The silence in Sunflower Park hits like a fist. I've worked plenty of night shifts before. Warehouses where forklifts beep at 3:00 a.m. gas stations with their constant fluorescent hum. Even that 3mon stint at the county morg where the ventilation systems never quite masked the chemical smell. But this place, it swallows sound, consumes it, leaves nothing but the hollow echo of my footsteps on cracked pavement. Sullivan, right? The park manager, Earl, according to the faded name tag pinned to his sweatstained shirt, squints at me through yellowed teeth. His eyes dart toward the midway behind us, then
back to me. Jake Sullivan, that's me. I shift my weight, duffel bag heavy on my shoulder. The late afternoon sun casts long shadows across the abandoned amusement park, turning the rusted ferris wheel into a massive skeletal hand reaching for the sky. Earl hands me a ring of keys, each one labeled with masking tape and cramped handwriting. Office is there. He points to a squat concrete building with bars on the windows. Bathrooms around back. Don't use the one by the carousel plumbing shot. I nod, pocketing the keys. Anything else I should know? His eyes flick to
the midway again. Yeah, rules. He pulls a folded paper from his back pocket, creases worn like it's been handled a thousand times. Read these. Follow them. I scan the list, feeling a familiar prickle at the back of my neck. Every night job has its quirks, its little rituals the managers swear by. The morg had rules about talking near the bodies. The truck depot had rules about which parking spots were cursed. I'd heard enough ghost stories in the morg to know that rules like these sometimes had teeth, but I wasn't about to jump at shadows yet.
One, don't step onto the midway after 900 p.m. Two, ignore whispers from the game booths. Three, lock the security office if the lights dim. Four, never touch the fortune teller machine or anything it produces. Five. Burn any tickets you find. Let me guess, I say, folding the paper, hazing the new guy. Earl's face hardens. This ain't a joke, Sullivan. Don't screw up. He glances at his watch. 6 to 6, that's your shift. I'll be back tomorrow morning. Before I can ask anything else, he's walking away, keys jangling at his belt. His truck, a rusted Ford
that's seen better decades, coughs to life in the parking lot. And then I'm alone. Just me and Sunflower Park. I shoulder my bag and head toward the security office. The door caks open, revealing a space that smells of dust and forgotten lunches. A desk with a chipped mug. Filing cabinet with one drawer hanging open. A busted Pac-Man arcade machine in the corner. Screen dark. Radio on a shelf. Dial glowing faintly. The single overhead bulb flickers as I flip the switch, casting uneven light across the grimy lenolium floor. Home sweet home. For the next 12 hours,
I drop my bag on the desk, sending up a small cloud of dust. Papers scatter, revealing something metallic underneath. A badge rusted at the edges. Next to it, a heavyduty flashlight, the kind security guards favor. Both are labeled with the same name. Sam, night guard. I pick up the badge, running my thumb over the dent in its center. What happened to you, Sam? I mutter. The badge is scratched like it was dragged across concrete. The flashlight isn't much better. Deep gouges in the metal handle. I click the button. A strong beam cuts through the dusty
air, but it flickers briefly like the batteries are old. I curse, hoping it holds. Sam bailed fast. Bad sign, but I need this job. Three months without steady work since the tech company in Witchah laid me off, and my savings are circling the drain. Night security at an abandoned amusement park isn't exactly it work, but it pays. And after everything after running back to Kansas when CO hit, after promising mom I'd help with dad's medical bills, after avoiding her calls for months when the money ran out, I can't afford to be picky. I tuck Sam's
flashlight into my belt. better than my dollar store junk. The Pac-Man machine catches my eye. I've always had a weakness for vintage arcade games, and the hours ahead look long and boring. I cross to it, wiping dust from the controls with my sleeve. The joystick moves stiffly, gritty with disuse. "One game, come on," I mutter, smacking the side of the machine. "Nothing happens, but I swear I feel a faint vibration, a low hum that travels up my arm and settles uncomfortably in my chest. I step back, suddenly aware of how the decay of this place
seeps into everything. Even the air tastes stale, like it's been recycled through too many seasons of abandonment. I shrug it off. Just another weird job in a string of weird jobs. At 6:30 p.m., I decide to patrol the grounds. Might as well get the lay of the land while there's still daylight. I grab Sam's flashlight, spinning it like a toy gun before clipping it to my belt. Nice one, Sam. I say to the empty office. At least you left me something useful. Outside, the park is bathed in the golden light of approaching sunset. It softens
the decay, almost makes the place look nostalgic instead of neglected. Almost. Up close, there's no hiding the warped boards, the peeling paint, the weeds pushing through every crack in the pavement. I follow the main path past shuttered concession stands and silent ticket booths. The carousel sits frozen once bright horses now faded and chipped, their painted eyes staring blankly. Beyond it stretches the midway, lined with game boos, ring toss, balloon darts, basketball shots. Their canvas awnings sag like deflated lungs, breathing in and out with the occasional breeze. A faint hum buzzes from the ring toss booth
like static on an old radio. I shrug it off, probably just wiring, but my gut tightens. The air here smells different. Rot mixed with lingering traces of popcorn and cotton candy. An artificial sweetness gone sour with time. At the end of the midway stands a fortune teller machine, its glass case housing an animatronic gypsy woman. Her painted face is cracked, red lips frozen in an eternal smile. The neon sign above her, Madame Zora knows all, is dark now. But I can imagine how it once buzzed and flickered, drawing in curious teenagers and couples looking for
a laugh. I step closer, oddly drawn to the machine. The glass feels warm beneath my fingertips, warmer than it should be after sitting in the shade all day. I shouldn't have, but I pressed my palm against it just for a second. Rule four flashed in my mind, but I pulled back before I could dwell on it. Never touch the fortune teller machine or anything it produces. Stupid rule. But something about the gypsy's painted eyes makes me uneasy, like they're following me as I back away. By 8:00 p.m., I've completed a full circuit of the park.
