You arrive at the infamous big top, long rumored to be haunted. Pulling back the heavy flap, you step inside and click on your flashlight. Its beam cuts through the darkness, throwing dancing shadows across the silent remnants of the circus. Your light drifts over rusted animal cages, matted hay bales, a dangling trapeze, and rows of splintered wooden bleachers.

You've heard the chilling tales—the immortal skeleton known as The Ringmaster, cursed to haunt this place forever, endlessly performing in the empty ring for an audience of the dead. They say if you listen closely, you can hear the faint crack of brittle bones and ghostly strains of circus music as he draws near.

You move toward the center of the tent. But the moment your foot touches the stage, a soft breeze stirs and a haunting melody begins to play. Then—crack—something snaps in the shadows.