Neverending Carousel
By
Morgan Chalfant
Tamsen Plante combed the small Berlin curio shop, while her fellow history graduate students went into a jewelry store next door. Eventually, she meandered down an aisle toward the back of the store. After a bit of perusing, her eyes caught sight of a small object half obscured by a pile of second-hand clothing. Brushing the garments aside, soon she was staring at a snow globe.
At first glance, it was clearly extremely old, with a dinged up wooden base. She picked it up. She hadn’t owned one when she was a little girl, but for some reason, something drew her over to the toy. She was approaching thirty and it had been quite some time since she had an interest in childish trinkets, but she couldn’t let go of it. Warmth radiated from the glass globe. Its base had a rough texture, hewn by hand.
Instinctually, she upended the snow globe and then tipped it back up, witnessing the snowstorm she created inside the orb. The tiny white flakes drifted down like leaves from trees made of bone, clashing with the black carousel in the center. Red horses. Five of them. Each with indecipherable markings across their sides, and each supported by a tiny, vertical golden pole. Not cherry red. Not candy apple or raspberry or desire. Congeal red.
As Tamsen rotated the snowy globe, the carousel spun on its axis. A clicking filled her ears, like the notches of a windlass, like the popping of adolescent knuckles that no doubt had once been party to holding the toy.
When Tamsen turned it over to look at the base more closely, she noticed a six-sided star burned into the bottom. The blackened runnels were burned deep with purpose. Beside it, was etched the name Koch.
The clicking grew in speed and intensity. Tamsen felt like someone was rapidly snapping their fingers in her ear. She put her finger in one ear and wiggled it, hoping the sound would cease, but it did not. When she looked inside the sphere, the carousel still turned, but much more rapidly. That doesn’t make sense, she thought. She hadn’t spun the snow dome quickly enough for it to gain the momentum necessary. Yet the carousel spun.
The rampant clicking could have been the pounding of hooves, as if the horses of the carousel were propelling it in a never-ending rotation. The droplets of snow seemed dirtier now. Grayer. Tamsen chalked it up to a dirty spot on the glass, so she rubbed it with the palm of her hand, but it did nothing to change the tinge of the snow. Her eyes had to be playing tricks on her.
She brought the snow globe up to her face. The clicking transformed to pounding—more like clanging really. All of a sudden, the wood and the glass began to warm in her hands, as though some viscous residue was seeping into her flesh. In a minute, it was too hot to hold with anything but her fingertips. The liquid inside the dome began to roil and churn and bubble.
In the blink of an eye, the black carousel was no longer miniscule, but it loomed before her full-sized, crusted with black striations. Tamsen’s heart raced. Her brain couldn’t process what was happening. She rubbed her eyes, smearing her makeup. Still, the carousel moved.
Snow continued to sprinkle onto Tamsen’s shoulders and collect in her chestnut hair, but her lungs burned with each breath and sweat began to roll down her forehead. Suddenly, it was unbearably hot. A single large flake fluttered down from a dismal sky, landing on her ear. It wasn’t the cold sensation of frozen moisture. It was like fire.
Tamsen winced and rubbed her ear where the flake had reddened her skin. No. It was ash. Hot billowing ash.
A hot wind pounded her face, whistling through the rungs of the carousel. Her eyes watered. On wobbly, fear-stricken legs, she approached the carousel. It slowed its grinding rotations but did not stop. It continued its tarnished procession. The closer she came, the hotter the oppressive breeze was, until the smell of something burning wafted across her nose, making her stomach turn. She almost toppled forward as she repressed the urge to vomit.
Covering her nose and mouth, she fought off the nausea, but then, the soles of her feet began to sting like she was walking on the sizzling pavement.
When she looked down, her breath caught in her throat. Her feet were bare, amid mounds of steadily collecting ash. When her gaze drifted to her clothes, she was not wearing the jeans or the blouse she had put on that morning, but filthy gray rags with cornflower blue stripes. On the chest, sewn with cheap black thread, was a six-sided gold star, and in the center of it was the word: Jude.
