Dreamland After Dark

 

Jack Thompson stood at the rusted gates of Dreamland Park, the once-thriving amusement park now swallowed by time and decay. The wind howled through shattered ticket booths, carrying the scent of damp wood and rusted metal. The town called it cursed, abandoned for decades after a tragedy no one dared to speak of. But Jack had been hired to keep trespassers out, to patrol its empty walkways—though deep down, he knew no living soul would dare enter.

As the last traces of sunlight bled from the sky, the park groaned to life. Lights flickered on, casting eerie glows across peeling signs and broken attractions. The Ferris wheel, still and dead just moments before, creaked and began to turn. The carousel, stripped of its former beauty, whined a discordant tune as its cracked horses bobbed up and down.

Jack’s breath hitched. He had seen strange things in this place before—shadows moving where they shouldn’t, whispers in the wind—but tonight was different. Tonight, they wanted him to see.

A piercing shriek cut through the air. Jack spun around, his flashlight beam trembling as it landed on the Tilt-A-Whirl. The ride moved on its own, the empty cars spinning wildly, and in the brief flickers of its broken lights, he saw them—figures, twisted and hollow-eyed, strapped into the seats. They weren’t riding. They were trapped.

Jack stumbled back, heart hammering. “Who are you?” he called out, his voice barely above a whisper.

A cold wind swept past him, and suddenly, the figures turned. Empty sockets locked onto him. The air filled with a cacophony of distorted screams and sobs, voices overlapping, desperate and anguished.

"We are Dreamland. We cannot leave."

The roller coaster thundered to life, its rusted cars flying along the decayed track, a ghostly crowd screaming as it plunged down invisible drops. The clown animatronics lining the Funhouse jerked to attention, their faces frozen in grotesque grins, laughter echoing as if from another world.

Jack’s knees buckled. His mind screamed to run, but something inside him whispered: They don’t want to hurt you. They want to be heard.

Taking a shaking breath, he forced himself forward. “Tell me what happened,” he murmured. “Tell me how to help.”

The wind howled, and the ghosts obeyed.

Visions slammed into his mind—flashes of fire, of panicked screams, of children clutching stuffed animals as smoke devoured the night. A terrible accident, a forgotten tragedy. No one had ever claimed responsibility. No one had mourned them.

Jack fell to his knees, tears burning his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he choked. “I’m so sorry.”

The wind stilled. The carousel slowed, its haunting melody softening. The spirits loomed closer, their hollow eyes less accusing, more… pleading.

Jack knew what he had to do.

The town wanted to forget Dreamland, but the dead couldn’t rest in silence. The world needed to remember. To grieve. To know their pain.

As dawn’s first light touched the park, the spirits began to fade, their outlines blurring like mist in the wind. The Ferris wheel ground to a stop. The Funhouse fell silent.

Jack stood alone among the ruins of Dreamland Park, the weight of the past pressing on his chest. He would tell their story. He would make the world listen.

Over the next few weeks, Jack became obsessed. By day, he scoured old newspapers, microfilm archives, and dusty library shelves for any mention of Dreamland's final days. By night, he wandered the park again, searching for answers that eluded him during daylight hours. Each visit felt heavier than the last, as though the spirits lingered even when unseen, urging him onward.

He uncovered fragments of the truth piece by piece. It started with an article buried deep within a local paper’s archives—a small headline reading "Fire Ravages Dreamland Park; Dozens Feared Dead." The date was July 14, 1973. The accompanying photo showed charred remains of what had once been the main pavilion, blackened skeletons of rides looming behind emergency vehicles.

But there was little else. No follow-up stories. No lists of victims or survivors. Just silence.

Then came the interviews. Jack tracked down elderly residents who remembered Dreamland in its heyday, coaxing memories from reluctant lips. One woman, Mrs. Eleanor Grayson, spoke haltingly about her younger brother, Tommy, who had begged her to take him to the park that fateful evening. She’d refused, citing homework. He went anyway—and never came home.

“He wasn’t supposed to go without me,” she whispered, tears streaming down her wrinkled cheeks. “We promised we’d always stick together.”

Another man, Harold Jenkins, admitted he’d worked maintenance at the park. His voice cracked as he described cutting corners on safety inspections to save money. “It was my fault,” he confessed, gripping his cane tightly. “I should’ve said something. But I didn’t think anything bad could happen…”

Each story added another layer to the tragedy, painting a picture of negligence, greed, and fear. Yet none explained why the spirits remained tethered to the park—or why they chose Jack to bear witness.

One particularly frigid night, Jack returned to the park determined to confront them directly. Standing beneath the skeletal remains of the roller coaster, he shouted into the darkness, “Why me? Why now?”

For a long moment, nothing happened. Then the air grew colder, and the faint sound of laughter drifted toward him—not cruel, but almost playful. Shadows coalesced into human shapes, surrounding him. Among them, he recognized faces from photographs he’d found: Tommy Grayson, wide-eyed and clutching a melted candy apple; Harold Jenkins, looking far younger than the broken man Jack had met; and countless others whose names history had erased.

“You can see us,” one figure said softly. It was a teenage girl wearing a singed dress, her hair scorched short. “You hear us. You care.”

Jack swallowed hard. “I’ll tell your stories. I swear it. But why haven’t you moved on?”

The girl stepped closer, her expression sad but resolute. “Because we’re not done yet. Because the living need to understand what happened here—not just to us, but because of them.” She gestured vaguely toward the horizon, where the distant lights of the town blinked obliviously. “Until they face the truth, we’re bound to this place.”