The Carnival After Dark

And the ghosts we carry through it

ONE NIGHT ONLY 

It was an ideal autumn Tuesday in New England. The air smelled like wet leaves and woodsmoke, and the sky had gone that ridiculous purple-orange color that makes you forgive the entire Northeastern climate for what winter is about to do to you. Fog crept over the road, softening the edges of the trees.

Naturally, it was the perfect night for a spontaneous shenanigan.

We climbed into my car with no plan and the confidence of two women who had never once let a lack of planning stop them. Lady Gaga’s The Dead Dance was already playing when I started the car, loud enough to rattle the windows. We both jumped when the bass hit, then immediately lost our shit laughing.

“Lead the way, Mother Monster!” I shouted, peeling away from the curb.

We drove around for a while, rejecting every idea the other suggested. Dinner was too much effort. The one bar we considered was packed, and neither of us felt like fighting for a parking spot just to pay thirteen dollars for a drink.

“Let’s just go home and watch a movie,” I said.

“No. I’m not watching Hocus Pocus for the three hundredth time. I’d literally rather die.”

“Oh, please. You love that mov—”

“WAIT!” She pointed through the windshield. “What is that?”

Beyond the trees, colored lights blinked in the dark.

I slowed and followed a narrow road toward them. The trees crowded close on either side until, without warning, the woods opened onto an old-fashioned carnival. Warm bulbs outlined striped tents. A Ferris wheel turned against the twilight. Music drifted through the fog, bright and tinny, and just a little too distant.

Before I could get the car into park, my best friend was out the door.

“What the fuck, girl?”

She had her purse over her arm, lip gloss in hand, phone up for a selfie while I was still wrestling with my seat belt.

I stepped out more cautiously. The carnival looked inviting, almost aggressively so. Rides spun. People laughed. A carousel glittered beneath the trees. Behind us, the road had already disappeared into the dark.

“Where the Hell are we?” I said aloud to no one in particular.

Bestie waved me over as if she’d personally discovered the place and I was taking too long to appreciate her achievement.

We bought tickets from a girl in dark makeup and a candy-striper vest who looked deeply unimpressed by the entire concept of employment. The tickets were gorgeous little relics, printed on weathered parchment in faded cream and dusty rose, their scalloped edges framing intricate black-and-gold celestial flourishes. A moonlit Ferris wheel and striped big top adorned the front, surrounding ornate lettering that read CARNIVAL AFTER DARK, while the pink admission stub promised ONE NIGHT ONLY.

I held mine up. “Can I hold onto your ticket, too?”

She handed hers over without a second thought. “For your scrapbook, nerd?”

“Well, yeah. These are pretty cool, and I’d like to keep the pair.”

“True. #Vintage.”

We took a selfie in front of the booth and headed inside.

Our first stop was obviously the Ferris wheel. I liked to know where I was, what was around me, and how everything fit together before I could fully relax. Getting a bird’s-eye view helped me get my bearings, especially somewhere unfamiliar. From up there, I could see how much of the carnival stretched into the woods and, more importantly, how we might find our way back out.

From the top, the carnival spread beneath us in a maze of rides, games, and tents. The carousel turned slowly. People drifted along the midway with paper trays of food. Smaller tents glowed between the trees. The biggest tent stood at the far end, its faded red-and-cream stripes visible above the crowd. Posters around its entrance advertised the FREAK SHOW.

Everything looked almost normal.

Almost.

We started down the midway with candy apples, popcorn, and cotton candy scenting the air. Naturally, we had to stop for a treat. At a test-your-strength game, Bestie handed me her snack.

“C’mon, Muscles. You got this.” I teased.

She grabbed the mallet, exaggerated its weight, and gave the crowd a big, theatrical grin before slamming it down. The light climbed halfway up the scale, stopped, then slid right back down.

The attendant snickered, “Better luck next time, little lady.”

At first glance, he looked like part of the show, dressed in suspenders, black slacks, a white button-down, and a newsboy cap. A little old-fashioned, sure, but nothing out of place for this carnival. Then I looked closer. His shirt was stained, his gray hair looked greasy, and several days’ worth of stubble shadowed his jaw. His pants strained around his belly, the front button threatening to give up the fight. The longer I looked, the less he resembled a man in costume and the more he looked like someone who hadn’t seen a washing machine, or a bar of soap, in a very long time.

