"That's me," Heston responded, pivoting. He tilted his head and extended his right hand. "And you must be Peter."

  Peter, a stocky man shorter than one might have inferred from his voice, looked young, probably in his mid-twenties. He seemed to be emulating an older man's style, right down to the cufflinks bearing a golden "G" on his shirt. And he gave no indication of a reaction to Heston's minuscule height.

  He briskly shook Heston's offered hand. None of the rings reacted.

  Heston then placed his left hand atop Peter's grip, but those rings remained still as well.

  "Yes, that’s me," Peter confirmed. "I started to worry that you might have changed your mind about coming."

  "Not likely," replied Heston. "I don’t speak without purpose. I told you I'd come to investigate, didn't I?"

  "You did. But there's been a lot of resistance. Especially toward me. Everyone’s distressed. Understand, Arbor Grove is a peaceful town," Peter began, leading the way to a nearby bench and settling onto it. "The circus and the disappearance of all those people—it's been a tragedy."

  "A mess summed it up fine," Heston interjected. "I’m here to determine what transpired, not pen a novel about it."

  Peter appeared uncertain whether to feel relieved or otherwise.

  Heston motioned for him to continue. "Don't drag it out. A tragedy?"

  "A tragedy," Peter confirmed, hesitating slightly over the word. "And it marked the beginning of a series of misfortunes. I might sound irrational, but I'm genuinely concerned that Arbor Grove might be cursed."

  "A few disappearances and a suicide don't necessarily point to a curse."

  "It's more than just that. About a week after the circus left, another person disappeared—an eighteen-year-old girl. Her parents are adamant that she would never run away," Peter explained. "While I don’t personally know much about her, she has no criminal record and nothing suspicious in her background. A day after she went missing, her younger sister was..."

  His voice trailed off, and his face paled.

  Heston's curiosity deepened. "Go on. What happened a day after?"

  Peter rushed out the words, "Her younger sister was found skinned. She was in her bed, as if she had just...never woken up. She was skinned meticulously. There were no other injuries, no deep cuts. It was—it was heinous."

  Peter looked visibly shaken recounting the events.

  "You've clearly been through a lot recently," Heston commented, feeling increasingly certain that a supernatural force was involved. A mysterious circus, a missing girl, a deceased mayor—the situation was growing more intriguing by the minute.

  Definitely more captivating than a mischievous spirit in a TV.

  "I can't guarantee any concrete answers," Heston cautioned, "but I'll see what I can unearth."

  Unleashed

  The Phantom Circus had taken root on the outskirts of the ghostly town known as Oatmill. The town, though diminutive and cloaked in age-old shadows, lacked the vast open spaces required to pitch their grand tents. Such constraints meant a meager harvest and a thin scattering of spectators.

  Under normal circumstances, this would be a lamentable setback.

  Yet, this dawn, Layla found herself enveloped in a rare wave of gratitude. She was already besieged by enough shadows.

  Layla chided, her voice laced with a frosty impatience, "Dearest, it seems as if you are willfully deaf to my counsel.” One leg oscillated languidly from the Fly Girl platform where she was ensconced, her lustrous black heel catching the glimmers of the morning sun. “If you fail to command their obedience, you'll never possess the prowess to spearhead a hunt solo.”

  Two zombies, gnarled and wretched, had been yanked from their iron confines. Heavy, rusted collars weighed down their decaying necks. Martha, with a strength defying her stature, had secured their chains to stakes thrust deep into the cold, unyielding earth. Positioned so firmly, they were rendered impotent, incapable of causing any untoward chaos.

  “I am attentive,” retorted Anya with vexation. She shook her hands, dispelling the lingering, eerie magic. “Yet, it bears no fruit.”

  In a mere span of three weeks, the infernal magic seed nestled within Anya's bosom had burgeoned. As it flourished, her visage underwent a haunting metamorphosis. Her once mundane eyes had adopted the lustrous hue of molten gold, rendering her glasses redundant. Her fingertips now bore claws, though they lacked the length and lethality of Layla’s.

  Through the crimson corset embracing her, which provocatively exposed her back, one could glimpse the embryonic buds of emerging wings. The skin surrounding these nubs bore a bruised, splotchy pallor, a testament to the tumult within, regardless of the absence of overt pain.

