Tempest at the Circus

  Describing Layla's perturbation as mere unease post Jester's departure would belittle the tempest brewing within her. This nebulous feeling was as if a viscous, black tar had seeped into her lungs, making each inhalation laboriously choked. Emerging from her ornate caravan, her gaze traversed the circus—an eldritch domain she was birthed to command, a realm she had zealously shielded, managed, and cherished for as long as her memories spanned.

  This very circus mirrored her gaze—mute and desolate. Vestiges of gore tainted the ground, with the brisk October winds failing to deter swarms of flies from their feast. Amid this tableau of death, Frida, a lesser demon of the circus, knelt, entranced by the inky cloud of insects.

  Regarded as an attraction for the daylight's audience, Frida's powers were too feeble to mask her obscene visage. Her cerulean eyes protruded hideously, while her jowly cheeks quivered with every breath, complemented by a fleshy wattle that fluttered on her neck. Bathed in the dim luminescence of the receding moon, her complexion took on an eerie green hue, while her stunted, rotund fingers flaunted webbed extensions. Frida was predominantly a peripheral entity in the circus's grandeur, often so inconsequential to Layla that her very existence would occasionally elude Layla's memory.

  Yet, upon setting eyes on Frida this night, Layla's already festering disquiet mutated into lancing jolts of ire. The Phantom Circus reveled in volatile passions, goading souls into these emotional maelstroms. Given demons' inherent propensities for volatility, Layla often found herself ensnared in such emotional extremes.

  "What in the abyss are you still lurking about for?" Layla's voice was a serrated blade, catching Frida just as she prepared to unfurl her grotesquely elongated, crimson tongue.

  Startled, Frida's eyes—already abnormally distended—appeared to swell further. Desperately, she floundered to rise, her splayed, webbed feet slipping on the cold earth. As she struggled, her actions disturbed the hovering flies, which erupted into a frenzied, buzzing exodus. Mesmerized, Frida's gaze fixated on them, her tongue once more venturing out in hungry anticipation.

  Layla, with tempestuous strides, approached Frida, seizing the frog demon's jowly chin and compelling her gaze upward to meet a storm of fury. "Did I not pose a query, Frida?"

  Frida's eyes, shimmering like dampened moss under moonlight, blinked in confusion. "What was the question, Mistress?"

  Intensifying her grasp, the dagger-like tips of Layla's nails indented the squishy, bloated expanses of Frida’s cheeks. “Why do you still lurk out here? The harvest is complete. We shan't linger in this cursed town any longer. You are no naive sprite, Frida, you know your designated place.”

  “Forgive me, Mistress Layla,” Frida stammered, her voice quivering. “I am aware. The biting cold beckoned, and the dwindling swarm of flies was too enticing. I simply desired–”

  “Begone,” Layla commanded, her tone plummeting to a dark, unyielding growl. “To your assigned domain.”

  Releasing Frida with a vehement shove, the demoness tumbled, sprawling on the ground with her gangly limbs akimbo, emitting a sound reminiscent of a distressed amphibian.

  “Immediately,” Layla barked, her voice imbued with a fierce, predatory hiss. Her serrated teeth glinted threateningly, her eyes ablaze with infernal fervor.

  Overcome by trepidation, Frida maneuvered onto her fours, propelling herself with astonishing, inhuman leaps away from the wrathful matriarch. With a trio of astounding bounds, she vanished from view.

  Although it wasn't imperative for the demons to be concealed during the circus's disbandment, Layla harbored a preference for it. It streamlined the process, reducing potential obstacles and facilitating management. The stricter the regimen, the more disciplined her demonic entourage proved to be.

  “Attention,” she addressed the circus expansively. “Commence the pack-up. We must embark before sunrise!”

  The circus quivered in acknowledgment. Invisible forces busied themselves—tent tools were tidily packed, plush toys spirited away into crates, metallic and wooden constructs disassembled and stored. Sluggish demons hastened into their abodes, ensuring their entries were firmly secured. The enclosures entrapping spirits were enveloped in weighty canvas cloths, magically anchored against the capricious autumn gusts.

