Chapter Four
Violet
THE NEXT MORNING, I meet the chief of the local paper in his office for our weekly check-in. I’m an arts and culture reporter, and I love what I do. I get to go to all the local events and meet people who are passing through. It makes living in a small town like Ridgewater more interesting.
“I want the behind-the-scenes details,” the chief tells me as I sit in front of his desk, getting the rundown of what he expects from my article on the Carnival of Devils.
“They’re finishing setting up today. Get down there and see what you can find.
How their attractions work, what the carnies are like without the ghost and ghoul makeup.
Something more interesting than ‘there’s a fair in town.
’ Everyone writes articles like that when this fair comes to their town. I want something more.”
I’ve always loved that, even though we’re a small town paper, the chief never has small expectations for our stories.
He wants the juicy details, the actual news, the interesting features.
Our paper has won multiple regional journalism awards under his guidance, and I love being a part of his newsroom.
“You got it, chief.” I give him a mock salute and click my pen, rising to leave.
I head straight to the fairgrounds on the outskirts of town. Usually, this place is just an empty lot, except for the one week in August when we host the county fair, or during elections. It’s nice that the space will be used for something fun.
All of the fair has already been set up, a maze of buildings with all things Halloween decorating them.
It looks like October, but it’s only April.
There’s even some jack-o’-lanterns lining the pathway from the entrance to the main path.
I turn left, toward where I know the main office and ticket booth are, hoping to find someone I can interview.
Behind the desk in the main office sits a man who I would never in a million years expect to run a haunted fair like this.
He’s older, probably in his late fifties, but he’s still extremely handsome and muscled.
He wears an all-black suit and has a glass of what I think is scotch on the desk.
He looks like he should be preparing for a boardroom meeting, not organizing a bunch of scare actors and carnival games.
I tap lightly on the open door, and his head turns up, his eyes taking me in.
“Can I help you?” His deep voice is raspy.
“Hi, I’m Violet Higgins.” I give a little wave. “I’m with the Ridgewater Tribune, and I’m writing a piece on the Carnival of Devils. Do you mind if I walk around and talk to some of the workers?”
“Oh, yes, your chief called me earlier to tell me you’d be here. It’s no problem at all, most of them are finished with setup. But just make sure to stay out of the way, I’d hate for you to get hurt here.” He flashes me a smile that exposes his bright-white teeth.
I give him a polite smile in return. “Thanks. Any suggestions on where I should start?”
“The haunted house is our most popular attraction,” he tells me. “But the guy who runs it is a bit of a recluse. If you manage to talk to him, he’ll want to remain anonymous. But I can give you a quote about his house if you need it.”
“Oh, why’s that?” I can’t help but ask, my journalistic curiosity getting the best of me.
The man shrugs. “Just doesn’t like to be on the public side of things wherever we take this thing. But his house brings lots of guests, so I let him do as he pleases.”
“Interesting . . . Well, thank you so much for your time, sir. Could you point me in the direction of this haunted house?” I ask.
“Sure, it’s straight to the back, hang a right.” He points in the general direction. “It’s the largest attraction we have, other than the rides, so you can’t miss it.”
“Thanks again. I hope the fair is a success!” I tell him.
I make my way out of the office, pulling my jacket a little tighter as a breeze hits me when I step outside.
I walk through rows of games—all the typical carnival games, but with spooky twists, and the prizes are all Halloween-esque stuffies.
A plush ghost. A spider with spindly, prickly legs that’s bigger than my head.
Alyssa is going to love this.
I find the haunted house exactly where he told me it was, and he’s right.
This thing is huge, like the size of an actual large house huge.
How the heck do they get this thing from town to town?
I walk up a creaky porch to the front door, and to my surprise, it’s unlocked.
When I open the door, I’m met with my worst nightmare.
Dolls.
At least fifty pairs of cold, dead eyes stare me down, and half seem to literally follow me as I step forward, unease tickling up my spine. The door shuts behind me with an ominous thud, and I immediately turn around to try to leave.
But it doesn’t budge. Fuck.
I turn back to the room, looking for another exit.
Shelves of porcelain, Victorian-era dolls line three of the four walls of the small room.
In the middle is a short, round table set up for a tea party from hell.
The doll that sits at it has shiny black braids, and her hands and dress are covered in blood.
The fur of the stuffed animals at the other seats is matted with the red liquid. It looks eerily realistic.
Having seen enough of Tina the Terror’s tea party, I beeline for the door on the other side of the room.
But there’s no doorknob.
“What the fuck?” I mutter as I search for a way to open it.
I swear I hear the stupid statues behind me giggling.
It just had to be fucking dolls.