Just then, the carousel lights flickered to life with a demonic wheeze, casting long, spinning shadows across the rotting square.
The clowns didn’t charge so much as glide—seven feet tall, hunched like broken marionettes, their footsteps whisper-quiet despite their monstrous size. The one dragging the sack cracked his neck with a sound like snapping branches. The other lifted a gloved hand and beckoned.
"Let’s skip the pleasantries," I said. "I’m on a bit of a schedule, and I don’t make a habit of dying before dessert."
The carousel spun behind them, creaking its hellish lullaby, the rotation slowing just enough for the platform to feel like a moving stage.
The first clown lunged—a sudden blur of teeth and motion. I ducked under its outstretched arms, pivoted onto the polished floorboards of the carousel, and slashed low. My dagger bit into its thigh. A hiss. No blood—only black, tar-thick ooze that bubbled like spoiled wine.
It spun after me, one massive fist arcing like a wrecking ball aimed straight for my temple. I leapt—but not fast enough.
Pain exploded behind my eyes like a firework gone wrong. The world tilted violently as I was hurled backward, smashing into a weathered carousel horse with a sickening snap. Its wooden head broke free, shattering into splinters that rained down around me like brittle confetti. I crumpled in a graceless heap, breath rasping in my throat.
"Alright," I rasped, teeth clenched, forcing myself up with every ounce of stubborn will left in me. "Not just for show, are you?"
From the far side of the carousel came a guttural snarl—raw, primal, and full of rage.
The beast boy was already in motion, launching himself like a living missile. His bare feet slammed hard into the chest of the second clown, the impact echoing like thunder striking a coffin lid. The giant staggered back, swaying on uneven legs, but didn’t fall.
With terrifying speed, the clown’s massive hand shot out, clutching the beast boy’s throat like a steel vice.
But the boy was liquid—flowing and twisting, impossible to pin down. He slipped free with a serpentine wriggle, then drove his knee hard into the clown’s jaw—once, twice. His fists became a furious blur, each strike savage and precise, a brutal dance of desperate survival.
Still, the fight was far from over.
The carousel groaned, the music sputtering and choking out a warped, uneven tune.
Time to change the scenery.
I ran, vaulted off a horse then tumbled off the platform and into the courtyard of broken rides beyond. My boots skidded across shattered tiles, my breath sharp in my throat. The clown followed—one of them, anyway—leaping from the carousel like a nightmare that had grown legs.
I turned a corner and ducked into a hall of mirrors.
The air grew colder. Stiller.
Mirrors lined the tight corridor—some cracked, some fogged, all reflecting my anxiety back in infinite fractals.
Behind me, the clown entered.
I slashed my dagger against the nearest mirror, shattering it into sparkling dust, then ducked sideways and disappeared behind another.
The clown’s reflection followed—but couldn’t tell which was mine.
I exhaled slow. Listened.
A footstep. Left. Right.
I hurled a shard of glass over its shoulder—bait.
It turned, but not before I struck.
I leapt from the blind angle, slamming my dagger into its side. The metal slid through cloth, through something too thick to be flesh. It shrieked—a wet, radio-static kind of sound—and flung out an arm blindly.
It hit the wall. Not me.
I shoved it through another mirror, which exploded like a firework. Shards danced in the air.
Back into the open night.
Outside, the beast boy was mid-flight again, grappling the second clown down a crumbling funhouse ramp. They tumbled end-over-end, snarling and snapping like wolves in a thunderstorm.
I had my own problems to deal with.
Just then, the first clown burst from the hall of mirrors, mask cracked, chest heaving. Its eyes locked on me with that predator stillness that always comes right before the kill.
"Oh," I sighed, raising my dagger, "you’re persistent. I like that. Means you’ll make a memorable corpse."
I dove aside, grabbing a loose support beam from a toppled candy stall and slammed it across its legs. It tripped, falling hard. I straddled its back, stabbing down, but it rolled, taking me with it.
Now I was underneath.
Its hand gripped my throat. Cold. Strong.
"Get off!" I spat, jamming my knee upward. Its jaw snapped shut, teeth clacking inches from my face.
Just then the beast boy suddenly slammed into it from the side, tackling it into the Tilt-a-Whirl wreckage.
We sprawled together across the mud and shards, breathing like dying animals.
"I’m starting to see why you stay quiet," I wheezed. "You let your fists do the talking."
The boy didn’t answer. Just nodded.
