“Just got weird?” Jax shouts to be heard over the music. “Pretty sure I’ve been saying things were weird since we put these overpriced circus rags on my dad’s credit card!”
The volume of the song escalates, as if trying to drown out Jax’s complaints. Electronic keyboards and cymbals swarm my eardrums like audible bees, muffling Quan’s ensuing comments. Beneath the buzz in my head, I hear my maestro’s raspy voice. He’s somewhere in this room. His magnetic force lures me to lean over the balcony’s edge. The compulsion to dive into the sea of bodies and swim until I find him is overwhelming.
I teeter there, tethered in place by my friends’ arms. A nudge between my shoulder blades urges me toward the long, winding stairs that lead to the lower level. I glance over my shoulder, finally getting a look at the escorts who brought us here. The three of them turn and walk back to the elevator. I can’t tell if they’re male or female. All I see are hooded vests—aglow with flashing pinpricks of blue light like my dress’s panels. The fabric appears to be floating without a body, then a laser show ignites, illuminating our platform and their black pants and shirts before dimming once more. At the elevator, the escorts step inside and face me. I can’t make out anything under the obscurity of their hoods, other than glimmering eyes, similar to the Phantom’s.
His words at the chapel revisit: What are we, you mean to say.
These employees are like him . . . like me.
“Wait!” I start forward, but too late. The doors slide shut.
Sunny grips my elbow and forces me to look below. The band has left the stage, and all the dancing bodies freeze in response. A drastic hush falls over the room, coating everything with a chilled muffle, like a fall of snow-encrusted feathers.
The walls on the lower level transform, snapping free and taking on strange shapes—a puzzle being pulled apart and rearranged into something new. The 3-D paintings of stairwells, auditorium seating, and statues interlock, forming grotesque creatures: nymphs and cherubs cracking apart at the torso, so rib cages made of stair steps can fill their hollowness. Red velvet auditorium seats shift upward and rip through the statues’ mouths to mimic bloody tongues. They’re gargoyles now—a convergence of beauty and horror unfolding before our eyes.
The floor rotates, the guests wavering to keep balance, making way for the stage to revolve until it stops in the center. A sign drops down from above with tiny white lights around the borders—a vintage carnival poster, spotlighting a freak-show attraction. Glittery red letters spell out the words: BEHOLD: THE EXQUISITE NIGHTMARE.
“Oh, we gotta see this.” Sunny breaks free from our chain of arms and starts down the stairs. Quan adjusts his hat and hustles to catch up.
“Sunny!” I shout. “Be careful.” What I want to say is: Here there be monsters. Before I take my first step, Jax clutches my fingers in his. I glance upward at his concerned features.
“Don’t get any ideas about going off on your own,” he says, as if reading my mind. “We’re staying together, right guys?”
Quan and Sunny send nods over their shoulders and continue their descent.
Hand in hand, Jax and I stay close behind on the winding staircase, all the while watching the transformation still taking place around us. Lanky figures in skintight, blinking costumes plummet graceful and quiet from the ceiling, twirling on gleaming ribbons in a spectrum of colors. The acrobats swing toward one another and join hands. They form a chain around the revolving chandelier, like luminescent jellyfish worshiping an octopus in the depths of an ocean. Giant brass bells drop down beside them, pealing loud and deep. Silver confetti descends from the mirrored dome, glittering under the black lights. Before the shimmery rain touches our heads, the swirls of paper come to life, fluttering up and up like metallic butterflies, hovering around the trapeze artists and bells.
The instant Jax’s feet and mine meet the floor behind Quan’s and Sunny’s, the bells stop pealing. In the wake of the fading gong, a haunting assemblage of acapella voices drifts from the acrobats—male and female alike—chants worthy of monks in a gothic cathedral.
The eerie hymns nudge that place inside of me . . . those dormant depths I can’t let awaken.
Rune . . . I’m here. Stay in control.