The Lost Circus, Part 10

Serial | Horror

In our last chapter, our hero and the clown faced down the malicious Tattooed Man. Now, after a brief silent argument with the other performer, the clown has resumed the trek with our intrepid explorer towards the Big Top’s door…

As we walk, my thoughts return to the night the circus died. Plenty of legends whisper about things that might have happened, but very few of them seem to have any idea what actually occurred. 

One idea that finds its way through each recounting is fire. Flames, wild and free, brandishing their defiance at the sky as they bloomed across the circus. An overwhelming amount of bad luck made the breeze blow the wrong way, and every single tent caught part of the heat. Almost all of them razed to the ground, except for three. Those were saved by the townsfolk who ran out with buckets and barrels to put out the fire before it got too close to their own homes.

By the time the smoke drifted away, not a soul remained alive.

One person said he thought they were all grouped together, some kind of after-show party or a private performance. When their tent started to blaze, they panicked and nobody was able to find the door, so they all went down together. It's grisly and slightly romantic to think they all perished at once, but something doesn't seem right. How do a bunch of travelers forget how a tent works? They'd been working and living in these things for years, some of them their whole lives. Yet somehow, not one of them escaped?

And when the town investigated, why didn't they find a single corpse or any charred remains?

The Big Top looms overhead, its shadow reaching my toes as the evening falls faster. The sun has almost completely set now, and the stars glisten overhead. For a moment, I think of the circus in all its glory. She would've been beautiful to see, dressed up like a lady with fine skirts and delicious foods, sights to admire and things to experience everywhere. Popcorn and sword-swallowers and seven-foot-tall Tattooed Men who slam monkeys on their heads. Probably kept that one out of the spotlight. I certainly would've.

I realize I'm smiling at the thought. Me, in charge of a circus. The idea is ridiculous, but I like it.

How did the whole place catch fire and burn to the ground? Maybe some kind of malfunction with the train. Some coal fell out of the burner and set the place ablaze. Is that why somebody put a box of coal in that tent? As some kind of gruesome joke?

On second thought, that idea is pretty funny, actually. Gruesome and horrible, but funny. I almost wish I'd thought of it.

The stars twinkle above the Big Top's roof as we draw nearer. There's a certain romanticism about it, even in the end. This tent was the centerpiece of a great tradition. Sideshows and barkers, animals and performers, ice-cold drinks and buttery popcorn and peanuts bigger than your fingers. The lore of the traveling circus braided itself through the history books for so many years, and now, they're almost all dead. Maybe that's another good reason for the documentary. Not just the death, and the horrifying nature of a haunted circus, but because we don't have attractions like this any more. People deserve to be shocked. That's what circuses were about, in the beginning. Taking peoples' money out of their pockets for a good show. Wouldn't it be amazing to see it one last time?

The clown stops, his big purple shoes barely touching the edge of the Big Top's entrance. The entire way over here, he's grown more and more subdued. No grand gestures, no hop-skip-and-jump dances. Now that we're here, standing at the entrance to the Big Top itself, he seems edgy. Eleven fingers twist back and forth as he glances at me out of the corner of his eye.

He seems suspicious, like I'm the weird one. Maybe because I don't bleed everywhere, let people eat my entrails, display half my skeleton, or smash monkeys' heads open, I get to be the odd duck in this crowd. Obviously.

He continues shifting from one foot to the other, eyeing me. It takes me a while to realize, but then it hits me. He's nervous.

The clown who can turn my brain into mush and puppet me across the room with a wave of his hand. Who has bled a river for hours and isn't dead again. Who faced down a seven-foot-tall Tattooed Man and put the skeleton fortune-teller in her place.

That clown is afraid of something, and it has to do with me.

Again, I wonder why the hell I'm standing here and nobody's killed me yet. Surely other people stumbled upon this circus, and it satisfied itself on their lust for blood. There's enough local legend to scare the children into making their beds every day for a lifetime, and yet nobody talks about it. What happened here? Why am I getting dragged into it? And how does one get funding for a documentary, anyway?

The clown stops pacing in place. He holds up a hand, gesturing for me to wait. Then he disappears into the Big Top.

My brow furrows. He's going to leave me alone? If the Tattooed Man comes back, he'll bury me in the ground face-first. Are we really about to take that kind of risk?

I barely have time to worry before he pops back out, a brown-paper package tucked under his arm. He handles it carefully, reverently, as he holds it out to me for inspection.

It's flat, and square, and too small for anything that would take a decent photo. The paper seems lumpy, so whatever's inside isn't packed in a box. A thin scrap of twine holds it closed, there aren't any markings, and it's a generally unremarkable thing.

