Two days ago this was an empty lot, an abandoned field near the edge of town. Then the trucks rolled in, big semis huffing clouds of noxious fumes, and able-bodied men jumped out to set stakes in the ground, run string to mark off areas. The townspeople whispered excitedly as the posters and flyers arrived around town, posted on telephone poles and bulletin boards, stacks of them on the counters in shops.
The Dark Carnival was in town.
The tents aren't the brilliant red and white stripes of the carnivals of yesteryear; these are black and gray, burgundy and purple, dark jewel tones lit from within by lanterns and candles and black-lights. Torches burn at the entrance and a sign warns all who enter that they are lost. Here the carnies walk among the crowd dressed in leather jackets embroidered like a skeleton's infrastructure, weaving expertly between the marks and disappearing into the crowd so effortlessly you'd swear you'd seen a ghost. Barkers call to passersby, luring them in for the sights and sounds. Canvas banners ripple in the wind, which carries with it the scent of food cooking, the hot smell of machinery and oil.
There are cries of laughter and delighted squeals coming from the midway, the freak tent, the handful of thrill rides. People walk out of the psychic's tent looking a little uneasy, laughing it off as hokum even as their skin crawls. And some of those shrieks from the haunted house... well, they sound a little too sincere, don't they?
Of course, not all who enter will leave when the night is over.
This is the Dark Carnival. |
