Through Me

Closed in 2005, Jazzland endures. Sun-bleached boards cover broken windows.

A self-declared thrill-seeker, I live for rusted rides and peeling clowns.

I spot a man in the background of my funhouse selfie, his pale face framed in a faded security uniform.

I should leave. I can’t.

I run back to the funhouse.

I chase through twisted halls, breathless.

He stands waiting.

“You’ve been here before,” he whispers.

His flashlight pierces the dark. And my chest.

Cold envelopes me.

Memories follow – rain, sirens, and screams. 

Visions of my blood glistening on the tracks.

I’m not a ghost hunter.  

I’m the hunted.