Circus of the Grotesques
CHAPTER ONE
The Posters Arrive Out of Nowhere
On the morning it began, Ballykillduff woke to an extra kind of silence. It was not the silence before rain or the gentle hush that follows a snowfall. This silence was a listening sort, as if the whole village were holding its breath and waiting for something it could not quite name.
The first to notice anything odd was a sheep.
She was an elderly ewe with an offended look on her face and a habit of wandering off. She was doing exactly that, stomping down the lane toward the bridge and muttering in a sheepish sort of way, when a sudden gust of wind slapped a sheet of paper against her wool. It stuck there and fluttered like a rectangular tail.
The sheep stopped, blinked, and decided that this was one indignity too many. She shook herself. The paper stayed put. So Ballykillduff began its day with a very grumpy sheep wearing a poster like a cape.
No one questioned this at first. Ballykillduff was that kind of place.
Bridget O’Toole was the next person to notice. She came out of McGroggan’s shop with a bag of flour and a packet of teabags, hoping for a quiet walk home. That was her usual plan and it rarely worked. Today it failed before she reached the step.
She stopped, staring at the shop noticeboard. It was usually covered with lost dog notices, offers to teach the tin whistle, and the eternal brown flyer for Yoga with Maureen. Today, every scrap of it was gone.
In its place hung a single enormous poster, fresh enough that the edges curled slightly. Printed in deep black and shimmering pearl that shifted like the inside of a seashell, the poster read:
CIRCUS OF THE GROTESQUES
It Will Change Your Life Forever
Bridget read it twice, then again, to be sure it still said what she thought it said.
“Grotesques,” she murmured. “That cannot be good.”
“Depends how you mean good,” said Jimmy McGroggan behind her.
She jumped, spilling a little flour.
Jimmy squinted at the poster. “If I had made that, I would have used better paper.”
“Did you make it?” Bridget asked sharply.
“Certainly not. If I had, I would have signed my name and added a diagram,” Jimmy huffed. “Besides, the ink is strange. Smell it.”
“I am not smelling a poster,” Bridget said.
Jimmy leaned in and inhaled. “It smells like the first page of a book you have not opened before, and also slightly of matches.”
Before she could reply, Patrick Byrne barreled between them and skidded to a halt in front of the board.
“Did you see the sheep?” he cried.
“What about the sheep?” Bridget asked.
“She is wearing one of these things.” He pointed. “Walked right past our gate like a circus queen.”
By ten o’clock, the entire village knew. The posters had appeared everywhere, tucked behind sugar bowls, pinned to lampposts, and even inside coat pockets.
People gathered to gossip. Seamus Fitzgerald insisted it was a prank. Jimmy declared the paper far too unusual for a prank. Mrs Prendergast discovered a poster inside her kitchen and placed it on her bread bin so she could keep an eye on it.
Patrick asked every grown up the same question.
“Do you think it is real? The part about changing your life?”
Most dismissed him, but none of them felt entirely sure.
By late afternoon, the wind caught the posters and made them flap and whisper across gardens and lanes. A few villagers claimed they heard faint words when the breeze turned just right. Circus. Grotesques. Change your life.
Bridget stood at her washing line and shivered when she heard it too.
Children poured out of school and raced straight to the posters, delighted and terrified at the same time. The sheep trotted by, still wearing its cape, and received a small round of applause from the younger ones. It did not appreciate the attention.
By evening, Ballykillduff had reached full gossip saturation. Older residents compared it to the winter of eighty two, when the milk froze in the bottles. Younger villagers crept around peering into corners in case acrobats were lurking there.
Patrick sat up in bed and stared at the poster on his wall. It seemed to glow faintly in the lamplight.
“They will come,” he whispered.
Somewhere outside, the wind changed direction, and all across the village every poster rustled at the exact same moment.
The next morning, without a single person seeing so much as a rope or a hammer, a gigantic striped tent stood in the meadow by the bridge.
And the real story began.
CHAPTER TWO
The Tent Nobody Saw Arrive
Saturday in Ballykillduff began in an ordinary way, which made the extraordinary sight in the meadow all the more shocking. The sky was a washed out grey, and the birds half heartedly attempted a chorus. The crows gave up first, croaking only a few complaints before falling silent.
At seven o’clock, the first villager spotted it. Two minutes later, the second person shouted loudly enough to wake a dog. By ten past, half the village stood staring at the meadow in confusion.
A tent had appeared. A colossal, towering tent striped in black and pearl.
Bridget O’Toole stood frozen beside her garden gate, her basket of laundry dangling forgotten at her side. The socks inside were becoming damp, but she barely noticed.
It seemed impossible that such a structure could exist, let alone appear overnight. The pearl stripes shimmered in the pale daylight, shifting from silver to lavender to soft moonlight blue. Patrick Byrnes arrived barefoot and out of breath.
“See? I told you,” he announced proudly. “It just appeared. Pop.”
His mother stared. “Tents do not appear out of nowhere.”
“Normal tents do not,” Patrick said wisely.
Jimmy McGroggan arrived with a magnifying glass, a notebook, and the expression of a man who has waited his whole life for something odd.
“No stakes,” he muttered. “No poles. No ropes. It is simply there. Like a mushroom. Or a very large, very dramatic bubble.”
Seamus Fitzgerald paled. “Mushrooms grow quickly. That is not reassuring.”
All morning the villagers circled the tent. Some admired it cautiously, some feared it openly, and some pretended not to be interested even as they stared at it.
The music began around nine. A single wavering thread of melody drifted out of the tent, more feeling than sound, and wrapped itself around the village.
Mrs Prendergast declared it a warning. Jimmy claimed it was likely a musical device beyond their understanding. Children pressed closer to listen, wide eyed and thrilled.
By noon, even the wind seemed to hum along. The villagers felt a tug in their chests, as if the tent were quietly breathing and the meadow breathing with it.
No one knew what the circus intended. No one knew why it had come or what would happen next.
But everyone sensed the same strange truth. The tent had not arrived by chance. It had chosen Ballykillduff.
And tomorrow night, it would open.
CHAPTER THREE
The Music That Plays When No One Is Playing It
The first notes of the strange waltz drifted across Ballykillduff long before anyone admitted to hearing them. The music was soft, almost whisper thin, and seemed to carry itself through keyholes and windowpanes without effort.
Patrick Byrne woke to it around half past six. He sat up in bed, hair sticking out in all directions, and stared at the ceiling as the tune curled around his room. It sounded like an invitation.
He pressed his face to the window. The meadow lay quiet, but the tent shimmered faintly, as if waking up too.
