The Midnight Carnival That Eats Your Shadow
At the edge of town, where the clock forgets to strike and the air tastes like rain and iron, a carnival arrives with no name. Striped tents bloom from the mist, lanterns blink with a patient glow, and the scent of smoke threads through the streets like a warning. They say the midnight carnival of shadows comes only once a season, when the world stops looking away long enough to blink and miss a heartbeat. I stood beneath the faded awning, listening to the bells that rang with the sound of a secret you’re not supposed to hear.
I did not hesitate out of courage, but stubborn curiosity. The gatekeeper—old as a weathered moon and twice as silent—tilted his hat and asked, “Do you wish to keep your daylight, or will you trade it for something darker?” My eyes flicked to the threshold where my shadow stretched against the lamp glow like a wary animal, and then I stepped inside, where the air turned cooler and the world narrowed to a single, breathless moment.
A Ticket to Darkness
The ticket booth offered a choice, not a price. “Trade one of your pieces,” crooned the Clerk, scratching a mark on the ticket with chalk that smelled of damp earth. The rule was simple: to enter, you must surrender a fragment of yourself, and in exchange the carnival would borrow it for a heartbeat, returning it only when the ride ends—or never at all.
- One hush for a breath of wind—you may not speak for the duration of the first ride.
- One memory of a lost friend—hands will forget the name but keep the ache.
- One piece of a shadow—watch it slip from the ankle and vanish into the fog.
Rides That Consume and Remember
The Velvet Ferris Wheel opened into a sky that smelled like rain and old coins. As it climbed, my shadow clung to the wheel’s iron spokes, and the world tilted away. The Hall of Quiet demanded more; inside, even the whisper of my own footsteps sounded like a rumor told too late. The carousel—oh, the carousel—carved horses that wore the color of night, and every gallop drew a new version of me from the ground up, a version that never learned to quit.
The barker’s voice crawled along the fence: “We do not steal your shadow; we borrow it for a heartbeat and leave you with a trace of someone you might have been.”
When the final ride slowed, I counted my breaths and looked down. My shadow had stayed, but it walked ahead of me with a slow, deliberate loaf. It wore my smile like a borrowed coat, and behind it the night kept a closer watch than before. I stepped back into the street and found the carnival fading, as if retreating into itself. The air tasted of iron and rain and the ache of something left behind.
In the years since, I have learned to listen when a lamp flickers at midnight and the air grows cold around the joints of your own silhouette. The Midnight Carnival That Eats Your Shadow does not simply vanish; it collects what you surrender and adds it to the shadow’s own story. If you survive the night, you carry a new quiet with you—one you cannot quite explain to anyone who still keeps all their daylight intact.