The Carnal Carnival

Kellan stood quietly, shifting his weight as he gazed over the cliffside his cabin clung to with stubborn determination.

The little structure perched above the Atlantic in a manner that seemed less like construction and more like a long-forgotten compromise with gravity. Its foundation leaned slightly toward the sea, weather-beaten boards groaning whenever the coastal winds pressed against them too hard.

Another autumn morning had settled over Lubec in shades of gray. Low clouds swallowed the sky whole, muting the world into soft charcoal and silver. Far below, the ocean rolled endlessly against jagged rocks, white foam stark against the dark water. The cold wasn’t biting today. It was gentler than that. The sort of chill that settled into a man’s bones with familiar hands and never truly left this stretch of Maine.

Salt, pine sap, and damp earth drifted through the air, carried inland by Atlantic gales that combed through the surrounding forest.

Kellan welcomed it. The wind tugged lazily at his wavy brown hair, strands falling into striking lavender eyes before drifting away again. At nineteen, his sharp jawline made him appear older than he was, though traces of youth still lingered beneath the exhaustion etched into his features.

He was lean, but powerfully built. Every muscle had been earned through years of hauling timber, swinging axes, and surviving on far less food than a growing boy should have. Tawny skin bore the reminders of countless trials overcome. Cuts and scars dotted his arms, each one marking a mistake, a problem solved, or an ill-advised decision made through equal parts overconfidence and stubborn determination.

His flannel hung loose where it had been patched and resewn. One sleeve bore mismatched stitching. The cuffs had long since frayed into soft strands. The boots on his feet were older than some of the younger mill workers and had been repaired so many times that more of them consisted of patchwork leather than original material.

He raised a stained blue mug and took a slow sip of coal-black coffee. The mug itself was ridiculous, its very existance parallel that of Kellan's.

A faded cartoon dog wearing a crooked pirate hat grinned enthusiastically from the side. Beneath it, bright yellow letters proclaimed: KEEP YAR CHIN UP!

And below that:

YOU’RE HOME AT LUBEC~ The colors had begun to crack with age.

Kellan stared at it for a moment before letting out a long breath through his nose. The thing sat in his hand with all the dignity of a dead fish. His mind drifted back to the day his logging supervisor had presented it to him.

A reward?

Congratulations?

Or a stagnant fuck you? Kellan couldn’t remember. All he could recall that it was his "recognition" for outperforming men twice his age. The memory made his eye twitch with annoyance .

“No,” he muttered to the empty coastline. “I don’t need more money. Straightening slightly, he adopted a cheerful tone. “I love how my roof leaks every spring,” he announced, throwing his head toward the sky while his fingers danced theatrically through the air.

A small bow accompanied the declaration.

“I love how the front door flies open whenever the wind catches it just right and damn near tears itself off the hinges.” Kellan spun on his heels and exhaled slowly. “What I’d really love is a stupid fucking mug!” he barked from his secluded wooden stage; his audience consisting entirely of gulls and poor life choices.

"Dicks'..." Kellan huffed to the coastline as spread his arms dramatically before taking another sip. The coffee wasn’t particularly good. It was cheap enough to qualify as a construction material and strong enough to dissolve regret. Still, it was warm and that counted for something atleast.

Behind him, through the cabin’s crooked doorway, nearly the entirety of his worldly possessions could be seen from where he stood. A narrow bed occupied one corner beneath a bucket strategically positioned to catch rainwater from the leaking roof. A wood stove dominated the room despite being nearly as old as the town itself. Beside it sat a small table with one uneven leg propped up by folded newspaper.There were no decorations, no photographs, no keepsakes.

Growing up in an orphanage hadn’t left him with much worth carrying. By fifteen, he’d traded childhood for a logging axe and a paycheck. Yes, the mill paid poorly, but atleast it paid. "Next year, I'll take a bus to Virgina or South Carolina! There's bound to be SOMETHING more than... this." Kellan would mumble like a mantra before bed. Four years later, he was still there. Still cutting. Still hauling. Still waking before dawn while most of Lubec slept.

The wind swept through the trees surrounding the cabin, stirring the dark pines into a low whisper. Branches swayed together, and for a moment the forest sounded almost alive. A stronger gust whipped at Kellan’s shirt and rattled the loose boards beneath his feet.

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll get back to it in a minute,” Kellan muttered to the woods. The Atlantic answered with another crashing wave below.For all its coldness, there was something comforting about mornings like this. The endless sea lining his section of quiet forest. The dull gray that covered the sky like a blanet. The biting ocean gails that nipped at any sliver of exposed flesh. No matter how much Kellan hated to admit it, there was a mutual, melancholic fondness that lay within him for his mundane life.

