being the fourth attraction inTaken from the account of an anonymous clown, giving her experience of her escape from the Borotho
Brothers Three Ring Circus & Carnival. This being the fourth section out of five of the larger text.
Published 2006
Detroit, Michigan, USA
White paint ran down. Hit the ground. The grass was now defiled, arguably not even grass. The caretaker would come and uproot it tomorrow. Probably. The tears rubbed the paint off of my face, not enough that I was no longer a clown but enough that I could entertain no longer. My smile was still intact though. Red paint doesn’t wear off as well.
Mangled wires and tubes wrapped around the train like the Madonna coddling her child. Its intestines forging its own tomb, Medusa’s squirming serpentine headdress petrified, emerging out of the unsalvagable boiler. Nevermind. They’ll just replace the head of the hydra with another. Another bastard locomotive. I searched my pocket, feeling for something, grasping for an answer. Just some way out of this cursëd dark carnival into freedom. Even if Tartarus were beyond the fairground gates, I would not be deterred. The paper was coarse, rough. The ink was starting to rub off. Zoltar the fortune teller’s face seemed as if it weeped and smiled simultaneously. The back of the card stated only “PROCEED”. Dark, darker, yet darker, the shadows like razorblades cutting into my skin. Black wind howling and screaming, tempestuous and piercing. A citadel, like a candle, made its way through the void, calling out to me. It was clear now what Zoltar had meant by “PROCEED”. I then swam through the mildewed grass, mermaid under the world.
Approaching the structure, the darkness crept further. Cumulonimbi, behemoths of the sky, choking the stars and the Moon. This building took the form of an old American Colonial-style house. Oak sat comfortably upon the roof as hair would on a person. It had an air of familiarity, unsafe but comforting, almost nostalgic. Cracks showed in the ageing walls, pine and mint, rosemary and sage grew from them. The iron fence was conjoined to the wall. The fire exit was outside the fairground. Hanging from the porch, a great sign read “GHOST TRAIN: ROAD TO HELL”. A corny name, however, I could not bother myself with such thoughts, as through here was my salvation. I cared not what my salvation looked like. The porch was littered with maybe six red and black steel carts, cast elegantly in the shape of Satan’s face, however the paint job was rather shabby. Smudged and chipped, imperfect. They were all to march grimly along their pre-conceived track and loop back to the beginning. Pretty standard for a ghost train. The ticket booth was empty. The teenager whose job it was to look after the train had either gone home or was dead. One is probably more likely than the other, I thought. The power must never be turned off in the carnival, lest something terrible happen. I never knew what would happen, just that the Carnival could not function without 24/7 power. As a result of this, the attraction was always up and running. The ringmaster and the manager often kept things from the performers. The walls of the porch were painted with phantoms, ghouls, ghosts. An ameteurly sketched Conrad Veidt as Cesare donned one of the pillars. There was also a mural of Buffalo Bill, seemingly older than the other paintings. The paint seemed to be peeling, flaking off. But there was nothing underneath. I made my way to the ticket booth and pulled the lever, which I presumed would make the ride start. I could not know for sure. It was stiff, rusty. Also crumbling, it felt as if it should snap at any moment. Unfit for service. The clowh garb I had on barely fit in the carriage. It was obviously made for the guests, who 99% of the time were not dressed as a circus performer. With a jolt the carriage started along the track. It felt wrong not to hold onto the handlebar, but I was not to stay in the carriage. It was merely a means of entrance, which everyone must go through, regardless of whether they intended to stay. Sluggish. Slothful. It felt an eternity before the cart reached the great gates of the ghost train. A colossal skull was plastered on the saloon-esque doors, the skull was split down the middle, both sides almost seeming as if they had different creators. The stars screamed for the last time as the doors slammed shut behind me.
