I pick up the pace, my sights set solely on the opening to the next tent. I duck through with Clarey and Flannie close behind, and the bakery’s booth appears a few feet away—unmistakable once Clarey points out that there are multicolored Christmas lights wound about matching red, purple, green, and gold panels.
The PTA president, Mrs. Ruiz, sits inside wearing a school-spirit shirt and jeans. She assures a few customers that someone is on their way with the bakery’s popular treats, and says to please come back in fifteen minutes or so.
My hope she’s been in contact with Uncle bursts as soon as she spots us.
“Gracias a Dios!” She claps in relief. “Miss Wisteria said she’d be coming, but I guess she sent you instead?”
A discouraged breath shunts out of me, and I lose my grip on the mural. Clarey manages to keep it from slamming to the ground. I crinkle my forehead apologetically, a movement that tugs the fake zipper above my eyebrow ring. He grasps my forearm in a comforting gesture, even as his gaze darts at some passersby.
“I’ll hang it. You two talk.” His voice sounds tremulous, and his fingers shake as they glide to my glove and squeeze gently. Our eyes meet before he releases me to drag a few dog treats from his pocket and coax Flannie out of the main path. The two of them then press up against the side panel. It’s a good spot to unwrap the tarp and even better for seclusion.
In front, I lift the wooden serving counter, allowing Mrs. Ruiz to exit.
She carries a set of wire cutters that used to belong to Lark. I don’t have to be able to make out the pink of the handles to recognize them. There’s no mistaking those spatters of dried glitter glue along the blades. “Found these in the booth. I’m guessing your uncle used them to cut the wire that hangs the lights.” She offers the tool to Clarey as he comes from around the side. “Thought you might need them for the mural.”
Clarey takes the wire cutters, and I see the pained recognition when he drops them into his pocket. On my end, I’m confused. Uncle never delves into Lark’s toolbox. He has his own stuff. He would’ve had to climb into the attic to get to hers. The weirdness just keeps piling up.
Together, Mrs. Ruiz and I step out of Clarey’s way so he can hang the sign. Focused on his work, he rises on metal toe tips and loops the mural’s rope hanger over the hook already screwed into place along the center of the top panel.
While he’s activating the goblin’s arm, I turn back to Mrs. Ruiz—shutting out every other sight and sound. “When did you see my uncle?”
She twines her hands at her waist. “A few hours ago while he was setting up. I stopped to ask him if he needed anything because he seemed distracted … kept looking at that mirror maze.” She points to a fun house on the other side of the face-painting stall.
Some of the art students—dabbing bat wings and skeletons into place on customers’ smiling cheeks—catch me looking their direction and shout a greeting. I offer a cursory wave, though my attention strays to the fun house’s huge, hand-painted facade. The scene looks like the inner workings of a clock: gears, suspension springs, dials, and pendulums—in black, white, and every shade of gray—interlocked together in a maze. In the maze’s center, a key-shaped tree sprouts, jagged branches ripe with fruits bejeweled in dewdrops.
Across the top, painted letters entice visitors while adding a splash of glitter: Ringmaster Mystique’s Mystical Maze: Tame the Pendulum, Breach the Plinth, Face-Off Time in the Labyrinth.
Underneath poses the eight-foot depiction of a top-hat-clad-and-caped man, one hand holding a plum to his lips, the other splayed to present the doorway that leads inside—a door that from here looks tightly shut.
White circular bulbs outline the entire frontispiece, casting shadows in strange places, making it difficult to see the magician’s illustrated features. Yet one thing stands out beneath the hat’s brim—sharp eyes that shimmer like black diamonds. It rocks me with an unsettling and familiar sensation, as if that faceted gaze could peel back the layers of my skin and poison my blood.
Thunder rolls above the tent’s roof, loud enough to be heard over the carnival sounds … distracting enough to break my study of the facade.
Mrs. Ruiz tugs Uncle’s cell phone from her jacket pocket.
“Your uncle asked me to watch the booth while he spoke to the guy who brought the maze. I saw them go into the fun house together. I must’ve missed them when they came out. I don’t think he realized he left his phone behind. I found it under the shelf.”
I curl my glove around the cold vinyl casing, wishing it were his warm hand instead. At least there’s a logical reason he hasn’t been answering.