“Hold on,” I said. “She paid for three tries. She’s got two left.”

Bestie gave me a wink. The second hit got her three-quarters of the way up. The attendant laughed harder.

On the third try, she brought the mallet down with a satisfying CLANG. The light shot straight to the top. An alarm rang. The crowd cheered.

Bestie bowed as though she’d just won an Olympic medal.

We high-fived and walked away laughing, until we started noticing the people around us.

Not anything obvious. Just details that seemed wrong when you looked twice: a woman standing too still beneath a string of lights, a man in clothes that belonged in an old photograph, a child watching us without blinking.

Bestie caught my eye. Her eyebrows rose.

“Everyone’s human,” she said.

“And they need to be loved?”

We cracked up and kept walking, because apparently laughter was our response to anything we couldn’t explain.

A ride caught our attention. It had two enormous arms that swung and spun in opposite directions, like aggressive windshield wipers designed by someone with a personal grudge against inner ears.

“You wanna?” she asked. I figured why not.

The machine launched us into a blur of lights and screaming. Her purse smacked me in the face. Twice. Maybe three times. By the time we stumbled off, we were laughing so hard we could barely walk.

That was how we ended up deeper in the carnival, following a ribbon of music to a small velvet tent tucked near the trees.

Inside, the air was warm and thick with incense. Purple-black fabric hung from the ceiling. Candles crowded the table, wax dripping down antique candelabras around a crystal ball that glowed in the low light.

A woman sat behind it, draped in elaborate fortune-teller attire, all flowing fabric, jewels, rings, and bracelets that caught the candlelight when she moved.

I looked at my friend.

Where did she come from?

Bestie shrugged. Fair enough.

The woman took my hand and studied my palm. Then she looked up with a small, knowing smile.

“You already have your fortune.”

“I do?”

“A music-loving Taurus.”

My smile faltered.

Bestie shoved her hand across the table. “Do mine next!”

Her palm clipped the crystal ball. It rolled off the table and hit the floor with a heavy THUD. A crack appeared, then spread across the glass in a delicate web.

“Oh my God. I’m so sorry,” Bestie said. “I am so, so sorry.”

The fortune-teller didn’t look angry. If anything, she looked curious.

Then she slipped behind a curtain at the back of the tent. We heard clattering, then voices: hers and a man’s, too muffled to make out.

Bestie leaned close. “Oh, shit. Booty call?”

“Maybe an unhappy customer.”

“Do we just leave?”

“Do we owe her for the crystal ball?”

“How much do you think one of those goes for?”

A scream cut through the tent.

Then—

BANG! BANG!

We launched ourselves out of our chairs and nearly tripped over each other trying to get through the entrance.

We didn’t stop until we were well out of sight. I bent over, hands on my knees, trying to breathe. The music seemed too loud now, distorted at the edges. My stomach lurched, and I stumbled into a dark corner to be sick.

My friend followed close behind.

“Bitch, you good?”

I stared at her. “Those sounded like gunshots to you, right?”

She looked back toward the tent. The carnival was still bustling. People wandered between the rides, laughing and eating and minding their own business. No one seemed to have heard a thing.

“I mean,” she said slowly, “maybe they knocked some shit over in the throes of passion?”

I wiped my mouth and considered this.

It made absolutely no sense.

It was also, somehow, on-brand for this weird-ass place.

“Ready to go?” I asked.

“It’s early. Let’s see what time the Freak Show starts.”

I stared at her.

She stared back.

“Popcorn?” I suggested.

Because apparently that’s what you do after you think you’ve witnessed a murder and upchucked your candy apple with vengeance.

The giant tent stood at the far end of the midway, its entrance open beneath a row of flickering bulbs. Inside, faded red-and-cream canvas stretched high above rough wooden benches. Ropes and poles vanished into shadow overhead. Sawdust covered the packed dirt floor, and heavy red curtains framed a stage at the far end.

