The Game at Carousel: Book Four Stubs July 17th (Arc II Chapters 1- 85)

"You're here?" I asked, but it was more of an accusation. My heart was beating, my muscles tensed.

I was standing. I wasn’t lying on the ground bleeding out anymore. I wasn’t gored by the claws of a wolf.

I was wearing my cardigan again. Jeans. I was me.

What a disappointment—to die after exerting every ounce of my will, to finally be done, only to be reminded that this was all a sick game.

Silas, the mechanical showman, stood about fifteen feet away, the front of his box pointed directly at me in the clearing.

There were no wolves. Kimberly was gone. Sarah—or Serena, whatever her name was—was gone too.

It was just me and Silas. The expressionless puppet.

Suddenly, I remembered our time in the forest so long ago, when he appeared to me, offering me my prize.

And when I pressed the button, I sealed my fate: acquiring Bad Luck Magnet and beginning my hundred years of torment.

Of nothing.

Of hunger.

Of sleeplessness.

Of that little dribble of hope that somehow tricked me into believing that if I just walked a little further, I would make it out of the forest.

He looked at me blankly—because that was the only way he could look at you. His paint was chipped, and his lights crackled like they were ready to burst, ready to dim. He didn’t care whether you were gaining your aspect or being punished for the bad luck of being alone in the forest when a scapegoat was needed.

And I knew I couldn’t escape him. I had to press the button because this was a game. That was the truth.

I felt sick to my stomach. I was sweating. How long did I stand there, staring at him?

Who came and decided that I had to have this reaction? That this had to be me? That I had to stare at some little carnival machine and wonder if I was going to spend another hundred years in purgatory?

And I would have to stand there staring until I pressed that button. That red button that could ruin your life—and had ruined mine more than once.

As I walked toward Silas, I listened to see if the wolf inside was still there. He wasn’t.

I had killed his master, and I was now alone.

"Congratulations, you’ve won a ticket," Silas said again in his eerie mechanical voice that somehow sounded so intentional, so sarcastic—even though it was a recording, played every time he showed up.

I had no choice. I pressed the button.

He started reciting a poem—the same one he had when Kimberly had gotten her aspect. He was slow and deliberate.

“You can pick one from three, what will it be?

No matter the choice, no room to rejoice.

All three can save your skin or tear it off again,

The question remains, you must choose your pains,

In this game of dread, you can choose well and still be dead.”

Silas, the Mechanical Showman, laughed—just like he was programmed to.

He ejected a small ticket. I grabbed it quickly and read it.

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