Phish Tales

It was a crisp autumn night, one where the moon dared barely peek through the gnarled October clouds, that Esther chanced upon the fairground near town. Friends, I tell you, there’s something about fairgrounds after dusk — an eerie transition from a place of laughter to a sinister carnival of shadows. But our tale hinges on the peculiar encounter of young Esther, and an entity I assure you, no soul would wish to meet when the lights dim and the cold wind howls.

As the fair’s lights flickered like the mischief of a candle’s flame, Esther noticed him — the Armenian man. A figure of peculiar fascination, his presence was an unwelcome chill down her spine, his grin a labyrinth of unknown intent. The bucket in his hand swung as if it contained the world’s secrets, or perhaps, its imminent horrors.

Friends, have you ever met someone whose very existence felt like a glitch in reality? The air around this Armenian was dense with an aura that screamed, ‘flee!’ Yet, Esther, innocent and curious Esther, stayed. It’s that morbid curiosity, isn’t it? The same one that makes us stare at accidents on the highway.

He offered her a puppet, an odd exchange for the chopping of his legs, he jested — or at least, so it seemed. The puppet, dear readers, wasn’t just strings and fabric. Its eyes held centuries of cunning, an abyss you might fall into if you stared long enough. It was an object wrong in all senses, a thing that begged to be cast back into the darkest corners of obscurity.

Yet, Esther took it.

Rushing to the church, as if sacred ground could save her from what she’d unleashed, Esther found no solace. For the puppet was a key, and what it unlocked in the house of the holy was sheer pandemonium. The congregation turned vile, humanity forgotten, savagery unleashed — all under the watchful, sparkling hollow eyes of the puppet.

In her frantic escape, Esther found herself not running but floating, an unwilling passenger on an air current with no destination. Below, the world morphed into a grotesque tapestry of shadow and malice. The puppet, readers, wasn’t just a puppet. It was a harbinger, a manipulator of fates, turning a benign reality into a canvas of nightmares.

Esther’s descent brought her to the town’s vilest part, where darkness was not just a result of the absent sun but of souls long lost to depravity. Hiding, she waited for dawn, her only companion the weight of the puppet, an anchor to an ever-growing storm of dread.

The morning, however, bore no respite. For in this twisted reality, even the joggers — yes, friends, the joggers — morphed into a mob, their intentions murderous. Forced into the frosty lake, Esther sought to shed her sodden clothes, only to find the puppet clinging, dragging her down to the depths.

And as her struggles ceased, and the green deep consumed her, the last thing she heard was laughter — the Armenian man’s triumphant, haunting cackle. It filled the void, the space between life and the after, a lullaby to Esther’s eternal slumber.

So, dear readers, beware the fairgrounds where shadows dwell, and never trust a grin in the dim light. For there are things that lurk at the fringes of our world, waiting for an Esther of their own. And if you feel a tug on your soul one lonely night, pray you have the strength to let go.