House of Mirrors

A thunder cloud towered theatrically in the purple sky and threatened a hard rain, but that was of no concern to Arthur Beadle. He leaned into the stiffening breeze and made his way across the fairgrounds. Tattered tents flapped dispiritedly, and loose pine straw swirled around his old brown boots. Winding through the long-forsaken arcade, past derelict concession stands, he skirted rusted fences guarding empty lots once alive with convulsing metallic monsters and flashing lights, haunted now by the screams of happy children. Arthur quickened his steps toward the big house wearing a coat of red paint nearly worn off, the only remaining structure spared by time and the elements.