Carousel, Carousel.

A̴̟̱̹̕p̸̖̣̒̍̄r̶̛̘͇̮̖̩̄͐̾͋ḯ̴̤͔̈́ḽ̸͖̿̿͆̌ ̵̨̝̺̚͝1̷͔͕̆̕2̸͈̗̫̊,̸̛̘͖̉͘ ̴͈̩̊̒̽ 1992

The Original Centennial

(before the “continuity loop”)

~-~

Ramona Mercer looked over the crowd at the Bewitching Pavilion. It was mostly families, with lots of young children in cutesy costumes. One little boy in a stroller was dressed as the Edding Swamp Monster, which was said to look like a mutant catfish with spider legs for whiskers. His mother had stuck large, hairy spider legs sprawling out of his stroller, while the stroller's opening looked like the mouth of the jagged-toothed monster itself.

Huh, Ramona thought. I guess that means the baby wasn’t really dressed as the monster but was being eaten by the creature—a strange choice.

Still, very cute.

The bigger the children got, the less cute their costumes were.

Some of the absolutely least cute children at the pavilion were the teenagers who were throwing popcorn at each other at a table far in the back. Their costumes weren’t meant to solicit ‘awws” and ‘oohs,’ they were meant to scare or even gross out anyone who looked at them.

They didn’t even have the decency to put effort in. They were just covered in fake blood. Most of them were just wearing street clothes, not real costumes other than the blood and some errant fake guts. Shame. Dressing up on the anniversary of the founding used to be something everyone went all out for when Ramona was a kid.

The pavilion was a pitiful sight. It was a glorified food court.

It was also loud. Too loud.

The venue’s weak sound system could not carry over the noise of the crowd and the rides, but Ramona wasn’t going to let that stop her.

She approached the microphone and yelled, “Welcome to the Carousel Centennial Bewitching Pavilion!”

There was nothing bewitching about this place other than some tacky streamers. Ramona felt like a fool in her black dress and pointy hat. The fake warts on her nose and cheekbones itched. She was hired to dress like a witch and sing songs for children. Lucky her.

Still, when it came down to it, she was going to be able to play her music and pay her bills from it. That was the dream, right? She had forged a patchwork career doing odd jobs around Carousel, working at carnivals, playing music at birthday parties, playing extras in the cheap horror movies made in town, and anything else she could do and still have time to pick her sister up from school.

She grabbed her most prized possession—her electric guitar—and took a deep breath.

“I’m Ramona, and these are the Zombies,” she said, pointing to her bandmates behind her. They were not very convincing zombies. One of the few things the venue was clear about was that they needed a cheesy, horror-themed band name, and the rotund gentleman who told her this was very set on it being Ramona and the Zombies. She was embarrassed to even say it. She had begged to make it Ramona and the Corpses or, better yet, just the Zombies so she could leave her name out of it, but no dice.

The crowd didn’t react.

“Ramona Mercer, that is,” she said. Suddenly, the crowd was interested. They weren’t standing and cheering, but they were at least paying attention.

Her last name was well known, even if she wasn’t.

She then launched into her set. It was just a bunch of her original music augmented with fresh, spooky lyrics for the occasion. Her soulful melody about losing her parents at a young age became a song about a haunted convertible. Her heartfelt ballad to her sister became a song about an evil siren. Her love songs were changed to be about vampires, werewolves, and a “mummy’s boy” who would never choose her.

You do what you have to do to make ends meet.

The kids loved it. Every time she said some ridiculous line about a vampire not knowing whether to kiss her or drink her blood or about a werewolf who needed to shave, they laughed like it was the best thing they had ever heard.

Between the kids, the parents who were happy because their kids were happy, and the old men who stopped by to ogle, she was really growing a crowd.

While she sang, she looked off-stage to where her sister sat at one of the picnic tables at the pavilion. She was doing her homework.

Phoebe Mercer. Sixteen years old. The only living person Ramona loved completely.

Ramona had gotten permission to leave a large tip jar near the entrance of the venue. Experience had taught her to bolt it down and make sure the opening was too small for those damn teenagers to get their hands in.

She watched as people generously awarded her their change from buying lunch at the booths in the area. There were more than a few larger denominations being stuffed inside, too.

It was all going to be worth it.

