The Dark Carnival

The Dark Carnival
By Nathan Morley
9.2.2024
(My first novel)



Chapter 1: The Feast of Midnight

The town of Hollow Creek never saw the carnival arrive. One moment, the fields on the outskirts were nothing but rolling waves of dry grass under a cloudless sky. The next, the Dark Carnival was there, as if it had materialized out of thin air. Ten wagons, each painted in faded hues of crimson and black, stood in a neat line, their wooden sides weathered by countless journeys. Sixty horses, black as the night, stood tethered nearby, their eyes gleaming with a strange, unsettling intelligence. It was as if the carnival had been there all along, waiting for the right moment to make itself known.

The first sign that something was amiss came when the clowns appeared in town. They seemed harmless enough at first—colorful, lively figures who moved through the streets with exaggerated gestures and wide, painted smiles. The children were the first to notice them, their laughter ringing out as the clowns juggled, danced, and handed out candy. It was a fun, happy occasion, a rare break from the monotony of daily life. But for those who looked closely, there was something off about the clowns. Beneath the bright paint and cheerful antics, there was a glint in their eyes, a ting of something dark and malevolent that sent a shiver down the spine of anyone who dared to meet their gaze for too long.

The clowns moved from house to house, from shop to shop, inviting everyone to the evening’s festivities. They spoke in soft, lilting tones, their voices smooth and persuasive, drawing people in with promises of wonders beyond their wildest dreams. “Come, come,” they said, their smiles never faltering, “The Dark Carnival has arrived, and tonight, you will witness marvels that will leave you breathless with delight.”

The townsfolk, entranced by the spectacle, followed the clowns to the edge of town, where the carnival awaited. They didn’t question how the clowns had appeared so suddenly, nor did they wonder why they felt a strange unease as they approached the carnival grounds. They were too caught up in the excitement, too eager to experience the magic that had been promised to them.

Opitus Marr, the Ring Master, stood at the entrance to the carnival, his tall figure framed by the setting sun. He welcomed the townsfolk with open arms, his smile as wide and inviting as the clowns. Marr was a sight to behold a man of elegance and danger, his long black hair falling in waves over his shoulders, a scar running through his right eye, giving him an air of mystery. He wore a top hat perched jauntily on his head, and his striped red and black suit shimmered faintly in the fading light. In his hand, he held his wand, a slender staff of dark wood topped with a glass orb that pulsed with an eerie, inner glow.

As he spoke, spinning tales of wonder and delight, Marr’s mind drifted back to the day he had made the pact that had changed everything. He had been a young man then, full of ambition but with nothing to show for it. The carnival had been failing, its tents empty, its performers listless. Marr had been desperate, willing to do anything to save it. And then he had come, the stranger with eyes like embers and a voice that seemed to echo with the whispers of the damned. Marr hadn’t hesitated when the stranger offered him power, offered to make his carnival the most famous in the land. All it had cost was his soul, and the souls of those who followed him.

But what a price it had been. Marr had seen his performers transformed into twisted versions of their former selves, their humanity stripped away piece by piece until all that remained were the monstrous beings that now served him. He remembered the first time he had watched them devour a town, the thrill that had coursed through him as he realized the power he held over life and death. It had been intoxicating, addictive. Now, as he looked out at the crowd, at the faces eager and trusting, he felt nothing but satisfaction. They were his to take, his to consume, and they would never know what hit them until it was too late. This was his purpose now, his reason for existing. The carnival was his, and it would feed on the unsuspecting for as long as he willed it.

As the townsfolk spread out across the carnival grounds, there was a momentary hesitation, a pause in their excitement as they took in the scene before them. The wagons, though brightly painted, seemed to cast long, dark shadows that stretched out across the grass, swallowing the light. The air, which had been filled with the sweet scent of popcorn and cotton candy, now carried a faint, almost imperceptible smell of decay, like the scent of something long dead, buried deep beneath the earth. It was the kind of smell that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up, though you couldn’t quite place why.

Nimrod Scur, the Carnival Producer and Marr’s second in command, moved among the crowd with a grace that belied his hulking form. His bald head gleamed in the dim light, and his almond-shaped eyes darted about, taking in every detail, every potential weakness. He was dressed in a tuxedo, his clothes immaculate, his demeanor refined, but beneath the surface lay a mind as sharp as a blade, a mind that thrived on the suffering of others. As he whispered in the ears of those who lingered, his English accent soft and soothing, he felt a thrill of anticipation run through him.