“Good morning,” Patrick whispered.
The music swelled, as if answering.
Bridget O’Toole heard the tune while making tea. She froze with the kettle in her hand. The melody dipped and rose strangely, its rhythm shifting in ways that felt slightly wrong. It tugged at something tender inside her.
Jimmy McGroggan burst from his workshop with a brass contraption he had invented and declared the music the most exciting discovery of the decade. Seamus Fitzgerald begged him not to go near the tent.
By eight o’clock, villagers gathered along the lane, drawn by curiosity. The tent pulsed faintly. The music grew clearer.
It was a waltz, but one that did not behave. Notes swirled in unpredictable patterns. Harmonies twisted back upon themselves.
Mrs Prendergast clutched her handbag and declared that this was certainly how missing person stories began.
Patrick ventured closer than anyone else. The entrance of the tent yawned open just a little too wide, and he felt certain that something just beyond sight was watching him.
He thought he heard words within the music.
“Step inside the pearl and black.
And what you lose will not return.”
A hand grabbed his shoulder. Bridget pulled him away.
Later that day, the music faded, but its echo lingered in everyone’s bones. People found themselves humming without realising it. The melody felt like a memory they had somehow forgotten.
And as night fell, all eyes turned to the great striped tent waiting silently in the meadow.
Tomorrow it would open.
CHAPTER FOUR
Opening Night
Dusk settled over Ballykillduff like a soft purple blanket. Lanterns flickered along the lane. The villagers gathered in a trembling cluster at the edge of the meadow. No one quite wanted to admit how frightened they were.
The tent no longer shimmered gently. It pulsed, a slow rise and fall, as if something alive rested beneath the canvas.
At seven minutes past seven, the entrance of the tent stirred. The black velvet parted slowly, revealing soft green light within.
A tall figure stepped out. He was thin to the point of elegance and dressed in a coat of shifting patterns that never settled into one shape. His face held a patient smile. His eyes seemed to see each villager in turn, lingering just long enough to make them feel noticed and unsettled.
He bowed.
“I am the Master of the Grotesques.”
His voice rolled across the meadow like velvet smoke.
“You have heard our music. You have seen our tent. Now you will witness our wonders.”
The villagers held their breath.
“I welcome you to the circus that will change your life forever.”
The lanterns lining the entrance flickered awake, each casting a green glow along the path into the tent. The entrance glowed brighter. The music rose.
Villagers stepped forward one at a time.
Jimmy McGroggan marched with excitement. Mrs Prendergast followed with a muttered prayer. Seamus shuffled forward looking doomed. Patrick tugged Bridget’s hand and begged to go inside.
Bridget felt something deep within her shift. Fear mingled with something else, something she had not let herself feel for years.
Hope.
She stepped forward.
As she and Patrick crossed the threshold, the flap closed behind them and the world outside melted away.
They were inside the Circus of the Grotesques.
Nothing would ever be simple again.
Chapter Five
The Mirror-Man
The moment the villagers stepped inside, the world changed.
The air felt thicker, almost warm, like stepping into a room where someone had just whispered a secret and the walls were still holding their breath. The ground beneath their feet was not grass and not earth either. It looked like polished black stone, smooth as water and faintly reflective, so that every footstep created a soft ripple of light.
Rows of seats curved upward on all sides, rising into darkness that had no visible ceiling. Lanterns floated above the crowd, each a tiny drifting orb of green-gold fire that bobbed gently as if stirred by invisible currents.
Patrick clutched his mother’s hand.
“Mam,” he whispered, “it is bigger inside.”
Bridget nodded slowly. “Yes. Much bigger.”
The villagers murmured nervously as they sat. Some wiped their palms on their coats. Some gripped the edge of their seats. Mrs Prendergast sat very straight, eyes narrowed, as if prepared to scold the tent if it tried anything unusual.
Seamus stared upward, mouth hanging open. “There is no roof,” he whispered. “Or maybe there is. Or maybe the darkness is the roof. Or maybe I am going to faint.”
Jimmy McGroggan, however, scribbled in a notebook with delighted fury. “Spatial expansion,” he muttered. “Illusory dimensional folding. Extraordinary.”
Patrick leaned forward on the edge of his seat, unable to contain his excitement.
The lights dimmed.
The music dropped to a slow hush, like a breath drawn in.
Then a single spotlight snapped on.
It shone upon a figure standing in the centre of the ring.
He was entirely covered in mirrors.
Not smooth, perfect mirrors, but shards of every shape and size, arranged like a mosaic across his body. Some pieces were polished to a shine, others cracked or misted with age. His mask was a perfect oval of reflective glass where his face should have been.
He did not raise his arms.
He did not bow.
He simply stood, unmoving, waiting for the audience to look at him.
And when they did, they realised the reflections were wrong.
The mirrors did not show the present. They showed possibilities.
Bridget gasped quietly.
In the shard nearest her heart, she saw herself laughing at a kitchen table she no longer owned. Her husband sat across from her, alive, smiling, raising a mug of tea.
Her breath broke.
She looked away quickly.
But the mirrors caught her again.
A different shard showed her alone in a cottage by the sea, hair streaked with grey, hands gentle, eyes peaceful. A life she might one day have.
Bridget pressed a hand to her chest.
The Mirror-Man turned slightly, and the reflected futures slid across him like silk caught in a breeze.
Mrs Prendergast leaned in too far and snorted. “What nonsense,” she said, though her eyes were fixed on a mirror that showed her surrounded by grandchildren she had never met.
Seamus made a soft noise several octaves above his normal voice. In one reflection, he stood tall and brave. In another, he was rescuing a cat from a tree while five onlookers cheered. In a third, he seemed to be giving a speech. A speech. Seamus hated speeches more than geese.
He grabbed Jimmy’s sleeve. “Make it stop,” he whispered.
Jimmy did not even blink. “I do not think it can.”
The music changed. It became a soft chiming sound, like crystal tapping against crystal.
The Mirror-Man lifted his head.
Slowly, deliberately, he raised both arms. The mirrors across his chest caught the floating lantern light and shattered it into a thousand tiny stars that drifted across the tent like fireflies.
Gasps rose from the crowd.
Patrick stared in awe.
“Mam,” he whispered, “it is like he is showing us our future.”
Bridget squeezed his hand. “No,” she said quietly. “I think he is showing us our choices.”
The Mirror-Man stepped forward.
With each step, the reflections shifted.
Patrick saw himself grown taller, braver, stronger. He saw himself climbing mountains, standing in a classroom answering questions with confidence, even rescuing a friend from a river with a rope in hand.
