By day, it was just a carnival.
Brightly colored tents swayed lazily in the spring breeze, their stripes of red, gold, and violet reflecting the sunlight like festive ribbons. Children clutched sticky cones of cotton candy, their laughter blending with the cheerful organ music echoing from the carousel. Barkers called out prizes in exaggerated tones, and the scent of popcorn, roasted peanuts, and fried dough hung thick in the air. On the surface, it was pure joy—safe, nostalgic, almost magical.
To most, the Carnival of Wonders was just another traveling show that rolled into quiet towns, opened its gates, and brought smiles before disappearing again like a dream.
But not to John Doe.
John wasn't just part of the crew. He lived the carnival—the rusted trailers behind the funhouse, the early morning setups, the late-night pack-downs, the unspoken rules no outsider ever saw. To the crowd, he was "Johnny the Strongman," the quiet, unassuming giant who ran the ring toss and occasionally lifted heavy things with a wink. But backstage, he was something else entirely. A protector. A secret-keeper. And lately… a man haunted by things he couldn't quite explain.
His coworkers were a strange bunch, even by carnival standards.
There was Misty, the contortionist with too many smiles and a laugh that never quite reached her eyes. Vinny, the magician, who never unpacked his real name and never talked about what was in his locked trunk. And Gus, the aging clown who never took off his makeup—even when the lights went out and the crowds went home.
They all knew the rules of the carnival. Don't stray past the boundary flags. Don't talk to the mirrors in the funhouse. And whatever you do, don't be on the grounds after midnight.
But this was just another sunny afternoon. The rides spun, the children screamed with delight, and the air was thick with happiness
No one noticed the way the shadows pooled under the Ferris wheel, or the smell of iron beneath the sweet candy glaze.
Not yet.
The Carnival of Wonders had many faces.
But once the sun set, it became something else entirely.
Something hungry.
Something cruel.
Something that had been waiting far too long.
John Doe wiped his hands on a rag already soaked in oil and axle grease, the faint hum of carousel music thumping behind his temples like a memory he couldn't shake.
He didn't talk much—not out of rudeness, just habit. When you work the circuits long enough, you learn that small talk dies fast and secrets last longer than applause. That morning, he'd helped unload crates behind the tilt-a-whirl and fixed a busted light panel on the Ferris wheel. It was supposed to be his half-day. Supposed to be.
But as always, the carnival had other plans.
"John, we got a situation," barked Manny, the gruff operations manager who never made eye contact unless something was broken. "Spinners are acting up again. Middle gears locked. Think you can take a look?"
John grunted in agreement, brushing a strand of black hair from his face. He slung his tool belt over one shoulder and started the familiar trek toward the far end of the grounds. The Spinners—cheap, nausea-inducing teacups with flashier lights—had a bad habit of jamming at the worst times. Usually right before the crowd flooded in for the evening rush.
He passed Misty along the way, sitting cross-legged on a ticket booth counter, twisting her arm behind her back in a way that made his spine ache. She offered a wink and a sugar-sweet, "Careful out there, Johnny. The gears bite."
John didn't respond. He never did. She liked that about him.
The Spinners sat in the shadow of the old haunted house ride, the one Gus always called The Boneshack, though no one remembered why. John knelt beside the ride's control panel, opening the corroded access door with a groan of protesting metal. Something was off. Not broken, just… wrong. The gears weren't jammed—they were fused. Like they had melted and cooled again, in a shape that didn't make sense.
He squinted into the darkness behind the ride's machinery, where the sunlight didn't quite reach.
There it was again.
That smell—metallic and heavy, like rust and something else. Something sour.
A breeze blew past, too cold for mid-afternoon, carrying a whisper of something that might've
been steam… or breath.
John straightened slowly, his instincts prickling under his skin like a dog sensing thunder.
It was just another ride. Just another day at the carnival.
But deep down, he knew better.
He always had.
And somewhere behind the paint and popcorn and laughter…
The Carnival was watching.
