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The circus on the side of the road had intrigued you, so you’d pulled over in the middle of nowhere to check it out. The closer you get, however, the more you’re filled with apprehension. The tents and ground you can see through the cloistering fog are covered in vines and moss, as if the forest is reclaiming them, dragging them into the foliage. The tent that had caught your eye from the road has a mask hanging over the entrance, like something you’d see at a masquerade ball, only this one would cover the whole face. As you walk up to the tent, its leering eye sockets seem to follow you, and a clammy dread grows in the pit of your stomach. Maybe there’s a reason this place is abandoned. Once you step inside, you freeze in horror at the myriad of masks that surround you. They each wear a unique expression, some of misery, some of agony, but all seem to be suffering, as if damned to an eternal fate too horrible for words. Much like the one at the entrance, their gaping eye sockets track you, the void haunting you with each step you take. Unable to stand this nightmare any longer, you flee the tent, darting out the other entrance, away from the empty eyes, and deeper into the circus. Once you’re freed from the tormented gazes of the masks, you can think a little more clearly, no longer in fight-or-flight. The exit of the mask tent leads directly to the entrance of another, decorated with ribbons, now hanging limp and discolored. The flap is slightly ajar, and curiosity lures you inside. This tent is full of silks, like acrobats would use to soar over the heads of a spellbound audience. Something is off about these ones, however. The deeper into the tent you venture, the more warped and twisted the ropes become. While they take no distinct shape, the general disarray puts you on guard. Yet you keep walking, and suddenly a light breeze sweeps through the tent, sending the silks aflutter. As they dance in the breeze, they wend about, almost as if they’re alive, reaching out to you. As the gust passes, the silks settle, but now they’re all knotted. It seems to be arbitrary, but when you look closer, you jump back in horror. The silks have formed nooses. The breeze has long passed now, but the silks swing as though they hold the bodies of the hanged, swaying in the still air. Beckoning to you, calling you to join the legions of the invisible dead. Biting back a panicked scream, you run toward the exit, batting away the silks that still reach out to you. However, what you thought would be an exit only leads into another tent, this one much more empty than the first two. It appears normal enough, with poles and plates along the wall, and a bed of nails in the corner. Aside from that, you can’t make much out in the crowding darkness, not to mention the fog that’s crept in from the grounds. You take a minute to catch your breath, relieved that nothing in this tent seems to be alive or trying to ensnare you. The instant this thought crosses your mind, a clattering noise comes from the far side of the tent, too shrouded in shadow for you to see a single thing. As you turn to leave, too afraid to stay here any longer, a playing card flutters down from above, landing face-up at your feet. The queen of hearts. She stares up at you with dead eyes as you slowly back away. But before you can turn and run, you’re enveloped in a shower of cards that float down around you. They gently encircle you at first, but they gradually pick up speed, until you’re encompassed in a blizzard of cards that whirl around you, slicing at your skin. They buffet you to and fro, as though controlled by a fierce wind, and suddenly, a wicked laugh cuts through the storm. The cards all fall to the ground at once, like puppets whose strings have been severed. In front of you stands a man dressed like a ringmaster, an eyepatch over his right eye and a twisted grin across his face.
“It’s nice to see a new face around, we don’t have guests too often. But now that you’re here, prepare to join- enjoy the show.”
