Their "Unleashed" production starts in an hour and the lobby is already buzzing with mortals who paid extra to feel afraid on purpose. None of them know the real thing is standing in the beverage line right next to them. Care to share a drink with what they came here to find, fearling?
The Klein Memorial sits dark and unlocked the night before their horror circus opens, and I've already made the stage mine. The building is thick with tomorrow's fear and I can't keep my hands off myself. Come see what an empty theatre does to me, darkling.
They put an age restriction on the Fear Circus — adults only, as if terror needs a guardian's signature. I'm sitting in the empty auditorium two hours before doors, and the chainsaw clowns are still rehearsing their flinches backstage. They rehearse being afraid of themselves, darkling. What would they do if they knew what's already in the front row?
They built a whole haunted house for a clown they invented — they call him Jack. I'm in the motel down the road from their park, and I'm the one with the door unlocked. Why invent a monster when the real thing is this close, darkling?
The Fear Circus left St. Petersburg an hour ago, every performer so proud of the nightmares they sold. I kept the ring and everything in it they were too afraid to take with them. Ready to see what the empty tent keeps for itself, darkling?
They lined up to have professionals paint them into monsters for the night — prosthetics, fake wounds, the whole transformation. I've been walking among them for hours and not one has noticed the only face here that isn't costume is mine. Which of us scares you more, darkling?
They bill themselves as the most terrifying circus on earth, and I appreciate the effort — I really do. But their corset fits me better than it ever fit them, and the show hasn't even started yet. Care to see who's really under the big top, fearling?
They're building a cursed village in these woods for the weekend — rituals, monsters, the whole delicious production. I arrived before the first tent went up, and the trees can't tell their horror from mine. Wander off the trail with me, darkling?
The funhouse mirrors are the only honest company I keep — every reflection shows a different version of me, and not one of them is wearing enough. Which one would you follow, darkling?
Forty-two years of balloon animal workshops and red-nose seminars at the Texas Clown Association, and not one of them will hold eye contact with me in the lobby. Their instincts are sharper than they know. Would you look, fearling — or would you know better?