(From the Journal of Jaina, Age 16)
December 31st, 19XX
I was sixteen when I first met the boy who would destroy our town.
His name was John Lemis.
He lived across the street with his grandfather, a quiet old man who kept a garden of roses and watered them at dawn, always with trembling hands.
John was different from the rest of us children.
He loved tricks, laughter, costumes.
While the other boys dreamed of becoming soldiers, doctors, or businessmen, John would stand in the street, hat tilted too large for his head, and proclaim:
"One day, I'll be the greatest ringmaster in the world! I'll have a circus that everyone will come to see!"
The children laughed at him. Adults too.
His dream was treated as a disease, something silly, shameful.
They mocked him for loving colors instead of uniforms, for dreaming of tents instead of careers.
I watched from my window as they pelted him with stones, called him names.
And John… smiled.
Every jeer, every blow seemed to fuel him more.
He would wipe the blood from his nose and shout:
"Just wait! You'll see! I'll show you a performance so grand you'll regret laughing!"
I never laughed. But I never defended him either.
Maybe I was a coward.
Or maybe I was still a teenager and too scared of being the next target.
January 4nd
It happened at night.
I had just blown out my candle when I saw him.
John, standing in the park under the moonlight.
But he wasn't alone.
A man in a hood was speaking to him.
His figure was tall, strange, and his shadow didn't follow his body.
He knelt down, handed John a box—small, black, with a golden lock—and whispered something into his ear.
I tried to listen but his voice was like static, broken, incomprehensible.
And then—John vanished. Just like that.
One blink, and both he and the hooded man were gone.
I rubbed my eyes until they burned, but still nothing, then i thought maybe i was just seeing things.
January 5rd
The morning bells rang frantic.
John's grandfather stood in the street, tears streaking down his wrinkled cheeks.
"I can't find John! He didn't come home last night!"
The whole town gathered.
We searched the forest, our feet sinking into frost.
The priest led us in prayer while we shouted his name.
After two hours, we heard it.
A scream—raw, ripping the air apart.
We ran.
And there, in a clearing, lay a slaughterhouse.
Animals torn open.
Deer, dogs, birds—disemboweled, intestines steaming in the cold air.
But not just animals.
People.
Faces I recognized. Mouths frozen in silent screams.
And in the middle, standing barefoot in the blood, was John.
He was holding the black box.
His face streaked with gore.
"John!" his grandfather cried, trying to run to him, but the priest held him back.
"There is something wrong with that boy," the priest warned.
Then John suddenly laughs. Not the laughter of a child, but something jagged, inhuman.
His grandfather begged, "What's happened to you?"
John coughed. Blood poured from his lips, spilling over his chin.
And still—he smiled.
"I want my dream to come true," he said.
The priest asked what he meant.
John answered cheerfully, like it was obvious:
"The man said if I spill some blood… my circus will begin."
A hush fell.
Mothers pulled children back.
Men whispered prayers.
And that's when I saw it.
Behind the tree where John stood… it watched.
A thing stitched from human skin.
Its neck stretched like elastic, twisting unnaturally.
Its face was a mosaic of stolen parts: mismatched eyes, too many mouths, jaws sewn at odd angles.
I screamed and pointed at it.
And when the others turned, they too saw it and erupted into panic.
The townsfolk fled, stumbling over roots.
But not us.
I couldn't move. Neither could the priest nor John's grandfather.
Because the thing… was staring only at us.
Smiling.
The Circus Begins
John tilted his head and asked us . "Would you guys like to watch my performance?"
He opened the box.
The forest dissolved into blackness.
When my vision returned, I was no longer standing in the clearing.
I was seated in a circus tent, red and gold, lit by flickering lamps.
Beside me sat the priest and John's grandfather.
Around us—rows and rows of strangers, grinning with mouths far too wide, teeth sharp as glass.
On the stage stood John.
No longer a boy, but dressed in a ringmaster's suit, mask, and tall hat.
"Ladies and gentlemen!" he shouted.
"Welcome to my circus!"
The crowd roared, clapping, shrieking in delight.
The acts began.
Creatures slithered from cages—mutated animals, humans with limbs bent backwards, jaws unhinged to the floor.
They danced, twisted, sang in grotesque harmony.
The crowd howled with joy.
I sat frozen, blood pounding in my ears.
Only the of us three were horrified.
The priest clutched his cross, whispering prayers.
Then the lights cut.
Silence fell.
And all eyes were on us.
John frowned.
"Are you not entertained, Father?"
The priest stood, voice trembling: "John Lemis, this is evil. You must wake up from this nightmare!"
John snarled, teeth bared. "No! This is my dream!"
"Dreams built on blood are the devil's trick!" the priest thundered.
And then—he exploded.
Blood sprayed over me, hot, metallic.
His body torn apart by invisible hands.
The crowd cheered louder, stamping their feet in ecstasy.
I sat drenched, numb, shaking.
John's grandfather wept. "John… my boy… what have you done?"
John smiled sweetly. "Do you like the show, Grandpa?"
"No! This isn't you!" his grandfather sobbed. "Please, stop this madness!"
But John's face twisted. "So you're not happy for me? For my success?"
His grandfather tried to answer, but before he could—the hooded man appeared.
The same man from that night.
He placed a hand on John's shoulder.
"This man is not your real grandfather."
I gasped.
The hooded man then pointed to the crowd.
There—in the front row—sat another old man, identical to his grandfather.
John stared, confused.
The real grandfather cried, "Don't listen to him! I raised you, I fed you, I am your blood!"
But the hooded man's voice was like poison, "If he were real, he would support your dreams. He would not deny you."
