Bonus Horror

 I may hsve stopped writing horror , but there is tons of it that’s not been released. And reading made me remember . Im damn good at it.

Cain’s Carnival: A Bonus Gospel of Gore

They called it “the church under the tent,” but no sermon ever came from that place. Only screaming.

It set up every summer on the county outskirts no flyers, no ads, just there one morning like it grew out of the scorched dirt. Red-and-white stripes slashed across the canvas like flayed skin. The lights always flickered. The music was always just a little off carousel lullabies in minor keys, warped like an abused music box.

The preacher Cain, he called himself wore a mask sewn from doll faces. Said his flesh was too sacred for eyes born of sin. His sermons were theater. Blood baptisms. Babies in cages. “Confession booths” where you could scream into the ear of a butcher and feel forgiven as he peeled back your fingernails.

Every night, people came.

Hookers. Addicts. CEOs in disguise. They lined up like it was Disneyland for demons. And when they came out the other side, they were cleaner but not better. Emptier.

I went in undercover. I had to know. I’d seen too many kids go missing, too many social workers disappear after trying to shut it down. So I dressed like the damned. Took a camera. Took a blade. Thought I’d be ready.

I wasn’t.

Inside, nothing obeyed physics. Mirrors showed versions of me with no skin, weeping blood, smiling. The popcorn tasted like teeth. The cotton candy was hair.

Then I saw her my sister. Dead ten years from an overdose. But she was there, strung up on wires like a puppet, her eyes blinking “Help” in Morse code. And below her, Cain smiled.

He knew my name.

“This is your gospel,” he hissed. “Every lie you told, every time you laughed when she cried… this is the sermon your soul wrote.”

I stabbed him. Over and over. Doll faces tore. Blood spilled like ink. The tent collapsed.

But it came back.Every year. Always the same.

And I still get emails from Cain. No sender. No trace. Just a subject line: “You baptized her in shame. Come see what she’s become.”

I never reply.But I always read.

Because deep down, I know the truth.

Cain’s Carnival never leaves.

It just waits.