The Hollow Carousel

The November wind scraped dead leaves across the cracked asphalt of the St. Elmo County Fairgrounds, a place abandoned since the ’90s. I’d come here to practice astral projection, not because the site held any special power, but because the isolation was absolute. My name is Mara, and for the past month I’d been chasing the silver cord, that gossamer thread that separates the waking mind from the sleeping body. Twice I’d succeeded, floating above my own form in my cramped apartment, and twice I’d felt a presence, a static on the edge of my perception, like a radio tuned to a dead channel.

Today, the air was cold and metallic, and the rusted skeleton of the fairground’s centerpiece, a carousel, stood like a fossilized ribcage against the gray sky. I’d set up my gear in the old ticket booth, its glass long shattered, a thin layer of dust covering the floor. I laid out my yoga mat, placed a small, glass-smooth obsidian sphere I’d brought along on a wooden stool before me, and sat cross-legged. My intention was to focus on the sphere, to let its darkness swallow my visual field while my body drifted into a trance. The wind moaned through the girders, but that was fine. The only sounds I expected were the ones I conjured myself.

I closed my eyes, let my breathing slow, and imagined the black sphere expanding until it filled my mind’s eye. Minutes passed. My limbs grew heavy, my eyelids flickered. I was on the edge of that familiar dissociation when, instead of the usual silence, a sound intruded: a low, rhythmic humming, like a mechanical lullaby, but off-key. It seemed to come from inside my skull, not from the fairground. I tried to ignore it, to re-focus on the sphere, but the hum grew louder, weaving into a distorted melody that made my spine prickle. I opened my eyes, gasping, the trance shattered. The sphere sat innocently on the stool, but the humming lingered in my ears, fading like a ghost.

I checked my watch: 3:15 PM. I’d lost twenty minutes. Frustrated, I decided to try again, this time using the rhythmic drip of a leaky pipe as my anchor. I lay down, arms at my sides, and let the dripping pattern hypnotize me. My body slipped into a paralysis, the dreaded sleep paralysis that was the gateway. I was aware of the cold floor, the smell of rust and decay, but I couldn’t move. My heart thumped in my chest, and I tried to calm it, to let the silver cord stretch. The dripping stopped. In the sudden silence, I heard a man’s voice, faint but clear: ‘Where will you be headed?’

I knew the old advice: never engage with the voices, they’re distractions, projections of your own mind. I tried to visualize myself rising, but the voice came again, closer, like it was standing beside my immobilized body. ‘I suggest not heading that way, girl. That path is not for the living.’ A cold dread washed over me. My eyes, though closed, felt a change in light, as if someone were blocking the sun. I forced my eyelids open—impossible, but I did it—and saw the carousel. It was moving. The wooden horses, with their peeling paint and blank, staring eyes, were slowly rotating, their poles rising and falling in a silent, jerky rhythm. The tune was the one I’d heard, the off-key lullaby. And on the carousel’s center pillar, half-hidden in shadow, a figure sat: a man in a tattered carnival barker’s suit, his face a blur, his hand gesturing to me as if inviting me to ride.

I screamed internally, but no sound escaped. The paralysis held. The barker tilted his head, and his voice echoed in my mind. ‘You seek to leave your flesh, but you have no destination. I can offer you one.’ The carousel slowed, the horses now frozen in mid-stride. He pointed a long, thin finger toward the ride’s platform, where a single wooden horse had been replaced by a dark, leather saddle. ‘Come. Sit. I’ll take you where the lights never dim.’ My chest tightened. I knew if I accepted, I’d never return to my body. But the voice was seductive, promising release from the pain of physical existence, a pain I’d never felt so acutely until that moment. I felt myself being pulled, my astral form beginning to separate, tugged not by my will but by his.

With every ounce of resistance, I imagined my body as a heavy stone, anchoring me. I thought of the obsidian sphere, the cool, solid reality of it. The barker’s face flickered, and I caught a glimpse of his true form: a hollow skull where his eyes should be, and a grin that stretched too wide. ‘You think your object will save you? It is but a trinket to them, as you are to me.’ I forced myself to stare at the sphere, to feel its weight in my mind’s eye. The pull weakened. The carousel began to fade, the tune sour and dissolving. The barker hissed, ‘This is not over, dreamer. You will come to the Hollow Carousel again. It is always moving.’

Suddenly, I snapped back into my body with a jolt, gasping for air. The fairground was silent, the carousel frozen in its decay. The sun had dipped lower, casting long shadows. I grabbed the sphere, its coolness grounding me, and stumbled out of the booth. As I drove away, I saw in my rearview mirror the silhouette of the carousel, but for a split second, it seemed to be turning ever so slightly, as if acknowledging my departure. I haven’t tried to astral project since. But sometimes, at night, I hear that off-key lullaby, and I know that the Hollow Carousel is always waiting for me, and that one day, I might not resist the ride.