Chapter 7: The Funhouse Incident
The Funhouse was tucked into a rundown part of town that everyone knew to avoid at night. Word was it used to be an actual carnival funhouse before it closed down under mysterious circumstances. Now, it was just an abandoned shell of its former self—a twisted labyrinth of graffiti, shattered mirrors, and long-forgotten relics that carried an unnerving sense of purpose. For the gang, it was irresistible, exactly the kind of place they figured might hold answers.
Inside, the place was a nightmare come to life. The walls, tagged with occult symbols and strange patterns, pulsed under the dim glow of flickering streetlights pouring in through shattered windows. The gang moved slowly, cautiously, their flashlights sweeping over rows of broken mirrors that seemed to shift as they passed.
"Damn," one of them muttered, laughing nervously. "Yo, I feel like Sherlock Holmes in this dump."
"More like Watson," someone shot back. "We're just here following ghosts."
They pushed forward, deeper into the maze of rooms, each more twisted and eerie than the last. In one room, they found a circle of what looked like old, faded Polaroid pictures, each photo showing people with those same dark symbols marked on their bodies. Most of the faces were scratched out, but a few still had faint expressions visible: wide, terrified eyes staring back at them from the past.
"Shit, they were marked like us, bro," said one guy, rubbing his neck where he'd found bruises that morning.
Just then, one of them stumbled into a wall of cracked mirrors, pressing against it to steady himself. In the reflection, they all saw it—the bruises, fresh and spreading like ink under his skin, forming a shape they'd seen on those pictures.
"¡Mierda!" he swore, pulling his shirt away from his chest as if he could peel the marks off. The others backed up instinctively, the cold in the room suddenly thickening, the air weighing down on them.
One of the mirrors seemed to ripple, the surface shifting, and then they saw it: shadows crawling out from behind the glass. Eyes widened in horror, they watched as figures began to form in the mirrors—women, faces distorted, with mouths sewn shut, reaching out with clawed fingers. Whispers filled the room, low and guttural, as if the voices were pouring out from every crack in the building.
They tried to make a run for it, but the hallway ahead blurred, stretching longer and longer, each step taking them nowhere. One of them, hands clenched, dropped to his knees, eyes rolling back as he grunted and mumbled something incomprehensible. He jerked forward, gripping his head as if to stop something from getting inside.
"What the hell's wrong with him?" someone asked, grabbing him, but he pushed them away, stumbling back, shaking his head violently as his eyes flickered, a glaze of something not-quite-human taking over.
Then, the outbursts started. The guy who'd seen the bruises on his neck suddenly lunged at another member, throwing him against the wall, fists pounding in wild, angry bursts. "This is your fault!" he shouted, voice twisted, almost unrecognizable. "You brought us here, you brought this curse!"
The others scrambled back, shoving each other as the feeling of paranoia gripped them all. Someone kicked over a candle, and shadows began to dance and stretch, flaring up to reveal more markings, scratches, bruises blooming on each of them as they fought.
In the chaos, they staggered out of the Funhouse one by one, shaken and bruised, feeling like something was clawing at their minds, even in the open air. The sounds, the shadows, the visions—none of it left them. They'd gone in hoping for answers, but what they'd found was a warning, one that echoed in their heads long after they'd escaped.
Once outside, the gang huddled together, panting, shaken to the core. The night was still, the air heavy around them as they tried to make sense of what they'd just seen. No one wanted to be the first to admit what they all felt—a deep, gut-wrenching fear that the curse had only grown stronger.
"Yo, this place is messed up," one of them said, hands shaking as he tried to light a cigarette. The lighter flickered out. "Whatever we saw in there…that wasn't just shadows, man."
"Wasn't just shadows?" someone spat, rubbing a fresh bruise on his arm. "Are you serious right now? That thing in the mirror looked at me, bro. It looked at me."
A chill crept over the group as they stood in silence, each of them feeling marked, like they were being watched. The bruises weren't just on their skin; the memories had cut into their minds. None of them were sure how much had been real and how much had been twisted by the Funhouse itself.
Finally, one of them broke the silence.
"We're not walking away from this. You know that, right?" His voice was low, a mix of fear and frustration.
