Story 1068: Jester’s Noose

They never tore the old carnival down.

Beyond the graveyard and past the marsh, it waits—Harlequin Hollow, once a spectacle of laughter and sawdust dreams. Now, it stands in defiance of time, its big top sagging, colors long since bled into ash, the scent of roasted peanuts replaced with mildew and blood.

And in its center, the Jester’s Noose sways gently in the dead air.

They say if you hear the bells at night, it's already too late.

The legend began with Rictus the Jester, a clown of grotesque talent. His painted grin never moved, stitched on with black string. His jokes were cruel, each one costing a soul its peace. They say he could make the dead laugh—then join him in eternal encore.

But when the Great Fire consumed the carnival sixty years ago, they found his body swinging high above the center ring, a noose made not of rope, but braided hair and sinew, still warm.

No one ever claimed the body.

And no one could ever cut it down.