As Lydia was leaving Lira's room on the second floor, Owen was exiting the funhouse on the first. He stepped out into the heavy air and took off with a purpose down the dirt track. If he had looked back he would've seen Lira watching him from her window.

It was high Flow and the carnival was teeming with all kinds of souls and spirits. They chittered and squawked and talked, floating, walking and slithering all around him. He imagined if you placed a clear bowl over the carnival it would make a very odd-looking terrarium. As he moved through the crowd, side-stepping out of spirits' way, he wondered if he could carve a miniature replica of the carnival for Ethan. He could show him where he had been and what he had seen and try to explain that he hadn't meant to leave him alone. And even if Ethan didn't understand, he would have fun lining up the wooden tents and rides and creatures.

As he walked, Owen pictured carving the figurines in his mind, his fingers twitching as he visualized turning the wood over in his hand. Caught up in his plan, he didn't see the spirit until he ran head-long into it.

"Uh," he grunted, stumbling backwards. "Sorry." He felt something sticky and glanced down to see his was covered in a thick, black goop. The spirit in front of him looked like a mud-covered mannequin. It had a vaguely human form, but no hair and the only discernable feature in its ooze-dripping face was its yellow eyes which burned with a wild light. Owen suddenly felt that he was staring down a rabid animal.

"Where...is...she?" rasped the spirit.

"I don't know who you're talking about," said Owen, taking a step back. The spirit kept pace; its feet made squelching sounds as it took one step then another. A steady drip-drip punctuated its movements as the black mud fell from it. It looked like a melting candle.

"Bebinn," it said. Its voice bubbled in its throat. "Where is she? I...want...what I was...promised."

"I don't know where she is," said Owen, holding up his hands. The black ooze on his arms was beginning to itch and there was the faint smell of charred oranges in the air.

"Liar," snarled the spirit. It took a few more sucking steps toward him. Owen cursed himself for not walking around the back of the carnival and cursed himself again for not having a weapon. Around them, a ragged group of spirits was forming, like kids circling a schoolyard fight. Their murmuring picked up like a hot wind and Owen felt their presence like a barbed wire fence at his back. They weren't there to help, they were there to watch what would happen and see who would walk away.

"I can go find her for you," said Owen loudly. He had to get away, whichever direction it might take him.

"I was promised redemption." The dripping increased and pools of viscous mud expanded around its feet. "And I intend to get it."

The spirit lunged, arms outstretched to grab him. Owen ducked, trying to make a break for Genzel's house, but his feet slipped in the muck and he went down hard on one knee. He tried to scramble away on all fours, but the spirit, now also on the ground, grabbed his pant leg. There was a sharp ripping sound as the fabric tore and Owen kicked out, his heel connecting with the mud man's jaw. A spray of sludge from the blow spattered a pair of bird-like woman who shrieked as it hit them.

Owen struggled to return to his feet; the mud was like cement. He yanked hard on the hand that was glued to the ground, his shoulder nearly wrenching out of its socket. Muck was sloughing off the spirit in great gushes now, the spirit itself losing any shape it had as it disintegrated into a puddle.

"Bebinn...won't get away with this," it wheezed through its lopsided mouth. It reached out a hand that crumbled away in midair. The body sank into the pool of mud; there was a final pop as a bubble burst and then nothing.

Around him, souls were muttering darkly to each other. Owen's breath came in hard gasps as he set to work trying to free himself. He caught the phrases "running out of time" and "not enough to go around" before he managed to return to his feet. A couple of souls turned to watch him, hostility clear in their eyes. Owen glanced around, spotted the fortune teller's tent to his right and without pausing to consider, he dove for it as another spirit lunged out to grab him. He hit the ground, crashed through the tent flaps, and scrambled away from the opening. 

"I haven't been in the human world for some time, but I believe it is still considered rude to barge into people's homes unannounced," said a dreamy voice.

Owen flipped over to see the fortune-teller, Vivian, emerging from a back room of the expansive tent. She was dressed similarly to the first, and only time, he had met her. A long, flowing red skirt splashed with clouds of purple swirled around her narrow frame and the blueish smoke of a long cigarette hovered about her head, giving her the appearance of someone who had just emerged from a volcano. This time her thick, white hair was plaited and thrown over her left shoulder; different colored beads were threaded about the braid. Her usual assortment of bangles was stacked nearly to her elbows on each arm.