The sun has dipped below the horizon, leaving behind a purple twilight that deepens the shadows between rides and buildings. I'm heading back to the office when movement catches my eye. A tall, jagged shadow by the ring toss booth on the midway. I freeze, hand going to Sam's flashlight. Hello. My voice sounds thin in the empty park. No answer. I click on the flashlight, sweeping its beam across the midway. The shadow is gone. Nothing there but peeling paint and empty booths. Tall, jagged, not quite right. I swept Sam's flashlight. Nothing but paint. My gut nodded, but
I told myself, "Seen weirder." Back in the office, I settle in for the long night ahead. I turn on the radio, finding a station playing old Johnny Cash songs. The familiar rumble of his voice fills the small space, pushing back against the silence that seems to press in from outside. I propped my feet on the desk, flipping through a dogeared magazine someone left behind. The radio crackles, cutting out mid song. I adjusted the dial, but it only hissed louder, like it was laughing at me. After a moment, Johnny Cash's voice returns, but something about the
sound quality has changed flatter, more distant. At 9:30 p.m., I hear it for the first time. A whisper so faint I almost mistake it for static on the radio. But it's not coming from the radio. It's coming from outside. From the direction of the midway. Jake. I sit up straight. Magazine forgotten. That was my name. Clear as day. A voice like sand in a throat. Kids maybe. But the park is empty. The gates locked. I'd have seen anyone trying to sneak in. I turn up the radio. Johnny cashes God's Going to Cut You Down. drowning
out whatever I thought I heard. But between verses, it comes again, more insistent. Jake, play. My heart kicks against my ribs. I cross to the window facing the midway, peering out into the darkness. The game booths are just silhouettes now, black cutouts against the night sky. Nothing moves. I slam the window shut, suddenly aware that I'd left it cracked open. The night air feels colder now, carrying a dampness that settles on my skin like sweat. Rule number two, ignore whispers from the game booths. Just the wind, I tell myself, or my imagination, fueled by Earl's
stupid list and the creepiness of being alone in an abandoned park. I've worked in a morg, for Christ's sake. I'm not going to let some weird acoustics get to me, but I check that the office door is locked anyway. A soft scratching sound came from under the door, like something being pushed through. I find a ticket lying on the floor by the office door as if someone slid it underneath. Yellowed with age, but the text is clear. Sunflower Park, one free game. I pick it up, remembering rule number five. Burn any tickets you find. This
is getting ridiculous, but I take out my lighter anyway, a habit left over from when I used to smoke and hold the flame to the corner of the ticket. It catches slowly, the paper curling as the fire spreads. As it burns, a low, hungry moan rises from the midway like something in pain. The shadows by the booths shift, not with the wind, but with purpose, as if the ticket's destruction angered them. Just wind. Get a grip, Jake. I drop the burning ticket into the metal trash can and watch until it's nothing but ash. Midnight arrives
and with it a new development. The overhead bulb begins to flicker more insistently than before. On, off, on, off. Like a visual Morse code I can't decipher. I remember rule number three. Lock the security office if the lights dim. Already done, but I double check the door anyway. As I do, the radio cuts from Johnny Cash to static. A harsh burst of white noise that makes me jump. Then through the static, a child's laugh, high and clear and completely out of place. I cross to the radio and yank the plug from the wall. The laughter
stops, but its echo seems to linger in the small room. This place is messed up. I check my watch. 6 hours down, 6 to go. I can make it to morning. I've survived worse shifts. But as 1:00 a.m. approaches, I begin to doubt that assessment. The silence has returned, heavier than before, broken only by the occasional creek of the building settling. I find myself straining to hear, waiting for whispers that don't come. The anticipation is almost worse than the actual sound. Then, from outside, a new noise, a buzzing electric hum. I look out the window
and see that the neon sign above Madame Zora's fortune teller booth has come to life, casting a sickly red glow across the midway. That's not possible. The power to those attractions was cut years ago, according to Earl. As I watch, the gypsy animatronic inside the booth jerks to life. Her head turns, mechanical movements stuttering until her painted eyes seem to lock directly on mine across the distance. A chill runs down my spine. I should look away. I should step back from the window, but I'm frozen, watching as the machine wors and clicks, and a ticket
emerges from the slot at its base. Even from here, I can see the text printed on it, glowing faintly in the red neon light. Jake Sullivan dies May 18, 2025. Tomorrow's date. I back away from the window, heart hammering. This isn't funny anymore. Someone's messing with me. has to be. Maybe Earl or some local kids who get their kicks scaring the night guards, but deep down I know that's not true. There's something wrong with this park. Something that goes beyond pranks or hazing rituals. I pace the small office, trying to calm down, trying to rationalize
what I've seen. When I pass the window again, I can't help but look out. The fortune teller's booth is dark once more. The neon sign dead, but the ticket is still there. A white rectangle on the ground beneath the machine. I need to burn it. Rule number five is clear. Sam's note burned in my mind. Midway feeds on tickets. That death prediction wasn't just a threat. It was bait. If I didn't destroy it, the park would come for me anyway. Rule one screamed to stay put, but staying safe meant dying later. Before I can think