From the deer dancing through the undergrowth to the relentless clouds that seemed determined to consume the state, nothing expected anything from him out here.The ocean didn’t care where he’d come from. The trees didn’t care that he’d grown up unwanted. And the wind, cruel as it could be, never pretended to be anything other than what it was.

Kellan took another sip of coffee and stared toward the horizon. With an exasperated groan, he stretched his arms overhead, sending a few stray droplets of coffee onto the moss-covered earth below. The bitter brew sloshed inside the ridiculous blue mug while the pirate dog continued grinning with its mocking little face.

Kellan suspected the piece of shoddy porcelain took genuine pleasure in his suffering.

“Three days to kill,” he mused, gazing out at the gray Atlantic. “Might as well make some repairs to the house… or I could take a breather and recuperate before the mill opens back up.”The words had scarcely left his mouth before one of the shutters tore free from its frame. The wooden panel crashed onto the porch with a splintering crack.

Silence followed. Kellan stared at it only for the shutters to return the look. “Copacetic,” Kellan sneered, a salt-saturated gust swept through the clearing. The remaining shutters rattled ominously while they threatened to follow in their kin's actions.

“Why would I do something stupid like take a nap?”, Kellan retorted as a tired chuckle escaped him. It carried the same exhausted amusement as a man discovering his horse had learned to bite specifically out of spite.

The cabin, like many inconveniences in his life, had impeccable timing.

Almost four years of labor at the mill had taught Kellan many useful skills. He could fell a tree exactly where he wanted it. He could split logs with enough accuracy to impress seasoned lumbermen. He could drag timber through mud, snow, and rain until his shoulders felt carved from oak. What he could not do was win an argument with this cabin. Kellan had familiarized himself well with the structures supernatural talent for falling apart in entirely new ways.

By midmorning he’d retrieved his tools. By noon, he was standing atop a ladder attempting to reattach the rebellious shutter. The weathered boards beneath his boots creaked with concern.

“Stay with me,” Kellan muttered. The ladder remained unconvinced as the termite infested boards played with the idea of catastrophic failure.

His hands moved with practiced efficiency. Years of logging had sculpted more than muscle. They had taught him the art of practical labor—a wonderful gift wrapped in patched flannel and worn work clothes. Every swing of the hammer was precise. Every nail found its mark. Every grunt carried multiple meanings... mostly derogatory in translation.

The shutter surrendered first. Kellan stepped back to admire his work with a proud grin. However, the moment was fleeting as three porch boards spintered under the weight of the ladder. This setback was not enough to be catastrophic. Just enough to be disrespectful.

The rotten planks vanished into the darkness beneath the cabin with a spectacular crunch. Kellan stared. The porch stared back. Far below, a wave smashed against the cliffs, mirroring the oceans sheer delight at the scene.

“I’ll kill you…” he muttered flatly.

The rest of the afternoon was filled with cackling gulls, grinding saws, and the clatter of materials as Kellan performed what could generously be described as maintenance—or, more accurately, invasive surgery to keep the cabin from finally accepting death. Repairing the porch revealed water damage. Adressing the water damage revealed termites. Investigating the termites revealed a section of wall that, in highly technical terms, had apparently become Bluetooth several years ago.

By late afternoon, Kellan was patching shingles atop the roof while balanced in a position that would have horrified anyone with a healthy sense of self-preservation. A gull landed nearby, watched him work, and judged him silently.

“You gonna help or sit there and look pretty?” Kellan asked, raising an eyebrow.

The gull responded by relieving itself on a freshly repaired section of roof.

“Yeah, that checks.”

Kellan lay back against the shingles while the roof creaked ominously beneath him. “I swear,” he sighed, staring at the darkening sky, “one day I will burn you to the ground!”

The endless blanket of gray clouds turned violet as evening settled over the coast. The forest surrounding the cabin became little more than dark silhouettes against the fading horizon, pine tops whispering together beneath the gathering night. By the time Kellan finally climbed down from the roof, every muscle in his body protested.

The cabin remained standing and that counted as a victory. A fleeting victory perhaps, but a victory nonetheless.

After a simple supper beside the stove, he sank into his chair and let the warmth of the fire seep into his aching bones. Outside, the wind threaded through the forest as it always did, rattling branches and whispering through the pines. Familiar, comfortable, and most enjoyable, quiet sounds. The sort that reminded him why he preferred the woods to most people. As Kellan's eyes grew heavy, an unfamiliar chorus intruded through the walls of the groaning cabin.