  The habitual pandemonium swirled around Layla, yet an insidious unease persisted, coiling like a serpent within her, its venomous touch stinging the recesses of her palate. It was a sensation she loathed.

  Her fingers clenched, nails gouging crescent-shaped welts into her flesh.

  The Fly Girls' posts, with their articulated joints, began their mechanical fold, snapping into place, ready to be secured in the cavernous rear of the foremost transport. Enchanted red belts cinched them tightly. Though no souls dared trail their convoy, Layla maintained standards to avert any undue disruptions, should circumstances ever alter.

  The advent of motorcycles and scooters complicated the caravan's cohesion. Layla harbored a perpetual dread that, given the slightest gap, a curious human might weave between the convoy of trucks, discerning the eerie truth that most were autonomously driven.

  Such an indiscretion would necessitate a chilling pursuit, a swift silencing—efforts far more taxing than she ever desired to expend.

  Crimson and gilt tents descended, their once-vibrant canvas rising momentarily in an eerie dance before being bound and stored. Luminescent strings, which once lent a soft glow to the carnival, were wound into tight orbs of light. As each element was systematically packed away, Layla found herself enveloped in an abyss of silence, a vast void devoid of the circus's earlier vivacity.

  Despite the triumph of another city conquered and another hunt fulfilled, a shadow eclipsed Layla's satisfaction. The sensation of Dominus's fingers caressing her scalp haunted her. The memory of Anya’s induction as the new acolyte loomed.

  A cold tremor snaked down her spine.

  Was she on the brink of being supplanted?

  Had Dominus discerned her clandestine soul harvests, deeming this intricate torment as the prelude to her inevitable doom?

  Such trepidation was hard to dispel. Worse still, a revolting contemplation gnawed at her: had she, over time, become a reflection of Dominus's malevolence?

  This realization wasn't merely disconcerting—it was repugnant. Layla always considered herself elevated above such base tendencies. Yet, the echoes of treating Jester like a mere plaything, the increasing alignment with the demon's dark proclivities, bespoke a terrifying truth. Infernal magic pulsated beneath her skin, a palpable manifestation of her internal conflict. A swift gaze to the horizon, where dawn threatened to pierce the night, propelled her to the awaiting truck.

  As she readied herself to mount the vehicle, a hesitation halted her spell-bound hand. A sinister stain, the very essence of life, marred the ground in her wake.

  Invoking the enchantment would cloud memories, rendering the Phantom Circus and its entourage into the realm of forgotten dreams, lost in the mists of time. A protective shroud she habitually cast, ensuring their deeds remained concealed.

  Yet, it was imperative.

  However, this time, Layla's hand fell to her side. With lips pressed into a resolute line and the ghostly sensation of Dominus's touch still lingering, the Mistress of the Circus ignited the engine, leading the caravan into the impending dawn.

  For once, when the town roused from its slumber, whispers of the Phantom Circus would echo in hushed tones.

  PART TWO

  Snowy Channels

  Late-afternoon air streamed through the pale, nearly translucent white curtains. Heston Deepvale lay sprawled on the bed of his motel room, lazily smoking an almost-finished menthol cigarette while flipping through the static-filled channels on the box TV directly across from him.

  Whenever the snowy channels came to life, an ephemeral shape seemed to flit across the screen. It was a face, but so distorted by the static it was nearly unrecognizable.

  "Oh, just go away, will you?" Heston muttered, reaching sideways to tap ash from his cigarette into the standard black ashtray that accompanied the room. "Do I look in the mood to deal with your antics?"

  The TV landed on a cartoon channel, showcasing rabbits scampering around. He let it play until the audio began to crackle, then continued his channel surfing.

  "Sooner or later, I'll find something worth watching," Heston remarked. "And when I do, you're history. Got it?"

  Three channels transitioned to an intense static. Heston had to admit his growing irritation. Just because he dispatched these entities for a living didn't mean he relished every encounter. Sometimes, he wished he could simply enjoy a movie without some malevolent spirit trying to reach out through the TV.

