Joey | 1997

"You opened it early," the man said. His voice echoed like a tunnel. "I buried that box when I was twelve. The carnival comes every year on August 17th. It takes one of us. I tried to warn you—but you're me. And I never listen."

"Don't go to the fair."

Joey found the time capsule on a Tuesday, buried under the old sycamore tree behind his grandmother’s house. The tree had been struck by lightning the night before, splitting open like a book, and there it was: a rusted metal box with "JOEY 1997" scratched into the lid. joey 1997

He pried it open with a tire iron. Inside: a cracked Polaroid of a boy who looked exactly like him—same cowlick, same gap-toothed grin—but wearing baggy jeans and a Spawn T-shirt. Beneath the photo, a handwritten letter:

The Slide of Mirrors was a garish purple tube at the far end of the midway. No line. No attendant. Just a sign: "One rider at a time. No refunds." "You opened it early," the man said

That night, the carnival rolled into town unannounced. No flyers, no calliope music, just a sudden ring of tents and blinking lights at the county fairgrounds. Joey went anyway—because how could he not? The letter felt like a dare.

"If you’re reading this, it’s already started. Don’t trust the carnival. And whatever you do—don’t go down the Slide of Mirrors on August 17th." The carnival comes every year on August 17th

Joey looked down. His hands were starting to fade, like old film left in the sun.