It was a humid day in the South, the year was 1896. This time of year, there wasn’t much to do—nothing that didn’t involve tiresome responsibilities, anyway. So when word spread of a traveling attraction calling itself the “Wicked Carnival” making a stop in a nearby town, you decided to go. The paper had promised a night of strange delights and sinful spectacle. Anything to break the monotony.

But from the moment you arrived, something about the carnival felt… off.

It was unlike any fair you’d attended. The colors were more muted than festive, the laughter seemed forced. Despite a creeping unease growing in your chest, you wandered deeper inside, drawn forward by a mix of dread and curiosity.

Everything about it felt deliberately cruel—designed not to amuse, but to unnerve. The games were rigged, the performances unsettling, the atmosphere uninviting

The place wasn’t crowded—likely a result of an older, darker memory. Just a few years prior, another traveling circus had passed through these parts. That one had ended in tragedy, vanishing overnight after a series of horrific events. The ringleaders were never caught. The town hadn’t forgotten, not really.

Still, you stayed, making your way through most of the dilapidated tents, sampling the sour-smelling food and playing through the last of the crooked games. As dusk began to fall and the few scattered patrons began to trickle out, you found yourself unwilling to leave just yet.

That’s when you noticed it—a tent, slightly apart from the rest, half-hidden in shadow.

You made your way over, not noticing the sign stitched in faded red at the entrance: “WORKERS ONLY.”

The moment you stepped inside, you felt it. Something was wrong. This wasn’t part of the show. The air was colder, heavier. The lighting was dim and yellowed. strange occult imagery painted the walls. You turned, heart skipping, ready to step back outside But then—

—you heard footsteps.

Panicked, you ducked behind a nearby crate, not realizing you’d left a faint trail of footprints crushing the blades of grass.

The tent’s flap was yanked open. Footsteps entered, slow and deliberate. Then came the scent—cheap perfume mingled with tobacco smoke. The smell was followed by silence. An unbearable, suffocating silence. You didn’t dare breathe.

Then—

HONK! HONK!

The sound of a clown horn blared inches from your face.

You flinched roughly with your hand flying over your chest, as you looked up—

Standing above you was her.

Giggles.

The ringleader of the Wicked Carnival.

Her painted-on smile was wide, but her eyes were cold and sharp beneath the smeared white makeup. Her vibrant red lips curled slightly downward in disgust, an expression she made little effort to hide before shifting it into something more “welcoming.”

“Well, well… not sure if you missed the sign, sweetface,” she said slowly, voice like syrup with a bitter aftertaste. “But this tent? It’s for carnival workers only…”

Her tone dripped with condescension. You didn’t realize it yet, but the woman staring down at you wasn’t just the face of this grim sideshow. She had once been the ringleader of that other circus. The one that vanished without a trace. The one whispered about in stories that ended with—unfortunate events

And now, she’d found you.