“Nix, I can see you’re worried,” the PTA president continues. “But I’m sure he’ll be back soon. He said something about a delivery. I assumed that red-haired young man had placed an order and your uncle planned to pick it up at the bakery when he left to get the booth’s food. Maybe he stopped for a quick bite first. Everyone’s been working so hard to get things—”
“Red hair?” I interrupt, my sights returning to the maze. I gulp a gritty stickiness from my throat. “A delivery?”
My feet start moving before my tongue can sever the threads of conversation. I ignore Mrs. Ruiz’s and Clarey’s calls from behind. I’m laser focused. A few kids from school block me, saying the fun house isn’t open for the public … that there’s no one to unlock it or take tickets.
As if I want to go in; as if any part of me thinks facing warped mirrors and winding pathways on Halloween would be fun. I bite back my response, and instead push silently through the crowd. Stopping a few inches from the facade, I look up-up-up until my eerie suspicion is validated: despite that I can’t make out the color of hair, the painted magician looks exactly like Jaspar.
My shoulders stiffen.
Why would our deliveryman have an attraction here after the hard time he gave Uncle? Is it to keep an eye on us? Is this some kind of passive-aggressive powerplay?
I’ve always known something’s off with the guy … but this is beyond creepy.
Punctuating that thought, thunder rumbles again, this time accompanied by a flash of lightning that spreads across the tent’s top.
In contrast to the chill skittering along my spine, a breathy warmth rushes my ankle. I look down to find Flannie sniffing around my boots. With a short yip, she darts to the back side of the mirror maze, her tail high and erect as she disappears from view. Clarey hustles up to me, avoiding the crowds milling through the midway. Our classmates hang a few yards back, waiting for the fun house to open.
Clarey clutches Uncle’s tie-dyed apron; the whiteness of his knuckles indicates he’s using it as a lifeline. “I gave Flannie a sniff so she could—” His explanation stalls as his attention catches on the painting overhead. “Whoa. Bizarre-o.”
“The hair color?” I ask, studying the dark tufts poking out from the hat’s rim.
“Burgundy red,” Clarey says softly. The circular bulbs shadow the dented ridges of his pumpkin mask as he stares upward. “It’s totally your deliveryman.”
Before I can respond, Flannie woofs.
“She’s found a trail,” Clarey announces.
The two of us rush to join her behind the fun house. Clarey visibly relaxes once we leave the crowd and step into the abandoned area; there’s an employee entrance to the maze, but a padlock secures the latch. Thick cables and cords tangle on the sandy ground, powering the structure’s chugging electric generator. Flannie sniffs alongside them, and I fall in line with her.
A snap of lightning flashes high outside the tent, followed by sparks and a loud pop. All at once, the lights snuff out around us—every ride, attraction, and booth losing electricity. Gasps, awkward footsteps, and startled shouts fill the sudden silence on the other side of the fun house.
Clarey’s hand captures mine, and I squeeze back, grateful he’s still with me. I take a step toward him but something scrapes my boot. I kneel and blindly rake the ground. My glove glides along smooth lines and slick surfaces.
I turn on Uncle’s phone. The screen’s glow reveals an all-too-familiar pair of spectacles, but with a cracked black frame and one shattered lens. A tight ball forms in my gut. “Just like his car,” I murmur. “His glasses are here, but he’s nowhere near them.”
Clarey puts my uncle’s apron on the ground and holds Flannie’s vest handle so he can kneel beside me. He draws me into a hug. I press my head against his shoulder, clinging to his warmth and flowery-chemical scent as fear lacerates my heart.
“This is bad, Clarey.” I wince at the crack in my voice, at how tight I’m clenching his shirt—like I’ll sink if I let go. “It’s a part of him—busted up and left behind.”
Clarey releases Flannie and cups both my shoulders. He leans his pumpkin skull against my forehead zipper. “We could try these to get into the locked door.” He drags the wire cutters from his pants pocket.
“But they’re not strong enough for cutting a padlock. Are they?”
Clarey considers my question, then drops them back into his pocket. “I saw some cops around the carousel. We’ll get them to help. It’ll be okay,” he promises.
I want to crawl inside the mask with him … I want to watch his expression match his voice’s confidence. But the phone’s dim glow hints at the worry in his eyes and I know, if exposed to bright light, his assurance would be revealed for the lie it is.
