1068: Story 1068: Jester’s Noose 1068: Story 1068: Jester’s Noose They never tore the old carnival down.
Beyond the graveyard and past the marsh, it waits—Harlequin Hollow, once a spectacle of laughter and sawdust dreams.
Now, it stands in defiance of time, its big top sagging, colors long since bled into ash, the scent of roasted peanuts replaced with mildew and blood.
And in its center, the Jester’s Noose sways gently in the dead air.
They say if you hear the bells at night, it’s already too late.
The legend began with Rictus the Jester, a clown of grotesque talent.
His painted grin never moved, stitched on with black string.
His jokes were cruel, each one costing a soul its peace.
They say he could make the dead laugh—then join him in eternal encore.
But when the Great Fire consumed the carnival sixty years ago, they found his body swinging high above the center ring, a noose made not of rope, but braided hair and sinew, still warm.
No one ever claimed the body.
And no one could ever cut it down.
Tonight, three foolish thrill-seekers trespass into the Hollow:
Kipp, a ghost-hunter with a YouTube channel and half a brain.
Jemma, all bravado and batons, hiding grief under eyeliner.
And Oz, the skeptic tagging along for clout, never believing—until now.
They find the big top still standing, the ring lit by lanterns burning with blue flame.
A carousel still spins in the distance, playing a twisted tune in reverse.
They laugh off the fear.
Until the laughter answers back.
The first to vanish is Kipp.
He strays from the group, chasing whispers into the funhouse.
There, amid cracked mirrors and broken laughter, he finds himself laughing too—until the sound curdles into screams.
The glass shows not his reflection, but a painted version of him… tightening a noose around his own neck.
Then—blackness.
Jemma and Oz run, the carnival folding inward like a paper nightmare.
Rictus appears between tent flaps and shadow, his bells chiming mournfully, hands long and jointless, face a mask that shifts expressions when no one’s looking.
“It’s always the finale that kills,” he croons, voice a rasp wrapped in silk.
Jemma fights.
Oz begs.
Neither matter.
They awaken hanging side by side beneath the center ring—alive, gagged, legs twitching.
Rictus stands below, directing invisible applause.
The audience?
Dozens of dangling silhouettes, each a past visitor, each bound in their own twisted noose, swaying in a rhythm of mockery.
But then… Jemma swings herself, gaining momentum, slamming into Oz.
Her baton falls from her coat.
He catches it with his teeth.
Painful.
Perfect.
He cuts them free.
They run, never looking back.
The bells ring louder behind them.
But Harlequin Hollow never truly lets go.
Even now, if you’re alone near the marsh and hear faint giggles in the fog, don’t follow.
And never laugh.
That’s how he finds you.
That’s how the noose tightens.