It Wore a Carnival

Author’s Note:
This was inspired by the May 9th prompt from Bradley Ramsey’s Halls of Pandemonium challenge, though I didn’t participate in the challenge. It’s another awesome prompt!

---

---

This time the trap looked like a carnival. But it didn’t always look like that. Before it had tents, it had pennants and stands. Before pennants, torches. Before torches, an altar of bones. But it always had spectacle — something people would sell their soul to see.

And there was always the Master. He’d been called many things over the ages. Master was merely the least dishonest.

I sat silently at the back of the largest tent watching the crowds begin to gather outside the ropes. My gaze kept wandering back to the wavy mirrors lining the walls where distorted versions of me watched suspiciously from the glass.

My skin was ghostly white, and giant lips were painted into a garish, red smile that felt more vicious than friendly. A rubber ball sat on my nose and squeaked when I touched it, a ridiculous little sound that made the painted smile feel even worse. Worst of all, the shoes on my feet were at least half a meter long and as wide as my head at the toes.

A clown. That’s the form I’d been given this time. The last time had been a mime. The time before that a jester. I’d enjoyed being a jester — my entire goal had been to amuse people. Their laughter had made me feel… lighter.

This clown face seemed at first like it might serve a similar purpose. But the more I looked at it, the more it felt like a threat of danger rather than the promise of laughter.

I didn’t like it. At all.

The humans began to file past the gates and fill the empty spaces, as they always did. Bright eyes and laughter filled the air. Over the next thirteen days, many would enter. Most would even leave. But a few… a few would go nowhere. Or nowhere good.

I wished they could all leave. I’d had that thought many times before. It never changed anything.

“Vaude,” the Master’s voice crawled into my ear from somewhere far beyond the tent. “It’s time.”

I closed my eyes and sighed wearily before rising reluctantly. My duty was always the same. Find the ones already hollowed out by wanting. The ones who most needed love or hope, the ones with the deepest hunger. Those with that kind of deep need were… vulnerable.

Then I had to convince them to stay — to sacrifice what they love and be repurposed for the good of the troupe. I hated it.

I didn’t always. When I’d first been assigned my task, I’d been pleased and so proud — the Master had trusted only me to recruit future members of our troupe. That was back when I still believed in our mission.

Those days were long gone. The last hints of belief in our mission faded when it had led to the First Crusade. We were told we were saving the hungry and spreading the Word. All we’d achieved was to make them hungrier for something different. Then we’d armed them.

I’d already been doubting at that point, but when the knights I’d enticed to join us were released back into the world to begin that holy war, I realized our goals had… evolved — changed into something I couldn’t even recognize anymore.

Once, several iterations past, I’d staged my own small rebellion. I’d put a ‘No Trespassing’ sign outside the ropes before opening night. When no one arrived that evening, the Master found the sign and removed it quickly.

I was punished for my insubordination — for daring to impede the will of the Master. My wings were taken that night, along with the freedoms I’d previously taken for granted. Sometimes I understood my fallen brother in a way I hadn’t when he raised his banner. But I could never speak that thought aloud.

I approached the crowds milling about the fairway, knowing that my misery was masked by the false smile painted on my face. Most people eyed me cautiously, their smiles as fake as my own, but one child approached eagerly with bright and curious eyes.

“Hi, Mr. Clown,” he said, hand reaching out to grip mine. The child had no fear. No hesitation. He held my hand in his own, and I knelt to meet his gaze. He still had a smear of mustard on his chin, and a stuffed rabbit tucked under his free arm that he hadn’t let go of even to reach for my hand.

“Hello, little one,” I trilled, my voice carrying the lilt and joy of choir bells. I always sounded that way to humans, though I’d never hated that fact as much as I did in that moment. I wanted to scare the child back to his mother, where he might be safe.

But the Master’s voice curdled in my ear, “Is the boy needy? Bring him.” As the last word ended, I felt the Master’s will take hold. I kept the child’s hand held tightly in my oversized glove as I rose, legs straightening against my will.

Rebellion had earned the removal of my freedom. I now followed the Master’s orders, regardless of my own wishes. Mortals were given true free will. We were given obedience and told it was freedom. Perhaps angels also held it once, before my brother made his choice against our Father. Now our will is free only when it aligns with our orders.

I capered along the fairway, the child giggling as he skipped on his tiptoes, like the ground itself was something to be savored. His tiny hand was swallowed by my oversized glove. I tried desperately to release it, to push him away. But instead I led him deeper toward the center — toward the Funhouse.

The child would join us — become one of our own — until he was grown. Until he had no will of his own left, no mind of his own. Then he would go out and enact the Master’s will among the mortals, fighting for the Word of our Father.

Though none of us had spoken to our Father in so long that I sometimes wondered if he still cared what we did.

When the entrance to the Funhouse loomed, the child paused and pulled away just a bit.

“Is my mother coming too?” he asked, a hint of trepidation in his small voice. I wanted to let him go. I wanted to tell him to run. Instead, I laughed — a carol of bells in an arpeggio of sheer happiness. He laughed with me, eyes brightening as he gripped my hand tighter.

And we entered through the shimmering curtain of glass beads that fed our image back to us in a million fragments. The Master waited at the center, a beautiful spider in a web of illusions and make-believe. As I approached with the child, he grew quieter.

Seeing the figure clad all in white, the boy’s steps slowed but didn’t stop as we entered the nexus. The Master was a vision of holy glory — long dark hair and large black eyes, perfectly formed limbs, and the shadow of feathered wings hovering at his back. His entire form glowed with our Father’s blessings, and being near him was a balm to any mortal spirit.

To an innocent like this one? The Master’s presence was a heated bath on a frigid night. It was chocolate and bread in a famine. It was chilled juice in the desert. The boy finally released my hand, but only to take faltering steps toward the one who waited with warmth and a welcoming smile.

I took a step toward the boy, my hand reaching out for him. The Master’s eyes speared me and pinned me in place.

“But…” I began. “The boy… he is not hollow. Not yet. He is only curious.” The Master’s fury rose from him in a shadow, and I felt it settle on me like a shroud, weighing me down. “He wants,” I struggled to push the words out. “But he doesn’t need.”

The Master’s will tightened around my bones until I felt they might break. The boy looked back at me curiously, his small face shaped by confusion. Though I fought it, I smiled wider. I raised my hand as if to wave him forward.

Then, with the last piece of myself still mine, I leaned forward and whispered, “Run.” It was the first honest command I had given in centuries.

The boy stared at me for one stunned heartbeat. Then he ran.

Behind my painted smile, I began to laugh. Not because anything was funny. Because once, laughter had made me lighter.

For a moment, and for the first time in ages, it did again.

---

‼️ If you liked this, check out my other horror stories.

---

---

---

🐒 Did this story make you roll your eyes, cough, or raise a brow? If it did, buy me a cup of existential dread and maybe I’ll write a little more.

© 2026 Jenifer Jorgenson. Yes, I wrote this. No, you can’t steal it.