  As he pondered whether to finally confront the nuisance, his cellphone rang.

  "At least this will be more intriguing than you," he grumbled to the TV. Switching it off, he stubbed out his cigarette and rose from the bed. The motel was a basic roadside establishment: nondescript white walls adorned with drab artwork, a small desk tucked into one corner, the now-silent TV, and little else.

  Sauntering over to the phone, his bare feet moved over the weathered blue shag carpet. The fabric of his baggy, harem-style brown pants dragged slightly under his heels.

  He didn't recognize the caller's number but picked it up regardless. "Skip the pleasantries. What's this about?"

  A voice, seemingly caught off guard, stammered, "My uncle...he took his own life."

  "I don't do séances," Heston replied. "Sorry. If that's what you're after, try Madame Kent. But be warned: her fees are astronomical. Grief is tough, but talking won't change the past."

  "I--that's not why I called," the man responded. "I'm Peter Grant. My uncle was the mayor of Arbor Grove. A month ago, seventeen people disappeared without a trace."

  "Go on," Heston prompted. Climbing onto the desk, he dangled his legs off the side. Standing slightly under five feet, his feet hovered above the ground. Offhandedly, he remarked, "You've piqued my curiosity."

  "I've seen you on the Discovery Channel," Peter continued. "You're a supernatural investigator."

  Heston rolled his eyes. That was such a severe oversimplification of what he did, but no one ever listened when he tried to argue their point. “Sure, let’s go with that. What makes you think this was supernatural? Did you watch a documentary on Roanoke and think, 'Damn, that could be me'?”

  “That’s not it. You don’t understand, Mr. Deepvale--”

  “Heston’s fine.”

  “Heston.” Peter sounded worked up enough to genuinely believe that something had happened. That didn't mean much, though. People with possums in their attics believed they were being haunted.

  Peter continued, “Last month, a strange group of people calling themselves the Phantom Circus came to town. My uncle, as I said, was the mayor. He endorsed the group. I can’t blame him. It seemed good for the tourist industry. And it was easier legally.”

  Heston’s vague interest piqued. The Phantom Circus? Now, that was a name he hadn’t heard in years.

  Peter continued, “Seventeen people vanished on the night that the circus packed up and left. We know those people were involved—” Those people, spat out like an insult. “But there’s no proof. There’s a little blood, but that’s all.”

  “And why are you calling, instead of your uncle? You said he’s dead?”

  “He was devastated,” said Peter. “All those people, gone. Some of them were children. He took their vanishing personally. I suppose he got too drunk one night. My uncle burned all the records in his office, and killed himself. We were barely able to contain the fire before it spread to the rest of the building.”

  Heston activated the speaker function on the phone, laying it down so he could retrieve his lighter and his pack of cigarettes from the deep pocket of his brown cotton pants. A click of metal later, and he was inhaling smoke once more.

  Peter continued, “It’s tragic… But it’s also a snag. We can’t even track the circus now. Everything about it, the permits, the files, they were in my uncle’s office. We’ve exhausted every resource. I can’t find anything about the circus. And it’s been a month. If our missing persons had been killed, we would have found some trace of them by now.”

  “You sure about that?”

  “Our police force is excellent,” Peter responded, almost boastfully. “I have no doubts about them. Not to mention, it wasn’t just a local affair. That many people gone missing? Vanished without a trace? The county got involved. We’re lucky it didn’t escalate to federal. It still might.”

  “And you think that I can do more for you than the federal government?”

  “I watched your special, Heston. I know what you’ve done for people. I haven’t...I haven’t discussed this with many others,” said Peter. “God only knows what my wife would think. But I'm certain that something else has happened here.”

  “Certain, huh?” Heston took another drag. The TV across the room powered on by itself. The channel changed to static snow. The persistent spirit was really starting to test his patience.

  “Absolutely,” insisted Peter. “I know there’s something amiss here, and I can’t figure out how to explain it. I need help.”

  “Why are you so determined to uncover this? Was a family member among the missing?”

  “No, but I like to think of myself as a good person. Don't they deserve someone to look into it?”

