Chapter 2: The Freakshow Rises
The silence of October breaks. On the day of the parade, when costumes and laughter fill the streets, the cemetery gates creak open and the Freakshow manifests. The grounds that were quiet just days before now writhe with activity, lanterns burning where no one placed them, music playing from instruments no hand touches.
From the mist they come. A towering figure looms in the entrance — Karl of Germania, face and hands shrouded in burlap, guiding the crowd deeper with motions that are less welcome than commands. Near him, a pedestal flickers with candlelight. Cordelia Courtaude whispers from atop it, her voice no louder than a hiss, but each guest hears it as if meant only for them: “Step closer… closer still. The grave is waiting.”
The path winds on. A sudden crash of iron draws the eye: Jonty Johnson brings down his mallet at the Hi-Strike, the bell clanging not with a ding but a scream. The crowd jumps back as his head jerks unnaturally, his smile slack. Laughter follows — not his, but that of the Jesters, Morrison, Hawthorne, and Steel. They mock the living from behind crooked grins: “Careful! He almost got you!” One pretends to gnaw his own arm, the others cheer.
Deeper still, the attractions grow stranger. The Demonica Twins undulate in eerie rhythm, their conjoined bodies moving as though held by invisible strings. The Porcelain Woman glides past, her scream cracking glass lanterns, then vanishes into shadow. The Loomara Sisters prowl along the fence line, spider legs tapping like a morbid applause. A wooden crate rattles as Trevor Smythe thrashes inside, each spear through his body twitching with him. Above, Spike the Blockhead swings, rope creaking, the wood stake jutting from his skull gleaming with every sway. And in the center cage, Billy the Geek tears at something unidentifiable, pausing only to glare at passersby with hollow, feral eyes.
Flames roar — Bernard Adams exhales fire from his barrel, the heat twisting into unnatural green before it fades. The scent of ash clings to everything.
And then the new blood. From the Shanghai Tunnels, dragged back by Nicolae, comes Vicente Wilder, the Sword Swallower. Rusted cutlasses, bayonets, knives blackened by time — he slides them down his throat as if feeding the hunger of the Court itself. The crowd shudders at each metallic scrape.
On the other side, bound in straitjacket and screaming with manic laughter, Carrie Oakley thrashes as sparks crackle from the torture-box bolted to her head. Each time she convulses, the laughter turns shriller, as though the electricity itself is telling the joke.
The Oddities Booth beckons, a grotesque cabinet of curiosities. Ash & Cinder, the goats, breathe smoke into the night, their eyes glowing like embers. Bottled punks float in their jars, one twitching when no one watches. A warped mirror reflects not faces but skulls.
And always, the witches are there. Helga snarls in the ticket booth, Brigid mutters fortunes in her crystal ball that end only in death, and Luna sways from her swing, her eyes unblinking.
At last, Nicolae arrives. His form is bent but regal, his presence undeniable. The Baron raises his hands as though conducting the chaos. His voice cuts through the sideshow din, addressing no one and everyone at once: “Lenore… hear me. Step through the veil. Join me once more.”
The ground trembles. The Shadow Court hisses. For a moment, a pale figure seems to shimmer in the mist — could it be Lenore? But she fades before fully forming, as if resisting.
Helga, from her booth, spits into the dirt. “She’ll never7 come to you.”
Nicolae snarls. His hand shoots out, seizing Helga’s wrist through the bars of her booth. Candles flare, her shadow stretches unnaturally across the ground. A hush falls, the midway frozen in anticipation. But then — a ghostly shape manifests behind Helga: Lenore. Her eyes blaze with fury, and Nicolae is thrown back as though struck.
The audience gasps, then laughs nervously, convinced it is only part of the show. But Helga’s face betrays the truth: she is terrified.
Later, as Carrie Oakley screams and sparks fly from her torture-box, Nicolae chants again, trying to weave the sparks into his ritual. This time he carves a symbol into the dirt, the Shadow Court swirling at his command. The crowd sees only theater. Again, Lenore manifests — protective, wrathful. The Shadow Court feeds hungrily on his failure, their whispers rising like carrion flies.
The Freakshow continues, louder, darker, but something in its foundation has cracked.