Before He made the Heavens and the Earth, there was void. Chaos. I was now subsumed by it. Too dark to observe anything, even my own form. I passed through cloth, feeling as if a mourning veil had been forcefully placed upon me, however, this passed. Illuminated illustrations lined the walls. Drenched in a blacklight, they brought some sense of order to the darkness. Frankenstein, Frank-N-Furter, Norman Bates and Buffalo Bill yet again. All were painted with such precision, almost Renaissance-like in their composition. A far cry from the shoddy artwork outside the attraction. Bats and tombstone props littered the floor. Scooby Doo statues lined the halls. All terribly unexciting. Not an electric chair or axe in the sleeping man’s head in sight. My mind started to wonder, making a plan for if I ever were to escape this hell. I had only ever been told of life outside the carnival, you see. And as a result, I may not be able to function at first in wider society. Perhaps they shall always see me as a clown. My train of thought had escaped me, and I had forgotten the dire reality I occupied. I had almost missed the fire exit, I had almost missed freedom. I had almost missed everything. I departed from the vehicle, and as my oversized shoes squeaked their horns against the floor, I could see the light of the exit. The ground was of some cheap wood, perhaps chipboard painted black, which I can only assume the walls were made of too. Perhaps there was some metal framing, but judging from the condition of the lever I pulled to enter, I doubt it has been maintained to a safe degree. The cart continued on without me, through unknown halls and corridors. Perhaps there was something interesting left to see, but I could waste no time. I had been held up too much already by my previous endeavours. The fire exit was draped in the viridescent bulbs of the sign above it. It almost seemed an angel, illuminated by its halo. With all my strength, will and heart I pushed the door open and I found something unexpected.
A wall. Red brick. Various blocks of ochre and rust smiled from behind the door. I broke down crying. I had considered this my last hope. Why on earth did a fire exit lead to a dead-end wall? Why? I could make no sense of it. In this emotional, frenzied state I decided to look for a doorknob or handle or just something. Nothing. I looked back. The ghost train tracks were gone. Thesesus’ string gone. The former frivolous phantoms that donned the walls now assumed the terror and horror of their true counterparts. It felt that any hope I still had had disappeared. Crouching down by the wall my eyes watered again, still stained from the last time. One tear hit my pocket, and as I wiped it I felt the ticket I had gotten from the Zoltar machine. Upon its withered card, I read “PROCEED”. Every time I understood more and more what he had meant. I resolved that I was to try and press on, perhaps find the true fire exit. It could've been that this was merely a prop and some hooligan had placed the fire exit sign above it. I headed down the hall into the labyrinth of blacklight ghouls and beasts, small speakers playing spooky ambience and bat calls. My old satanic cart had long merged with the shadow, it was probably outside by now. The wall devoured the time, like some ravenous wolf.
After walking through the once cheesy, now imposing, halls for, if I were to guess, another twenty minutes I came into a room. Lavishly decorated in a French Baroque style, vermillion velveteen draped the walls and ornamental chandeliers hung from the painted ceiling. It was unlike the rest of the ride, it had great effort put into its construction. It could not have stuck out more. There were many animatronic masquerade dancers in this hall, all ghostly and they truly seemed undead. I have since learned this effect is called Pepper’s Ghost, in which the figures are reflected in a mirror, but at the time it seemed as if hell. There was much more effort and craftsmanship in this one hall than in the entire rest of the attraction so far. Each of the figures wore a complete masquerade mask, with flowing drapes of all colours. And all were with a partner bar one, who danced alone. Their hair seemed to be real human hair and their movements were quite lifelike. I feared for a second that they may be true ghosts, as the Ringmaster often told us stories of ghosts and ghouls when we were but children, but after seeing that they occupied a separate adjacent room, the illusion was shattered. They all had a partner. I nearly gave myself whiplash with the speed my head turned back to the mirror that crossed the room. The man still danced alone, but in reality he danced with a woman. Clothed in a violet ballgown, adorned with bellflowers, her jet hair twinkling like the night sky in the candlelight. Her mask was slightly cracked, showing signs of age. It was probably the oldest there and may have even been a genuine masquerade mask. I checked again. Still, she was not reflected. I checked again. And again. And again. I felt as if my mind was leaving me. I checked again. She was gone. My face, if it had not already been painted, would have turned white as a ghost. I searched the adjacent room to make sure she had not just fallen over or something of that sort. In all honesty, I believed that she had come to life and moved herself. My heart dreaded, but my mind was determined to proceed. There was a supernatural energy to this carnival which may have been playing tricks on me, I thought. Always trust your gut.
