THURSDAY SPECIAL! - The Lost Circus: Part 16
Serial | Horror
Pssst… new to the circus? Why not start here?
In our last chapter, our hero Christophe made a daring decision to save his life. As he begins to put his plan into action, he crosses his fingers that the Gypsy will take the bait…
The response is immediate. The world slows down, confirming my suspicion that she’s behind the time switches. Applause fades out and turns into static, and the crowd’s eager faces turn into shadows. The performers move like molasses, oozing from one pose to the next as they carry on their routine, completely unaware that there’s a conversation happening in the same room.
The Gypsy herself stares at me, her one eye wide, her one eyebrow arched in surprise. Her arms hang limply by her sides, her hands dangling, no sparkles or light-catching from her rings. Her golden skirts have stilled, her showmanship vanished. It’s as if she’s been struck dumb, the shock sending her into silence for the first time.
“Christophe?”
Just hearing her say my name - his name, our name - makes goosebumps break across my shoulders. I lean towards her, draping myself over the chair to hide my fear. My wrists burn from the chains, and they don’t budge. “You haven’t changed a bit.”
Her fingers touch her skull, her hair, her shoulder. “I haven’t?”
“Not a day.” I tilt my head to one side and toss her a sly wink. “I missed you.”
A fire sparks in her eye, making my bravado retreat a little bit. It’s a warning, and a reminder for me to be careful. She’s a loose cannon here in the Big Top, and it doesn’t seem to matter if she’s talking to her grandson or ex-lover. It’s clear she’d kill either one of us, given the chance.
“Didn’t find anyone else to warm your bed?”
“Not like you,” I murmur. She sways, steps closer. I can feel her radiating something - not love, but not hate - and her features begin to blur. Where once used to be a hard line separating skeleton from skin, now one fades into the other, and it’s difficult to tell which side is which.
“Why did you leave?” The words choke out of her like they’re being ripped out of her lungs. “I waited for you. I loved you!”
“I know. I’m sorry, mi amore.” Now my words are coming from somewhere else. I hear them both inside my head and out loud, like someone else is speaking very faintly with me. “I heard the call of the circus, my darling. You know how it pulls people like us.”
She makes a sound somewhere between a sob and a cry. Before she can answer, I hear myself keep talking.
“It is this place, my darling. It changes us. The lights, the people, the show. It ruins us. It ruined me. I loved you so much, I know I promised you so much, and I ruined everything. I’m so sorry, mi amore. I’m so sorry for everything.”
Her breath hitches in the back of her throat. She believes me. I can see it in her eyes, both of them. The line between reality and the past is fading, and with it, the Gypsy. She alternates between her current skeletal state and her younger self, her one eye blending into two, one ear becoming two, and her bony grin turning into a luscious smile. Instead of one skeletal arm, she has two hands studded with rings, two wrists dripping with jewels. Her long hair cascades down her back, draping across her shoulders like a cape, her headscarf shining like a crown. Her younger self looks mystical, otherworldly. Like a goddess who stepped down onto earth and forgot to go home again.
Before the fire, she was beautiful. I completely understand how my grandfather wanted her. The thing I don’t understand is the spark of madness that glistens deep inside. Even now, I can see it burning steadily, fanning itself into a full flame.
She believes that she can tell the future. She believes that she was right to burn this place to the ground in an attempted murder. She believes that I am my grandfather incarnate, and for the first time in fifty-six years, she’s speaking to him again.
Somehow, I don’t think she’s entirely wrong.
Her skirts rustle as she takes another step towards me. “We had so many plans. We were going to travel, see the world. Raise our daughter together. You took her away from me. Where did you take her, Christophe? Why wouldn’t you tell me?”
A twinge of guilt twists my gut. So she doesn’t know where my mom is. Maybe all that fortune-telling stuff about the garage and the workshop really was just that: fortune-telling. Of course she didn’t visit our house. She’s dead. The last time she saw her little girl, she was standing right next to her in the three rings, and then she was gone.
“Marionetta,” croons my voice, echoing my grandfather’s ghostly whisper. “Mi amore. Come to me, like you used to. One last time.”
