Page 1 of Carnival Shadows

1

EDEN

Iadjust my microphone, ensuring perfect positioning before hitting the record button. The red light blinks to life in my pristine home studio, all sleek whites and grays with perfect acoustic padding. Not a single item is out of place.

“Welcome back to Shadow Stories. I’m Eden Love, and today, we’re diving into the chilling case of the Copper Creek Killer. In 1985, a small mining town in Montana became the hunting ground for one of America’s most methodical predators...”

My voice flows smoothly thanks to years of vocal training and practice. Each word is precisely enunciated, and each pause is carefully timed for maximum impact. The subscribers love my measured, analytical approach. There is no sensationalism, just facts wrapped in psychological insight.

I lean forward, letting intensity creep into my tone. “What made Thomas Reid’s crimes particularly fascinating was his meticulous documentation. Every victim’s final moments were cataloged with an accountant’s precision. Their fear became data points in his twisted ledger.”

The true crime community can’t get enough of my deep dives into criminal psychology. My social media numbers grow daily,academic papers get cited, and the speaking invitations pile up. I’ve crafted this image carefully, ensuring I am a polished professional who can stare into darkness without flinching.

My fingers trace the edge of my desk as I continue narrating Reid’s descent into madness. Nobody sees the boxes hidden in my closet, filled with letters from incarcerated killers. Or the artifacts I’ve collected—a fork used by Richard Ramirez, a piece of John Wayne Gacy’s clown costume.

“The question that haunts investigators today is why Reid chose copper miners specifically. Was it the isolation of their profession? Or did it represent something deeper from his past?”

My heart quickens as I delve into his psychological profile. I live for this: dissecting these predatory minds and understanding their drive and compulsions. My listeners think it’s academic interest. They don’t know how the darkness of each psychopath calls to my own. While I may not act on my own compulsions, nothing says I can’t live vicariously through theirs.

“And so the Copper Creek Killer remains in Montana State Prison, where he continues to refuse interviews—except for a cryptic letter he sent to law enforcement last year, hinting at the possibility that there are more undiscovered victims. I’m Eden Love, and you’ve been listening to Shadow Stories. Join me next week when we explore the brutal home invasions that terrorized suburban Chicago in the summer of 1992.”

I hit stop on the recording, stretching my arms above my head. Another episode is complete. I quickly check the recording, ensuring that the audio quality is perfect. There is no background noise or awkward pauses to edit out.

It’s time to dive into research for future episodes. I pull up my special browser, routed through multiple VPNs, and log into my favorite dark web forums. These spaces house the real treasures—unfiltered discussions about active cases, tips frompeople too scared to go to the police, and rumors that never make it to mainstream media.

A new thread catches my eye: “Carnival of Death?” The original poster details a pattern they’ve noticed—clusters of missing person cases that follow the route of a traveling carnival across multiple states. They’ve mapped out disappearances spanning the last three years.

I scroll through their evidence: newspaper clippings, police reports, and desperate posts from family members searching for loved ones. When I fact-check the information offered, I find that the carnival’s schedule lines up perfectly with the timeline of the disappearances.

I open my research document and take notes, my fingers flying across the keyboard. This could be something big—the story that could take Shadow Stories to the next level. Not just historical cases but an active investigation.

The forum thread grows more intriguing with each post. Someone claims they worked at the carnival briefly and noticed strange behavior from some permanent staff. Another shares photos of the carnival’s distinctive red and gold tents in various locations, matching the dates of reported disappearances.

I need to know more. I pull up the carnival’s website, searching for their upcoming schedule.

My breath catches as I scan the schedule. They’ll be setting up just an hour away next week. What are the odds? A potential serial killer case right in my backyard.

I close my laptop and pull out my leather-bound journal from the hidden compartment in my desk drawer. The rich scent of paper fills my nose as I flip past entries, each page filled with my handwriting meticulously documenting each confession, every stage of death that nurtures my fascination with darkness.

Today’s entry flows from my pen:

I watched a man die today. Not in person, of course—just another video sent by one of my “fans” in law enforcement. The way his eyes glazed over in those final moments... There’s something hypnotic about that transition from life to death. The exact second when consciousness slips away.

My viewers think I’m fascinated by the psychology and the “why” behind murder. They don’t understand that what draws me in is the “how.” The mechanics of death. The subtle changes in skin color, the final twitches, the last desperate gasps.

Sometimes, I wonder what it would feel like to be there in person. To witness that moment up close, to feel the pulse slow beneath my fingers. Not to cause it —I’m not a monster. But to observe, document, understand...

Dr. Harrison says my “academic interest” in death is a healthy way to process trauma. Would he still think I’m processing if he could read these pages? Or would he see the shadows that make me what I am?

The collection grows. Another letter from the Sunset Strangler arrived today. He included a thread from his prison uniform. It joins the other pieces in my treasured archive of death and darkness. Each item thrums with energy, withhistory. Sometimes, I fall asleep holding them, dreaming of the moments they witnessed.

I close the journal, running my fingers over its worn cover. My public face is a mask—polished, professional, detached. These pages hold my truth.

2

EDEN

As I walk through the carnival entrance, the evening air carries the sweet scent of cotton candy and caramel apples. My press badge hangs around my neck—a perfect cover for observing without raising suspicion. The carnival sprawls across the fairgrounds, red and gold tents casting long shadows in the setting sun.

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