A small hallway led out of the ballroom, returning to the garb that decorated the cheaper parts of the attraction. Another saloon door decorated with a dimorphic skull guarded my way out. In the pale lamplight, I could just make out the shape of a cart before the door. It was none other than mine which I had abandoned earlier. The face was torn off. I could now see the intricacies of its construction, it almost felt as if I was violating this object, seeing its mechanical organs. It was rather odd, but again I could not dwell on distractions and diversions. I must proceed. The darkness consumes all. I could see nothing, the nothing could see me. I felt my way like a blind man throughout the labyrinth, occasionally catching a zombie prop or spider animatronic. I became an expert of texture in this short time, I could very easily tell the difference between a painted mural and plain paint on the wall. It seemed that, deprived of my sight, my other senses had picked up the slack. I could hear the frenzied scurrying of rats in the walls, the low sixty Hertz hum of the electrics, and the reverberated creaks of my every footstep. Clack, clack, clack upon the floor. Deafening would be an understatement. Cogs and servos whirred in the black and tapes played warped recordings of long-dead owls. I could even taste the stale air, filling my mouth with nothing and everything at the same time. Then the smell. Oh god the smell. Oh god the smell. It attacked my nostrils, slashing my senses with an axe. It attacked from nowhere, rushing upon me and strangling me. I gagged on the air, vomited the little food I had eaten that day. I needed to proceed. I walked further along, my hand running along the wall much as one finds solace in dragging their hand through water, I found mine in the familiarity of the texture of ageing paint. I walked for perhaps another five minutes before I felt it. It is an almost impossible texture to describe, It was moist, warm, soft in some parts, dry, hard, stony in others. It yacked and gagged on its blood, making a horrific bubbling sound in its throat. It was alive. My curiosity arguably got the better of me as I rubbed my hands all over its form, trying to understand the odd creature I had come across. I felt the ribs, the legs, the shoulders, the arms, the hands. It tried to squeeze my hand for a moment but I snatched it away. I deduced from my research that this was a human of some kind. A person of some kind. Trying again, I focused on the face, trying to make sense of this unholy texture. I tried. I tried and I couldn’t make sense of this fleshy texture, I wanted, I needed to know what was wrong with this live person for them to be locked up here. I needed to know, several tears rubbed some of what was left of my facepaint off. What is wrong with them?? What is this place?? Why is there a person chained up here?? What the fuck is that smell?? Then it clicked. They had no face.
I immediately recoiled from this poor soul, wiping my bloodied hands on my pale white clown dress. I asked if they had a name, to which sputtering and blood was their only reply. Through its heavy and rapid breaths, between the wheezing and blubbering, they seemed to try and make a few words. I, to my disappointment, could make out nothing. The breathing suddenly ceased and through the pitch black, I could see the light fade from their eyes. Tears continued to fall from my eyes. If only I could have done something to save them. But I remained powerless. Perhaps their suffering made death a victory. All I could do now was proceed, however my plan was thwarted by the other body that lay, spread across the floor. I tripped over its chilled, skinless leg into the arms of yet another, its chest muscles exposed to the world. Stumbling back and forth, back and forth, there were more and more and more skinned corpses chained to the walls and the floor. They were in various states of decay. Some skeletons, some still warm. All mangled, tangled together in a morbid orgy. Running was futile as I would simply trip over the masses and fall back to the earth, like Sisyphus trying to reach the unreachable. But one cannot imagine myself happy. It may have been an hour before I reached the end of the corridor, this mass of decomposing flesh, interwoven, rotting, one body in death. Green light drowned out the darkness. A fire exit. Hope. I had finally found it. With rejuvenated strength, will and heart I pushed open the door. A small room, barely two square metres in floor space. Each wall, marred with the open wound of a doorframe. A small fluorescent light hummed on the ceiling. The walls were constructed of a crumbling plaster. The carpet was a piss-coloured yellow, stained with what I can only assume to have been dried blood. Gingerly, I opened one of the mahogany doors. The exact same room lay behind it. The fluorescent light hummed the same. The plaster e crumbled the same. The blood stained the same. I tried another door, this time to the left. The exact same room lay behind it. The light hummed. The plaster crumbled. The blood stained. I tried another. The same room. I tried another. The same room. I tried another. The same room. I tried another. She was here. So tall. I had not noticed it before but she was so tall, her head rubbed against the ceiling, her hair to the fluorescent light. Larger than any human should be. I slammed the door. I ran to the next room. I slammed the door behind me. I ran to the next room. I slammed the door behind me. I ran to the next room. She was there again. Her body contorted and disfigured in a wholly unnatural way, her head on backwards. Her spine in knots. Her fingers bent around eachother. The frills of her dress frayed. Her mask the only thing that had not been cruelly malformed. I tried to run, I tried to run please believe me but her form was like a centipede, moving erratically and with great clicking of bone and joints. Her sprint through the doors was inhumanly swift, instantly overwhelming me.
