Seira

Torn and dusted, reds and whites. The bigtop stood tall depsite its abandoment years past, horrid accidents and disturbing accounts leading to its cultural burrial. Something always called from over those hills though, begging you to return and close the lid on the horrors left there. You can recall the clowns, acrobats, contortionists. Friends whos masks and screams now haunt your dreams, begging you to return and find them again. If only to make it stop, you've found yourself before the tents again. The freakshow cages seemed to breath their own air of hate. The loud speakers of the bigtop crackle to life – Enter The Gladiators – as your footfall smothers another peanut into the dirt. In the center of the tent a box, no larger than a small toolchest, lays with the ghost of a spotlight shining onto it.