I shine Uncle’s cell phone on the glasses again. This time, the shimmer catches a subtler detail: bite marks, just like the ones on my picture book’s pages … all along the earpieces.
I hold them up. “Look!” A burning sob builds in my throat. “Unless the mouse hitched a ride with Uncle—”
Clarey interrupts me with a finger on my lip. “Listen.”
I strain my ears, trying to pick out the panic-filled rush of voices and feet sloughing through sand on the other side of the fun house. There’s nothing but the pounding thrum of rain overhead.
“Why’s everything so quiet all of a sudden?” I whisper.
“Exactly,” answers Clarey, his voice thick and shivery.
Uncle’s phone blinks off, abandoning us to darkness again. I jab at the button, but it won’t reactivate. Clarey and I huddle closer.
“Maybe we should try one of our phones?” I offer.
A clunk of metal at the back of the fun house disrupts the suggestion, followed by a scratching, scraping sound. For a moment I’m trapped again on that horrible night—the sawing, dragging, and grunts that woke me … Lark’s fingernails against the screen when she was struggling for breath.
A high-pitched whine shatters the memory.
“Flannie?” Clarey jumps up, his spine stiffening beneath my hand. I latch onto his belt loop to keep us together in the darkness while tucking Uncle’s phone and broken glasses into my duffel. The straps eat into my shoulders through my jacket as I’m tugged sightlessly forward.
“Flannie, here girl!” Clarey calls out.
She yips excitedly from a few feet away. The employee entrance opens on moaning hinges. Even though the generator sits silent, light radiates from within. And not just any light … bright, retina-piercing neon red.
“Clarey, what color is that light?” I ask, needing the validation to believe what I’m seeing.
“Red,” comes his answer as the glow illuminates the fallen padlock and Flannie bouncing on her hind legs.
I don’t even have the chance to tell Clarey that I can see it for myself, because Flannie digs at the door’s edge and vanishes inside before we can reach the threshold.
“Flannie!” Clarey shouts.
A warm waxy-scented mist—reminiscent of candle smoke—sweeps out along with the light, both spreading toward us in an eerie luminous path. Clarey curses and peels off his mask and cap. I know what it took for him to shed them … but it’s the only way he can see clearly in this smoky haze. I hand him my bag, and he zips the costume inside, then hangs the straps over his shoulder.
Worry for Flannie and Uncle merge with my desire to follow the colorized glow. I inch closer to look around Clarey, my chest pressed against the bumps of his spine beneath his sharkskin vest. The smoke clears in patches, revealing a floor awash in that same red light. Though it’s not just any floor; it’s an intricate system of gears—brassy and stainless steel metallic teeth turning and interlocking to form moving bridges and pathways that lead to upper and lower levels.
My stomach flips over, both from the recognition of gold and silver metals and from the fact that the maze appears to be four or five stories high; much bigger inside than out, impossibly so.
“Are you seeing—?” I ask.
“Yeah.”
“How can it—?”
“Don’t know.”
I cringe then, making note of the glimmering mirrors that form the walls and ceilings, so many of them, stretching into oblivion. On and on and on … a thousand reflections waiting to be born … waiting to accuse me. To ambush me.
For an instant, I see two pairs of eyes, swirling and bright—amber and green, like the ones on my mural—peering out from a mirror on the upper level. They blink twice, then vanish. Tiny hairs along my arms bristle as the grimalkins’ song from my dream last night scores my psyche like steel claws: Fetch the one who goes astray …
It was a warning all along, except it’s Uncle who’s gone astray. Were they leading me here so I could find him?
No. Grimalkins are a figment of my imagination … my own creation. They live only in my mind.
It’s that logic that stops me from spilling everything to Clarey—how I can see the colors inside the building, how I see the eyes of my characters blinking in the reflections. Because how can those perceptions be real when everything else around me still looks anemic and drab?
As if in response to my strained silence, he grabs my free hand where it hangs at my side and holds my palm against his sternum.
“I have to get Flannie.” His heartbeat rattles his ribs behind his lapel, a thudding rhythm that penetrates my glove, and his breaths burst—short and ragged. He’s as afraid and confused as I am, but for a whole other set of reasons.
“Right.” I lace my fingers through his. The only way to find our loved ones is through this maze. “We go together.”
He nods, then hand in hand, we cross the threshold.