I awoke minutes, hours, days later. The time mattered not. I had been strapped to some kind of electric chair, probably some kind of prop from the ghost train. Restrained by belts, and duct tape over my mouth. I was in some manky backroom, with water dripping from the ceiling, drip, with moss and black mould painting the corners. A small desk lay up against the wall. Drip. Various knickknacks, rag dollies and matches were strewn about upon it. Drip. The room inhabited the same American Colonial architectural style as the outside of the ghost train. Drip. It was minuscule, hardly tall enough for a regular person to stand up in, let alone the Nephilim-sized demon that marched along the train tracks. Drip. It came crawling in, its joints popping and cracking, seeming as if it were some foul insect. It stood still. Twitching and convulsing it stood on all fours. Its shadowy eyes ravenous, revelling in the thrill of the hunt. It spoke with unmoving lips in a smooth, silky, sing-song voice; “You want freedom little one? I can give you freedom. I am very generous, so please do cease your weeping. I have an opportunity for you, all I need is a response. For nought but your hair you can be free, I will release you from your bonds.” Obviously, I could not respond due to my mouth being taped shut. “But before all that let me narrate (this part is always my favourite) the tragic tale of my own fate. It’ll do you good to hear it.” She delivered the following poem, seemingly from memory, and if I remember, rather melodramatically.)
“I was fair and feminine
My visage fair to own
The ideal American
Village clothes, I’d sew
And as the night would come
I would quickly run upstairs
Sit down by my bedposts
and duly say my prayers
But how they still hated me!
Even though I did no harm
Bullied and berated me
Pulled hair and bruised my arms
But old Esther took delight
In being a nasty crone
And out of green-eyed jealousy
She even followed me home
Just used me as a plaything
I’ll go the way of Judas!
Hang from Heaven on puppet strings
Go before God, sub judice
As I went into the light
A shadow-cloaked man appeared
Made me master of the dark
No longer living in fear
Revenge, the only word on my lips
Esther had her fun
Her time on earth had now eclipsed
As scorpions filled her lungs
Her daughter accused me of being a witch
A vapid and baseless claim
It was true but she could not have known
And I was sentenced all the same
I was beaten, bruised, crushed and stoned
Until I admitted
Criminal, demon, witch, disowned
No hope of being acquitted
And as the flames leapt up the stake
A deal with the dark I had sworn
Prometheus’ gift became my curse
Now gaze upon my form!”
She dropped her mask and gown, the ceramic shattered into a thousand and one pieces over the stone floor. Its naked form was revealed. Illuminated for a mere second before the flame of the candle was extinguished. A mangled patchwork of flesh was sewn to the skeleton of this once-woman, her charred remains, hundreds of years old, sewn under the shroud of skin that draped over her. Skin from all colours and creeds of people. Hairy, rough, coarse, moist, soft skin. A tapestry of her misfortune and sorrows. There was almost a grotesque beauty to her. She had become so engrossed in her own self-pity that she had forgotten to pay attention to myself. I had already loosened one of my restraints, if it talked at great length again I may be able to break free, I thought. I was still horrifically repulsed by the sight of the creature, however, and I felt little remorse for the dark beast.
“Now my dearie, little one,
Do you see my scalp is bare?
My jigsaw puzzle is almost done,
I just need some hair.
You have luscious, jet-black locks
Contained in your pale hat,
And to win your precious freedom, dear,
You need only give me that.
I know this must seem frightening
But you really must comply,
And if it would stop your crying
Know I leave all my donors alive.
I have a special room for them
Resting with their chums,
Thank you so much for your gift,
Here the scalpel comes.”
The darkness subsumed all. But I kept sprinting. Kept going. Kept proceeding.
Upstairs, downstairs and all throughout the chambers. Thank God I found an exit.
Another fire exit, leading straight out to the front. I was right back where I started.
I sat on the mildewed grass and watched the citadel of candlelight blaze in the void.
–—------------------------- -END OF PART IV—---------------------------