  “Then, my dear, you must unearth a method to rectify it,” Layla admonished, her form dissipating from her vantage point only to materialize gracefully beside her apprentice. “You've witnessed Brute's capricious moods. Can you imagine his response when you attempt to reign him in?”

  “I am aware!” As Anya’s lips curled in a snarl, her nascent fangs flashed menacingly. “Perhaps your tutelage is the lacking element.”

  Layla, with an air of serene superiority, responded, tapping Anya's nose lightly, “Darling, I am devoid of flaws, and you are acutely aware of that.”

  Anya averted her gaze, her face a canvas of stormy displeasure. Such truths were undeniably hard to counter.

  “What distracts your focus?” Layla probed.

  “All this!” Anya, with a dramatic flourish, pointed at the enchained monstrosities. One of them, sensing the motion, emitted a grotesque groan and lunged, but its blunt teeth found only emptiness.

  Layla regarded the decaying duo with an air of disdain. “They did not bother you previously.”

  “I am aware,” conceded Anya. “The ease with which I mastered that pyrotechnic display contrasts starkly with my current ineptitude.” Her eyes, narrowing with determination, fixed on the zombies. She snapped her fingers, but they continued their futile struggles against their chains. “This evades my grasp.”

  Layla pondered, delving deep into the recesses of her memory. To her, these arts had become an intrinsic part of her being, seldom demanding conscious effort.

  In those days of shadow and allure, what memories lingered of her inaugural introduction of the zombies to the circus?

  Her eyes, orbs of endless midnight, flickered with distant memories. Alas, recollection often eluded Layla. The vast tapestry of her past, woven with countless incantations, often drowned in a murky abyss.

  Perhaps, she thought, it was wiser to dwell in the ephemeral present or, at the very least, the chapters of existence not veiled in ancient obscurity.

  "You're uninvested," Layla declared, her voice echoing like a lamenting wraith. "That's the crux of this malaise."

  "Uninvested?" Anya parroted, her voice dripping with disbelief. "I traversed the forsaken path to Oatmill, and you dare claim I'm not invested?"

  "In the zombies, dearest, not in our cause. Pray, keep your petticoats from getting into a tangle." Layla's eyes, exuding an iciness, rolled dramatically. She began a spectral dance, circling Anya and then weaving her path amid the enchained zombies. Like lost souls, they trailed her, their mournful groans harmonizing with the chilling clink of their chains.

  Anya's face contorted with exasperation. “By the gods, I am genuinely trying to figure this out.”

  “Indeed, but your fervor is unlike your initial encounter,” Layla opined, halting directly opposite Anya, the zombies serving as their morbid barrier. "Back then, rage consumed your essence. Had you known the incantations, had the magic surged within, their obedience would have been undoubted."

  "So, am I condemned to a permanent state of wrath?"

  "You've tasted that fire already," Layla responded with a knowing smirk. "Your bouts with Frida have not gone unnoticed."

  Anya’s gaze skittered away, her face painted with a blush of shame.

  Undeterred, Layla pressed on, “However, perpetual rage isn't our destiny. Even beings of our arcane nature have varied sentiments. Yet, our spells often demand a sacrifice--emotional, cerebral, or even drops of our very life essence. These are the catalysts to bring them forth from the void.”

  "Ah, similar to our demonic pact."

  “Precisely. On that fateful day, your anger overshadowed the nature of the zombies. Now, you're so ensnared by their forms, you fail to harness their potential.” Layla mused for a fleeting moment, then, in a spectral blur, rematerialized atop her lofty vantage point.

  With a voice resembling a siren's call, she beckoned, “Reflect upon their potential utility. Forget the zombie caricatures of your world's tales. Envision them as extensions of your will. Command their ceaseless tugging.”

  Confusion clouded Anya’s features. Yet, she snapped her fingers in defiance.

  To no avail.

  Layla theatrically tossed her head back, emitting a lament to rival the undead’s.

  Anya's glare was as sharp as a dagger's edge. She inhaled deeply, gestured thrice, yet still met with inertia.

  “Anya,” Layla began, a hint of reprimand lacing her words.

