The Carousel of Rust

The evening had settled over the sprawling complex like a damp shroud, the sky bleeding from bruised purple to a sickly green as I pulled into the underground parking garage of the Galleria North. I’d heeded the advice from the last time, choosing a level bathed in the sterile glow of flickering fluorescents, not a single shadow lingering where a man could hide. My sister, Lena, had begged off, buried under a mountain of paperwork, so it was just me and the echo of my footsteps on the polished concrete. I had a mission: pick up the welcome basket items for Uncle Hiroshi, my grandfather’s cousin from Okinawa, who was flying in the next morning. The mall was a cathedral of consumerism, its vaulted ceilings and marble floors reflecting the cold light, but tonight it felt different. The usual hum of shoppers was absent, replaced by a hollow silence that made every footstep sound like a gavel striking a judge’s bench.

I finished my shopping in record time, the basket now holding a jar of local honey, a wedge of artisanal cheese, and a bottle of craft beer. As I made my way back toward the escalator leading down to the parking garage, I passed by the central atrium. There, in the middle of the food court, stood the Carousel of Rust. That was its unofficial name, given by mall employees because the ornate carousel had been there since the mall’s opening in the 1980s, and despite constant maintenance, the horses were chipped and faded, their once vibrant paint now a mottled, rust-like brown. It was a relic, a monument to a bygone era, and most people ignored it, but tonight, as I glanced at it, I saw something that stopped me cold.

A figure stood by the carousel, a young man in a long, dark coat, his face obscured by the deep hood. He wasn’t moving, just standing there, as if waiting for something. I felt a prickle of unease, but I reasoned it was just a mall employee or a loiterer. Still, I quickened my pace, my eyes fixed on the escalator. When I reached the top, I looked back, and the figure was gone. I shrugged it off, chalking it up to my imagination, and stepped onto the descending escalator.

The escalator groaned as it carried me down, the rhythmic clatter of the steps a steady heartbeat in the quiet. Halfway down, I saw a reflection in the polished metal of the side panel. It was the young man, now at the top of the escalator, looking down at me. I spun around, but the escalator behind me was empty. I turned back, but the reflection showed him still there, a faint smile playing on his lips. Then he took a step forward, and I felt a sudden drop in temperature, as if a cold hand had brushed my neck.

I reached the bottom and hurried toward the corridor that led to the parking garage. The corridor was a long, windowless passage lined with doors marked ‘STORAGE’ and ‘MAINTENANCE’. The lights here were dimmer, a few flickering, casting dancing shadows. I heard footsteps behind me, slow and deliberate. I quickened my pace, my heart starting to pound. The footsteps quickened too. I broke into a run, my shopping bag swinging, and burst through the door into the parking level.

The garage was vast, a maze of concrete pillars and cars, the air thick with the smell of exhaust and damp. My car was parked in a corner spot, but it seemed miles away. I ran, my heels clicking on the floor, and as I fumbled for my keys, I heard the door swing open behind me. I turned, my keys clutched in my hand like a weapon, but the young man was already there, standing just a few feet away.

He was closer now, and I could see his face under the hood. He was pale, with dark eyes that seemed to absorb the light. He smiled, but it wasn’t friendly. It was a knowing smile, as if he had won something. ‘You shouldn’t have come alone,’ he said, his voice barely above a whisper, but it echoed in the cavernous space.

I backed up against my car, my hand finding the door handle. ‘What do you want?’ I asked, my voice trembling.

He tilted his head. ‘I’ve been waiting. Every night, I watch for someone who lingers by the carousel. Someone who notices the faded horses, the chipped paint. Someone like you.’

I pulled the door open, but he was faster. He grabbed my arm, his grip icy cold through my jacket. ‘Don’t leave,’ he said, his voice now honeyed, drawing me close. ‘We could take a ride.’

I tried to pull away, but his grip was like iron. He pointed toward the carousel, which I could now see was spinning slowly, even though there was no one on it. The horses’ painted eyes seemed to follow me, and the music that started to play was not the cheerful calliope of a carousel, but a discordant, waltzing melody that made my skin crawl.

‘Your grandfather’s cousin,’ he said, my name suddenly on his lips, ‘he knows about this place. He sent you, didn’t he? To check on me?’

My blood ran cold. ‘How do you know about him?’

‘Because he was supposed to be my replacement. But you, you’re much better.’

He yanked me toward the carousel. My feet slid on the polished floor, and I saw the carousel’s horses begin to move, their limbs bent at unnatural angles. The stallion nearest me turned its head, its glass eyes glowing with a malevolent light. The young man pushed me onto the platform, and the world spun as the carousel accelerated, the music becoming a cacophony of distorted notes.

I clung to a brass pole, my knuckles white, as the horses circled, their faces contorted in silent screams. The young man stood at the center, his arms spread wide, chanting something in a language I didn’t recognize. The lights flickered, and I felt a cold wind whip through the mall, extinguishing the emergency lights. In the darkness, I heard the sound of hooves on the floor, and the young man’s voice, no longer human, echoed around me.

‘I’ll let you go,’ he said, ‘if you find the one who carved his name on the horse’s saddle.’

I looked frantically at the horses as they spun, and on the flanks of the nearest one, I saw a name scratched into the paint: ‘Alistair.’ It was a name I recognized—my grandfather’s name.

Before I could react, the carousel stopped abruptly, and the young man was gone. I stumbled off the platform, shaking, and ran to my car, fumbling with the keys until I got in and locked the doors. I drove home in a daze, not daring to look in the rearview mirror.

I never told anyone about what happened that night. I cancelled my uncle’s visit, claiming a family emergency. But when I looked out my window later that night, I saw the young man standing on my lawn, his face upturned, a faint smile on his lips. He raised a hand, and in it was a carousel horse, its paint chipped and rusted, its eyes glowing. He placed it on the grass, then vanished.

Now, I see that carousel horse everywhere. In my living room, on my desk, even in my dreams. And every time I look at it, I hear that discordant waltz, and I know. He’s still waiting. And he knows my name now.