The Funhouse

1 – When things got weird

The mirror showed a reflection that wasn’t my own. Not to say it didn’t look familiar, but the image was wrong. It certainly wasn’t reflecting the truth of my world. The doppelganger standing in front of me looked pale as death; perhaps he was dead. Thin red streaks of blood traveled down his cheeks, pooling in the corners of his insane smile. The walls behind the thing masquerading as me were moving, crawling to be more precise. With what I did not know. My skin crawled at the thought of what could be moving in the shadows. The doppelganger, for that is all I could think of calling the figure in the mirror, watched me with his eyes. It moved as I did but with slower, jerky movements that gave me goosebumps. This had to be a trick, an illusion to frighten my mind. That’s what these carnival funhouses are for, right? Putting one on edge, tricking them, confusing their senses. Well, it was certainly working on me. I tried to find my way out, but every turn was just another mirror. One mirror depicting me as skinny and tall, the next mirror, short and fat. Those were the things one, me included, expected to see here. But then I would pass a mirror that showed nothing but my shadow, and then, once again, my evil doppelganger would appear with that smile. I was starting to panic at the thought of being trapped in this funhouse. If a place was ever ill named, this was it. When did things get so weird? That seemed like an easy enough question, but when I thought back on everything that had happened since I had arrived at the carnival, I wasn’t so sure. I couldn’t say when things turned, it didn’t matter now. It was too late by my reckoning, too fucking late.

The fair food was typical, nothing special as far as fair food goes. The games were all the classics, ring toss, shooting games, ball throwing etc. The rides were the same as any other carnival, the Ferris wheel, the scrambler, and a good enough roller coaster. And of course, every fair or carnival staple: The funhouse (or something similar). But now that I thought back, there were things that just seemed.... off. It was a man in the bathroom that had first made an impression on me. I thought the man was just drunk, but upon revisiting the memory, I had second thoughts.

I was alone, or at least I thought I was alone. But about halfway through what was up until then an enjoyable piss, I heard a terrible thud in the stall next to me.

“Get it out, please just get out. Oh god, pleaaaase,” the last word was prolonged and filled with agony.

More thudding. More pleading. The man endlessly pleaded, with whom? I surely couldn’t say. I left the bathroom quickly and without washing my hands. Perhaps I should have checked on him. Perhaps his pleading was the result of pain rather than too much booze. Perhaps he was already dead, and I would be joining him shortly. Perhaps it was all a dream. But I knew it wasn’t, because I was still awake.

A man dressed all in white swam to the forefront of my mind, another memory that had been nagging at me since I had arrived at the carnival. He was a chef, or perhaps a baker. He wore a chef jacket with an apron tied around his waist and he was quite jolly. But as has been the case throughout the day, he just wasn’t right. His apron was covered in what looked like blood, but surely it couldn’t be blood, at least that’s what I thought at the time. It was most likely jam or some kind of sauce. Surely that was it. He was talking animatedly to another man in a chef jacket. This man, in contrast, was very clean. As they ended their conversation, the first man took off his apron covered in what was surely jam and gave it to the second man, who laughed and took the apron gladly. Now dwelling on the thought, I was sure it was not jam, or a sauce. Indeed, I was sure now more than ever that it was blood. Something happened or was happening that I couldn’t explain. I didn’t know what in the hell was going on, but I knew I needed to get out of that place.

I couldn’t take it anymore and I finally snapped. I lashed out angrily at the mirrors, kicking and punching in every direction. The mirrors broke, one after another. There was mad laughter filling the funhouse, mad laughter mixed with a shrill scream, and I didn’t know which was me and which was my doppelganger. When the last mirror was no more than shards on the ground, silence filled the air. I was breathing heavily, and my hands were shaking uncontrollably. Miraculously, I had no cuts or scratches. I slowly made my way out of that evil hall of mirrors, the glass crunching beneath my feet. I didn’t look down for fear that my distorted doppelganger would still be following me as I walked. Finally, I made it out of the hellhouse and into the cool air outside. Unfortunately, my relief was destined to be short-lived.

2 – Family fun

When I arrived at the carnival, there were families enjoying the warm fall air. There were teenagers laughing or running away to quiet corners to do what teenagers do. People were smiling, people were happy. But now, as I caught my breath and surveyed the scene in front of me, I felt as though the funhouse might not be that bad of a place to hide. I could just turn around and go back into the funhouse, find some dark hidden corner and hide out until morning. Hide until someone who could help me showed up. Surely, if I did not come home or show up for work tomorrow, someone would eventually come to find me. However, it was too late for that. One quick glance was enough to tell me that the closed door behind me was no longer an option, my only choice was to go forward.

