Creepy - Day 5 - The Chimney Goes Down & The Shattered Funhouse Mirror

Episode Date: October 5, 2026

The Chimney Goes Down (starts at 3:36)***The Shattered Funhouse Mirror (starts at 25:55)***Written by: Greg Patrick and Narrated by: Jimmy Ferrer***Support the show at patreon.com/creepypod***Title music by: Alex Aldea Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

I'm John Grills from Creepy, and I listen to the Be Afraid Podcast Network. Creepy presents the 31 Days of Horror. Day 5. No. This is creepy. A podcast dedicated to sharing the most famous chilling and disturbing creepy pastures and urban legends. in the world. Whether these stories truly happened or are simply fabrications is for you to decide. These stories may contain graphic depictions of violence and explicit language.

Listener discretion is advised. Does anyone else just feel better being here? Yeah. Yeah. Why do you think that is? Could be the fresh air. Being off social media? Not feeling like John has something terrible in store for us? Oh, yes. Well, that does help not feeling threatened by John. But actually, I just love how much butter they put in all the food here. I mean, my chest is starting to hurt a little after meals, but it's so worth it. I just think it's nice that we all spend so much time together.

You'd think a dozen adults would kind of go their separate ways. Strengthen numbers. I think it's more of a reflex at this point than any. anything. Hey, I think that's John up there. John, wait up. Hey, guys. How are you all doing this morning? Good. We're just talking about how nice it is being here. Really? Even with how haunted this place is?

About that. I know you've told a couple stories about this place being haunted and all, but it's not like the people here act like it. They've had practice. Remember, life is just life if no one. shows you anything different. But make no mistake, this place... This place what? Come with me. I want to show you all something.

Here we go. Owen, is that what I think it is? If you think I made a shank out of a toothbrush, then yes. Actually, yeah, that's exactly what I was thinking. How do you even know how to make that? I knew you guys never checked out my Etsy shop. I've sunk so much money into Owen's homemade shanks, and I just can't get any traction. I don't think you're going to need that at the moment.

Yeah, that's what mom used to say. But she learned. We all learned. Well, glossing over that, I just wanted to show you this. What? An old... What is that? It looks like a chimney.

It is a chimney. A haunted chimney? Not exactly. Sort of, though, I suppose. It's more like the land. This place. Some people claim they can hear something here, and they feel a compulsion. What sort of compulsion?

A compulsion to discover for themselves that the chimney goes down. They first heard the crying in September. No one in the town can agree on the exact date because the sound had been dismissed for weeks before anyone took it seriously. Fall winds did strange things around old buildings. They slipped through cracks and whistled through warped boards. They moaned through empty rooms and rattled loose siding. Every farm family in the county had heard a hundred sounds that couldn't explain any better than, it's just the wind. This town was and is no different.

The abandoned Mercer Farmhouse sits three miles outside a town proper, but still inside the city limits, alone among dead fields and broken fences. Nobody's lived there since the late 80s. Even when it was still fully standing, the roof sagged and the windows were blotted out with dust and grime. But the structure had long since collapsed, with only the chimney still standing, surrounded by the fallen debris from the roof and walls. The crying came from the chimneys. chimney, not the house. The chimney drifting across the fields on cold nights. Depending on who you asked, most people thought it sounded like white noise or maybe the psalm you make to cats. But to some, it sounded like a person sobbing. Sometimes it sounded like a child, sometimes an elderly woman.

Occasionally it wasn't possible to tell at all. The sheriff started getting calls. A deputy was sent to investigate. That same deputy returned later that day, pale and exhausted. Eventually, he told them what he saw in fragments. He had gone to check the fireplace, thinking maybe it was a cat or other animals stuck inside, as sometimes happens. But once on the property, he saw that the fireplace had been sealed shut, not boarded up, not simply bricked over.

Sealed. Someone had poured concrete into the fireplace opening. The hearth was a solid. a gray wall. There was no opening behind it, no visible way that anything could have gotten inside unless it may be entered through the top. Firefighters recalled bring all ladders and make sure no kids had somehow slipped inside. But when they reached the top of the chimney, they saw that there was concrete there as well, as if poured impossibly from the top down, meaning the entire thing was sealed up. Nothing could be inside. Yet the deputy swore he heard

the crying. By October, dozens of locals have visited the property out of sheer curiosity. That's when things escalated. The voice began speaking. Now more people actually heard words. At first, it begged for help, but no one could agree on the voice, not the tone, the gender, even the accent. But they all heard the same words. It was giving instructions. It claimed that the fireplace opening had been buried. It claimed that the true earth lay far below the visible one. It claimed someone had hidden it underground. The voice insisted that people needed to dig.

Most people who visited and heard the voice left disturbed but unconvinced. Sure, it was a stupid prank. Some didn't. The first affected man was named Curtis Hale. Neighbors watched him arrive at sunrise, carrying a shovel. At first he spent his time clearing away the debris from the remains of the house before getting to work tearing up what was still there of the floorboards. Then he started to dig. He dug for 14 hours without stopping. People really don't understand how hard it is to dig a

hole. It takes a lot of time and a lot of effort. The idea that graves used to be dug by hand feels impossible sometimes. Under ideal circumstances, Someone knowing what they were doing could dig a six-foot deep grave in under eight hours. But if the ground were filled with heavy clay and roots like that of the Mercerland, the same job could take days. When Hale's family members attempted to pull him away, he simply walked around them and continued digging. He showed no anger, no excitement, no madness, only certainty.

