Nightmare Carnival

One day he finds a ladder. It reaches up into the sky, as far as he can see. He wonders where it would take him, to what new caravan, what new circus. He puts his hand against the rail, and it is cold to the touch. He steps onto the bottom rung. He doesn’t like the sound his foot makes against the hard metal.

“No,” he says. “That’s all right. I don’t need it.” He says it out loud, and it’s only for himself. But he thinks maybe the Popping Fields should hear him too, just in case.

And in time the green grass feels so soft underfoot, and he looks down, and he realises he’s not even touching it, he’s floating a few inches off the ground.

He sits down, hard. His bottom hits the grass, that clearly isn’t floating. He examines his feet. He runs his fingers over them. They feel thick and rubbery. He stretches them, he likes the way the tautness prickles against his fingers.

And then his feet swell. He watches as they do so, and it doesn’t alarm him at all. It’s rather a pleasant sensation, like someone’s breath so close to you as they lean in for a kiss. He laughs.

“No, no!” And he’s still laughing. “No, be careful now!” Because the feet are now so swollen they’re rising up into the air. He tries to push them back to the ground with his hands, but it’s no good, they’re floating ever upward. It tickles him. “No, you stop that, you two!” But he’s laughing, he doesn’t mean it. His feet are caught on a gust of breeze, and they’re pulling the rest of the body up after them — a body that feels in comparison so dull and flat, it’s the feet that are having all the fun.

Joshua Shelton sails into the sky, feet first. He stares down at the ever receding green. The blood rushes to his head. It makes him feel giddy, he likes it, he laughs in appreciation.

He wonders how high he will float. He wonders if he’ll float to the very top of the world, and what he will do when he gets there.

He strains his head so he can look up. And at last he can see her — there’s Ruth, right above him, he’s still some way to go but he’s sure he’ll reach her eventually. She’s got that reassuring smile of hers, and he calls out to her that it’s all right, he’s not frightened at all. He’s not frightened of anything, and he feels so young. He gives her a wink, and he manages a smile as well, it’s a good smile, one he can be proud of. And he opens his arms out wide for her, and he’s pleased to see that his arms have swollen too, they’ve swollen so large he could hug her if she were his entire world.

SKULLPOCKET by Nathan Ballingrud

Jonathan Wormcake, the Gentleman Corpse of Hob’s Landing, greets me at the door himself. Normally one of his several servants would perform this minor duty, and I can only assume it’s my role as a priest in the Church of the Maggot that affords me this special attention. I certainly don’t believe it has anything to do with our first encounter, fifty years ago this very day. I’d be surprised if he remembers that at all.

He greets me with a cordial nod of the head, and leads me down a long hallway to the vast study, lined with thousands of books, and boasting broad windows overlooking the Chesapeake Bay, where the waters are painted gold by an autumn sun. I remember this walk, and this study, with a painful twinge in my heart. I was just a boy when I came here last. Now, like Mr. Wormcake, I am an old man, and facing an end to things.

I’m shocked by how old he looks. I know I shouldn’t be; Mr. Wormcake’s presence in this mansion by the bay extends back one hundred years, and his history with the town is well documented. But since the death of the Orchid Girl last year, he has withdrawn from public life, and in that time his aspect has changed considerably. Though his bearing remains regal, and his grooming is as immaculate as ever, age hangs from him like a too-large coat. The flesh around his head is entirely gone, and his hair — once his proudest feature — is no more. The bare bones of his skull gleam brightly in the late afternoon sunlight, and the eyes which once transfixed an entire town have fallen to dust, leaving dark sockets. He looks frail, and he looks tired.

To be fair, the fourteen children crowding the room, all between the ages of six and twelve, only underscore this impression. They’ve been selected for the honor of attending the opening ceremonies of the Seventieth Annual Skullpocket Fair by the Maggot, which summoned them here through their dreams. The children are too young, for the most part, to understand the significance of the honor, and so they mill about the great study in nervous anticipation, chattering to each other and touching things they shouldn’t.