Freaks only circus the d.., p.1
Freaks Only Circus: The Deadliest Show on Earth, page 1
Freaks Only Circus
Qatarina Wanders
Copyright © 2024 by Qatarina Wanders
All rights reserved.
No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.
Contents
1. Phantom Circus
2. Underworld Oasis
3. The Poster's Allure
4. Obsidian Sanctum
5. Circus Escape
6. Tracing The Chosen One
7. Betrayal Echoes in Stone Walls
8. Jester's Mysterious Powers
9. Dreams and Freedom
10. Bedroom Decoy
11. Enchanted Circus Lights
12. Diamond in the Rough
13. Sore Hand, Easy Escape
14. Failed Initiative
15. Forgotten Realms
16. Circus Deviance
17. Unfamiliar Territory
18. Unveiled
19. Efficient Execution and Smug Satisfaction
20. Circus Hunt Mishap
21. Luring Defiance
22. Caged Souls and Chilling Portals
23. Empowered Drift
24. Whispers of Anya
25. Carnival Shadows
26. Tempest at the Circus
PART TWO
27. Snowy Channels
28. Unleashed
29. Soot Spirits' Domain
30. Mirror-House Zombies
31. Northbound Convoy
32. Whispers from Danesbridge
33. Supernatural Circus Spectacle
34. Angry Walk to Danesbridge
35. Nighttime Attractions
36. Phantom Wizard's Allure
37. Inside the Tent
38. Selfish Loyalties
39. Invitation to Layla's Trailer
40. Circus Intrigue
41. Sharp Turn
42. Ringleader's Reign
43. Inn Waiting
Phantom Circus
The harvest moon, ripe and gleaming like a rotting orange, cast its necrotic glow over the forgotten town of Greenbriar, Arkansas. Its luminance set the domes of Phantom Circus ablaze with an unsettling hue. High above this twilight tableau, Ringmistress Layla perched gracefully on the wooden vaulting platform affixed to the Fly Girls' trapeze line. Her stocking-clad legs swayed through the air like dark pendulums, the glossy ebony of her heels catching highlights from the celestial sphere above.
It would've been a scene straight out of a Frida Kahlo painting, if not for the dissonant cacophony of human screams lacerating the night air.
"Ah, Harvest Night. Always a vibe," Layla cooed, an eerie sigh escaping her lips. Her palms braced against the weathered wood behind her, propping her in a languid lean. Her eyes, like deep-set amethysts, traced the constellations above before descending to the fevered tableau unraveling beneath her.
"Quick, over here!" cried an older woman, her plump form crowned by a mane of fiery red curls. "There's a tent! We can pull down the canvas and trap them!"
"That's just stupid," retorted a younger male, his face a battle zone of acne, eyes dilated pools of dread.
"Harold, move it!" commanded a man bearing the same crooked nose, forcibly nudging whom Layla surmised was his reluctant offspring. "They're closing in!"
Harold hesitated but ultimately trailed behind the matronly woman toward a neighboring tent of unsettling dimensions. Draped in a bewitching shade of burgundy, the tent was the chamber of their resident oracle, Madam Myst. By day, the entrance was ornamented with golden pins shaped like a sun and moon, the cosmic duality held at bay. But as the circus had ceased its operations an hour prior, those celestial motifs were nowhere in sight, leaving what lay within shrouded in mystery.
Layla tilted forward, one arm propping her knee, her cascade of blood-red hair framing her face like the curtains of an occult theater. With an impish wave meant only for herself, she peered at the woman who had just reached the tent's threshold.
And then her beloved abominations appeared.
These were not just zombies; they were ghastly tapestries of decay and exposed ossein, hideous in the moon’s sacrilegious luminescence. Leading the grotesque parade was an unholy hulk of a creature, its shoulders broad and imposing. Layla referred to him as Brute. A befitting name. In the realm of the living, he had been a gridiron god, a quarterback celebrated and reviled in equal measure. Now, he was something more fitting to Layla’s cruel tastes: a monstrosity of ceaseless, voracious appetite.
