A red glow shone dimly in the darkness. The light was steady, regardless of how weak it was. It shone, and shone, and shone. The room was so, so dark. The black was oppressive, digging its claws into our shoulders and forcing us upright. The red light shone on. Occasionally, as time continued to slither by, we would feel something on the back of our neck. It was hot, like a breath. It stunk, like rot. It melted and mixed with the smell of burning meat that filled the darkness. It scared us, but the chair and the cloth that tied us down did not let us move away. We could only look into the darkness. Our voice was long since gone: our tongue was gone or we had screamed ourselves hoarse. We couldn’t remember which. The red glowed and glowed on. Faintly we could hear something past the darkness. Perhaps it was laughter, perhaps screaming. The jingle of bells, however, we knew well. They rung both past the dark and inside the fabric eating us whole. Our teeth hurt. The fabric was scratchy against our skin. Perhaps it was cotton, perhaps it was silk, perhaps it was stinging nettle. It did not matter, for it torn into our flesh the same. It did not matter. There was nothing we could do. We waited. We waited. We wait. Cheers ring through the air, through the darkness. We jolt, as much as we can. Our eyes widen, slightly, invisible. The darkness begins to lower, impossibly, terrifyingly. The cheers grow louder, as do the bells. As the darkness drips off of our feet, we look around, the red light still glowing. The darkness still lingers, hidden behind and around the crowds of people staring up at us, eyes wide with delight and mouths ripped open in laughter. A loud voice rings out from right next to us, and we twist our neck and head to see it. The darkness stands next to us. It smiles, too many teeth. Its eyes glow red. “Welcome one and all, to the Circus of Horrors and Oddities! I do hope all here tonight have prepared for the monstrosities and curiosities soon to be revealed.” The crowd screams in joy. The darkness turns to us and bows, flamboyant and extraordinary. “First, before you meet anything else, I would find myself remiss if I did not introduce you all to our oldest friend.” We step forward. Our body knows what to do. We pull out three red and yellow and blue balls. We toss the balls into the air and catch them, higher and higher to the screams of the crowd. Our body contorts as we toss the balls impossibly high, higher than the fabric ceiling. We land back on our feet just moments before the balls land in our hands. Perfect. Choreographed. Practiced. The crowd screams. The darkness laughs. We see our reflection in the red eyes of the darkness. Our red nose glows, dim. Constant.

‘And so, I must die tonight.’ He hid in the darkest part of the room. Crouched deep in the corner, between where the two walls adjoined. He clutched a knife that was surprisingly warm, as though it had been misused. The curtains were poorly closed, but the moonlight cracked through the gap. Hundreds of dust caught in its gaze danced under its spotlight. It didn’t reveal anything about the room itself, no distinctive features to suggest a bedroom or living room. Only it had a window and a corner. ‘I must die… yes.’ He grumbled his words, grinding his teeth. The room was disturbed by an agonising drawn out muffled groan—his groan. The cutting of flesh… followed by the peeling of something refusing to let go. It sounded like adhesive bandages, but stickier. A satisfactory moan of relief replaced the whining, then a plop. Something was thrown across the room. When it hit the floorboards, it landed with a bit of weight and sounded like a wet sponge. Relieved but not done. ‘More…’ His whimpering torment amplified. The knife sliced into unseen flesh, but the sounds… the slow, struggling cuts where the blade needed more force, where it lodged itself a few times, scraping bone. He snivelled. It became unbearable, but he was forced… encouraged to not stop. And like before, he flung something across the room where it hit the wall with a thud. ‘More… for me.’ It wasn’t his voice this time. Someone else was inside the room with him. A young boy, no older than five. ‘A little more… papa.’ The boy was calm, patient, and cold. Their words carried no passion, only curiosity. ‘... okay.’ He mustered a single word. ‘It’s too dark. I can’t see,’ the boy said. ‘Alright,’ he answered. He pushed himself up, ambled forward, unsteady, and yanked one half of the curtains back. The moonlight took advantage and bared it all. The man bathed under its silver light. A triangular symbol △ smeared in blood on forehead and knife in hand. In his arms was the mutilated naked body of his son. Carved up like a roasted pig. ‘Can you see?’ the man asked. ‘Yes, papa,’ the man answered himself. His voice mimicked the child. ‘Show me you love me.’ ‘Always…’ he replied, ‘... anything for you, Ishafet.’ He wrapped the knife into the corpse’s hand and held them both tightly within his. He drove the blade deep into his own throat. Blood sprayed everywhere like a sprinkler. He gargled, unable to scream due to the severed vocal cord. Before he toppled back into the corner, his son was still in his arms, where he hit the wall and bled out to death. And the room now fell dormant. A father’s deranged act of old tributes to a forgotten worship. Accepted by the dark. Worthy of this Ishafet. A soft, barely faint voice stirred in the newly acquainted stillness. A voice that shouldn’t exist. ‘Do it again… papa.’

It started as a prank – wearing a porcelain clown mask under the waterproof hooded cape, then scaring the late night revellers and the dog-walkers; even the doggers – they were fun. Each time her went out he had found a new sense of purpose. New fears. New terrors, Each set of screams was individually and to be relished. On the previous night to this he had almost scared to death a little old lady who was out looking for her cat. He hadn’t seen ‘Tiddles’ but if he had then he would have made her terror _so _ much_better… Instead he leapt out and shouted “Waaaargh!” She screamed. She was weak and lacked the wind to make it worthwhile, so he shook her a bit. This would loosen her lungs! And that made her really scream. As soon as her let go her shoulders she fell to the floor. Dropped Like A Stone. That following morning the would- be clown fiend lay awake. He thought he may have killed the old woman. Maybe he had. He hadn’t wanted to kill anyone. If he did that then he would go to prison, and then he couldn’t carry on having his late night fun. He resolved to retrace his steps and see if he could find the old woman - not to scare her, but just see her, secretly… make sure she was OK. It was near 11 pm. By Thursden Avenue where he had jumped out last night. He waited under bush as the rain began to fall. He didn’t know why he was still wearing his porcelain mark and rain-cloak – but he was, maybe he thought of these as his nightwear now. Then from the corner of his eye he saw a movement, just by the alley next to the post office. There was the old lady, she had just emerged holding a small cat. The creepy clown smiled under his mask, he was actually happy about this turn of events. He hunkered down further into the foliage as he watched her walk his way, along the pavement by the park. His breathing was quick and loud so he tried to be quiet. It was impossible for him to creep any further into the bushes but he hoped that the black of his cap would hide him. As she passed he saw the cat squirm. It hissed at him. But she held it firm with one arm clutched to her side, the other in her coat pocket. It still hissed. “Who’s there? Come on out!” The old lady’s voice was surprisingly strong for one who had collapsed in a heap the night before. Feeing brave, he stepped out of the bushes and removed his mask. “I just wanted to make sure that you were OK. I’m sorry.” Steel flashed in the street-light. A knife. She stabbed him in the gut with her free hand. “Oh there’s some bad people about. You should be more careful.”