"Then what the hell are we supposed to do?" someone shot back. "This ain't no gang turf we're fighting. This…this is something else."
Another voice, hesitant, spoke up. "Maybe we shouldn't have messed with it. Maybe this whole thing was—"
"Nah, don't even start with that!" The one with fresh bruises gripped his shirt, anger boiling over. "You wanted answers as much as I did. Now we've got them, and guess what? It's worse than anything we've faced."
Just then, someone pulled out a phone, thumbing through messages and photos, then held it up. It was a photo they'd taken earlier of the room in the Funhouse—the Polaroids arranged in a circle. But in the image, their faces were gone, scratched out just like the old photos on the ground.
"Look at this," he whispered, his voice trembling. "This is us now. We're part of it."
The group fell silent, the gravity of what they'd unleashed finally sinking in.
One of them, more level-headed than the rest, broke in. "Alright, look, we got into this together. We find a way out together. We go see someone who knows this stuff."
They all exchanged wary glances. Martine, maybe. Or that strange old man who sometimes sold candles and charms on the corner. They didn't know who they could trust, but they knew one thing: if they didn't get help, they'd be lost in the same shadows that had taken everyone else marked before them.
Someone muttered a curse under their breath, and they turned away from the Funhouse. The night loomed around them, shadows clinging as they made their way back to town, each footstep echoing like a countdown, drawing them deeper into the curse that now bound them all.
The chill of the night seeped deeper into their bones as they trudged through the empty streets, haunted by what they'd experienced. They felt the weight of the darkness pressing in from all sides, shadows dancing just out of sight.
"Man, I'm not cut out for this," one of the gang members grumbled, rubbing his arms as if trying to ward off an unseen chill. "I didn't sign up for curses and demon shit. I just wanted to roll through, maybe make some cash off this ghost hunting gig, you know?"
"Yeah? Well, now you're in it deep, mi amigo," another shot back, a nervous edge creeping into his voice. "You think it's just gonna let us go now? It's already got its claws in us."
As they reached their old hangout, a dilapidated warehouse on the outskirts of town, tension hung thick in the air. The lights flickered above them, casting erratic shadows that felt alive.
"Damn, can you feel that?" someone whispered, eyeing the flickering lights. "It's like… something's here with us."
"Shut the fuck up, we're fine," the self-appointed leader said, trying to sound tough but failing miserably. "We just need to lay low for a minute and think."
But as they gathered around an old table littered with cheap beer cans and half-burnt candles, the reality of their situation settled in like a weight on their chests.
"Listen up," their leader continued, a mixture of bravado and fear flickering in his eyes. "We need to figure out what the hell happened in that Funhouse. If we can piece this together, maybe we can find a way to break this curse. Maybe even unmark ourselves."
"Or we could end up worse off," another chimed in, trying to keep a level head. "You guys saw the marks on each other when we came out. That's not just a coincidence. Something's coming for us."
The air grew heavy with an unspoken dread, each member of the gang feeling the weight of the marks they bore.
"Okay, okay, let's not freak out," one of the girls piped up, trying to lighten the mood. "We've handled worse, right? We've dealt with rival gangs, cops breathing down our necks. We can figure this out too."
"Yeah, but those were just people. This… this is something else," another member shot back, his voice tight with fear. "I don't know about you guys, but I'm not dying over some bullshit I thought would make me famous."
They fell into an uneasy silence, the only sounds the distant hum of the night and the clinking of the beer cans as someone nervously tapped them against the table.
"I say we go see Martine," the leader finally decided, breaking the silence. "If anyone knows about curses and dark shit, it's her. We need to be ready to listen, though. She might throw some crazy stuff our way."
A murmur of agreement swept through the group, though the fear still lingered in their eyes. They were in deep, and they all knew it. But if they were going to get out, they had to confront the darkness head-on, even if it meant facing their own demons.
With a mix of determination and dread, they made their way back to the streets, the shadows lengthening behind them as they stepped into the uncertain night. They were all marked now, each of them carrying the burden of what they'd witnessed.
As they moved forward, the feeling of being hunted intensified, a lurking darkness that seemed to breathe down their necks. It was only a matter of time before they would have to confront it, and they all wondered just how far they would go to break the curse that bound them.
The darkness awaited, and they were stepping right into its embrace.