He also saw himself older but afraid, hiding behind the same excuses again and again. He saw himself turning away when someone needed help.
Patrick swallowed hard.
“I do not want that future,” he whispered fiercely.
The Mirror-Man paused.
The shard nearest Patrick’s seat brightened, glowing softly as if in answer.
Bridget watched in astonishment. “It is responding to him.”
Jimmy scribbled frantically. “Interactive temporal resonance,” he muttered. “Possibly guided by emotional intent.”
“Speak plain English,” Seamus whispered.
Jimmy did not look up. “It knows what we fear and what we want.”
The music grew slightly louder. A deep, thrumming note filled the tent. The Mirror-Man spread his arms wide, and the shards flashed all at once. The lanterns dimmed to faint green embers.
Every villager in the tent felt it.
A tug.
A pull inside the heart.
A moment of truth.
Then the Mirror-Man lowered his arms. The reflections softened, then faded like mist in sunlight.
The spotlight dimmed.
A soft chime echoed through the tent.
In the sudden hush, the Master of the Grotesques appeared at the edge of the ring, smiling with quiet pride.
“You have seen the Mirror-Man,” he said gently. “He has shown you who you might become, whether by fear, by hope, or by choice. What you do with that knowledge is now yours to decide.”
Patrick leaned forward eagerly. “Is there more?”
“Oh yes,” the Master said, smiling wider. His eyes glinted. “Many more wonders await you this night.”
The tent sighed softly. The lanterns brightened.
The next performance was about to begin.
And none of them, not even Jimmy the optimist, felt prepared.
Chapter Six
The Stilt-Walker With No Knees
The Mirror-Man’s dimming glow left the tent in a soft twilight, and a breathless silence followed. It was the kind of silence that comes after something important has happened, the kind that presses into ears and hearts alike.
Patrick leaned close to Bridget.
“Mam,” he whispered, “was that real?”
Bridget swallowed before answering. “Real enough.”
Jimmy McGroggan scribbled a final note and snapped his notebook shut with an expression of almost frantic joy. “Magnificent. Impossible. Completely unprecedented.”
Seamus slumped in his seat. “I want to go home.”
“You are already sitting down,” Jimmy replied. “How much safer do you want to be?”
“Home,” Seamus repeated, pointing toward the closed tent flap. “Home is safer.”
Before Jimmy could argue, the lanterns brightened again. A soft breeze, though no door had opened, curled through the rows of benches and carried with it a faint smell of lavender and something else, something like rain on stone.
The Master of the Grotesques appeared once more at the edge of the ring. This time, he did not speak. He simply lifted his hand.
The music shifted.
Three soft notes, high and distant, floated through the tent. Then a rhythmic tapping, slow and deliberate, began in time with the lights that dimmed and brightened like breaths.
From the far edge of the stage, a shadow detached itself from the curtains.
Someone tall stepped forward.
Very tall.
So tall that the fabric of the tent seemed to pull away from her as she passed, as though trying not to brush against her.
Patrick held his breath.
The woman, if she was a woman at all, wore a long gown of mist-coloured silk that rippled without wind. Her face was hidden behind a pale porcelain mask without features. Her black hair hung in two straight sheets down either side, reaching almost to her knees.
Her impossibly long legs extended far beneath the hem of her gown. Each step she took landed with the quiet weight of something ancient.
Jimmy squinted. “Look closely. Knees. There are no knees. The legs bend in ways they should not.”
Seamus squeaked in terror.
The Stilt-Walker glided toward the centre, her movements smooth and unsettling. Her legs bent backward for one stride, sideways for the next, like a creature testing each joint to understand gravity.
The audience watched in a mixture of awe and deep discomfort.
Then she stopped.
One long foot hovered above the polished floor. When it lowered, the ground responded with a sound that was not quite a whisper and not quite a sigh.
It spoke.
It spoke in memories.
Bridget stiffened. She heard her own voice from years ago, warm and laughing, a voice she had not used in too long. She heard her husband humming an old tune behind her as he made tea.
She pressed a hand to her mouth.
Patrick looked up at her. “Mam?”
“It is nothing,” she said quickly, though her eyes glistened. “Just tricks of sound. Clever tricks.”
But the ground kept speaking, step by step.
With each touch of the Stilt-Walker’s toe, a new memory rippled outward. A child’s long forgotten lullaby drifted into the air. A man’s oath to be brave. The echo of a first kiss. A quarrel resolved. A promise broken. A wish unspoken.
Mrs Prendergast gasped. She clutched her coat tightly. “This is improper,” she whispered. “Memories are private things.”
The Stilt-Walker paused as though she had heard those words, though the mask showed no reaction.
She lifted one foot.
The air thickened.
Then she stepped toward the crowd.
A wave of memories rolled toward the benches like a tide of invisible light. Patrick felt a tug in his chest. Something old and frightened inside him whispered his name.
Jimmy inhaled sharply. “This is extraordinary.”
Seamus covered his face. “Tell her to stop. Tell her to go back. Tell her anything.”
But the Stilt-Walker came closer.
Her head turned toward Patrick.
A soft sound rose from the mirrors above the tent, a whisper that felt like it travelled from the future through the present.
Patrick blinked.
For a moment, he saw something just behind the porcelain mask. Not eyes, but something bright and sorrowful, like a memory that belonged to someone else.
The Stilt-Walker continued past him. Her long limbs drifted like silk ribbons. She approached Mrs Prendergast’s row.
Mrs Prendergast straightened stiffly. “Do not come near me with your haunting business. I am perfectly satisfied with my past, thank you.”
The Stilt-Walker paused.
Mrs Prendergast’s lips pursed.
A memory rose from the ground at her feet. It shimmered softly.
A small girl in braids sat on a doorstep, clutching a rag doll. Above her, a young woman bent down and kissed her forehead. A voice whispered, “Promise you will remember me.”
Mrs Prendergast’s entire body went still.
The audience saw only her face.
A tiny crack of grief passed over it.
She whispered, “I had forgotten that.”
The Stilt-Walker stepped back.
The memory vanished like smoke in sunlight.
Even Jimmy put down his notebook.
The Stilt-Walker’s final movement was slow and deliberate. She raised both arms, long as tree branches, and the lantern light shifted, painting her in silver and green. The floor shimmered with all the memories it had just shown, faint echoes now drifting apart into nothingness.
Then she bowed.
Her long spine folded in a way no spine should, yet the motion was graceful and sorrowful at once.
The music faded.