That is if she didn’t claw her face off to get rid of these stupid fake warts.

She sang and played her heart out.

When her time slot was over, a barbershop quartet with fake slits on their throats was chomping at the bit to get on stage and do their act.

“They’re all yours,” she said as she unplugged her guitar from the venue’s system and helped her bandmates carry their instruments down the stairs.

Her drummer, Tony, came running over with the tip jar. He held out the tip jar and shook it with great effort while smiling. He wore a ponytail and a graphic T-shirt. Ramona had dated him back in his pre-ponytail days, but they had just been friends for half a decade.

Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

“We’re eating good tonight,” he said. “What are you buying with your share of the treasure, Ramona?”

Ramona took the jar and shook it. He wasn’t kidding. It was quite a haul.

“Rent,” she said.

Her bass guitarist was off trying to talk an innocent carnival game worker out of her phone number, probably by purposely not mentioning that he was a bass player. Her keyboardist had stayed behind to assist the barbershop quartet with a couple of their songs that had a part for some comedic piano riffs.

“You guys were amazing,” Phoebe said, carrying her math textbook under one arm.

“You had your headphones on the whole time,” Tony said, pointing to the metal band and yellow foam pads still around her neck.

“That was just so boys wouldn’t talk to me,” Phoebe said. “And it helped muffle when you tried to play the drums.”

Tony’s eyes dimmed. “Children are so mean. What are they teaching you in schools.”

“Rhythm,” Phoebe answered back with a smile.

Tony grabbed at his heart. “That one hurt. We’ll have to get you a tambourine so you can keep me in check,” he said. “Ramona, did you hear what happened yesterday?”

Ramona, who had been stuffing cables in her guitar bag, absentmindedly said, “Lots of things happened yesterday. Which of them are you talking about?”

“Jedediah Geist,” Tony said. “You hear about this?”

“Geist, Geist,” she said, “That name sounds familiar.”

“Oh, shut up,” Tony said. “Jedediah Geist was murdered yesterday.”

That was interesting.

“Why do you look so pleased about that?” Ramona asked with a laugh.

“I’m not,” Tony said. “It’s just… he was the last living Geist. That’s a big deal. That’s a big name. It’s interesting that he died under mysterious circumstances. You know, they have lots of skeletons in their closets.”

“Tell me,” Phoebe asked. “Do people say stuff like that when Mercers die, too?”

She wasn’t being playful. Her mother’s last name was Mercer, and her death had generated its own rumors.

Tony shifted into damage control. “No,” he said. I mean, there are no more Mercers—except for you guys. I mean, I don’t say stuff like that. People might say you’re cursed, but I don’t because I think it’s bad. It’s bad to do…”

“Nice recovery,” Ramona said. She wrapped Phoebe up in a hug and made intense eye contact with Tony. “My family doesn't have any skeletons in our closets. And if we were truly cursed, how could I be killing it on the stage and screen right now? You don’t reach this level of stardom without some cosmic vibes on your side.”

She started to laugh. Phoebe did, too.

Phoebe leaned back and, with two fingers, plucked one of the fake warts off of Ramona’s face.

“Good point,” Phoebe said.

They finished packing up and waited for their keyboardist and bass guitarist. Eventually, Dustin and Emelio respectively returned. Dustin made a few bucks for helping the quartet. Emelio learned another way how not to seduce a woman.

And they were off.

“How about we put our stuff in the car and then come back to ride some of the rides?” Ramona asked Phoebe as they trudged toward the exits.

“Can we afford it?” Phoebe asked softly.

“Oh yeah,” Ramona said.

They walked hand in hand.

Before they got close to their destination, they heard a scream. There was a commotion in the distance. The crowd was separating.

“What’s going on?” Phoebe asked.

“I don’t know,” Ramona said, “But it probably involves alcohol. Or teenagers. Or both.”

“Tony,” Phoebe said, “What’s happening? Do you see anything?”

Tony, who was pulling a cart with his drum kit on it, was just as confused as Phoebe. “I don’t see anything… We need to go.”

He sounded worried.

He and Phoebe grabbed Ramona by her arms and started to drag her away from the crowd.

“Tony, your drums,” Ramona said, looking back at the cart he was leaving behind.

“I’ll come back for them,” he said. “Let’s get out of the way.”

