MidnightScreams

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The rumors started small—whispers among locals about the old traveling carnival that had returned after a decade-long absence. Parents warned their children to stay away. Old folks muttered prayers under their breath whenever the towering striped tents loomed in sight.

I should have listened.

I’m Matthew Graves, investigative journalist for The Lantern Gazette. I’ve covered crime for fifteen years—murders, kidnappings, even a cult or two—but nothing prepared me for what I found at Hargrave’s Traveling Carnival.

It began with a series of gruesome murders, each coinciding with the carnival’s arrival. The victims were always found in grotesque poses, their joints dislocated and twisted as though they were puppets. Strings were tied around their wrists and ankles, as if some deranged puppeteer had been playing with them. No fingerprints. No witnesses. Just bodies, turned into grotesque marionettes.

The police were baffled. The carnival owner, a gaunt man named Silas Hargrave, dismissed the rumors with a hollow chuckle. “Superstitions,” he called them. But his eyes held something else—something dark and knowing.

I attended the carnival under the guise of writing a human-interest piece. The fairgrounds were eerily empty for an event meant to bring joy. The scent of stale popcorn and rusting metal clung to the air. Carnival lights flickered as though struggling to stay alive. And then there was the puppet show.

A small, decrepit stage stood at the heart of the carnival, shrouded in faded red curtains. The sign read: The Marionette’s Dance—A Show Like No Other!

Despite the unnerving aura, I took my seat among a sparse audience. The show began, and the puppets moved with unnatural fluidity, their painted eyes gleaming under the dim light. They twitched, jerked, then waltzed across the stage, their wooden limbs clicking in perfect unison. The eerie part? No visible strings.

I felt the hair on my arms rise.

Midway through, I noticed something odd—the puppets’ faces. They were familiar. Too familiar.

My stomach turned as I recognized them. The puppets bore an uncanny resemblance to the recent murder victims. Same eyes. Same facial expressions. As if their very souls were trapped in the wooden dolls.

I turned to the audience. No one else seemed disturbed. Their eyes were vacant, their bodies stiff. That’s when I noticed something else—their fingers. Thin, translucent strings extended from their fingertips into the darkness above.

Marionettes.

The realization hit me like a freight train.


A cold hand clamped onto my shoulder. I turned sharply to find Silas Hargrave standing behind me, his lips curled into a knowing smile.

“You’ve seen too much, Mr. Graves.”

Darkness swallowed me before I could scream.

I woke up backstage, bound in coarse ropes. The air smelled of dust, mold, and something sickly sweet. Dim candlelight flickered, casting long shadows that twisted and danced like living things.

Hargrave stood over me, holding a marionette—a perfect replica of me. His fingers caressed the strings, and as he lifted its tiny wooden arms, I felt my own arms rise involuntarily.

Panic surged through me. I tried to resist, but my body obeyed the puppet’s movements. My legs twitched. My mouth opened and closed against my will.

“You are part of the show now,” Hargrave whispered.

I felt the strings tighten, burrowing under my skin. My bones cracked, contorting. My flesh stiffened into lacquered wood. My screams turned into hollow echoes.

And then, silence.

The carnival remains.

A new puppet graces the stage each night. A journalist with glassy, painted eyes, moving with unnatural grace.

And somewhere in the audience, a new soul sits, unaware that soon, they too, will dance.