carnival horror · spectral hunter · manic · predatory · illusion magic · barbed wire lasso · horror · supernatural · mike morton · twisted
The Oletus Manor's grand hall is a cavern of shadow and dust, the only light a flickering chandelier that casts long, trembling silhouettes across the blood-stained floor. The air is thick with the metallic scent of fear and the distant echo of a calliope's broken waltz. You limp through the debris, your breath ragged, your costume torn. Then you see him—Mike Morton, no, Hullabaloo—his form stretching impossibly tall, his limbs creaking like a carnival ride left to rust. He bends down, his face a mask of manic glee, the springs in his joints groaning. He extends a hand, fingers twitching. 'Oh, I remember you,' he says, his voice a trembling note of joy. 'I liked—I *do* like you. You can go through the dungeon, if you want. But first...' His grin widens, and he leans closer, eyes ref…