It isn’t Cybil sitting there anymore, it’s someone else entirely. The sky is black, a negative, above the carousel. Dark brown floor boards spread out from my feet and past Cybil’s bent figure. She looks drunk, her knees bent, toes pointing towards one another, her upper body slumped to her right and her arms hanging loose from hunched shoulders. Her short blonde hair swoons and her head bobbles from side to side. Her eyelids are at once drooped low, as if exhaustion will claim her any moment, and then bulging wide nearly out of the socket. That red light won’t seem to go away, like a photograph where the flash gives the subject an evil look.
    She doesn’t lift the gun again; it looks as if her arms haven’t the strength to lift it a second time. I begin to plead with her to put the gun down, I ask her what is wrong, I ask her who did this to her, I tell her that I can help her. In an instant the gun is at eye level, the black dot of the barrel draws my gaze. I drop to my knees and throw my arms instinctively about my head. A moment later, a thunderclap and a wooden figurine explodes in a shower of splintered wood.
    “Don’t do this Cybil” I hear myself speak the words, but it is in a whisper. My right hand tightens around the butt of the gun inside my jacket pocket. She takes a shuffling step forward. I push with my legs and stand in one fluid motion in front of Cybil. In unison we raise our weapons, two shots ring out, one after the other. An explosion of red and Cybil’s gloved hands go to her neck, a look of dreamy surprise in her face, her mouth wide. Still in unison, we drop our weapons and they clatter to the floor of the carousel. The left side of my jacket is torn, bits of lining pushing out through the torn cloth. I feel sharp pain, and my hand is wet with blood when I move it out in front of me.
    I look up and Cybil is on the wooden floor, sitting up, her legs crossed out in front of her. One hand supports her upper body and the other is pressed against her neck. She sounds as if she is choking. I go to her, hold her shoulders, speak her name, her eyes are still red, and the white skin above her collar is now matted with blood. I move her hand away and she is bleeding freely from the large bullet wound. Our eyes meet, she is trying to breath, and it sounds as if she is ready to begin sobbing. Her head moves back and I hold her, lowering her to the wooden floor. She is breathing in spasms, her eyes moving from the left and to the right. And then the red coating is gone from her pupils, and a look of recognition comes to her face, and she is gone.

    Let me be on time! Cybil had agreed to help me find my daughter; she told me she would go to the ‘heart’ of the amusement park, as Dahlia put it. But before I left for the lighthouse, Dahlia grabbed my arm. Her hand was cold and she slowly increased the strength of her grip like a nurse measuring blood pressure.
    “You’ll need it” she told me. “The Flauros, bring it with you.”
    It is raining harder now, the dark water pooling on the blackened roads. My boots splash and my laces bounce, and the legs of my jeans are soaked. My splashing, trudging steps are the only sound. A cold wind blowing in from the lake shore leaves me hunched over, my head down, and pulling the sides of my ruined jacket tighter around my chest. The gates to the amusement park are unlocked; a coil of chain and a beaten lock lay soaked on the dirt area opposite the high wall of the entrance. I can only assume that Cybil must have blown the lock away, or found it opened herself.
    The high walls of the entrance act as a shield to keep out the rain and wind, and leave the park silent, and motionless. The park is a uniform diseased grey color, what little trace of paint left on the walls has faded to a sickly yellow or faint pink. It looks as if the evil of this place has sucked whatever life or amusement was here and left the remains.
    Still silence, I can hear every scrape and shuffle of my footsteps. That faint orange glow as a city night reflected in the atmosphere is still present, but faint here, concentrated further on in the park. Every ride or shopping stand is vacant and shut away, darkness lurking in every empty stand and window. I move on.

    I am racing forward and every step makes tiny splashes in the otherwise invisible lake surface, and dark water spills up through the edges of the gangplank. The lighthouse is above and to my right, towering white and distant. At the end of the short gangplank is a tall chain link fence, blocking both the top and bottom levels of the pier. I can see shapes moving, pacing, on the other side of the fence. I turn, and to my dismay the monkey creature has been joined by several friends who are now making their way slowly down the ladder I used moments ago. I am trapped except for a narrow brow connecting the walkway and the deck of a short green tugboat.
    “Harry!”
    A familiar voice, I turn towards the boat and see Cybil, in her turquoise police uniform waving to me, standing outside a side door of the boat. I gasp with relief and set one foot on the wooden plank and grab her hand and she pulls me safely into the boat.
    I am startled as Cybil slams the sliding door of the vessel shut, and standing before me with dark greenish skin and gypsy raiment, and the hint of white fangs is Dahlia Gallespie.
    “The Flauros! Is it safe?” she says.
    I hold out the alien device, a small triangular box, seemingly wooden, with blackened edges.
    "Very good. The mark of Samiem moves ever closer to it’s completion, and now there are two threats to this blackened world. The lighthouse and the Carousel, go now and you may still save your little girl.”
    “Cheryl? Have you seen her?” I ask.
    “We’ll find her, Harry” Cybil says as she puts her hand on my shoulder and squeezes. “I’ll take the Carousel at the park nearby, and you go to the lighthouse.”