The lanterns brightened.
The Stilt-Walker retreated into the darkness from which she had come.
The Master of the Grotesques stepped forward.
“Some memories stay with us,” he said softly. “Others slip away. The Stilt-Walker does not show us what we want to remember, but what we need to remember.”
He looked across the crowd, eyes glinting with meaning.
“Do not be afraid of remembering. Fear the moments you allow yourself to forget.”
Patrick held his breath as he watched the curtain close behind her.
He whispered, “Mam. What is next?”
Bridget squeezed his hand.
“I do not know,” she said. “But I think we are only just beginning.”
The lights dimmed again.
A new sound rose.
Something soft and childlike.
Two shapes stepped into the ring.
The next performers had arrived.
The Twins of One Shadow.
Chapter Seven
The Twins of One Shadow
The lights dimmed once more and the last echoes of the Stilt-Walker’s haunting presence faded into the dark folds of the tent. A few villagers rubbed their arms as if chilled. Others leaned forward, sensing the next act approaching like a whisper against the skin.
Patrick sat very still, eyes shining. Bridget kept one arm around him, though she was not entirely sure whether she was protecting him or herself.
The Master of the Grotesques stepped into the center of the ring without a sound. He did not raise his arms this time. Instead, he spoke in a low voice that carried through the tent as if each word were being delivered directly into every ear.
“For the next performance,” he said, “I caution you to watch carefully. Some things appear doubled, yet are singular. Some appear singular, yet hide two truths within.”
He paused.
“Please welcome the Twins of One Shadow.”
A soft ripple travelled across the ring floor, as though something beneath it had stirred.
Two small figures stepped forward.
They were children, perhaps no older than nine or ten. A boy and a girl, barefoot, pale as moonlight, dressed in simple grey clothes. Their features were identical in an unsettling way, as if they had been shaped from the same piece of clay.
But it was their shadow that stole every breath in the room.
They had only one.
A single, long, dark shape stretched behind both of them, merging and separating with a will of its own. It rippled across the floor like black water, shifting even when the twins did not move.
Mrs Prendergast crossed herself. Seamus grabbed Jimmy’s sleeve.
Jimmy whispered, “Impossible. Utterly impossible. Beautiful.”
The twins stood hand in hand. Their eyes, wide and glassy, swept across the rows of onlookers.
The music began without warning.
A low, humming lullaby drifted through the tent. It was neither cheerful nor frightening, but something in between, something like a half remembered song sung to a child on a stormy night.
The boy took one step forward. The girl took one step back. Their bodies moved in opposite directions, yet their shared shadow stretched and curled, reacting with slow, thoughtful movements.
As they walked in a circle, the shadow began to form shapes. First a tree. Then a house. Then something like a door.
Bridget’s breath caught. The door in the shadow looked exactly like her own cottage door, complete with the small notch at the bottom that she had never fixed.
The shadow door opened.
A small version of Patrick stepped out of it.
Patrick gasped.
“Mam, that is me.”
Bridget pulled him close. “Do not look too closely.”
But Patrick could not look away.
The shadow version of himself laughed silently and ran toward the two twins. The boy twin released the girl’s hand and held out his arm. The shadow boy climbed onto his palm, light as smoke.
The shadow boy looked directly at Patrick.
Patrick whispered, “What is he doing?”
The shadow boy mimed something. First a raised hand, palm outward. Then the gesture of slipping something from his chest into the air.
Patrick frowned. “It looks like he is offering something.”
Jimmy whispered, “The shadow is showing possibilities again. Perhaps memories. Perhaps warnings.”
Seamus whispered, “Perhaps nightmares.”
The shadow boy dissolved.
The twins turned together. The single shadow pooled behind them, rising like a wave.
They walked toward the audience.
Very slowly.
Very gently.
The villagers shrank back instinctively.
Patrick gripped Bridget’s hand. “Are they coming to us?”
“No,” Bridget said, though her voice was uncertain. “Not exactly.”
The twins stopped in front of Mrs Prendergast’s row.
Their shadow stretched toward her feet.
Mrs Prendergast stiffened. “Do not come near me. I do not want any ghosts of childhood, thank you.”
The shadow brushed her shoe.
A figure rose from it, shaped entirely of darkness.
A young woman. Laughing. Swinging a basket on her arm. Her hair was long and loose. She looked so much like a younger Mrs Prendergast that for a moment no one breathed.
Mrs Prendergast whispered, “Oh. I remember that basket. I had completely forgotten.”
The shadow woman waved once. Then faded.
Mrs Prendergast lowered her head. For the first time that night, she said nothing.
The twins turned again.
Their single shadow crawled up the benches and across the floor like a curious animal, weaving between legs and shoes. It paused at Seamus’s feet.
Seamus whimpered. “No. Please no.”
The shadow rose.
A goose stared back at him.
The audience stifled a laugh. Seamus squeaked and flailed backward.
The goose shadow stretched its wings, honked silently, then dissolved.
Even Seamus chuckled weakly. “I suppose that could have been worse.”
The twins walked back to the center of the ring. Their shadow returned to them, folding neatly behind their heels like a loyal dog.
The music faded.
The twins bowed together.
Their single shadow bowed with them.
Then they turned and stepped into the darkness, their shadow following like a ribbon of smoke.
The Master of the Grotesques appeared once more.
“The Twins of One Shadow,” he said, “remind us that our past is never truly lost. It lingers, ready to return in forms both gentle and strange.”
He smiled, a slow, deep smile.
“But the night is far from finished. And some truths are less gentle than shadows.”
The lanterns flickered.
The tent breathed.
A rumble trembled through the floor.
Patrick whispered, “Mam. What is next?”
Bridget looked toward the shifting curtains.
“I think,” she said quietly, “we are about to find out.”
And from the far corner of the tent, a cage began to glow. The air thrummed. A deep, throaty sound rolled like distant thunder.
The Beast in the Birdcage was waking up.
Chapter Eight
A low vibration rumbled through the floor, so deep and steady that the benches trembled and several villagers instinctively lifted their feet. The lanterns flickered, their green light swaying in nervous arcs. Even the Master of the Grotesques tilted his head slightly, as if listening to something older and larger than the tent itself.
Patrick sat bolt upright. Bridget pulled him a little closer.
At the far side of the ring, the curtains shifted. A faint red glow seeped through the folds. The music that had accompanied the earlier acts faded entirely, replaced by something more primal. A heartbeat, slow and heavy, thumped through the air like distant drums.
Jimmy breathed, “At last. Something with structure. Something physical. Perhaps even biological.”