The Gypsy steps closer, a single tear welling up in her dark eyes. Her unruly dark curls, once again long and luxurious, spill out from underneath her headscarf as she reaches her skin-covered hand towards me. “My Christophe,” she murmurs, “My love, why did you ever leave me?”
Then I feel it. The glow that radiates off of her. I was right, it isn’t love or hate. But it is something just as deadly.
Fear.
This man caused her so much pain and trauma. He stole her child. He ruined her future. He crushed her heart. He tore her into a million pieces, and when she needed his help, he turned away.
But even now, after all of that agony, if he would take her back, it seems she would come running.
Tears blur my vision, and a lump forms in my throat. This is hard. So much harder than I thought it would be. I didn’t realize that this circus still had so much left to say. I thought it was going to be simple: go to the abandoned place, take pictures, go home. Instead, I found my family. I uncovered their secrets. And I found so, so much pain.
When I got into this mess, I wanted to be rich. Then I just wanted to stay alive. Now I want to live.
The little coins on her headscarf tinkle as she kneels at my feet. Tears glisten in her eyes, too, but I can’t tell if they’re happy or sad. Her hand touches my knee, and I feel the coat reach for her. It pushes me against the chains, begging me to find a way out.
There isn’t one.
The voice distracts me as her fingers trace my leg. My grandfather. I know it as surely as I know that the coat is somehow connected to him, and that the memories I saw were real. It doesn’t sound the same as the echo for Marionetta, but there’s no mistaking it. He’s talking to me this time.
I don’t know how to answer.
It’s all right, Christophe. I understand you’ve come to the circus.
More like the circus came to me.
Yes, well, they’ve always been a persistent bunch.
I grit my teeth as Marionetta’s fingers close around my pant leg. She’s asking me something, but I can’t listen to two people at once, and the stress is overwhelming. I’m losing concentration. If her illusion shatters, she’ll freak out. If I lose my grandfather’s voice, I won’t be able to string her along any more.
I wonder if he could hear me tell him he wasn’t helping.
I’ve heard that often enough before. There isn’t a way out, Christophe. This is the end of the line, for both of us.
“What?”
It comes out aloud, which startles me and Marionetta. She blinks her dark eyes at me, and in them, I see the three elements of the circus.
Blood. Dirt. Gold.
Pain rips through my skull, and I scream in shock. White sparks explode at the edges of my vision, and the three rings disappear. The crowd and its applause vanish. The performers fade into shadows, and in their places, I see the menagerie. The piles of fur still sit heaped in a corner, and the ripped canvas claw marks wave gently, as if caught in a sudden breeze. Blood splatters every corner of the tent, and the poor headless pigeon spirals above its bucket, scarlet liquid dripping down its breast.
As I watch, Arthur- poor, abused, scarred Arthur- approaches. He pulls his gold glove tighter on his hand, wiggling his fingers like a surgeon preparing for an operation. Then, with an expert flick of his wrist, he reaches into the pigeon’s bucket and pulls out a knife.
I know that knife. I know its curved blade, the green and gold jewels in its handle. I know the dirt that crusts its blade, and the way it drips blood, even after Arthur turns and carries it away.
I know where he’s going. And I know why he’s coming after me.
Somebody screams. I don’t know who. All I hear is terror and pain, voiced very loudly in my ear. Someone sounds like they’re dying. Someone sounds like they’ve seen their last breath. Someone sounds like they just realized their fate.
And I’m scared - so scared - that it’s me.
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Hello, dear readers.
Well, we’ve almost come to the end of our circus. One more chapter, and the covers will close on this one, locking our haunted fields away for a while. As you can probably tell, it needs some work, but I’m hoping to edit and publish it sometime this year.
If you published things on Amazon, Kobo, etc - what’s your best advice? This is my first attempt at actually publishing something, and though I’ve researched a lot, nothing compares to experience, so share away! I’ve already decided to try to keep my hopes low and take my time. What else should I keep in mind?
Thanks again, dear readers! Thank you for sharing your inbox and your time. I appreciate it in this crazy world.
See you next time!
<3 Olivia