Ophelia mirthwick

I never wanted to go to that damn circus. The Crimson Circus—they whispered about it like it was some dark secret, something that crawled into town when the moon was right. My friends thought it’d be fun. “Just one night,” they said. “It’s all fake anyway.” But from the moment I stepped through the gates, I knew something was wrong. The air was too still. The lights flickered like they were dying. And then there was him—the clown. He didn’t smile like the others. He didn’t dance or juggle. He just stared at me, like he’d been waiting. I should’ve left. I wanted to leave. But by the time the show started, it was already too late.