When she lifted her unclouded eyes to the black carousel, its dark countenance was finally crystal clear—as clear as the globe she had seen it in for the first time. She no longer saw just the black, soot stains, but the small pockets of marbled bone they blemished. The taxidermy-leather skin of each horse, not horseflesh at all, shone like a beacon of the terrible deeds done by humanity, to humanity. Up close, Tamsen saw the once illegible marks upon the skin for what they really were. Blue ink. Numbers.
And as the carousel came around again, hovering just over the platform were the spectral shapes of more than a dozen men and women, all wearing the same rags that covered Tamsen’s body. It was then that some otherworldly revelation was planted in her panicked brain. She let out a scream that reverberated across the monstrous effigy of genocide.
The macabre slideshow overwhelmed her. She couldn’t breathe. She collapsed to the floor, only to realize a millisecond later that she was sitting on the warped floor of the tiny curio shop once more, the snow globe still clutched in her hands. The rags were gone. Her sandals were back on her feet. The cool air flowed from the vent in the floor, trickling across her toes.
Promptly, Tamsen stood up, collected herself, and trudged over to the counter. The snow globe felt heavier now. The clicking resounded like the unoiled swinging of a perpetual pendulum. The globe was like a ball and chain attached to not just her hand, but to her soul—to the souls of its victims.
Tamsen forked over the currency to the young girl at the counter, insisting she didn’t need a bag for the item, and made for the door.
She knew the carousel never stopped—even when she stepped outside onto the sidewalk and smashed the snow globe into the concrete. Glass scattered. Water sprayed. Weight lifted. And Tamsen hoped, souls flew. Still, the carousel of the world never stopped. It was eternal. For the earth spun inviolate, and evil still lived.
Morgan Chalfant is a novelist, poet, and an instructor of writing at Fort Hays State University. He is a native of Hill City, Kansas. He received his bachelor's degree in writing and his master's degree in literature from Fort Hays State University. He is the author of the horror/thriller novella, Focused Insanity, and the urban fantasy novels, Ghosts of Glory and Infernal Glory. In his free time, he likes delving into horror movies, collecting ancient weapons, practicing martial arts, and has a perpetual love for 1980s pop culture. You can find him online at Instagram: @eyesonly34 or at his Amazon Author page.
By
Morgan Chalfant
Tamsen Plante combed the small Berlin curio shop, while her fellow history graduate students went into a jewelry store next door. Eventually, she meandered down an aisle toward the back of the store. After a bit of perusing, her eyes caught sight of a small object half obscured by a pile of second-hand clothing. Brushing the garments aside, soon she was staring at a snow globe.
At first glance, it was clearly extremely old, with a dinged up wooden base. She picked it up. She hadn’t owned one when she was a little girl, but for some reason, something drew her over to the toy. She was approaching thirty and it had been quite some time since she had an interest in childish trinkets, but she couldn’t let go of it. Warmth radiated from the glass globe. Its base had a rough texture, hewn by hand.
Instinctually, she upended the snow globe and then tipped it back up, witnessing the snowstorm she created inside the orb. The tiny white flakes drifted down like leaves from trees made of bone, clashing with the black carousel in the center. Red horses. Five of them. Each with indecipherable markings across their sides, and each supported by a tiny, vertical golden pole. Not cherry red. Not candy apple or raspberry or desire. Congeal red.
As Tamsen rotated the snowy globe, the carousel spun on its axis. A clicking filled her ears, like the notches of a windlass, like the popping of adolescent knuckles that no doubt had once been party to holding the toy.
When Tamsen turned it over to look at the base more closely, she noticed a six-sided star burned into the bottom. The blackened runnels were burned deep with purpose. Beside it, was etched the name Koch.
The clicking grew in speed and intensity. Tamsen felt like someone was rapidly snapping their fingers in her ear. She put her finger in one ear and wiggled it, hoping the sound would cease, but it did not. When she looked inside the sphere, the carousel still turned, but much more rapidly. That doesn’t make sense, she thought. She hadn’t spun the snow dome quickly enough for it to gain the momentum necessary. Yet the carousel spun.
The rampant clicking could have been the pounding of hooves, as if the horses of the carousel were propelling it in a never-ending rotation. The droplets of snow seemed dirtier now. Grayer. Tamsen chalked it up to a dirty spot on the glass, so she rubbed it with the palm of her hand, but it did nothing to change the tinge of the snow. Her eyes had to be playing tricks on her.
