Chapter 5: Sinister Sweet Mead
The ghostly warmth of the lattes faded from their bodies, leaving behind an unnerving emptiness and the biting chill of the carnival’s dead air. The Hollow Brew café had vanished as if it were never there, another phantom memory in a place made of them. A disturbing silence that felt heavier and more malevolent than before had replaced the distant mocking laughter.
They were huddled together on the dark, cobblestone street, each of them grappling with the same chilling realization. The apple. The latte. They had been tricked into consuming pieces of this place, letting its essence take root inside them. Were they were becoming part of the exhibit?
“I can still feel it,” Raven said, her voice a low whisper. She wrapped her arms around her stomach. “The coffee. It feels… warm. And wrong.”
“It’s a mark,” Luna said, her expression grim. Her usual ethereal calm was gone, replaced by a stark, chilling clarity. “We’ve been marked. From the inside out.”
Before they could spiral further into that horrifying thought, a new sound cut through the silence. It was music, but unlike the manic calliope that defined the main midway, this was a slow, haunting melody. It was played on a stringed instrument—a lute or a harp, perhaps—a sad, beautiful tune that seemed to pull at something deep inside them. It spoke of ancient things, of long-forgotten celebrations and deep, abiding sorrow.
“Where is that coming from?” Willow asked, her head tilted toward the sound.
The melody seemed to come from the end of the street, where the darkness was thickest. As they listened, a structure began to resolve itself from the gloom. It was a large tent, its canvas made of alternating stripes of deep burgundy and tarnished gold. The fabric was old and weathered, but it stood proudly, its peaks reaching toward the black sky. The haunting music seemed to emanate directly from it.
“Do we follow the creepy, ghost music into the creepy, ghost tent?” Jasper asked, his voice trembling. “Because my gut, which is currently full of potentially evil latte, is screaming no.”
“What other choice is there?” Ash countered, his eyes fixed on the tent. “Sit here and wait for the next nightmare to find us? At least this way, we’re moving toward it.” Ash’s logic was grim, but it had become their reality. In the Carnival of Eternal Night, passivity was a death sentence.
Drawn by the hypnotic melody, they moved toward the tent. The closer they got, the more a new collection of scents mingled with the cold, damp air. It was the rich, sweet aroma of wild berries and golden honey, underpinned by the smoky, woody smell of a bonfire. It was a primal, ancient scent, evoking images of harvest festivals and pagan rituals under a full moon. It was the scent of mead.
The entrance to the tent was a simple, dark flap of canvas. No one stood guard. The music from within was clear now, a single, melancholic tune that was both beautiful and deeply unsettling. With a shared, hesitant breath, Raven pushed the flap aside and stepped inside.
The interior was a single, vast space. The ground was covered in dry straw, and the air was thick with the scent of berry mead and the smoky perfume of oak wood burning in several ornate, iron braziers scattered around the perimeter. The source of the music was a lone figure sitting on a stool in the far corner, hunched over a lute, their face completely hidden by the shadows of a deep hood. They didn’t look up as the group entered, their fingers continuing to pluck the haunting melody from the strings.
In the center of the tent stood a single, long wooden table, rough-hewn and dark with age. Set upon it were seven ornate goblets, wrought from a dark, tarnished silver. Six were arranged on one side of the table. One stood alone on the other. Each goblet was filled to the brim with a dark, shimmering liquid, the color of deep plum, that seemed to absorb the flickering light from the braziers.
“It’s a banquet,” Finn muttered, his voice low. “A table set for seven. Us, and someone else.”
“Or something else,” Jasper corrected, his eyes wide.
They approached the table cautiously. The liquid in the goblets smelled divine, the sweet berry and honey aroma a powerful lure to their exhausted senses. But they knew better now. Every gift in this place was a hook.
As soon as they were all gathered around the table, the music stopped. The sudden silence was jarring. The figure with the lute had vanished from the corner, the stool now empty. At the same time, the entrance flap behind them disappeared, melting into a seamless wall of striped canvas.
Then came a low, grinding sound. They turned to look at the walls of the tent. From hidden slits in the canvas, thousands of iron spikes, each the length of a human arm and sharpened to a vicious point, began to slide out with a horrifying, metallic rasp. The walls themselves began to move, closing in on them from all sides. The spacious tent was rapidly becoming a shrinking spiked cage of death.
“Oh, you have got to be kidding me!” Jasper shrieked, backing away from the advancing wall of spikes until his back hit the edge of the long table.
Panic flared. Ash drew his knife, a useless gesture against the mechanical horror. Finn searched desperately for a seam, a weak point, an exit, but there was none. The walls closed in steadily, the points of the spikes gleaming in the firelight, promising a gruesome, agonizing end.