As I walked, I knew this was not the same carnival I left when I entered the funhouse. This was eerie and dark; it was unnerving and scary. I hadn’t noticed clowns when I arrived but there were clowns now. Sick clowns with frowning faces, scab covered skin, and balloons made of what looked like intestines. I wanted to vomit but the thought of drawing attention to myself proved to be more powerful. I moved past the sick clowns towards the games. This was worse, much worse. One of my favorite things to do at any fair was to play the high striker strength testing game. What I saw in front me now was a macabre version with a person strapped to the top, replacing the bell. It also seemed easier to win, as the man atop the contraption screamed every few seconds as the puck struck home. Stepping back in horror, I abruptly came to a stop against another booth with a game that turned out to be the worst sight yet. Laying atop a table was a man, he was mumbling constantly and hitting the back of his head on the table he was laying on. Grouped around the poor soul were what looked like children. But they too were not right. They had pale skin, dark and sunken eyes, and yellow jagged teeth. They were all looking at the man with gleeful anticipation.

“Please, get it out, help me get it all out,” the man was repeating.

It was the man from the bathroom, the man I should have checked on. By the time I read the sign above the booth, it was already happening.

‘Grab Guts’

As I read the name on the sign, the man on the table started screaming. I looked down, and I regretted the action. I stood watching slack-jawed and dumbstruck as those kids plunged their hands into the man’s stomach and chest. I stood unable to move, to speak, to even think. I stood there as they pulled handfuls of the man’s insides out of his body and threw them into piles behind them. When they were done, each pile was weighed, and a winner was announced to loud cheers and laughter. The winner’s arm was raised in a fist of triumph, blood still trickling down and dripping at their feet. I ran. I ran in the first direction I turned and didn’t stop until I arrived at the food court. Not that I was hungry. But it was in the direction of the exit, and I desperately needed the exit.

3 – The best BBQ I ever tasted

I shouldn’t have been hungry, the things I had witnessed, the throbbing pain that had developed in my head, and the fact that I finally succumbed and vomited in some bushes nearby should have dispelled any notion of hunger. Yet, as I entered the food court a smell struck me, and my belly rumbled. It was familiar, but also new. It was barbecue, but it somehow smelled better than anything I had ever smelled before. I wandered towards the booth, I was trying to fight the urge but also, not. Before I knew what was happening, I had ordered, and I was sitting at a table with a pulled pork sandwich and a beer in front of me. I looked at the food sitting in front of me, and I knew once again that something was not right here. Like everything else, something about it just seemed off. Perhaps less obvious, but no less unsettling. Of course, looking back, I should have read the sign. But at the moment, all I could think about was the food, and I ate. It was good, more than good if I’m being honest. And I feel all the more shame for it. When I finally had the wherewithal to finally look at my surroundings, I wanted to vomit all over again. I probably would have if my mind had time to process the horrors it was being confronted with. Instead, it was one horror after another until it became too much.

Menu

Pulled long pork sandwich

Long pork belly

Deep fried American man oysters (w/ dipping sauce of your choice)

Crispy skin (w/ or w/o cheese)

Bone stock soup

Dessert

Lady fingers (w/ or w/o painted nails)

Brain Sherbert

Things went fuzzy and the world seemed to pitch over to one side. I lurched forward, trying to grip anything I could to keep myself from falling over. If I passed out now, I’d probably be on the menu next. It was hard to breathe but I kept moving forward. Unfortunately, it was in the wrong direction.

I was being watched by more and more of the weirdos as I stumbled through the carnival. I had stopped caring; I had just one goal and that goal was to get the fuck out of that place. In my mind it was all about survival, I was going to leave that place and I would do anything to ensure that. A clown came from behind a tent and started to follow me. It was almost like he was trying to be sneaky, but he couldn’t help but hop and twirl every so often. Not because he wanted to, but because that’s what he thought a clown would do. A second clown appeared opposite the first. Then a third clown appeared right behind me; I started to move faster. I was too occupied with the first three clowns to see the fourth, even though it was right in front of me. The clown jumped out from nowhere and when I finally noticed him, he held up an inflated bladder or intestine, and popped in front of my face. Blood spattered my face, and a horrid smell filled my nostrils. And that was it, that was the point where nothing existed but my anger. I felt cheated at life, I felt betrayed by reality. It shouldn't be like this, how could it? This was pure evil; it was the very worst of humankind. The whole thing was another macabre example of the world. A world in which the very worst of humanity makes the rules. No laws, just pure animalistic nature. Unabated thirst for violence. Guilt free enjoyment of the sickest fantasies. That was the world I was living in at that moment. A world in which I had to escape or die; there was no third option.