better of it, I unlock the office door and step outside. The night air hits me like a physical barrier thick with moisture and the smell of decay. I click on Sam's flashlight, its beam cutting a path through the darkness as I approach the midway. Don't step onto the midway after 900 p.m. Rule number one. I hesitate at its edge where the main path meets the row of game booths. The ticket lies just a few yards away by the fortune teller machine. I could reach it in seconds, but something holds me back. An instinct I've been
ignoring all night, now screaming at me to retreat. I take a step forward anyway, crossing the invisible boundary onto the midway. The air changes immediately, becoming colder, heavy with a presence I can't see, but can definitely feel. Three more steps and I'm at the fortune teller booth. The ticket is there just as I saw from the window. The ticket pulsed faintly like a heartbeat. My gut screamed to leave it, but rule five was clear. Burn it. I hesitated, remembering the shadows earlier movement. I bend to pick it up, my fingers brushing against the paper. Never
touch the fortune teller machine or anything it produces. Rule number four, too late. As soon as my skin makes contact with the ticket, I know I've made a terrible mistake. The paper is warm, pulsing like something alive. And behind the glass, Madame Zora's crystal ball begins to glow, casting eerie blue light across her cracked face. Her painted lips part, and a whisper emerges, not from a speaker, but seemingly from the air around me. You touched me. I drop the ticket like it's burned me. Stupid mistake. I back away, but it's too late. The shadows around
the game booths begin to move, not shift with the wind or my flashlight beam. Move. They stretch and twist, detaching from the structures that cast them, becoming tall, thin figures that fray at the edges like smoke. The whispers return, but they're not whispers anymore. They're screams, distant at first, then closer, surrounding me on all sides. I run. My feet pound against the midway's wooden planks as I sprint back toward the office. But the shadows are faster, flowing across the ground like spilled ink. One surges ahead of me, rising up to block my path. I veer
left, then right, but they're everywhere now. Something grabs my ankle, a hand impossibly cold, its touch burning like frostbite through my jeans. I cry out, kicking free, but not before feeling the skin beneath go numb. What the hell are they? I reach the office, slamming the door behind me and turning the lock with shaking hands. For a moment, there's silence. Then it starts a soft scraping against the walls like claws testing the building's strength. I back away from the door, breathing hard, my ankle throbbs where the shadow touched me, the skin there already blistering with
what looks like frostbite. This isn't happening. It can't be happening. I catch my reflection in the window. Face pale, eyes too wide. I blink, trying to reset to find some anchor in reality. I'm losing it. The scraping continues, more insistent now. I shine the flashlight around the office, looking for what? A weapon? An explanation? What I find is a piece of paper tucked under the desk where I wouldn't have seen it during my earlier inspection. I pull it out, unfolding a handwritten note in cramped urgent script. Midway feeds on tickets. Rules keep you alive. It's
signed simply, "Sam." Sam wasn't a guard who quit. Sam was taken. And if I keep breaking the rules, I'm next. I stare at Sam's note until the words blur. Midway feeds on tickets. Rules keep you alive. My hands won't stop shaking. Outside, the scraping continues like fingernails testing the walls for weakness. I should call someone. Earl, maybe, or the police. But what would I say? Hello, officer. The abandoned amusement park is haunted. Shadow creatures tried to grab me. Oh, and a fortune teller machine predicted my death. Right. Straight to the psych ward. My phone shows
no service anyway. Of course, the scratching stops abruptly. The silence that follows is worse expectant, like the pause between lightning and thunder. I press my ear against the door, listening. Nothing. Just the hollow echo of wind through empty rides. I check my watch. 1:27 a.m. 4 and 1/2 hours until dawn. My ankle throbs where the shadow touched me. I roll up my jeans to examine the damage. The skin is discolored, modeled with patches of white and blue frostbite, just as I feared. I've never seen it develop so quickly. I flex my foot, wincing. Still functional,
at least. I need to think to understand what's happening. The rules, they're not arbitrary. They're survival instructions. I take out Earl's crumpled list, smoothing it against the desk. I've broken three of them already. Stepped onto the midway after hours. Listen to the whispers. Touch the fortune teller's ticket. Only one thing to do now. Follow the remaining rules religiously and pray I make it to morning. I check the office door again, locked tight, windows secure. The overhead bulb still flickers occasionally, but not like before. I settle into the desk chair, Sam's flashlight clutched in my hand
like a talisman. The silence stretches, broken only by the building's occasional creek. My eyelids grow heavy. Exhaustion hits me like a wave, but I know sleep meant death. I slap my face, pace the small office, and turn up the radio to stay awake. Johnny Cash's grally voice fills the room, keeping the silence at bay. At 2:15 a.m., the whispers return. Jake, not from outside this time, from the Pac-Man machine in the corner. Its screen remains dark, but the cabinet vibrates slightly, humming with energy it shouldn't possess. Jake, play with us. I press my hands over
my ears. Not real, I mutter. Not listening. Rule number two, ignore whispers from the game booths. Applies to arcade machines, too, I decide. The whispers grow more insistent, multiplying into a chorus of raspy voices. They know things they shouldn't. My full name, my hometown, the tech company that laid me off, my mother's name. She's waiting for your call, Jake. She's worried. I want to scream at them to stop, but rule two is clear. Ignore the whispers. I press my palms harder against my ears, muttering, not listening, not playing to drown them out. The voices laugh.