It was beautiful in a worn, almost forgotten way.

The seats began filling around us. People slipped into rows without seeming to arrive from anywhere in particular. I glanced around for an exit sign and didn’t see one.

Then the lights went down.

A spotlight snapped on.

A clown stood in the center ring, staring solemnly at the audience. He took one step, tripped over his enormous shoes, and landed flat on his face. Another clown rushed to help, tripped over him, and took a third clown down with him. A bouquet of flowers exploded into confetti.

Bestie was already crying laughing.

“Oh my God.”

The clowns chased one another around the ring, stealing hats and throwing pies until they vanished behind the curtains. A mime appeared next. He walked into an invisible wall, gave Bestie a wounded look, and pulled an invisible rope so convincingly that half the audience leaned with him.

“Okay,” I whispered. “That was actually good.”

The next performer crossed a high wire in a shimmery, glittering costume, then turned around and walked backward. Bestie gripped my arm. At the far end, the performer smiled, jumped, and landed perfectly.

The tent erupted.

A masked singer followed, their voice rich and haunting beneath a single spotlight. Then came a burlesque number full of rhinestones, feather fans, teasing choreography, and theatrical confidence.

Bestie leaned over. “I was not expecting this.”

“Neither was I.”

“I’m not complaining.”

“Girl, nor am I.”

We laughed until a man walked into the ring carrying a sword.

The laughter quieted.

He swallowed the sword. The audience screamed. Before we’d processed that, a fire eater appeared, spinning flaming torches in bright circles before putting the flames into his mouth.

Bestie clutched my hand. “What the actual fuck?”

I couldn’t answer. The fire eater was smiling, but the curtains behind him had begun to open.

Slowly.

The music shifted. The lights dimmed to a blood-red glow. The performers disappeared, and a sign descended over the stage.

FREAK SHOW.

The next act was different. Performers with unusual bodies, faces, and ways of moving stepped into the light. Some did tricks. Others stood still and met the audience’s gaze, turning the act of looking into something uncomfortable. I couldn’t decide whether the show wanted us to be impressed, ashamed, or both.

Then a wooden box rolled into the ring.

“Oh, no,” Bestie said.

A woman climbed inside. A performer in a black suit raised an enormous saw and began cutting the box in half. The music slowed. The two sides separated with a sharp crack.

There was no blood. No screaming.

The woman sat up, perfectly fine.

Bestie released my arm. “Oh, shut up.”

“It’s a trick.”

“I KNOW THAT.”

The audience roared. The woman bowed and climbed out.

Then something growled behind us.

Not from the stage.

From somewhere in the dark.

I turned. The crowd was still laughing, but the lights flickered, and the performer’s smile vanished.

The growl came again, low and wet and far too close.

A hairy hand appeared beneath the curtain. Long fingers. Dirty nails. Coarse dark hair.

The curtain tore open.

The thing that came through looked almost human. It hunched low, its body covered in rough black hair, breathing through its teeth. Its eyes caught the red light as it scanned the tent.

Someone screamed.

The creature lunged.

The crowd exploded into motion. Benches toppled. People shoved past one another. Bestie grabbed my hand.

“RUN!”

We burst out of the tent and kept running, shoving past startled carnival-goers until we finally dared to look behind us. Nothing. No creature. No screaming crowd pouring out after us. Just the carnival carrying on like we hadn’t narrowly escaped becoming somebody’s dinner.

Bestie was laughing that strange, breathless laugh that comes when your body can’t decide whether you’re terrified or having the time of your life.

“What was that?” I wheezed.

“I DON’T KNOW!”

We looked back.

The carnival was still there. Lights glowing. Music playing. People strolling along the midway like nothing had happened.

I stared at Bestie. “Am I fucking trippin’?”

“I don’t know.”

A beat.

“Wait. Are you?”

We started laughing again, because apparently our survival instincts had abandoned us and left us thinking that this was a typical carnival experience.

“Okay,” I said, wiping my eyes. “I’m done. Let’s go.”

We walked toward the road.

At least, we thought we did.

Instead, we found ourselves at the entrance to a cemetery. Old iron fencing disappeared into the fog. The moon silvered the headstones, many so weathered their inscriptions were almost gone.

