A Great Variety of Monsters
The Big Top loomed against the bruised, pre-storm sky like a cancerous growth, its garish colors somehow muted by the encroaching darkness. Inside, the air thrummed with a discordant symphony: the wheezing calliope struggling to maintain a semblance of cheer, the hushed whispers of the gathered throng, and the barely perceptible thrum emanating from beneath the center ring.
Reynaldo, the World’s Smolest Circus Bear, adjusted his tiny fez, its jaunty angle a defiant gesture against the encroaching cosmic horror. He was, after all, a professional. A veteran of countless shows, seen it all. Or so he thought. He’d debuted as a cub, wrested (gently) from his mother’s arms, and thrust into the spotlight. Now, decades later, he was a seasoned performer, capable of death-defying feats of dexterity—balancing precariously on a stack of increasingly unstable spools, juggling miniature cleavers with unsettling accuracy.
Tonight, however, was different. There was a wrongness in the air, a psychic weight that pressed down on him with the force of a collapsing star.
He prepped for his act in the cramped squalor of his dressing “room”, a space measuring only a few feet.
Reynaldo ran the show in his area. He just had to make sure to keep out of the way of the elephants. Reynaldo checked his equipment, made sure that his small arms were properly lubricated. He needed to be at his peak for tonight.
A tremor ran through the tent, causing the calliope to skip a beat, morphing its cheerful tune into something akin to a funeral dirge. The crowd gasped, then fell silent, a silence so complete it felt unnatural, as though all sound had been sucked into a cosmic vacuum. Reynaldo knew, with a certainty that chilled him to the bone, that the show was about to begin.
Outside, Silas Blackwood, the circus barker, wrung his gnarled hands, his eyes gleaming with a feverish intensity. He’d made a bargain, you see, with entities best left unnamed. A bargain for success, for fame, for immortality. And the price? Well, the price was merely a matter of rearranging certain elements of the show, of tweaking the…ingredients…ever so slightly.
He glanced at the crowd, a motley assortment of the gullible, the desperate, and the deeply, profoundly curious. They’d come seeking entertainment, but what they were about to receive was something far more…transformative.
He flashed a grin, a rictus of teeth that seemed far too numerous, and launched into his spiel, his voice taking on a hypnotic cadence that seemed to bypass the conscious mind altogether. “Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, step right up! Prepare to witness a spectacle unlike any you have ever seen! A great variety of monsters, both human and…otherwise!”
Blackwood gestured towards the entrance to the Big Top, its canvas flaps now rippling with an unseen energy. “Tonight, we offer you a glimpse beyond the veil, a peek into the abyss! But be warned, dear patrons: once you have seen, you can never unsee! Enter at your own peril!” With a flourish, he swept his arm, ushering them towards their doom, or perhaps their enlightenment. Hard to tell these days.
The acts began as they always did: the contortionist, her limbs bending at impossible angles, the strongman, hoisting weights that defied gravity, the clowns, their painted smiles masking a disturbing emptiness. But as the night wore on, the performances grew increasingly…aberrant.
The tightrope walker, for instance, began to levitate, her eyes rolling back in her head as she spoke in tongues unknown. The lion tamer, normally a figure of fierce authority, cowered before his charges, their roars taking on a distinctly unnatural timbre.
And then came Reynaldo’s act. But the carefully balanced spools had been replaced with pulsating, tumorous growths, and the cleavers had been swapped for obsidian knives that seemed to hum with malevolent energy. The calliope, now possessed by some unseen force, shrieked out a cacophony of discordant notes, driving the audience to the brink of madness. But Reynaldo, bless his tiny bear heart, persevered, juggling the knives with a grim determination, his movements growing increasingly frantic as the tent around him descended into chaos.
“The show must go on…” he muttered to himself.
He glanced at Blackwood, who was now standing in the center ring, chanting in a language that tasted of salt and decay. The thrumming from beneath the ring intensified, and the canvas above began to bulge, as though something vast and terrible were attempting to breach the barrier between worlds.
Reynaldo may have been the World’s Smolest Circus Bear, but he was also possessed of a keen intellect and a surprising knowledge of the occult. Years spent traveling the world, performing in forgotten towns and far away corners, had exposed him to things that no bear, or human, should ever have to witness. But he’d learned, he’d adapted, and he’d survived.
He knew, with a dreadful certainty, that Blackwood was attempting to summon something from beyond, something ancient and malevolent, something that would consume them all. And Reynaldo knew that it was up to him, the tiny bear in a fez, to stop it.
With a roar that belied his diminutive size, Reynaldo launched himself at Blackwood, bowling him over like a cheap lawn ornament. He snatched the obsidian knife from the barker’s hand and, with a desperate prayer to whatever gods might still be listening, plunged it into the center of the summoning circle.
The tent went silent. The thrumming stopped. The bulging canvas relaxed. The calliope sputtered and died, leaving only the sound of ragged breathing and the distant rumble of thunder.
Reynaldo stood over the fallen Blackwood, his tiny chest heaving, the obsidian knife dripping with ichor.
The crisis was averted, for now. But Reynaldo knew, with a cold certainty, that this was just the beginning. The show, as they say, must go on, but Reynaldo was going to be the one to do it right this time.
Horror Sleaze Trash 