Seamus whispered, “Something hungry.”
The curtains parted.
A tall wrought iron cage was wheeled into the ring by no visible hands. Its bars twisted like vines and glowed faintly with red heat. Strange symbols were etched into the iron, swirling patterns that seemed to move when no one looked directly at them. The villagers leaned forward as one.
Inside the cage, darkness shifted.
The Master stepped forward, his voice calm and inviting.
“Some creatures are born from dreams. Others from nightmares. And some are born from both at once.”
He gestured toward the cage.
“The Beast in the Birdcage.”
A soft gasp rippled through the crowd.
Two golden eyes opened inside the darkness.
They floated there at first, hanging like twin lanterns. Then they narrowed, focusing on the audience with a gaze that did not feel threatening, only piercing, as if the creature were reading the thoughts of every person in the room.
A low, melodic growl rolled from within the cage, the kind that vibrated in the spine rather than the ears. The red glow brightened.
Patrick whispered, “It is beautiful.”
Bridget did not respond. She was staring at the cage with a mixture of awe and fear.
The darkness inside the cage thickened. Then a shape began to form. A head with sweeping, feathered mane. A creature that looked part lion and part bird, with wings made of ember-like plumes that rose and fell with each breath. Its body shimmered as if made from smoke and fire at the same time.
Mrs Prendergast clutched her handbag as if the Beast might suddenly request her receipts.
The Master spoke again.
“The Beast sings truths, but only in riddles. Listen carefully. It speaks only to those who fear what they already know.”
The Beast stood and stepped forward. Its talons clicked softly against the floor. When it opened its mouth, the sound that emerged was not a growl or roar. It was singing.
Soft, unearthly notes flowed from the cage. The song carried words, but they came in fragments, woven into a melody that drifted through the audience like smoke.
“Step forward, seekers,” it sang.
“Step forward, hearts that ache.
Bring me the truth you hide,
and I will show you what breaks.”
Bridget inhaled sharply. The words reached a part of her she had worked very hard to bury.
Seamus hid behind Jimmy. “Tell it to stop. Tell it you hide nothing.”
Jimmy snorted. “You hide everything.”
Seamus slapped a hand over Jimmy’s mouth.
The Beast continued its song.
“I see your shadows wrapped in fear.
I see the paths you dread.
I see the grief you never spoke.
The tears you never shed.”
Bridget’s hands tightened on her lap.
The Beast turned its glowing eyes toward her row.
Patrick felt her freeze. “Mam,” he whispered. “It is looking at you.”
Bridget did not answer.
The Beast stepped closer to the bars.
“You carry weight upon your heart.
A burden cold and deep.
A promise made on fading breath,
a secret you still keep.”
Bridget shook her head, barely. “No. That is not for this creature. That is not for anyone.”
But the Beast was not finished.
“You fear to move, for change may hurt.
You fear to stand alone.
But grief that stays unspoken
turns the heart entirely to stone.”
Bridget closed her eyes.
Patrick stared at her helplessly.
The Beast lowered its head.
“Release what you remember.
Release what you conceal.”
Then the last line came almost as a whisper.
“The only way to heal a wound
is first to let it feel.”
Silence filled the tent like rising water.
Then Bridget breathed out, slowly, as if letting go of air she had been holding for years. Her eyes glistened, though she made no sound.
Patrick leaned into her side.
The Beast stepped back.
The red glow faded slightly.
The Master approached the cage, placing a hand gently on one glowing bar.
“The Beast in the Birdcage does not break us,” he said softly. “It reminds us of what is already broken, so we may choose to mend it.”
The Beast curled its smoky wings around itself and closed its golden eyes, retreating back into the dimness of the cage.
The lanterns brightened again.
The heartbeat faded.
Seamus exhaled loudly in relief. “I did not like that one.”
Jimmy frowned thoughtfully. “I loved that one.”
Mrs Prendergast dabbed her eyes discreetly with a handkerchief she pretended not to have taken out.
The Master turned toward the audience.
“The night continues. And deeper wonders await.”
Patrick could hardly sit still. “Mam, is there more?”
Bridget wiped her eyes gently and nodded.
“Yes,” she said. “I think the strangest part is still ahead.”
Because behind the ring, the shadows were beginning to gather again. And this time, the lights flickered in patterns that looked suspiciously like teeth.
The next act was preparing to enter.
And not everyone was sure they wished to see it.
Chapter Nine
What the Circus Wants
The Beast’s cage was wheeled away, its red glow fading behind the swaying curtains. The music vanished with it. No heartbeat. No ember-light. Only a long, hollow quiet.
The audience did not speak.
Even Jimmy McGroggan, usually eager to announce theories, simply sat with his notebook resting uselessly on his knee. Seamus stared rigidly ahead, his hands gripping the bench so tightly his knuckles shone white. Mrs Prendergast dabbed her eyes with a trembling handkerchief. Patrick leaned against Bridget, still thinking about the Beast’s song.
Bridget herself felt as if the creature’s voice were still caught at the back of her throat, vibrating like a memory she was not ready to face again.
Then, without warning, every lantern in the tent brightened at once.
A collective gasp swept the audience.
The Master of the Grotesques stepped forward. His coat shimmered with new patterns, shapes that seemed sharpened by whatever energy filled the tent. When he smiled, it was with the calm assurance of someone who already knew what each person was about to feel.
“You have been brave,” he said. “Braver than you imagine. Few would face what you just did.”
His eyes passed over Bridget, flicked briefly toward Mrs Prendergast, lingered on Seamus for a moment, then rested on Patrick.
“But know this. The circus does not reveal only curiosities or wonders. It reveals truths. It listens. It learns.”
A faint, rhythmic thrum travelled through the ground. Not as heavy as the Beast’s heartbeat, but more purposeful.
Patrick whispered, “What is that?”
Bridget placed a hand on his shoulder. “Something waking up, I suppose.”
“No,” Jimmy said suddenly. “Not waking. Watching.”
The Master clasped his hands behind his back.
“Tonight is not entertainment,” he said. “Tonight is exchange.”
A murmur rose from the benches.
“Exchange of what?” Seamus asked shakily.
The Master smiled as if he had been waiting for the question.
“Fears for courage. Grief for understanding. Secrets for freedom. That is what the circus offers.”
“And what does it want from us?” Mrs Prendergast demanded.
Her voice trembled, though she tried to hide it.
The Master looked gently amused. “It wants only what you bring. What you hold too tightly. What you hide even from yourself.”
The lanterns dimmed again.
The tent breathed.