She brought the snow globe up to her face. The clicking transformed to pounding—more like clanging really. All of a sudden, the wood and the glass began to warm in her hands, as though some viscous residue was seeping into her flesh. In a minute, it was too hot to hold with anything but her fingertips. The liquid inside the dome began to roil and churn and bubble.
In the blink of an eye, the black carousel was no longer miniscule, but it loomed before her full-sized, crusted with black striations. Tamsen’s heart raced. Her brain couldn’t process what was happening. She rubbed her eyes, smearing her makeup. Still, the carousel moved.
Snow continued to sprinkle onto Tamsen’s shoulders and collect in her chestnut hair, but her lungs burned with each breath and sweat began to roll down her forehead. Suddenly, it was unbearably hot. A single large flake fluttered down from a dismal sky, landing on her ear. It wasn’t the cold sensation of frozen moisture. It was like fire.
Tamsen winced and rubbed her ear where the flake had reddened her skin. No. It was ash. Hot billowing ash.
A hot wind pounded her face, whistling through the rungs of the carousel. Her eyes watered. On wobbly, fear-stricken legs, she approached the carousel. It slowed its grinding rotations but did not stop. It continued its tarnished procession. The closer she came, the hotter the oppressive breeze was, until the smell of something burning wafted across her nose, making her stomach turn. She almost toppled forward as she repressed the urge to vomit.
Covering her nose and mouth, she fought off the nausea, but then, the soles of her feet began to sting like she was walking on the sizzling pavement.
When she looked down, her breath caught in her throat. Her feet were bare, amid mounds of steadily collecting ash. When her gaze drifted to her clothes, she was not wearing the jeans or the blouse she had put on that morning, but filthy gray rags with cornflower blue stripes. On the chest, sewn with cheap black thread, was a six-sided gold star, and in the center of it was the word: Jude.
When she lifted her unclouded eyes to the black carousel, its dark countenance was finally crystal clear—as clear as the globe she had seen it in for the first time. She no longer saw just the black, soot stains, but the small pockets of marbled bone they blemished. The taxidermy-leather skin of each horse, not horseflesh at all, shone like a beacon of the terrible deeds done by humanity, to humanity. Up close, Tamsen saw the once illegible marks upon the skin for what they really were. Blue ink. Numbers.
And as the carousel came around again, hovering just over the platform were the spectral shapes of more than a dozen men and women, all wearing the same rags that covered Tamsen’s body. It was then that some otherworldly revelation was planted in her panicked brain. She let out a scream that reverberated across the monstrous effigy of genocide.
The macabre slideshow overwhelmed her. She couldn’t breathe. She collapsed to the floor, only to realize a millisecond later that she was sitting on the warped floor of the tiny curio shop once more, the snow globe still clutched in her hands. The rags were gone. Her sandals were back on her feet. The cool air flowed from the vent in the floor, trickling across her toes.
Promptly, Tamsen stood up, collected herself, and trudged over to the counter. The snow globe felt heavier now. The clicking resounded like the unoiled swinging of a perpetual pendulum. The globe was like a ball and chain attached to not just her hand, but to her soul—to the souls of its victims.
Tamsen forked over the currency to the young girl at the counter, insisting she didn’t need a bag for the item, and made for the door.
She knew the carousel never stopped—even when she stepped outside onto the sidewalk and smashed the snow globe into the concrete. Glass scattered. Water sprayed. Weight lifted. And Tamsen hoped, souls flew. Still, the carousel of the world never stopped. It was eternal. For the earth spun inviolate, and evil still lived.
Morgan Chalfant is a novelist, poet, and an instructor of writing at Fort Hays State University. He is a native of Hill City, Kansas. He received his bachelor's degree in writing and his master's degree in literature from Fort Hays State University. He is the author of the horror/thriller novella, Focused Insanity, and the urban fantasy novels, Ghosts of Glory and Infernal Glory. In his free time, he likes delving into horror movies, collecting ancient weapons, practicing martial arts, and has a perpetual love for 1980s pop culture. You can find him online at Instagram: @eyesonly34 or at his Amazon Author page.