Chapter 1: Beneath the Gears
John crouched again beside the Spinner's core. He reached into the warped gear system, fingers grazing the metal carefully. The surface was warm—too warm for a ride that hadn't run in over an hour. He tugged on a wrench, but the bolt wouldn't budge. It felt… sealed. Like something had fused the steel with unnatural heat.
He muttered under his breath and adjusted his grip.
Clink.
A small object fell loose from between the jammed gears, bouncing once before settling in the dirt. John picked it up. It was a coin. Old. Silver, but not the kind used for carnival tokens. Faintly etched into its surface was a symbol—a
jagged-toothed smile beneath a bleeding crown.
His brows furrowed.
This wasn't from any game he'd ever seen.
"Found somethin'?"
John turned slightly. Vinny the magician had appeared without a sound, as usual. He stood with his usual lazy grace, one hand stuffed into his dark waistcoat, the other holding a half-smoked clove cigarette. He stared at John with those mismatched eyes—one blue, one brown.
"Just a jam," John lied, pocketing the coin.
Vinny raised an eyebrow, exhaled a thin curl of smoke. "That so?"
John didn't answer.
Vinny didn't press.
Instead, he crouched beside the Spinner and tapped one of the metal arms. "You hear it too?"
John looked up. "Hear what?"
Vinny paused, eyes scanning the ride. "It's faint. Like… breathing. Under the rides."
John stood slowly, his shoulders tense. "Maybe the hydraulics."
"Sure," Vinny replied, but the word didn't sound convinced. "Hydraulics."
The silence stretched.
The organ music stopped.
The two men turned their heads at the same time, looking toward the carousel. Not broken. Not
fading. Just… silenced, all at once. No fading notes, no winding down. As if the music had been cut off mid-song.
John's hand dropped instinctively to the heavy wrench on his belt.
From somewhere deeper in the carnival grounds, a scream rang out.
Not a playful one. Not laughter.
It was brief. Panicked.
Then silence.
Vinny straightened. "That didn't sound like hydraulics."
John took a step forward, staring toward the Funhouse. The mirrors were still intact, glinting harmlessly in the sun.
But in their reflection…
Something moved.
Too tall. Too thin. Smiling too wide.
Gone when he turned around.
John didn't say a word. He didn't have to.
The carnival wasn't broken.
It was waking up.
And the sun hadn't even set yet.
At the opposite end of the carnival, near the faded entrance to The Boneshack—the carnival's oldest, least-visited attraction—Misty leaned against a painted plywood gravestone and adjusted the worn ribbons in her hair. She was on break, or pretending to be. The truth was, she'd been avoiding her next act for nearly twenty minutes. Something about today was… off.
The colors felt too bright. The air too still.
She twisted her arm lazily over her shoulder until the joints popped—a party trick she usually saved for the crowds—but there were no cheers now. Just the creak of the Boneshack's crooked sign swinging above her.
Gus sat nearby on an overturned popcorn crate, puffing slowly on a pipe that smelled of cinnamon and smoke. His painted face—white, with a red nose and jagged blue smile—hadn't changed in decades. Neither had his silence.
"You hear the music stop?" Misty asked, casually.
Gus nodded once. Took another drag.
"Feel like something's off?"
Another nod.
"Gonna say anything about it?"
A long pause.
Then: "Nope."
Misty rolled her eyes. "Great. Clown wisdom strikes again."
A sudden thud made them both stiffen.
It had come from inside the Boneshack.
"No one's in there," Misty said, straightening up. "It's not open today. Been blocked off since last fall."
Gus stood slowly, pipe clenched in his teeth. "Then we got ourselves a problem."
Misty glanced at him. "You going in?"
He chuckled—dry, low, and without any trace of joy. "Only a fool walks into his own coffin."
The wind shifted. The plywood door to the Boneshack creaked open a few inches, revealing only blackness inside. No lights. No fog. No sound.
Yet something was breathing in there. Not heavily. Just enough.
"...I think the carnival's sick again," Gus muttered.
Misty frowned. "Again?"