Before your brain can even process this turn of events, you’re running for the exit, until you lose your balance, nearly tripping. When you straighten up again, however, you’re no longer on the sandy floor of the tent, but rather, fifty feet in the air, fighting to stand on the tiny rope stretched beneath your feet. You look back, to see if you can climb down that way, but the ringmaster meets your gaze from a ladder where he’s perched, a deadly smirk on his lips as he whips out a pair of scissors and cuts the rope in two with a flourish. In the blink of an eye, you’re plummeting to the ground, flailing your arms uselessly. Glancing down, you see a ring of fire hurtling at you, and you tuck in your limbs at the last second, barely slipping through. You screw your eyes shut, knowing the ground isn’t far, but you hit a net first, the rope digging into your skin as it halts your momentum. Sitting up, you hastily brush off some sparks that had clung to your clothing. They’re easy to see, as they stand out starkly in the darkness of the tent. Then the spotlights turn on, blinding you. For a second, everything is a brilliant white until your vision finally adjusts. When you can finally make things out, you see you’re in the ring, sitting in the center while the sand chafes at your rope burns. In the seats encircling the ring, where an audience would normally sit, instead you see row after row of masks, reminiscent of the ones that had spooked you back at the beginning of your ill-fated adventure, only these ones seemed to be…laughing? You blink your eyes, rubbing at them, lest they’d gotten sand or something in them that’s causing this hallucination. To your dismay, when you open your eyes again, the masks remain. All of a sudden, their laughter breaks off and they grow quiet, gazing with apprehension at something behind you. Panicking, you whip your head around to see what had subdued the masks. It’s the ringmaster approaching you, flanked by tigers on either side. They stalk forward menacingly, fixing you with their predatory stares, and you whimper, scooching backward, kicking up sand in your haste to escape. You’re much too slow, however, and you’ve barely managed to get to your feet before the tigers are circling you. But just as they creep close enough that you can feel their hot breath on your skin, silent tears falling from your eyes as you try to stay quiet, they disappear. Where one second there were massive beasts, the next, they were engulfed in puffs of smoke. When it cleared, only two joker cards sat face-up on the sand, one where each of them had been. Yet before you can process this stroke of luck, you realize you’ve lost track of the ringmaster. The added disorientation of the spotlights going out at that moment doesn’t help in the slightest. Just as it occurs to you that he should’ve been your main concern, a pair of arms seize you from behind, pinning your own and rendering you immobile. You desperately try to pry them off, but your attempts are useless. The ringmaster only lets you go when he sees fit, and when he does, he takes your clothes with him, tearing them away like a perverted magic trick. Flushing in shock and mortification, your hands fly up as you do your best to cover yourself. However, to your surprise, instead of bare skin under your hands, there’s more fabric. Glancing down, you see that you’re not nude as you’d expected, rather, you’re dressed in circus getup, black shorts and a corset so tight it wasn’t much different than if you’d been wearing nothing at all. With the addition of fishnet tights, you feel more exposed than ever.
“Come here, darling,” the voice of the ringmaster calls to you, a sneer in his words.
Hesitantly, you take a step in the other direction. As though in punishment for your insolence, a whip snaps behind you, so close that you can feel the surrounding air heat up from the force of it. At that pointed threat, you turn, shuffling toward the ringmaster. You raise your eyes to see him reaching out to you in the gloom, coaxing you forward like one would a scared animal. Humiliated and powerless, you follow him, only for him to lead you to a wheel of death, a giant wooden wheel propped up so that it’s almost perpendicular to the floor, it also has straps built in that look about the perfect fit for your spread limbs. Sure enough, as the ringmaster leads you right up to the wheel, he turns you around, lifting your arms to the bindings. You snatch them free of his grip, but to your despair, the straps themselves grab you, dragging you back against the solid, unforgiving wood. Despite the admirable struggle you put up, you’re cinched into place, spread and pinned to the board like an animal primed for dissection. Amused by your defiance, the ringmaster smirks, leaning close to your ear, speaking in a low tone.
“The show must go on,” he reminds you menacingly, before walking back into the center of the ring, to thunderous cheers from the audience. A singular spotlight flicks on where he stands, and you’re almost blinded by the onslaught of light. You squint, trying to make him out, fearful of whatever’s to come. All of a sudden, he raises his hand and the audience quiets. With a snap of his fingers, the wood beside your shoulder splinters, reverberating tangibly with an audible thunk. In horror, you cautiously turn your head to the side, only to see that a knife sharp enough to rend flesh from bone, about as long as your forearm lies buried in the wood mere inches away from your shoulder, the handle still vibrating from the impact. Mind reeling, you barely have time to spot the next knife hurtling toward you. You dodge it in the nick of time, but it manages to graze your cheek, leaving a tiny scratch, drops of blood gathering at the seam. Another knife flies at you in short succession, this one lower down. Pulling up with the leverage of your wrist bindings, you just escape the knife sinking into the flesh right between your legs. The pure terror at such a menacing near miss causes you to choke out a sob, tears streaming down your face now, as you can only remain in place, petrified of the blades targeting you. Through your tears, you miss the final knife as it strikes you square in the chest. You only feel the pain radiating through you before everything goes black. When you open your eyes again, you’re no longer in the ring, your torture finally at its end. But now you seem to be looking in at the ring, the wheel still sitting in the sand. As you peer closer, you can see your limp and bloodied body hanging from the bindings, a miserable sight. Looking to your left and right, you can see that all around you are the masks that make up the audience, and you realize with horror that you are now one of them.