“There’s no way out!” Willow cried, her voice cracking with terror.
As the walls constricted, a new figure appeared at the head of the table, standing behind the single, isolated goblet. It seemed to coalesce from the shadows themselves. It was draped in a tattered, black cloak, its face entirely obscured by a deep, dark hood from which no light escaped. It was impossible to tell if it was man, woman, or something else entirely. It simply stood, a pillar of darkness and silence, its presence radiating an ancient, cold authority.
The cloaked figure raised its arms, its long, tattered sleeves unfolding like the wings of a bat. When it spoke, its voice was a chorus of echoes, a thousand dry whispers speaking as one, filling the shrinking space.
“Welcome, weary travelers,” the voice echoed. “You have endured the games. You have tasted the carnival’s gifts. Now, a final toast. To end the night.”
It gestured with a long, pale hand toward the six goblets arranged before them.
“What do you want?” Raven demanded, as she stood tall with false bravery.
“To open the way,” the figure replied, its voice an unsettling harmony of whispers. “Your journey is nearly complete. The carnival does not release its guests lightly—only those who partake in the closing ritual earn their exit.”
Finn’s fear faltered into defiance. “We’re not playing your games anymore.”
The figure’s hidden face turned toward him, shadows pooling in its hood. “You must participate. The only way forward is a toast—a ritual of passage. The way home is waiting, just beyond the rim of your glass.”
The walls groaned, a fresh wave of spikes inching closer, pressing the urgency of the choice.
The figure raised its own goblet. It began to chant, its voice taking on a rhythmic, poetic cadence. The words were strange, ancient, and resonated with a power that made the air hum.
“Raise your glass and seal the night,
A drink to bind, a fleeting light.
Through shadow’s veil, the path is shown,
What’s lost returns, a new found home.”
The words hung in the air, a spell disguised as a rhyme. “What’s lost returns, a new found home.” The meaning was terrifyingly vague.
“Repeat the words,” the figure commanded, its voice leaving no room for refusal. The wall of spikes lurched forward, the sharp points pricking their skin through their clothes. “Drink, and the way will open.”
Trapped, with no other option, they looked at each other, a silent, desperate communication passing between them. They had to survive. Raven gave a sharp, almost imperceptible nod.
One by one, they reached out with trembling hands and picked up the heavy, silver goblets. The dark liquid within shimmered, and the sweet, cloying scent of berry and honey filled their nostrils.
“Repeat it,” Raven said, her voice a croak.
Together, their voices shaking, they recited the spell. “Raise your glass and seal the night,” they began, their words a weak echo of the figure’s powerful chant. “A drink to bind, a fleeting light. Through shadow’s veil, the path is shown. What’s lost returns, a new found home.”
As they spoke the final word, the air in the tent grew thick and heavy. The figure nodded slowly, a gesture of grim satisfaction. “Drink,” it commanded.
With a shared look of utter despair, they raised the goblets to their lips. The mead was thick and syrupy. As they drank, a searing heat, far more intense than the warmth of the lattes, coursed down their throats and into their stomachs. It was liquid fire, burning them from the inside out. It tasted of honey and rot, of berries and blood, of joy and unending sorrow. It was the taste of the forest itself, of the ancient, hungry entity, concentrated into a single, binding draught.
Gagging, they finished the drink. The moment the last drop was consumed, the world dissolved.
The figure, the table, the goblets, the approaching walls of spikes—they all vanished. The burning in their throats and stomachs remained, a searing internal brand. The tent was gone.
They were standing on a new path, under the same starless, black sky. They were back on the main midway, the one they had first entered. In the distance, they could see the dark, beckoning mouth of the Forgotten Funhouse and the skeletal frame of The Last Ride. But something was different. A section of the midway that had previously been blocked by a wall of impenetrable darkness was now open, revealing a path leading away, toward the edge of the woods.
A way out.
The haunting lute music started again, not from a tent, but from the air all around them—a strange, mournful dirge that seemed to urge them onward. The ritual was finished. The oppressive walls and spikes had vanished, and a new path was open at last. A wave of staggering relief rolled through the group. They had survived the tent, survived another impossible trial, and now the carnival itself seemed to be letting them go.
With cautious hope, they stepped onto the newly revealed exit, hearts pounding as they left the darkness of the midway behind. The air was colder and quieter, but for the first time, it felt like freedom could be just ahead. Whatever the true meaning of the ritual, whatever secrets the carnival still held, for this fleeting moment, escape was within their grasp.
The Legend Of Black Hollow. © 2025 | Horrified Candles. All Rights Reserved.
