The Carousel at Foster’s Point

I worked the summer of ’86 at Foster’s Point, a faded seaside amusement park that had seen better decades. My job was to keep an eye on the old carousel, a relic from the 1920s with peeling gold paint and horses whose eyes seemed to follow you. The owner, Mr. Pemberton, was a kindly but secretive man, and his mother, Mrs. Pemberton, was a tiny, bird-like woman who lived in a cottage on the pier. She’d been a carousel rider in her youth, and she’d tell me stories about the park’s golden days, her voice like wind through dry leaves. I grew fond of her, bringing her tea and listening to her tales, and she treated me like a grandson.

When she passed that autumn, I was heartbroken. She’d left me a small wooden horse, one of the original carousel figures, and a note that said, ‘Keep it safe. It remembers.’ I moved away soon after, taking the horse with me, and for two years, it sat on my shelf, gathering dust. I tried not to think about Foster’s Point.

Then, I moved in with my Aunt Irma and Uncle Lou, in a dusty inland town far from the coast. My room was at the end of a long hall, and my bed was pushed against the wall. One night, I woke from a dead sleep, not because of a sound, but because of a presence. It was heavy, pressing down on the air like before a thunderstorm. I kept my eyes squeezed shut, my heart thumping. I knew it was Mrs. Pemberton. Not in a ghostly, sheeted way, but something deeper, a scent of salt and old wood polish, the faint creak of the carousel’s gears.

I lay frozen as the presence filled the room, pressing into every corner. I felt it approach the side of my bed, hovering near my shoulder, and then a cool weight pressed against the mattress, as if someone were sitting down. A whisper, dry as sand, brushed my ear: ‘Get up, dear. The horses are waiting.’ I refused to open my eyes, but I felt a tug on my arm, insistent, gentle, but firm. I shook my head, pulling the covers tighter.

The presence retreated, but I felt it gather by the door. A chill ran through me, and then the carved wooden horse on my shelf began to tremble. It rattled, then toppled with a clatter. I finally opened my eyes, and there was nothing but moonlight. But the horse was on the floor, facing the door, as if pointing the way.

That happened three times. Each night, I was woken by that same press of presence, the same whisper about horses, and the horse on the shelf would end up on the floor, always pointing east toward the coast. My aunt and uncle thought I was having nightmares, but I knew better.

On the third night, I gave in. I sat up, and the room felt different, charged. The door was ajar, though I was sure I’d closed it. I followed the hallway, which seemed longer than usual, and at the end, a pale glow spilled from the stairwell. I walked down, and in the living room, my uncle’s old radio crackled with static, but I could hear a distant calliope tune. And then I saw it: the carousel from Foster’s Point, standing in the middle of the room, its horses rising and falling, painted in the low light. Mrs. Pemberton stood beside it, looking just as she had in life, but younger, radiant. She smiled and motioned to a horse—the one she always rode, a white stallion with a golden mane.

‘Time to ride,’ she said, and I understood. I climbed on, and the carousel spun, faster and faster, until the room dissolved into a whirl of color and sound, and I felt a joy I hadn’t known since childhood. When it stopped, I was back in my bed, the wooden horse clutched to my chest.

In the morning, Aunt Irma asked why I was smiling. I told her I’d had a good dream. But I knew it wasn’t a dream. The wooden horse was warm, and on its base, a tiny inscription had appeared: ‘Remember the ride.’ I’ve never told anyone the truth, but I keep the horse by my bed, and every now and then, on quiet nights, I hear the calliope, and I know she’s waiting for me to open my eyes.