Still covering my face, I take the first step down, slow and cautious. My heart pounds and my legs shake, but I keep going and as soon as I reach the bottom, I stop, looking around at all the different doors.
What the hell is this place?
I try every door as I move down the hallway, each one locked, until I reach the last one at the end. This one gives under my hand, the old hinges groaning as it swings open, and the light inside flickers on automatically.
At first, all I see are decaying circus props scattered across the room, broken juggling pins, an old circus tent fabric and a few cracked clown masks, slumped against the wall. But when I step inside and peek around the doorframe, I freeze.
A sharp breath catches in my throat as I stumble back, knocking into something behind me. My wide eyes lock forward, scanning what the fuck I’m seeing. Lining the back wall is a row of mannequins. Lifeless figures standing in eerie silence, their shiny faces warped and discoloured, some sagging like they’ve started to melt. But it’s what’s in the center of the room that stops everything inside me cold.
Suspended from the ceiling by thick rusted chains at the wrists, what I believe is a human sized puppet hangs, slouched in a way that feels too real to be fake. Her legs are bent awkwardly, back curled over as if she’s been caught mid-motion and left there. The pale blue skin is disturbingly detailed, marbled with veins, bruises blooming beneath the surface. Her head is drooped forward, long red hair hanging like a curtain, concealing her face.
My fingers tighten around the knife, the cold metal grounding me for a breath before I start to inch forward. I hold the blade out in front of me, heart pounding so loud it drowns out everything else.
Stopping just in front of her, I stare, drawn in, horrified, but almost curious. My eyes scan her, wide and searching. Slowly, with trembling hands, I lift the knife and reach out, trying to ease the hair away from her face
But the second I touch it, she lunges forward.
A scream tears from my throat as I fall back hard, landing on the floor with a jolt, the knife skidding out of reach. I’m stiff, gasping, unable to move as she twitches in place, slow, jerky and unnatural as her head lifts.
Her eyes are replaced with black buttons, her mouth and cheeks sewn into a wide, bloodied grin. The thread is thick and pulled tight through torn flesh. She stares without seeing, and somehow, that’s fucking worse.
I scramble backward, hands slipping on the floor, heart threatening to shatter through my ribs. She’s alive. A fucking human being. And someone… someone did this to her. They turned her into a puppet.
But then I hear something else.
Groaning, muffled and strained, coming from somewhere behind her.
I get to my feet on wobbly legs, chest heaving, eyes darting and that’s when I see it.
The mannequins. They’re attempting to move. Twitching and creaking while screeching beneath the plastic, like something or someone is trapped inside.
That’s it. I’ve seen e-fucking-nough.
I bolt for the door, legs barely working beneath me as I stagger backward, then turn and run. I take the stairs two at a time, crashing through the cabin like I’m on fire. The chains swing wildly as I push through them, smacking into my shoulders and face, but I don’t stop, I just run.
I speed out the front door backward in a panic, rain pouring down on my clammy skin as I trip over the sodden grass, wide eyes locked on the creepy-ass cabin like something might be following me. My whole body trembles, my thoughts scrambling to make sense of what the fuck I just saw…
But then something slams into the backs of my legs, and I tumble before I can stop myself, landing hard, my spine hitting something unnatural, not earth or ground—something else. The air punches from my lungs in a harsh gasp and as I go to sit up, a lid crashes down with a solid, finalthunk.
Pitch blackness consumes everything, and my hands shoot out, frantic and brushing against something soft. Too soft. Silk.
“What the fuc…” I murmur, voice quiet and shaking.
Suddenly, the inside floods with a sick, glowing red and my head snaps up. I look down, realizing something like plastic crinkles beneath me, lumpy and uneven as if it’s filled with things. My stomach drops as the realization slams into me.
I’m in a fucking coffin.
“Wrath!” I yell, fists slamming against the lid, fear and anger clawing its way up my throat.
The coffin jolts as it starts to be dragged, and I can feel every scrape and bump like a countdown. I thrash, kick and hammer the lid with everything I’ve got, but it’s no use.
And then I hear it—a loud wheeze right by my ear followed by movement beneath me and I freeze, my breath stolen.
Someone is fucking in here with me.
As soon as I feel a body is under me, a loud, terrified scream rips from my lips on instinct. Wrath doesn’t stop, just keeps dragging the coffin through the mud like my panic is background noise.
Suddenly it tilts and drops, slamming into something hard, my forehead cracking against the lid as both me and whoever’s underneath let out low, guttural groans from the impact.