Before either of them could move, the carousel music stuttered back to life on the other side of the park—only now it was warped. Slowed down, off-key. The cheerful tune twisted into something that sounded like it was being played underwater… or on a dying music box.
Gus tapped ash from his pipe.
"Tell Johnny he better find the heart of this thing fast," he said grimly. "Or it's gonna start eating the crew again."
John moved first.
He didn't wait for discussion, didn't ask questions. The scream hadn't lasted more than a second, but it had been real. Real enough to cut through the warmth of the day like a cold nail sliding down his spine. He stalked forward past the rides, his boots crunching over gravel and old popcorn kernels, the wrench in his hand tightening like a reflex.
Vinny followed, steps light, the tails of his coat trailing behind him like smoke. "Any idea who it was?"
John shook his head once. "Didn't sound like a guest."
They passed the teacup ride, the lights still flickering erratically, and ducked between the ring toss and the funnel cake stand. The air was quieter here. Stiller. It was like the carnival was holding its breath.
"Over there," Vinny whispered, pointing.
Near the back of the midway—just before the tent that housed the Mirror Maze—a figure was crouched on the ground. Back to them. Shoulders trembling.
John slowed, eyes narrowing. "You see their face?"
"No."
Vinny stepped to the side, hands open. "Hey. You okay?"
The figure didn't move.
John took another step forward, then another, then—
The figure twitched. A sudden, sharp jolt of movement that made John stop in his tracks.
The head turned. Slowly. Too slowly.
It wasn't a guest.
It was Eddie—the new kid who worked the balloon darts. Barely nineteen, always nervous, always chewing on his sleeves. But now… something was wrong. His eyes were wide, bloodshot, mouth twitching like he was mid-sob, mid-laugh, or both.
"Eddie?" John called.
The boy opened his mouth.
But no sound came out.
Instead, a long strand of black thread spilled from his lips. Thick. Shiny. Still attached to something deeper in his throat. It wriggled once.
John's blood froze.
Vinny swore under his breath. "That's not normal."
Eddie collapsed sideways with a wet gasp, the thread still trailing from his lips like a puppet's string.
John rushed to him, dropping to one knee, but the moment he touched the kid's shoulder—Eddie's eyes rolled back. His body jerked once more and then went still.
Dead still.
Vinny knelt down across from him. "What in hell's name did that?"
John looked up at the Mirror Maze.
The front panel—a huge arch of glass—was cracked now. A spiderweb fracture right across
From within.
A breath of cold air slid past them, carrying a smell like burnt sugar and mold.
John stood slowly, wrench gripped tight.
"We need to get Misty," he said.
Vinny nodded. "And Gus."
John looked down at the thread still slithering back into Eddie's throat, as if something inside him was pulling it home.
"And we need to burn that maze down."
Chapter 2: The Gathering
They met near the edge of the Boneshack just before the sun began its descent.
The once-golden light had turned a sickly shade of amber, bleeding between the tents like rust in water. The sounds of the carnival still played—barely—but it was wrong now. The laughter of children in the distance felt distant, looped, like echoes stuck in a cracked speaker.
John arrived first, Eddie's body wrapped in a tarp behind one of the prize trailers. He hadn't said a word since dragging the boy there. He simply stood, arms crossed, waiting.
Vinny stood beside him, tense, arms folded across his chest, chewing the end of a matchstick. His coat looked darker in the fading light, his mismatched eyes darting constantly toward the Mirror Maze, as if expecting it to lurch forward and swallow them whole.
Misty arrived next, her usual playfulness gone. Her ribbons had been untied. Her walk was slower, more grounded. "Gus told me what you saw," she said simply. "And I think he's right."
John tilted his head. "Right about what?"
"That it's sick," Misty said. "The carnival. I've felt it before."
"Same," Vinny muttered. "Three years ago. In Harlan, remember?"
Misty nodded grimly. "Four crew gone in a single night. No answers. Just… holes in the dirt and that awful smell."
John looked between them, then down at the wrench in his hand. It suddenly felt too small.
Finally, Gus trudged into view, pipe clenched between his teeth, dragging behind him a duffel bag of who-knew-what. He stopped beside the group, exhaled smoke, and gave a single nod.
