The Circus

A haunted coming of age tale with lights, music, and teeth.

It was the kind of summer night that made sidewalks shimmer like stovetops.
The heat clung to our skin, our shirts, Leah’s sun-bleached hair.
The air carried honeysuckle and warm tar.
Crickets trilled from every patch of grass, like they were trying to out-sing the sky.
Somewhere behind the movie rental place, a swamp cooler coughed to life and wheezed like it resented the work.

We weren’t supposed to be out that late.
But it was summer.
We were thirteen.
And the world hadn’t ended yet.

That summer felt like waiting.
Holding your breath for something unnamed.
Leah, most of all.
She had been different all week. Quieter. Dreamy.
Like she was listening for a door only she could hear.

Tyler led, flipping a baseball like a movie kid who hadn’t earned the part.
Leah and Mia walked close together, arms brushing now and then.
Earlier, Mia had curled a strand of Leah’s hair around her finger and let it stay too long.
Leah hadn’t pulled away.
She hadn’t leaned in either.

Ricky and I trailed behind. He unwrapped a root beer Jolly Rancher like it was part of a magic trick.
“It’s too hot for ghosts,” he muttered.
“No one said ghosts,” I said.
“Sure. Not out loud.”

We weren’t headed anywhere.
Just drifting between dinner and curfew.
The street was quiet.
Shops closed.
Bicycles sleeping against mailboxes.
Streetlamps hummed with a sound you only notice when everything else goes still.

Then Tyler stopped.
“Hold up.”

It took us a few steps to see it.

Down the block, past the diner and the record store and that rust-scented empty lot—
A tent.

Red and white.
Too clean.
Its lights glowed softly, without flicker.
A narrow wooden ticket booth stood beside the flap, unmanned.
The fabric stirred slightly, though the air didn’t move.

We froze.

“It wasn’t there this morning,” Mia said.

It hadn’t been there yesterday. Or any other night we’d walked this way.
But now it was.
Perfectly placed.
Like the street had made room for it.

Leah’s voice was barely a whisper.
“Is that it?”

The stories lived in all of us.
The circus that finds you.
It comes only at night.
Only once.
Only when you're ready.

Some said it changed people.
Some said it took them.
But everyone agreed—
If you saw it, really saw it, you were lucky.

—

Up close, it looked even cleaner.
Not new, preserved.
Red like velvet in shadow.
White like bleached bone.

No dust.
No seams.
No wear.

The booth gleamed like carved wood, polished to a mirror shine.
No prices. No paper.
Just a plaque:

One Show Only.
No Refunds.

Tyler leaned over. “Hello?”

Silence.

“No puppet? No creepy voiceover?” Ricky said. “Missed opportunity.”

Mia touched the booth. “It doesn’t feel dusty.”

Leah didn’t move.
She was staring at the flap.
Not past it.
At it.
Like it knew her name.

The fabric rippled once.
Not from wind.
From attention.

Tyler stepped forward.

“Don’t,” I said. Too fast.

They looked at me.
I didn’t have a reason.
Only the kind of warning that coils behind your ribs.

Tyler backed off. “Alright.”

Leah stepped closer.

She didn’t touch the flap.
But it moved anyway.
Parting just slightly.

Light spilled out—gold and soft.
Music drifted faintly, slow and strange.
Inside, rows of seats waited, perfectly empty.

None of us spoke.
None of us moved.

Then Leah stepped through.
Mia followed.
Then Tyler.
Then Ricky.

I waited.

Something in me wavered.
Not fear.
Not yet.
Just the sense that a choice had already been made.

I stepped inside.

The tent closed behind us.

—

It was bigger than it should have been.
A domed ceiling vanished into pleated crimson shadows.
Gold trim curled like vines across the fabric.
The air inside was warm but gentle.
It smelled of spun sugar and old perfume.
Like someone else's memory.

The tent was full.
Families. Teenagers. Couples.
All murmuring.
All waiting.

We stood just inside, blinking.

