Chapter 3
Is this what hoomans call entertainment? A dilapidated collection of rusty metal contraptions designed to separate people from their money and common sense? Fish mewls from her quilted tote, her nose crinkled like she just smelled cheap perfume and bad decisions.
Oh, lighten up, Fish Stick, Chip snorts, nose twitching as he stands on my lap like a furry orange hood ornament. I smell fried dough. I smell funnel cake. This might be the best decision my hooman has made in years. I smell SNACKS!
“Everybody ready?” I ask, pulling into a parking lot that’s seen better days—probably sometime during the Reagan administration when shoulder pads were considered fashionable and people thought New Coke was a good idea.
A faded sign welcomes us to Huckleberry Hollow Wonderland: Where Magic Still Grows! The exclamation point feels like a lie. So does the magic. Especially when a raccoon near the trash can appears to be bartering with a squirrel for half a corn dog.
“Honey, we were born ready!” Georgie caws from the backseat, slapping the brim of her light-up carousel hat.
Yes, it spins. Yes, it glows. And yes, it’s exactly the kind of fashion statement that gets you escorted out of upscale establishments.
“Do you think there are eligible bachelors running the funnel cake booth? Men who know their way around hot oil are usually handy in the kitchen and elsewhere.”
“Georgie, please,” Ree sighs. “We’re here to support Josie’s job interview, not to audition for Senior Citizens Gone Wild: The Theme Park Edition.”
“Age is but a number, Red. And mine is still unlisted.”
The park sprawls before us like a fairy tale that took a dark turn—part magic, part midlife crisis.
A towering wooden arch frames the entrance—its trunks twisted together like they were locked in a slow-motion wrestling match—and it’s covered in carved woodland creatures that look like they’ve seen things, who have definitely seen better decades, and a few rough winters.
Not to mention those tiny little critters eye us with permanent, and yet slightly demented smiles.
A smattering of people plod about, and in the distance I can hear what might qualify as the park’s Main Street with a somewhat sorrowful looking castle just beyond that.
The air smells like caramel apples, cinnamon, and pine trees—or in other words, a sugar-drenched forest ready to steal your wallet.
I corral Chip into his tote—a sturdy canvas number with reinforced bottom, AKA a deluxe cat chariot—and he immediately pops his head out, blinking like royalty inspecting his peasantry. Fish, meanwhile, glares from Georgie’s quilt bag like she’s plotting a coup.
As we pass through the gates, distorted carousel music floats through the air.
It’s charming in a circus-meets-haunted-house kind of way, and somewhere in the distance, a roller coaster creaks ominously to life, accompanied by the distant screams of either thrill-seekers or people realizing their impending doom.
“This place is…” I search for the right word, staring at a sagging cotton candy cart with a painted clown face that might haunt my dreams. “…intentionally nostalgic. Like someone bottled 1985, shook it up with glitter, and dumped it across one hundred acres.”
“Sort of like me,” Georgie beams.
“The difference is the park can be renovated,” Ree deadpans.
“I used to bring my kids here,” I murmur. “Though I don’t remember it looking so... post-apocalyptic.”
Paint peels in friendly little curls from signs, and a broken lightbulb swings above us like it’s waving hello. The whole place feels less run-down and more lovingly overworked—like a childhood stuffed animal that should probably be burned to avoid a hygiene hazard.
I can smell a thousand stories here. Chip’s nose twitches rapidly. Some happy. Some haunted. All of them sticky.
He’s not wrong.
I detect seventeen varieties of bacteria on that bench alone, Fish sniffs. And I think that scary mannequin is watching me.
She’s eyeing a purple-haired mechanical crone trapped in a glass booth, whose animatronic fingers hover over a crystal ball like she’s trying to decide whether to offer a prophecy or a parking ticket. Her painted smile is pure chaos.
“Welcome to your potential new kingdom,” Ree says, arms wide like she’s revealing a treasure trove and not a slightly sad fun park with budget issues and possibly one too many raccoons. “Well? What do you think?”
I pause, taking it all in. The cracked pavers. The air tinged with powdered sugar and regret. The unmistakable sound of something groaning nearby.
“There might be some structural integrity issues, but I think it has good bones,” I say honestly. “Creaky, possibly haunted bones, but still... bones.”
“Speaking of great structural integrity—” Georgie waggles her eyebrows, nodding toward a tall, silver-haired man in khakis selling tickets. “I bet he could renovate my—”
“The main office should be this way,” I interrupt hastily, checking the email on my phone before Georgie can finish whatever construction innuendo she was about to deploy. “Wish me luck.”
“Good luck!” Ree calls.
“Ask if he’s single!” Georgie whispers loud enough to be heard in Vermont.
I follow a trail of cheerfully cracked pavers to a gingerbread-style cottage tucked under a canopy of pine. A brass plaque reads Merryweather Management: Where Dreams Take Root.