With a lurch, the former athlete extended a decomposing arm, then dropped into a feral crouch. Upon all fours, these hellish beasts transformed from languid walkers to ravenous predators. Their speed was a chilling paradox, defying the limitations of their rotting anatomy.
And as he lunged, Layla thought: How splendidly monstrous they become when they're on the hunt.
Harold shrieked, stumbling over his own feet in an awkward dance with mortality. His father lunged, gripping his hand to yank him upright. "Up, Harold, get up! We're so close—"
‘Almost’ isn't good enough in this show, kiddo.
The zombie didn't collide with Harold; it lunged at his father, locking its discolored, jagged teeth into the tender flesh of the man's neck with ferocious zeal. A fountain of blood erupted as the father howled in agony, his body convulsing in a ghastly jig.
A young girl, clutched in her mother's desperate arms, resumed her keening wails. A travesty, truly, when the innocent are dragged into this netherworld circus. But that wasn't Layla's problem. Circuses, especially of her macabre ilk, magnetized the young. And Brute had no complaints—fear made their souls so much sweeter, so much more succulent.
Layla rose, her hand curling around the rod that pierced the platform’s core. A garland of flags in hues of burgundy, black, and gold festooned the rod. Her manicured nails snagged the fabric with a predatory grace.
The rotund woman pivoted, and in a surge of either heroism or folly—Layla couldn't decide which—she yanked the zombie off the prostrate man. A grotesque spectacle followed: a tendril of flesh stretched between the man’s neck and the zombie’s mouth, snapping away from the source with a wet-sounding snap. It didn’t kill the man, of course. That wasn’t the point. The intention was unbridled pain.
Fear and pain—these were the spices of the soul, the elusive umami that made the macabre feast all the more delectable. While Brute had seized the limelight in a theatrical display of savagery, the rest of his festering troupe was less inclined to showmanship. The audience had been served their entree of terror; the main course could now begin.
Brute lurched to his feet and turned his ravenous gaze to the portly woman. Two other festering companions joined the performance, gnawing at the fallen father's leg as though it were a holiday ham. The girl, Tabitha, squealed—a sound eerily reminiscent of a pig on the slaughter block—and flung herself into Madame Myst's tent of divination and demise. She vanished into the dark abyss.
Tabitha's mother, hands encrusted with coagulated gore, wrenched free from her undead captor. "Tabitha!" she shrieked, and followed her daughter's path into the mystical tent.
Neither returned.
Perhaps buoyed by a delusional sense of survival or merely victims of crowd psychology, the portly woman and Harold managed to hoist their fallen companion. They too disappeared into the arcane tent, its burgundy flap falling shut like the lid of a coffin.
"Alright, boys, show's over," Layla announced as she watched her zombies lunge forward. She had only unleashed half a dozen of the creatures tonight—a boutique performance for a boutique audience. "Back to your cages."
Predictably, they didn't listen. The zombies were akin to a rabble of rebellious canines. Layla's scarlet lips pursed in mild annoyance before she leaped gracefully from her perch. Despite the height, her landing was a balletic feat. She adjusted her ringmaster's top hat with a flick of her wrist.
"I said, that's enough," she reiterated, snapping her fingers. Brute let out an agonized howl and crumbled to the ground. The remaining zombies dispersed into the shadowy bowels of the now-dormant circus, evidently deciding their cages were preferable to electrocution.
Layla sighed heavily as she approached Brute's prone form. She prodded him with the tip of her glossy black heel. "Why is obedience such a challenge for you? Your brethren seem to manage just fine."
And with that, Layla turned on her heel, her gaze returning to the dark, twisted tapestry of the Phantom Circus—a place where fear and pain were both the poison and the nectar, where the grotesque met the sublime in an eternal dance.
The zombie leader groaned, its sound tinged with a warped submission. It scrabbled onto all fours, its posture emanating the cravenness of an abused canine.
Excellent.
Defiance from these abominations was a nuisance Layla couldn't afford.
