mouth, I felt a strange rumble from within. The meat wasn't settling well and my throat felt dry once again. I chewed and swallowed the last bite. It remained in my throat and I started to cough. I could feel the meat pulsing within me. The detective mustn't be happy. The meat was tough to cough up as it remained inside my throat. The air became thinner as I feverishly gasped for breath.

I felt the very life within me begin to wane. I fell to my knees, ramming my fingers into my mouth frantically. I dug bread out, but the meat remained, alive inside my throat. The detective would not go down with a fight.

I struggled as the oxygen in my body depleted at an exponential rate. The blood drained from my face. I drifted above my body. I looked down as I laid there, dead. They were waiting there for me, watching as I died. All of the people I killed for meat and sport. The detective and Josh grabbed my ghostly arms, and dragged me to a place only dreamt about in nightmares.

A native of Columbus, MS and married with 2 kids and 2 cats, Kim Culpepper's work has appeared on Books of the Dead Press's blog, the August issue of The Opening Line Literary Zine, on horror-writers.net, and writer.ly. She is currently searching for a literary agent to make her career soar to new heights and a publisher willing to take a chance on a poor Southern girl.

You can learn more about Kim at www.kjculpepper.net.

The Pendour Cove Siren

by Ruth Shedwick

My throat burned and bones ached. As I tried to reach the surface I felt my limbs go weak by the second. The sounds around me were muffled as the pressure in my ears built cracking my skull. My legs and arms started to slow, I could no longer control them. As I opened my eyes I saw the faint glow, but it wasn't coming from the surface - it was out in the deep darkness of the lake. The light danced before me as it grew bigger and brighter. And then I was floating, moving upwards faster and faster. My heart beat hard in my chest. I was going too fast. Panic grabbed me and I opened my mouth; water trickled down my throat filling my lungs. My ears stung and the numbness gave way to a familiar sound...

"Wake up, wake up."

I opened my eyes, grabbing my chest, coughing through the burning pain and breathed in air. My lungs tightened, chest rising and falling with each new breath. I hadn't dreamt of the lake in a long time. My brother jumped on my bed rocking me out of slumber.

"Wake up, wake up."

"I'm up," the croaky voice in my throat managed.

The unmistakable sound of the travelling carnival rolling into town yesterday had my little brother giddy before six this morning. He hummed the tune wherever he went through the house, watching TV, playing with the puppy, even whilst he was cleaning his teeth. I was exhausted from my late night shift at Haley's bar and all I wanted to do was sleep.

"Pancakes," he said, jumping on my bed.

I cringed and stayed under the covers, keeping as still as can be, hoping that he would just leave. The bed started to bounce and his legs connected with my own on top of the duvet.

"Pancakes and syrup and butter. Pancakes and syrup and butter," he chimed over and over again. Well, at least it wasn't that god-awful carni tune.

I pulled the covers back and looked into the wide eyes of my sibling. His toothless grin, unkempt hair and gormless expression used to annoy me, but since our parents left for their charity work in Cambodia we had grown closer. I was his mother and his father now, and he depended on me. My ratty big sister days were long gone; I prayed the eight months would be up soon.

"I'm up," I said with a long yawn.

He jumped from my bed and ran down the hall.

There are days in your life that you hope would just fly by, this was one of them. Succumbing to his incessant pleas to take him to the carnival tonight was going to make it a very very long night. I even tried to drag out household chores, just to put it off as long as I could, but there was no escaping my doom.

****

As we passed the ticket seller I wondered how long it would take to get around the rides, hoping that he was too short to go on most. It seems carni rules were a little different... anything goes. It was relaxing in a way, their carefree attitude, live life for the now, no responsibilities. No responsibilities. I wish. I looked down to my brother chomping on his candyfloss, his eyes sparkling under the fairy lights around the cart, as he took in his surroundings with an awe I wished I could recall.

"Get you anything Miss?" asked the lady behind the stall.

The candyfloss did look rather enticing, but both of us with a sugar overload simply a recipe for disaster. I respectfully declined.

We walked amongst the flurry of activity along the stands; the mix of music, chatter, chimes and laughter was overwhelming. The booming sound of a bell rang out to our right, children cheered as the strong man let them hang from his biceps, his enormous frame was freakishly out of proportion for any human I had ever seen. I grabbed Peter before he could run and join in with them.

"Lets see the rides first, then you can come back," I said with only the slightest hint of dread. It was an empty promise, but he didn't have to know.

He pouted at first and stomped his foot, one look but from me, and his head lowered, I'd mastered the 'give me shit and we're going home' look rather well lately. It avoided the pleasantries of screaming and shouting.

****

The enormous big top tent filled most of the field, yellow and red stripes reaching to the stars lit with roving floodlights. I could hear the sounds of clowns inside, and promised myself that was one tent to avoid at all costs, so I made a detour hoping he hadn't noticed as he happily chomped away on his candyfloss.

"Tell your future Miss?"

His closeness made me jump, but when I looked at him, my heart started to calm. He wore an oversized tall black hat, long white dress coat, and pocket watch tucked by his waist. He smiled, flashing straight white teeth, and my eyes fixed on his plump lips.

"Go on sis," Peter said elbowing me in my side.

The fortuneteller held my hand and try as I might to protest, I found myself walking into his cosy tent, but when I saw the crystal ball and tarot on the table I stopped.

His arm slid to my shoulder. "What are you afraid of?" he purred.

My legs stopped moving as though I had hit an invisible force field and my heart started to beat a little faster. He turned to me and smiled and I felt myself waiver.

"I'm sorry, I can't," I stammered.

I turned to leave; as we reached the opening to his tent the fortuneteller grabbed my arm in a firm grip. His face close to mine, eyes as black as night.

"Beware the light," he whispered.

Peter pulled me away and we continued our tour of the carnival.

****

The large illuminated sign above the red tent flashed Freak Show, one of the bulbs was out and buzzed above our heads as it tried to repower. Pulling the entrance to one side, we joined the gathering of people pointing and laughing. A young girl with long blonde hair, seashells covering her modesty, and false fish tail bobbed up and down in the rectangle tank. She was perched on a false rock with seaweed and plastic crabs and lobsters at her feet. I smiled to myself and wondered why I should be disappointed. These were carni folk, what you see wasn't what you get, it was all smoke and mirrors, scams and tricks and I needed to keep my wits about me. Peter pointed to the lady propping herself on the edge of the tank.

"Look, her boobs are huge, bigger than yours."

I shouldn't have expected anything less from my little brother, probably the first time he had seen a buxom bosom in the flesh.

"Yeah, well mine are all homegrown." I muttered.

He looked up at me with a frown and curl of lip. "What does that mean?"

I shook my head. "Never mind."

The crowd moved on.

Standing looking at the tank reminded me of my dream and my throat began to tighten.

"Dolan, can I have my break now," the young girl shouted to the small man I hadn't noticed lingering in the corner.

Peter began to pull me backwards towards the exit, I turned to see the man pull the curtain around the tank, and he looked at me with a grimace and licked his lips. A shiver ran through me.

****

My little brother had pulled me around most of the stalls, insisting on going on everything and when we'd circled the big top for the tenth time he stopped and looked at me.

"Can we go in here now?"

I looked through a gap in the tent and saw the clowns riding bikes and trapeze artists flying above their heads. I shuddered.

"Do you really want to?"

The look he gave me was pitiful, I guess I should do my duty and let him have his way, just this once.

"Pete, you didn't say you were coming." a little girl said, running towards us. I recall seeing her at the school gates when I've picked Peter up, and assumed she was one of his classmates. Her family walking slowly behind her gave me a nod and we exchanged sympathetic looks to one another. It was the 'you got roped into this too' look.

"Can we go in Jo? Pleeeeeeeease," he said looking at me with wide grin.

"He can come with us if you like." The tall man said patting my brother on the head. "Violet was hoping to see Peter anyway."

"Dad!"

He smiled at his daughter. "Get yourselves a toffee apple and sit there at the front, we'll be there in a tick."

I breathed a sigh of relief masked by brushing hair from my face. "Really? You don't have to."

"Nonsense." When the children had run to their seats he leaned towards me. "Besides, no point in us all suffering."

I watched them filter into the tent and shouted. "I'll be out here."

****

A lot of people came and went, the chatter now a low hum in the back of my head and I found myself staring down at the floor letting my mind wander. I was surprised at how many of our neighbours were here tonight, and didn't realise how popular the carnival was. Or maybe that's because nothing actually happens in Zennor.

A clattering noise came from my right and I turned to see the commotion. The small man that I saw in the freak show tent rolled out across the floor. The fortuneteller stood above him and shouted something in a tongue I had never heard before. The small man cowered and whimpered, and eventually got to his knees bowing down before him. I stood to get a better look and then I locked eyes with the fortuneteller. His scowl slowly released and his lips turned into a smile as he tilted his hat. The small man grabbed his legs and pleaded with him; the fortuneteller patted the man on the head and told him to leave. It was purely for my benefit, that much I could tell - whatever had happened, he wasn't going to get off lightly. The fortuneteller walked away and disappeared behind a group of giddy teenagers.

Curiosity getting the better of me, I walked towards the freakshow tent. The lights had been switched off and no one was inside, the red curtain still in place. I thought of that poor girl and whether she had fallen victim to something or another, I just had to check if she was still inside. I couldn't think of anything worse than being trapped in there all night unable to move. Pulling the curtain to one side I was shocked that the tank was no longer there. Walking down to the bald piece of grass, I stood looking down at the flattened blades wondering how on earth they could have shifted it. A chime sounded from the other side of the curtain to my left, which I assumed, must be the changing area for the young girl who was playing mermaid. I stepped around the curtain and sucked in my breath. A tall cylindrical tank illuminated by blue light stood on a metal plinth in the centre, but I could tell there was something inside by the dark shape. I stepped closer for a better look. There appeared to be some sort of materials bobbing about inside, maybe seaweed, the sweet smell of the sea wafted towards me, but there was another smell underneath, something sweet.

My nose was almost touching the glass, and I could feel the coldness coming from inside, as I slowly walked around the tank looking at the various colours. There was a splash and the material inside slightly bobbed from side to side. I stopped and moved closer; two bright luminescent pink eyes were staring back at me. Shrieking with fright, I fell backwards and lay on the grass looking up at the tank. Two webbed hands touched the glass; a grinding squeaking noise filled my ears as they slid down the length. I watched on in amazement as she pulled herself upwards. Dark hair flowed around the tank seeming to consume most of the space, around her face and shoulders. Pale tight muscular skin reflected in the light, a stark contrast to her tail which was tattered and dull, the scales were cracked and some missing.

A soft humming noise came from inside the tank; the glass started to vibrate and the metal plinth it rested upon rattle, the ground beneath me shook and then it stopped. I looked at her looking at me tilting her head from side to side examining my human form. Her eyelids closed vertically, or was it a second eyelid, I couldn't tell. Standing, I took in her expressionless features hard and unfeeling. The closer I got to the tank, the brighter the light inside glowed. She placed her webbed hand to the glass and opened her mouth. Looking at the palm, I pressed mine to hers, the buzzing sound in my head cut all sound from outside the tent and now I could concentrate on my other senses. The smell of fresh sea air, salty seaweed and earth encased me; we were connected. My palm became warm and now it was burning, I tried to pull away but I couldn't move. She let out a shriek that pierced my ears. Blood trickled down my lobes and then the images of the lake came back to me.

****

Darkness. I couldn't tell if I was dreaming or unconscious or in a coma. But the sound of muffled voices became clearer as they reached out to me from the depth of my slumber. I was cold, and frightened and didn't know where my little brother was. The familiar sound of a chime and then a bell, laughter and that bloody tune Peter was humming earlier. I was still at the carnival, but I couldn't understand why I couldn't see anything.

I shouted as loudly as I could that my voice became raw and I began to sob. Then the light began to fill out before me. Faces were blurry. I couldn't make them out very well, but it was their expressions that worried me. Children ran behind their mothers for protection and men stepped closer, their mouths agape. Closing and opening my eyes I tried to get a better look, but it was as though I was looking out through murky glass. And then it hit me, it wasn't murky, I was looking through water through glass. I opened my webbed hands, the translucent skin between my fingers like rice paper, my long nails sharp as knives, and my tail danced a rainbow of colours under the blue light.

A figure in white walked between the crowd and towards the tank. Now that he was closer I could recognise the fortuneteller. He seemed sad as he looked down at my frame, then he leaned forward and whispered softly to me. "Beware the light."

With a passion for wildlife and the paranormal, it is not surprising that Ruth immersed herself combining both worlds. Since an early age she has studied the ancient world mythology engaging in research and personal experiences along the way. With 7 cats, 1 wolf and a vivid imagination, there is much to explore in her writing.

Find her on her blog: www.ruthshedwick.com.

Hook The Duck

by J.C. Michael

The alarm went off. Some cheesy, chipmunk vocal, dance track the Waltzer operator had loaded onto his phone. He hated that kind of music. It was why the little shit had done it, and got a black eye for his trouble. Heading for another too if he didn't take it off again. Reaching over he tapped the screen, and the noise stopped. A quick swipe brought up the calendar. It wasn't that he had any appointments, hell no, but the name of the girl sleeping next to him, along with an eight point five out of ten, was stored in there. Clara. She'd better appreciate the fact that he remembered her name. If she didn't, she'd be out the door before she'd have the chance to get her panties on.

****

"Billy Jarrow ain't a nice man," said Pete Barker as he watched Billy walk from his van toward the food stalls, still fastening his belt as he walked. It was the same every day, a sausage and bacon roll that for some reason he expected to get for free.

"So long as he pays me," said the youngster busily cleaning behind the Hook a Duck stall. Billy had told him it was essential that all the ducks were scrubbed clean every morning, and he took pride in doing just that.

"You're more naive 'n I thought boy," said Pete.

The night before the young lad, a keen sixteen year old named Jake, had spotted some kids trying to cut loose the prizes from Pete's Lobster Pot stall. He shouted a word of warning, and Pete appreciated the heads up. He'd decided to give the kid a bit of advice in return.

"He's a cheat, a thief, a drunk, 'n' a liar. We're outta here tomorrow, so watch y'self today."

"You guy's not friends huh? He says your pots are rigged so the balls bounce out unless there's another one left in there."

Pete let the jibe slide, after all, it was true, but he'd had enough of watching Jarrow take a different young girl to his van each night. The one last night nothing more than a kid, just like the boy polishing the ducks like they were classic bloody cars.

"Listen to me, don't listen to me. I don't give a shit. You did me a favour, so I'm doing you one. Don't give him an excuse to rip you off son. I'm guessing you ain't seen a dime of yo' wages yet, never will if y' put a foot out of line today. Man's a bully 'n' a thug, 'n' if I were a few years younger I'd make it my business to make him my business. Had enough shit to last a lifetime when his old man ran this 'ere stall before he took a long walk off a short pier."

Now the kid showed some interest. It was always the same. The legends of the fair. The romantic notion of the carnival way of life which was nothing more than a myth. A veil masking a dark soul like the greasepaint hides the sneer of a clown. "His dad ran the stalls?"

"Yep. A perennial pisshead found drowned on the beach. Just another piece of flotsam. There weren't no tears. Old man Jarrow was even more of a bastard 'n his son. Some folk reckon Billy was with him that night, but he never let on if he knew anything 'bout it. Probably safer that way."

"Are you saying..."

"I'm not saying fuck all 'n' if you repeat it you'll have me to watch out for as well as him." Pete had let his irritation show, and in the distance he could see the swaggering source of his annoyance heading for the stalls. "The last kid worked four days, just like you. Got nothing more 'n a busted nose 'n' a dental bill. Now get yo' ducks cleaned like a good lad."

****

"What did that old cunt want?" asked Billy as soon as he reached the stall. In one hand was the remnants of his breakfast. The other held the morning paper.

"Nothing much," said Jake.

"Good. Here, break time."

Jake took the paper that Billy was holding out. Break time meant a cigarette for each of them, and time for Jake to read the paper. Not to himself. But to Billy. He'd read each headline, starting with the sports at the back; "go on," meant read the article, a grunt meant move swiftly on. At least it was a break. There wouldn't be chance for one once the gates were open.

****

By mid-afternoon the fairground was filling up. Billy's thoughts turned to Clara; posh name for a dirty little bitch. He didn't normally visit the same place twice, much like the fair, but he was tempted to make an exception. He could be as rough as he liked tonight, by the time anyone saw the bruises he'd be over the hills and far away. He'd made a decent amount over the past couple of days; it was easy when you knew how. The mug punters knew the odds were stacked against them, yet still they came. Roll up, roll up. Play the Hook a Duck. Everyone's a winner. So come and take a look. But when the cost price of the prize is less than that you pay to play, there's only one team coming out on top: Team Jarrow. It wasn't his fault people were blind to the fact the house always wins. He'd no qualms about taking money from fools.

"I'm going for a beer, you hold the fort."

"Like it was the Alamo," said Jake smiling.

Billy spat on the floor and walked away muttering.

By the time he returned it was approaching seven and it seemed the whole town was out for the last night of the fair.

"Someone won the big Scooby-Doo?" said Billy as he climbed over the front of the stall.

"Yep, I helped a little girl win just like you said, and put the winning duck under the pool."

"Don't act too proud. Ain't like you just found the cure for cancer is it. Should bring the punters in though, make 'em think they can win."

Jake was about to reply when Billy grabbed him by the arm, "Would you look the fuck at that!"

He was nodding in the direction of Pete's stall, but Jake couldn't see anything to justify such interest.

"Look you dim bastard. The guy who started for Pete yesterday, he's robbing the old twat blind."

Jake watched for a moment while Billy served one of their own customers. It was true. The guy on the stall was taking the money, and instead of putting it in the cash tin, or sorting out the change and then dropping the right money in the slot, he was just using his float.

"You see?" said Billy sidling up to Jake. He'll take a piss break soon and siphon off the extra. Thinking he's a clever fucker. You see him move, you tell me."

"You're going to tell Pete?" Jake was genuinely surprised, but he supposed that perhaps there was some sense of solidarity amongst the stall holders. His supposition was shattered when Billy laughed.

"Fuck no. But I'll threaten to. Half of what the bastards taken should be enough to keep me quiet. I'm not greedy. Tell you one thing for free though, if I ever caught anyone doing that to me I'd take care of it Saudi style. Cut the bastards hand off. You know what I mean?"

As the last words fell from his lips he lifted his chequered shirt just far enough for Jake to see the hilt of the hunting knife tucked into his waistband. And then it was gone.

"Excuse me?" The voice of the old man was thin and reedy. A voice at the end of its life and heading for the grave.

"Yes Sir," said Billy, a smile appearing across his face.

"Three please," said the old man. "One for me, two for my grandson."

"Three goes it is," said Billy as he took the man's money and made a show of placing it into the dome on the countertop. He pulled the lever and the money fell into the cash tin before the steel jaws clamped shut once more.

"Who's going first? You young man?"

The kid looked sixteen, and simple.

"Yes please. My turn now."

He took the pole and hovered it over the ducks. First one. Then another. Then a third. Then back to the second. Billy leant over to Jake and, obscuring his mouth with his hand, began to whisper. "Look at the retard with his tongue sticking out, we'll be here all night with this window lick."

He was cut off by the whoops of delight as the boy whipped out a duck and showed the gold paint on its bottom to his grandfather.

Billy looked at Jake, who in turn looked confused. The dozy fucker must've put the top prize duck back in, but on the bright side it gave him just the excuse to give him a slap and refuse to pay up what he was owed. Such thoughts however were buried beneath a veneer of showmanship honed over a lifetime on the stalls.

"Well done, well done. We have a winner!" bellowed Billy, milking the opportunity to demonstrate how the game could be won for all it was worth.

"What's your name young man?"

"Lewis. Lewis Geflen. My granddad's called Allan."

Lewis was beaming. Allan was beaming. Billy was beaming. Billy was seething. He handed over one of the massive Scooby-Doo toys, almost as big as a real Great Dane. "You've seen it done, now come and try your luck," he shouted as he passed the toy to Allan and, hidden from view by Scooby Dooby Doo, dropped the golden bottomed duck behind the counter before kicking it out of sight.

"Well, it's my turn now."

It was grandpa, old fucking Al. Billy turned to him, the veneer beginning to crack. "You've won already. One large prize a day, future goes are forfeit."

The grandfather, Allan, looked at him. There was a look of steel in his eyes which hadn't been there before. "Where does it say that?"

Billy looked back with an intensity of his own. "It say's so on the sign over there."

He pointed to his left as he spoke. To the place on his stall where the sign always stood. Other than today.

"Which sign?"

Billy looked, then looked at Jake. The look suggested broken ribs, and convinced Jake that he should forget about his wages, put the past few days down as a learning experience, and head home as soon as this peculiar little show had been played out.

"Let's try again for your sister," said the Allan grabbing the pole from Lewis before swinging it straight into the pool and hooking out a duck in one fluid motion. The duck had a golden bottom.

"Well isn't that wonderful. I always thought they only had one winner in here," said the old man as he smiled a toothless smile.

Billy was stunned, but before he could react the younger of the two had grabbed the pole and hooked out another duck. Another golden bottomed duck. The pair of them stood there, each with a golden duck despite the fact that Billy knew there was a third under the counter. A whole brace of golden arsed ducks more than there should have been. Jake had to have set him up. He was going to put that cunt in hospital and then visit him just to piss in his IV.

"Our prizes?"

The words brought Billy out of his trance and the shallow mask of civility threatened to slip from his face like an avalanche from a mountainside. "There you go old man," he tossed two more toys over the counter, tearing a hole in one as he wrenched it from the side of the stall. "Now clear off".

"That's no way to speak to a customer. They don't talk to you like that at Disney Land, and that was built by a Nazi."

"What?" said Billy. He was about to explode. Jump right over the counter and bust the old bastards jaw.

"Yes. Walt. Didn't like Kikes."

"Just piss off."

"Are you a betting man?"

"What?"

"Are you hard of hearing? I said are you a betting man? I bet your belt to these three toys that Lewis can win again."

A crowd was gathering now, brought to the stall by the argument and sheep mentality. Billy needed to get a grip of the situation. He fixed his best showman's grin across his face. "We have ourselves a bet. Allan here stakes his three Scooby Doo's, and I stake my belt." His mind was racing. He needed to stack the deck, but had no idea how many more golden ducks that little wanker Jake had stashed in there, "But, Ladies and Gentlemen, we've seen how skilled these two are. So I don't want to just see any golden duck, I want to see this one." He picked up one of the ducks from the countertop and showed it to the crowd.

"As you can see the bottom of this duck is painted gold. Into this paint I will scratch my initials," and he proceeded to do just that with his fingernail before showing it again to the crowd.

"Now my assistant Jake will swirl the water. Jake."

Jake did as he was told with one eye on Billy. He knew he'd have something up his sleeve, and he spotted it. As Billy continued to play to the crowd, and Jake continued to swirl the water, Billy was gently rubbing the bottom of the duck. The cheap gold paint would be smudging. Obscuring the initials which had been lightly scraped in at best. Billy tossed in the duck. The crowd waited. Lewis lent forward. Jake watched. The pole lingered over one duck, then a second. Then a third. Back to the first. His tongue was stuck out. Swaying back and forth in line with the pole. Pointing at one duck, then another. The tongue stopped. The pole dropped. The duck was hooked. Pulled out. And the initials were plain to see.

Billy's face was red and his eyes brimming with fury as the crowd cheered. He removed his belt, and then, before handing it over, he removed the buckle. Two Colt '45's crossed over a Confederate flag, "This was my fathers."

"He gave you the belt did he?" said Allan in a way that was drenched in insinuation.

"Not the belt. The buckle. No spastic's having this buckle."

The jibe brought some murmurs from the crowd and it started to drift away.

"You've the buckle but no belt?"

"What the fuck's it to you?"

"Was it wasted?"

Yes, it was wasted. Stained with blood after he'd cracked his father over the head with the belt and buckle wrapped around his fist before tossing the old bastard into the sea. The belt that hung on the back of the bedroom door. The belt for special occasions. The belt for births and marriages. Funerals, and beatings. The belt which had burnt in the fire on the beach as Billy cleaned the buckle and his father lay face down in the water.

"One last bet," shouted the old man and the crowd turned their wandering attention back to the stall "I want your boots and... And no funny business. I want the laces and tell you what, let me list everything I want. Lewis."

Lewis pulled a piece of paper and a pen, a god-damn fountain pen as it turned out, out of his pocket and handed it to his grandfather as the crowd watched.

"That's all folks," growled Billy. People were going to get hurt tonight. Jake for one. Allan and Lewis given half a chance. That cunt Pete must have had a hand in this too.

"You don't know what I putting up yet," said the old man as he quickly scrawled a few words on the piece of paper. "What if it was this."

The roll of notes he held in his hand was as thick as a baby's arm.

"My pair of old boots for all that money? You've hustled me enough for one night."

"Check the ducks are in order," said Allan, playing to the crowd just as much as Billy. "Confirm that there are nineteen ducks in that pond, and only one with cheap gold paint smeared upon its underside. That's good odds Mr. Jarrow. Jake can confirm what we require you to stake." He held out his hand to Jake, giving him the stage, and passed the note to Billy who glanced at it before passing it over "read it out please."

Jake cleared his throat, "It says, Boots, in capitals, and then underneath it says, laces, heel, upper, tongue, and sole."

Billy looked at Jake, then the old man, and finally the money. "As God is your witness you accept?" said Allan

"I accept" said Billy as he started to take the ducks out of the pool and put them on the counter, checking each one as he did. Each had paint on the bottom, the colour corresponding to the level of prize, but none were gold. The crowd was watching. It was good odds. He started to put them back in the pool, all nineteen, and then he took one of the golden bottomed ducks and tossed it in before swirling the water.

"Gather round, gather round," he shouted as he stirred. "One last wager," he stirred more and more. Greed had got the better of him. The win wasn't guaranteed, but he stood a damn good chance. Eventually he stopped, and stood to one side. Lewis was holding the cane in one hand, his other hand over his eyes. The hook on the cane was catching the lights of the stall and glinting like surgical steel. His tongue was out again, darting this way and that as if searching out the golden duck before its pace slowed, and it started to weave like a Fakirs cobra. The cane dipped down, touched a duck, then swept to the left hooking a duck as it went before flicking it out of the pool and into straight the hands of Allan who held it aloft, the golden underside clear for all to see.

The crowd cheered. Lewis held his arms up as if he'd just become Heavyweight Champion of the World. Allan smiled his toothless smile. Jake stood open mouthed. And Billy began to take off his boots. He'd lost. Again.

"There's no need for that right now. We'll come back later," said Allan.

****

The rest of the evening was uneventful. Jake went for a break, and never came back. Billy rang Clara but her phone was engaged. He left a message. She never rang back. The crowds started to dwindle, and soon the litter outnumbered the fairgoers. Midnight came and went. And one by one the rides fell silent. As the hour ticked by, Billy started to put the shutters on the front of his stall. He'd be up at dawn, the stall would become a trailer and they'd be back on the road. It had been a strange night, but the fair was no stranger to the strange.

"We've come for what you owe us," said a voice behind him just as he padlocked the last shutter.

"Fuck you," said Billy as he turned.

"You won't be fucking anything," snarled Allan as he grabbed Billy's balls and squeezed them in a vicelike grip. Billy lashed out, his fist connected with flesh but it was like striking concrete. He felt his knuckles pop out of place.

"You owe me," spat Allan as he released his grip on Billy's genitals and Billy doubled over in agony.

"Boots first."

Instead Billy pulled out his knife and with a curse thrust it into the old mans stomach but, rather than show any pain, Allan grabbed his hand and pushed the knife in deeper before wriggling it from side to side. Where there should have been a torrent of blood there was only a thick tar like substance oozing from the wound. "Your father's knife? So many keepsakes from a man who beat you. A man who heated this very knife on the stove and branded you."

"Who the fuck are you?" said Billy letting go of the knife and backing away.

"I'm a friend of your fathers. All the way from Hell. It's time for a family reunion William."

"God help me."

"He can't. Much as he'd willingly save even a sinner like you if you asked him to. God would pity you. Accept you as misunderstood. A beaten, abused, child. A victim who knows no better. But you took the bet."

"Then take my fucking boots and go."

Billy knelt down and fumbled with his laces. This was a nightmare. It couldn't be real. Allan was stood there with a knife sticking out of his stomach and Lewis, how had he missed Lewis, was off to one side eating candy floss, his impossibly long tongue wrapping all the way around it.

"I don't just want your boots, William. I want the rest."

Allan hunkered down in front of Billy and pulled the knife from his stomach with a sound that was like a boot pulled from mud. "I want your tongue," he said as he grabbed Billy's jaw and forced the foul tasting knife into his mouth, twisting it this way and that, breaking teeth and gouging into the base of the tongue, the roof of the mouth, the inside of the cheek. Billy tried to struggle but a pair of arms had wrapped around him from behind with immense strength. It could only be Lewis, his tongue darting around Billy's ear as his demonic grandfather dug more and more into the soft tissue of Billy's mouth until eventually the tongue, tattered and torn, was cut loose.

Billy swallowed blood and gagged on the chunks of tissue which followed it down his throat. Lewis released him and the pair of them stood over him like giants reaching up into the moonlit sky.

"One last thing," said Allan as he looked down, "that boy you employed could barely read any better than you. And as soon as I pulled out that last duck, I laid my claim upon your soul."

J. C. Michael studied History at Durham University and lives in the North of England with his wife and young son. Although he wouldn't dream of viewing his work as belonging in the same league as Stephen King, Clive Barker, and James Herbert, their influence on his own writing is clear. After constantly criticising films, books, and T.V shows, J. C was challenged by his "better half" to write something himself if he was "so bloody clever". The resulting novel was Discoredia.

In his spare time J. C tries to avoid checking his work emails and dreams about becoming a best selling author.

Find him at: http://discoredia.weebly.com/-j-c-michael.html.
Grawr!!!

by Wulf Francu Godgluck

He yowled in his black box.

Up and down, up and down the bouncy go.

Squinting his tiny button black eyes in the darkness. He knew they were moving again, travelling to a new town with more fleshys for him to drool over. All that meat and bones, yet he was not allowed to taste.

So hungry, so forever hungry.

"How's the little rascal tonight?" a voice murmured from the wood of his box.

He knew that voice, the fat man with the big red nose, the make up and rainbow hair. The one that takes the fleshys away and put things in them. The small creature juddered at what he had seen peering through the broken parts of his wooden prison. The fat man took one of the fleshys and took off her clothes, touched her, kissed her and...

He released a faint snarl to the images of the memory. A hard slap on the wood made him silent.

"Grawr is restless as always, guess I should feed the little fuck." The other man with the stern voice said. The creature's muscles rippled over his small body as if they knew the fear and pain associated with that voice.

Grawr curled into ball, knowing the man wielded the pain stick that made his skin sizzle with its blue light. He shook his furry body, curled his tail to his mouth and licked the hairs. The compulsive disorder soothed the little thing, a habit born from fear of its owners.

Squinting his eyes again, Grawr purred and lulled himself to sleep.

The roar of fire awoke him from his slumber. Squinting his black round eyes, the world blurred with an orange-red glow. Gray lines just inches from his face. Grawr sat up and twitched its nose and sniffed the air. A sweet sharp scent of melting sugar drifted on the air currents. Perfume, smoke, melting butter, and salty sweet. He pounced in his cage on all fours, his nails scraped against the metal of the cold steel floors while it paced back and forth. Grawr observed the world before him. Laughter drifted in the air and so many voices spoke, shouting at once competing against the tune that played from the black noise boxes. Smoking boxes clouded the air with a faint fog and dim colored lights that seemed to vibrate with humming sound glowed in numerous colors. Then the screams echoed from far in the distance as the fleshys yelled with excitement from the spinning wheel as it went to its side.

Grawr stopped to the unfamiliar pulse coming from the noise box. Closing his eyes, he bobbed his head from side to side to the rhythm, he hadn't before heard this. He quite liked it to the dreary sound the noise box always played.

"Mommy, Mommy look! What is that?" A little fleshy shouted in excitement. Opening his eyes he observed the fleshy in her pink dress and her gold curls that appeared more vivid in the glow of the lights.

"I don't know, it looks like... God what is that thing?" The older fleshy said. She smelled fertile and full with the flesh growing inside her.

Grawr licked his lips, hungry again.

Just one teensy little bite is all. Just a tasty of the fleshy.

Now more fleshys came closer to observe him. Two fleshys curled up into each other, stared with curiosity, others poked faces he knew the little ones always made. Some just stared wide-eyed. He was so used to it by now that it didn't bother him. Closing his eyes, Grawr bobbed his head again to the beat of the music. Some fleshys sounded amused with their ahh's and ooo's at him.

A smell of soap came full force to his nose. Opening his eyes again, he leaned on his front arms as the little fleshy stepped closer to his cage. Grawr purred as she stretched out her finger, a smile spread over his lips. Her little hand would fit so perfect in his mouth. Her finger now inches from the steel bars that kept them safe from him. Getting ready, taking a steady breath, he could feel the tension in his muscles contract for the attack. To reveal his sharp teeth to the fleshy would just make her turn in fear - he had learned that lesson far too many times. She came closer and Grawr launched himself at the hand, mouth open, teeth shining. He chomped down.

"Now, now little girl, you don't want to do that," the stern voice said. Stepping in front of Grawr's cage and blocking the view of him and his teeth clamping down on the steel bar,he addressed the crowd.

"Come one, come all to the carnival of Bèhol. Be bedazzled, be dazed and leave amused but be wary - not all the attractions are alluring. Some spit, some squeal, others snarl and one even wheels, but there is one so devious, so deranged, so sinister he will make you squeal. Do not let his delectable eyes draw you in or his fur cause you to fluff him. You might just lose a finger or two, or three, maybe even a hand, a foot or a leg. For he is the star attraction of our show, little Grawr the Wolf Boy will leave you oohing and aahing or you might just scream." Adler sneered, making a grin at the crowd in front of Grawr's cage.

Grawr's jaws loosened and he released his death lock on the steel bar,dripping with warm saliva leaving a faint vapor as it met the cold air.

Grawr went to sit and narrowed his eyes at the green tail coat blocking his view.

Same old same old song you sung old man.

He licked his lips, he was hungry and not even a scrap had been fed to him. Now he must perform for the fleshys when his tummy digested itself from hunger.

The moon sat high in the night sky as Grawr looked up at it. So beautiful shiny and round, he wanted to reach out and touch it. He had performed jumping through hoops of fire like a kitten. He had one once. Bit its head off and sucked on the fine juices that flowed warm from its neck. The hair was bad. He purred with excitement from the delicate memory.

A hard slap against his cage made him jump, tripling backwards to get as far away from the pain stick as he could. The flashes it made and that frightening sound that already had him shivering and defecating himself out of sheer terror. The stern voiced man was angry at him. He could see the menacing smile on his face and smell his sour breath as he made his way over to Grawr.

Grawr wanted to snarl, snap and growl at him, but what would it help?

"You little runt, trying to take a child's hand!" Adler rattled the cage. "You would make me end up in prison and then what? Where would you go?" Ice cold water spilled over his fur, seeping into his coat. Grawr coiled into a ball, shivering not from the cold of the water, but the fear of knowing. Remembering how much it's going to hurt, how it's going to feel.

The first sting came sudden and quick as the sparks cracked into his flesh. His tiny muscles clenched, convulsed and stiffened from pain. The water only intensified the shock. Another stab followed making him whimper, foam forming at the corners of his mouth. Another and another followed. By the sixth shock ,Grawr had to force air into his tiny lungs. His skin felt tender, his fur smelled charred.

"Let's hope it doesn't happen again," Adler barked at him.

The rush of another bucket of cold water washed over him. Grawr just lay where he was; his muscles still ached in spasms of pain. Tears formed in his black beady eyes. He shivered, this time from the cold as the wind blew over him. Hungry, cold and alone, it brought back a bitter nightmare to his tiny mind. On the streets of Venice where he was born, he was ripped from his mother's arms by street gangs. They had beaten her till he could not hear her heart any more, then they kicked him, spit at him and threw stones at him before they dropped him in the river.

Adler found him and brought him into this.

He never could understand why fleshys treated him so. Why he had a brown-red coat of fur covering his skin, black beady eyes, sharp teeth and a wet black nose. Why he had ears like a dog and a thick mane and tail. Why he had black claws for fingernails. Why he remained so small. He had long since stopped pondering on such things. The fleshys were bad and he wanted them all dead.

Waking that morning to the rattle of pellets in a plastic bowl and the slam of his cage door, Grawr stirred sore but sat up wide awake. Something loomed in the air, something that didn't set right with the world. He could smell fear from the other animals. They were on edge, something was coming. It was late in the afternoon when Algolu, the giant elephant blow her trump and became uncooperative with her trainer. Earlier that day, flocks of birds could be heard flying away from the town. Zook, the dancing monkey, kept moving and twitching, showing his anxiety. Grawr could hear the air high above them, winds howling, the sky painted a dark gray and the clouds hung heavy and dense. The fleshys paid no heed to it as they got ready for the visitors of the night. A devil wind had started up and even now the old one muttered to herself.

Grawr peered at her as she walked past his cage. Her hair was gray hidden behind a satin headband. Her large round earring swung back and forth, as did the bells on her dress, ringing as she walked.

"Death, we will all receive it, death is near."

"Death... what is it?" Grawr asked.

The old fleshy froze. Her eyes drew wide, the wrinkles on her forehead appeared more prominent.

Her hands shook as she outstretched them. "It spoke... the devil child spoke." Her face had become paler than it should be. Grawr heard the rush her heartbeat made in her chest. Hear the swish of the uneven breaths she took.

"We are all dead! The devil child spoke! It's an omen, it's a sign. We are all dead!" She turned voicing to herself.

Grawr's ears perked up a roar groaning in the distance. Zook screeched a winching cry and Algolu stamped her feet on the ground, pulling her trainer down with force.

"Bloody fucking animal. What's up with you today?" he muttered, pushing himself up off the ground. The roar got louder. A low rumbling sound grew ever more thunderous. The wind picked up, carriages started to rattle, steel groaned as something pulled on it.

A shout echoed, "Oh God, run! RUN!" Then the trampling of feet followed by yells and screams.

From where Grawr sat he could not see beyond the corner of the shaking carriage but he could hear and feel the vibrations. The wind changed as two carriages seemed to be pulled sideways. His heart drummed wildly. He lunged and clutched the cage, rattling the bars so hard that it caused his prison to topple off the wooden crate on which it stood. Grawr prepared for the impact as the cage fell. It had barely landed when it got scooped up by the pulling wind.

At first he wanted to breathe with relief, but the cage started spinning. The world turned and the roar droned, deafening in his ears. The next thing he knew, he slammed forward as the cage hit something hard and fell to the ground. He groaned and shook himself to clear his head and he realized the cage had broken. The lock lay several inches in front of him. For the first time his heart pounded so fierce in his little chest it felt like it would pop.

He rushed forward and heard the squealing sound of steel snapping and cracking. A loud noise shot through the air and a crash came that made the ground shake. On all fours he ran, frightened by the terrible sound and the tremor the ground made. The other sound came soon after, a whirling menacing roar and screech. He looked back and saw the massive swirling violent cloud as it ripped up trees and rocks. The sound of his pounding heart nullified the sound of the groaning mass.

He ran panting, as fast as his short legs and arms would take him. He turned a corner running faster than the fleshy's feet around him and he spotted it, a small hole. His instinct took over and he ran for it. It was a tight fit but he managed to burrow into the hole under the rock formation. Scudding deeper, he finally curled into a ball, his teeth clenched, his nails gripping the moist earth as his body shivered.

Hours later he dared to move. The air drifting into the burrow smelled normal again. The silence of the world beyond calmed his still raging heart. Popping his head out, the scene painted a different picture. Night had fallen. Fires burned. Food, paper and garbage was scattered around and carts were toppled everywhere. The scent hit him; sweet, warm and delicious. He licked his lips, sat back on his butt, tilting his head in a ninety degree angle and narrowed his black eyes.

A rustling noise to his left caught his attention, someone coughing and breathing hard.

Grawr crept closer. He could smell the fat man's sweat but he could also smell the blood. The man hadn't noticed him being so busy attending to the broken bone sticking out of his right leg. So transfixed that he didn't notice when Grawr sat down right in front of him.

"Grawr put thing inside you."

The man looked up, his face turning a shade of gray. Grawr smiled showing his sharp teeth. The man opened his mouth and Grawr leapt at his face. Razor sharp teeth melted into the fat man's cheek, Grawr's mouth covering the man's own muffling his screams. Grawr tightened his jaw, feeling his teeth slice and cut creases into the man's face as he forced them closed. His claws latched on to the man's throat and his grip tightened into the man's soft neck. A gargling noise filled the fat man's throat and he went silent.

The body slumped backward hitting the ground with a thud. Grawr sat on the dead man's chest, shook his head from side to side and spat out the bitter taste of the man's blood. It tasted like those burning sticks he sucked. Displeased with the taste, he shook his fur well aware of the approaching scent and footsteps coming up behind him.

"What have you done?" Adler said, choking on his words. Grawr growled low, hunched his back and turned when he saw the pain stick in Adler's hand but something was different with Grawr. The smell of blood and the taste of fleshys had a fire coursing through his veins. His senses seemed heightened. He could hear the man's breathing, his heart speeding up and he could smell the sweat tear that trailed down his right side. Adler brought the pain stick up as he approached Grawr with caution, but Grawr felt no fear as his blood coursed sending the new fire through him.

"Grawr eat now," he leapt at Adler's groin, claws dug into his thighs and teeth latched onto his crotch. A sour bitter taste filled the blood that flowed and Adler screamed.

Adler fell to his knees. Grawr let go and crawled up the man's body, digging his nails in his flesh for support. He heard the stick fall from the man's hand and he gripped Grawr's little waist to try and get him off his body. Grawr only dug his claws deeper into Adler's skin. Muscle tore as Adler tried to push Grawr away. Grawr kept flexing his claws back and forth making a tender mush of the flesh. Blood spewed from Adler's mouth, as he struggled to scream again. The hands on Grawr's waist loosened and Grawr launched his teeth into the man's throat. The blood spilling out with the taste of meat was different than the fat man's. Grawr swallowed and took another bite, ripping Adler's flesh from under his chin, gorging himself on the delicious taste. Something chattered behind Grawr and he turned growling at his opponent. He stopped however when he saw Zook looking at him baring his own smile making his quick quirky movements. The monkey approached with caution.

"ZOOK, no!" his owner hollered.

The monkey screeched. Grawr wasn't unaware of the torture Zook also had experienced from his owner. Grawr turned and snarled at the black haired fleshy. The man backed away a couple of steps, his eyes dancing in their sockets as he looked at the two dead bodies, then focused on the stinging stick. Grawr snapped at him, then purred as he moved forward. Still back peddling, the man spun around and ran. Grawr lunged mouth open wide, dripping and splattering saliva as he sank his teeth into the man's back. They fell and Grawr let go, instead biting into the back of the man's skull. He heard a crack sound and the man went still. Zook jumped up and down hands clapping, smile on his face. The monkey clearly amused by Grawr's little game.

Grawr turned to him and the monkey stopped. He still had his little jacket on made of red shiny material and blinking things. Grawr was always jealous of the other animals. All he had to wear was a thin piece of shorts that had gone an ugly brown. He came to sit in front of Zook observing the monkey, tilting his head to the side. The monkey did the same. Grawr smiled and the monkey smiled back. Grawr showed his teeth and the monkey mimicked the gesture. Grawr growled and the monkey stopped and only looked at him. He growled again and then he leapt at his furry friend, sinking his fangs into the monkey's shoulder. A scream echoed from Zook as the two rolled in the dirt. Grawr bit harder, landing on his hands and feet shaking the monkey back and forth in his mouth. His bite loosened, sending the monkey flying against an overturned cart. The small animal's chest heaved up and down, blood dripping from his wound. Grawr approached him.

"Zook play dead?" Grawr growled, blinked his eyes then took the killing bite to the monkey's throat.

Several hours passed as Grawr had his fill of the carnival men and women, those that didn't get caught up and killed by the tornado. He sat on the old fleshy's chest, her head in his hands sucking on her blood drenched ear lobe. He loved the taste of blood far more than he loved the taste of flesh. The fires around him had started eating the carnival, setting a glowing blaze to his surroundings. He looked up at the sky and dropped the old one's head. The moon was big and bright above him. Arching on his hands and knees, his fur standing on end, he howled at the moon and a shiver coursed through his tiny form at the sensation of how good it felt. A different scent carried by the wind caught his attention and he turned. In the distance he could see smoke burning and lights glistening. Noises drifted up from the town in the valley. Grawr licked his lips.

"Need more fleshys!" he growled into the night air. With another howl, Grawr pounced off the old one's body and trotted with purpose toward the town. His tail swung in delight of his next kill.

Wulf is the author of Neon White E1, Of Gods And Monsters - specializing in stories where men get hot with other men. He enjoys telling tales of the human condition but working in elements of the supernatural. A man of many tongues, this his first published short story in his second language of English.

Find him at http://francustrydom.wix.com/wulf-francu-godgluck

Sticky

by Ashly Nagrant

The night was so clear and filled with stars that they seemed to blend, seamlessly, into the twinkling carnival lights that surrounded us. I took in the site, dedicating it to memory, rather than make contact with the eyes of man in front of me, knowing that even this would not distract me from the way he gripped my arm, not tight enough to bruise, enough so that only I would ever remember the impression made on my skin by his strong, broad fingers.

I studied the stars because otherwise, if I so much as glanced at the tiny, dark, endless eyes that tried to pierce mine, then the sickness which was rising in my gut would surely grow only stronger before exploding, surely spilling across his polished boots, likely staining the immaculate suit he wore and certainly doing what would scare him the most and drive him into a fit: making a scene.

Let me be clear, the Honorable Maurice Marrez enjoys making a public scene, hence why he is here. He does not, however, enjoy making a scene when it is clear he is playing the villain, so when he feels the need to remind me how the scales of our interactions balance, he does so away from crowds, quietly, and takes no chance that someone would believe me when I speak of his capacity for cruelty.

Tonight, if any were to observe this tableau, they would think he was threatening me. He is not. Instead, he is telling me about a party.

"It is a shame you missed the seance," he says. "The spiritualist was truly gifted. I am thinking of offering her residency in our home."

"It is not our home," I manage to say, weakly.

"Well, it is and will always be my home, but I will consider it our home," he says. "And it is more than large enough to accommodate the two of us and the spiritualist and her spirit...oh, you should see her spirit. I am shocked you have not. After all, her spirit has seen you."

I choked a bit, biting back an outraged cry.

"Her spirit, the one in the gossamer gown, the one who wears a cloth across her blind eyes, she has seen you. She watches you each night, knows what it is you dream. She has seen into your heart of hearts and she has told me the truth." He leans close to whisper in my ear.

"She has told me you will marry me."

All I could will forth was simply "You had her spirit spy on me?"

"For love!" he cried. "For love, why can you not see it is love? Everyone else can. All of them!" he gestured in the direction of the laughter and the crowds.

With more resistance than I could normally muster, I continued. "And you are trusting what she has claimed her blind spirit has seen?"

He loosened his grip on my arm. "I do not question the mechanics, my dear. I have been given my answer and it is the one I knew was inevitable from the start. We will wed. It is inevitable that you will realize what is best for you.

"Until then, I suppose, we must continue this infuriating roundabout. For as long as you feel the need to keep up your charade." He trailed his fingers down until they were lightly touching the down-turned palm of my hand, and then he had the utter audacity to raise my hand to his lips and leave the slightest hint of a kiss on my skin.

Finally, he left me alone on the outskirts of the festivities, heading for those same lights I had anchored myself to for what felt like hours but had only been moments.

Steeling myself, I started towards the faint calliope music, still aware of the exact place Maurice has placed that kiss. Maybe he had hoped I would find it warm and assuring. But instead the area his too-plump lips had pressed against felt...sticky. There was the clear feeling of a film, not quite hardening but stiffening, the skin immobilized beneath the mark.

As I stepped into the ill-defined circle of light that marked the beginning of the alternate world only such a circus could provide, I heard a voice call out "Well, he seemed incredibly pleasant."

I turned in astonishment, had someone seen? If they had, if word spread, it would be on me, I would endure the burden and the punishment for the ill-temper of my unwelcome suitor.

But the woman at the stand was not looking at me. Her head was turned to look down towards the midway, curling tendrils that had escaped from her carefully arranged coiffe hanging soft around a friendly face. Then, she did turn to face me, and I was caught in the site of her bright, almost golden eyes.

"Gentleman who just passed me," she said, for my apparent benefit. "Smug and uninviting."

"I feel as if I already know who you are speaking of," I said. "He is...not so bad. Once you know him."

She placed her hands on her hips and curled her lip into a half-smirk. "I have a feeling that at that point he's even worse."

My response was meant to be a laugh. I cannot be blamed if, along with that, I finally let out a few scant tears as I walked towards her small stand, painted with golden letters reading "APPLES."

"Oh no, please don't cry," she said. "It can't be that bad, right?"

"I'm going to marry him," I said, my voice breaking.

"Some kind of forced marriage of intrigue?" she asked, resting her elbow on the wall of the stand. A sweet smell emanated from inside. "Because those never end well."

I shook my head. "No," I said. "I mean, perhaps. But he said I would accept of my own free will..."

"Wait," she said, sounding confused and righting herself. "You aren't engaged, but you're going to marry him?"

"He said," I forced the words out, aware of how ridiculous they sounded, vaguely aware I was saying them to a complete stranger, "he said that he'd had our fortunes told and our marriage was inevitable."

"Oh," she said. "He said that?"

I nodded.

"Look, let me tell you something about 'fortune telling' or whatever it is he claims," she said. "Hopefully it'll comfort you."

"That it's not real?" I asked. "Because I've been told that but..."

"Oh, no," she said. "Sometimes it isn't, but sometimes it is and that's not really a chance you can take. But it fails to take into account one very important factor."

I raised my head. "Free will?"

She busied herself with the apples within her stand, many of them impaled on sticks as if to be roasted, but the sticks were far too small for that intent. "Chaos."

She let the word hang in the soft glow before continuing. "You see, what was foretold for him, true or not, is assuming everything follows a very exact path, nothing gets in the way, it all works out in the end exactly as planned. Not true." She let the apples be, once again looking at me with her taunting near-smile. "Chaos has a way of showing up at the best or worst moments and wrecking everything."

She reached out for my hand, the one he had kissed, and I raised it, enthralled by her words and her manner and those bright, mischievous eyes. After inspecting it, she seemed satisfied. "Do you know when chaos does its best work?"

"When you least expect it?" I said, already knowing my answer was wrong.

She grinned. "When it can have the most fun." She released my hand. "Anyway, you seem like you could use a free apple."

"I couldn't," I said. "I've inconvenienced you and..."

"Stop that," she said. "Put away the society woman words and take it. Anyway, I want people to try them. It's this idea I had...hasn't caught on yet, but eventually."

She picked up one of the apples on a stick and then turned to the steaming pot in the booth with her. Deftly, she dipped the apple into the pot and when she removed it, it was coated in something shiny and liquid and golden.

"Caramel," she said, holding the prize out to me. "You have to let it cool a bit before you bite it. You'll know when."

I accepted, feeling the heat from the candy shell radiate onto my hand, seeming to obliterate not just the phantom remains but the very memory of the kiss. "Thank you," I said.

"No need," she said. "Go on, now."

It only fully occurred to me a bit later, as I made my way through the crowd that only began when I was well-away from the apple stand, exactly how odd that entire exchange had been. As if my head was clearing, I began to question the words spoken and thoughts shared between strangers, and the whisper in the back of my mind suggesting that she had not felt like a stranger at all, really.

I was interrupted when he came into view. Maurice, laughing with a crowd of acquaintances, as if earlier he had not gripped me, had not sentenced me to becoming his unwilling wife. Then, I saw him, saw his eyes seek me out though I could still not meet them, saw his knowing smile, saw him for what he really was from across the way when those right beside him could not.

I raised the apple to my mouth and, wishing him only the worst, took a deep, theatrical bite.

His smile did not fade, in fact it seemed to grow into something more carnal, as if he thought I was tempting him, as if he thought I was tasting the apple of Eden and planning to offer the next bite to him. But there are many kinds of apples, and despite the sweet taste I knew this one had little part in paradise.

One of the women grabbed his hand, playfully, then pulled her own back in distaste. She looked down at her glove which now had some kind of glistening substance dirtying it. Searching for the source, she looked down to his hand and gasped.

Both of his hands were covered in a substance, flowing from some unseen source, dripping and then pouring from his fingers onto the dirt path beneath him. He held them up to examine them, the others around him gasping and even screaming in surprise, though I assume he did not hear them, for the same liquid was now pouring from his ears.

Then he cried out, in fear, blinking his eyes rapidly, and I could see the trail of his tears in the soft lights, though those were quickly followed by the fluid, and the next time he blinked his eyes did not open as quickly.

"Help!" he called. "Help!" He coughed, as if something were caught in his gullet. "Please, someone, help me!" He continued these please, punctuated by deep, rumbling coughs, becoming more and more frequent.

Until finally, one cough brought up a great glob of what I knew, now, to be caramel.

He coughed again, more gushing from between his lips, and again, this cough so great that it brought him to his hands and knees in the mess of dirt and sugar sweetness beneath him. One more cough until the stream became steady, as no one rushed to help him, though they all stood and stared, some horrified, all entranced. The sideshow held nothing so fascinating at this man's own claims to sweetness erupting from him, steaming with heat. He was coated in sugar, the imaginary armor become manifest, but no one was willing to rush forward and taste.

Finally, he managed to part his eyelids, he looked up to me with pleading in them, a weakness I had never witnessed before and I wondered how many hours he had spent learning to hide behind bravado. The eyes that showed me a fear that something about him had been discovered, something that before only I had been able to admit to seeing.

I was able to meet those eyes, now, as I smiled from behind my apple.

Then, I parted my lips, slowly, sunk in my teeth and took another bite.

Ashly Grace Nagrant is a Pittsburgh based writer, photographer and ghost tour guide. She is a member of the IAF Working Group, a contributor for LiveNation and a Library Pirate.

She hates writing about herself in the third person.

Find her at http://writingsofashlygrace.tumblr.com/.

A Seat For Every Soul

By Amy Trueblood

It's not every day you get asked to hide a pair of bolt cutters in your pants. Bryan looked at me with his pleading baby blues, and I couldn't say no. That was the problem with Bryan and me. I could never say no.

"Hey Tatum, steal that pack of gum for me. I'll need minty fresh breath when we make out later." Or even better, "Tatum, honey, it's okay, your mom won't notice the twenty missing from her wallet. I'll pay her back later."

Yeah, right.

I wished I could say no to him. I'd tried several times, but when he slid his muscled arms around my full waist, and pulled me tight against his chest, that one tiny word flew right out of my head. I mean what other boy who looked like an Abercrombie model would date me? I wasn't like the other toothpick girls at school with legs that went on for miles and hair that had perfect "beachy" waves. I'd always been thick like my mom, and no amount of dieting or exercising had changed that.

"Psst, Tatum, let's go," Bryan called.

I took his callused hand in mine and snuck around the outer gate of the fairgrounds. We weren't supposed to be here. Rumors said a couple was murdered behind one of the exposition tents last month. Police surrounded the place for weeks and found nothing. Murmurs around town said security had to haul away four people who claimed to be possessed after spending time in the funhouse.

It was all total crap.

The truth was the owners went bankrupt and took off in the middle of the night leaving everything behind: tents, games, even the rides. The site was abandoned, and the city still didn't know what to do with it.

Randy and Marie, Bryan's friends since childhood scooted along behind us. They would stop every few steps to swallow each other's faces before realizing we were too far ahead and scrambled to catch up.

"Won't we get in trouble if we get caught?" Marie squeaked. She was so small I swore her jeans were a children's size 12,and her voice was one octave higher than Tinkerbell's.

Randy snatched her by the belt loop and dragged her toward him. "Don't worry, babe. I won't let the cops take you." He bent down to snuggle her neck, and I tried not to vomit.

We walked along the fence, and I stared into the dark looking for security guards or dogs with sharp teeth. Bryan claimed the guy at the liquor store told him the city was too cheap to pay for security, so they just chained and locked the gates. I didn't believe him until now. The only things in the shadows were old napkins and cups that rolled around every time the wind blew in our direction.

"Down here," Bryan whispered, motioning to the far end of the fence. He grasped a wide steel padlock and yanked on it several times. "Just what I thought." An impish grin danced across his face."Bolt cutters." His voice was serious, like a doctor asking for a scalpel. He even laid out his palm flat, expecting me to smack the heavy tool into his hand.

I edged past him and pulled the tool from the back of my pants. He growled in my ear and I pushed him back before cutting the lock.

I had to show him I wasn't afraid. That I was the fearless girl he wanted, even though my heart was threatening to pole vault out of my throat. If I didn't do this it was back to the Mathletes table. I couldn't go back there. Homeschooling would be better than returning to that circle of hell. I'd climbed the social ladder, and there was no way I was getting kicked back down.

With trembling hands, I pulled at the lock until it slid out of place. Bryan grabbed my shoulders and spun me around, my dark ponytail swinging behind me. His soft lips smashed against mine, and before I could relax into the warmth, his tongue became a fish out of water, flailing everywhere inside my mouth. Not exactly the passionate kiss I was expecting, but I'd take what I could get.

My hands reached for the back of his head, but he pulled away and whispered, "Doesn't it feel good to be bad?"

I didn't get a chance to answer before he pushed me aside and kicked open the gate. Marie squealed and clapped her hands like one of those annoying monkey dolls with cymbals, as Randy watched the broken lock swing with vacant stoner eyes.

We crept behind abandoned trucks that loaded in games and heavy equipment for all the rides. Once we passed the ticket booths, we snuck past the corrals where all the 4-H kids once housed pets that would be bacon and hamburgers before the year ended. Just past the last bank of buildings,the fairground opened up into our own personal playground.

Marie and Randy disappeared into the dark on a desperate hunt for food, whispering something about "munchies." I tried to pull Bryan in the direction of The Swings, but he dodged in between several buildings yelling something about finding a bathroom.

"Hey!" I shouted. Don't leave me."

"I'll be right back," he called.

The night stayed quiet as I roamed the grounds. Ticket booths stood like dark sentries, protecting the rides behind them. In the distance a long metal building,resembling a two story double wide trailer, loomed in the night. Splashes of red and black covered the side and neon-colored fangs reflected in the moonlight. I walked along the edges, examining the rough lines of the artwork. The small sliver of moon overhead disappeared in and out of the growing banks of clouds.

"It's the funhouse," Bryan said in a rough whisper behind me.

His sudden appearance made me jump. "Dammit, don't sneak up on me like that."

"Oooh, you're not afraid are you, Tatum?" He teased, knowing the rumors as well as I did.

"No," I snapped. Really I was terrified, but I wasn't going to tell him. I glanced at my watch. "It's just my curfew's at one."

His mouth tightened, and he rolled his ocean-colored eyes. "Don't be such a buzzkill." He walked inside the funhouse. I hesitated and looked at my watch again. "Tatum," he called from inside. "You coming?"

I pushed everything out of my mind except the thought of him kissing me again and went in.

The steel walkway squeaked beneath my feet. I turned right into the bottom level of the funhouse and darkness swallowed me. With each step it felt like the building came alive, groaning and swaying like a pissed off giant being woken from a deep sleep. A dull hum signaled motion lights. The walls began to glow and I sucked in a breath. Monsters of every shape and size came alive within the small space. An outline of a vampire glared at me beneath a coal black cape. The Wolfman's claws were outlined in yellow. Glowing blood dripped off of an abstract drawing of Freddy Krueger's leathery face and sharp blade-like fingers.

I swallowed down the knot in my throat as Bryan's laugh filled the tight space. "It's just black light glowing off neon paint. God, do you need to medicate or something?" I reached out to the wall and steadied myself. Something tacky stuck to my hands.

"Crap!" I screamed.

"What the hell, Tatum! What's wrong with you?"

"There's something sticky on the walls," I said a little more quietly.I tried to imagine every gross thing it could be and finally stopped when my stomach started to flip-flop.

"I'm sure it's only remnants from candy apples or cotton candy. You know how many kids probably come through here?" Bryan snickered.

He was probably right. I wiped my hands along my jeans and followed behind his dim outline. When we reached what felt like the end of the hall, I squinted into the shadows as the outline of a staircase emerged.

"Let's go up," Bryan said and started to climb.

My tennis shoes stuck to each step, and when I was almost to the second floor, a scream rattled through the building. I scrambled up the final steps and bumped into Bryan's back.

"What was that?" I asked in a choked voice.

He shook his head and chuckled. "The motions sensors must have started the background music. That's all. Can't have a funhouse without spooky sounds." Heat surged toward me as he pushed me back against the wall. His hungry mouth found mine, and it was only a few seconds before his tongue found the edges of my lips. This time he was warm and gentle and my insides ached for him. His tight body pressed against mine, and every part of him urged me harder against the wall. He reached beneath my shirt and ran his hand down my back. His fingers traced the line of my spine and slid down until they danced along the waistband of my pants. A moan left my mouth, and I was grateful I'd put on the lace underwear that always sat at the back of my drawer.

My breaths came in stutters. Maybe this would be the night I'd finally join the ranks of the non-virgin club. I fumbled with the button on his jeans. He cursed under his breath and pulled back.

"What?" I searched his eyes, wondering if I'd done something wrong.

"I gotta piss again," he growled and untangled his hands from my pants.

"Don't leave me here," I pleaded. A mass of ominous bats danced along one wall, glittering silver paint illuminating their wings. Next to them a life-sized image of Frankenstein glowed in the dark. His beady eyes stared through me.

Another scream shook the walls.This time it was deeper and more panicked. I clutched the edge of Bryan's black t-shirt. "I'm coming with you."

"Stay here. Like I said, it's just a horror soundtrack."

I shook my head and he pushed me back against the wall, pressing a kiss to my lips that lit a fire inside me. "Stay put, and when I come back we'll really get down to business." His motorcycle boots pounded against the steel floor. The echoes grew quieter until it was only me and the silence, and well, the creepy caricature of the guy from the Saw movies.

The bats continued to glitter in the light. I smoothed my finger along the paint. When I pulled my hand away, sparkling remnants stayed against my skin. My red skin. I blinked and looked at my hands again. They were still sticky and covered in a purplish-red sheen. Acid rose in my throat. Maybe it was paint? Or the sticky coating from a candy apple? Every rational explanation spun through my head, but I kept coming back to one — blood.

"Shit! Shit! I rubbed my hands up and down my pant legs, trying to get rid of the red tint. My head went light and I regretted the last shot of Tequila I'd swallowed an hour ago.

I ran toward the exit,my racing heart keeping time with my footsteps. At the end of the walkway, I scrambled down a rickety flight of stairs. My hands scoured the walls for a door. I bit my lip, praying there wouldn't be any more blood.

When I found a handle, I pushed my way outside. My mouth opened wide as I gulped in cold, clean air. Fog coated the night sky leaving a thin mist on top of all the buildings. I ran across the asphalt and dirt, frantically searching for where Bryan may have gone to pee. I took two steps past the Tilt-A-Whirl when another agonizing scream tore through the night.

That was not a funhouse soundtrack.

A shot of ice pushed through my veins. I skidded to a stop and spun in a circle, looking for Bryan. There was nothing around but ominous buildings, looking like monsters crawling out of the shadows. I had to find Bryan. He'd keep me safe.

I ran in the direction of the sound. Each time my shoe hit the cracked asphalt, another mind-numbing scream pierced the night. The sounds rattled in my head like a pinball slamming between my ears. When I reached the center of the fairgrounds, moving shadows surrounded me. The wind picked up. Chains and rattling fences groaned. The dragon swing creaked on its own. The children's airplanes bobbed up and down as if moved by an invisible hand.

"Alright Bryan, come out. You've had your fun."

I started to laugh, trying to convince myself this was an elaborate scheme to scare me. The night stayed quiet.

"Randy? Marie? This isn't funny anymore. I have to go home now. It's almost past my curfew."

No answer.

An empty popcorn bag rolled between the mini roller coaster and the Turboblaster, before the wind carried it off in a swirl. I called out again, and when none of them appeared, anger ignited in my chest. "Did they think this was funny? Leaving me out here in the cold? Were they in the shadows somewhere laughing their asses off at dumb, fat Tatum?

I walked in the direction of The Swings when a thought stopped me cold. What if they left me? Maybe they planned this all along. Pretend to be friends with the chunky girl. Spend a few hours with her, pretend to like her, kiss her even — only to set her up for the biggest practical joke of all.

Shit. How could I have been so stupid? I blinked away tears, and reached for my phone. My fingers slid into my back pockets, but they were empty. Bryan must have taken it when he kissed me in the funhouse. I swallowed back a sob as goose bumps crawled across my skin. The temperature was dropping and a wall of fog slowly rolled in from the bay.

Hunching forward to stay warm, I moved toward The Swings again. I had to find an exit. Maybe there was a pay phone around. Wait, did pay phones even exist anymore? I turned the thought over in my head and stopped when laughter sounded in front of me.

Relief flooded every cell in my body. I knew they wouldn't leave me. I raced toward the sound and saw the first shadow. At first I thought it was a trick of the eye. A tangle of ropes and chains hanging from the seat of the swings. I was wrong.

Randy hung from the seat of an elevated swing. He was naked except for the red noose circling his neck. "Victim #1″ was slashed across his chest in blood. I screamed and fell to my knees.

This couldn't be happening. It had to be a joke. The rumors were just a joke.

A quiet whirring began. The Swings, which were already aloft, moved. Randy's body bobbed and swayed like a puppet as it swung forward. Metal seats slammed back and forth as the ride picked up speed.Seconds later, Marie appeared. Well, at least her naked body. Her hands were bound with the same rope. Blood-colored duct tape covered her eyes, mouth and breasts. As she spun around, I swallowed back the vomit crawling up my throat. When her body passed, the words "Victim #2″ were scrawled across her back, and I lost my dinner.

My body rocked with convulsions. Every nerve ending screamed at me to run, but morbid curiosity rooted me in place. The Swings were now a writhing octopus. Bryan appeared next, tied to a chair. His dark hair shaved off.The words "Victim #3″ painted across his forehead. A cry left my mouth and echoed across the fairgrounds as Bryan's once closed eyes snapped open.

"Help me, Tatum!" he screamed.

Fear held me in place as he made another revolution. His cries for help were like knives stabbing me over and over. I scanned the area and ran behind the back of the ride. Glancing over my shoulder several times, I tried to keep an eye out for whoever was doing this. Bryan continued to scream. I stumbled over several cords until I found the power source. I hit a red stop button, before pressing a blue button,allowing the swings to descend.

Marie's body slammed to the ground first. Randy's bumped along the black asphalt like a rag doll before the ride finally ended. I turned away, unable to watch.My heart pounded. If I could free Bryan, we could get out of here, together. I pumped my arms and ran toward the swing. It was empty.

What the hell?

The familiar laugh echoed across the grounds banking off the open buildings,making it impossible to figure out which direction it came from. The wind picked up. An eerie howl tore along the barren fairgrounds. Empty soda cans grated against the ground. Loose edges of garbage can liners rustled in the night. Shadows wavered in the moonlight taunting me. One minute a figure appeared. I blinked and it was gone.

"Bryan? What the hell is going on? Come out now and take me home!" I shouted. He wanted to scare me. Hell, he was scaring me, but I wasn't going to show fear. That's what he wanted. I tried to convince myself this was all an elaborate game. Randy and Marie weren't really dead. This was just a set up. In fact, I was going to prove it.

I rushed back to the swings. Kneeling down next to Randy's naked body, I felt for a pulse at his neck. He was already cold. The thin skin around his mouth a stomach-twisting shade of lavender.

The low hum in my head returned. Staying in a crouched position, I made my way to Marie. Her copper hair clung to the jagged tear in her neck. I swallowed a sob and scooted back from her body, slamming into a pole behind me. Pain shot down my spine and I tried not to pass out. If I did, I'd end up like Marie. I knew it.

The laugh inched closer. Instead of echoing around me, it rang in my ears as if someone pressed a megaphone to my head. Why had I agreed to come? Did my one stupid choice seal my fate? Who would come to my funeral? Would people cry?

My shoulders shook as fog and mist descended like ghosts from the sky. I stayed still and waited for Bryan to find me. As I lay there, listening to mysterious scratches in the night, a small voice started in my head.

Get up.

Run.

You can be fast if you want.

Find an exit.

The voice got louder and my body moved on its own. Blocking out all thought and sound, I ran past rows of empty game corrals advertising water gun challenges and ping pong toss. At the edge of the basketball challenge booth, the funhouse loomed in the distance.

My heart cartwheeled in my chest. I picked up speed and ran past the back entrance of the funhouse. Each step carried me closer to freedom. The elation in my heart didn't last long as my name rang out in the night.

"Taaaaatum," Bryan sang out in a childlike cry. "Where are yoooou?"

I searched the shadows for him. If I was going to live, I needed a place to hide. Moving again, I looked over my shoulder and around the grounds for Bryan. At the edge of the funhouse, I found a long trailer that was converted into an indoor bathroom. Bending down, I held my breath and crawled underneath. The smell of urine and other foul substances rocked my stomach, but I didn't care. He'd never think of looking for me down here.

My breaths came in short puffs, blowing small patches of dirt across the asphalt. I wondered what time it was. Could I lay here until the sun came up? Would psycho Bryan be gone by then?

"Taaatum," he called out in a sing-song voice. "I know you're here. Come out and play." His boots pounded against the asphalt toward the funhouse.

I closed my eyes and placed my hands over my ears unable to bear the sound of his voice. In short whispers I started to pray that he'd give up and go home. Wasn't killing two people enough?

My breath hitched in my chest. I should have closed poor Marie's lifeless eyes. Why didn't I close her eyes?

Before I could stop it, a whimper escaped my mouth. I hunched down and started to shake. "Please go away," I muttered over and over.

My heart threatened to burst from my chest, but I stayed still knowing one more sound or movement would give me away.The ground beneath me grew cold, yet I didn't move. He was waiting for me in the shadows, but I wasn't going to give in. I could wait him out until sunrise.

Hours passed and I remained still. The night groaned and rattled in a haunting song as if mourning Marie and Randy. There was no sign of Bryan. Bryan. Could he be possessed? It was the only explanation why he slashed his friends to pieces.

When the wind grew still, and the first edges of pink licked the sky, I pulled myself along the pitted asphalt. Every thought in my head focused on reaching the gate.

At the edge of the trailer, I steadied myself. Taking a deep breath, I counted down from three. Each beat pounded in my head. When I reached one, I tore across the fairgrounds, dodging trashcans, and more game booths. My arms pumped against my sides. I flew past the 4-H corrals. I was close. In the distance the exit gate beckoned. The fear crushing my chest began to lift. My feet barely touched the ground. I had to find the car and get to the police. They'd make Bryan pay for what he'd done.

The gate was only twenty feet away. A cry stuck in my throat. I was almost there. Almost...he hit me from the side like a linebacker. My world tipped from side to side as my head slammed into the concrete. My body skidded along the ground. I threw up my hands and tried to push Bryan off, but he was too strong.

"Tatum, where have you been? That was such a fun game." He looked at the open gate and sighed. "Oh, and you were almost to home base."

I twisted beneath him, but he pushed me harder into the ground. His weight pinned my legs down and all I had was my arms. My body continued to writhe underneath him.

A snarl left his mouth, "Stop moving. I've got you now." I refused to look at his lifeless eyes — he wasn't Bryan anymore. Instead I focused on the blood still smeared across his forehead. The crooked letters dancing in and out of the fading moonlight. He chuckled. "I'm going to love carving up all your little rolls." He nodded to my hands. "And look, you're already covered in my blood. What a fun way to start."

A wide, toothy smile slid across his face and something inside me snapped. I rolled over one shoulder, pretending to cry. As I let the sobs get louder, I ran my hands along the ground.

Bryan angled his body down,pushing me flat on my back. A deep cut on his forearm had opened up, and a trail of blood oozed down his skin. He lowered his face close to mine, making me shudder.

"Why did you hurt them?" I sputtered.

He sat back and wiped a bloody hand across his now bald head. His black pupils continued to grow almost swallowing his entire iris. He narrowed his eyes and replied in a whisper, "Because I could." He reached for something in his back pocket. When he turned around with a knife, I hurled the sand and dirt clutched in my hand at his face.

"Shit!" he screamed,falling over and scratching at his face.

I kicked away and jumped up.The gate was only ten feet away. I was almost free. Only a few steps.He caught the end of my ponytail, slamming me backwards into the ground. Silver stars colored my vision. He brought the knife down. I dodged the blow. The tip of the knife clanked against the asphalt. He growled and brought it up again. I pulled my hand back and punched him in the groin. I was sick of being his willing victim. Rage swallowed my every thought. Now, I just wanted him dead.

As he fell back groaning, he dropped the knife. I swiped it from the ground and hurled it into the shadows of the dark fairgrounds. Hovering over him, I let fury flood my body. I kicked him in the side. My toe connected with his lower back, jamming into his kidneys and spine. For every kick, I screamed out Randy and Marie's names.

His eyes rolled back as he slid into unconsciousness. The rising sun colored the horizon a deep orange. Sirens howled in the distance. A sick almost warning cry of what was to come.

I slammed my foot against his head one final time and crawled to the gate. Inch by inch I got closer. The battered chains marked my finish line. As I reached the broken lock, his scream echoed off the buildings. I rolled onto my back. Bryan flung himself toward me, crashing on top of my body. A gurgle escaped his lips. The whites of his eyes grew wide. A trickle of blood slid slowly from the corner of his mouth.

The police discovered us five minutes later where we'd started the night. Except this time, Bryan was pinned against me. The bolt cutters clenched in my hands were embedded deep in his body, and the same word thrummed in my head over and over... No. No. No.

Tilt-A-Kill

By Vanessa Henderson

Amy Trueblood is a freelance writer who spends most of her time penning press releases for her favorite non-profit. When not "chasing the crazy" dream of being published, you can find her rereading her favorite YA books, running, or gulping down her favorite mango iced tea. Her work has been featured in Liquid Imagination, as well as "The Fall" and "Summer's Edge" short story collections.

Find more at www.chasingthecrazies.wordpress.com.

Vanessa Henderson is a Seattle-based graphic designer, studio artist, and fiction writer. When she's not scribbling, she enjoys being an avid-movie goer, exploring the outdoors with her husband and dog Joey, traveling, and indulging in her obsession with coffee shops. She likes to write young adult fiction and blogs from www.youngatink.com.
Conjoined Sins

by Tawney Bland

Nome, Alaska

2013

The twins exit the carnival tent thrilled by what they had just seen. Acrobatics that made the performers look like they flew, really flew, across the tent. Every spectacle was narrated by the Ringmaster, whom the girls could not help but take a peek at every now and then. He was tall and well-built; when he moved muscles rippled underneath his leather outfit. White hair spilled around his broad shoulders and he had charisma about him, clinging to him like an aurora.

It was intoxicating.

Never before had they seen so many different types of animals in one place. Huge elephants with long ivory tusks, wild cats from Africa and even bears on tricycles! A carnival never has come to Nome because, well, Nome is far north with little travel but by plane. So a carnival suddenly appearing out of nowhere brings excitement, outweighing the questions.

Daisy runs her fingers against the cold metal bars of the lion's cage. The lion merely looks up and gives a lazy yawn, showing sharp ivory fangs. It flaps its head back and forth causing its dark mane to whip about.

"Daisy! Don't get too close. He could bite your fingers off!" Lilly shouts. She rushes forward pulling her sister back.

"Hey! He's lazy. He didn't eye me once," Daisy huffs, crossing her arms. She rolls her eyes in exasperation.

"We are going to miss everything if you keep standing here gawking. I want to play some of the games! Don't you want to see more?" Lilly inquires, moving past the huge yellow tent's entrance, her blue flowered dress billowing from the light breeze. She looks over her shoulder ushering for Daisy to follow.

Daisy glances back at the lion. She wants to pet his fur and feel it course through her fingers. Sighing, she runs after Lilly, looping her arm around her sister. Daisy rests her head on Lilly's shoulder. "Don't you feel like running away with the circus? I mean what's holding us here? Our parents are gone and we have a bitch of an aunt who does little to take care of us."

Nodding, Lilly glances sideways at Daisy. The bruises on her arm attests to Aunt Regina's caring ability. "We should leave. It doesn't matter that we're sixteen. Nome is too small for us. We need bigger things! Let's do it. If we have a chance to go with this carnival, let's take it!"

"No one likes us here. They don't understand that we don't want to be apart." Daisy pats Lilly's hand. "Why does Aunt Regina want to separate us? I don't want to live with Uncle Scotty."

"Never!" Lilly clutches her. "You can't leave me. You are my other half!"

They stare at each other for a moment. The corner of their mouths twitch.

"Together, forever!" they both cry in unison.

"Excuse me ladies. I couldn't help but overhear that you wanted to run away?" A soft deep velvet voice comes from the tent's dark entrance.

The twins halt to a stop. Daisy clutches Lilly as they both turn to look toward the unknown voice.

"You see, I think it is your lucky day." Stepping out into the light is the Ringmaster. He wears his long top hat and dark leather jacket. He's tall, making the twins crane their neck up the closer he gets. He has wicked blue eyes specked with gold.

The twins could only stare. Boy, he was more gorgeous up close.

Lilly reaches over to snap Daisy's mouth shut.

"The Rose twins. I have heard about you all across Alaska. Quite some escapades you have caused. First burning down your aunt's greenhouse. Second, pretending to be each other to kiss the other's boyfriend? Third, always speaking your mind even in church. Very impressive. I have been searching for the right acts because I only need two more to complete my collection of exotic performers. You two are what I need. My name is Barnibus." He bows, lifting his cap off his head causing his white hair to spill across his shoulders.

Daisy gives a shy giggle while Lilly curtsies. They never once let go of each other. In fact, Daisy clings tighter to Lilly.

Barnibus straightens, putting his hat back on.

"Why us?" Lilly inquires with a raised brow, twirling a strand of her raven black hair.

"Because I don't have twin performers, especially ones as beautiful as you." He steps closer, his eyes sparkling. He reaches out to take hold of Daisy's chin, turning her face about. His eyes scrutinize her tan skin and amber eyes. He then caresses Lilly's cheek with the other hand. "Why don't I show you my collection? Uniqueness is what I look for."

Lilly shivers at the mere contact of Barnibus. Daisy could only stare, unable to think of anything to say. She just stares at his eyes and then his porcelain face.

"Come, let me show you something that few have seen." He spreads his arms, leading the girls toward a special black tent in the back. It's small, only five feet across and six feet high. Nothing grand could possibly fit in it.

However, the inside of the tent is colossal with tall pillars wrapped in gold leaf and sunlit orbs hovering like fireflies. The floor is checkered marble. A thin band of fog rolls about at a low level. A cool breeze flickers candles strung about on trees at least six feet tall.

The twins gasp at the pure magnitude of the tent.

Daisy clutch her chest in awe. Lilly holds her breath, trying to take it all in.

There are seven glass cases with curtains drawn on the inside. Each one is at least twenty feet wide.

"This is my collection. I have five performers but need two more for my Cardinal Sins to be complete." The Ringmaster stops at the first one. "Would you like to see them?"

Both girls nod but there is a sense of urgency in the air. A thick feeling of dread envelops them like a blanket. Lilly balls her hands into fists. A lump forms in her throat.

They move closer to the first glass case with an inscription "Lust" and a date of 1914.

The curtains draws back to show a beautiful woman with long crimson hair in a tight leather corset. She's lying on her stomach, kicking her feet in the air. She wears spiked heels glittering with diamonds. Both her arms are covered in tattoos of exotic animals that move up, down and around her arms. When she turns her face, she wears a feathered mask encrusted with rubies. Her eyes glow softly pink as she licks her plump bloody lips. She smiles, showing fangs.

Daisy backs into Lilly, grabbing for her hand.

"This is Lolita. She came to us from Amsterdam. She loves men and women. Don't get too close because she lusts for anything and anyone." The Ringmaster moves to the second display with the words "Gluttony 323 BC."

"Did you see her tattoos? They were moving!" Daisy hisses.

The curtains part to reveal an obese man in a white toga trimmed with silver, completely surrounded by a buffet that takes over his entire room. His fat rolls out of the cloth in clumps where maggots crawl. Flies buzz around him while he eats. His face is smooth and round, smudged with grease and food. When his eyes look up, they glow green. He ravishes a turkey leg and moves on to the next item on the buffet.

"I think I am going to puke." Lilly inhales sharply.

"That is Alexander the Great. He wasn't great for conquering battles. That was not why he was named. Never cross paths with him because he will eat anything." Barnibas takes his top hat off, throwing his hands behind his back. He seems to be growing taller, towering over them. His skin turns a light pink.

"This one I call Scrooge."

Sitting on a throne at the center of mounds of gold coins is a king with ruby crowns. His beard is silver and skin gray. He has no eyes save for two glowing golden marbles. He only grimaces each time a coin falls through his fingers. He keeps reaching over to plunge a hand into the coins to pull out a fist full of gold. His mouth keeps moving but the twins can't hear anything. Above the throne reads "Greed 1545"

"He doesn't have eyes! What is going on?" Lilly squeaks. She pulls Daisy to her side.

The next case contains a large woman lying on a canopy bed. She wears a long silk night gown that clings like a second skin to her curves. Instead of legs, she has a long snake tail with a rattle wrapped around the bedpost. Her ruby hair flows down the pillows to spiral around the room. She is slowly brushing her hair - but that in itself is a task.

She looks over at the twins with glowing blue eyes, reaching for them. Her hands wave about, only to plop back on the bed.

Etched on the glass above them is "Sloth, 1856."

The last case is full of vegetation. Shrubs and dirt litter the floor. Above the glass is "Rage, 2001"

"Now I just acquired this one last year. He was an angry man on the inside but now his anger matches on the outside." Barnibas's voice is weird, a little slurred. Saliva pools out of his mouth and his cheeks puff out.

The bushes rustle, and out bursts a beast slamming against the glass with a thud.

The girls scream, clinging to each other while the Ringmaster roars with laughter.

A huge muscular monster stands before them. Shaggy silver hair covers its entire body with a long tail flipping about. Its long muzzle filled with serrated teeth snaps at the glass, throwing bloody saliva everywhere. Its eyes glow yellow.

Lilly looks away, burying her face into Daisy's shoulder. Daisy's can't help but stare.

"Ever since the day his brother died in the two towers, he has been filled with such a hate that he took it out on others. He would find any victims that could help devour his rage." Barnibas touches the glass, not balking once as the beast snaps its claws at him. He ushers the girls to the next case.

Daisy pauses looking at the hideous monster. Its long ears are pinned back with lips curled in a snarl. It keeps pawing at the glass. Each step the girls take toward the last case it becomes more frenzied.

Above the glass on a beautifully carved wooden sign is "Envy, 2013"

"I have heard talk about the beauty of the Rose twins. Of their beautiful amber eyes glowing against their copper skin. Your Eskimo heritage precedes you." He puts his top hat back on reaching in his back pocket for a scroll. "All the men of Nome want you while the women envy and hate you. Your aunt does not love you and only took you in for the money left behind by your mother. I have searched the world for you two. I have searched through time for the perfect Envy. I wish to have you part of my special performers."

"What's in it for us?" Daisy inquires.

"To be free of your small life in this rural town. To be worshiped as goddesses by men who want nothing but the both of you. To never worry of food or money. I will shower you with all the riches you need." Barnibas reaches out for them. He brings each of their hands to his lips, leaving a light wet kiss.

Lilly glances at Daisy, goosebumps flowing up her arms. "Well, should we? I have a bad feeling.."

"Don't think Lilly. Just for once let go. Don't you want to see the world? Leave this place? We need to leave or we will be stuck here either pregnant, a drunk, or drug addict. I am tired of petty jealousy. Let's do this!" Daisy shakes Lilly. She turns and snatches the scroll out of Barnibas's hands.

Lilly leans over, watching Daisy unravel the scroll. Weird language fill the page except for the spaces for two signatures at the bottom. "What do we sign it with?"

"Your blood." A hiss escapes his lips, which are now cracked and peeling.

"Really?" Lilly squeals.

"Of course not silly. A red pen will suffice." Barnibas hands her a golden pen.

Lilly hurriedly signs the document. Crimson ink spills out on the parchment veining with each scribble.

Barnibas claps his hands together, his eyes glowing like rubies.

Lilly hands Daisy the pen. "Do it. Together forever. Born together, live together and die together."

Cringing at their motto, Daisy signs with her face looking away. She can't breathe. Every swoosh of her hand make the room become dimmer.

A wind picks up within the tent. Pounding can be heard along all the glass panels. The beast goes crazy next door, watching the last sweep of Daisy's finger signing her name.

A roaring sound like a train comes between the girls. They try to lunge in the opposite directions but they're forced back, colliding together. Each time they try to part a sucking vacuum pulls them back together.

"What's happening?" they cry in unison.

"You signed the contract in your own blood. Now you are mine, but first I must morph you into something much more beautiful, like I have the others." He waves his hands to the other cases. Claws began to unsheathe from his fingers. Horns spiral from the side of his temples causing his top hat to fall.

Clothes tear, and bones and muscle crack as the vacuum sucks the twins closer and closer together. The pain is extreme. Their entire bodies are on fire with hundreds of needle like pain. Flesh rips and stretches. The pain feels like knives cutting their entire abdomen open. Daisy screams while Lilly moans. Their bodies are melting together, becoming one.

Suddenly everything is quiet. The pain gone.

Barnibas leans over the fallen girls. "Beautiful," he hisses with a mouth full of fangs. His skin is marbled red with white. His long beautiful hair falls over horns and pointed ears.

"No," Lilly hisses.

He continues to laugh. Lilly has a hard time keeping her eyes open. His features are fading until all goes black.

Florence

1489

The boy holds his satchel close, protecting the contents within; a paint brush, paints, charcoal chalk and other art supplies he may need for the trip.

The Ringmaster babbles on and on about each glass case but he can't move when he saw the last one with the twins assigned to Envy.

They are sitting on a chair playing with some kind of small white cards on the table. They look up in unison, amber eyes blinking. Their long raven black hair is pulled to the sides in braids. They are beautiful but that was not why he is staring. No, it is the fact that they share the same body. Two legs, two arms and two heads. One twin leans against her hand while the other taps the table with the opposite hand.

The boy has never seen conjoined twins before. They are monstrously beautiful. His heart palpitates against his chest when he touches the glass with one hand.

In a blink of an eye they are out of their seat pounding at the glass, screaming and kicking. Their golden glowing eyes fill with tears that sparkle like diamonds.

"Don't pay any mind to the Rose twins. They love attention. Men dream of them which envious women hate. Now, boy, you are my last performer I need. I have searched through time to find you. Your art is wonderful, and you take pride in that. I just need you to sign the dotted line right here and we can get started." Barnibas hisses, his tongue running along his fangs.

The twins pound and pound the glass but to no avail. Michelangelo signs his life away to the devil.

Tawney Bland is a YA writer, 1/2 of twin author duo, former bookseller, blogger for Writer Diaries, a pub intern, and a member of Kick-Az writers group.

Find her at: http://twinningfortwins.wordpress.com .

Love Consumes Us

By Julie Hutchings

Love was a game of chance, and like any game, you got more than one turn. But someone always loses.

The leering clown face across the stand dared me to throw my last dart, and I rose to the challenge. I always did. And something else I always did was miss.

"One more try, buddy! Three bucks and the prize can be yours! Look at her, she wants it," the grungy carnie said, winking at Sabrina.

"Not this time, thanks," she said, winking back at him, but with no hint of a smile. She grabbed my arm and we turned away, the smell of fried dough wafting over us with every move, blending with the peach scent of her shampoo. Things that didn't fit together. I prayed that I would never say that about us, and knew I would.

"I cannot believe I lost at every single game I played," I said, shaking my head. Sabrina squeezed my arm, ever soothing me, and blinked her big baby blues at me. She was a beauty the devil himself couldn't have created. I'd seen Hell enough to know.

The glaring lights were too bright, caricatures of happy, the colors of the cardboard cutouts and cheap stuffed animals louder than the deafening music from the rides meant to mask the screams. It felt like my mind here.

"Let's do something there's no win or lose at."

And the Tunnel of Love loomed ahead of us.

I didn't think they even made those things anymore. I hadn't seen one at one of these fairs—well, my whole life. It was something you'd only see in a fifties movie, or some old black and white photo. And like anything classy, none of the loudmouth teenagers that frequented the fair were anywhere near it. The shadows around the Tunnel of Love were empty.

I wrapped my arms around her and headed towards the dark entryway.

The tunnel seemed even more like it was dropped out of another time as we got closer to it. Two giant cutout swans with chipping white paint formed a heart with their great necks, creating a doorway into the darkness where love was supposed to flourish. If not for the dark that invited one like me in, I would have seen the marred paint and carved-in hearts with random initials on the pristine white of their feathers to be a bad sign, of something lost and something ruined.

I should have looked deeper.

But the dark inside me was always there, looking for a way out. It found its way out with my last wife, but it had to stay hidden with Sabrina. It was a hole in me that always needed filling, a feeling that nothing would ever really belong to me unless I took it in the most final way I could.

Sabrina reveled in the kitschy falseness of this romantic ride, wide eyes reflecting the stars and neon. The bounce in her step was amplified, the smile on her face childlike. I envied her and wanted to own her in a way I hadn't before.

The impending dark would have made anyone nervous, normally, but for me it was a welcome lack of sight. It smelled like must and cotton candy and the sound of rippling water could be heard, but not quite seen.

"I can't see a thing," Sabrina whispered.

As if the tunnel heard her, soft pink lights glowed to life above us, casting rosy shadows on the white walls, meeting the dancing reflections of the water. Green plastic vines wove up, down and around, and real water lilies floated in the manmade river. An enormous swan boat waited, empty, for us to climb in.

"This is so romantic!" Sabrina gasped, clutching me closer. Any trepidations I had were demolished with her easy way and the deadening of the throbbing lights and warbling carnival music. I smiled from the inside out. The dark became light. My dark became light.

"Come on!" she said, and pulled me forward. We were like teenagers again, but this time, maybe I had a chance.

The boat rocked back and forth as we got in, threatening to spill us into the sloshing water below. Red roses were painted on the floor, and tiny bottles of champagne were chilled in a heart shaped bucket.

"Classy," I said.

Sabrina popped one open and handed it to me with a big grin. She questioned nothing; I questioned everything.

"Cheers!" she said, toasting me, and drinking long and deep. I watched her, then drank my own. I was consumed by her.

The boat moved forward, the babbling river the only noise aside from the whirring of the track hidden underneath. It was close and dark, damp, and warm. Blatantly sexual with a backdrop of sweetheart fluff.

"Sabrina, I love you." I needed to keep her. Better than my wife. My fist clenched.

"I know you do, Chase. I love you, too." Her voice had deepened. She felt this place, too.

We could still hear the screams from outside.

"It's been only a few months—"

"Six," she said through a smile.

"Six months. But Sabrina, you do something to me that makes me feel like the man I want to be. Only sometimes, though. And if you were with me all the time, if I woke up to you, and went to sleep to you, heard you in the next room when I went dark, maybe I could be that man all the time."

"Chase," she breathed, nuzzling her nose into my neck. My blood ran fire hot. "You're the man I want already. Don't let me take that away. I don't want you to be someone else."

"I am absolutely drowning in need for you, Sabrina."

"Oh, Chase," she moaned, running her fingers through my hair. "Don't lose yourself because of me. I couldn't live with it."

"My life has been a hall of mirrors, and nothing is ever what it's supposed to be. This is. What we have is. I want to be the right reflection for you."

A flicker of a smile across her face, and I knew there was no way I could survive in her light. The knife in my pocket weighed against the tiny black box. A thing to end and a thing to begin.

Champagne flavored kisses urged our hands to wander, intoxicated with each other. The swan boat glided along in the water as we felt for every inch of each other, hoping the ride would never end.

But this was a place built on games, and the Tunnel of Love was one you could place bets on.

From behind closed eyes and a flood of passionate kisses, my lips barely leaving hers, I gasped, "Sabrina, marry me. Be my wife. My hunger for you will never stop."

"Oh, Chase, yes," she whispered into my ear, clutching me closer, as if her light would burn out if she didn't. "I want this to never end."

We held each other and watched the pink lights twinkle under the greenish water. It was so easy to believe in forever there, so easy to want it in that oasis from the hot, bright, loud world outside full of things behind masks.

For once, it was easy to think that my own dark wouldn't finish me.

"We've been in here a really long time," Sabrina said, her stomach suddenly growling loud enough for me to hear.

"Are you getting tired of me already?"

Her stomach growled.

"Never. But it just seems—"

"—Odd. Yes."

The track underneath us groaned, as i tired of moving. It sounded like the rides outside that were ready to collapse with overuse. The lights around us flickered, but instead of growing dimmer, they brightened more and more each second. The pinks became burning cherry reds, the white a dirty yellow of an old light bulb, greens bordering a neon vomit. The vines reached down from the walls, up from below, and threatened to consume us like love itself.

"Chase? What's happening?"

The quiet lapping of the water was overcome by the same carnival music as outside that seeped in like an ooze of underfoot ice cream, saturating the air and the breaths between us. It got louder and louder as the lights glared harder and harder.

I could see nothing as we turned another endless corner, but for a sign overhead, dangling awkwardly, squeaking louder than the warbling music. Grimy white, with cracked black lettering that I could read as clear as day:

TILL DEATH DO US PART.

And the light that I wished so hard to become mine, to take away the black things I had done and was, became my enemy. Top-of-the-rollercoaster fear sunk in my stomach and I looked at Sabrina; the brightest light of all.

The squeaking of the sign screamed in my ears, drowning out my own screams as my eyes adjusted and took her in through the blinding light. Her light pink eyeshadow that made me think of cotton candy had become a violent fuchsia, her lips a shade of blood red that I only saw in nightmares, her shimmery cheeks now a smeared, hideous paint. And she held the knife—my knife—to her brilliant face, and sliced as she looked into my eyes.

The tunnel walls shuddered and shook,the pink lights now as red as meat and the warmth now a sickening heat. Like we were in the mouth of a monster.

I screamed and screamed but couldn't move, as I watched her slice clean strips off her cheeks, and put them slowly in her mouth, her lips forming the words "so hungry." I wished as hard as I could that I could have the darkness claim my end, like I always thought it would. What was glaring at us from the light was so much harder to face.

The tunnel would consume us, and death would never part us.

Julie's debut novel, Running Home, giving you vampires with a Japanese mythology pants kicking is available through Books of the Dead Press. Julie revels in all things Buffy, has a sick need for exotic reptiles, and drinks more coffee than Juan Valdez and his donkey combined, if that donkey is allowed to drink coffee. Julie's a black belt with an almost inappropriate love for martial arts. And pizza. And Rob Zombie. Julie lives in Plymouth, MA, constantly awaiting thunderstorms with her wildly supportive husband and two magnificent boys.

Find Julie at: DeadlyEverAfter.com
House of Mirrors

by Stevan Knapp

It was my birthday, and I just wanted to be left alone.

If I'd made a wish, that's what it would have been. But then it's hard to make a wish without candles, or a cake, or anything that might have hinted that it was my birthday. I suppose it didn't really matter. My wishes never came true. I'd given up on the big ones a couple years ago.

Now I just wished to be left alone.

Maybe this sounds crazy, but the local carnival was perfect for that. It was fall and that was the only excitement in town. People were everywhere, but they were all focused on what to see, or do, or eat next. No one paid any attention to me. Not even the carnies with their rigged games. I guess a twelve-year-old boy wasn't worth their efforts.

But for once, I actually did have money. Because my grandmother had remembered. She was the only one. My mom had forgotten until she saw Grandma's card sticking out from the pile of junk mail that had been tossed on the table. She quickly came over and gave me a kiss, telling me how she wished she didn't have to work a double shift tonight and promising that we'd do something special tomorrow...there were always a lot of things we were going to do tomorrow.

So here I was , dropped off at the carnival. For the moment...alone.

It was easy for me to disappear into crowds. A scrawny kid with glasses was invisible most of the time anyhow. The only time I ever got noticed was when I was about to get blamed for something, so I tried to stay out of everyone's way.

Especially theirs.

I headed away from the vendors of all things deep-fried, where clouds of tempting smells hung in the air, and powdered sugar mists rolled off mountains of crispy brown dough. My mouth watered, and for the first time I could actually buy something, but I knew that was where they'd hang out. I figured I'd be safest sticking around the little kids' area. The only reason they'd come over there would be to torture the animals in the petting zoo. I was hoping they'd find something else to do instead.

Unfortunately they did.

I'm surprised that I didn't hear them first, with their "look at me" laughs and obnoxious shouts. There wasn't anything quiet about them.

Except this time.

Maybe it was the noises of the carnival that drowned them out. The grind of the generators in the cool evening air, the music blaring from the rides, the screams from the fun house...the same noises that would hide any cries for help.

For once I wished they'd been louder.

As soon as they spotted me, the four of them began pushing their way through the crowd like they were scrambling for a better view of a schoolyard fight. Only this wouldn't be much of a fight. It never was.

Now the last thing I wanted was to get beaten up or humiliated on my birthday. They'd probably even try to spank me for fun...I can just imagine the pics making their way around school. So I quickly ducked behind the nearest booth. I'd almost squeezed between two metal posts when a meaty hand grabbed me.

It's the only time I ever wished I was smaller.

"How much money did you get, Squirt?" Ethan said as he lifted me roughly off the ground. He nodded over to his friend Brandon.

"What? I'm not reaching in his pocket," Brandon said. "You do it. He's your brother."

"He's just my step-brother, and I've got my hands full."

Yeah, my seventeen-year-old step-brother. I'd made a big wish about him that never came true. Probably the biggest, if size counted. Ethan was huge. Not tall enough that he had to duck in doorways, but wide enough that he had to go in sideways.

Ethan's girlfriend, Ashley, flipped her hair and stuck a hand into my front pocket. "Don't be such a candy-ass!" She said that all the time.

"Careful," Ethan said. "He might get excited."

"Shut up," she said. I tried to squirm away, hoping to keep her from reaching the little pocket deep inside. But her fat fingers were too quick. She pulled out the crisp twenty I had carefully folded that morning, and grinned as she slapped Ethan on the shoulder. "Where to?"

Ethan dropped me and looked around. I watched as his two brain cells tried to make a connection.

"Let's go in here," he said, "It's only two bucks." He pointed to a nearby trailer with a bright red neon sign: The House of Mirrors. "We'll take him too, and then I can tell 'em I did something with him on his birthday," he said as he cuffed the back of my head. "Right, Freak?"

A small old woman dressed like a gypsy sat on a stool behind the bars of the little ticket booth. She was probably safer back there with this group.

I wished I was back there too.

"Five," Ethan said as he shoved my money under the grate, his hand still greasy from the fried whatever.

The old gypsy woman's hair was wrapped in bright scarves, and earrings hung down to her shoulders. They jingled as she bent to examine the crisp bill, carefully unfolding it, and then looking over at me. She slid four tickets to Ethan with my change, and then reached a ticket through the bars to me...and smiled. It was hard to tell with her droopy eye, but she may have even winked.

"C'mon, let's go," Ethan said, and Brandon gave me a quick shove. We climbed to the top of the short steps, the metal kind with sharp holes punched in them. I wished there was a way that I could trip Ethan on them. Just thinking about it made me smile.

A thick curtain darkened the entryway, like the black velvet had swallowed all the light. Ethan pushed it aside, and grabbed me by the arm. Right before I was dragged through, I thought I saw the neon sign flicker off.

Inside, the room was brightly lit. A series of mirrors lined one wall, and black and white pictures and old carnival posters covered the other. There was no one else in the room. Not that an audience would have stopped them though, they were too mean and too dumb to care.

"You first," Ethan said as he pushed me forward. I was always his guinea pig. Usually whatever he wanted to try was something stupid, and I got to pay the price.

This time, at least, it was harmless.

I didn't want to get shoved again, so I quickly stepped in front of the first mirror. It had a dark blue frame. I stared at the only friendly face in the room.

The mirror was tall and narrow, and made my legs seem a mile long. I wished they were. I could outrun them like that.

"Hey...you've finally grown," Ethan said as he shoved up beside me, his stretched-out reflection towering over me. It almost made him look fit. "But you're still a shrimp." He laughed, and high-fived Brandon.

"Hey," Ethan said, "I got an idea."

Great. So much for harmless.

"Let's see who can come up with the goofiest picture of the Freak here. Winner gets fried butter," he said as he waived around what was left of my birthday money.

"Can I just take a picture of him now? He don't need a mirror to look goofy," Brandon said with a stupid grin. He high-fived Ethan again.

"OK, back up. This one's mine," Ethan said as he extended his arms out to the side. "Stand up straight, Freak. I wanna win." As I did, he grabbed my underwear with one hand and yanked hard enough to lift me off the ground. I clamped my mouth shut at the sharp pain, but couldn't stop the tears from rolling down my cheeks. "Perfect," he said as he pulled out his phone. "Top that!"

I nearly fell to the floor when he let go. Stumbling, I tried to adjust my pants. When Ethan gave wedgies, I always felt them for days.

"Nice try," Ashley said, "but I got this one." She pulled me toward a mirror with a bright green frame. "Come on," she said, "Stop cryin'. Don't be such a candy-ass."

I wiped my eyes and tried to straighten up. I wasn't going to cry.

This mirror was short and square, and now I looked like I had no legs. Two feet tall, but with long arms and a huge head.

"Somethin's missing," Ashley said as she stood behind me and studied the reflection. "Oh, I know," she said right before she yanked my pants down hard enough to make the button pop off. Ethan and Brandon roared as she took her picture. I blushed furiously.

I wished I'd never gotten Grandma's card.

I tried to reach down for my pants, but Brandon grabbed my arm and dragged me away. He dumped me in front of a mirror with a black and white striped frame. "My turn," he said.

This mirror was larger, and my reflection was horribly bloated. My head looked like an overinflated balloon. I looked nearly as bad as I felt.

Brandon stepped back to take his picture. "Wait!" he said. "This is perfect." He grabbed me and turned me so that I was facing away from the mirror. "Look! He's a sumo wrestler!" he said with glee.

While he was busy showing the pic to the others, I managed to pull my pants back up. At least the zipper still worked.

"Erin," Brandon said, "looks like I'm gonna win you some fried butter."

"No thanks," she said. I didn't know her, but at least she'd been quiet so far. Maybe she wasn't as bad as they were, even if she was hanging out with them.

"Come here, kid," she said as she held out her hand. The gentleness of the gesture caught everyone by surprise. I slowly walked with her until we stopped in front of a red-framed mirror. Perhaps she was alright. She did have a pretty smile. I sighed and turned to look.

"See...now he really does have four eyes." She was right, four eyes, four ears, and one long continuous nose. "And that's even without the glasses," she said as she snatched them and tossed them across the room. "And I can win my own butter, thankyouverymuch," she said, one finger waggling in the air as she took her picture.

The guys doubled up with laughter, and Ashley gave Erin a knuckle bump. While they cackled away, I crept off in the direction that I'd heard my glasses fall. When I found them, I tried to quietly fade into the background. I would have snuck out, but they were in front of the only exit. So I focused on the old carnival posters while they carried on, wishing they'd forget about me.

For the moment they had. They were too busy hooting and hollering and arguing about whose picture should win.

"Psst," said a small voice at the far end of the room.

I looked over past a photo of an old Ferris wheel.

"Come this way," the voice said, and with a slight jingle, the curtain in the corner moved.

Anything was better than this.

I slipped into the corner, and ducked through the opening. When I stood on the other side, I paused and slowly turned, surrounded by a hundred reflections of myself. Not short, not fat, not distorted in any way. Just me.

The old gypsy lady stood just outside the circle.

"I have a surprise for you," she said, "but you have to close your eyes."

I was so used to people telling me what to do, that I didn't even think about it. I nodded and closed my eyes.

I strained to listen to what she might be doing, but I couldn't hear any movement. In fact, I couldn't hear anything at all. Even the laughter from the next room was gone.

"Ok... you can look."

The room was pitch dark and silent. Like she'd turned off more than just the lights.

Then there was a green flame floating quietly above her hand. As she stepped toward me, the flame's reflections began to appear—not all at once like they should have, but like the wave in a stadium crowd. I watched as they slowly circled the room, each ring of flames appearing farther and farther away.

"Happy Birthday," she said.

I turned back to her. "How did you know?"

"I see many things," she said, the green light flickering in her eyes. "I told fortunes for many, many years."

"Then why are you in the House of Mirrors?"

"Because I no longer liked what I saw." She gave a slight shake of her head. "Now I let people see for themselves," she said as she waved her arm slowly about the room.

I glanced around at the hundreds of floating flames.

"You would like to make a wish," she said. "That I can see."

Hesitating, I nodded again.

As she held out her hand, I leaned forward. Then I took a deep breath and gently blew.

The instant the flame went out, it was as if everything else came back to life. I could hear the joyful sounds of the carousel again, the barking megaphones of the various hawkers, and the faint familiar screams from the roller coaster.

And then the lights came on.

I blinked in the brightness, and a hundred me's blinked back. But in the first row of mirrors, the reflections simply stared.

Reflections of them.

Distorted ones.

Ethan was stretched tall, and Ashley, in the mirror next to him, looked a quarter his size, though her head was at least as large as his. Next was Brandon, with a reflection so wide that he completely filled the mirror. I stepped back, half-expecting it to burst. Last was Erin, or at least I think it was her. The face was so mixed up it was impossible to tell.

At first they didn't move, like they were confused and trying to figure out what was going on. But then they banged their fists on the glass...only it made no sound. Ashley's face was purple with fury. Brandon almost looked hungry. Ethan just looked pissed.

I turned to take them all in. I wished I had a camera, because THIS was the winning picture.

And I laughed.

And laughed and laughed and laughed. The kind of laugh that you hear in the movies.

The old gypsy woman waved to me from the exit door and I paused to wipe the tears from my eyes.

As I stepped over to her, my hundred reflections walked with me. But the four of them didn't move. I could see their faces change as the anger slowly melted away...and they began to silently scream.

I stopped and turned toward Ashley. "Don't be such a candy-ass."

Then I turned off the light and walked out.

I'd finally gotten my wish.

Steve is an engineer by training, an editor by nature, and a photographer for fun. He grew up in a small town in Vermont, and then moved all the way to New York. In between, there was a short two-year side trip to West Africa.

While he edits the novels of others by night, "House of Mirrors" is the first time that he clicked Send.

Jolene Haley

Jolene loves five things: coffee, books, Harry Potter, fluffy puppies, and anything horror. In addition to her day job she co-founded writer's haven Pen & Muse and Pen & Muse Press. She is the founder of YA & NA horror blog The Midnight Society. She also is a member of SCBWI, ALA, and YALSA. Her background is in English Literature and Composition, with accolades from California State University of Fullerton.

Find her at: JoleneHaley.com and http://midnightsocietytales.com/

Kristen Jett

Kristen writes eclectically, but tends to lean towards YA with an edge. Her claim to fame is bacon chocolate chip cake, and she still blames her mother for letting her read Stephen King's IT at the tender age of ten. For the day job, she works in marketing – often teaching indie businesses and indie writers how to market and brand themselves. She strongly believes that writers need to treat their passion as a business, learning what to do – and what not to do. Whether you're traditionally or self published, marketing is still an important part of the process.

If you want the writing accolades, she's won a few Virginian awards for short stories and poetry, had poetry published in some no-longer-with-us national magazines, and written copy for popular bridal companies. (Hint: No matter where you live in the US, you've heard of the top one). She also worked in an award-winning advertising firm, which became an indie publishing shop – before self publishing was cool. Keep current with her writing musings at www.KristenJett.com and her marketing musings at www.QueenofInbound.com

Jessi Shakarian

Jessi is the Publishing Coordinator for Pen and Muse Press She is a lit junkie – you can either find her reading fantasy books, writing about reading. or reading about writing. When she's not doing that, also an editorial intern at Month9Books, and writing a novel about the '50s. You can find her on her blog posting cat pictures (listentomuses.wordpress.com).
Acknowledgements

This anthology would not be possible if not for the devastatingly creative minds who have contributed stories and illustrations.

"Heaven's On Fire" ©2013 by Kristen Strassel

"Sleight of Hand" ©2013 by Meghan Schuler

"Pervical Creepe" illustration ©2013 by Meghan Schuler

"Dancing Bear" ©2013 by Claire C. Riley

"The Ring Toss" ©2013 by J. Elizabeth Hill

"Into The Black" ©2013 by Jessi Esparza

"Perceptions" ©2013 Debra Kristi

"Tilt A-Whirl" ©2013 by Ryan Bartlett

"Blind Sighted" ©2013 by Michelle Ceasar Davis

"Exposure" ©2013 by Brian LeTendre

"Meat Is Murder" ©2013 by Ken Mooney

"Precious Payment" ©2013 by Eli Constant

"Untitled" ©2013 by Eli Constant

"The Strong Man" ©2013 by Mari Wells

"Til It Pops" ©2013 by Lucas Hargis

"Permanent Ink" ©2013 by Kat Daemon

"The Mastering" ©2013 by T.A. Brock

"The Closest Kind" ©2013 by Calyn Morgan

"Sticky Sweetness" ©2013 by Emily McKeon

"Tabbi's Petting Zoo" ©2013 by Gregory Carrico

"Whack-A-Mole" ©2013 by Kristin Hanson

"The Hollow" ©2013 by Nicole R. Taylor

"Wait For The Wheel" ©2013 by C. Elizabeth Vescio

"Nothing But Net" ©2013 by Brian W. Taylor

"The Devil's Game" ©2013 by Kate Michael

"The Monster Comes At Midnight" ©2013 by Ezekiel Conrad

"Whites Of Their Eyes" ©2013 by Jamie Adams

"Likeness" ©2013 by Bobby Solomons

"Wicked Smart Carnie" ©2013 by Mark Matthews

"Walk The Line" ©2013 by Jamie Corrigan

"The Hallow Fest Queen" ©2013 by Kristin Rivers

"Once For Me" ©2013 by Kristen Jett

"The Carousel" ©2013 by Sheila Hall

"Arts and Crafts" ©2013 by Suzy G

"Dead Meat" ©2013 by Kim Culpepper

"The Pendour Cove Siren" ©2013 by Ruth Shedwick

"Hook The Duck" ©2013 by J.C. Michael

"Gwarr" ©2013 by Wulf Francu Godgluck

"Sticky" ©2013 by Ashly Nagrant

"A Seat For Every Soul" ©2013 by Amy Trueblood

"Tilt-A-Kill" ©2013 by Vanessa Henderson

"Conjoined Sins" ©2013 by Tawney Bland

"Love Consumes Us" ©2013 by Julie Hutchings

"House of Mirrors" ©2013 by Stevan Knapp