Then an attendant in a pale vest appeared, smiling like it was the only expression he remembered.
“Seats are filling up fast,” he said.

Another usher stepped in behind him. Same smile.
“Right this way.”

We followed.

Not because we agreed.
Because we were already doing it.

Seats parted. People shifted.
And without a word, we ended up in the front row.

Five seats. Together.

The lights dimmed before I could say anything.

Leah sat straight.
Mia beside her, tense.
Tyler and Ricky nudged each other like they still thought it was a prank.
I sat last.

The stage gleamed like a lake.
Velvet curtains waited.
A brass calliope stood silent in the corner.

Someone behind us coughed.
A popcorn bag rustled.
A laugh echoed.

Then the light shifted.
Not dimmed.
Changed.
The warmth drained out.
The color went thin.

And the audience froze.

Every person.
Every movement.
Still.

Even us.

Leah’s eyes were glassy.
Mia’s hands clenched tight.
Tyler stared forward.

I opened my mouth, but no sound came.

Then the Ringmaster walked out.

He moved like a story.
Red coat. Brass buttons. Cane tapping once on the boards.
Top hat. Too perfect to be ironic.

He opened his arms.
“Welcome,” he said, “to the Circus That Finds You.”

He bowed.

We clapped.

Everyone clapped.

At once.
Like they had been waiting for the cue.

His smile held for a moment.
Then faltered.
Just for a breath.

Then the cane struck the floor again.
And the curtain opened.

—

They spilled out like water.
Eleven dancers.
Painted cheeks. Puppet joints.
Costumes in cream and gold.
Satin cords trailed from their shoulders, rising into the dark above.

They moved in perfect rhythm.
Graceful.
Jerked.
Somewhere between ballet and breaking.

It was an illusion.
Choreography.

Until one blinked.
Another breathed.
Another slipped, just a little, then fell back in line.

Not puppets.
People.

Painted. Costumed. Pulled.
Alive.

The music curled around us.
Strange. Lilting. Sweet.
Wrong.

Then I saw her.

Third from the left.
Braid over her shoulder.
Violet ribbon streaked through it.

Allison May.
Gone for three years.
Still thirteen.
Still dancing.
Still smiling with a mouth that wasn’t hers.
Eyes that screamed nothing at all.

I turned to the others.

Ricky — pale.
Mia — shaking.
Tyler — stone.
And Leah —
Leah was glowing.
Soft. Certain.
Like she had been waiting for this.

“It’s real,” she whispered.
Not to us.
To the tent.
To the stage.
To the thing behind the curtain.

—

She leaned forward.
Breathless.
Eyes full of light.

Mia touched her.
“Leah?”

No answer.

“It’s okay,” Leah said.
Soft. Far away.
“It makes sense now. It saw something in me.”

But the voice wasn’t hers.
Not anymore.

Mia drew back.
“What do you mean?”

The woman behind us turned.
Slow. Mechanical.
Lipstick too perfect.
Eyes too empty.

“Shhh,” she said.
Then faced forward again.

Mia gasped.
"Did you see… "

"I think we should go," I said.

Tyler barked a laugh. “It’s part of the show.”

But his voice cracked.

Ricky rolled his eyes. “You’re just mad you’re not the one on stage.”

But he didn’t smile.
Not really.

The music looped.
A single phrase.
Over and over.

A dancer fell.
The sound of her body hitting the floor cracked through the tent like a snapped bone.
She didn’t move at first.
Just twitched — one hand rising slowly, like it still believed it was dancing.
Her head lolled, mouth open in a perfect smile that didn’t change.
Then her back arched with a sharp, insect-like jerk.
The strings pulled.
Not softly. Not rhythmically.
They yanked.
Her limbs obeyed like they had no choice.
Like bones forgot how to be bones.
Her face snapped back into its smile.
The music never paused.