It was not imagination. They all felt it. The very air filled and emptied, as if the entire structure were a living thing drawing breath.
“Did you feel that?” Seamus yelped.
Jimmy nodded. “It is responding to us.”
“Responding how?” Bridget asked quietly.
Jimmy considered her, then looked toward the Master, who was listening with an approving tilt of his head.
“The tent is attuned to emotion,” Jimmy said. “Each performance so far has drawn something powerful out of us. The tent seems to be absorbing it, or at least noticing it.”
Mrs Prendergast glared at the ground. “Noticing is rude.”
Patrick lifted his head, listening hard. “I think it likes us.”
Bridget stared at him. “Patrick, no circus tent likes anyone.”
Patrick shrugged. “This one might.”
The Master of the Grotesques stepped forward again. The hush deepened.
“I want to show you something.”
He lifted his hand.
The ground rippled.
The floor, that polished black stone, softened like ink. Within its surface, faint shapes began to form. Shadows, at first. Then figures. Then memories.
The Mirror-Man.
The Stilt-Walker.
The Twins.
The Beast.
All appeared in the floor as faint, dancing silhouettes, flickering like candle flames reflected on water.
“They are not simply performers,” the Master said. “They are expressions. Reflections. They draw from what lives inside you.”
Patrick leaned forward. “You mean they become what we need?”
The Master smiled warmly. “Exactly.”
Seamus shuddered. “I need a cup of tea and a biscuit, not a giant flaming bird that sings about my worries.”
“You needed honesty,” the Master said. “And the Beast provided it.”
Mrs Prendergast crossed her arms. “I did not need that young shadow girl with the basket.”
“You needed to remember her.”
Mrs Prendergast’s lips pressed tightly together.
The floor returned to its polished stillness.
The Master stepped back, letting silence settle again.
Then he spoke in a voice barely above a whisper.
“The circus does not come to every village. Only those ready to change. Only those holding something they can no longer bear alone.”
Bridget’s breath caught. She knew those words were meant for her, though she could not imagine how he knew.
“Change is not easy,” the Master continued. “But every person here came tonight because a part of them wished for it.”
Seamus shook his head. “I did not wish for anything. I only followed Jimmy.”
Jimmy raised a hand. “That counts.”
The Master gave a small laugh that echoed strangely through the tent. “The night is progressing. You have faced your memories, your possibilities, your grief, and your fears.”
A soft, thrumming beat rose again. Not sound. Not quite movement. More like a pulse.
“But the circus has one more revelation,” he said.
Patrick gripped Bridget’s arm. “Mam. What revelation?”
Bridget swallowed. “I do not know.”
The lanterns flared green.
The curtain stirred.
The next act was approaching, and every villager felt something tighten inside them, as if a string had been pulled taut.
The Master bowed his head.
“The next performer,” he said softly, “is unlike the others. It does not show who you were or what you fear.”
His eyes glittered.
“It shows what you may yet become.”
Bridget’s heart thudded.
Patrick whispered, “What does that mean?”
Jimmy answered in a breathy voice.
“It means the circus is not finished with us.”
The Master turned toward the curtain.
“Prepare yourselves.”
The lights dimmed.
The tent breathed in.
And something stepped forward into the ring.
Chapter Ten
The Changing Begins
A stillness fell over the tent. Not an ordinary quiet, but one that felt charged, as if the air itself held its breath. Every villager sensed it. Something was coming, something unlike the other acts, something the circus had been leading them toward from the moment they stepped inside.
The curtains shivered.
A faint glow seeped through the seams. Not green. Not red. Something pale and silver, like moonlight concentrated into a single trembling thread.
Patrick clutched Bridget’s sleeve.
“Mam, look.”
Bridget could not look away even if she had wanted to.
The floor beneath the ring began to pulse. Light spread outward in circles, soft and rhythmic, like ripples across a still lake.
The Master of the Grotesques stepped forward. He raised his cane, though no one remembered seeing him carry a cane before. Its tip glowed with the same silver light.
“For every village visited, there comes a moment,” he said. “A moment when the circus ceases to perform, and begins to reflect.”
Seamus whispered, “I do not like the sound of that.”
Jimmy, eyes bright, whispered back, “I think we are about to learn the purpose of this place.”
The silver glow brightened.
From behind the curtain, a figure stepped out.
At first, its shape was hard to grasp. It looked almost human, but its outline wavered like light seen through water. As it moved, more details emerged. A soft halo surrounded it. Long hair flowed like drifting smoke. Its movements were fluid, but its feet made no sound.
Its face was hidden, not by a mask, but by light. Not harsh or blinding, but gentle, like morning sun through thin curtains.
Bridget felt something odd in her chest. Not fear. Not anticipation. Something deeper.
“Who is that?” Patrick whispered.
The Master lowered his cane.
“This,” he said softly, “is the Echo.”
The Echo walked to the center of the ring. As it did, the floor stirred again. The polished surface shimmered and turned into liquid light.
Jimmy gasped. “A resonance field.”
Seamus groaned. “Please stop saying things like that.”
The Echo raised its hand.
The surface of the floor brightened.
Patrick felt the hairs on his arms stand up. The villagers leaned forward, trying to understand what they were seeing.
A silhouette rose from the glowing floor, shaped like a human figure.
It looked like Bridget.
Bridget inhaled sharply.
But it was not her as she was now.
The silhouette showed her younger, standing beside a man with kind eyes. They were laughing. The man reached for her hand. She leaned into him.
Mrs Prendergast whispered, “It is showing her memories.”
Then the Echo turned.
A second silhouette rose, this one shadowy and trembling.
Seamus whimpered. It was him, standing in a lane on a stormy night. His younger self tried to take a step toward a frightened child hiding behind a gate. But young Seamus hesitated, turned, and fled.
“I remember that,” he whispered. “I was supposed to help him. He had fallen. I was too afraid. Someone else found him first.”
The shadow-Seamus bowed his head.
Saemus buried his face in his hands. “I thought I had forgotten.”
“But forgetting does not change it,” the Master said softly. “Only facing it does.”
Patrick was trembling. “Mam, is it going to show everyone?”
Bridget squeezed his arm, not entirely calm herself. “Perhaps only those who need it most.”
The Echo lifted both hands now. The floor erupted into a dozen trembling silhouettes. Memories, regrets, small moments that changed lives. Some villagers gasped. Others looked away. A few reached instinctively for the hand of the person beside them.
Patrick watched in fascination and dread.
“What does it want?” he whispered.
Jimmy answered, voice trembling for the first time all night.
