Page 4 of Carnival of Crows

Madame Esmeralda, who was, in reality, a retired theater professor from Portland with a flair for dramatic pauses, beckoned the first guests to the table right outside of the wagon prop.

Some laughed as they walked away. Others looked genuinely unsettled. It was all bullshit. She had ten cards that all meant very different things. She was simply improvising once she saw that card.

Then, five women stepped through the entrance. One immediately reached for pink cotton candy. Another was already taking pictures. A third was flirting with Jack. Knowing my brother, he flirted back. The fourth was pointing things out. And then, I got a glimpse of her.

She had raven hair. A streak of bright orange caught the light. Dark, maybe even black, lipstick filled her lips. A leather jacket, ripped black shorts, and fishnets with bats all over them were all tied together by her accessories… a pumpkin shaped crossbody slung across her chest. Hanging from her neck was a 35MM camera. As I walked closer, I noticed her nails were the shape of coffins and black as night. Black inked vines spilled out on her hand from under the jacket cuff. She was fucking stunning.

Janice, or rather Madame Esmeralda, took her ticket and smiled when she turned over the card.

“Love will find you tonight,” she said with such certainty that if I didn’t know it was all a silly carnival trick, I might’ve actually believed her.

CHAPTER 3

Luci

I’ve been to haunted attractions that served stale popcorn from folding tables. I’ve been to ones that charged seven dollars for bottled water and called it “immersive.”

Graves Park clearly wasn’t one of them.

The black-and-white striped tent looked like it had been stolen straight out of a vintage circus. Crystal chandeliers hung impossibly from canvas beams overhead, throwing warm light across polished wooden floors. Every table wore black velvet cloths instead of cheap plastic, topped with antique brass candleholders whose flames flickered inside glass chimneys.

“I’m sorry…” Amber breathed beside me. “This is a haunt?”

“It feels illegal that this is included in VIP,” Mary said, balancing a paper cone of pink and black cotton candy.

Sam disappeared toward a long wooden counter. Seconds later she returned carrying popcorn in oversized striped bags nearly the size of her torso.

“Fresh!” she said as she shoved a bag toward me. “Feel it.”

The paper was warm. Not microwave warm. Fresh kettle warm.

I glanced over and, sure enough, a machine hissed behind the counter, kernels exploding beneath polished copper. The smell wrapped around me before I stole a piece from Sam’s bag. Warm butter, a smidge of salt. It was perfect.

Despite all of the tasty treats, there was something haunting about it all. The distant groan of rusted steel. The slow, mournful music of a carousel somewhere beyond the tent. A calliope song that should’ve sounded cheerful - if someone hadn’t stretched every note until it became unsettling.

I wandered farther while the others took turns eating out of Sam’s bag of popcorn.

Glass bottles of old-fashioned root beer floated in galvanized tubs packed with ice. Stacks of caramel apples gleamed beneath glass domes. Peeking down, I noticed that even the black napkins bore the Graves crest. No detail had been overlooked.

“You’ve got to see this.” Catherine hooked her arm through mine, steering me toward the opposite corner of the tent.

A small prop antique wagon sat beneath strings of Edison bulbs.

Its faded paint read: MADAME ESMERALDA

FORTUNES FOR ONE TICKET

Red velvet curtains framed the tiny doorway.

“You each get one fortune,” the attendant explained. “Turn in your VIP ticket.”

“I call first,” Amber announced.

“You literally call everything first,” Sam muttered.

“You snooze, you lose, little sis,” Amber said as she stuck out her tongue.

While Amber stepped up to Madame Esmeralda’s table, my eyes drifted toward the opposite side of the tent. While we were discussing popcorn, the canvas flaps of the back of the tent had been opened and I was completely awestruck.