Bobo

Chapter Eight - Musical Graves

The air around them felt substantial, laden with the tension of what had just transpired. The shock of Freddie's betrayal still clung to the group like a shroud, suffocating any attempts at reconciliation. They were all fractured now, their trust shattered into pieces that couldn't easily be put back together. But there was no time to dwell on it. Not with Bobo's voice still echoing in their ears, an icy reminder that the nightmare wasn't over.

Bobo's latest command led them to a wide, open field at the far end of the carnival grounds. The area was surrounded by skeletal trees, their twisted branches clawed at the sky like the bony fingers of some long-dead giant. In the centre of the field, an old, weathered gramophone stood on a pedestal, its brass horn beamed portentously in the murky light, polluted by fog. Scattered across the field were rectangular patches of freshly disturbed earth— graves, waiting to be filled. There were fewer graves than people, and the implications were immediately clear. This was no ordinary game of Musical Chairs. "Welcome to Musical Graves, my little mice," Bobo's voice tutted through the speakers, fastened with false warmth. "The rules are simple: when the music plays, you will move around the graves. But when it stops... well, you'll need to find a place to rest. The last person standing will have to make a difficult choice— who will be spared. And remember... only the living can walk away."

The group exchanged frightened glances; many held the same though - there was no way out of this. They had to play, whether they wanted to or not. The gramophone sparked to life, its needle scratched against the old record as it began to play the familiar, haunting melody of Ring Around the Rosie, the notes antic and eerie, rolled in the cold night air. The group hesitated for a moment, but the fear of being left standing was too great. Slowly, they began to move, circling the graves with opposed steps.

Sam's heart pounded in his chest; the adrenaline coursed through his veins making his clenched fists shake. His fingers twitched, and he briefly wished he could reach for the bottle of alcohol he kept hidden away, the one that dulled the sharp edges of his thoughts. But there was no escape here, no numbing the fear that gnawed at him from the inside. He glanced over at Esther, who moved through the circle like a ghost, her eyes wide and terrified. She was usually a calm, grounded person, who could think clearly when everyone else panicked, much like Sam and Aydith. However now, she looked just as lost as the rest of them.

Sam's stomach swirled with a familiar guilt, a guilt that had driven him to the bottle in the first place. He'd been drinking to escape the pressure, the weight of everyone's expectations, and to avoid the cruel words he received daily from his mother. His father, all saw him as the golden boy, one who was capable of stepping up to the plate whenever help was needed or times were tough, and often Sam was often able to hold himself together on the outside, but inside, he was a mess, a ticking time bomb waiting to explode. The bourbon had become his crutch, his way of keeping it all at bay. But now, in this twisted carnival of horrors, it was clear that there was no running from his demons. Not anymore.

As the music's tempo increased, faster and more frantic, Sam couldn't shake the feeling that this might be his last chance to make things right. Esther had always believed in him, even when he hadn't believed in himself. He couldn't let her down. Not here, not now.

Aydith moved mechanically around the graves, her mind reeling from the horrors she'd already witnessed. The contorted music rang in her ears, growing louder with each step, each beat pushed her closer to the edge of a panic attack, something she had not had in over a year. Her eyes skimmed over the graves, over the petrified faces of her friends, and then they landed on Sam. He looked tense, more than usual, and she could see the conflict in his eyes. It worried her. Sam wasn't the type to freeze under pressure— he was the one who always had a plan, always knew what to do. But now... something was different.