long

He brings his spooky sideshow on a whim, setting up the tents and booths beneath the light of a blood moon and vanishing just as suddenly with the new moon. There is always something new to see, some new attraction to capture your heart and mind.

Beware of his seemingly harmless gifts. A cobra is just another snake in the grass.

Until it bites.

The price of admission seems a little steep but this is a new place, an adventure begging to be had. You hand over your money to the lady at the ticket booth. (She has disturbing resemblance to an arachnid of some kind but your mother taught you at an early age that it's rude to stare.)

The ringmaster is talking to two of his goons in the distance. That dark ensemble, the pale skin, the way those eyes seem to see right through to your soul. You'd almost swear the guy was a vampire, if such things existed.

You're an enlightened citizen of Centropolis. You don't believe in such cheap thrills, obviously.

Still...maybe it would be best not to linger. This guy may or may not drink blood for his breakfast but those zombie-like hulks to either side could definitely twist you in a pretzel if you annoyed their boss by being too inquisitive.

You casually browse a few booths, not quite feeling brave enough to try those rides that look like something out of a medieval dungeon. Maybe later.

There's a fortune teller with cobwebs in her hair. A run-down cork gun game. Another game with old-fashioned milk bottles in stacks. Each bottle is thick with dust.

Then you spot the little corner booth.

The colors have faded from the overhead awning. They might have been red and gold stripes once. Now they are pale pink and a yellow so light as to be almost white. A scarred wooden counter serves as the seat of a creature that is equal parts cuddly toy, plush snake and nostalgia nightmare.

The little sign, held in place by a single tack, reads "Gumdrop".

He watches you curiously as you approach. In particular, his eyes are fixated on the bag of caramel corn one particularly persuasive hippotu convinced you to buy.

You hold out a piece of caramel corn. He takes it in his fluffy fingers, gobbling it down in two bites. Flexing his muscles, he does a backflip worthy of the most energetic manchu. (No small feat, considering the length of his body.)

You're about to offer another treat when you spot the warning signs. No children admitted. Keep pets leashed. No flash photography.

This little fellow seems entirely friendly, unlike most of his fellow carnis. The signs are probably just for show.

He seems to always have a new trick...until you run out of popcorn. The look in his eyes convinces you that a second purchase of cotton candy wouldn't go amiss.

The sugary cloud is also coming to an end when he runs out of tricks. Another backflip. Bored, you toss the red-and-white stick in the nearest trash can and wander away.

You're headed for the exit, digging for your wallet to buy one last corn dog on your way out.

Your pocket is empty.

A long shape is scuttling in the opposite direction, something square and suspiciously leathery clutched in one fuzzy paw.

The other performers form a wall when you would storm after the little thief.

You didn't have that much money left anyways and you can certainly buy another wallet when you get back to town. You feel a certain sense of relief, behind the wheel of your own car, headed back to the normal, ordinary, everyday world.

And yet...

Some deep, dark corner of your soul knows that you will return to that dark carnival no matter how many wallets it costs you.

Whether it will be there or not is the question that will haunt you to your dying day.

credits

profile template (c) helix (get it)

overlay, art by atempause

story by Pureflower

background image from unsplash