He simply had to dig. What he was doing was the right thing to do. regardless of what anyone said, and the hole grew steadily along and around the perimeter of the sealed fireplace. Eventually, the sheriff ordered Hale to stop. He said it was dangerous, that there was no telling how stable the hole was. Really, he just wanted Hale to stop because he thought it was stupid. Hale was physically dragged away by family members. He didn't resist.

Just waited until they let go and calmly walked back after dark and dug through the night. shovelful after shovelful. When the sheriff returned with his deputy the next day, the same one who'd first inspected the property, the deputy refused to leave the car. When the sheriff threatened Hale with some jail time to cool off, Hale just shrugged and said others would keep up his work. He was right. Others came.

Not many, only four at first. Each behaved identically. They weren't zombies. They weren't erratic. They just wanted to dig. When the air got colder, they wore heavier jackets. They ate when food was brought to them. They slept briefly near the pit each night as exhaustion took over.

When their hands bled from the shoveling, they would take time to stop and bandage their wounds before continuing their work in other ways. Like building stairs. You can only dig so deep by hand before you can't throw the dirt. out of the hole, so a staircase was assembled, step by step, spiraling down and around the chimney itself. Dirt was brought up by the bucketful. No other equipment was used in the digging and excavating, as if there were rules that had to be followed. Even when others came, people who didn't seem to feel any effects from the voices to try and help in their own way, seeing the obsession but

wanting it to end sooner, it was calmly and politely refused. Attempts of conversation produced little response. They acknowledged questions. They understood language. Yet every answer returned to the same objective. The opening had to be found. The voice had to be freed. When the pit reached 10 feet deep on all sides, the first incident occurred.

Nobody knew precisely what had triggered it. There were witnesses at this point. People who didn't want or need to dig, but wanted to see what was happening. happening, wanted to be there if something was actually found, like watching Al Capone's vault being opened on live TV. One volunteer descended the stairs, empty shovel in hand. He merged 30 minutes later, running and stumbling up the stairs, screaming. By the looks of his face and hands, he had clawed chunks of his own flesh off. He claimed spiders lived under his skin. Doctors at the local hospital found nothing, and the man had to be restrained and

sedated. For the rest of his life, any moment he was awake, the man remained convinced that thousands of insects were crawling inside his muscles, their dead corpses floating through the blood in his veins. The diggers, even when told about what had happened or witnessed it for themselves, showed no reaction. They continued working. Another person showed up and replaced him in the effort. The whole deepened. Fifteen feet, twenty, twenty-five. More people began hearing the cries. Local news crews arrived. Experts examined their recordings. The sound they captured contained impossible characteristics.

Multiple voices seemed to be layered together. A child's cries existed beneath an adult's voice, an elderly man's breathing existed beneath the child's. Every recording revealed different details. Every listener heard something slightly different. The area was eventually cordoned off under the pretense of public safety. The excavation reached 30 feet when the second horror arrived. Workers descending below the 30-foot mark reported hearing footsteps behind them. Only behind them. Never ahead or besie. them. The sounds matched their own pace. Stopping caused the footsteps to stop. Hurrying caused them to

hurry. Turning revealed nothing. Everyone who heard it relayed the information casually, but with a slight concern in their voice, never enough to stop digging, though. One man spent an entire afternoon attempting to catch whatever followed him. Camera showed him repeatedly spinning in circles. Each time's expression grew more confused. Finally, he began laughing. Witnesses described the laughter as exhausted rather than joyful. The next morning he was gone, and never seen again. The hole grew deeper and wider. Initially, it consisted of rough wooden platforms wedged into the clay walls, eventually landings connected to descending switchbacks. Handrails appeared. Floodlights illuminated the darkness.

The project looked more like a mine shaft. No one could explain how any of it was happening. The people working there had no construction experience. There was no coordination that anyone witnessed, yet somehow materials arrived. People donated lumber, contractors supplied equipment. All the while, the voices inside encouraged them. Every day it sounded closer Every day it sounded more desperate

The pit passed 40 feet Then 50 Then came the third torment This was more difficult to document As it was inconsistent beyond the description of Having memories that didn't belong to them A woman descending the stairs suddenly stopped And fell to her knees

Remembering drowning her infant daughter She remembered everything from the feel of the wet fabric in her fingers to the child's final desperate attempt at breathing, pulling the final gulp of water into its lungs. She had never had children. Another digger remembered shooting a man during a robbery. Another remembered strangling a man in a motel room. Each memory felt absolutely real and contained emotional certainty. People openly wept over crimes they never committed. some spent days attempting to locate victims who never existed.

Others became so consumed by guilt, they only saw one answer anymore. And still, people came, not many, often just enough to replace the ones who are now gone. The digging continued. The staircase spiraled 60 feet below the farmhouse. The pit walls remained strangely stable, despite warnings from the professional who had seen the work. And yet, there were no cave-ins, no flooding, regardless of how much rain fell. No structural failures.

Some call it miraculous. Others absurd. The diggers simply called it progress. The voice grew stronger all the time, not in volume as much as intensity. There were no questions anymore if there were voices. Even the unaffected heard the voices if they got too close. The voices no longer begged, instead speaking with confidence. It praised the diggers on their good work.