The clowns were up again. Unstoppable. Terrible.
Past broken clown heads. Past skeletal concession carts. Into a rusted hedge maze that smelled like rain and rot.
We split—tactically, of course.
I ducked into one corridor, footsteps light, mind whirling. The rusted maze grew tighter, claustrophobic. Ivy wrapped around my ankles, slowing me.
A figure suddenly dropped in front of me, falling from above.
It’s mask was split now—revealing not a face, but rather nothing at all. Just a swirling black hole where its features should be.
I ducked its swing before slamming my dagger into its chest. The blade stuck.
I let go, rolled away, and yanked a broken mirror shard I’d been hiding in my coat pocket instead.
"You’re making me improvise," I hissed. "I hate that."
I slashed it across the clown’s throat—felt it connect. The mirror sang. A scream.
It stumbled back, clutching its neck, black ooze gurgling.
I bolted again, winding my way out of the maze before dashing toward a set of broken bumper cars.
The beast boy was already there, fists bloodied, eyes glowing faintly under the flickering neon. The second clown staggered toward him, limping now, chest concave.
He leapt onto the hood of a bumper car and launched off, slamming both feet into its chest.
Ribs—if it had them—shattered.
The clown fell, finally.
Then the first arrived again.
I didn’t have a true weapon. Just the mirror shard.
I hurled it and it struck its face with dangerous precision.
The clown screamed. The beast boy moved in—hands like hammers, knuckles cracking bone, tearing fabric and something darker.
A few moments later, I found my dagger in the mud and returned, slashing across the creatures back, its leg, its neck. Every cut bled not blood, but a weird, shimmering ink.
Finally, finally—they stopped.
Collapsed. Twitching.
"Dead?" I asked, panting.
The beast boy didn’t answer.
They were getting up again.
Limbs snapping back into place. Ink swirling like smoke. Bone reforming. The masks began to seal.
I backed away quickly.
"Okay. Okay. I vote we leave right about now."
The beast boy didn’t follow.
I turned to him, half-expecting the usual flicker of defiance—or at least some protest.
But he didn’t meet my eyes.
Instead, he stepped forward alone, his silhouette swallowed slowly by the thickening shadows, like a lone wolf walking into the dark forest.
I reached out instinctively, my fingers brushing empty air.
"Hey. We can’t kill them," I called after him, voice tight with urgency.
He paused, just for a heartbeat, then glanced over his shoulder.
And for the first time since I’d found him, he smiled.
Small. Fierce. Almost painfully brave.
"Run," he said, voice quiet but resolute.
My heart twisted, sinking like a stone dropped in cold water.
As I ran, I glanced back, heart pounding out of my chest. The clowns were already rearing up like titans, towering over the broken carnival like ancient nightmares awakened. They loomed, ready to crush anything in their path.
Without hesitation, the boy charged.
His body struck them like a cannonball smashing through glass. The clowns staggered, but they didn’t fall. Undeterred, he grabbed the nearest one by the arm and dragged it, snarling, toward the gates leading to the park’s darkest quarter.
"Wait—!" I called out, breath catching.
But he was already swallowed by the encroaching shadows, disappearing into the thickening gloom.
I didn’t dare follow him. I knew that the only way to stop this farce was to travel toward its source.
And so I pushed deeper into the park alone.
With every step, the air grew heavier, thicker with decay. The once-bright colors of the rides faded into a rotting palette of ash and rust. The cheerful clangs of carnival games were replaced by eerie silence, broken only by the distant drip of something...unholy.
Stalls collapsed inward, their tents shredded like withered petals. The ground beneath my boots softened with moss and mold, cold fingers creeping up my ankles. A creeping fog wound around me like living lace, blurring the edges of the world.
And then, just ahead—
It slumped like a dying beast, its canvas faded from vibrant red-and-white stripes to the sickly hues of ash and bone.
I hesitated, the scent of damp fabric and old sorrow curling in the air.
Slowly, I stepped forward and pushed open the heavy flaps.
Inside, the shadows welcomed me like an old friend.
And there, seated calmly in the heart of the ringleader’s pit, was a man.
A sad clown—Mavus Grey.
His painted face was cracked and worn, but his eyes were sharp, alive with the cold amusement of someone who’d seen far too much.
He raised a glass, dark liquid catching what little light lingered.
"Welcome," he said, voice low, warm, and tired.
Like velvet soaked in sadness.
"Mavus Grey, at your service."