The Forgotten Carnival of the Mississippi American Horror Story
The Mississippi River was a silent, black ribbon under the cold October moon. Somewhere in the dense tangle of cypress trees and mist, faint music drifted through the night — a warped calliope tune, off-key yet hypnotic.
Ethan and his sister Mara had heard the stories since childhood. The Forgotten Carnival appeared once every ten years, they said, materializing from nowhere in the heart of the woods. It was a place of faded banners, rotting rides, and performers who smiled too wide and never seemed to blink. Those who went inside never returned… or if they did, they were no longer themselves.
It was only supposed to be a dare.
They followed the music for what felt like hours, the trees parting slowly until the fog gave way to an iron gate streaked with rust. Above it, a weathered sign read in curling gold letters: “The Grand Midnight Carnival”. No wind stirred, yet the gate swung open with a groan.
Inside, the carnival stretched like a memory too faded to trust. The Ferris wheel leaned dangerously, its missing cars swaying slightly in the mist. The carousel’s horses were chipped and eyeless, frozen mid-leap. Prize booths sagged under the weight of stuffed animals with glassy eyes and game wheels that creaked on their own.
The music grew louder.
From the shadows emerged the performers — tall, thin figures draped in threadbare costumes that once must have glittered under bright lights. A clown’s face was cracked like porcelain, with paint smeared as if it had been there for decades. The ringmaster’s crimson coat was moth-eaten, his top hat tilted at an impossible angle. Behind them glided a woman in a sequined gown, her skin pale as wax, her eyes black as river mud.
“Welcome, honored guests,” the ringmaster said, his voice deep and hollow. “You’ve arrived just in time for the show.”
Mara tried to ask how long the carnival would be open, but the words died in her throat. The clown stepped forward and pressed a gloved finger to her cheek, leaving behind a smear of cold, wet white paint. The paint sank into her skin instantly, draining the color from her lips, turning her eyes glassy. She stared at Ethan as though she didn’t know him anymore.
Ethan turned to run, but the booths shifted in the fog, rearranging themselves until every path led deeper into the carnival. The music wound faster, its notes sharp enough to hurt.
A gloved hand clamped onto his arm. The sequined woman leaned close, whispering in a voice like wind through a graveyard: “Don’t fight it. We’re all part of the family here.”
The cold spread from her touch. His heartbeat slowed. Memories peeled away — his parents’ faces, his own name, the warmth of summer. When he looked down, he was holding a tray of popcorn that smelled faintly of rot. The ringmaster’s voice echoed overhead.
“Step right up, ladies and gentlemen! Marvels eternal, wonders everlasting! See our newest stars, fresh from the world beyond the gates!”
The music swelled to a fever pitch. Ethan’s mouth curved into a painted smile he couldn’t control. Somewhere, deep in the woods, the gate creaked shut.
The carnival would sleep again for ten years.
And when it awoke, the cast would be waiting.