  “I’m trying,” Anya retorted with a hiss, her golden eyes ablaze. Swirling to face the zombies, she demanded with palpable venom, “What part of ‘bow before me’ eludes your decaying minds?”

  With a resonating snap, the creatures collapsed, not merely on all fours but in a prostrate genuflection. They oscillated slightly, maws agape, while viscous drool slithered from their mouths, creating a repulsive pool amid their rotting appendages.

  Anya’s lips parted in awe, her gaze turning upward, meeting Layla’s, her eyes like saucers reflecting a tumultuous storm, clearly yearning for recognition.

  “Behold,” Layla whispered, a sardonic grin playing upon her crimson lips. “You merely had to summon the tempest within. I was correct, as ever.” She gracefully rose, her form almost ethereal as she elongated. “Your new task: confine them back to their cages.”

  “How should I command such creatures?” Anya inquired, her voice trembling like the flutter of a raven's wing.

  Before she could muster a response, Layla's fingers danced in the shadowed air, dispelling the chains that had held the undead.

  Layla emitted a gasp, her eyes darting to confront the advancing menace. One of the wretched beings crawled, its head protruding from its sinew-exposed neck, while grotesque remnants of flesh dangled from its skeletal silhouette.

  “No,” commanded Anya, voice laced with newfound authority. “Stop!”

  The creature froze.

  “Proceed,” Layla urged, her tone dripping with dark amusement. “Tarry not. Their obedience falters when hunger gnaws at their innards.”

  A ghostly pallor overtook Anya’s features. Inhaling deeply, she pronounced, “To your chambers,” punctuating her command with a gesture of her fingers.

  Like dark spectres, the zombies heeded her summons, weaving through shadowed paths and converging upon the dreaded Freak Show Alley--their prison kept hidden from the unsuspecting gaze of transient spectators. Anya’s face, bathed in anticipation, lifted in hope of adulation, but Layla gestured imperiously.

  “Seal their fate, Anya. A task half done is no task at all,” Layla admonished.

  Retorting with fervor, Anya challenged, “You never consign them.”

  Layla, her gaze cold as moonlight, tilted her head mockingly. “Do you bear the title ‘Mistress of the Circus’? Or claim dominion over this unholy carnival?” With a scornful flick of her finger, she directed Anya to her duty. “Complete your task or bear the consequences.”

  With a final resentful glance, Anya shimmered, following the nightmarish trail of the undead. Once her silhouette vanished into the looming darkness, Layla alighted from her perch, materializing a distance away, her curiosity compelling her to spy on the alley.

  The creatures seemed to heed the newcomer's command--a portentous sign. Layla felt unease. Anya’s prowess in the eldritch arts burgeoned rapidly. She was metamorphosing, her visage gradually warping from the realm of mortals to that of malevolence. But what disconcerted Layla was the alacrity at which Anya imbibed every incantation, every dark secret unveiled to her.

  A gnawing trepidation eclipsed Layla’s annoyance.

  Guided by the murmurs of the arcane, she meandered through the labyrinthine circus, drawn irresistibly to Madam Myst’s marquee.

  Its entrails exhaled fragrances of forgotten rites, the pungent aroma of incense. Despite the impending commencement of the circus's nocturnal spectacle, the soothsayer already held court behind her obsidian table.

  “You’ve foreseen my visit,” Layla remarked, sarcasm tainting her voice. She settled opposite the enigmatic, veiled oracle. “Reveal your visions to me.”

  Madam Myst’s laughter rang, chilling and discordant. She leaned in, her hands caressing her crystalline orb, its core illuminating with a ghostly luminescence. “What shadows cloud your memories?”

  “I’ve relinquished noth-” Layla’s retort faltered. A hint of crimson brushed her ears. Her visage contorted further in vexation. “Eons have passed, Myst, an endless march of time. You of all should recognize my age, for even you are but a wisp in my extensive chronicle.”

  “And yet, time has etched deeper lines on your memories than on mine,” Madam Myst riposted. The glow within the orb intensified, its radiance becoming almost blinding. “In the hours of dawn, my crystal whispered of antiquities, of eras lost to oblivion. Echoes of a bygone time, latent in the recesses of an ancient mind, now remembered solely by me.”

