“It’s ok,” I say, trying to squeeze my hand into my back pocket to use the flashlight on my phone. “There has to be an emergency lever somewhere to open it manually.”
Years ago, I rememberedAbuelataking Zeke and me to a carnival where, ironically, the power also shut down. The ride attendants had to manually release the levers to all the cars in the ride to let everyone out.
Cillian’s hand moves from my leg to the back pocket I am struggling with. He fishes my phone out, swiping up to the flashlight button. About to hand my phone to me, he almost drops it when we are propelled backward at an accelerated speed. Keeping my phone in his palm, he curls his fingers around it, while simultaneously holding onto the safety bar, along with Pax and me.
The lights begin to flicker as we move in a backward circular motion. Rob Zombie resumes blaring through the speakers, making my sternum rattle from the way the volume vibrates against the seat.
I look to Cillian, who appears to be mouthing “what the fuck,” but I can’t hear him over the music. The ride has suddenly morphed from slow and uneventful to winding and excessive.
It keeps this increased speed, until it immerses us into a room labeled “Amontillado’s Casket,” which is when the force tapers down.
My eyes turn to slits, trying to adjust my vision from the poorly lit ride to the gleam that now ricochets from the flame-lit candles hanging all throughout the exposed brick walls. The ambiance feels hypnotizing. So much so that the paranoia and nausea I felt mere seconds ago disappears.
The music switches again. This time, “Glass Houses” begins to play, eerily matching the mood of the room I now feel like we are gliding through.
I hear Pax shout, all flustered, “I didn’t add this to the playlist!”
I want to look at him, but I can’t. My eyes feel like lead, even though my lids won’t close. In fact, I don’t think I have even blinked since we entered the room.
My eyes trail the lines of skulls that gather in piles around us, stacked as high as the ceiling. The track slows once more as it skids forward, jostling our bodies. I feel their hands on me, but I can’t react to their touch. My vision narrows to the brick wall in front of us.
The ride slows to a crawl-like speed. I take in the graffiti all over the brick. My eyes try to focus on the writing. It’s hard to depict what is written on the brick. From the little I can make out, some of it is written in a different language. I continue to focus my open eyes on the messages woven into the wall, when one word sticks out to me so clearly. It’s like a spotlight was shining on it.
In messy cursive letters reads, “venganza.”Revenge.
My heart stops when I see that underneath the crimson letters, something is moving. Internally, my stomach is doing somersaults, yet there is an invisible muzzle on my mouth; I can’t speak or yell. A draft filters in as the letters morph before my eyes.
Cillian and Paxton’s grip escapes my body, and in my peripheral, I see them cuff their ears with a wincing expression. I want to follow suit, but I can’t for some reason. I try to lift my hands, but like my eyes, they feel heavy, unmoving, like they are under a spell.
Gone is the one word, “venganza,” and now a bright, bold message appears: “The lies you have been told will fill your mind, nevermore.”
Panic fills my veins as my heart feels like it is going to explode from the violent thrashing it is unleashing on my ribcage. But still, I can’t move.
My body becomes heavy, cold, motionless.
An icy draft creeps into the room, even though I can feel the perspiration drip from my every limb.
I want to blink. I want to move, scream, yell, grab Cillian and Paxton.
Only, I can’t.
The melodic instrumentals begin to take over, immersing me in something bigger than myself.
Coldness blows in all directions at my body.
That’s when I see it.
Onyx.
That’s when I feel it.
The distinct texture of lace.
How is it that I can see the color and feel the fabric, but there is nothing other than the words that have morphed on the wall ahead?
The more my eyes are forced to look at the scene in front of me, the more my heart races. The lace I envision is a veil draped over a woman’s face.
Long fingers adorned with sharp-as-razors, black-painted nails come into view as they curl against the edges of the fabric draped over her face. Slowly raising the veil, a familiar sight comes into view.