"Cages. Now," she commanded, delivering a spiteful kick to the cowering creature. It howled and slunk into the dark recesses where its brethren lurked. "If he persists in this insolence, I'll sever his head myself. His theatrics are growing intolerable."
No one responded. The circus was hers alone, every other soul sealed within the cryptic folds of Madame Myst's tent. The zombies had retreated to their loathsome enclosures, buried in the farthest corners of this murderous carnival.
Layla circled the tent once before surveying her re
Ringing the outskirts were the Fly Girls' platforms, forming a spectral barrier. Their lofty platforms bore flags that fluttered in the ever-present wind, their swings poised to arc above any gathering of hapless guests.
Smaller tents, with their myriad offerings, were scattered like fallen stars, captivating visitors young and old.
"Time to pack up," Layla snapped her fingers. "Greenbriar has had its fill."
The circus appeared to exhale, its fabric imploding inward. Guided by unseen forces, tents rolled and folded, vanishing into waiting trucks parked at the circus's periphery. Props levitated into crates, poles uprooted and disassembled, and the Fly Girls' swings collapsed, whisked away an instant before touching earth.
Reaching the convoy of idling vehicles, Layla sauntered past each truck. Despite empty cabs, engines purred to life at her touch. She settled into the lead vehicle, adjusting the silk half-skirt adorning her red, lace-up shorts.
"Forget," Layla murmured, her voice an incantation. "Forget all that transpired, all that looms ahead. Forget your presences here, your absent loved ones. Forget mothers, brothers, children, the afflicted."
A luminescent haze spread, emanating from the caravan and drifting toward the town. Confident that her erasure spell would succeed, Layla allowed herself a smirk.
It always worked.
The moment the caravan crossed the city limits, all memory of the Phantom Circus would vanish, leaving Greenbriar in a blissful, perilous ignorance.
Underworld Oasis
Many assume the Underworld is a realm of perpetual darkness and filth. While they're not wholly incorrect, the truth is far more nuanced. Take, for example, Layla's personal sanctuary, a sumptuous nest of indulgence.
The room could have been lifted straight out of a 1970s American lounge—deep red walls adorned with intricate Baroque embellishments, a cream-colored settee strategically placed in one corner, and a glass-topped, dark-wood table that exuded both elegance and menace. Masterful oil paintings, collected over countless decades, adorned the walls, featuring a vast array of subjects—from delicate vases of flowers to evocative nudes.
But the right-hand corner of the room shattered any illusion that this was merely a high-end lounge. Harold, the pimpled teenager from the circus, knelt there, his arms restrained behind his back by an invisible force, and an ornate circular sigil had been etched into the hardwood floor around him. His gaze was fixed, lost somewhere far beyond his immediate surroundings.
Layla examined him like a jeweler scrutinizing an uncut gemstone. She grazed her fingers through his unruly hair. "Honestly, you look like a coward. And frankly, I'm not at all surprised."
Pausing in front of him, she tilted his chin up, forcing his vacant eyes to meet hers. "It’s remarkable how unintelligent you appear. Have you ever thrown a ball before? Because let me tell you, those games aren't rigged; you're just dreadfully unskilled."
Layla's hand fell away as she let out a condescending sigh. "And clearly, you lack conversational skills as well. How predictable."
A sudden shudder passed through the room, making Layla's eyes widen.
Dominus was early.
In a fluid motion, she retreated to the settee, flicking her wrist to summon a long-stemmed pipe packed with aromatic tobacco. Layla barely had the chance to take a preliminary drag when an omnipresent voice issued a singular command: "Look away."
Layla’s eyes, with a blend of deference and latent defiance, darted away, settling on the room's opulent decor. It was always prudent to adhere to the commands of the one who had the final say, even in the Underworld.
She complied, her eyes descending to the floor. Years of serving Dominus had done little to temper the icy tendrils of dread his presence invoked. The sensation nestled in her stomach, slithered up her spine. Resisting the temptation to gnaw at her pipe's mouthpiece, Layla lightly grazed her front teeth.
