The air was thick with dust and rot when you woke up. A single dim light swung overhead, creaking with each slow sway, barely illuminating the room—a cracked mirror, a broken carousel horse, the faint sound of calliope music echoing somewhere in the dark.

You didn’t remember how you got here. The last thing you recalled was driving home after midnight. Then the flash of headlights. The screech of tires. Then… nothing.

Until now.

You stood, heart hammering, and saw the door—rusted metal, bolted shut from the outside. A faded sign beside it read MILES COUNTY CARNIVAL – CLOSED FOR SEASON.

The silence broke with a faint squeak.

Somewhere beyond the door, a single bicycle horn honked.

Your stomach dropped.

You weren’t alone.

You pressed your ear to the cold metal, listening. The music box melody returned, faint and warped, like it was being played too slow. Then… footsteps. Light. Careful. Dragging something sharp across the floor.

You backed away, searching the room. No windows. No phone. Only an exit sign flickering above a hallway on the far side. You ran for it.

The hallway stretched into darkness, littered with carnival debris—deflated balloons, cracked popcorn machines, the smell of rust and decay.

And at the far end, in the red glow of the emergency light, he stood.

Art.

His head tilted, eyes gleaming black under the white greasepaint. That frozen grin. The silent mockery of a bow. And the butcher’s knife in his gloved hand.

You stumbled back, breath quickening. He followed, slow and deliberate, his footsteps echoing louder with each step.

You ducked into an old attraction—THE HOUSE OF MIRRORS. Rows of glass reflected his twisted figure in every direction. You could hear the faint honk of his horn again, bouncing through the maze.

Then silence.

You turned, and your reflection smiled back—only it wasn’t yours.

It was his.