( when Ben Dearborn first steps foot onto the carnival landing, he looks lost. he's never been north of New York, at least, not on American soil. this really isn't his...thing.

it isn't his own curiosity that he's following — it's a bird. a white dove, which flitters and stops in turns, pausing to give a flick of its head, as if...making sure Ben is following along.

there's games, the terrible, impossible sort designed to bleed your wallet and if you're lucky, will reward you with mediocre prizes that aren't worth half of the money you lose to them. with a scrutinizing eye, Ben traces the perimeter of this open ground, walled with tacky games, one after the other, with booth-owners barking for anyone's attention. goldfish, stuffed toys, photo albums...? Ben pauses. a wedding ring. a cassette tape. a worn book. it looks less like a tacky toy shop, and more like the contents of someone's storage unit. Ben can't decide if he's intrigued, or thoroughly troubled. what kind of bizarre, half-arsed scam—?

but here is someone playing one of the many games anyway, and Ben hasn't seen someone appear this adamant since he played proctor to an exam back home, earlier in the year. one could say they're terrible at the game, but that would be misleading; the game is rigged, a sinkhole for money, a black hole for failure. Ben pointedly looks from the back of the person's head, to the assembly of prizes. good lord...is that, an urn? is there someone's ashes still in it? Ben swallows, lips bent with disgust.

warily, he glances to you. ) Please assure me, that you're going for the stuffed rabbit...? ( you know, the...dingy pink one with an eye missing? it's the least out-of-place choice for a toy in this entire booth. )

( 'the goliath! sword eating! fire eating! he's ravenous!' 'watch the boneless lady make impossible shapes!' 'the shark man with his amazing 1000 teeth!' tacky, all of it; one of Ben's eyebrows is suspiciously raised as he steps through the carnival's gracious walkway, strings of lights and multi-colored flags hanging overhead, numerous tents in competitive color schemes trying to out-advertise one another. he knows from history how medical anomalies were so easily exploited to trick audiences out of their meager pocket money, a time when people were less informed, and easily to fool into gawking at the atypical, for a price. some things never do change, do they?

'the real! the living! wolf man!' 'demons from HELL'—

sorry...come again?

Ben stands stock still outside of a red and black tent, a cliché in its own right, and stares. for a long half minute, the longest one has ever felt, he lingers in a tense daze. is he standing in your way, as you're trying to enter the tent? maybe you can't help it, especially if you've always loved The Exorcist, or maybe it sounds just deliciously messed up to ping your interests.

perhaps it sounds just as disconcerting to you as it does to Ben.

or, you're a skeptic and want to see how stupid this show is; is it going to be Goosebumps levels of bad effects, or is this actually going to be cool? where are you placing your bet?

whatever the case may be, if you make it inside without crossing paths with professor tweed here, you'll certainly see him inside, standing in the middle of the aisle between two sections of folded chairs. you might simply notice the silhouette of a man standing beside your row of seats, or he might be ahead, partially obstructing your view of—

a someone sitting in an old, wood chair under a pinhole spotlight from a gap at the top of the tent, with their back faced to the disparate audience (if there is anyone else in here at all? it's dark, and the tent feels distinctly empty.) they seem to be tied down to it, murmuring in a hissing voice. you can't make out the words...it sounds like gibberish.

it goes on for just long enough to begin to confuse you until the stranger lifts his head up, and back, and then...

more back, more than seems appropriate for a human being to achieve, as if their neck were a rubber eraser. their eyes are shark-black, their skin is blotchy, bruise-purple in the bags under their eyes. the seams between their teeth are stained with blood, and the worst part is, it doesn't gleam freshly.

sulfur hangs heavy in the air, and it's stifling, and this man standing here in the dark near you? he is having none of this. )

( once Ben has taken his leave out of that horrendous display, dabbing sweat off his temple with an honest to god cotton handkerchief (seriously, what era are you from, Benny?) he finds the fresh air outside in the mild June warmth to be a staggering relief. Maine is considerably different in climate than London, and even while warm, the breeze carries a chill to it that eases him, deep in his lungs as he breathes.

food carts carry the scent of sweet, fried confections, and savory food. jams of dark, rich berries catch his senses. he remembers being fond of this sort of thing as a child.

he thinks he might let his curiosity guide him, a glowing warmth of nostalgia rising up under his sternum, and he rounds a corner toward where food and games carry the biggest cluster of sound. a child rushes by, and Ben side-steps to avoid them — which sends his foot into a roughly hand-painted wood sign, propped up on the dirt. he and it clamor together, and awkward bustling as he catches the planked wood and moves to stand it upright again. as he sets it, he reads it, yellow on dark blue, 'A BOY FINDS AN ANGEL.'

the coloring of the tent matches along in white and navy. Ben stares, the hairs on his neck standing up — he feels wholly, suddenly watched, seen by an unseen force. half of what carries him into the tent is the unshakable need to be cloaked, with how absolutely exposed the sensation leaves him.

he doesn't know what to expect; on the low, cheap stage, the show has already just begun: a man, maddened and out of his mind, consumed with unearthly rage, bludgeons a lifeless form on the floor, a woman. a child lays helpless, crawling backward to escape, when the man, monstrous looking, turns to his depicted son. blood splattered on his arms, his front, he carries the brass candlestick from the mantle that Ben's mother used to...place tall white candles in at Christmas...

the man, portraying the father, growls out to the child: ) 'Oh, not to worry, she hardly felt a thing...you, might not be so lucky.'

( —the last words Ben ever heard his father speak. Ben chokes, audibly, in the dim; he feels an invisible slam in his gut, and he suddenly can't breathe. )

( shaken from the events at that god-awful carnival, Ben aims to walk straight back to Prospero, when he sees it from a few yards away — a fight of some sort, someone helplessly dragged down into an open manhole in the street. it stops him in his tracks, struck with confusion. this town gets weirder and weirder, and he's had just about enough of all this. he makes a quick line to the ominous void in the sun-washed asphalt, so purely pitch black, as it echoes softly little vocal sounds at a distance, and...skittering.

when he turns, he may see you standing at the ledge of the sidewalk, peering down into a storm drain. he strides cautiously up to you, and the — er, the face visible from below, and you might hear or sense him come up to your side, looking all sorts of uncertain. the person below looks about as impatient as Ben appears right now.

or, Ben catches you on your way into the underground service tunnels under the town's feet, to go after that friend or loved one you've heard is trapped down there. you're caught by a sudden, pointed remark, posh and British and tensely level: ) —I don't think that's a good idea.

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