---

Leah’s fingers bent at angles just slightly wrong.
Paint bloomed over her cheeks like a rash of joy.
Her spine stretched upward as if pulled by a thread no one could see.
Not stiff. Not limp.
Just too smooth.
Her mouth stayed soft. But her eyes,
her eyes had gone out like lights.

“Leah.”
I stood.
Stumbled.

She didn’t look.

I touched her wrist.
Still warm.
Still skin.
But not.

“I can’t,” she said.
Not sad.
Not afraid.
Just... entranced.

“You don’t understand,” she whispered.
“It’s beautiful. It chose us.”

“No,” I said.

The lights flickered.
The floor tilted.

Mia grabbed her other arm.
“Get up. We’re going.”

Leah flinched.
Her breath caught.
Her knees bent.

Then she steadied.

“It’s too late,” she said.
And smiled.
That hollow, painted smile.

Mia shook her head hard.
“No. No, you don’t get to say that.”
She grabbed Leah’s arm with both hands, yanking.
“Get up. We are leaving. Do you hear me?”.

Mia didn’t let go.
Her voice rose, cracked.
“Leah, please. Look at me. Don’t do this. Don’t go.”
She was crying now, and shaking, and pulling harder like if she just tried enough it would undo everything.
“You’re still in there. You are. You are.”

Leah didn’t blink.
Didn’t answer.

Then the light shattered.
Red. White. Gold.

And Mia screamed.
Not words.
Just instinct.

Then stillness.

The music stuttered.
Then resumed.

Every head turned.

Toward Mia.

Not with malice.
With focus.
Like she had forgotten her line.

The air turned syrup-thick.
Mia gasped, then gagged, then bent like gravity had chosen her alone.
Her knees hit the floor with a hollow knock.
The tent seemed to breathe around her.
The pressure wasn’t on her chest.
It was inside her ribs.
Like something unseen had reached in and turned the lock.

Still Mia.
Still fighting.

But the tent pressed down.

And Leah rose.

—

She walked to the stage.
Not fast.
Not frightened.
Like she was being called.

The lights turned gold.

The curtain lifted.

The dancers froze in pose.

The Ringmaster emerged.
No smile now.
His coat trailed like a shadow.

In his hands
A costume.

He held it out.

Leah took it.
Unfastened her shirt.
Changed, piece by piece.
Laced. Tied. Smoothed.

She stepped into the line.

Twelve dancers.

One breath.

They moved.

For a moment,
they were beautiful.

Then Allison looked at me.

Eyes like glass.
Mouth slightly parted.
Like she was trying to remember.

I stepped forward.

The tent pulsed.
Lights dimmed.
Walls shimmered.

Mia whispered my name.
Ricky sobbed.

But I walked.

The Ringmaster turned.

His eyes met mine.

And in them,
a flicker of grief.

He raised one gloved hand.
Not to stop me.
To release me.

He bowed.

And as he straightened, his smile collapsed.
Not in sadness.
In recognition.
Like he had seen me before.
Or would again.
His eyes shimmered. Not wet, but hollow.

And I felt it.
The weight of memory transferred.
Like a seed passed hand to hand.

Someone always has to remember.

And I ran.

—

We never talked about it.
Not fully.

Tyler won’t go near the main street.
Mia writes in a notebook no one’s allowed to read.
Ricky keeps a scrap of fabric in his backpack.
Folded.
Wrapped in plastic.

We remember.
Every second.
Every sound.
Every step Leah took.

The town doesn’t.
Not even her parents.

Only her sister remembers.
Ten years old.
Too sharp.

She papers the telephone poles with flyers.

MISSING
LEAH, 13
LAST SEEN SUMMER NIGHT
NO ONE BELIEVES ME

They say she’s strange now.
Off since July.

But I always stop when I see one.
And sometimes,
I’m not the only one.

A woman in pale gloves.
A man standing too still.

Watching.
Or waiting.

For the tent to call them back.

It hasn’t returned.
Not yet.
Not for me.

---

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Written for the 30 Days of Fright Horror Story Writing Challenge. Come and join us!

30 Days of Fright