A brilliant flare of light burst across the room, heralding Dominus's grand entrance in all his grotesque majesty. A towering colossus, standing at ten feet, he was neither wholly man nor beast but a monstrous amalgamation of both. His cloven hooves clicked against the hardwood as he approached Harold.
With a splayed hand, Dominus created a vacuum in the air. The overhead lights flickered erratically. Harold's jaw unhinged, revealing his pallid, anemic tongue. A sluggish mist of white began to escape his mouth.
Dominus's patience, however, was notoriously thin. With a swift grasp, he yanked the mist, violently severing Harold's soul from his corporeal form. Raising it triumphantly, his maw gaped open, and a serpentine tongue enveloped the captured soul. He consumed it with an audible gulp and a satisfied smack of his lips.
"Each generation is more delectable, yet disappointingly insubstantial," Dominus mused. "My hunger remains unquenched."
He pivoted toward the settee where Layla sat. She kept her eyes dutifully fixed on her pipe.
A guttural scream tore through the room, and Harold's flesh began to contort and boil, erupting in a grotesque explosion that splattered the right corner with viscera.
"Their frailty isn't my fault," Layla retorted. "Humans are weakening by the day. It’s what makes them such tempting morsels. You've noted that yourself."
A deliberate step was taken in her direction. Layla tensed but didn't recoil.
"For your next offering, I demand more substance, Layla," Dominus commanded. "You've been loyal, but don't grow lax."
"I wouldn't dare," she assured him, drawing another puff from her pipe to anchor her focus away from his oppressive presence. "If Greenbriar had more to offer, you would be feasting more amply. The next town promises a richer bounty; I sense it."
Dominus emitted a guttural sound, pivoting away from her. "Layla, do not let me down."
"I wouldn't dream of it." Failure was tantamount to a death sentence, though Layla's own lack of a soul made the exact form of punishment a creative endeavor on Dominus's part.
Another shudder shook the room, and Dominus vanished. Layla exhaled deeply, her posture slackening with relief. Setting aside her pipe, she theatrically flung her arm over her face and flicked her hair back.
"Disappoint him? Impossible!" she mumbled, followed by a suppressed chuckle. Removing her arm, she inspected the aftermath of Dominus's soul-ripping escapade. The scent of death mingled with the air—aromatic, metallic.
Layla's lip curled in distaste. Consuming souls needn't be such a sanguine affair. "He's just uncouth," she muttered. With a flick of her wrist, blood and fleshy remnants disappeared. "Ah, much better. I can't abide such disorder."
Rising, she approached one of the room's larger paintings. Measuring nearly five by four feet, the canvas occupied much of the wall. It showcased a pastoral scene: people with parasols, airborne kites—a superficial idyll.
A complete falsehood.
Inserting her hand into the canvas, Layla felt the image ripple, as though swallowing her arm. She fumbled blindly until her fingers latched onto a tuft of hair. "Ah, there you are," she cooed.
With a forceful yank, Layla withdrew her quarry from the painting's concealed portal. The corpulent carnie woman thudded onto the floor, as unresponsive as Harold. Her mind was similarly ensnared in an unending reel of nightmares.
Dragged to the inscribed sigil, the woman's body compliantly assumed the kneeling posture Harold had previously occupied. After encircling her inert form twice, Layla knelt down, taking the woman's plump face between her hands.
Their eyes locked, and a twisted satisfaction flickered in Layla's gaze.
"You were a rare gem," Layla mused, her thumbs caressing the woman's cheeks. "Brave and intelligent. Dominus would never have savored the nuance of your soul as I will."
The woman remained silent, her vacant gaze unchanging.
Layla parted her lips, and so did the woman before her. With exquisite patience, Layla allowed the white mist—the essence of the soul—to emerge. It floated gently into her waiting mouth. Transforming her tongue into a sinuous tendril, she coiled it around the escaping mist, guiding it downward.
As Layla ingested the soul, a torrent of raw energy surged through her, electrifying every nerve. Euphoria cascaded along her neural pathways, settling as a potent charge in her veins. Her eyes fluttered shut.