“It wants us to see ourselves. Truly see.”
The Echo lowered its arms.
The silhouettes faded back into the floor.
Silence fell.
Then, softly, the Echo pointed at the audience.
The lanterns flickered.
Something passed over the villagers like a warm wind, stirring memories and thoughts and secrets they had long hidden.
Patrick felt something shift inside his chest, something that made him sit up straighter.
Bridget felt a trembling warmth in her heart, fragile and painful and hopeful all at once.
Then Seamus gasped.
“Do you feel that?” he whispered.
Jimmy nodded. “Yes.”
Mrs Prendergast whispered, “What is it doing to us?”
The Master smiled, the faintest smile of the night.
“It is beginning.”
He tapped his cane.
“The circus reveals. And then, it changes.”
Patrick swallowed hard. “Changes what?”
“Changes you,” the Master said simply.
A soft chime echoed through the tent.
The Echo faded into the light, as though dissolving.
The floor stilled.
The air trembled.
The entire tent seemed to sigh.
The Changing had begun.
Chapter Eleven
The Finale: The Tent Breathes Out
The Echo’s glow faded into a fine silver mist that lingered in the air long after the figure itself dissolved. The villagers sat in stunned silence, each one wrapped in thoughts they had never meant to face tonight. Inside the tent, something felt different. Calmer. Heavier. As if the circus had taken a long, slow breath and was holding it.
Patrick whispered, “Mam, is it over?”
Bridget shook her head. Her hand trembled slightly as she smoothed his hair. “No. I do not think this is the ending. Not yet.”
Jimmy McGroggan leaned forward on the bench, his notebook forgotten in his lap.
“Whatever comes next,” he murmured, “it will not be a performance. It will be the purpose.”
Seamus did not look reassured. “Purpose is rarely good news.”
Before Jimmy could reply, the lanterns changed. Their gentle green glow deepened into something richer and warmer, as though a sunrise were trying to break through the canvas roof. Soft pulses of light rolled across the tent walls. The very air shifted temperature, warm then cool, then warm again.
The Master of the Grotesques moved to the center of the ring. His coat shimmered with slow waves of iridescence, and his eyes reflected a light that did not belong to any lantern.
“It is time,” he said quietly.
No one breathed.
“The circus has shown you who you were. What you feared. What you wished you could forget. What you still hold dear. It has shown you possibilities. It has shown you sorrow. It has shown you truth.”
He paused, letting those words settle.
“But there remains one final revelation.”
The ground beneath the villagers stirred again, but not with memory or reflection. Instead, a soft hum rose from the polished floor. A vibration travelled through the benches and into their bones.
Patrick gasped. “It feels like the tent is waking up.”
Jimmy nodded. “Or transforming.”
Seamus clutched his knee. “I cannot survive more transforming.”
The Master’s voice dropped to a whisper.
“The circus has listened.”
A soft breeze circled the audience. It brushed hair, touched shoulders, ruffled coats. But it was not cold, and it came from no visible source.
“The circus has learned.”
The lanterns brightened again.
“And now,” he said, “the circus answers.”
The floor at the center of the ring lit up in a brilliant spiral of golden-white light. The glow expanded outward, ring by ring, until it reached the edges of the stage and then climbed into the air, swirling into a luminous funnel.
Shapes began to form within the light.
Not memories.
Not silhouettes.
Not reflections.
Possibilities.
The villagers saw them. Each one different, each one meant for someone in the audience.
A child standing tall and confident, older and fearless.
A woman smiling as she planted a tree behind a new cottage by the sea.
A man walking straight through a lane full of geese, unafraid.
A girl lifting a lantern to guide someone else through the dark.
A shy boy reading aloud to a room full of friends who were listening closely.
The visions flickered gently in the glowing swirl.
Patrick pointed with wide eyes. “Mam, that is me. I think that is me. But older.”
Bridget saw her own image too. Not younger. Not a memory. A future with warm sunlight and steady steps. A life she had never let herself imagine since her husband died.
Her throat tightened.
“I did not think that was possible.”
The Master watched her with gentle understanding. “It is.”
Seamus blinked rapidly at his own vision. “Is that me facing geese? That cannot be right. I would never.”
“You might,” the Master said softly. “Change is not certainty. It is choice.”
Jimmy stood, unable to remain seated any longer. He stared at the glowing possibilities with unrestrained joy.
“It is beautiful. Not illusion. Not memory. A … projection. A potential.”
The Master inclined his head.
“A glimpse of the paths that open when one is willing to step forward.”
The villagers stared as the swirl of light slowed. The golden glow condensed into a single shimmering wave that travelled outward, brushing gently across every person in the tent.
It felt warm. It felt calm. It felt like a hand on the heart, lifting a small weight they had been carrying for too long.
Then the glow faded into nothing.
Only the lanterns remained.
The Master bowed deeply, the most formal gesture he had made all night.
“You have changed,” he said. “Perhaps only a little. Perhaps more than you yet know. But change has begun inside each of you.”
He lifted his face.
“Now the circus must conclude its work.”
A low sound rose through the tent. A long, soft exhale.
Patrick whispered, “Mam, it is breathing out.”
The tent’s canvas rippled gently, like the surface of a lake shifting in a breeze. Light trickled up the seams. The poles trembled. The entire structure released a final breath that brushed over the villagers like a blessing.
For the first time since the night began, the tent felt still.
Completely still.
The Master stepped back.
The music returned, but only a faint, faraway chord, like a lullaby carried on the wind.
“Your final act awaits,” he said.
“Step outside, people of Ballykillduff. The night has one more truth to show you.”
The flap at the entrance unfurled on its own, glowing softly.
Patrick clutched Bridget’s hand.
“Mam,” he breathed, “I do not think the circus is finished with us.”
Bridget’s voice trembled.
“No, pet. I do not think it is either.”
They rose with the others, hearts pounding, ready to face whatever waited in the meadow where the circus had first appeared.
Because the tent had breathed out.
And now something waited outside, something shaped by all they had seen and felt.
Something the circus wanted them to understand.
Something that would change their lives forever.
Chapter Twelve
The Morning After
The moment the villagers stepped through the glowing flap of the tent, the air changed.
Gone was the warm, pulsing light of the circus interior. Gone was the soft silver glow that had illuminated their thoughts. Gone was the humming, breathing presence of the tent itself.
Outside, the meadow lay calm beneath a faint mist, touched by the pale blue of early dawn.
Birdsong echoed gently through the hedges, bright and ordinary in a way that felt almost startling. The grass glistened with dew. The sky blushed with the first traces of sunrise.