Scur had once been a man of great intellect, a scholar who had sought knowledge above all else. But that pursuit had led him down dark paths, to forbidden texts and rituals that had opened doors best left closed. When Marr had found him, Scur had already lost everything—his career, his reputation, even his sanity. Marr had offered him a way out, a chance to rebuild, to reclaim the power he had once wielded. But the price had been steep, and Scur had paid it gladly. Now, as he moved among the townsfolk, he relished the fear that flickered in their eyes, the way their bodies stiffened under his gaze. These people were nothing more than cattle, their lives insignificant in the grand scheme of things. They existed only to serve the carnival, to feed the darkness that he and Marr had embraced so completely.

As the night deepened, the clowns continued to mingle with the townsfolk, their antics growing more and more erratic. What had once been playful jabs and exaggerated gestures now seemed almost menacing, their movements jerky and disjointed. One of the clowns, a tall figure with a face painted in garish reds and whites, leaned down to a small boy who was laughing at the spectacle. The clown’s grin stretched unnaturally wide as he whispered something into the boy’s ear. The boy’s laughter faltered, his smile fading as a flicker of fear crossed his face, but before he could react, the clown had straightened up and moved on, leaving the boy standing alone, his eyes wide and uncertain.

Nearby, a mother pulled her daughter closer as they passed a booth where Craven, the skeletal Gamekeeper, watched them intently. The mothers heart raced as she noticed his eyes, hollow and predatory, tracking their every move. She quickened her pace, her grip tightening on her daughters hand, but the sense of dread lingered, settling in the pit of her stomach like a lead weight.

At the shooting gallery, a young man tried to win a prize for his sweetheart, his focus on the targets as Ash, the pale Gamekeeper, loaded the rifle. But as the man took aim, a chill ran down his spine. He glanced at Ash, whose trembling hands seemed eager, too eager, to hand him the weapon. The young man hesitated, a cold sweat breaking out on his forehead as he took the gun, feeling its unnatural coldness against his skin. The sensation made him uneasy, but he pushed the feeling aside, desperate to impress his date.

Across the grounds, an elderly man shuffled toward one of the wagons, drawn by a faint, rhythmic creaking that seemed to emanate from within. His curiosity battled with a growing sense of unease, but before he could decide whether to approach or turn back, the wagon groaned as if in response, and he felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. His heart pounded in his chest, the sound almost drowning out the eerie creaking. But something in him—perhaps a remnant of long-forgotten instinct—made him stop short. He glanced around, suddenly aware of how far he had wandered from the lights and the people, and how the shadows seemed to stretch longer, darker than they should.

The Slaves the Zombies worked tirelessly, their flat, expressionless faces betraying nothing as they handed out tickets, collected money, and guided the townsfolk to the various attractions. They were the remnants of those who had come before, those who had stayed too long and paid the ultimate price. They still looked human, but their eyes were dead, their souls long since consumed by the carnival. They moved through the crowd with a mechanical precision, their hands outstretched, waiting for the coins that would seal the fate of those who gave them.

Raze and Ruin, the acrobats, flew through the air with a grace that was mesmerizing to behold. The brother and sister moved as one, their bodies twisting and turning in perfect synchrony, their every movement calculated to draw the eye, to distract from the darkness that lurked beneath the surface. They were beautiful, deadly, their smiles wide and inviting, their eyes cold and calculating. And when they spotted someone who had begun to suspect, someone who

had seen through the facade, they would strike with a speed that left no time for screams, their hands as deadly as any blade.

As the night wore on, a subtle shift began to creep through the carnival. The lights dimmed, not suddenly, but gradually, so slowly that the townsfolk hardly noticed. The music, once lively and cheerful, took on a slower, more discordant tone, the notes dragging out just a little too long. The air grew thicker, heavier, and with it came a growing sense of unease. The townspeople began to glance around, their smiles faltering as they noticed the changes. What had seemed charming and whimsical now felt wrong, twisted in some way they couldn’t quite define.

A few of the more perceptive among them started to feel the stirrings of fear. A mother clutched her child’s hand a little tighter as they passed one of the clowns, its grin now seeming more like a snarl. A young couple exchanged worried glances as they stepped away from a game booth, the laughter of the Gamekeeper following them, echoing in their ears long after they had walked away. An elderly man, his steps slowing as he moved deeper into the carnival, felt a chill run down his spine as he passed one of the wagons, its wooden sides creaking as if something inside was trying to break free.