Kellan frowned. At first, he thought it was the wind. A faint melody drifted through the darkness.

Strings.

Brass.

Laughter.

His eyes lifted from the fire, as the faint music surrounded his silent cabin. For a moment he sat motionless, straining to listen. For a moment, he considered ignoring it and surrendering to the warm embrace of his sunken mattress in the other room.

Preservation passed quickly and curiosity slowly took its place.Without thinking, Kellan rose from his chair, crossed the creaking floorboards, and slipped through the front door.

Cold air rushed inside, wrapping around him as though inviting him into the night. The forest stretched before him, dark and empty beneath the moonlight.Yet somewhere beyond the trees, music played. Not a fiddle from a neighboring cabin or a forgotten radio from his workspace... an orchestra. The sounds of celebration faded in to match the ghostly melody that surrounded Kellen.

The sounds of celebration...the sounds of hundreds of people.

All of this would have been considerably less concerning if there had actually been hundreds of people anywhere near him. His nearest neighbor lived miles away and regarded casual conversation as an act of aggression punishable by a decrepit shotgun he had, with surprising affection, christened Shit Stain.

The music drifted through the pines once more. Clearer now. Warmer as if it was composing itself as it was played. A gust swept through the clearing. Not toward the ocean but to the heart of the forest. The trees ahead rustled as the melody swelled, beckoning anyone who was brave enough, or who lacked the primal instinct of self preservation, to vernture into its tantelizing darkness.

Kellan grabbed his coat. “Either someone’s throwing the world’s most inconvenient festival,” he muttered, “or I’ve finally worked myself into a hallucination.” Neither explanation felt particularly reassuring and wind offered no opinion in the matter. A few moments later, he found himself walking beneath the towering pines, only illuminated by the faint moonlight that cascaded through the branches overhead.

The deeper he traveled, the stranger the forest became. Kellan had grown up among the pines, but something seemed different here. Not dangerous, just, merely wrong.

“Yeah, keep going, Kellan,” he grumbled into the frigid air. “This is totally normal. Definitely not a skinwalker luring you to its den… or a witches’ coven-" Kellan felt a shiver run down his spine as a chorus of laughter broke through the thicket. "-Or worse… a Bible study.”

Talking to himself seemed to be the only thing keeping him from turning around in retreat. The shadows stretched farther than they should as the familiar sents of the forest gave way to something undescribable. The air carried the faint smell of woodsmoke, caramel, and something sweet he couldn’t identify. Ahead, warm colors flickered through the trees. Shades of gold, amber and crimson peaked through the tangled treelimbs and shrubs as Kellan pushed further into the undergrowth.

The music grew louder. Behind him, the sounds of the forest seemed to retreat. As Kellan slowed his pace his heart began to dance inside his chest. Each pulse served as a warning of preservation while every instinct told him there should be nothing here. Hell, every plausible explanation screamed that nothing about this could be natural. No fliers in town mentioned any "woodland parties". No roads stretched this deep into the woods as most of it was preserved land. Nothing but endless forest was supposed to lay before him... yet the sounds continued.

Kellan breached one final wall of pines that stood before him only to freeze as a chill gripped the base of his spine.

An enormous wrought-iron gate stood in a clearing that should not have existed. Beyond it rose towering circus tents striped in crimson and gold. Thousands of lanterns bathed the grounds in warm light amber light as music drifted from somewhere unseen. Crowds wandered between attractions under brilliant banners that fluttered in a wind Kellan couldn’t feel.

For an event placed in the center of nowhere, everything was uncanilly pristine. Not a speck of mud stained the pathways. Every rope stood perfectly taut, every banner fluttered in graceful harmony, and every booth aligned with uncanny precision, forming avenues so immaculate they seemed measured by something greater than human hands .

The circus looked impossibly perfect; like a dream someone had forgotten to wake from.

Slowly, Kellan turned and looked behind him. Nothing but endless forest circled the fairgrounds as if attempting to shield the festivities from the outside world.Ahead stood an immaculate circus large enough to house an entire town, impossibly smuggled into the middle of the Maine wilderness.

The lights danced across his lavender eyes as the lanterns shimmered beyond the iron gates. Kellan stood unmoving for a long moment, every sensible thought in his mind screaming for him to turn around.

But something deeper urged him forward.

His body betrayed him. One warry step turned into a slow stride. The stride evolved into a quickened strut as he ventured past the gate and into the maw of the uncanny.

A grin slowly spread across Kellan's face as he ventured deeper into the sprawling sea of tents and attractions.

“Alright…” he breathed excitedly. “Not a Bible study.”