Funland

Short Story

April 2025

Funland, they called it, where memories are made, and the fun never stops. During the day, it was filled with laughter and screams of delight. But at night, after the cloying sweetness of cotton candy had melted into the darkness it was different. It was something else entirely. I was part of that something else, or rather, it became a part of me. My name is Ben, as a security guard my job was to ensure that the last stragglers had left, the park was locked down and no one returned until the dawning of a new day. I worked the night shift.
I patrolled the sleeping, carnival of screams for eight hours. With flashlight, radio, and plenty of caffeine, ensuring nothing happened. That no vandals, no afterhours thrill-seekers disturbed the peaceful sleep of Funland. However, these were minor things within the grounds of Funland at night, there were other things that concerned the night shift more than I realised. The other things, you learn about the hard way. You were not informed about them in the recruitment film. You learned about them by being introduced.
The first weeks were a breeze. Just the occasional creak of the rides settling after a busy day, the occasional random rustle of wind through Adventure Island's plastic greenery, the faraway hoot of an owl hunting in the grounds. Everyday things, easy enough to rationalise and something I could handle, I’d even sneak a chocolate bar or two from one of the kiosks sometimes, just to break the monotony. But then, things started to change, as my introduction began.
It didn’t seem sinister at first. A flicker off my peripheral, a movement that shifted when I wasn't staring directly at it. The unmistakable sound of children's laughter next to the carousel that was closed for the night, the feeling of being watched even though I knew I was alone. I chalked it up to fatigue, to the mind playing tricks after staring into the void for hours.
But then there were the dolls.
Funland had a "Dollhouse of Horrors" ride, one of the cheesy, animatronic haunted houses that were full of gothic dolls and inexplicable scares. I'd have to walk through it each night to make sure all the electronics were turned off. It was the one job I hastened to finish, the one job that didn’t feel right somehow. Each time I was in there I felt I was being watched, as though those dolls could see through me, as though they were stripping me bare from the inside out.
One night, I found a doll outside the attraction. Just sitting on a bench, its white porcelain face staring blankly into the night. I picked it up, thinking a technician had moved it earlier in the day. As I lifted it, I snagged my finger on a sharp pin that held its coat together, it was just a scratch but enough to draw blood which dripped onto the dolls face. I quickly wiped the smear from its lips and put it back in the ride.
It was on the same bench the following evening.
This was not just a part of a ride. This was something else. I tossed the doll into a trash can, a desperate move fuelled by anger at the thought of someone messing with me. I strode away and tried to suppress it from my mind. I did not sleep well the following day, an air of unease hanging over me like a damp shroud. The doll visited me in my dreams, not vivid, just a shadow in the corner of my dreamscape but there none the less.
The following night, I found another doll in my patrol car. In the front seat, cold glassy eyes glaring at me, glinting in the moonlight. I almost screamed. This time, I didn't bother to toss it in the dumpster, cramming it into the trunk, I drove to the end of the park and tossed it into the woods. Deep enough to ensure it wouldn’t be found.
But it wasn't over.
The dolls kept turning up sporadically over the following weeks. On the seat of the Ferris wheel, on the teacups, even over in Pirates Cove hovering above the skull and cross bones motif. Always a single doll, always just out of reach with a painted grin smiling down at me. They seemed to delight in finding new places to hide, and new forms to take, each time looking even more sinister than the last. I found myself fearing my own shifts. With darkness came the creeping sense of unease that the porcelain hoard would be waiting for me, each creak and groan of the park a portent of those creepy dolls bearing down on me.
I was on a walking patrol outside the Hall of Mirrors one evening when I heard it. A hoarse whisper, as if it was everywhere and nowhere at the same time.
"You can't get rid of us; you are part of us now."
I froze; my flashlight gripped so tightly in my fist that my knuckles ached. I panned the light around in a wide arc, but nothing. Only the endless echoes off the distorted mirrors, each one of them reflecting a tortured image of my own fear.
"Who's there?" I croaked, my voice a whisper that hardly made a sound.
The whispering increased, closer.
"Don’t you want to play with us?" it hissed, and I felt its breath, warm and fetid as though it was next to my ear
Abruptly, the Hall of Mirrors came to life. The reflections twisted and contorted, no longer reflecting my image but shaping themselves into grotesque bodies with twisted faces, leering grins, and eyes blazing with wicked joy. I drew back, my heart pounding in my chest, a savage fear clutching at my soul.
And then I saw it. The doll. In the middle of the hall, bathed by distorted light, its face cracked, weathered porcelain, its eyes with an evil sheen.
"Play with us, Ben, join our game" it croaked, its voice now a crash of whispers, a chorus of children's laughter and wicked spite.
I turned and ran. I raced at full speed, my lungs screaming for air, my heart threatening to leap from my chest until I reached the security room, slamming the door behind me and jamming it shut with whatever I could find. I stayed there for the rest of my shift, huddled in a corner, seeing those fingers curling beneath the door, scratching the wood with their discoloured nails, and hearing the whispers urging me to come out and play.
The next morning, I quit, I didn't even return for my last paycheck, I just cut out, abandoning Funland and all its horrors. I still have nightmares, though, the doll still visits my dreams, calling me to come and play in ghostly whispers. I still see the Hall of Mirrors in nightmares where I'm trapped forever playing a game I can never win.
The doctors have informed me that Funland remains open, that it still entices families eager to create memories. I wonder how many more there are like me, how many drops of blood have been spilled on those ravenous grounds? Knees that have been scraped in the eagerness to get to a ride, or cuts the glassware inflicted, how many candyfloss sticks have plunged splinters into adolescent fingers? How many families leave thinking that their souls go with them? I know otherwise. I am aware of what lies in the shadows, what stalks the fading light of day, what emerges to play when the laughter stops, and the lamps go out. And I am aware, that one day they will call my name for the last time, and I will become a memory, a memory trapped within the hall of mirrors, my reflection occupying one of those dolls as it joins in with their game.