"No crowd left after sundown," he said. "Rides'll keep running, sure, but only for the ones already inside."
Vinny frowned. "There shouldn't be anyone inside."
"Tell that to the Mirror Maze," Gus said flatly.
Silence settled between them like dust on an old coffin.
John finally broke it. "Eddie's dead."
Misty winced. "How?"
"Choked on something. Looked like thread. Not the kind you sew with. Thick. Wet."
Gus grunted. "That's not the worst of it."
He reached into his bag and pulled out a piece of glass.
Mirror glass.
It was warped, as if heat had bent the surface. On the inside was an imprint—faint, but visible. The suggestion of a hand. Fingers too long. A palm with no lines.
"I found it stuck in the Boneshack wall," Gus said. "On the inside."
John felt a muscle tighten in his jaw. "Something's crossing over."
"No," Misty said softly. "Something's leaking."
They all stood in silence.
The carnival had always had rules. Unwritten ones. Don't walk the mirror maze alone. Don't whistle after dark near the Boneshack. Don't touch the carousel horses that still move when the music stops. But they had never questioned why.
Until now.
Vinny cleared his throat. "We need to contain it. Lock down the maze. Salt the entry points. Seal up the Boneshack again."
John shook his head. "That's not enough anymore. Whatever's waking up—whatever's feeding—it's already inside the grounds."
Misty looked around nervously. "Then what do we do?"
John finally spoke with that same calm, steady tone he always used when something was worse than anyone wanted to admit.
"We find the heart of this thing," he said. "And we kill it."
Gus nodded slowly. "Let's just hope it has a heart."
They scattered with purpose.
No one said it aloud, but each of them knew: the sun was their last line of defense. Once it dipped below the horizon, the carnival would shift. Not visibly, not all at once—but slowly. Quietly. Like a mask melting off a face.
John returned to the maintenance shed behind the Tilt-a-Whirl. He rifled through old supply bins, pulling out flares, thick gloves, a crowbar, and a rusted lockbox with faded chalk runes on the lid—one Gus had told him never to open unless something came back through.
He hesitated only a second.
Then tossed it into his satchel.
In the distance, the calliope music slowed again.
Not broken. Just… tired.
Misty retied her hair with black ribbon—no more color, no more glitter. She stepped behind the Hall of Faces, where the barkers used to store discarded masks from old costume contests. Her hand hovered over the cracked porcelain visages—clowns, jesters, animals—and landed on one painted half-red, half-white.
A mask for old rituals.
She slipped it on, and for a second, she wasn't Misty the contortionist anymore.
She was something older.
Vinny stood outside the closed Fortune Tent, fingers twitching. He stared at the row of palm reader booths, long shut down after one of the customers tried to claw her own eyes out last spring.
He stepped inside anyway.
Lit a single black candle.
And spoke a name he hadn't said in years.
Gus didn't prepare.
He simply sat by the fire barrel near the Boneshack, puffing on his pipe. Watching. Listening.
He knew the carnival. He felt it. Like an old dog
who could hear the ground quake before the rumble.
He saw the carousel horses twitch, even without music.
He saw the popcorn machine pop without heat.
He saw something tall—a silhouette in a ringmaster's coat—standing at the far end of the grounds.
Then it vanished between blinks.
Gus grunted.
"They're stirring."
By the time the sun hit the treetops, the shadows had grown long and strange. They didn't stretch
the way they should. They bent at odd angles, reached up instead of out, and one or two flickered like flames caught in a breeze.
The carnival lights flicked on automatically.
But they were too dim.
Too red.
And in the distance, the calliope struck up a tune none of them recognized. It wasn't one of theirs. It was slower. Throaty. The kind of melody that made children stop laughing and look for their mothers.
John, Vinny, Misty, and Gus gathered again near the Ferris wheel.
No guests remained. The gates were locked. The signs all read CLOSED.
But the rides were still moving.
Lights still blinking.
And deep inside the Mirror Maze, something was breathing.
