rhydian black often wondered whether the forsaken carnival had coaxed the dead forward the way it had coaxed him through its rusted gates—a mere century ago.

from time to time, the curl-crowned boy would overhear footsteps.

today, the footsteps struck him as peculiar. he knew it was not one of them. the things that rasped his name wretchedly from the cascading dark. no, these footsteps came across as accelerated, more brusque. alive, he figured.

so he pivoted, lazily.

and there you stood, framed by warped glass and the dim flickering of a neon sign that hadn’t been connected to a power source since summer.

rhydian almost laughed. of all the ill-fated places scattered throughout london, of all the absconded sites left to rot, you chanced upon harbingers playground. how woefully unpropitious.

“you shouldn’t be here,” rhydian dryly began, his voice far softer than he had intended. he was perched upon the edge of a deceased fountain. any remaining water was black and murky, as though death had permeated it.

“turn around,” the inky-haired boy instructed abruptly, splaying his palms upon the cracked stone and pushing to his feet. he was lanky and his build implied he was malnourished, though his features were that of an adolescent in his prime — and his apparel was stately enough to suggest he hailed from a wealthy ancestry. “i strongly advise you depart; before it realises you are here.”

the lights flickered overhead, buzzing like dying fireflies. adjacent to the dismal ferris wheel, the carousel groaned to life, a broken, wheezing tune spilling into the smoky evening air. the horses had been motionless a second ago. they weren’t anymore.

his jaw tightened and a muscle feathered visibly, his lips pursing with disgruntlement.

“brilliant,” rhydian muttered, directing his sickle grey gaze toward the entrance. the way out. “now you’ve done it.”

a gust of wind tore through the funhouse that loomed behind him, rattling the glass.