The Last Ferris Wheel

The summer I turned twelve, my brother Leo and I moved into my grandmother’s house on the edge of a dying beach town called Pelican Point. My mother, a waitress at a diner that never seemed to have customers, enrolled us in school, but the year was almost over, so we mostly wandered the empty boardwalk. The pier had once been a carnival, but now only the rusted skeleton of a Ferris wheel remained, creaking in the salt wind. Grandma Ruth, a woman who smelled of menthol and mothballs, had emphysema and spent most days wheezing in her rocking chair, watching the gray waves. I hated the place, especially the way the fog rolled in at dusk, swallowing the streetlights until everything was a blur of white and shadow. Leo, who was two years younger, found it all an adventure. I just wanted to go home, but home had become a motel room with a flickering TV and a mother who cried in the shower.

Two weeks before she died, I had the dream. It was so vivid I could feel the cold linoleum under my bare feet as I walked down the stairs. The house was too quiet, the clock in the hall had stopped. I asked my mother where Grandma was, and she looked at me with hollow eyes, then turned away. My uncle Jim, who I’d only met once, was standing in the kitchen doorway, his mouth a thin line. ‘She’s gone, kid,’ he said, and then I woke up. I thought nothing of it. Grandma had been in and out of the hospital all spring, and my dreams had been strange ever since we moved.

But a week later, she was admitted again, this time for pneumonia. I was in the middle of a game of solitaire when my mother got the call. She rushed us into the car without shoes, and we drove through a thunderstorm to the county hospital. The lobby smelled of bleach and stale coffee. Leo clutched my hand, his fingers cold. The doctor spoke in low tones to my mother, and I saw her shoulders sag. I thought of the dream, the way everyone had looked at me, and I felt a dread settle like a stone in my stomach.

Grandma clung to life for three more days. The hospital allowed us to stay in a small waiting room, where my mother chain-smoked out the window and my uncle Jim paced. On the third night, I couldn’t sleep. I wandered the corridors, following the glow of night-lights. I found myself at the end of a hallway, facing a door marked ‘Incinerator.’ The door was slightly ajar, and inside, I saw a janitor in a stained uniform, hosing down the floor. He looked up at me, and his eyes were like black buttons. ‘She’s still breathing,’ he said, but his voice was like grinding stone. I backed away, but I couldn’t shake the image.

Grandma died at 4:33 AM. The moment it happened, the fluorescent lights in the waiting room flickered and died. For a few seconds, we were in total darkness, except for the red glow of the exit sign. Then the lights buzzed back on. My mother was crying, but I saw in the reflection of the window a figure standing behind her, tall and thin, with a hat that hid its face. I blinked, and it was gone.

The funeral was held at a small chapel near the pier. I didn’t want to go, but my mother insisted. The coffin was closed, and I was grateful. As the priest spoke, I watched the Ferris wheel through the chapel window, its dark spokes against the gray sky. A seagull landed on the topmost seat, and I felt a sudden urge to run. Leo was crying, but I was dry-eyed, my throat tight.

That night, we went back to Grandma’s house to begin the process of cleaning it out. I was tasked with going through her bedroom closet. It smelled of mothballs and something sweet, like decay. In the back, behind a pile of shoeboxes, I found a shoebox marked ‘M’. Inside was a folded note and a photograph. The note read: ‘He comes for the one who sees. Don’t let him take the boy.’ The photograph was of a man in a long coat, standing next to the Ferris wheel, his face obscured by shadows. I didn’t recognize him, but the note chilled me.

My uncle Jim saw the note and went pale. ‘Where did you find that?’ he demanded. I told him, and he grabbed me by the shoulders. ‘Have you seen anything strange? Any man in a hat?’ he asked. I lied and said no. But that night, I couldn’t sleep. I heard creaking in the attic, and the sound of slow footsteps on the stairs. I hid under the covers, my heart pounding. The footsteps stopped right outside my door, and I heard a low chuckle. Then they retreated.

The next day, I told Leo to stay close to me. We were in the backyard, and the Ferris wheel seemed closer than before, looming over the scrub pines. I saw a man standing at the base of it, wearing a long coat and a fedora, looking up at the sky. He turned, and even from that distance, I saw his eyes were black, like the janitor’s had been. I grabbed Leo and ran inside. When I looked out the window, he was gone.

My mother decided we needed to leave, to go stay with an aunt in another state. As we were packing, I realized I had left my jacket in the hospital room. I had to go back. Leo begged to come, but I made him stay. I drove to the hospital, a cold feeling in my chest. The room was on the third floor, and the elevator was out of order, so I walked up the stairs. The hallway was empty, but I saw the door to the incinerator was open, and a pale blue light came from within. I felt a pull toward it, despite the wrongness. I approached and peered inside. The incinerator was lit, and in the flames, I saw a figure, tall and thin, screaming soundlessly. I slammed the door shut and ran.

Back at the house, I found Leo in the attic, which was off-limits. He was standing in the corner, facing the wall. ‘Leo?’ I said. He turned, and his eyes were black. He smiled, and it was not his smile. ‘She tried to warn you,’ he said in a voice that was not his voice. ‘But you came to me.’ I ran for him, but he vanished. The attic was empty, except for a single moth fluttering against the window.

I found Leo outside, standing by the Ferris wheel, looking up. He was himself again, but scared. ‘I heard him calling me,’ he whispered. ‘He said my name.’ I clutched his arm and led him back to the house. My mother was packing the car. She saw my face and asked what was wrong. I wanted to tell her, but I knew she wouldn’t believe me. I just said, ‘Let’s go.’

We drove away, leaving the beach town behind. I didn’t look back, but I felt a presence in the back seat, a cold that had nothing to do with the AC. I looked in the rearview mirror, and for a split second, I saw a man in a hat sitting next to Leo, his black eyes fixed on me. Then he was gone.

We moved to a city, far from the ocean. But every night, in my dreams, I hear the creak of the Ferris wheel, and I see Grandma, her face pale, screaming without sound. And sometimes, when I look in the mirror, I see those black eyes looking back. And I know that I saw him, and that he will not stop until he takes me. The note said he comes for the one who sees. And I saw.