Owen moved to a kneeling position, panting hard, his hands braced on his sludge covered knees. "Sorry," he gasped. The thick air wasn't lending itself to his lungs; it was like trying to breath through a straw.

"What's all over you, dear?" said Vivian, moving closer and appraising him with narrowed eyes.

"Spirit---" he sucked in a breath and swallowed. "Spirit attacked me." Bits of mud dripped off him to splatter on the carpet.

Vivian's head jerked up to the tent flap as if she expected a spirit to be forcing its way through in pursuit. When nothing moved near the entrance, she moved to a cupboard and withdrew a copper tea kettle. "We need to get that residue off you quick, young man."

She plunged the kettle into a water basin and withdrew it, dropping several purple flowers and sprigs of leaves down the spout. She moved to a small fireplace on the other side of the room, calling over her shoulder, "Don't move from where you are, dear. I would like the mud contained to a single area."

Once the kettle began whistling, Vivian removed it and heaved it over to Owen. Her thin wrists trembled slightly as she held it out. "Rinse yourself with this," she instructed.

Owen took the pot on reflex but held it away from his body. "You want me to pour boiling water over myself?" he asked.

"It won't harm you, dear. But best do it quickly." Vivian motioned hastily with her hands.

Owen raised the kettle, fully expecting the water to burn him to the bone. It rushed over his head in a great torrent and while it was certainly hot, it didn't hurt him. The was a vague pin-and-needle feeling to it as the water hissed in a cloud of steam, leaving his skin and clothes clean as it evaporated. The smell of burnt oranges still lingered in the air, but the itching has disappeared.

"Thank you," said Owen, handing back the pot.

"The spirits have been restless these past few days," said Vivian. She placed the kettle back into the water basin to soak.

"I usually walk around the carnival instead of through," explained Owen. "I won't be making that mistake again."

Vivian turned back to him, picking up her cigarette where she had placed in on the velvet covered table in the middle of the room. "That will only work for so long," she said, taking a pull and exhaling a small puff of smoke.

"What do you mean?" asked Owen. He waited for the smell of the smoke to assault him as it drifted over, but it was odorless. The spirit world was messing with his senses.

"I mean that those souls know living beings reside in this carnival. They can feel you, smell you. You are protected by Bebinn insofar as she can deliver whatever it is she has promised them."

Owen wiped stray water from his head. "The soul said something like that—that he wanted what he was promised. Do you know what that is? What she promised them?"

Vivian lifted her hands in the universal gesture of "I don't know," her bangles clacking. "My sister does not deign to reveal her secrets to me. Not anymore. Not since her death."

Owen sighed at the admission of another dead end. Was there any path that led out of this maze? But then a new thought occurred to him. "Can I ask you something? How did you end up here? I mean you were the younger sister, but now..."

"I'm old," stated Vivian deliberately. "Yes, and it is not an awful thing. I lived a full life and I was robbed of my death."

"Robbed?" repeated Owen.

"Yes," said Vivian. She drew her shawls about her indignantly. "There are few things in life that are fair, but death is the great equalizer and here I am unable to cross to the final realm, trapped in a mortal body that is falling apart at the seams and has been for decades longer than it was meant to. Do you have any idea what a grave injustice that is?"

"Can't say that I do," said Owen. The fortune-teller reminded Owen very much of his high school's drama teacher who announced the daily lunch special in a voice of grandeur as though she thought that chicken nuggets were worth great ceremony.

Vivian sighed, deflating. "And why should you?" she asked. "You don't belong here anymore than I do. Your life has barely begun. So many possibilities remain open-ended for you. But when you reach a certain age, you begin to see death as a kind of release, a closing, a well-deserved sleep after a very, very long day."

"So what happened?" ventured Owen.

Vivian fussed with a scarf that had caught on one of her many pieces of jewelry and then sighed again. "Would you like some tea?" All trace of loftiness leeched from her voice.

"Sorry?" asked Owen, thinking he had misheard.

"Tea," repeated Vivian. "And perhaps some cookies too? It's been so long since I've had company. Mortal company," she clarified, glancing again at the tent opening.

"Um...sure," said Owen.

"Excellent. Let me just put the kettle back on."

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Apologies once more for the long wait! Now that we have regular internet back I should be able to get back to a regular posting schedule. In the meantime, let me know what you think of the latest developments! :)