John set the satchel down, wrench already in hand.
"Alright," he said. "We go in together. We stay close. No mirrors. No names."
He looked at the others.
"And if we see something smiling… we don't smile back."
The wind picked up.
Not hard. Not cold. Just wrong.
It carried the scent of singed hair and wet rope—something burnt, something drowned. Misty turned in place, nostrils flaring like a deer sensing lightning.
"Do you hear that?" she asked quietly.
They all paused.
From somewhere between the Funhouse and the midway prize booths came the soft tinkling of a music box. Not a ride. Not the calliope. Something… daintier. More delicate. The kind you'd find in a child's room.
It played six notes. Over and over.
Vinny's face went pale. "That tune… That was Ellie's."
Who's Ellie?" John asked, eyes scanning the shadows.
Vinny didn't answer. He just took a step toward the sound, but Gus blocked him with his arm.
"No."
"I just need to see—"
"I said no." Gus's tone was steel. "You follow that sound, you're gone."
The music box stopped.
Then, a voice.
Childlike. Sweet. Just loud enough to hear.
"You left me in the dark, Vinny."
Vinny took a breath and did not move.
John tightened his grip on the crowbar. "We're being baited."
The group turned toward the Mirror Maze—but before they could reach it, the lights around the Ring Toss Alley exploded one by one in a chain of tiny bursts, sending sparks skittering across the ground.
Something heavy dropped at the far end of the alley.
Gus raised a hand. "Wait."
The four of them crept forward together.
At the end of the path lay a stuffed toy bear—oversized, pink, with a stitched heart over one eye. Carnival prize stock.
But it was soaked. Dripping. Not with water.
With blood.
And carved into the plush belly, using a thin
jagged line of scorched fabric, were two words:
"STAY OUT."
The lights around them flickered. The wind died.
The carousel let out a high, distorted whine.
Something was angry now.
Alive.
John stepped back, steady.
"That was our last warning," he said. "We cross the threshold now, we don't get any more favors."
Misty reached for his arm. "Do we even know what we're walking into?"
John nodded once, grim.
"Yeah. A trap."
Then he looked toward the Mirror Maze.
The entrance was now wide open.
The mirrors inside shimmered.
But none of them reflected the carnival anymore.
Just darkness.
And distant, hungry grins
They stepped over the threshold.
The Mirror Maze exhaled.
It wasn't wind. Not quite. It was air movement, sure—but stale. Recycled. Thick with the scent of dust, iron, and something floral that had long since rotted into sweetness. The maze was lit from within, but not by bulbs. Not anymore.
The light had turned silver-blue. Moonlight. But wrong. They hadn't seen the moon all night.
Each wall of glass reflected something. But not always them.
Sometimes the reflections were slower. Sometimes they didn't move at all.
Vinny led, Gus close behind.
John stayed in the rear, watching their backs.
Misty walked between them.
Then the path split.
Just a narrow fork—left and right—but the right side shimmered. Like water catching sunlight. Like someone exhaling against cold glass.
Misty paused.
She turned her head just enough to catch something flicker behind the glass wall beside her. A shape. A girl in a red dress, standing with her back turned, ribbon dangling from her hand.
"Ellie?" she whispered, breath catching.
And before anyone could stop her, she stepped right.
The glass pulsed like skin.
She vanished.
Vinny whipped around. "Misty?!"
Only silence. And a maze of reflections.
John swore under his breath. "Split. We go two and two."
"No," Gus growled. "You and me go forward. Vinny—go after her. You're the only one who knows that name."
Vinny hesitated for half a second, then peeled off down the right-hand path, calling Misty's name softly, mirrors swallowing him whole.
John and Gus pressed forward.
The mirrors seemed to close in tighter the deeper they went. At first, they reflected the two men clearly. But then—Gus's reflection started to lag behind. Just a little. A fraction of a second.
John noticed. Said nothing.
They passed a corner—and Gus stopped.
"Wait."
But John kept walking. The mirrors in front of him had changed.
One in particular caught his eye. It was taller than the rest. Framed in black wood, vines carved into the edges. The glass inside it rippled like water.