It thanked them for their time and effort and sacrifice. It promised relief when it was all done. The fourth horror arrived at 70 feet. This one spread beyond the excavation site. The diggers began to comment on people watching them when they would emerge from the pit, throwing another shovel full of dirt on the pile. someone just standing there staring someone they didn't know always silent always expressionless the hole offered no relief from the feeling the diggers became convinced that they were being watched at all times no bystand or ever reported anything out of the ordinary i mean other than the obvious this only seemed to drive the affected harder the staircase continued to descend 80 feet, 90, 100.

Now the crying seemed to move beyond the chimney. People in town heard it. Inside churches, schools, even their own homes. The city finally stepped in, reaching out to the county to help. Something no one had any memory of ever having had to do before. The county attempted to shut it down, setting the safety concerns and lack of permits. Barricades were set up around the farmhouse.

Excavators arrived and workers prepared to fill in the pit. Their efforts lasted less than two days. Soon enough, half the workers had joined the diggers. The barricades were dismantled. Those new workers who felt the call damaged the equipment of those who didn't. Excavation resumed. There was no reasoning with those affected. They knew they were right.

The voices confirmed it. Their devotion transcended religion or politics. It was simply purpose, as though every previous goal in their lives had merely prepared them for this, and it just took something for their eyes to open to what was right. County leaders decided to monitor the digging, but not interfere for the sake of public safety. The staircase reached 120 feet when the fifth horror emerged.

Diggers began to uncover doors, along the pit walls, wooden doors with frames and hardware. The doors were all locked, but the diggers would often stop and stand in front of them, sometimes for hours before zooming their digging. Some claim to hear more voices on the other side of the doors. Some claim to hear scratches. Others screams. When a reporter asked one of the diggers what they thought could be on the other side,

they would inevitably say that something was waiting, waiting for excavation to finish. The staircase descended to 150, 180, 200 feet, but nobody knew how deep the voice would exist. The sixth door emerged gradually. The diggers stopped recognizing loved ones. Not completely. They still knew their names and faces and relationships,

but certainty faded. A wife appeared suddenly incorrect. The child seemed almost right. Friends resembled convincing imitations, like a flaw in a forged painting. Almost perfect, but not. Trust evaporated. Paranoia flourished.

Families fractured. The diggers remained unaffected. The voice, after all, promised answers. It promised restoration, and that everything would make sense once the opening was uncovered. The staircase reached 300 feet. The deeper they dug, the more fears presented itself.

Fear of mirrors, fear of sleep, fear of memory, fear of language. Not everyone was affected. Many experienced nothing. Those who did rarely recovered. And when they were gone, someone would replace them. The work slowed but never stopped. Then the bones appeared. 320 feet below the farmhouse, human bones, from dozens of people maybe.

The discovery should have stopped everything, but the diggers seemed to only get more fervent. Now even those unaffected by the voice joined the efforts. Forensics joining and analyzed the findings. The bones belonged to every age range, every era ever documented. Some appeared centuries old, others recent, others impossible, skeletons fused together extra joints additional ribs skulls with extra cavities yet still no opening in the chimney ever appeared no fireplace no hidden chamber only the voice always the voice so grateful for their efforts and then one day after hundreds of feet of digging the voice suddenly stop The effect I'd noticed immediately.

Panic followed quickly. The voice they'd been listening to for over a year was gone. The emptiness was a vacuum in their minds. The diggers started to argue with each other over what to do. Some wanted to keep digging. Some wanted to leave, suddenly feeling like they had no purpose. Then the violence started. A group of diggers decided to keep going,

pushing past the others and going back down. No one who went down with that group ever came back up. Even when the sheriff went to investigate, all he saw was some blood on the steps. No bodies. They were just gone. Some claim there were handprints on the doors, hands with too many fingers.

Some people believed that there had actually been a cave in and they'd been trapped underground. Others think they finally found the opening in the chimney. and disappeared. Some believed this was just a part of a cycle that they had already discovered when finding the bones in the first place. Some sort of temporal anomaly. But no one knows. Someone either from the city or the county ordered the site filled in with dirt and concrete to stop anyone else from attempting the same thing again. Out of sight, out of mind. The story of this town. But to this day, if you do make it make a lot of the story of this town. But to this day,

If you do make it to the site, lay on your stomach and put your ear to the cement slab that used to be the excavation site, some people claim that you can still hear voices down there, voices of those diggers who disappeared, asking you to dig them out, to save them. If only you would listen to their siren call. Oh, wow, look at the time. Don't mean to rush off as fast as possible. But I totally forgot that I signed up to do the open mic today. That in no way has anything to do with me not wanting to stand here, even for a second longer.

Are you coming, John? I think I'll probably meet you there. Okay, well, it would be great to see you there tonight for Jimmy's story. Fade to Bar Sounds. What? Wow, full house tonight. I'm not sure we're going to find a table for all of... Guys, guys over here, quick! I got us a table.

Thanks, Owen. You haven't been here waiting too long for us, have you? No, no. Just like two or three hours. You held a table in a busy bar for two or three hours? Wasn't that a little tough? Well, not really. When people sat down, I just asked if they wanted to be my friend. No takers. Great idea. It clearly worked.

