Phil mation's Arc

Chapter 1 of 3

Phil Mation stood under his park's gate and counted heads. The carved pumpkins glowed above him. The jagged sign spelled out Horrible Halloween World in letters he had painted himself. Below it, only nine visitors walked the paths. Phil wanted more. He wanted every traveler in the realm to pass under this gate at least once. But no one beyond the local roads knew his park existed. He had tried signs. He had tried word of mouth. The locals came back, but strangers never arrived. The problem was simple. His park sat at the end of roads that led nowhere new. Travelers passed on the far highways and never turned off. Phil walked to his office, a tall orange building with rounded windows and curling trim. He climbed to his desk and pulled out a blank page. For years he had kept a blank page ready for his detective stories. He had not written one in a long time. Tonight he used the page for something else. He wrote a list of every town the far highways touched. Then he crossed out the word signs. Signs stayed still. Travelers moved. To reach a moving traveler, he needed something that moved too. Phil remembered the old bus rusting behind the park. He had bought it years ago and never used it. He went out and pulled the tarp off. The thing was a wreck, but it ran. He spent the night working. He painted it in Halloween colors. He hung a banner across its side that read Groovie Goolie Halloween Road Trip. He filled the windows with grinning figures and draped fake webs over the mirrors. By dawn the bus looked alive. Phil could not drive every road alone, so he asked his park's performers to ride it. The fortune teller agreed. The ghost band in their three-cornered hats piled aboard with their instruments. The bride brought a basket of lollipops to toss from the windows. Phil climbed into the driver's seat. He drove the bus out past the local roads and onto the far highways. The band played out the windows. The bride threw candy to children in passing cars. Travelers slowed to stare at the painted monster bus. Some followed it. By dusk, a line of strange cars trailed behind, all heading toward his gate. Phil parked the bus at the entrance. Behind it, forty cars rolled in. Travelers he had never seen walked under the pumpkins for the first time. The park filled. Phil watched them crowd the paths and felt his chest tighten with pride. Then a ticket seller ran up, breathing hard. "Phil, we're out of tickets. The booth's jammed. The food trucks are empty. The rides have lines an hour long." Phil had wanted the whole realm to come. Now the realm was coming, and his small park could not hold them all.