The place was beautiful. Quiet. Peaceful.

“Okay,” my friend said. “This is definitely not where we were going.”

“I don’t remember this being here.”

“Maybe it was.”

“Helpful.”

We stepped through the gate. The ground was soft beneath our shoes, and the graves were old - whole lives reduced to names and dates carved into stone.

For the first time all night, I felt calm.

“See?” she said. “Normal.”

I glanced around. “Yeah. Totally normal.”

Then I noticed someone moving between the graves.

Then another.

Then several more.

They drifted between the headstones, appearing through the fog as if they’d been there all along. Their clothes hung strangely from their bodies. Their movements were slow and uneven.

“Were they here before?” I whispered.

Bestie didn’t answer.

Then the church bells began.

Not wedding bells. Not the soft chime of a Sunday morning. These were deep, heavy, urgent bells - the kind that sounded like a warning no one had bothered to explain.

BONG.

BONG.

BONG.

Figures emerged from between the graves on every side.

“Run.”

We didn’t argue. We tore through the cemetery, weaving between headstones and iron fences, until we ducked behind a massive mausoleum and pressed ourselves against the cold stone.

For a few seconds, there was only our breathing.

“Are they gone?” I whispered.

THUD.

Something hit the other side of the mausoleum.

“Nope.”

We bolted.

I heard Bestie right behind me - then suddenly, I didn’t.

“Hey!”

“Bueller,” she coughed.

She was on the ground. I doubled back and grabbed her hand.

“You got jokes? C’mon!”

She pulled herself up, but then I saw the blood dripping from her forehead.

“Shit. You’re bleeding.”

“I’m aware!”

“Okay, no need to get sassy. I’m trying to help you!”

“HELP ME FASTER!”

Fair point.

I reached for the wound, trying to see how bad it was. Behind her, the figures kept coming.

Their skin was the color of old ash, stretched tight over sunken cheeks and slack jaws. Milky eyes stared out from hollow sockets, unblinking and unfocused. Rotting clothes hung in tatters from their bodies, damp earth clinging to frayed hems. They lurched forward with stiff, uneven steps, their limbs jerking as though the strings holding them together had begun to fray.

Zombies.

Actual fucking zombies.

“Girl.”

“I see them.”

“Girl.”

“I SEE THEM!”

We turned in a circle. There was nowhere to go. The dead were closing in from every direction.

Then, one by one, they stopped.

They turned.

They shuffled into formation.

A zombie at the front stepped sideways. Another dragged one foot forward, then the other. The whole crowd rearranged itself with the awkward determination of people who had shown up to rehearsal late and were pretending they knew the steps.

Bestie stared. “Are they—”

The opening notes of “Thriller” hit the cemetery.

One zombie jerked its head to the side. Another rolled its shoulders. A third dragged a foot forward. Suddenly the graveyard was a dance floor, and the dead moved as one.

I was completely entranced. The choreography was horrifying. Mesmerizing. Weirdly impressive.

Then I heard Bestie breathing beside me.

I slowly turned.

The warmth had vanished from her face. Her familiar expression slackened, her lips parting just enough to reveal a dark, unnatural stillness behind them. Her head lolled slightly to one side, and when she looked at me, there was no spark of recognition in her gaze. Just a vacant stare that made my stomach drop.

Her mouth hung open, and something rattled deep in her throat.

I stared. I waved a hand in front of her face.

“Hello?”

She gave a low, wet breath.

Oh, shit.

My best friend was a zombie.

I was frozen in place, my brain frantically trying to process what was happening but failing miserably.

Then, a tall man with dark hair and broad shoulders shuffled out of the crowd. He was, annoyingly, handsome for a zombie. He offered my friend his hand.

She looked at him.

Then she looked at me.

I could practically hear her weighing her options.

“Don’t you dare,” I told her.

She shrugged.

And took his hand.

“ARE YOU KIDDING ME?”

The two of them slid into the choreography like they’d been practicing together for weeks. He spun her beneath his arm. She hit the next move perfectly.

I stared at her in absolute betrayal.