But there were a few—those who had wandered too far from the center, those who had seen the clowns’ eyes gleam with malice, those who had felt the cold breath of fear on the back of their necks—who began to realize that something was very wrong. They looked around, eyes wide, hearts pounding, as the carnival transformed before their very eyes. The joy that had once filled them was gone, replaced by a gnawing dread that tightened like a vise around their throats. They tried to leave, to slip away before the darkness could consume them, but the carnival had them now, and it wasn’t about to let them go.

And then, the clock struck midnight.

In that instant, the carnival revealed its true form. The wagons groaned and creaked as their sides split open, revealing rows of sharp teeth, their once-welcoming entrances now gaping maws ready to consume. The horses reared back, their eyes glowing with a malevolent light, their breath coming in short, sharp bursts that filled the air with a thick, sulfurous mist. The tents, once filled with laughter and joy, now loomed like monstrous beasts, their peaks disappearing into the darkness above, their sides rippling with an unnatural energy.

The townspeople’s reactions were immediate and visceral. The mother, who had held her daughter close, now screamed as the clown lunged at them, its painted smile stretching into a hideous grin. She pulled her daughter behind her, shielding the child with her own body as she desperately searched for a way out. But there was none. The clown’s hands closed around her shoulders, its grip iron-tight as it dragged her toward the waiting maw of a nearby wagon.

The young man at the shooting gallery dropped the rifle, his heart hammering in his chest as he backed away from Ash, who now stood motionless, his pale lips curling into a twisted smile. The young man turned to run, but his feet felt like lead, his legs refusing to move as fear rooted him to the spot. He barely had time to scream before the Gamekeeper was upon him, the last thing he saw the glint of a blade as it flashed in the dim light.

The elderly man, who had felt the stirrings of dread, now found himself face-to-face with one of the wagons as it split open, revealing rows of jagged teeth. He stumbled backward, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he tried to flee, but his legs gave out beneath him, sending him sprawling to the ground. He scrambled backward, his hands clawing at the dirt, but the wagon loomed closer, its mouth opening wide to consume him whole.

Opitus Marr stood at the center of it all, his staff raised high above his head, the glass orb at its tip glowing with a blinding light. His smile was gone, replaced by a look of pure, unbridled hunger. As the carnage unfolded around him, Marr couldn't help but reflect on the journey that had brought him here. He had started as a mere showman, a man with dreams of fame and fortune. But now, he was something more a harbinger of doom, a master of a dark art that only he understood. This was his legacy, his mark on the world, and it was glorious.

Nimrod Scur watched from the shadows, his sharp eyes taking in every detail of the massacre. He had once been a man of logic, of reason, but the power that came from this darkness, this carnage, was beyond anything he had ever imagined. He felt a twisted satisfaction as he watched the townsfolk fall, one by one, to the horrors that he and Marr had unleashed. This was where he belonged, in the heart of the storm, guiding it, feeding it, reveling in the chaos it created.

Raze and Ruin swooped down from above, their hands slashing through the air, cutting down those who tried to flee. Grill, Snap, and Whisp worked with a precision that spoke of years spent preparing for this moment, their hands moving with a speed that left no room for escape. Craven, Dread, Mire, Ash, Rictus, Sallow, Gore, and Vex feasted on the flesh of those who had dared to linger too long, their teeth sinking into flesh and bone with a sickening crunch.

And through it all, Marr watched, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction as the town was consumed, its people devoured by the very carnival they had welcomed with open arms. The feast was glorious, a symphony of screams and blood, a celebration of the darkness that lay at the heart of the carnival.

When the last scream had faded, when the last drop of blood had been spilled, the carnival began to move again. The wagons closed their mouths, the horses calmed, and the tents folded back into themselves, leaving nothing but the faintest trace of what had transpired. The carnival slipped away as silently as it had come, leaving the town empty, its streets deserted, its buildings crumbling, as if it had been abandoned for years.

In the silence that followed, an eerie stillness settled over the town. The echoes of the screams, the scent of blood, all seemed to hang in the air, lingering like a dark cloud that refused to dissipate. The ground where the carnival had stood was barren, the grass scorched and blackened as if something unnatural had taken root there. The townsfolk, or what was left of them, were nowhere to be seen, swallowed by the earth, by the darkness, by whatever malevolent force had driven the carnival to this place.

And as the Dark Carnival vanished into the night, Marr smiled, knowing that there would always be another town, another feast, another opportunity to revel in the darkness that he had brought into the world. The carnival would continue, unstoppable, unrelenting, until the day someone had the courage, the strength, to break his staff and end the nightmare once and for all.

But until that day came, the Dark Carnival would roam, a beautiful, terrifying, mesmerizing force of evil, feeding on the unsuspecting, and leaving nothing but darkness in its wake.

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