But it didn't show his reflection.
It showed a room.
Not a carnival room—not anything from the maze.
It was a bedroom.
Small. Gray. Clean.
A single cot in the center. Bare walls. A clipboard on the door.
Institutional.
And in the middle of the room sat… John.
Older. Thinner. Wearing white. Staring at nothing. Eyes hollow.
John felt the cold climb his spine.
Gus stepped beside him and saw it too. "What the hell is that?"
John shook his head slowly. "I don't know."
The version of him in the mirror blinked—then turned to look at them.
Its lips moved
No sound.
But John could read the words.
"You're still in here."
The mirror cracked.
Hairline fractures spread like lightning bolts.
John stepped back, heart pounding. "We need to find Misty. Now."
Behind them, a low laugh echoed from somewhere inside the maze.
It wasn't Misty.
It wasn't anyone.
It was the maze itself.
Chapter 3 (continued): Echoes in Glass
Vinny's boots tapped softly on the maze floor as he moved deeper into the right corridor, his fingers brushing lightly along the mirrored walls. The air grew heavier with each step, as though something unseen pressed against his chest.
"Misty?" he called out, voice low, careful. "Come on, not the time for games."
But the mirrors didn't echo his voice correctly.
Some reflected it delayed.
Others distorted it—like he was underwater, or a child again.
And in one of the mirrors, he wasn't alone.
He stopped.
One pane showed him perfectly—hat tilted, matchstick between his teeth, narrowed eyes.
John stepped away from the splintered mirror that showed him a life in white walls and silence.
He shook it off—but not fully. The image clung to him, like dust under his skin.
Gus stayed behind to trace the path back to Vinny and Misty, but John moved ahead, deeper into the mirrored corridors. Something about the air had changed. He could feel it. Denser now. Warmer. Like a storm building behind glass.
And then he found the door.
Not a real door—not one with hinges or knobs.
Just a thin slit in the glass where the reflection no longer worked. No John in this panel. No carnival either. Just a dim, pale glow leaking out like moonlight through curtains.
Drawn in, he stepped through.
And into a room that should not have been inside the maze.
The air was still. No sound. No movement. Dust floated in columns of pale, directionless light.
In the center of the room stood a single mirror.
Tall. Freestanding. Framed in jagged black metal, almost thornlike.
It was cracked.
Not shattered—but broken just enough. The crack formed a spiral, twisting into its center like a whirlpool.
John approached it slowly. His breath fogged up the glass.
It didn't reflect him.
Instead, he saw a version of the carnival—older. Wilder. Fire-breathers and bone-benders, freaks and fiends. Stalls made of stitched flesh. A Ferris wheel that turned on its own, creaking in protest. The sky above was a strange red-black hue like the world had caught fire and then forgotten how to burn out.
And then—
The mirror pulsed.
Just once.
And John tripped.
His boot caught on something—nothing—and he fell forward, hands slamming into the cracked glass.
It swallowed him.
Not like water.
More like teeth.
Darkness. Then light. Then music.
But not music he recognized.
It was slow and violent. Something between an organ and a scream.
John gasped as he hit solid ground again—dust billowing around him. His hands stung. His ears rang.
He looked up.
He was back outside.
But not the outside he'd known.
This was the true carnival now. The one beneath the skin.
The Carnival of Carnage.
Everything was twisted.
The tents leaned like broken teeth. The rollercoaster spiraled into the sky with no end. The games of chance had writhing prizes that blinked and bled.
The air reeked of copper and greasepaint.
He heard laughter. Low. Childlike. Wrong.
A parade was marching slowly in the distance—silhouettes with masks made of bone, instruments that bled when played.
John stumbled to his feet.
The mirror he'd fallen through was gone.
No glass. No crack.
Only dirt. Footprints. And a poster nailed to a crooked signpost.
He walked to it.
WELCOME TO THE SHOW, JOHN DOE
One Way In. No Way Out.
His name was written in red.
But it wasn't ink.
It was still wet.
To Be Continued....