Total pages in book: 35
Estimated words: 31355 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 157(@200wpm)___ 125(@250wpm)___ 105(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 31355 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 157(@200wpm)___ 125(@250wpm)___ 105(@300wpm)
Inside, the musty smell of old paper and the quiet whispers of patrons leafing through pages created a sanctuary for readers and researchers like myself. I made a beeline for the microfilm machines and the towering shelves of archived newspapers, my eyes scanning for any mention of Dante Marcellus and his enigmatic Misfit Cabaret circus. The microfilm reels turned slowly, images of old newspaper articles flickering into view, their headlines speaking of towns once visited by the circus and the strange occurrences that followed. Notes piled up as I connected dates and incidents, the faces of the missing staring back at me from aged paper, their eyes haunting, urging me to dig deeper. Every article, every whispered rumor in the archives pieced together a pattern, a trail that hinted at something far darker than a simple sleight of hand.
Hours later, back in the quiet solitude of my apartment, my dining table transformed into a command center. Newspaper clippings, photographs, and hastily scribbled notes spread out before me, a tapestry of intrigue and whispers. I pinned each piece to the corkboard with a meticulousness born of obsession, the lines connecting dots across towns and years. The visual map of the circus’s movements juxtaposed with the faces of those who vanished created a chilling narrative that sent shivers down my spine. I stood back, the weight of what I was uncovering settling in my chest like a stone. The thrill of the chase, the hunt for truth, was intoxicating, but the shadows lurking behind the circus’s glittering facade were oppressive, a reminder of the danger woven through the glitz.
With the map as my guide, I drafted a list of names—people who had once been part of the circus’s nomadic life, police officers who had brushed off the disappearances as coincidences, and families torn apart by loss. Each name was a potential key to unlocking the circus’s secrets. My phone buzzed relentlessly on the table, a stark contrast to the silence of my focused endeavor. Friends, life, the world outside my investigation clamored for attention, but I couldn't afford distractions. Not now, not with the stakes so high. Determined, I turned off my phone, the silence sealing my commitment. The night stretched out before me, filled with promise and peril. I knew that delving deeper into this mystery could unravel my life, leave it as fragmented as the stories scattered across my table. Yet, the truth beckoned with a siren's call, irresistible and dangerous. Each note, each photo was now part of a larger story—a story of hidden darkness beneath the colorful tents and twinkling lights of the circus. A story I was determined to tell, no matter the cost. Finally, I found the name of a local retired cop affiliated with one of the missing person cases. Within minutes I had him on the phone and he was more than willing to talk to me.
An hour later the aroma of freshly brewed coffee filled the air as I pushed open the door to the local coffee shop, the bell chiming softly above me. The cozy interior was a welcome refuge from the brisk evening air. I spotted Joe, the retired police officer I was scheduled to meet, sitting in a corner booth, his attention fixed on a newspaper.
"Joe?" I approached, extending my hand.
He looked up, his gaze sharpening as he took in my outstretched hand. "Ava, right? Sit down," he grumbled, folding the newspaper with a practiced flick of his wrist.
I slid into the booth, my recorder and notepad at the ready. Joe's reputation preceded him; a tough, no-nonsense cop who had seen more than his fair share of dark days before hanging up his badge.
"I appreciate you meeting me, Joe. I understand you were involved in investigating some of the disappearances linked to the circus?" I began, my voice steady despite the flutter of nerves in my stomach.
Joe nodded, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Yeah, those cases... they never sat right with me. Too many questions, not enough answers. And all roads led back to Dante Marcellus and his traveling show."
He reached into his coat pocket, pulling out a worn photograph which he slid across the table to me. The edges were frayed, the image slightly faded, but the man in the picture was unmistakably charismatic, his eyes piercing even in black and white. Dante Marcellus looked like a man who knew secrets—dark, dangerous secrets.
"Keep that," Joe said gruffly. "Might help you recognize him when you see him. Just be careful, Ava. That man... he's not what he seems."
I tucked the photograph into my notebook, my mind racing with the implications of Joe's words. After a few more probing questions about the specifics of the disappearances, I left the coffee shop with a heavy heart and a mind teeming with dread and determination. My next stop? The train station and the current location of Dante Marcellus’ Misfit Cabaret.