I walked out, pushing past the other patrons, my head down and full of thought. My eyes were still wide from wonder. I could not come up with a feasible explanation for how perfect the performance truly was. When I finally looked up to take in my surroundings, I was given a violent start. In fact, I was so rattled that I stumbled backwards, knocking my head against a wooden stand behind me. I crumpled to the ground, the crowd swiftly passing me by, hardly held up by my obstruction.

     The temporary carnival ground around me was filled with circus booths and amusements. Despite the hundreds of interesting attractions calling for my attention, it was a metal cage that had at once met my glance as I emerged from the circus tent. I had peered first at the wooden plaque upon its base, the fine golden letters engraved upon it leaving an impression, despite the fact I had not stopped to read them. Instinctively, my eyes were drawn from caption to creature, but what I saw was far worse than I would have imagined.

     The towering pen was large enough to hold a grown man, and so it did. The sight of another person behind those bars was enough to disgust me. However, the sight of this man was enough to throw me from my feet. Emaciated and poorly dressed, he squatted in the corner of the cage, his thin arms curled around his knees. The description fit the display, and the “Twisted Man” stole my composure and left me with a feeling of outrage. The poor fellow stared up at the group of onlookers, his gray eyes filled with pain and grief… those familiar gray eyes.

     Half of his face was horribly mangled, his mouth twitching in a perpetual grin, and his eyelid drawn up into an oddly curved brow. Yet my start was inflicted by more than just the mutilated part of his appearance. It was the other half, untouched and untwisted, that caused the hair on the back of my neck to stand up. The freak’s thin, prominent features; his olive skin…. They were most certainly that of the ringmaster: the one man of the circus.

     Within the disturbing wreckage of the creature, I could see him. The man who filled every role of the show. The poor devil wore his likeness, as did all the entertainers. No doubt they were all intended to be taken as the same person, but pity filled my heart for this abused imitation. My stomach turned. The circus’ gimmick began to feel in poor taste. A man, impounded and exhibited as some bizarre attraction, made up to look like the others, yet ironically mutilated to be seen as an aberration.

     After I became aware of my position, sprawled in the mud, I managed to draw my eyes away from the poor wretch. I refused to look at him again. To think, in this day and age they could still get away with such a display. As I awkwardly attempted to regain my feet, the woman running the booth on which I had knocked my head shuffled to my aid. Gladly accepting her outstretched hand, I was thrown aback for the umpteenth time that evening.

     The withered hand belonged to none other than the fortune teller, whom I had met the previous night. Her reward for my helping her was what brought me to this horror show in the first place. I was not in the mood for dealing with the old witch, and she must have read the look upon my face. After assisting me to my feet, she gave a simple nod and hobbled back to her booth. Not a word was uttered between us, and I was relieved. I had had enough strangeness for one day.

     My coat coated in mud and my nerves still shaken, I headed on my way. The circus did not have the reposing effect on my mind I thought it would. If anything, I found myself worse for the wear. I was weary and drawn as I arrived upon the landing of my building late in the night. After entering my room, I rested for a minute, leant against the wall. I fumbled for my watch, looking to check the time, but as my searching stopped, I felt the color leave my cheeks. I slowly withdrew my hand, something curled within its shaky grasp. As I gazed down at what certainly was not my pocket watch, my face quickly turned from pale to red, painted with outrage.

     Between my thumb and index finger, slightly crumpled, was a tiny slip of paper. Crimson in color and captioned in bold black letters: “The One-Man Circus.” As I glared down at the ticket for tomorrow night’s show, my temper broke. Of course, I had not received this ticket for free. It had cost me alright, and so had the last one, for my watch surely covered the price of both (and a great deal more at that). She must have dug into my pockets as she helped me to my feet back at the fairgrounds. So, I had been scammed after all! With this realization, it was settled. I would be attending the next show. If some “psychic” was walking around, checking the time with MY watch, I would at least make use of the tickets I got swindled for it!