Page 62 of Chaos Carnival

Tess

Thestrandswhisperedanddanced as I made my way through the abandoned fairgrounds. Everything felt wrong here—the air too thick, the shadows too deep, as if reality itself was rotting from the inside out. But the chords liked it. They sang twisted songs about fear and power and things that lurked in dark places, their melody harmonizing with my transformation.

Construction equipment sat idle, half-assembled tents looming like sleeping giants. The big top was already up, its striped surface writhing with shadows that shouldn't exist in broad daylight. The webs showed me echoes of what would happen here—screams and blood and transformation—and I found myself swaying to the rhythm of future horrors, eachvision more stunning than the last. The air rippled like a fever dream, showing me the carnival as it would be: a feeding ground for nightmares.

“Pretty, isn't it?”

I spun around, my heart leaping into my throat. But there was no one there. Just the wind playing tricks, or maybe the threads playing tricks. It was getting harder to tell the difference.

I kept walking, drawn deeper into the maze of partially constructed attractions. Each step felt like moving through honey, the universe bending and warping around me. The chords were getting excited now, whispering faster, showing me flashes of possible futures that made my head spin.

Something was different about this place. The magic here wasn't just dark, it was hungry. I could taste it on my tongue, bitter and metallic like old pennies. Like blood.

A raven watched me from atop a half-built ticket booth, its eyes too intelligent to be natural. “You shouldn't be here,” it seemed to say, though its beak never moved.

Movement rippled through the half-constructed carnival. The wooden bones of a Ferris wheel creaked, though no wind stirred the oppressive air. From the corner of my eye, children darted between stacks of lumber, their laughter echoing strangely before they vanished like smoke.

A woman in a faded dress from another era stumbled past, clutching her throat as darkness writhed around her like hungry eels. She opened her mouth in a silent scream, and shadows poured down her throat, filling her cavity. She dissolved into nothing, leaving behind only the acrid taste of terror.

In the same spot, a carnival worker hammered nails into fresh planks, each strike echoing through multiple dimensions until time itself began to bleed. The sound of boots crunching gravel snapped me back to the present.

Ivan.

I leaned against cold metal, trying to slow my breathing as his heavy footsteps drew closer. The wraithshade's energy made the air thick, syrupy with malevolence. Dark tendrils reached around corners, tasting the air like serpents' tongues, leaving trails of decay in their wake. Each tendril carried whispers of ancient hunger, promises of endless suffering that made the currents dance with delight.

I laughed, a quiet and breathy sound.

Slipping behind a half-built carousel, my shoes stayed silent on sawdust. Twisted metal horses cast strange shadows, their painted eyes following my movement. One of them winked.

The webs pulled me left just as Ivan's shadow fell where I'd been standing.

It was amusing to me, cavorting with death, for some reason. The strands knew the steps, showed me where to move, when to hide.

But Ivan was hunting now, moving with predatory grace as he stalked between the attractions. The wraithshade's hunger pressed to my skin like ice.

I ducked behind a stack of lumber just as his heavy boots came into view. This was exciting, like dancing with an apex predator, knowing one misstep meant death. The threads wove patterns of possible endings around me—some beautiful, some terrible, all fascinating. I could taste his frustration as he stalked past my hiding spot, his anger like burnt sugar and fresh blood.

My heart pounded but glee bubbled up in my throat, mad and musical. I clamped my hand over my mouth, but too late.

The footsteps paused.

“Come out, come out,” Ivan's voice rasped, closer now, his words leaving trails of ink in the air.

I slipped behind a carnival game booth as he turned, the weavings’ merciless choreography showing me exactly where to move, to stay just beyond death's grasp. They paintedhis movements in crimson and umbra, each potential future branching like veins of despair.

Another sound escaped me, high and broken. The lines found this hilarious—the mighty Ivan, stumbling around while his prey danced just beyond his reach, each near-miss making them sing with dark delight.

“I know you're here, little girl,” he called out, his voice an uncanny echo. “I can smell your magic.” The wraithshade's essence leaked from his words like tar.

He was getting closer, drawn by the sound of my laughter. The wraithshade's hunger pressed to my senses like teeth, making the filaments sing with dark anticipation. They showed me countless ways this could end—most in blood, all in beauty.

My feet carried me across the uneven ground, the threads showing me where to step, each footfall landing in spaces between seconds. Such pretty tendrils, all twisted up like licorice ropes, like bloody ribbons, like nooses made of starlight. This place needed me. It sang songs of transformation and terror and beautiful broken things, and oh, how I wanted to sing along.

I slipped into a dark tent that tasted of rust and forgotten screams, filled with shadowy equipment that seemed to breathe. The musty air whispered secrets, and oh, the streams loved secrets. They showed me what this place could be—a temple of controlled chaos, a sanctuary of sacred fear, where nightmares could dance and feed my handsome savage seraphim. Not Ivan's crude harvest. No no no. This belonged in our hands, where we could shape terror into art.

The ravens know,I thought giddily as heavy footsteps approached, each step making the air ripple like disturbed water. The ravens always know. I bit down hard on my lip to keep from laughing, tasting copper-bright blood that made the streams dance faster, weaving patterns of prophecy and destruction.

Ivan's massive silhouette filled the doorway, bringing with it a wave of ancient hunger. The wraithshade's energy made everything taste like dirt and rust and dying stars, like the space between heartbeats. “I can feel you in here, little girl,” he growled, his voice carrying echoes of every scream he'd ever harvested.

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