The optimism around here is aggressive.
I give a brisk knock, and Chip shifts in his tote bag as if he’s preparing to attack or eat snacks. Honestly, it could go either way.
The door swings open to reveal a couple who could have stepped straight out of a Norman Rockwell painting, assuming Rockwell had a fondness for quirky eccentrics and people who clearly never met a whimsical decorating choice they didn’t love.
The woman, hardly five feet tall with a shock of white hair styled into what can only be described as a cotton candy swirl, beams at me like I’m the answer to all her prayers.
Her companion, a lanky gentleman with the most impressive handlebar mustache I’ve ever seen outside of a barbershop quartet, peers at me over half-moon spectacles with the adorable expression of someone’s favorite grandfather.
“You must be Josie!” The woman clasps her hands together with delight. “I’m Edie Merryweather, and this is my husband, Eddie.”
“Edie and Eddie?” I ask before I can stop myself.
“The universe has a sense of humor,” Eddie explains, his voice surprisingly deep for his willowy frame. “We met at a square dance where they paired us by name. Seemed like fate or at least a cosmic comedy. The rest is history.”
“And he does mean history. We’ve been married fifty-three years,” Edie adds. “The name thing was confusing at first, but now we just answer to either. Saves time.”
“Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you both,” I say, shifting Chip to extend my hand. “And this is my sweet cat, Chip. I hope it’s okay that I brought him along. He’s my emotional support animal, though mostly he just provides sarcastic commentary.”
We all share a laugh at that one. If only they knew just how true it was.
“Of course!” Eddie says with a cheer. “Animals are always welcome at Huckleberry Hollow Wonderland.” He reaches out to scratch Chip behind the ears. And Chip, who is typically standoffish with strangers, actually leans into the touch.
I like him. He smells like butterscotch and stability.
I nod his way because it’s true. I could smell the butterscotch the second they opened the door.
“My friends are here, too.” I gesture toward Ree and Georgie, who wave enthusiastically from a nearby bench. “The one with the interesting hat is Georgie. And that’s Ree. They brought Fish. She’s also a furry floof and not seafood.”
Who are you calling a floof? Chip looks up at me with his mouth agape. And I’ll have you know my tail has twice the personality as that cat.
I shoot him a look for even thinking it.
“The more, the merrier!” Edie claps her hands. “We just love animals, especially the feline variety. Now, shall we all take a tour while we talk? It’s the best way to get a feel for the place, and honestly, we love showing it off.”
For the next twenty minutes, the Merryweathers guide our motley group through what has to be the most whimsical, charming, and occasionally bewildering theme park I’ve ever seen. Suffice it to say, a lot has fallen into disrepair since I’ve been here.
“And we’re just getting started,” Eddie says.
The property spans over a hundred acres, divided into ten distinct Hollows, each with its own theme, a concerning level of mechanical reliability, erratic animatronics, and enough glitter to make a unicorn sneeze.
Georgie’s carousel hat bobs enthusiastically as she peppers the owners with questions about eligible bachelors on staff, while Ree takes notes on her phone, muttering about untapped revenue streams and liability concerns with some serious focus as if she’s already mentally redesigning the entire operation. And let’s be honest, so am I.
“This is Huckleberry Lane,” Eddie explains as we stroll down a cobblestone street lined with quaint shops that sits right at the beginning of the park.
Old-fashioned lampposts twist upward like wrought-iron beanstalks, and storefronts display everything from hand-pulled taffy to vintage-style photo booths.
“It’s the heart of the park, connecting all the other Hollows through a roundabout just in front of the castle. ”
“Many of our visitors just come for this,” Edie adds, pointing to a particularly inviting taffy shop that’s practically glowing with sugar-scented warmth. “And we make our own donuts fresh every morning.”
Chip lifts his chin. Did someone say donuts? I love donuts!
You look like one, too, Fish sniffs his way.
“You got any crullers in there?” Georgie makes a beeline for the bakery window. “I haven’t had a proper cruller since 1987 in Atlantic City with that saxophone player with the big—”
“Let’s stay focused.” Ree gently steers Georgie back to our group with the efficiency of a woman who’s herded cats both literal and metaphorical. “We can explore the shops after Josie’s interview.”
Fish pokes her head out of Georgie’s wonky quilt tote, nose wrinkling at the sugary scents like someone who’s just discovered evidence of poor nutritional choices.
This place is suspiciously cheerful but downright dangerous, Fish mutters. I bet someone dies here at least once a season.
Let’s hope it’s not the one making the donuts, Chip replies. I’ll be needing more than one cruller. And I can’t wait to see the rest of the menu, too. Cream-filled are my favorite.
Let’s hope it’s not one of us either. Although I can’t seem to shake the feeling death is most certainly the menu at Huckleberry Hollow Wonderland.
And I wonder who will be served up next.