“WHEN THE FUCK DID YOU LEARN THE CHOREOGRAPHY?”

She grinned or did something close enough to a grin and I chose to take it personally.

“WE NEVER ABANDON OUR BESTIES FOR A BOY!” I screamed. “GIRL CODE!”

She turned, beckoning me to join them.

“No! Absolutely not! I am not becoming a zombie because you found a man with a nice ass!”

She pointed at me, then at the dance floor, then made an impatient little come-on motion.

The zombies danced. The bells rang. The dead moved in perfect time around us.

My best friend faded into the crowd, no longer concerned with getting me to follow.

So, I ran.

I ran until I couldn’t hear the bells anymore.

Who needs a gym membership when you can get chased through a haunted carnival?

The cemetery disappeared behind the trees, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was still following me. Every branch snapping beneath my feet sounded like footsteps. Every shadow looked like a figure waiting for me to turn my back. I stumbled over roots and slick leaves, grabbing at branches to keep from eating shit on the forest floor.

I had no idea where the Hell I was.

The carnival lights flickered between the trees, then vanished. I changed direction, trying to find the road, but every path seemed to lead deeper into the woods. My phone was useless. My legs hurt. My lungs burned.

Was that movement behind me?

I spun around.

Nothing.

A laugh escaped me, sharp and breathless and completely out of place. I was losing my mind. Maybe I’d been losing it since the fortune-teller’s tent. Maybe the creature, the cemetery, the zombies - all of it - had finally pushed me over some invisible edge.

I wanted my best friend.

The thought hit harder than the fear. I wanted to hear her laugh. I wanted her beside me, making some wildly inappropriate comment about our near-death experience, because if she could make a joke about it, maybe it hadn’t really happened.

But she was gone.

And I was alone in the woods, talking to myself like the lead character in a cautionary tale about women who ignore their instincts and follow strange lights into the forest.

I kept moving.

Eventually, the trees began to thin. I caught a glimpse of open sky, then the faint outline of the road. I stumbled toward it, half expecting the pavement to disappear beneath me, too.

The parking lot emerged through the fog.

My car sat beneath the trees, the only vehicle left.

I had never been so happy to see a parking lot in my entire life. I ran toward it like an astronaut who’d just spotted Earth.

I tried to open the door but it remained locked.

“Are you fucking kidding me right now?”

I dumped my bag onto the pavement, pawing through everything until my keys appeared at the bottom. I hit the button.

Click.

I shoved everything back into my bag. My ChapStick rolled under the car.

“So long, fallen soldier.”

I climbed in, hit the start button, and looked back toward the carnival.

It was gone.

No Ferris wheel. No tents. No lights. Just an empty field and the dark outline of the cemetery.

I blinked repeatedly, once again, not trusting my own eyes. Nothing.

I sat for a moment, looking around the vehicle. No signs of anything strange and no signs of Bestie. So, I drove.

In the rearview mirror, the carnival glowed between the trees.

I slammed on my brakes.

I looked over my shoulder.

Nothing.

Back to the mirror: lights, tents, the slow-turning Ferris wheel.

I looked behind me again.

Empty field.

I started to cry. Not an elegant tear or two. Ugly, full-body sobbing. I reached for my phone, and my fingers brushed the stiff edge of paper caught between the seats.

The tickets.

I still had them.

I held them in my hand as the road unwound ahead of me. All at once, I could think of a hundred other nights with my best friend. The adventures that began with Hey, what are we doin’? The detours. The inside jokes. The stupid decisions we’d defended with complete confidence. The moments when one of us started laughing before the other even understood the joke.

I wanted to tell her everything.

Which was ridiculous, because she’d been there.

Remember when you turned into a whole zombie and ditched me for a dead guy with a nice ass?

My laughter broke through the crying.

“Girl code,” I whispered to the empty passenger seat.

The Cure’s “Burn” rose through the speakers. I tightened my fingers around the tickets.

Then I made a sharp U-turn.

I was going back.

By the time I reached the lot, I’d stopped crying. The field was empty, just as before. I parked, took the tickets, and stepped out.

The night air was cold against my face.

At first, nothing happened.