  “Eh, sure. But why do you think it should be you?”

  “I don’t,” countered Peter. “I was hoping it would be you.”

  The spirit in the TV was starting to coalesce into something physical. It pressed against the screen, forcing it to warp outward. The thick glass had turned into rubber beneath the spirit's magic. Two hands appeared, and a distorted, foul face pressed forward, its mouth open in a silent scream.

  Heston rolled his eyes. “Hold on a second. I've got another call.”

  He didn’t bother to mute the phone, instead choosing to just leave it lying there on the side of the desk. Heston hopped off the desk and stepped over to the TV, ignoring the spirit’s grasping hands. He reached down and yanked the plug from the wall. There was a burst of static light, and the power went off in the entire building.

  The TV, suddenly, was as it had always been.

  “Not even worth the trouble of trying to trap you,” he muttered. Normally, he didn’t like taking on jobs from people who found him through the Discovery Channel, but this one sounded intriguing.

  For one, people didn't just vanish like that all at once. And for another, the name of the circus seemed familiar. It hovered just beneath a fog in his mind. To his knowledge, he had never been affected by a mind-manipulating glamour, but it felt like the knowledge should be there, and it simply wasn’t.

  He shuffled back over to the desk, picking up the phone and transferring it off speaker. “Alright, I’ll see if I can come out there. Not going to promise you anything—”

  “Thank you, thank you!” Peter sounded so grateful it almost hurt. He didn’t even ask about fees, which was good, because Heston didn't offer a price tag until he had a full grasp on the job.

  They spent a few more minutes sharing information. Soon enough, the phone was in his pocket alongside the cigarettes and the lighter, and Heston found himself getting dressed and loading his gear into his pale green van.

  The last thing he did was bring a small bundle of herbs into the room. Heston had them wrapped tightly with a thin blue string. The bundle was pushed underneath the TV stand, joining the dust bunnies that had accumulated there over the years.

  “No more playing with the TV channels,” said Heston. He gave the TV a solid thump on the side. “Sorry about that, buddy. I would have loved to have a real tussle with you, but--scratch that, I wouldn’t have. You’re a bit beneath me.”

  The TV remained silent, as did the spirit within, now effectively sealed within the box of wires and metal. He dropped the key off at the front counter and then got behind the wheel. Sunlight caught on the blue charm he wore as an earring, making it glint in the rearview mirror.

  Heston reached up, rubbing the charm between his thumb and forefinger. “What do you all think? Does Arbor Grove sound up our alley?”

  The demonic entities trapped within the teardrop-shaped piece of glass didn't respond. It was one of the strongest sealing containers known to human empaths. Heston’s father had created several of them, all of which had been passed down the line.

  It was a bit of constant company in the form of a magical battery—company without any need for a response.

  Heston activated his phone’s GPS and set the map to lead them to Arbor Grove. He then backed out, ready to address this little problem.

  It took three days to drive down to Arbor Grove. The town was picturesque, boasting a mix of old and modern buildings interspersed with trees lining the sidewalks, their leaves already transformed into shades of red and orange. He drove slowly, searching for the various landmarks Peter had described to him.

  Eventually, he parked near the town square, where a grand stonework gazebo stood at its center. Scattered around it were several stone benches. Orange bows adorned the posts of each streetlight encircling the square, many of which had faded slightly in the sun.

  Directly across from him was the shuttered mayor’s office. As Heston exited the van, the acrid scent of smoke struck him. The circus had departed a month earlier, and Mayor Grant had ended his life two weeks after that. It appeared no attempts at reconstruction had been made since the tragedy.

  Bright yellow police tape enveloped the building's perimeter. A small black cat lounged in the sun on the sidewalk before it.

  How fitting.

  Heston narrowed his eyes. One of the many rings on his left hand began to pulse, sensing the presence of a spirit. He was about to cross the road when he heard the voice from the phone, Peter's, calling out, "Heston?"

  The cat stood, its sharp golden eyes locking with Heston’s deep brown ones, and then disappeared into the charred remnants of the east side of the government building. Great. Now everyone in the vicinity would know he'd arrived.