Page 10 of Carnival of Crows

That was my first thought as I stepped through the striped curtains and into Graves Park. Like it was about to take every guest that walked its path and swallow them whole.

The midway stretched ahead of us beneath a darkening sky, its cracked pavement disappearing beneath ribbons of low-lying fog. Old ticket booths leaned beneath the weight of peeling paint. Their windows were dark, their counters littered with yellowed paper tickets that fluttered whenever the wind pushed through.

Somewhere beyond the trees, metal groaned. The wind swept across the park and caught the hanging swings of an abandoned ride, setting them in motion one at a time.

Creak.

Creak.

Creeeeeeaaaak.

The chains twisted slowly, empty seats turning beneath a canopy of faded red-and-yellow panels. One of the swings struck another with a hollow clang before drifting apart again.

No motor. No operator. Just the wind playing with them.

“Okay, this is creepier than I thought it would be,” Amber admitted.

She wasn’t wrong. I felt the same way, but it made me excited.

The Ferris wheel loomed over everything. Its steel frame rose above the midway, black against the darkening sky. Half the bulbs lining its spokes had burned out. The ones that remained blinked in no recognizable pattern, dim amber light stuttering across rusted metal.

One section flickered, went dark, and flickered again. The wheel turned so slowly I couldn’t hear the machinery beneath the wind. That somehow made it worse. Or better.

A torn banner snapped above an old game booth.

WIN A PRIZE FOR YOUR SWEETHEART

The painted clown beneath the words had lost half its face to weather, exposing gray wood beneath its smile. Stuffed animals hung from hooks inside, their fur matted with dust, glass eyes watching the empty midway.

A melody drifted from unseen speakers. The tune wobbled in and out, the notes warped as though the recording had been left buried in dirt for thirty years.

I breathed it all in.

Wet leaves from this morning’s rain, cold metal, the faint sweetness of cotton candy still clinging to my fingers - this wasn’t a haunt built inside a warehouse. No black curtains hiding support beams. No temporary walls. No fake decay. The park had been left to rot, and the Graves family had simply taught the rot how to perform.

Then I saw the carousel. It stood immediately to our left beneath a round, weathered pavilion. For one suspended second, the five of us stopped moving.

The carved horses stood frozen around the platform, their bodies dulled by age. Paint had chipped away from their flanks in curling flakes. Gold leaf clung stubbornly to saddles and bridles. Some had cracks running through their carved faces.

Above them, painted panels showed faded scenes of forests, castles, and women in flowing dresses. Even in the dark, it was beautiful. It hadn’t been restored. It was beautiful because it had survived.

A single bulb clicked on beneath the canopy. Then another. And, another.

Warm lights chased one another around the rim. The mirrors glowed. The horses jerked forward. Music burst from inside the center column, bright and tinny and wonderfully wrong beneath the evening sky.

I shrieked in complete and utter joy. It was a noise of such pure, uncontrollable delight that every one of my friends turned toward me.

“It works!” I said in giddy anticipation. The carousel began to turn, the horses rising and falling in slow waves. “Oh my God, it works!”

The girls looked at one another. No one said a word. We didn’t need to. All five of us made a beeline right for the gate. This would be where we started our evening.

A carney stood waiting for us. His trousers were striped black and gray, tucked into scuffed leather boots with curled toes. A stained ivory shirt hung loose beneath suspenders, one strap fastened with an old brass button and the other held together by a safety pin.

His face was painted white, but not cleanly like The Fool’s had been. Gray shadows hollowed out his cheeks. Black makeup had been dragged beneath his eyes in uneven streaks, giving him the look of someone who hadn’t slept since the park closed. A tiny bowler hat sat crooked on his head.

He leaned against the gate and smiled. His teeth were painted black between each one, making them appear sharp.

“Hello, little ladies.” His voice slithered through the music. “Would you like a ride?”