Audiobook:

https://youtu.be/o93UY-wo7MQ

I don't recall anything striking me and rendering me unconscious. As a matter of fact, the last thing I do remember was the carriage driver, I think his name is Persius. He shut the cell door on me. Then, that thing pretending to be my son, well, for lack of a better word, swallowed me up.

But I am sitting here now. It's cold and the air is still. Darkness is everywhere I look, with the exception of a flickering candle in my cell, I cannot see anything. It sits atop a moldy table. I sniff the air and the first scent I recognize is gun powder. I brushed my fingertips against the wall—they were made of stone; damp and slimy. The odor of musk and mold flooded my nose as I looked down at the floor; it was only dirt.

Perhaps I am in a basement, or dungeon? I try to peer beyond the curtain of shadows, if only to verify what I think I already know.

I sniffed once again. An earthy scent and—and—fryer oil captured my attention. Fryer oil, the aroma of corndogs, and then the slow hum of people laughing and cheering washed over me. A bottle rocket whizzed off from a location unknown and then popped. I turned toward it, curious yet afraid.

A thought came to mind: either a carnival or a fair! I listened more intently, and the melodies of circus games rang to my ear. They are celebrating.

Why?

As I sat, the sound of jostling keys echoed from down the hall. A sturdy man of short stature and round build approached. His eyes were also gray, like the carriage driver's, and they were surrounded by black pits. I shirked deeper into my cell, and as I did so, he stopped where he was.

He said, "whoa, whoa, I mean no harm good fella. Name's Peter! Mayor Persius—" his eyes widened in horror as he continued his sentence, "he—he told me to come get you." Peter shook his head, and seemed to snap himself out of the moment of terror he found himself in.

Peter said, "have to celebrate our newest Mayor! Sir, Miles Monroe," he pressed a smile that stretched from ear to ear, and it seemed off, forced even.

Peter continued, "my son is here, having a splendid time." Peter twitched slightly, just enough for me to notice. His son is here, too?

I said, "why is your skin paper white, and have black pits for eye sockets, also, the soulless gray eyes?"

Peter's eyes shifted to the floor and then back to me.

He said, "I don't know what you mean. Been a great deal of fun in Dreadhollow," his voice dropped in volume as he muttered, "get up and go now."

I studied him. He wore a pair of crisp and clean black slacks, polished dress shoes, a spotless white silk undershirt, and a pressed black blazer. His hair, too, was combed to precision and slick, and his mustache was perfectly manicured and short. His appearance, though different from Persius', was similar—same features, different person.

A question bubbled to the surface of my thoughts: his child is here. Maybe we're in a similar situation? I studied him for as long as I could. The man, his index finger twitched every so often, and he sometimes glanced to his right, as though something or someone were sitting on his shoulder.

I wondered why?

Suddenly, the sound of someone descending the stairs in heels manifested. A woman, tall and strikingly beautiful, approached Peter. Her hair was slick and tied back into a tight bun. Thick black eyeshadow masked the black pits surrounding her gray eyes, and her flesh was also pale and veiny.

She held in her right hand a long thin black opera cigarette holder, and at its end was a slender white cigarette. Thin streams of smoke floated away from the glowing red embers of the cigarette as flakes of gray ash made their descent. She lifted the cigarette holder to her lips and pressed them tight around it. She sucked down a lung full of smoke and pushed it out her nose, resembling a furious bull. The woman, with the cigarette holder between her index and middle finger, placed her hands on her boney hips and sighed.

She said, "come on Peter, my girls have been here long enough, and so have I. Let's get this ceremony over with so we can all head back home." The woman glanced at me and sneered. Her lips, smothered with red lipstick glimmered against the faint light. She smirked—probably relishing the situation I was in. Her smooth black dress glimmered against the soft glow of candlelight, and across her shoulders (strung out like a scarf) was the fur coat of a mink seal, and at one end was its skull.

I blinked hard, because I couldn't believe what I had just seen. This woman smiled as I gawked at her. She drew her fingertips down the back of her mink scarf—never faltering with her stare. Pursing her lips, she returned the cigarette to her mouth and sucked down a cloud of smoke, only to blow it in my direction a few seconds later.

I said, "where am I?"

She turned around and began to walk up the stairs. Her shoulders slunk as she sighed, "Dreadhollow, isn't it obvious? Did you not read the sign?"

Peter scurried toward the cell door and slid the appropriate key into the lock. The tumblers unlocked, and no sooner, the iron cell door swung open. I studied Peter, now that he was closer. He reeked of vinegar and onions. I clinched my fist, prepared to strike, but Peter stepped away.

He put his hands before his face and whispered, "I mean no harm, good sir. Ignore Margret, she's been on everyone's case ever since she became the Mayor's wife." Peter mumbled as he slipped the keys back into his pocket. I thought about what he said.

This forsaken town and its cursed occupants! Burn them all in hell, all in hell. I don't think he knows I heard him, but that does not matter. I followed him up the stairwell and out of the basement.

Once I arrived and poked my head out of the basement, I glanced around. A small crowd of pale-skinned people stood before a large red and white popcorn cart. The man selling the popcorn was thin, but, his appearance resembled Peter's: overdressed, trimmed mustache, precise haircut, paper white and veiny skin, black nails (that appeared to be frost bitten), and black pits encircling his gray eyes.

I studied more people, and they shared the same appearance. I scanned my surroundings for a minute longer and saw a sprawling fountain at the center of town. The lights, the sound of music, the chatter of people, the aroma of popped popcorn, fresh funnel cakes, and a sprawling city I seemed to be at the center of, it all overwhelmed me.

I slunk low to the ground and rubbed my temples. The air felt too thick to breathe, and my hands began to shake. There were too many strange people, therefore, I turned my attention to a new discovery: there were jack-O-lanterns resting on the fountain's edge, breathing the glow of the candlelight within.

Margret pulled Peter aside and whispered, "don't screw this up again." Peter nodded as he sucked in his bottom lip. She trotted down the street and rejoined Persius in the distance.

I shouted, "where's my son—" for reasons unknown, Peter shoved me to the side and began to walk me down the street. His fingers were cold, and the texture of his skin was waxy. It reminded me of decaying flesh.

Peter said, "don't, not right now. I know what you want, but not right now."