The Midnight Carousel

The Midnight Carousel

Rain pattered lightly against the rusted archway of the old fairground, whispering secrets through the weeds. Ava stood at the carousel's edge, still hypnotized by the way its faded horses glowed under moonlight. The soft, golden hue didn’t come from electricity—it pulsed like a heartbeat.

"Roman, are you seeing this?" she called behind her.

Roman, her older brother, emerged from behind a crooked food stand, his flashlight flickering. His tall frame hunched slightly under a weathered leather jacket, the kind he'd inherited from their father.

"It's humming," Ava whispered as he joined her side.

Roman knelt, placing his palm against the carousel platform. His brow furrowed. "It's warm… too warm for something that’s been abandoned twenty years."

Before either could say more, the carousel began to turn.

It was silent—eerily so—yet undeniably in motion. The wooden horses, chipped and mold-flecked, jerked as if awakening from a nightmare. Lights sputtered to life overhead, and carnival music warbled to life, detuned and distant.

From the fog at the far side of the carousel, a third figure approached. It was John, Roman's best friend and local conspiracy nut. He carried an old camcorder and a bag of tools.

“You guys owe me big time,” John said breathlessly. “This place is not on any current map. Not a satellite ping. It’s like it… hides.”

Roman and Ava exchanged glances. It wasn’t just a mystery anymore. It was an anomaly.

Without a word, Ava stepped onto the platform. The carousel responded, slowing to a near stop, the horse in front of her rising to attention. It wasn’t the one she'd first noticed—it was obsidian black, eyes made of amber glass that flickered like candlelight.

Roman grabbed her arm. “Don’t.”

But it was too late. She mounted the horse, and the carousel groaned—then roared.

The world tilted. Trees bled into stars. The air turned sharp, then vanished.

And suddenly, Ava was gone.

Roman staggered back. “Where is she?!”

“She rode the key,” John murmured, eyes wide. “That horse. It's not just decoration.”

He ran a finger along the edge of one of the mirrors lining the center column. Hidden behind a loose panel, he uncovered a series of inscriptions—arcane glyphs glowing faintly.

“She went through a gate.”

Roman clenched his fists. “Then we go after her.”

John hesitated, fear written in the corners of his expression. “We don’t even know where it leads.”

“Then let’s find out.”

One by one, they mounted the other glowing horses—Roman on a deep red stallion, John on a pale, hollow-eyed mare. As they settled into place, the carousel picked up speed again, faster, faster, until the world spun away.

—

Ava awoke in a forest of silver bark and violet mist. The sky above was twilight, though no sun or moon was visible. The carousel stood behind her, silent now, horses frozen mid-prance.

“Hello?” she called, her voice swallowed by the trees.

Something stirred nearby.

She turned to see a woman watching her from the mist. Cloaked in crimson, the woman’s eyes were pitch black, like ink suspended in water.

“You are the fourth this year,” the woman said.

Ava stepped back instinctively. “Where am I?”

“A crossroads between worlds. A place where memories take shape… and sometimes escape.”

Before Ava could ask more, the carousel spun again—and Roman and John arrived, stumbling onto the mossy ground.

“Ava!” Roman ran to her, pulling her into a tight embrace.

John looked up at the woman in red. “Is this your domain?”

“No,” she said, her gaze moving over each of them slowly. “This place belongs to the carousel. It chooses what you see, what you fear… and what you lose.”

As if to prove her point, Roman turned and gasped. Behind them, where trees had once stood, now rose a distorted version of their childhood home—rotting, flickering, broken.

From within, laughter echoed.

“Is this a trick?” Roman said, already moving forward.

“It’s a test,” the woman warned. “Each of you has something tethered to this place. If you want to return, you must let go of what binds you—or face it.”

As they stared into the flickering mirage, shadows began to form—twisted figures from old nightmares, past mistakes, long-buried guilt.

John clutched his camcorder, whispering, “I think this place records us too…”

Ava took a step forward. “Then let’s rewrite the ending.”

Roman drew a small pocket knife—the last gift from their father—and looked at the door to the house. “We do this together.”

Together, they stepped into the mirage.

The carousel turned slowly behind them, glowing quietly… waiting.