Ballykillduff, it seemed, had been waiting for them.
Bridget blinked at the open field, her hand still holding Patrick’s.
“It is morning,” she whispered.
Mrs Prendergast clutched her coat. “Impossible. We were inside for an hour, two at most.”
Jimmy McGroggan checked his pocket watch. His hands trembled.
“It is half past five. Which means we were inside for…”
Seamus swallowed. “All night.”
Patrick looked around, bewildered. “But the tent… it was here. Right here.”
He turned in a slow circle.
The meadow was empty.
No tent.
No poles.
No ropes.
No footprints.
Not even a flattened patch of grass.
Only the swirling mist and the soft glow of the rising sun.
Jimmy shook his head in disbelief. “This makes no sense. Something that size cannot simply vanish.”
Mrs Prendergast sniffed. “After everything we saw, you expect sense?”
The villagers gathered in a loose circle, staring at the place where the Circus of the Grotesques had stood. The world felt too quiet. Too normal. As if the previous night had been a shared dream.
But each of them knew it had been real.
They felt different.
Changed.
Patrick tugged Bridget’s arm. “Mam, we will remember it, won’t we? It will not fade like the Echo did?”
Bridget knelt and held his shoulders gently.
“No, pet. We will remember. I think the circus meant us to.”
Jimmy looked toward the lane that led back into the village. “I wonder if anyone will believe us.”
“They will,” Seamus said softly. “Because looking at all of us, we are not the same as we were.”
He straightened his spine a little. Surprisingly, he did not look scared. Not even of the goose wandering near the ditch.
Mrs Prendergast cleared her throat.
“I suppose we had better get home. The day will not wait, circus or no circus.”
The villagers began to drift toward the path, talking quietly, each lost in thought. But no one hurried. It felt wrong to rush after such a night.
Jimmy lingered at the edge of the meadow, staring at the empty grass, his expression full of wonder.
Bridget touched his arm. “You are thinking very hard.”
“I am thinking,” Jimmy said slowly, “that the circus did not vanish. It moved.”
“Moved where?” Seamus asked sharply.
Jimmy shook his head. “Somewhere else it was needed.”
Patrick frowned thoughtfully. “Does that mean other villages will see it too?”
“Perhaps,” Jimmy said. “But maybe only those who are ready.”
Bridget looked down at her son. His face was pale with awe, but no longer troubled by the fears he had carried into the tent. She felt a warmth inside her, fragile but real.
“We should go home,” she said.
Patrick nodded, but his eyes wandered back toward the meadow.
As they walked away, a small glimmer shone near the root of an old tree. Bridget paused and bent down. Something lay on the ground, half covered in dew.
A single shred of pearl striped fabric.
The last fragment of the circus.
She held it between her fingers. It shimmered faintly, like moonlight trapped inside cloth.
She folded it carefully and slipped it into her pocket.
Patrick whispered, “Mam. Do you think it will come back someday?”
Bridget looked across the quiet meadow, the mist curling like soft smoke.
“I think,” she said gently, “that if we ever need it again, it will find us.”
Patrick smiled.
They walked on.
Behind them, the sun rose higher, washing the meadow in gold. The mist lifted slowly, revealing nothing but grass and sky. No sign of tents or lanterns or shadows.
The Circus of the Grotesques was gone.
But the changes it had made in Ballykillduff had only just begun.
EPILOGUE
The Poster Returns
Autumn came early to Ballykillduff that year.
The first cold winds swept through the hedgerows with a sigh that sounded almost like whispering. Leaves turned gold before the school term even began, and mist rolled across the meadow most mornings, clinging to the grass like the memory of something half forgotten.
Patrick Byrne still walked past the meadow every day, partly out of habit and partly out of hope. The Circus of the Grotesques had vanished without a mark. No footprints. No poles. No burnt grass. Not even a glimmer of pearl-striped fabric remained, except the one piece Bridget kept folded in her dresser drawer.
Sometimes Patrick thought he could still smell the strange warm lantern scent, but he told no one.
Life in the village ticked forward.
Seamus Fitzgerald began taking slightly longer routes so he would not have to pass the goose that haunted his nightmares, but eventually he stopped flinching when he saw it. Jimmy McGroggan became busier than ever, filling notebooks with complicated ideas as if the circus had rewired some part of him. Mrs Prendergast had started smiling at people in the shop, which worried the entire parish but in a pleasant way.
Bridget felt lighter. Only slightly, only sometimes, yet enough that she found herself humming while stirring porridge in the mornings.
But the circus stayed gone.
Until the night the storm arrived.
The wind came howling across the bog road, lashing rain sideways against the windows. Thunder rolled so loudly the cottage walls rattled. Patrick had to help Bridget wedge a towel beneath the draft under the door.
When the storm finally began to fade, the world outside sank into a deep, eerie quiet. Patrick, restless and still buzzing from the thunder, padded downstairs to get a glass of water.
He passed the front window, paused, and frowned.
There was something on the noticeboard across the road.
Something that had not been there when they sat to supper.
Patrick pressed his face to the cold glass.
A poster.
He ran for his raincoat and boots. Bridget heard the front latch and hurried after him, but by the time she reached the door, Patrick was already dashing across the wet road, hair plastered to his forehead.
He stopped in front of the noticeboard.
The poster glowed faintly in the storm light, its pearl stripes shimmering like breath caught in moonlight.
THE CIRCUS OF THE GROTESQUES
HAS MOVED ON
BUT ITS WORK IS NOT FINISHED
Patrick touched the surface of the poster.
It rippled gently, like water disturbed by a fingertip.
At the very bottom, printed so small he had to lean close:
We will call again.
Be ready.
A breath of wind lifted the edges.
Then the poster dissolved into silver dust.
It vanished into the air, leaving Patrick staring at the empty wooden board, rain trickling down the glass.
Bridget caught up to him, panting slightly.
“Patrick, what are you doing out in this weather? You will catch your death.”
He pointed at the bare board.
“There was a poster. I swear it.”
Bridget looked, then looked again, expression softening the way it had when the Beast sang.
“I believe you.”
She touched his shoulder gently.
“Come inside, pet. There is nothing more to see tonight.”
They walked back across the road. Behind them, the storm clouds shifted. For a moment, just a moment, Patrick thought he saw black and pearl stripes glimmer high above the meadow, flickering like a reflection in lightning.
Then it was gone.
But the message remained.
The circus would return.
And when it did, Ballykillduff would be ready.
To be continued.
The Crazymad Writer Writes Again 