Lost Carnival

Lost Carnival

A Wintervale Tale

Andy DeJong

Copyright © 2021 Andy DeJong

All rights reserved

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

The noble Chadwick Midnight would like to thank readers for braving this tale. May Wintervale be forever in your rearview mirror.

A Wintervale tale series

Book 1- Lost Carnival

Book 2- No One's Home

Contents

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

A Wintervale tale series

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

A Wintervale Tale Series

About The Author

Chapter 1

If these pages you find yourself reading were delivered to you—for any various number of reasons—or you purchased them from a place of business, consider yourself lucky that you didn’t have to experience the horrors and tragedies that took place.

If, however, you stumbled upon these pages in their secret location and are reading them as we speak, then you need to carefully set the pages down and shut the compartment drawer. Next—and this is of utmost importance—turn on your heel and run as fast and as far away as you can. Your life depends on it! You are in grave danger being in this town! Even if the muscles in your legs burn so bad that they couldn’t possibly work any longer, continue running!

Do not stop and do not turn around until you reach the outskirts. Only then will you be safe—and I use the word safe loosely. Now that I think of the meaning of the word safe, it may be best to put a few miles between you and the outside of town. If you haven’t heeded my exact instructions and are still holding these pages after running away, don’t forget to dispose of the attached skeleton key.

For those not currently in a dead sprint, please pull up a chair, light a reading lamp, oil the rusty hinges on the creaking door behind you, and study the official accounts of the town of Wintervale.

I’ll have you know, before we get started, there is no reason to fear the town you live in—unless of course, the town you live in happens to be Wintervale or a town nearby. If that is the case, then all I can say is good luck! And I would consider it a personal favor if you recorded your normal and paranormal encounters with Wintervale and delivered them to me before you are gone.

I imagine by now you are wondering who I am, so allow me to introduce myself. My name is Chadwick Midnight. I know what you must be thinking—Midnight, that sounds like a creepy and untrustworthy name. But do not be alarmed: There is nothing creepy or untrustworthy about my last name. After all, I am the one and only official record keeper—which is the opposite of untrustworthy—for the entire town of Wintervale. Also, I imagine you may know someone named Chadwick … and I bet you don’t find them to be untrustworthy, do you?

What are the duties of the official record keeper for the town of Wintervale, you ask? Allow me to explain. The town’s ordinary residents often experience extraordinary … we will call them happenings. What do people who experience these happenings do? They come to me.

With no one to tell—or afraid no one will believe their spooky stories—they sprint down the cobblestone walk, hurdle the cracked stone steps, and burst through the weathered wooden doors of my humble keep: The Wintervale Hall of Records and Extramundane Events. The townsfolk call it Winter Hall, for short. I must admit the shortened name does roll off the tongue better.

I listen to the stories, write them on parchment, and bind the pages together to create books. The shelves in my building are filled with every story and horror imaginable. People often mistakenly come to my building to renew their dog tags and pay their water bills, but I do not perform those services.

Have the words hall of records never before drifted between your ears? Do those words sound rather boring to you? I personally guarantee Winter Hall is anything but boring. I bet there may even be a hall of records in your town—yours may be found in a community center, a library, a red-bricked building, perhaps. But I assure you none are as exciting or as mysterious as mine; many years of history and mystery are stored with me and the oldest building in town.

As I have promised, let me begin our first story—it is the beginning of the darkest days of Wintervale. I had to store this book on the highest shelf, due to how peculiar it is. I will do my best to not stray off course, but I can make no guarantees; a person as important as myself often likes to digress and meander in side-details and stories.

Our first account begins with an outsider, a boy by the name of Toby Larkin. During his tale, you may notice some calling Toby terms such as meddlesome, troublesome, or a thorn in one’s side. And this may be true depending on who is saying such things, but please make no judgments until you have read for yourself. Only you can decide if Toby Larkin is as evil as people say, or as heroic as he pretends to be.

Are you brave enough to be the judge? Read on if you believe you are.

Chapter 2

Toby Larkin slumped in the back seat of his parents’ van and gazed out the grimy window. Nothing but endless fields of corn and beans greeted him—that, and sporadic patches of pine trees occasionally livening up the boring landscape. Still, it was all a sea of green, nothing noteworthy. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried willing himself to sleep, but the bench seat didn’t recline, making it far too uncomfortable to fall asleep. He went back to absently staring out the window.

Would you take a look at that view! Rod Larkin said, craning his head to the side to let Toby know he was addressing him. You don’t get wide-open country in the big city, do you Tobster?

Tobster—the horrible nickname Toby’s dad had given him when he was a toddler. Guess what embarrassed Toby the most? Having a baby name for a nickname. He was eleven years old—almost twelve! On the same note, his dad had always said embarrassing things, having corny jokes and one-liners for everything, and never missing out on a chance to use them.

Sure, Dad, Toby shot back. If you like a tall glass full of dull. He folded his arms across his chest to show he meant business.

His dad’s eyes grew wide in the rearview mirror, then his brow furrowed, and he cleared his throat. This is a great opportunity for us as a family. You won’t understand right now, but someday when you’re older, you will.

Mary Larkin reached over and squeezed her husband’s hand. You’re right, honey, she said. But take it easy on Toby … he is going through a big change with us moving. Toby’s dad nodded, and his eyes flashed a brief look of concern in the rearview mirror before returning to the road.