As much as they tried, though, the crowd got thicker in front of them. It was almost like everyone around them was standing back, waiting to see what was about to happen.

“Let us through,” Tony said.

The people in front of them looked at them as if they didn’t know how to respond.

“Let us through!” Tony screamed.

One of the men blocking their path, a big, burly guy, looked like he wanted to say something, but he didn’t.

“No,” Tony said. “Please, let us through.”

When the man didn’t budge, Tony pulled Ramona back to the left.

“Where are we going?” Ramona asked.

Tony didn’t have an answer. He looked in every direction, but nothing he saw gave him any hope.

Suddenly, both Tony and Phoebe stopped moving. For a moment, they both paused as if there was a sound only they could hear.

“No,” Phoebe said softly. She held onto Ramona tightly.

“What are you two doing?” Ramona asked.

She looked around the crowd. People were watching something that was making their way toward them.

“We lost Emelio and Du—” she started to say about her two absent bandmates.

Then she saw what everyone was looking at.

A woman in a black dress stumbled through the crowd. She wore a strange veil, but it had been pulled back over the top of her head, revealing a bizarre mask of some kind.

“Help!” she screamed. “I need help. I need a hospital. No, no, I need a doctor, please. Take me away, please!”

Ramona was taken aback by the sight. People were watching, confused, and no one was trying to help.

As the woman got near to people, they would see her face, and some would react by clapping their hands at the detail of her mask.

It looked to Ramona like she had a mask made of snakes. No, it couldn’t be a mask. It was some sort of latex prop glued to her face.

No, the tiny snakes were wriggling as if they had been sewn right on her face, still alive.

“Oh my god,” Ramona said.

The crowd reacted in different ways. Some looked horrified, some concerned. Still, some must have thought it was a very good costume. Glancing around the crowd, there were many people dressed for the occasion. None of them had a costume this convincing, however.

Finally, one of the women in the crowd asked, “Is this real or is it… part of the celebration?”

Many of the crowd appeared interested in the answer.

“I think it’s real,” a man said.

As if waiting for permission, many in the crowd rushed forward, including a woman wearing a badge that signified she was a staff nurse working at the Centennial.

“Ma’am,” she said, not completely sure what she was supposed to be doing but eager to help. “Come here, ma’am. Let me… take a look.”

The woman with the strange things on her face screamed out, “Help me. My name is Lillian Geist. I’ve been held against my will and I just escaped. I need help.”

“Boos” rang out through the crowd. Suddenly, their concern evaporated.

“Oh, come on,” a man in the crowd said with a laugh, “That’s too far. Lillian Geist. Wait…”

Suddenly, the color drained from the man’s face. It wasn’t just him. Many in the crowd took an instinctive step back.

Gasps ran through the crowd.

Lillian screamed, “Help me, help me, please!”

Now, the crowd stood their ground and watched as Lillian fell down sobbing, ugly, tearless sobs.

“Someone help her,” Ramona said. She looked around at the people who just stood and stared. “Wait, is this real?”

“Ramona,” Phoebe whispered sharply. “Be quiet, please be quiet.”

Ramona looked around the large circle of people, confused as they did nothing.

She was shy at first, unsure whether this was some kind of performance.

Ramona saw a young child asking its mother what to do. The mother put a finger to her lips and whispered, “Just watch.”

The crowd was quiet. The entire Centennial Celebration had gone silent except for the sounds of rides and machines. No people, even far in the distance, were making a noise.

Ramona didn’t know what to do. She stepped out toward the woman, and the people watched.

“What is going on here?” she asked.

No one answered except Phoebe, whose eyes were filled with tears. She mouthed something at Ramona but didn’t speak.

“This woman needs help,” Ramona said quietly at first, but then repeated herself louder, “This woman needs help. What… are you all doing? Tony, what’s going on?”

“Ramona,” he said as if it took great effort.

He looked her in the eye. He was crying.

And then, all at once, the sounds of the crowd in the distance returned. People screamed in joy on the rides.

Then screams started up that weren’t out of joy. They were screams of terror.

Ramona turned in the direction of the cries.

Just as she did, a large snapping sound could be heard, and, in the distance, the massive Ferris wheel started to tilt dramatically.

“Oh my god,” Ramona said.

In the distance, something was burning.