Jasper Grimaldi's Arc

Chapter 1 of 5

Jasper Grimaldi pressed his palm to the padlocked tent flap where his stage once drew the biggest crowds in Hammerdown. Ten years ago, kids screamed his name. Now a rusted chain kept him out of his own act. He still wore the sad clown paint every morning, out of habit, out of hope. He wanted one thing: to pull that chain off and reopen the show that made him a star. The park banned him after the accident that no one would explain. But the ban was just a padlock now, and padlocks had keys. Inside the tent, through a gap in the canvas, he could see it. The little one-man stage. A single microphone stood in a shaft of dusty light. The curtains hung gray and torn. He had not stood on those boards since the night they threw him out. His hands shook. "You're not supposed to be here." Jasper turned. Frank Sherman stood behind him, a beer bottle in one hand and a thick ledger in the other. The new manager. Sent from corporate to check the books, he wore a stained sweat suit and three days of stubble. He had already fired two ride operators. Jasper's stomach dropped. "This stage is mine," Jasper said. "It was mine. I want it back." Frank flipped the ledger open. He tapped a page. "This stage costs money to keep dark. No shows, no tickets, no reason." He looked at Jasper's paint, then at the padlock. "Somebody's been paying to keep it closed for ten years. That's not in the numbers. That's a hole." Jasper blinked. "Someone paid to keep me out?" "Somebody paid for a lot of things that don't add up." Frank took a swig from the bottle. "I don't care about ghosts or curses or whatever the staff whispers. I care about waste." He pulled a ring of keys from his pocket and dropped it in Jasper's hand. "An empty stage loses money. A working one might not. You want it? Open it. Sell tickets by Saturday or I close it for good." Jasper stared at the keys. His throat tightened. "Just like that?" "Nothing's just like that." Frank turned to go, then stopped. His face changed. "That microphone was on when I walked up. No power to this tent. I checked the meter myself." He let that sit. "Something's wrong with this place. Not my problem. It's yours now." Jasper unlocked the chain. It fell to the dirt with a clank. He stepped through the canvas into the cold tent. The microphone caught the light like it was waiting. He climbed the ladder to the stage. The old boards held his weight. Then the microphone crackled. A woman's voice came through it, soft and wet. "You came back," it said. Jasper spun. No one stood there. But the torn curtain swayed, and a smear of red glistened on the boards where his foot had been.