A sound like dry leaves skittering across pavement. A faint scratching echoes from the door like paper sliding. I check, but nothing's there yet. The park's testing me. I can feel it. I exhale shakily, lowering my hands. The silence returns, but it feels temporary, like the park is merely gathering its strength. During my earlier patrol, I'd found a faded brochure tucked between boards on one of the game booths. It had fallen to the ground when I'd tapped the wood, testing its stability. The brochure celebrated Sunflower Park's grand opening on May 18th, 1985, featuring a woman named
Elizabeth, who was described as the park's resident fortune teller and visionary. The coincidence with tomorrow's date had seemed unremarkable then. Now it feels ominous. At 3:00 a.m., I hear a soft thud against the office door, then another. I approach cautiously, flashlight raised. Through the small window in the door, I see nothing but darkness. Another thud. Something's being pushed under the door. Tickets. A dozen at first, then more. Sliding under the door like pale insects. Each one a sunflower park. One free game. The scratching I'd heard earlier was just the start. I'm not entirely surprised. When
I burned the first ticket earlier, a faint rustling had echoed from the midway, like papers being shuffled. I'd ignored it then, but now I understand it was more tickets being born. Rule number five, burn any tickets you find. I grab my lighter, hands trembling so badly I can barely flick the flame to life. I burn them one by one, watching as they curl and blacken. With each ticket consumed, a distant whale rises from the midway pain or rage, I can't tell. The last ticket burns, and the wailing stops. The air feels lighter somehow, as if
a pressure has been lifted. I slump against the wall, exhausted. That's when I noticed the radio. When I'd unplugged it earlier, it had hissed one last time, its glow fading, but never quite dying out, like it was still breathing. Now that glow has returned, stronger than before. Static hisses from its speakers, soft at first, then louder. Through the white noise, a voice emerges. Not a whisper this time, but clear and childlike. You're breaking the rules, Jake Sullivan. I stare at the radio, frozen. Sam broke the rules, too. Sam played with us. Now Sam stays forever.
My mouth goes dry. What are you? The static crackles almost like laughter. We are the midway. We are the games. We are hungry. Jake Sullivan. What do you want to play? The voice distorts, deepening into something no longer childlike. Everyone plays eventually. The radio goes silent. The dials glow fades, but not completely maintaining that eerie half-life I'd noticed before. I check my watch again. 3:42 a.m. The night stretches endlessly before me. To distract myself, I search the office more thoroughly. The filing cabinet yields nothing but old maintenance records and employee time sheets. The desk drawers
contain pens, paper clips, a half empty pack of gum hardened with age. In the bottom drawer, I find a photo. It shows a younger Earl standing proudly in front of Sunflower Park's entrance. The park looks new, vibrant with color and life. Beside Earl stands a woman in a fortune teller's costume, her smile tight and uncomfortable. I recognize her from the brochure, Elizabeth, the park's visionary. Behind them, a banner reads, "Grand opening, May 18th, 1985. May 18th, tomorrow's date. The date on my death prediction. The date from the brochure I'd found earlier. The coincidence sends a
chill through me." I flip the photo over, written on the back in faded ink. Elizabeth's vision comes true. The park opens. Elizabeth, the fortune teller from the brochure. What vision had she had? And why did it involve this cursed place? I'm piecing together a theory when the overhead bulb begins to flicker violently. On, off, on, off, faster than before. I don't hesitate. Rule three says lock up. So, I slam the deadbolt shut and barricade the door with a chair. Seconds later, darkness descends as the bulb blows with a soft pop. In the sudden darkness, the
office feels smaller, more vulnerable. I click on Sam's flashlight, its beam cutting through the blackness. That's when I see them. Shadows seeping under the door like dark water pooling on the floor. They move with purpose, forming shapes that are almost human, but wrong too tall, too thin, limbs at impossible angles. I back away until I hit the desk. The shadows pause, then surge toward me. No. I swing the flashlight like a weapon. Its beam passes through the shadows, dispersing them momentarily before they reform. The temperature plummets. My breath clouds in front of me. The shadows
reach out with elongated fingers, grasping. I scramble onto the desk, knocking over the chipped mug. It shatters on the floor. The shadows recoil from the noise, then advance again, more cautiously. They whisper as they come, a sound like wind through dead leaves. But within the whispers, I hear words. You left them. My stomach drops. They know. Somehow they know about my family, about how I abandoned them when things got tough. You promised to help. My mother's voice now, perfect in its disappointed tone. The shadows know exactly where to press, which wounds to reopen. You ran
away, Jake. Stop it, I growl. But my voice breaks because they're right. I did run. When dad got sick and the bills piled up when mom needed me most, I made excuses, stopped answering calls, pretended I was too busy with my own problems. The shadows reached the desk, cold fingers brushing against my jeans. The frostbitten skin on my ankle screams in pain as they touch it, the cold intensifying. In desperation, I swing the flashlight again, aiming directly at the densest part of the shadow mass. To my surprise, it retreats, hissing like steam. Light. They don't