Confused, I shake my head.

The clown whuffs a sigh of impatience. Taking the package back, he produces scissors from one oversized sleeve and snips the twine. Every angle of the paper crinkles as he unfolds it, until he dramatically reveals and holds up-

Oh my God. It's a coat.

It's red, vibrant, scarlet red. Gold beaded trim runs across both cuffs, dripping down the arms and the waist. Sparkling lapels, shining black buttons, embroidered designs on the sleeves and gold thread swirling up and down the chest. The collar stands stiffly, freshly starched and ready to be put on display. It's a museum piece, a showstopper, and I suddenly desperately want it.

I lean forward, my fingertips outstretched. Fascinated by the sparkle and shine, I almost miss the faint sound applause that barely reaches my ears. A crowd chanting, begging for entertainment. Cheering, whistling, applauding. Stomping their feet and calling for a show.

It sounds like music. The most beautiful song I've ever heard.

The clown steps back, and the crowd's din fades away. His eyes are wide, and the coat trembles in his fingers. His faded makeup makes him look more pathetic than professional, like a children's entertainer who's gotten terribly confused. He stares at me like he's just remembered something, and the cold talons of horror have stabbed their claws into his poor undead heart.

A flash of anger surges through my veins, and my fists clench. There's something special about that coat, and I want it. He brought it to me. He was going to give it to me. He offered it to me. If he changes his mind now, and tries to take it back, by the time I'm done with him, he'll definitely be ready for a grave.

The clown cowers as if I'd screamed at him, and holds his shaking hands out again. The coat, in all of its beautiful gold and scarlet glory, beckons to me.

The applause amplifies as I caress it lightly. Starched yet soft, worn and yet new. It doesn't seem possible, but I can feel pure fate thrumming deep in the fabric's core. Dreams and aspirations woven directly into the cloth, the magic of a night out stitched into the sleeves, the thrill of a show hidden under the collar.

Craving fills me. I want it. I want the dreams, and the lights, and the music. For the first time in my life, I want to stand in front of a crowd and wave my hands and silence them. I want to be the reason they ooh and aah. I want to strike up the band and command the acrobats to swing.

I want to be powerful. I want to be in charge. I want to be invincible.

My eyes close. For a second, I feel a strange sensation. A breeze brushes across my back, straightening the lapels on my shoulders. It tickles my neck and tugs my shirt downward, ironing out the creases. Something soft brushes my arms, and a weight settles onto my shoulders, holding on my back like a flirtatious stranger at a party.

My eyes open. The clown's hands are empty, and I know where the coat is.

It fits like a glove.

The applause gets louder. I can feel it all. The pulse of every human inside that tent, sitting on the edge of their seats. Waiting for the show to begin. Waiting for the ringmaster to stroll inside and wave their hand, for the bareback riders to thunder around the first ring, for a trained bear to amble around the second, for a woman to balance on an elephant's head in the third. They want a show. They need it. They deserve it.

And so, I think, do I.

My gaze flicks to the clown. His makeup is almost completely gone. Only a few specks of blue remain around his eyes, and his giant red smile is barely pink. Now I see the wrinkles in his face that the makeup had smothered, the wart under one ear, the way he leaks and bleeds and turns from one way to the other, his eyes darting back and forth like a child about to get in trouble.

He's just a man. Bleeding, and alive when he should be dead, but there's nothing special about him now. No terrifying being that could haunt my dreams forever. He's just an old man who's lost his rocking chair, stumbling through one last adventure before the end.

Something in me sneers at him. Doddering old fool. Earlier today, he terrified me. Now I can't get past his ordinary-looking face. Were he not still bleeding all over the floor, he might have passed for someone in town. Just a normal grandpa, on his normal walk to read the normal paper. If he managed to live that long.

My lip curls. He winces, tucking his head under his shoulder like a turtle.

That's right. You should be afraid.

With a few strong steps, I brush past the clown. He stumbles as I knock him aside, but I don't hesitate and he doesn't stop me. Instead, the applause swells as I lift my arm and push back the curtain, stepping into the heart of the Big Top.

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Hello, brave adventurers!

Welcome back to the Big Top! If you’ve been following along, thank you so much for being here! This is my first attempt at a serialized story, and I’m pleased with how it’s turning out. I appreciate your interest and patience as we mosey along!

If you’re enjoying your stay, why not recommend it to somebody else?

Also, happy Thanksgiving! I hope you’re spending this weekend safe and sound with family, surrounded by good food and those you love. I also hope you get a nap, because naps are awesome and everyone needs them, especially after eating a turkey.

Be safe, and have a marvelous holiday weekend!

See you next week!

<3 Olivia