  “Dominus,” Layla murmured, her meticulously adorned visage darkening.

  As the luminosity reached its zenith, it then receded, unveiling a vision from an epoch long past.

  A silvery full moon bathed the circus in its ethereal light, transforming the gilded banners into shimmering tapestries of otherworldliness. There, Layla stood, poised before a caravan--her sanctuary--donning a jester’s garb, the tri-tipped hat casting mysterious shadows on her rictus.

  In her grip was a knife carved from a jawbone. The caravan door creaked open, and an figure emerged, bathed in lunar brilliance. The apparition, garbed as the circus's sovereign, bore an eccentric mane of alabaster and verdant, twisted into imposing bull-horn spires flanking her cranium.

  Their lips moved, a silent conversation, their words becoming mere spectres, lost in the annals of history.

  In a fervent rush, Layla lunged. Vast, alabaster bat wings erupted from the woman's back. She evaded the blade's dance--but the ensnaring incantations Layla invoked were inescapable. Blood-red tendrils ensnared the sovereign, binding her wings and casting her to the earth's cold embrace.

  Without a heartbeat’s delay, Layla descended, plunging her silvery jawbone blade into the sovereign’s exposed neck, relentlessly, before wrenching open the woman’s mouth with her fingers.

  No soul was there to be wrenched free, but ethereal threads of sorcery wove between them. Layla consumed the quintessence of the demoness, absorbing the once-mighty ringmaster.

  A sudden flare, followed by a lingering luminescence, and the orb reverted to its impenetrable obsidian void.

  Entranced, Layla’s gaze was fixed. Memories flooded back, as if a shroud had been torn asunder. The realization dawned that she had been sculpted for this malevolent purpose...but the woman from her vision had been destined similarly.

  Layla was not the inaugural heart of the Phantom Circus.

  Alexandria had been. And upon her becoming obsolete to Dominus, he had bestowed upon Layla the infernal tools--the jawbone blade, the ensnaring spells--to consume her and ascend to her vaunted station.

  “Within our yesteryears lie cryptic answers. Some buried deep, some overlooked,” Madam Myst murmured, retracting her touch from the orb. “Others unveil themselves in moments most unexpected.”

  “Reveal to me the morrow,” Layla implored, desperation seeping into her tone. “Am I also destined for such a treacherous fate?”

  “I am but a conduit for the spirits,” intoned Madam Myst. “They dictated this revelation, and I merely unveiled it.” She paused, eyes narrowing. “I was under no obligation.”

  Layla’s teeth clenched, her form sinking into the lavish, intricately carved chair. “How could the existence of Alexandria elude my memory?”

  “Centuries pass.” Madam Myst raised her brow. “Fourfold. Fivefold. Can you fathom the duration of your reign?”

  Layla was struck by the realization that she truly could not.

  Madam Myst explained further, her voice dripping with cryptic undertones, "You've unearthed her memory, and in doing so, rediscovered a fragment of your own ancient soul. Now, the crossroads beckon: which path will you choose?"

  Lost amidst a labyrinth of her own thoughts, Layla rose with an air of regal uncertainty. She endeavored to maintain a facade of composure. "There's a debt you wish to collect from me."

  "In due course, you'll know my desires," Madam Myst replied cryptically, her gaze descending to her table, where an intricate set of tarot cards lay. With a gentle flourish of her pale fingers, she splayed them, and they effortlessly arranged themselves into an elaborate spread.

  While Layla often stood her ground in the face of such veiled farewells, today she felt the pressing need to depart. Emerging into the melancholy embrace of late morning sunlight, her heart grew heavier with foreboding.

  Was this the culmination of Dominus' plans? Had he perceived her growing audacity, her clandestine hoarding of souls, and decided she was no longer fit to be the pulsating heart of his nightmarish carnival?

  Such harrowing musings enveloped her, casting a shadow on her very spirit throughout the dark revelries of the night. Even as guests thronged the circus and her voice rang out, introducing each act, there was a conspicuous void, a lack of fervor in her proclamation, an insipidness as she beckoned the audience for the following night's macabre spectacle.