like light. I sweep the beam across the floor, pushing the shadows back toward the door. They resist, but wherever the light touches, they thin and disperse. Get out, I shout, voice stronger now. Get out. The shadows withdraw reluctantly, sliding back under the door like reluctant tide. The temperature rises gradually. I remain on the desk, flashlight aimed at the door until I'm certain they're gone. My hands shake as I lower the flashlight. That was too close. I check my watch. 4:17 a.m. Less than 2 hours until dawn. I can make it. I have to. But as
I climb down from the desk, a new sound reaches me. A mechanical worring from outside, followed by music. Carnival music, tiny and distorted, like it's being played through ancient speakers. I approach the window cautiously. Outside, the midway has come alive. Lights blaze from every booth, though they shouldn't have power. The carousel spins, empty horses rising and falling to the warped melody. And at the center of it all, Madame Zora's fortune teller booth glows brightest, its neon sign pulsing like a heartbeat. The park is fully awake now, and it's hungry. I watch transfixed as shadows dance
between the booths, not formless masses like the ones that invaded the office, but silhouettes of people. Park visitors from decades past, perhaps, or something merely wearing their shapes. They move toward the fortune teller booth, each dropping something into the slot. Tickets. With each offering, the neon glows brighter, and Madame Zora's mechanical laugh echoes across the midway. Understanding dawn, cold and certain. The fortune teller is the heart of whatever haunts this place. It feeds on the tickets, on the promises of one free game that are never truly free. Sam's note makes sense now. Midway feeds on
tickets. The park sustains itself on false promises, on games rigged to ensure you always come back for more. And I've been feeding it since I arrived. The realization is like ice water in my veins. The ticket I touched, the one predicting my death. It wasn't just a prediction, it was a claim. The park has marked me, and tomorrow it intends to collect unless I can break the cycle. I look at Sam's flashlight in my hand, then back at the glowing midway. Light hurts them, and fire. Fire destroys the tickets, weakens whatever power they hold. A
plan forms, desperate and probably suicidal, but better than waiting for dawn and hoping the shadows don't return stronger. I need to destroy the fortune teller. I gather what I can find. My lighter, a can of furniture polish from under the sink that might serve as makeshift accelerant. Sam's flashlight. Not much of an arsenal, but it will have to do. Before I can talk myself out of it, I unlock the office door and step outside. The night air hits me like a physical wall, heavy with the smell of decay and something else. Anticipation. The midway beckons,
bright and terrible in its false cheer. The shadows notice me immediately, their dance faltering. They turn as one, empty faces regarding me with hungry interest. I grip Sam's flashlight tighter and take my first step toward the midway, breaking rule number one for the second time tonight. Whatever happens next, I won't go quietly. Not like Sam. The park has been playing with me all night. Now it's my turn to play back. As I approach the midway, I think about Elizabeth, the fortune teller from the photo and brochure. Had she known what this place would become? Was
her vision a warning or a blueprint? and Earl. How much did he know about what happened here after dark? The questions swirl in my mind, but answers will have to wait. Right now, survival is all that matters. The fortune teller booth glows ahead. Madame Zora's painted eyes seeming to track my approach. Her mechanical arm raises, beckoning. I tighten my grip on Sam's flashlight and the can of furniture polish. The shadows part before me, curious rather than threatening for now. They're watching, waiting to see what I'll do. What I'll do is burn this place to the
ground, starting with Madame Zora and her endless supply of death predictions. The midway boards cak beneath my feet as I advance. Each step feels like crossing a threshold I can never return from, but I've already crossed too many tonight to turn back now. The fortune teller's neon sign buzzes overhead, casting everything in a sickly red glow. Madame Zora knows all, it proclaims. Maybe she does, but knowledge isn't the same as power. And tonight, I intend to take back some power of my own. I'm their meal. The thought hits me with brutal clarity as I step
onto the midway. Rule one had nearly killed me, but Sam's note was clear. Midway feeds on tickets. The fortune teller was the source, and waiting for dawn wouldn't stop it. It had marked me. I had to end this now, or I'd never leave ahead of me. The carnival booths glow with impossible light ring toss, balloon darts, milk bottles, games designed to separate customers from their money with the promise of prizes that were never worth the effort. Now I understand they were designed for something far worse. The shadow figures pause their macob dance, turning toward me
like predators scenting fresh blood. They don't move immediately. And I wonder if they're surprised by my boldness or simply savoring the moment. Their forms flicker and stretch, human-shaped but wrong, too tall, limbs too angular, fingers extending like smoke. You want to play? My voice sounds thin in the heavy air. Let's play. I sweep Sam's flashlight across them, creating a path. The beam cuts through their substance, making them recoil and hiss. A sound like radioatic mixed with distant screams. The beam was strong, but it flickered slightly, like the batteries were old. I made a mental note
to grab spares from my car later. The shadows part reluctantly, reforming behind me as I pass. The fortune teller booth stands 50 yards ahead, its garish neon casting everything in sickly red. Madame Zora's animatronic form moves jerkily behind the glass, her mechanical head turning to track my approach. The crystal ball before her pulses with blue light, casting eerie shadows across her painted face. I grip my makeshift weapons tighter. The can of furniture polish feels pathetically inadequate now that I'm out here, but it's all I have. that Sam's flashlight and a desperate plan born of fear
and exhaustion. A whisper brushes past my ear. Jake, stay and play. I ignore it, focusing on my destination. 20 yards now. The shadows are closing in, their cold presence raising goosebumps on my skin. Something catches my ankle, an icy grip that burns like liquid nitrogen. I cry out, kicking free, but not before feeling the skin blister with instant frostbite. I stumble, nearly falling, and swing the flashlight in a wide arc that momentarily disperses the closest shadows. "Back off!" I shout, more from pain than courage. "10 yard!" The fortune teller's booth looms before me. Madame Zora's
painted smile, mocking my efforts. Her mechanical arm raises, pointing directly at me. Your fortune awaits, Jake Sullivan. Her voice crackles from ancient speakers. One free game. The ticket slot below the glass case glows, inviting. I can see tickets piled inside. Dozens, maybe hundreds, yellowed with age, but still radiating a strange energy. I can feel even from here. 5 yards. Almost there. A shadow lunges faster than the others. I dodge, but not quickly enough. Icy fingers rake across my back, tearing through my jacket and shirt. The cold burns deep, like claws of frost carving into my
flesh. I scream, more from shock than pain. The cold is so intense it shortcircuits normal pain responses. I stumble forward, falling against the fortune teller's booth. The glass is warm beneath my palms, unnaturally so, pulsing like something alive. Madame Zora's eyes, glass beads that should be lifeless, seem to gleam with malicious intelligence. "You broke the rules, Jake Sullivan," she says, her mechanical voice distorting. "Now you must pay." "I don't think so," I gasp, fumbling with the can of furniture polish. My fingers are clumsy with cold and fear, but I managed to direct the nozzle toward
the ticket slot. I spray, soaking the pile of tickets inside, then flick my lighter. For a terrible moment, nothing happens. The flame waivers in the breeze, threatening to go out. Then the accelerant catches and fire blooms inside the fortune teller's booth. The flame flickered, briefly, turning an unnatural shade of blue before consuming the tickets. The shadows wailed, but for a moment, they seemed to grow stronger. The reaction is immediate and violent. Madame Zora's mechanical body jerks and spasms as flames engulf the tickets. Her recorded laugh distorts into a scream that sounds far too human. The
crystal balls light flares blindingly bright, then shatters with a sound like breaking ice. Around me, the shadow figures wythe and shriek, their forms stretching and contorting in apparent agony. The temperature drops further, my breath clouding heavily before me. They're fighting back, trying to extinguish the flames with their cold. I empty the can into the growing fire, then back away as the flames spread to the booth's wooden frame. The dry, aged wood catches quickly, sending sparks into the night air. The heat pushes back the shadows, creating a circle of warmth around me. For a moment, I
think I've won. The fortune teller booth is fully engulfed now. Madame Zora's form blackening within her glass case. The shadows retreat further, their screams fading. Then I see it. A ticket untouched by the flames floating out from the burning booth. It drifts on heat currents landing at my feet. My death prediction somehow preserved. Jake Sullivan dies May 18, 2025. Before I can react, the shadows surge forward with renewed purpose. They no longer fear the fire. They're feeding on it, growing stronger as the booth burns. The flames turn an unnatural blue, then purple, consuming the wood,
but leaving the mechanical fortune teller intact within her melting glass case. I've made a terrible mistake. The fire isn't destroying the park's power. It's releasing it. Madame Zora's head turns toward me, her painted features bubbling and running in the heat, reforming into something no longer human. Her mouth opens wider than physically possible, revealing rows of teeth that no animatronic should possess. "You cannot destroy us, Jake Sullivan." Her voice booms, no longer mechanical, but deep and resonant, shaking the ground beneath my feet. We are the midway. We are eternal. The shadows converge, forming a wall of
darkness that cuts off my retreat. I spin in a circle, looking for any escape route. There is none. They've surrounded me completely. In desperation, I grab the death prediction ticket and flick my lighter again. The paper catches, burning bright in my fingers. I hold it up like a talisman. You want to feed? I shout. Feed on this. The burning ticket flares with sudden blinding intensity. The shadows recoil, their screams rising to a pitch that makes my ears ring. Madame Zora's inhuman face contorts with what might be pain or rage. I drop the burning ticket as
it sears my fingers. It doesn't fall. It hovers, suspended in midair, burning without being consumed. The flames spread outward in a perfect circle, creating a barrier between me and the shadows. An opening appears in their ranks. Without hesitation, I run for it, sprinting back toward the security office. Behind me, the fortune teller booth collapses in a shower of sparks and twisted metal. Madame Zora's scream follows me, a sound of ancient fury that chills my blood despite the heat of the flames. I reach the office, slamming the door behind me and turning the lock. For a
moment, there's silence. Then the walls begin to shake. The floor trembles, cracks spider webbing from the center, like something's clawing up. I'd heard faint rustling before, like tickets moving underground. It starts as a tremor, barely perceptible. then grows, rattling the windows in their frames. The filing cabinet topples with a crash. Cracks appear in the ceiling, raining dust and plaster. The concrete floor beneath my feet vibrates with increasing intensity. The park is fighting back. I brace myself in the doorway, the safest place during an earthquake, if that's what this is. But I know it's not natural.
The park is trying to tear down the office to get to me. The shaking intensifies. A chunk of ceiling crashes down, narrowly missing me. The windows shatter inward, sending glass shards flying across the room. Cold air rushes in, carrying the scent of smoke and something else. Rot, decay, the smell of graves disturbed. Through the broken windows, I see the midway transforming. The game booths twist and warp. Wood splintering as they reshape themselves into grotesque parodies of their former structures. The carousel horses break free of their poles, animated by invisible forces, their painted eyes now glowing
with malevolent light. The entire park is coming alive, becoming a single organism bent on my destruction. I check my watch. 4:45 a.m. Just over an hour until dawn, if I can hold out that long. A new sound cuts through the chaos. A low, rhythmic thumping, like a massive heartbeat. It's coming from beneath the floor. The cracks in the concrete widen with each pulse, revealing darkness below. Not just darkness, movement. Something is down there, trying to get in. I back away from the spreading cracks, bumping into the desk. Sam's flashlight rolls across its surface. I grab
it, finding comfort in its solid weight. The shadows weren't just shapes. They had texture, like paper being crumpled. I'd seen faint outlines of tickets mixed in earlier, as if they were made of them. Now, as the cracks I'd seen split wide, concrete shattering as a hand emerges, not shadow, but solid, made of tickets. Their rustling from earlier was them forming below, now breaking free. From the darkness below emerges a hand, not shadow this time, but something solid, though wrong. The fingers are too long, joints bending in impossible directions. The skin, if it can be called
that, has the texture of ancient paper, yellowed and crackling with each movement. A ticket. It's made of tickets. Hundreds, thousands of them fused together to form a grotesque approximation of human shape. More emerge behind it. An army of ticket creatures, their paper bodies rustling as they pull themselves up through the broken floor. Their faces are blank except for crude features pressed into the paper. Empty eye sockets, gaping mouths. I swing the flashlight connecting with the nearest one. It makes a sound like tearing cardboard as the impact sends tickets scattering, but it reforms almost immediately, tickets
swirling back into place. They advance slowly, backing me into a corner. I keep swinging, fighting with desperate energy born of pure survival instinct. Each blow disperses them temporarily, but they always reform. "What do you want?" I shout, voice breaking. One steps forward, taller than the others, its paper face more defined. When it speaks, I recognize the voice from the radio. "We want you, Jake Sullivan. Your guilt, your fear, your life. Why me? You broke the rules." Its head tilts at an unnatural angle, but mostly you were here available. Alone. Wrong place. Wrong time. Story of
my life. Sam broke the rules too. I say, stalling for time, searching for any weakness. What happened to him? The ticket creature's mouth stretches in what might be a smile. Sam plays with us now forever. It gestures and the mass of tickets forming its chest parts revealing something inside. A badge. Sam's badge embedded in the creature's paper body like a grotesque trophy. Rage burns through my fear. You killed him. We played with him. It corrects as we'll play with you. They close in further. My back hits the wall. Nowhere left to retreat. Then I notice
something. A faint lightning of the sky through the broken windows. Pre-dawn, still an hour from true sunrise, but the darkness is no longer absolute. The ticket creatures notice it, too. They become more agitated, their paper bodies rustling loudly as they press forward with increased urgency. They're afraid of the light. I need to survive until dawn, just 1 hour. I swing the flashlight in wide arcs, creating space. You're running out of time, I taunt. Sun's coming up. The lead creature hisses. Plenty of time to add you to our collection. It lunges faster than I can react.
Paper hands grab my throat, surprisingly strong. The touch burns, not with cold this time, but with a dry heat that sears my skin. I choke, struggling to break its grip. The flashlight flickers, beam dying. I curse, remembering its weak pulse earlier, and swing it like a club instead. It connects with the creature's head, sending tickets flying. The beam sputters back to life momentarily, then fades again. Sam's flashlight falls from my hand, rolling across the floor. The beam catches the lead creature full in the face. It shrieks, releasing me as its paper features begin to smoke.
I dive for the flashlight, grabbing it and aiming directly at my attacker. Where the beam touches, tickets blacken and curl. The creature backs away, its blank face somehow conveying pain. A weapon? I have a weapon. I sweep the beam across the advancing horde. They retreat, hissing and rustling. I press my advantage, moving away from the wall, forcing them back toward the hole in the floor. Not so tough in the light, are you? My voice is hoaro from the creature's grip, but stronger now with renewed hope. The sky continues to lighten outside. The ticket creatures become
more desperate, their movements jerky and erratic. They try to circle behind me to attack from multiple angles, but I keep turning, keeping them all in front of me. The flashlight beam my only defense. One breaks ranks, rushing me from the side. I swing the flashlight like a club, connecting solidly. It explodes in a shower of tickets that flutter to the ground. They don't reform this time. The beam has weakened them too much. I can win this. The thought has barely formed when the flashlight flickers again. The beam waivers, dimming. I shake it, desperate. The light
steadies momentarily, then dims again. The batteries are failing. The ticket creatures sense my predicament. They edge closer, their paper bodies making that terrible rustling sound. The lead creature's face stretches in that not smile again. Your light dies, it says. Then you. The flashlight dims further, the beam now barely visible. The creatures press forward, emboldened. I back up until I hit the desk again. My hand brushes against something, the lighter. I grab it, flicking it to life. The small flame seems pathetically inadequate compared to the flashlight, but it's something. An idea forms, desperate, probably suicidal, but
my only option. I grab papers from the desk, crumpling them, and touch the flame to them. They catch quickly, creating a larger fire. I add more. The old magazines, employee files from the cabinet, anything that will burn. The flames grow, spreading across the desk. Smoke fills the room, making me cough, but the ticket creatures retreat from the growing fire. They fear it as much as the light. Outside, the sky continues to lighten. 20 minutes to sunrise, maybe less. I feed the fire with everything I can find, creating a barrier between me and the creatures. The
heat is intense. sweat pouring down my face, but I welcome it after the cold touch of the shadows. The lead creature watches me from beyond the flames, its blank face somehow conveying hatred. This changes nothing, it says. The park will have you. If not today, then tomorrow or the next day. We are patient. I'm not coming back. I say through gritted teeth. You will. Its voice is certain. They always do. The fire spreads to the walls now, consuming the old wood paneling. I should be worried. I'm trapped in a burning building, but the flames feel
like allies compared to the ticket creatures. They begin to withdraw, sinking back into the hole in the floor. The lead creature is the last to go, its blank face turned toward me in silent promise. See you soon, Jake Sullivan. Then it's gone, leaving only scattered tickets that curl and blacken in the growing heat. The office is fully ablaze now. Smoke fills my lungs, making it hard to breathe. I need to get out, but the door is on the other side of the inferno. The windows. They're already broken. My escape route. I wrap my arm in
my jacket and clear the remaining glass from a window frame. Outside, the sky is definitely lighter, deep blue rather than black. The midway has returned to its decrepit state. Game booths sagging and empty. No sign of the animated carousel horses or the twisted structures from earlier. The fortune teller booth is a charred ruin. Madame Zora's mechanical form, a blackened skeleton within melted glass. I climb through the window, cutting my hand on a shard of glass I missed. The pain is sharp but clean. Real pain, not the supernatural cold of the shadows or the burning touch
of the ticket creatures. I stumble away from the burning office, expecting at any moment to feel paper hands grabbing me or icy shadows enveloping me, but nothing comes. The park is quiet except for the crackling of flames. I reach the main path and keep going, not looking back. The entrance gates loom ahead, padlocked but easily climbed in my desperate state. I scale them awkwardly, wincing as my injured hand and frostbitten ankle protest. On the other side, I finally turned to look back at Sunflower Park. The security office is fully engulfed now, flames reaching into the
lightning sky. Beyond it, the midway sits in eerie stillness. Game booths like sentinels watching my escape. For a moment, I swear I see figures moving between them. Tall, thin shadows that pause to watch me. But as the first true rays of sunlight break over the horizon, they vanish like morning mist. I make it to my car, hands shaking so badly I can barely get the key in the ignition. As the engine rumbles to life, I glance at the clock on the dashboard. 5:55 a.m. 5 minutes to the end of my shift. I survived, but the
fortune teller's prediction echoes in my mind. Jake Sullivan dies May 18th, 2025. Today, the day has just begun. I pull out my phone. Service has returned now that I'm away from the park. I should call someone. The fire department at least, though the blaze seems contained to the office. Earl to tell him I'm done, though that seems inadequate given what happened. Instead, I find myself calling a number I've been avoiding for months. Jake. My mother's voice thick with sleep, but instantly alert. Is everything okay? It's so early. Hey, Mom. I say, voice cracking. I'm sorry
for everything. For not being there when dad got sick. For running away. Silence on the line then. Jake, what's happened? Are you hurt? I'm okay. I lie, looking down at my frost bitten ankle, my burned and cut hand. I just I needed to tell you that that I'm sorry and I'm coming home today. Of course, she says, relief evident in her voice. You know, you're always welcome home. After we hang up, I sit in the car, watching the sun rise fully over Sunflower Park. The flames have died down. The security office now just smoldering ruins.
In the daylight, the park looks pathetic rather than menacing. Just another failed business rotting away in rural Kansas. But I know better. I know what waits in the shadows between the game booths. What hungers behind the fortune teller's painted smile. I put the car in drive and pull away. In the rear view mirror, I see a figure standing by the entrance gates. Earl arrived for the morning shift change. He watches my departure, face unreadable at this distance. I should stop, explain what happened. Instead, I pressed the accelerator harder. The midway was gone, and I didn't
look back.