"I do support you!" his grandfather shouted. "But not this! Not this evil!"
The hooded man snarled: "Then you are not the real one."
He snapped his fingers.
John's grandfather's mouth vanished.
Then his hands.
And then his head.
The body collapsed beside me, lifeless.
John turned to the fake grandfather, who smiled proudly. "I'm so proud of you, John."
John's face lit up. "Thank you, grandfather!"
And then… his eyes fell on me.
The only one still standing.
"Do you like the show, Jaina?" he asked, stepping closer. His face smeared with joy.
I don't know how he knew my name.
I was trembling, heart screaming.
I wanted to say no. To scream and run.
But I remembered the priest's fate, the grandfather's end.
So I whispered, ".....Yes."
John's smile softened. "Thank you. You seem to be the only one who understands me" he said.
" I'm will leaving now—with my grandfather.
I'll train hard until I become the best ringmaster. And when I return, you'll see the greatest circus ever."
He hugged me with his cold arms.
The tent dissolved.
We were back in the forest.
The priest's body still at my feet. My dress sticky with his blood.
John took the fake grandfather's hand.
Together with the hooded man, they vanished into the trees.
After they left, i finally breathe.
I collapsed on my knees.
Screamed.
Sobbed until my throat tore.
As I tried to crawl away, a voice whispered behind me.
"Why are you crying, sweet Jaina?"
I turned.
It was the hooded man. Alone now.
I screamed, but he only chuckled.
His face hidden, his tone sweet, like honey laced with glass.
"Do not fear for John.
" In thirty years' time, he will return.
Stronger, greater than ever.
"he would become The happy man"
And with that—he vanished.
*******
When I stumbled back to town, i found that everything was… normal.
The streets alive with chatter.
Shops open. People laughing.
I ran to them, shouting about John, the blood, the circus.
But they stared blankly,confused.
They didn't remember John. Or his grandfather. Or the priest.
It was as if they had never existed.
Even my parents, when I begged them to recall, said: "Who is John Lemis?"
Everyone's memory about them was… erased.
I tried to leave, but there was no road.
No way out. We were trapped.
Only outsiders could enter. None of us could leave.
And no one was bothered by that.
And so… I remained the only witness.
Thirty Years Later
Now I write this as an old woman, rocking in my chair, watching the clock strike New Year's Eve.
Thirty years since that night.
My son, Avan, is at university.
He is safe, I hope.
He must never know the truth.
Never know that his mother sat in the circus of blood, that she watched dreams twist into slaughter.
Because tonight… the Ringmaster returns.
And I fear my son will not have a mother or father when he comes home.
End of Journal
Stream Commentary; Tape #34. "The Happy Man"
(leans back in his chair, goggles glinting in the dim light)
"Well… that's the end of Jaina's journal.
Heavy, huh? I bet half of you reading thought this was just going to be about a boy and his circus dream.
Cute, right? Dreams are sweet.
Until they get fed to the wrong kind of audience."
[@Enchomay:…I don't know if I should pity John or fear him. He was mocked, humiliated, cornered… all for dreaming differently. Isn't it society that built the stage for that hooded man to walk on?]
[@642:Pfft, you're being dramatic. That boy didn't just want a circus, he wanted blood balloons and spine puppets! Don't make it sound poetic. He enjoyed it. Did you hear how happy he was?]
[@642: Happiness is relative, you see. To him, slaughter was applause. Every scream was a standing ovation. He became what they laughed at. Isn't that… beautiful?]
[@Jaija: …Or tragic. Imagine a child believing love means compliance. He only wanted someone to clap for him. His real grandfather loved him, but not in the way John understood. And so he chose the fake one.]
[@Ovesix: Tch. No excuses. Plenty of kids are mocked, plenty grow up with no support. They don't tear priests apart or walk away with skin-monsters. He made a choice. That's on him]
(Kai smiles faintly, tapping the desk)
"You see? That's the beauty of horror—it doesn't hand you the answers.
John is a mirror.
To some of you, he's a victim.
To others, a monster.
But listen carefully—both are true.
He was a boy with a dream, but he became a man with blood on his hands.
And the thing about becoming a monster?
It doesn't happen in one step.
It starts with a laugh, a sneer, a shove in the dirt.
Small cruelties ripen into large ones."
(leans closer, voice lowering)
"So here's a warning, for those of you who can't sleep tonight:
"Mock someone's dream long enough, and someone else will offer them a darker one."
[@Ovesix:…So you're blaming the townsfolk, huh?]
"I'm blaming everyone.
Society that laughs at what's strange.
Adults that don't listen.
Children who follow cruelty like sheep.
And yes—John himself, who chose applause over love."
[@642: I would've clapped for him. I like his circus]
[@Jaija:…That's exactly why people like you shouldn't be allowed near children]
[@Jaija: and Jaina wanted her son to be safe and away....she forgot that Avan is also part of the townsfolk]
(Kai stares at the screen)
"And what about you, dear reader?
Where do you stand?
Are you with Jaina, trembling in the blood-soaked seats?
With John, smiling as the crowd cheers?
Or with the hooded man, whispering promises in the dark?"
(pauses, tilts head)
"Choose carefully.
Because the circus isn't gone—it only waits. Thirty years, he said.
Time moves quickly, doesn't it?"
(Kai claps once, and the screen flickers)
"Well, I won't keep you staring at blood forever.
Our next story takes us away from cursed towns and child ringmasters.
But don't relax just yet… because next time, we're stepping into the classroom."
(smile sharpens)
"Lesson one: never assume the person sitting beside you is human."
(in a whisper)
"Next show: My Senior Is Not Human.
Don't be late."
STREAM ENDED