A Jesterly Welcome

20260509

Written for Bradley Ramsey’s “Halls Of Pandemonium”, Day 9.

I always scoffed at stories which start with people stranded in the middle of nowhere without shelter or phone signal. Figured if you’d gotten yourself into such a contrived problem you deserved whatever happened to you.
If there’s someone up there laughing at me, I’m sorry! I’ve learned my lesson! I take it all back!
The storm bullies my little emergency umbrella. Normally I’d have stayed in my car, but with it stuck in rising water, on foot was my only option. I swear that sign said village in six miles, surely I should be almost there…
Another sign looms out of the gloom, and I lift my phone, squinting at the faded words.
I’m pretty sure the first bit, which is painted over, says “CLOSED”. Next is “No Trespassing!” Underneath these authoritative words, much fresher ones have been hand-painted in a lopsided, desperately-trying-to-be-whimsical fashion: “Knock first! That’s what friends do!!”
Past the sign is an open wire gate. Beyond that… an old-fashioned carnival.
Oh no. No, no, no. I’ll just backtrack. I clearly took a wrong turn, I can un-take it. And even if I can’t, I’d rather die in a ditch of hypothermia than-
With a grinding, clunking whirr the place springs to life. Lights. Tinny music. And a figure cavorting down the path towards me, huge grin visible even through the distance and rain. Definitely a serial killer. Nobody else would cavort unironically.
Much as I want to whip around and run for it, my body’s sluggish. I barely start turning before the killer has my elbow.
“Welcome, welcome!” They trill in a carny barker friendly facade. “Good weather for ducks, eh??”
Ok. I was already wondering - with the part of my mind which is apparently detached from concerns like my imminent horrible demise - what kind of serial killer would dress up as a jester. One who likes bad jokes.
Someone up there is definitely laughing at me.
“Might I suggest the refreshments tent to start with? Lovely and warm!” They’re dragging me into the carnival, with remarkable strength given they’re a head shorter than me. “Ooh, and we have ponchos at the entry desk! Very reasonable prices!!”
Is this a situation where you play along and pray for mercy? Or would that just feed the sicko’s power trip?
“Here we are!” I’m spun around, adding to the panic dizziness, to face a display stand of plastic ponchos which are probably older than me. “What’s your favourite colour???”
“Ahhhk…”
Is this a trap? Gotta be, right? Twisted mind game shit.
“Come on, don’t be shy!”
I turn my head to peer at the killer. Now that we’re under all these bright lights… they’re even creepier than I’d braced for. Limbs too long and gangly for their stocky body, huge demented smile which looks like it was sculpted from plastic yet that’s definitely their face. Their eyes don’t seem to have irises. Hella dilated? Creepy serial-killer contact lenses?? Talk about dedicated…
“Just can’t choose?” They pat my shoulder. Though the smile doesn’t change, their lips barely moving when they speak, the rest of the face manages to turn the expression sympathetic. “Well, the black one would go with your outfit. And there’s lots of them!”
Their voice drops to a conspiratorial undertone. “Not hip with the kids, you know?”
Oh god what does black mean they’re going to do to me??
“…Tell you what. Since the black ones are so unpopular, and this is your first visit, and we really appreciate you coming so far in this weather, you can have one on the house!” They pluck the little packet and deftly unfold it.
Before I can blink I’m encased in musty plastic and the killer is dragging me along by the elbow again. The fucker’s skipping. And yet they still manage to pull me along like Uncle Bernie’s mastiff did when I was small.
Huh. While I could do without the degraded, mouldy smell, this poncho is pretty waterproof, and I’m already feeling warmer for being shielded from the wind. Maybe I looked too pathetic to go straight to torturing.
“Here we are!!”
The food tent, like the entry stand, is long-abandoned yet weirdly untouched. I’m pushed into a seat next to a thankfully functional heater.
“Now, uh, I think some of the stuff in the freezer’s still edible…” They wring their velvet hands, the face around their unwavering grin somewhat sheepish. “I know no visit to the carnival’s complete without a hot dog, so…”
“I, I’m fine.” I force out. No way I want to eat anything this freak’s touched, even without that worrying remark!
“Ah, ate before you came!” They beam. Relaxing? “Savvy! I see you’re an experienced park-goer, eh?? So, what would you like to do first?”
“Uhhh…” I should probably play along. But I can’t. This is too fucking weird. “P-please, don’t kill me!”
“Wow. Rude.” Their grin is now paired with disapproving furrowed brows. “I’ll have you know the rides get a safety inspection every day. Our guest’s wellbeing is our top priority!”
“I’ll do whatever you want, just please don’t kill me!”
Their brows furrow further. They’re now squinting. “What kind of parks have you been going to??”
“Ones not run by serial killers!”
“Then where’s all this stuff about-”
“Oh come on!” My nerves burst out in unwise anger. “I’m not stupid! We’re in the middle of nowhere, this place is clearly deserted, and you’re dressed like a jester!”
“Well… yeah.” They scratch their jingling hat. “It’s a carnival. Doesn’t that call for a jester?”
“...No??”
“But…” They point to the menu. Which is adorned with eerily familiar jesters. Right down to the cartoony proportions and grotesquely exaggerated grin.
My mind goes blank. This is just too weird.
They stare at me. They sigh. Their hat wilts. Like it’s actually limbs. “Maybe we should go to the central office? And… try and call your parents?”
“Please.” I manage, and don’t resist as whatever this thing is takes my arm again.

Prompt was “Write a piece that incorporates these three elements: An old carnival, a jester, a no trespassing sign”.