They told us the park was closing for renovations. “A few weeks, maybe a month,” management said, smiling like always — too wide, too shiny. I was the guy who sold cotton candy near the Ferris wheel. Twelve years, rain or shine, I spun sugar clouds for sticky fingers and screaming kids.
Then one day, everyone just left. No official memo, no goodbye party. Gates locked. Power off. Just… silence.
But the weird part? I came back, a week later. