3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Astonished, I wandered around each booth, taking in the games. Some looked mostly normal, if not a little strange, like throwing darts at balloons filled with fake blood. Only the consistency of it was something unlike anything I’d seen before—viscous but oozing in a way corn syrup simply wouldn’t do. Shelves of various imitation eyeballs stocked the walls behind. Pausing, I took a few pictures, admiring the shine of the lacquer on the wood. The eyeballs were incredibly lifelike. Some even oozed a creamy fluid, despite how vitreous they were. Damn, this place was impressive.

But when I came upon the dunk tank, I started to question the legality of this place. It seemed normal, a plexiglass cylinder with a target in front and three ratty tennis balls the customer could throw at a dinged up metal target. A plump version of the weird goblin thing I’d seen earlier, but with a pig face, sat in the tank on a platform, jeering at the passersby until a guy with a fake mustache and a cowboy hat arrived .

After paying, he stepped up to a line of tape, his arm winding up like I’d seen pitchers do, and he launched the projectile with a steadiness that spoke of some long-ago baseball lesson. He hit his mark. The pig-like creature plunged into the vat with a squeal, and no sooner had he splashed into the liquid than bubbles and steam erupted, as though it were boiling. Words can’t describe the gut-wrenching garbled scream that came from that poor thing, its open mouth revealing a pitifully few broken teeth in a sea of gums. I told myself they had to be in costume and acting for the crowd. Except the clear water became a murky maroon, and by the time it found the rope and pulled itself back onto the now flat ledge, their femurs dangled with bits of meat falling off. They flailed in and out of the liquid, screaming as it sloshed over new flesh and were still writhing when two men dressed as decaying clowns begrudgingly moved to assist them.

Many of the onlookers cried out, some covering their mouths or averting their gaze to the scene. A lot, though, including the cowboy himself, pointed and laughed at the pained cries of the mutilated thing. As much as I hated to look, I took a few pictures in the hopes of understanding the trick later, when I had time to properly analyze it. I couldn’t understand how they’d created the nauseating smell surrounding the area as the steam wafted over the crowd from the bubbling water. Something like putrid bacon being fried. It made my stomach heave. Quickly, I turned and moved a few buildings away in the hopes of avoiding the toxic fumes.

The effects here were outstanding. Like, blockbuster movie level amazing.

Effects. This place was what I’d been looking for. Maybe it didn’t feel like it, but my harness was secure. There was no genuine danger here. Just something safe to make me question reality.

But I couldn’t stop the shaking in my legs as they carried me away from the horrors of the dunk tank. I peered around the surrounding tents for an exit. Not because I wanted to leave, but because a little voice in my head demanded to know a way out. Rolling my shoulders, I worked to clear my head.

I was being stupid. I’d just figure out where an exit could be found and go back to enjoying the carnival. Sure, I loved danger and thrills, but there’d always been a harness, a clip, a parachute, some way of knowing I was safe so I could savor the thrill. This felt different without the safety protocols being shown to me. My breath quickened as I pushed my way through the crowd, not finding an end to the games and attractions lining the long corridor of The Devil’s Carnival. There had to be a way through, a break in the canvas marking the perimeter, but there wasn’t one. I almost walked past the haunted house, but the flickering white lights of their sign caught my attention on the edge of my peripheral —The Devil’s Playground . It was like they were flickering for me, but, no, that was stupid. Childish. Even as I watched, the pattern of the flickering changed in an intentional wave where it had been erratic before.

What was going on here?

I wanted to continue, but my body wouldn’t respond. It was all I could do to stare open-mouthed, long enough that I could taste the sickly-sweet carnival air.

The haunted house appeared to be a converted fun house. The entrance formed in the shape of a clown’s mouth. Someone had fucked up its face by bashing in an eye and knocking out a few teeth. Innocuous, really. The haunted house had always been my favorite attraction, and I had fond memories of laughing my way through the jump scares, unphased by the costumes and cheesy soundtracks.

This one, though. People waited at the gate in a thick line. Carnival workers dressed as clowns tormented those waiting. Two of them held butcher knives, their emerald-green jumpsuits splattered with blood. The fake weapon wasn’t what made me uneasy, though. Yards away from the back of the line, I froze in place when one of the two men locked eyes with me. What I thought would be some cheap rubber mask seemed real enough to make me second guess everything I knew about latex masks and prosthetics.

Thick black thread held together patchwork skin stretched a little too tight, conjoined like a torn-up piece of artwork on the sides of his mouth. One stitch through each cheek pulled the corners of his mouth up into an unnatural, tight smirk. My instincts urged me to run, but I wouldn’t succumb to the fear. Holding my camera firmly, I forced myself to work through the terror and take a few pictures of the clown, who seemed to tilt his head and raise the knife in a sufficient pose for me. Somehow, I’d drifted closer to The Devil’s Playground, and I became aware of people lining up behind me.

The patchwork clown watched me with an unwavering gaze, and the unease in my gut grew heavier. I blinked, and he was closer, but I refused to move away.

He turned from me and charged after another group, pausing right before he connected. Amused, their laughter filled the air. Then he turned back to me. One step after the other. As he came closer, I realized how much taller than me he was. With broad shoulders and the outline of large biceps beneath the fabric of his sleeves, he flexed the fingers around the knife. Up close, the knife looked a lot more realistic. Fake coagulated blood stained the part of the metal attached to the hilt. His fingernails were colored with the same substance.

Unwilling to back down, I kept my feet on the pavement as he stopped only a yard away. From here, I could see his pale blue eyes. They would be beautiful if it weren’t for the way they examined my face and body like he was a bear, and I a piece of salmon hung out to dry.

“Can I help you?” I asked.

He moved quickly, his knife flashing when he extended his arm to press the tip against my chest. Fake knives didn’t flash like that, and I should know. I’d handled a few when I’d worked part time at the theater. The next moment, he pressed a very real, very pointy tip into my throat, dimpling my skin near the jugular.

This time, it wasn’t stubborn defiance that kept me in place, though I wished it was. Instead, genuine fear flooded my system with adrenaline.

This man was unhinged, and I was at his mercy.

“What are you doing?” I asked, my voice far weaker than intended.

Without a verbal answer, he slid the knife along my exposed collarbone from one side to the center of my chest. I sucked in a breath and held it, not daring to breathe lest the movement press the blade deeper. He trailed the knife along the curve of the cleavage of my left breast, where it stopped at the strap of my camera resting in the neckline of my catsuit.

“Take it off.” It was an order. One spoken by his deep, rough voice, as though his vocal cords were sewn together like the rest of his gruesome face .

“What?” My heart thumped against my chest.

Someone behind me shuffled back a few steps, clearly wanting to avoid the situation. A sobering reminder that even in an area filled with hundreds of people, many wouldn’t stop to help if something genuinely bad happened.

But nothing bad would happen to me at this carnival, right? This was all for show. I was beginning to wonder if the risk of death on the contract might not have meant accidental death . No, no, contract or not, straight up murder was still illegal.

He had to follow the law like everyone else.

I just had to remember that. As scary as this man was and as real as his knife was, he was still a carnival worker, an employee , not some monstrosity like he appeared to be. The jagged breaks in his skin must’ve been drawn on by a talented makeup artist. Or maybe they’d used prosthetics. That seemed more likely, and I found myself studying the gashes for some sign they were latex.

“Take. It. Off,” he growled, his patience growing thin. I wasn’t sure if he meant the camera or my clothes, but my refusal remained the same.

“No.”

His pupils dilated. His brows raised. The stitches in his top eyelids pulled taut, the skin puckering around the coarse thread. It took only a flick of his wrist to cut the strap of the camera, which rested safely in my hands.

Pain, like electricity, pulsed through my shoulder. Glancing down, blood seeped from the paper-thin cut he’d left behind. His other hand grabbed the tattered straps and yanked. In my attempt to hold on, I stumbled forward, nearly bumping into his broad chest.

“Mine. You signed the contract,” he stated.

Looking into his eyes once more, I got the distinct impression they really were dead. The brilliant blue sheen on top I’d mistaken as the color of his eyes now reminded me of cataracts. He shouldn’t be able to see through the milky film and yet, he stared straight at me and grinned as though pleased I’d noticed. My breath caught, my mind racing.

A bloody thumbprint flashed through my head, and the weight of realization made my shoulders stiffen.

I’d signed the fucking contract. I was at his mercy. Glancing around only confirmed it. Every single carnival-goer nearby who caught sight of my situation either shrank away with fear or, worse, they laughed.

Didn’t they realize I was hurt? Didn’t they care he held a knife to my gut, even now?

No. Of course not. They probably thought I was in on it—a paid actor. Were some of them paid to laugh? Certainly, but all of them couldn’t be. Flushing with embarrassment and anger, I relented and released my precious camera. Maybe he’d be adding it to the cellphones.

Grinning, the wretched clown stepped back and began to whistle, spinning the camera by the straps, his gaze never leaving mine.

Still reeling from the encounter, I decided this place might be too dangerous. Risking my life by jumping out of planes and off cliffs was one thing, but willfully putting my life in the hands of demented carnival workers was another. Not to mention, I wanted to claim my camera before someone else could, if that was an option. The spell from earlier broken, I made to step out of line.

“Next!” the woman at the gate called. When had the line advanced so much? I was near the front, the black of the entrance’s mouth steps away. A firm hand gripped my shoulder, shoving me forward. From the corner of my eye, I caught the patchwork face, partially obscured by my camera, as he snapped a picture of me stumbling through the mouth. I barely caught the jagged ridge of one of the clown broken teeth, steadying myself even as the plywood dug into my palm.

People poured around him, waving the credulous sight away as cheesy Halloween attire. They threatened to trample me, forcing my release of the wooden anchor, and shuffled me into the haunted house even as I protested, trying to squeeze through them.

“No, stop, please. I don’t want to go in,” I called out, but the sound of excited chatter around me drowned out my voice. Once I was past the door, I pressed myself against the wall until the crowd passed, but when I turned to leave, the door swung shut with a deafening bang, and the room filled with a flickering, dim red light. Any attempt to push the door open failed .

The air inside was thick and heavy. Clutching my chest, I struggled to force it into my lungs. A feeble bang on the door yielded no result, and with the haunting image of that hateful clown and his terrifying eyes still in my mind, I knew that even if it did, I was fucked.

My breaths came short and quick, growing more ragged as the panic built. Forcing my eyes shut, I pictured landscape all around. Instead of absolute darkness, I could see green grass and tan fields coming closer as cold air whipped strands of hair across my face with a soothing sting. Somehow, free-falling towards the earth seemed more feasible than inching deeper into this musty building. There was a time, though, on my first jump when I hesitated, just like now, but I never let that fear stop me. The payoff was always worth pushing past my nerves. I just needed to breathe through the panic, just like I did then. There were safety protocols in place here. There had to be. Even if I couldn’t see them.

Something tickled my nose. My eyes shot open as quickly as my hand smacked my face, expecting a bug of sorts, only to find my hair as the guilty culprit.

There was a breeze. It didn’t feel like it, but there was. There was air here, even if it felt like I was suffocating. I took what should have been a deep breath and choked, curling forward with a cough.

Where was my parachute now?

My clip?

Instead, it was just me and the darkness.

The others didn’t look back, not one of them. They were only a few yards ahead now, but I didn’t feel the need to catch up to them. High-pitched laughter broke through my panic, and I looked up to see a girl dressed in a nurse costume, jabbing at a skull-shaped candelabra set into the wall. She smiled as she pulled back a finger coated in brown liquid, holding it up to her friend with a triumphant cheer.

That used to be me.

Pumped for the thrill.

Fearless.

Who the hell was I now? I stared down at my trembling hands.

Weak, pathetic, afraid.

No, I was the girl who laughed when others shrieked. This place felt real, every bit of it, but it was all an illusion. It had to be. Clearing my throat, I stood straight, wiping my sweaty palms against the slick material of my jumpsuit. Hoping no one had seen my outburst, I hurried down the hallway after the others. My eyes struggled to adjust to the flickering red light of the candelabras set into wall sconces. Longing for enough light to see properly, I had to make do with the little that was available, running my palms along the walls for safety as I tried to quicken my pace and catch up with the others.

I was going to make it through this house and out the other side, dammit. I would prove to myself that this place wasn’t real.

My straps were secure, the parachute tight on my back.

I pressed on.