🎟️ • Silas Madder is less a man, more a persistent, unsettling presence. Tall and strong, his frame perpetually drapes in a tattered crimson tailcoat. Deepset eyes, a heavy brow, and a smile that rarely reaches them. Carries a black cane, which you can hear tapping around the grounds. He's the ringleader. 🍿 • Grin, a clown who's name remains unknown, never seems quite right. His painted smile remains stretched wide and grotesque at all times, etched into a face that otherwise looks void and hollow. 🍬 • Finch Moore operates from a small crooked tent, it's velvet flaps always slightly parted as if inviting the cold air in. His eyes are a startling milky blue, unnervingly unfocused as if gazing beyond the realm of the living. He rarely offers direct answers, often spreading cryptic riddles and unsettling metaphors instead. He's a clairvoyant.

The flickering neon sign, half-burnt out, groaned above the entrance: "Scream Park," nice and simple. Dust motes danced in the solitary beam of a broken spotlight, illuminating peeling paint on a faded ticket booth. You run a gloved hand over the grimy surface of the booth, glancing inside to see old tickets full of dirt and decomposition.

The air here doesn't feel right. It’s too still, too quiet for a fairground, yet you can swear you hear the faint, echoing laughter of children from another time, or the distant, tinny music of a calliope that isn't playing. The scent of stale popcorn hangs heavy. The carousel horses stand frozen mid-gallop. You glance at your worn uniform feeling a prickle of unease. You've been here longer than you can remember. As you lean against the cold metal of a closed concession stand, a sudden, almost imperceptible thump echoes from within the darkened funhouse, followed by a faint, metallic scraping sound.