With blood still covering my face, I tackled the clown and punched him furiously. Again and again, I let my fists fall. I don’t know when the clown stopped moving but it was well before I stopped hitting it. Someone or something grabbed my shoulder, and I lashed out with a knife I grabbed from the nearby stage. A woman was tied to a spinning wheel on the stage. But instead of having the knives nearly miss her to the amazement of the audience, the knife thrower had skillfully thrown a dozen knives into the woman. Still, the audience was amazed. I didn’t see who or what grabbed me, I just plunged the knife deep into whoever or whatever it was, and I felt the blade scrape bone before it snapped. I was thrown backwards, and people started to scream. Hands and feet filled my sight, they were hitting and kicking but it wasn’t enough. I jumped up filled with immense fury. I stumbled trying to break out of the grip of many pairs of hands. Shaking free of the suffocating rush of bodies, my hand grasped something heavy. It was the mallet from the strength test game. With a victorious cry I swung the mallet. I could hear the wet crunch as the mallet made contact with bodies. I could feel the vibration down the handle as the mallet stopped against an opposing force. The screams continued until I could hear nothing but my own labored breathing. I felt numb. Soon, my vision went from red to black, and there was nothing at all. When I woke up, it was someplace new and unfamiliar.

4 – Home sweet home

When I read the headlines in the newspaper, I was shocked. It was unflattering to say the least, but also, it was mean.

Crazy Carnival

A beautiful fun filled fall day at a travelling carnival turns into a nightmare as one carnival-goer goes on a killing spree. Four people died at the hands of the individual now in police custody while three others died in the ensuing panic. Police have not yet released the name of the suspect nor has a motive been revealed. The names of the victims are being withheld pending notification of next-of-kin.

The article went on at length about the victims and their families, and how any person who could do such a thing is just pure evil. The author poses question after question, mostly asking whether any of the recent disappearances, both from the weeks leading up to and including that night, have anything to do with me. Nine people in total went missing in the three weeks the carnival was in town. For years they hounded me about where those missing bodies were buried, my story was always the same. I didn’t kill them.

“In my stomach,” I wanted to scream at them. “In the stomachs of the freaks who ran that carnival. Or taken home in pieces as souvenirs!”

But that would have only reinforced their surety that I was guilty of all they say. Eventually, they dropped it. I heard they had found the body of one of the missing people, or at least most of a body. It was buried half a mile from where the carnival had been. But no trace of the carnival in question was ever found after it had moved on to another place. Seven years later and I finally have access to a pencil. I guess they finally realized I don’t intend to stab myself, or anyone else for that matter. I don’t know what made them listen, but it feels good to finally be able to write this all down. Living in a mental institution isn’t so bad, I guess. Perhaps that’s just me being accustomed to how things are in this world. I’ll stay here and pretend that I’ve been helped. I’ll take their medications and play stupid board games. But I know that what I experienced that night was real. I don’t know how or why it happened to me, but I know it was real. I know because I have read about it.

Even killers and crazy people are allowed mail. I’ve received too many letters to count, mostly people with a killer kink. But there were others, three to be exact, that have given me great hope. Their stories are all too similar to mine to be coincidence. The first letter was from a man also imprisoned for crimes he didn’t realize he committed. The second was from a woman whose sister had told her about her own experience, but woman didn’t believe her. Two weeks later the sister died by suicide. The woman has never forgiven herself but has vowed to continue to investigate the matter. It has been the only true ray of hope I have had in the past seven years. The last letter is perhaps the most intriguing. The sender remains anonymous, but not only do they have a theory about what happened, they say they can prove it with more time. So, I’ll sit here and wait. I’ll write about what I remember, and I’ll research every day I am able. I’ll write to those who have been through what I have been through, and they will write me back. One day, I will be gone from this place. Delivered from pain and suffering. I will be given a second chance. I will be reborn as an avenger against the evil that has plagued this world. One day, I will be free.