Yeah. But it would have been nice if at least one of them and stayed. It's okay, Owen. We're here now. We can even go over your dream journal to make up for being late. Promise? Because I had a good one last night. Well, not exactly good. I had this dream where I was being chased by a monster with asthma.

So we're going to need some drinks. Gotcha. Do we have a server? I think I see John over at the bar. John. John. Come on over here. John.

Oh, hey, everyone. When did you all get here? We just got here, but Owen's been here for... About 17 missed connections. I'm going to be busy on Craigslist tomorrow. Owen, I'm pretty sure that's just for people looking to hook up. Like RV salesman? Please, someone get us strange.

I can grab the first round. When you got a story tonight? Um, yeah, I do. Remember, we went over this earlier. How many of you had? Not enough. Break a leg. Let's give it up to our next storyteller, Jimmy F.

That's my cue. Hey, everyone. I'm Jimmy. I'm going to tell you about the shattered fun house mirror. A misshapen shadow haltingly crossed a manor wall, plastered with yellow newspapers headline the delirred reports of the carnival butcher, the prolific child killer and shadowy boogey man of his time.

Yet who was this hulking ogre who loom large in imaginations and nightmares? A terrible beast, a grendel, or a minotar, surely, as a podcast detailing the brutal murders played in the background. A gons sickly older man passed in front of the mullioned window and rubbed his eyes. The unassuming almost elderly man answering to Clyde Elmer was bespeckled, short and bald. He personified the ideal camouflage for a long-retired spree killer, hiding in plain sight of a quaint country town. The once flamboyant and charismatic carnival showman laid low after a colleague was framed for the murders and killed by the other inmates in jail. In the bloody aftermath, Elmer withdrew to a quiet Victorian mansion to live a reclusive life.

He relived his exploits every night, listening addictively to true crime podcasts of his former exploits. He laughed at the gullible hosts with their speculations and conspiracy theories. He cackled at the watchers' comments. Yet, as a new generation of serial killers eclipsed his infamy, he became dangerously jealous and restless. He literally paced like a caged tiger as he plotted his comeback. He envisioned a grand finale that would definitely elevate him above any other rival as the evilest mass murderer of his age. Elmer spent lavishly and worked feverishly as the architect. of an elaborate trap for his prey.

He would lure children to grandiose Halloween porch display, a shrine to all things Gothic. As for the bait to lure in his prey, that was a banquet of sweets, a hoard of glittering gold-wrapped candy shimmering, enticingly to the ranks of children lining up greedily. The master of ceremonies, Mr. Elmer, would be hosting in grand style.

Charming all with an affordable smile to lure the children closer towards the bait injected with a slow acting, but very deadly poison. When the stragglers among the trick-or-treaters would collect their candy, Elmer would turn away, chuckling, and switch off the porch lights. He would sink into his armchair. with a toast to his career of fine-aged wine, assured of the immortality of his reviled name.

Then, when the police would kick down the door, he would already be dead, with a merciful bullet to the temple in a mocking note. In the midst of reveling in his twisted vision, Elmer suddenly bent over and began coughing violently. He regained his composure enough to shuffle over to his desk to review his diagrams. Mr. Elmer was terminally ill, and he had desired one last grand finale to cement his name in murder infamy.

The podcasters will be talking about me for years to come, and he grinned. Were he to carry out his sinister plot, nobody would have suspected or been able to stop him time. Yet, he was thwarted by another killer. A microscopic one. A preoccupied man paid very little heed to the initial reports of a highly contagious virus. That was until Trickertreat was banned that year. Just as he was about to stop on one of his carved pumpkins in frustrated rage. He spied a mysterious envelope stuffed in his jack-lantern's mouth. His hands trembled, and he clenched his teeth as he read the note. The anonymous author revealed he had evidence to expose Elmer as the true carnival butcher. The note demanded that Elmer come alone on

Halloween night to the scene of his old crimes. Elmer marched into the street and looked around. Red leaves fell over the quiet street, not a soul to be seen. He crumbled the note and bared his teeth in feral rage. Two weeks ago, Mr. Elmer's face was illuminated in the blue of a computer screen while he listened to podcasts about his murders. Meanwhile, across town in a small house. Lightning blazed, illuminating a lone figure writhing in the throes of a nightmare haunted sleep. In the depths of those recurring nightmares, the dreamer saw his face mirrored in a killer's blade. The blade that stabbed and maimed him, scoring him for life in body and in mind. Suddenly, the maddeningly elusive side of the murderer's face behind the blade was revealed in a harsh spectral glow.

Dreamer's eyes shot open as he woke screaming. I see you, butcher, he cried out. Thunder roared as if a dark god confirmed it. At last, a desperate prayer answered. After reading the cryptic note, Elmer pried off the floorboards in his drawing room, uncovering his old, rusted carving knife. He polished and sharpened it lovingly. Tilly looked at his own reflection mirrored in the blade. His face appeared rejuvenated as he rehearsed his old game host's smile.

The feral gleam in his eyes was rekindled on the old dormant predatory thrill before. hunting his prey, shuddered through his soul intoxicatingly. A slash of Crimson Twilight lingered across the sky, as Elmer pulled up to the old fairgrounds on the outskirts of Telm. The headlights of his antique car shone on the span of tall, heavily graffiti fence, meant to kept vandals, looters, arsonists, and ghost hunters out of the old carnival. Elmer stepped out onto the remote field overgrown with weeds. The sky was haunted by an extremely rare Halloween night full moon, casting its ghostly spell on everything it touched.