Then lights began appearing between the trees. One by one, they warmed into view: the Ferris wheel, the tents, the glowing midway. The carnival assembled itself out of darkness as if it had only been waiting for me to make up my mind.

I left my bag in the car. My phone, my chapstick, every sensible survival instinct I had - rest in peace.

I walked to the ticket booth and held up the pair of them.

The goth girl behind the booth didn’t say a word. She only lifted one pale finger and pointed toward the carnival.

I hesitated, then awkwardly placed them on the counter, nudging them into a neat little stack like I was returning library books instead of leaving behind the only evidence that this place had ever existed.

The girl didn’t even glance at them.

Of course she didn’t.

I took a breath, turned toward the lights, and walked back into the carnival.

Somewhere inside, The Dead Dance was playing.

I followed the music toward the Freak Show tent. Inside, the dead were dancing in synchronized, shameless, full-body commitment. It seemed less a nightmare now than the world’s most aggressively undead flash mob.

She was dancing with her zombie guy, who had one hand at her waist and a smile that was somehow still attractive despite the whole decomposing situation. When she saw me, she broke formation and ran over.

I braced myself for an apology.

Instead, she grabbed both my hands and flashed me a grin that would’ve been completely normal if not for the fact that her lips had gone slack and a low, rattling sound escaped her throat. Somehow, she looked happier than I’d seen her all night.

Behind her, her man followed, bringing a friend along. Their face was difficult to read in the flashing lights, but they held out a hand to me.

Bestie winked.

Girl code.

I eyed the hand they’d offered me. No visible maggots, no missing fingers, no obvious deal-breakers. Honestly, I’d seen worse on Tinder.

I looked at my best friend, who had apparently died, come back, learned a whole-ass dance routine, and found a date before I’d managed to get out of the cemetery.

“You’re lucky I love your crazy ass,” I told her.

Then I took the hand before me.

The music swelled. The crowd moved around us. Bestie’s zombie boyfriend spun her under his arm, and my new dance partner pulled me into the next step.

To my surprise, my feet knew what to do.

My shoulders hit the beat. My arms snapped into place. I turned, stepped, slid into formation.

I looked at Bestie.

She looked at me.

“WHEN THE FUCK DID I LEARN THE CHOREOGRAPHY?”

She laughed without making a sound, and I started laughing too. Because of course she did this. Of course my best friend could turn into a zombie, find a hot undead man, and somehow still get me to come back for her.

I’d spent the last hour trying to get out of that place. I’d run through the woods, convinced I was losing my mind. I’d sat alone in my car and cried because I couldn’t bear the thought of never seeing her again.

And then I’d turned around.

Not because I understood what was happening. Not because I was suddenly brave. I came back because she was here, and whatever the Hell this carnival was, I wasn’t going to let it have the last word on our friendship.

Bestie reached for my hand.

This time, I took it.

The music swelled around us. The dead moved in perfect time, and somehow my feet knew what to do. I fell into the rhythm beside her, laughing so hard I nearly missed the next step.

For once, I stopped looking for the exit.

I stopped trying to make sense of the night, or figure out how to survive it, or convince myself that none of it was real.

My best friend was here. I was here.

And for one impossible night, that was enough.

The lights began to go out.

One by one, the carnival dimmed around us. The Ferris wheel faded into the fog. The tents dissolved at their edges. The midway emptied, and the music grew distant, as if the whole place were drifting away down a long hallway.

The last bulbs flickered.

Then the carnival vanished.

The parking lot lay empty beneath the trees.

Where the ticket booth had stood, a gust of wind lifted two old tickets from the ground. They turned lazily in the air before tumbling into a shallow puddle.

The ripples spread.

Settled.

For a moment, nothing moved.

Then headlights swept across the empty lot.

A car rolled in along the winding road. Before it had fully stopped, the passenger door flew open. One of the women jumped out, phone already in hand, determined to get a selfie.

The driver climbed out after her.

Two best friends. Nothing to do. Strange lights blinking at the edge of the woods.

From somewhere beyond the trees, “The Dead Dance” gave way to the opening notes of “Dracula.”

And the night began again.

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