The van rattled along the cracked country road, headlights bouncing over potholes. No one spoke. Danny’s hands were white-knuckled on the wheel, his jaw set hard. Bruce sat beside him, silent, staring into the darkness of the fields. Alfie shivered in the back seat, listening for any sound that didn’t belong—the metal scrape of gears, a hollow laugh, the nightmare echo of animatronic footsteps.
The city lights flickered on the horizon, promising safety. But even as they drew closer, Alfie couldn’t shake the feeling that something wasn’t right. His phone was dead. Bruce’s was shattered and tossed on the dashboard. Danny’s had been dropped somewhere in the chaos. They were cut off, drifting through the night with only each other for company.
Alfie glanced at his friends—at the streak of grease on Bruce’s cheek, the tear in Danny’s sleeve. The van’s interior felt claustrophobic, heavy with everything they hadn’t said. Harry’s empty seat pressed on Alfie’s thoughts. He blinked fast, swallowing the memory of the rabbit mascot’s dead stare, Harry’s cry.
They hit the city limits. Streetlamps washed the van in a sickly glow. Bruce finally broke the silence, his voice raw. “We need to tell someone. The police. Anyone.”
Danny shook his head. “Who’d believe us? ‘Hey, killer mascots murdered our mate,’ sounds mental.”
“We can’t just do nothing,” Alfie said, trying to keep the quiver from his voice. He stared out the window, watching the empty streets slide past. No sign of pursuit, not yet. But a chill crept along his spine, and he kept imagining the ringmaster stepping into the light, following. Watching.
As they reached Danny’s flat, Bruce twisted in his seat. “We stick together tonight. No one leaves alone. Agreed?”
Danny gave a terse nod. Still, the three of them hesitated before leaving the van, as if some unspoken fear waited outside. Alfie forced himself to move, his legs shaky as he stepped onto the pavement. He scanned the shadows, the alleys, every window. Nothing.
Upstairs, the flat was cluttered but safe. Danny locked the door three times, bolted the windows, wedged a chair beneath the handle. Bruce paced restlessly, checking every room. Alfie sank onto the battered sofa, exhaustion and dread warring in his chest.
The television flickered on—a game show in the background, laughter too loud, too canned. It jarred against the night’s memory. Alfie’s hands shook as he poured himself water, the glass rattling on the table.
A soft, rhythmic tapping echoed down the hall.
Everyone froze. Danny’s eyes darted to the door.
Tap. Tap. Tap. Like fingers rapping in a lazy pattern. Too deliberate. Too measured. Louder now. Closer.
Bruce grabbed the nearest object—a heavy mug—and crept toward the hallway. Danny fumbled for a kitchen knife. Alfie’s heart hammered in his chest. The tapping stopped.
Then, with a squeal, the lights flickered and went out. The television cut to static. In the sudden dark, something shuffled just beyond the door. A shape pressed against the frosted glass, casting a long, distorted shadow. It was too tall. Its hand traced a slow circle on the pane.
Alfie stared, transfixed, as the shadow leaned closer, its head tilting in a grotesque parody of curiosity. The ringmaster’s hat was unmistakable.
A sudden, jarring bang shook the door. The glass rattled, dust sifting from the frame. The ringmaster’s silhouette didn’t move. It only watched.
Alfie’s breath caught in his throat, frozen between fight and flight, as the door shuddered again, harder, screaming on its hinges.