The blood moon glared down like a zombie-fied eye as he scanned the parking lot for any car or person, but there was no soul to be seen. He knew he was a shadow of his former self. So, he drew a handgun and carving knife from his glove compartment. and wearily approached the fence. The neglected roller coaster ride still loomed, black coils like rustin, dark, and coils. Like a pre-storic skeleton in an abandoned museum. He squeezed through the gaps of the heavily graffered gait.

His boots crunched over decades of debris. The fair that once witnessed an uproar of crowds was now silent as a necropolis. Elmer approached his old shuttered stall, caressing the wooden walls like an old friend in reunion. He felt strangely rejuvenated and flashed his old predatory smile, feeling the same intoxicating predatory thrill

that he once felt when he hunted. Elmer felt he sleepwalked across a vivid dreamscape. as he strolled along the aisle of tents and stalls. The old fairground seemed to undergo an eerie, surreal metamorphosis sweeping the faded gray pavilions with vibrant colors. The place seemed restored, like a vampire's face rejuvenated after feeding on its victim's blood. The emptiness was filled with people long gone. His voice echoed through the ruins as he called out. Hello? Hello? Anybody there? I'm here like you said. Elmer turned in a circle as he stood at the

crossroads of the fairgrounds. He was drawn to the sound of ghostly children's laughter to the old fun house. He raced through the winding hall, the cracked mirrors distorting his reflection. The flimsy structure shuddered as thunder rumbled ominously. Okay, stop being mysterious. I brought money if that's what you're after. Times are a bit tough with all the COVID stuff. Every bit helps. So should I just leave it here?

We're asked. Holding up a bulging duffel bag. He suddenly halted at mid-stride as, he emerged from the funhouse staring at a souvenir photo rack, capturing the reactions of children. Now they were photos of the children he had murdered, smiling joyfully in their last happy moments before he ambushed them with a carving knife. He stepped from the shadows to be bathed in the moonlight. Very, very clever, whoever you are, called out, clapping slowly. Elmer felt the unsettling feeling of being watched and was observed intensely in monochrome vision.

It seemed nocturnal creatures began to emerge from the crevices and shadows to feed. He heard furtos sounds around him. As Elmer pushed further into the shadowy depths of the derelict carnival, he was startled by the sound of something scurrying past. Rats, he probably imagined. This dump must be crawling with him, Elmer grimaced. Elmer failed to wave of nausea at the terrible smell. He followed it curiously.

He halted at a stained fallen awning. Then he lifted it gingerly. He almost wretched as he saw its grisly contents. He found a trove of animal bones and carcasses. Something has been killing and feeding on. small creatures voraciously. He staggered away, shaken. Then his grimace became a wistful smile,

as he remembered screams when his hidden stash of murder victims was uncovered finally. Elmer touted the hilt of his gun and knife to confirm that they were there before proceeding. What kind of animal would do something like that, he wondered, with a nagging sense of unease. He saw red animal tracks leading away from the grim larder. He could not recognize what left them. Maybe something a raccoon size, whatever it was. Focus, Elmer, focus, he scolded himself.

You have bigger game to hunt tonight. Elmer smiled nostalgically with haunted distance. eyes, as he envisioned the carnivals opening night when the gates swung open, and the playground of bright lights was overrun by waves of eager children. Many charged straight for the rides, the carousels and the towering ferris wheel. Yet to do so, they would have to run the gotlet of the carnival game booths, their host hawking their games and tempting the passerby with prizes. Yet, none of the game masters were even remotely as good as Elmer in luring in the children.

They flocked to his bright, welcoming smile like moths to a flame. Elmer opened his mouth to speak the same words he used to lure children from the crowd to play his game, but was charred from his nostalgic daydream by hearing his own words, uttered rather than echoed from the shadows with an emotionless, soulless tone. He was suddenly swept by a wave of nausea. The world spun kaleidoscopically as his vision focused again.

He saw he was not alone. A circle of small, child-sized figures encircled him. The strangers wore vintage. Halloween masks. They were singing trick-or-treat. Trick-or-treat. Who are you, Brats? Elmer demanded.

You know us. The children lifted their masks in unison. Elmer stifled the scream as he was confronted by the faces of the children he mutilated and murdered years and years ago. He lunged for them. and the children scattered. Locking eyes on one boy, he pursued the child into the shadows. Elmer's quarry was maddeningly elusive as he pursued the child through the labyrinthemed

twists and turns of colorful passageways slithering through the alleys of old game booths. He suddenly paused to regain his breath. He felt disoriented suddenly, mid-the-shifting. shadows cast by the rising moon. He looked up and growled, spotting the child, waving mischievously and stuck his tongue out instantly. Elmer lurched after him as a child disappeared into a red doorway, to a looming structure lined with torn posters of circus animals.

Close on his quarry's heels, Elmer burst into a dimly lit chamber. As his eyes adjusted into the darkness, he gasped in startling recognition. Elmer knew this place all too well. He looked at the rusted cages lining the room. This was once an exhibit of exotic animals. The place where he claimed his final victim of his murder spree. Or so he thought.

He looked grimly at the last occupant of the cages, the remains of an abandoned orangutan. Its skeletal arm and hand reaching for a last tantalizing morsel of food just beyond its reach. The skull's jaw gaped in an agonized expression of that final hunger. He remembered looking into the old orangutan's eyes and taunting it. He was jarred from the memory by an ominous rumbling of thunder. Rain pinged off the metallic roof and lightning blazed through the broken windows, illuminating rows of small pale figures perched in successive tears, rising to the top of the conical ceiling.

Their eyes flickered crimson. as they looked down intently on the intruder and gleamed on mouths, red from gorging on the animal carcasses. Elmer looked up on impulse, only for the sight to be covered in darkness. Oblivious to their sinister presence, as they watched him intently and calculatingly. Elmer approached a final cage like a sleepwalker blundering further astray into his old haunt. Its bark door was creaking as it swung ajar. It was here that his lonely abattoir that Elmer once grinned into the eyes of little Tommy Doyle

as he stabbed and slashed with sadistically. Elma remembered the boy well. at his booth. His predatory eyes scanned the crowd before locking his eyes on a small boy who appeared to be lost. He called for the child and gestured eagerly with a congenial smile. His voice was as sweet as venomed honey as he reassured his boy. Lost? Oh, you poor dear. Well, stay here in this very will-it area, and your mother will be sure to spot you. Now, how would you like to play a game? The boy's throws for prizes were clumsy.

But before his face fell, Elmer made sure he won a stuffed monkey as a consolation prize. Elmer lowered the boy away from the game stall slyly. Tommy heard his mother calling as she searched for him. The boy opened his mouth to answer. So your name is Tommy. Wait, young master, did you say monkeys were your favorite animals? Elmer asked patronizingly. Tommy beamed, nodding his head vigorously.

I know just where you can see lots and lots of monkeys. Follow me. The boy remarked that his mother had been wrong about Elma. Oh, Elmer asked suspiciously. Tommy continued. He said that his mother had always said that Cardinal games were rigged and that the players were never meant to win. Before Elmer could respond, the boy squealed with joy. He could already hear the monkeys from where he was.

Observing the exhibit attendants were drinking beer and laughing outside. Elmer furtively flipped the ride attraction sign to closed, before closing the door behind them discreetly. Tommy raced past the other animals and paused, captivated in front of the monkey exhibit, to the boys the light. A small young monkey met his eyes and scurried over to bond with him. The monkey coctus head curiously and reached a paw through the cage bars to hold Tommy's Let me tell you a dark little secret.

This game was never designed for you to win. You poor, naive child. Your mother was right. I win. Not you. That's how this game works. Game over, brat. The monkeys cried out shrilly as the child.

was stabbed and slashed repeatedly. A tiger in an adjacent pen quickened its pacing and growled as its nostrils burned with the aroma of fresh blood. Damn you, vermin. Quiet. I need to hear my victim scream. He tried to stab through the bars. But Tommy screamed and begged Elmer not to hurt the monkeys. The gravely wounded boy held out his.

his hand, and the monkey gently took it in his own, whimpering. The eyes of the boy and the monkey met before Tommy's eyes closed. Elmer slipped out and noticed. He fled unseen under cover of shadows blood seeped under the door. Intoxicated with the memory, he recreated his maniacal laughter from that night as he laughed and left the boy for dead. He laughed and laughed, reveling in the echoes of the past, mingling with the primal cries of the primates.

Except, the cries seemed to linger, even after his laughter stopped with a fit of coffee. I can almost still hear the monkeys. I can still hear them. How do I state? still hear them? Elmer questioned.

Elmer felt something dripping on his hand. He raised it to the light. Rain drops? No. The liquid is warm and red. He looked up just as something fell on his face. He looked down in horror at a ravaged possum carcass. It looked like it was fed on by piranhas.

Not a carcass It was still moving The mall possum was still trying to escape Desperately despite being wounded horribly Emma reached for it only to cover his ears At terrible shrieking The monkeys were still there after so many years They survived the fair's closure

And their numbers exploded into a massive hoard A monkey landed before him and crouched between Elmer and the wounded and cornered possum, like a child defending his new toy. Nice monkey. Good monkey. Hey, I have a nice tweet for you. Look a banana. Everyone knows that monkeys just love bananas, don't they? Markajol. However, he neglected to read the placard next to the cage about that particular. particular species of monkey. The monkey sniffed curiously before approaching. That's right. Come closer.

You're a cute little feller. Yes, have a nice bite of a juicy banana. The monkey reached his clawed hands for the banana, taking it as Elmer smiled. They threw the banana aside. You want something else instead? Lightning blazed. The monkey's eye glued red, as its face contorted with rage, and it bared its fangs, sinking his teeth into Elmer's hands.

Elmer screamed in agony and terror as the monkey tore out a morsel of his flesh, before snapping off one of his fingers. The monkey held up a severed finger as if boasting about his prize. The others chattered. excitedly as they scurried for Elmer ravenously. The lightning illuminated the display, placard, explaining that the monkeys were an exceedingly rare species of carnivorous primate. Elmer drew his carving knife,

brandishing it as he reeled back from the onslaught. Stay away here, little monsters. Stay back! The monkeys easily evaded his wild knife slashes with. startling agility. Elmer fumbled to draw his gun but dropped it as the animal swarmed him in a frenzy. He recovered the gun at last and tried to put it to his temple rather than suffer the torture of being mauled and eaten alive.

A monkey hooked his arm with this long black claws and sank its fangs into his flesh. He pried its teeth out of his arm and fired all the long black claws. his rounds vengefully at the animal. Most ricocheted off the walls as the monkey danced around him. Then one bullet struck its target. He cried out triumphantly as the other monkeys drew back. One of the monkeys ventured to the dead monkey, nudging and nuzzling it as Elmer gloated. Suddenly, the monkey looked up at Elmer and shruged. The darkness erupted with a crillingly shrill howl as the other monkeys answered the cry and charged at Elmer. He staggered from the chamber bloodied with his torn clothing.

He knocked over a stall to block the door as he hobbled away holding his hand, now wrapped in a cloth that he tore from his coat. The capsized cart shook violently as the monkeys rammed and clotted the door. As he staggered away, he heard a crash as the stall was dislodged. The Alpha Monkey poised like a pale gargall on the top of its enclosure. Its albino red eyes shimmered as it raised its head with a shrill cry that echoed and re-echoed through the blackened ruins. A tense silence lingered.

then erupted with a chorus of cringingly, maddeningly harsh screeches. The cries of the monkeys drowned out the thunder as they came for their quarry. Elmer cast an anxious glass behind him. In intervals of spectral resplendence illuminating the fair, he could see the pale monkeys closing in relentlessly, like a ghostly tsunami leaping from rooftop to rooftop. top along the Isle of Tencent Stalls. Suddenly a torrent of rain fell, relentlessly and shockingly cold.

The monkeys recoiled, shrieking. Elmer laughed with a reprieve at the reprieve. The storm abruptly passed. The clouds parted in a full moon blazed like a ghostly bonfire, exposing him in spectral spotlight. The monkeys regrouped and came at him again. The monkeys drove Elmer towards the towering Ferris wheel, framed by the ghostly moon.

If I could just get to it, I can hop the fence and get to my car, Elmer told himself. Elmer tried to scale the barricade but fell painfully to a cracking sound. He hobbled and staggered. away, trailed eagerly by the monkeys. Elmer screamed hopelessly, disoriented as he was overcome with a paroxysm of terror. He felt that he was now the prize in a carnival game. As the monkeys closed in, Elmer threw a can to draw them off.

One of the monkeys halted in mid-charge, sniffing the air and scenting his quarry to a dark alleyway. The monkey was suddenly snatched up by the tail. I got you, barmets. Elmer crowed. Elmer held up that squirming and thrashing monkey up by the tail. He raised a knife with vengeful gleam in his eyes. Then his gloating smile was jarred off his face by a voice as cold as the night, ordering Elmer to let the monkey go. As if restless shadows of all hollow's eve were granted form, a stranger strode from the darkness. Elmer dropped the monkey and it scurried away to a waiting hooded figure confronting him. The monkey ran up the stranger's leg and perched on his shoulder, chattering angrily at his tormentor,

before nuzzling against his hooded head affectionately. You. You're the one who left the notes. The one who's been blackmailing me. Elmer accused. The stranger pulled off his hood. The neon carnival lights illuminated a coolly disfigured face that was maimed and mutilated by Elmer himself.

Homer gasped in horrified recognition. One of his victims did survive. The boy in the... the monkey enclosure. Elmer was determined to finish him off, though. Yet the newspapers reported that the traumatized and horribly wounded boy was suffering amnesia and could not describe or identify the suspect. Elmer reluctantly relented.

Tommy bloody Doyle, Elmer hissed. For years, Tommy struggled to remember his attacker's face. Yet in his mind it was distorted like a funhouse mirror. For years that felt like centuries. The lone survivor of the carnival butcher's rampage. Somehow could not remember anything since the night he fell under the butcher's blade. Haunting his whole life by recurring dreams. The monster even visited him in the hospital.

To test if the boy truly lost his memory. He brought the toy monkey he dropped at the scene And after asking some slight questions Tried to amuse him with a juggling act Satisfied that the boy's memory was gone He offered a theatrical bow Before leaving with a wink Now though

Tommy held up a familiar discolored stuffed monkey toy Tommy explained that he had seen Elmer had met his friends that he had been studying them. He said that they were fascinating creatures, explaining that individually they were nocturnal scavengers that sometimes preyed on smaller animals like rodents and birds. However, when they gathered in a pack, they began to hunt and bring down larger prey.

When they gathered in megapacks, they became ambitious enough to take down quarries much bigger than themselves. Even making jaguars run from them. Is there any point to the zoology listen, Tommy? Tommy continued that after the fair was abandoned, most of the animals were neglected, put down or sold off to roadside zoos. Not his monkeys, though. He said there were very adept escape artists and were territorial, causing salvagers to complain that the feral animals were making their jobs dangerous.

The salvagers sent exterminators in to deal with them. By then, Tommy was a teenager and couldn't allow his friends to simply be wiped out. He revealed that he used to visit the fair and break in to see them, bringing them treats, playing with them. Running with them through the fair and the moonlight had been the only time he could ever smile and laugh. Everyone else's age had treated him like an outcast, a freak because of his face,

because of the wounds Elmer had lived him with. No girl would date him, and nobody ever wanted to be seen. with him. Tommy explained that when the exterminators came for the monkeys, he had been waiting. They walked straight into his trap. Their deaths were ruined in accident. And the fair was sealed off. No exterminator would take the job to hunt down the monkeys after that. Tommy revealed that the exterminators had made very good eating for his friends. And that he didn't even. made sure that those oafs were alive when the monkeys fed.

So, you're a killer too then. So you're no better than me. Elmer laughed. Tommy laughed as well, as he told Elmer that's where he was mistaken. He said he was better, a better killer, and welcomed Elmer to the jungle. Tommy lifted a flaming torch to his face. He illuminated his scarred and disfigure features in a harsh crimson like a storyteller, before beginning a scary tale, shining a flashlight to his face.

Tommy explained that he had literally run away and joined the circus. His stage name had been the monkey boy, a deformed freak in their eyes. He said he trained for the dream-deferred purpose of remembering who he really was, learning enough skills for this long-awaited duel. Let's see what you got then, boy. Elmer sat gripping his knife. Tommy nodded, took his stance and said, on guard, old man. He reminded Elmer of what he once told him,

that this deep dark secret was, that the games were not designed for him to win. He challenged Elmer to play, declaring the winner take all. The monkeys watched an eager, ominous anticipation. Elmer drew his plane. Do you remember this knife, boy? Tommy nodded slowly.

He suddenly exhaled a blast of fire from the torch at Elmer. who was enveloped in flames. He rolled on the ground screaming to extinguish the fires. The eyes of the monkeys flared in crimson, the hellish glow as they screeched excitedly. Elmer rose, still smoking with teeth bared, clutching his knife. Yet his mysterious assailant in the monkeys had vanished. Thunder rumbled angrily in the background.

On impulse, Selmer began to climb the Ferris wheel to escape. Lightning struck. Like a monster's cadaver resurrected by a storm, the old fairgrounds came to radiant life. The long darkened lights blazed dazzling neon. Festive music blared as the rides and stalls were lit in succession. The lights of the Ferris wheel flickered on resplendently. Elmer looked down and screamed as he could see the eyes of the monkeys gleaming as they swarmed on the wheel scurrying up after him.

Tommy looked up and watched, holding up his stuffed toy monkey with boyish affection. Tommy quoted the words he had heard before, reminding Elmer that the game was never designed for him to win. And some strange distortion of the moonbeams shimmering off the steel of the Ferris wheel, like the panes of a funhouse mirror. The leering faces of the chattering monkeys morphed to Elmer's eyes. The muscles of the monkeys became the mischievously laughing faces of the children Elmer had killed before shifting back to the faces of the monkeys.

The excited cries of the monkeys sounded eerily like the laughter. of children playing with their favorite toy. Elmer drew his long-carving knife, slashing wildly at his tormentors who evaded the blade strikes easily. The knife slashes sparked. Distracted by the monkeys. Elmer was lassoed by a noose around his throat.

His scream was choked off as he was lifted slowly by the ferris wheel. He managed to sever the rope only to have his arms bound to the bars of the Ferris wheel. Tommy appeared by Elmer's sign, winking insolently. Elmer gripped his knife so tightly, blood oozed from between his fingers, rallying his last strength. Elmer tried to stab his old victim through the heart with a grim finality.

Instead, Elmer screamed as a monkey locked its fangs on his furrow. wrist. A knife clanged off iron again and again as it fell down the wheel. Tommy threw back his head with an atavistic rapture, and his cry mingled with the monkeys as the moon was framed through the ferris wheel like a spectral bonfire. A lightning strike erupted in an explosion of sparks as the ferris wheel caught on fire. Elmer's tortured screams echoed through his former. playground as the monkeys gorged. In the morning, Elmer was found haggard, disheveled,

and raving from some horrific ordeal. He was feverish from infected animal bites. A confession for the carnival massacre was written in blood above him. Yet that confession was treated as a delusion by the doctors in the mental hospital where, Elmer would be transferred. One night, as Elmer rocked back and forth in his hospital room chattering incoherently, he heard footsteps halting just outside the door, just the nightship nurse delivering his dinner, he thought. An orderly rolled a cart into the room.

The orderly greeted Elmer and asked how he was doing, asking if he was ready for dinner. Yeah. Elmer replied meekly. The orderly said he wasn't offering the food to Elmer. He said that the ward they were experimenting with had a new program involving therapy animals for their patients. He then asked Elmer what his favorite animal was. Again, calling him the carnival butcher.

The orderly pulled down his mask to reveal Tommy's disfigured face. He teased Elmer, asking him to wait a second. Was it a monkey? Tommy lifted the cloth covering the serving cart to reveal a cage. The eyes of the pale alpha monkey burned with hunger as Tommy lifted the latch, releasing it into the room. The door insulated the agonized screams from the staff in the hallway. as Tommy casually rolled the cart away.

Later, a nurse on her midnight rounds checked on over. She gassed as she saw him lying on his side, shuddering spasmodically. His face was twisted in a grisly expression of final agony. Then she screamed as two red eyes gleamed in reply to her flashlight. It bared its fangs and chattered angrily, as it was disturbed from feeding greedily on its kiln. It bound past her and scurried down the hall before launching onto the shoulder of a waiting figure at the threshold of the exit door. Tommy smiled as they stepped out into the moonlight. His contented sigh steamed in the chill air.

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