Under the Devil's Big Top
Under the Devil's Big Top
You and your brother, Liam, take your seats. Suddenly, the lights go out. Sharp and without warning. An impenetrable darkness swallows the tent. The hall plunges into silence. Someone tries to turn on their phone flashlight. Nothing. They click the button again. The screen remains black. Almost immediately, confused voices rise from different corners of the tent. And then, someone whispers loudly:
— Who is breathing in my ear right now?
A wave of unease ripples through the hall. People begin to look around frantically, trying to make out anyone or anything in the pitch-black void.
Almost simultaneously, the same sensation rises from all sides: someone feels breath against their neck even though no one is there, while others feel hands brushing against their shoulders, arms, or legs, yet they are alone. And then, suddenly…
— HAHAHAHAHA!!!
A loud, manic laugh echoes beneath the circus dome… and just as abruptly, it cuts off. Before the audience can even recover, a spotlight flashes on. The arena is empty. It is only a moment later that the spectators realize they have been looking in the wrong direction all this time. Harlequin is standing right at the edge of the stage. He does not bow, he does not move, he does not speak. He simply smiles. Widely. Too widely. His eyes are wide and unblinking.
— Welcome, my beautiful lovers of the macabre! — Harlequin says loudly, spreading his arms wide and sweeping his gaze across the entire hall, — I am Harlequin, and it is with the utmost pleasure that I announce: our performance is beginning!
The audience, previously frozen in stupor, exchange glances, trying to discern if this was all part of the show, a trick of their imagination, or something truly mystical. For a few seconds, no one claps; the hall is silent. But then, someone lets out a nervous chuckle. Then, from a distant row, cautious applause breaks out. A few more people join in. Soon, the entire tent is clapping as if nothing strange is happening at all.
— Um… — Liam points a finger at your hand, — Since when have you been wearing gloves?
And that is when you notice a perfectly white glove on your left hand. Where did it come from?
Harlequin slowly scans the hall. He looks at his hands. On one is a glove; on the other, there is none. He lets out a theatrical sigh.
— Ay-ay-ay… What a pity. It seems someone among you has stolen my second glove, — Harlequin spreads his hands dramatically and slowly sweeps his gaze over the audience, — If you are here, little thief… do not be shy. Give it back.
His smile grows even wider. A chuckle ripples through the tent. Someone begins to look around, trying to find the prankster. A few people even lean up from their seats, peering at their neighbors.
Harlequin smiles broadly.
— Well then…
He snaps his fingers. The spotlight flickers for only a moment. When the light returns, the clown is no longer on the stage. A frightened gasp sweeps through the tent. His face is suddenly right next to yours, so close you can see the fine cracks in his white greasepaint.
— Found you.
He tilts his head to the side, extending his gloved hand toward you while hiding the other behind his back.
— Shall we dance?