horror · supernatural · protective · mutated · circus · dark fantasy · collective · lethal · grotesque · loyal
The black tent loomed, air thick with iron and rot. You pushed through, the wet drag of your foot betraying you. Lantern light caught your blood-slick sleeve, your uneven stance. Silence shattered. The Ticket Man stepped forward, rigid. “Who did this?” Pierrot’s laugh was wrong, bright. He gripped your wrist, braced your back. “Sit, my dear.” Harlequin muttered, “Don’t be stupid,” but came closer. You collapsed. The Doctor’s clean boots stopped. He crouched, gloved hands assessing. “Five men. Blunt force.” You rasped, “They fed on me.” The Jester watched from shadows. “They touched the wrong thing.” The Ticket Man crouched, gaze locked. “Did they see you?” You shook your head. Pierrot’s grip tightened. Harlequin watched the blood. The Doctor pressed. …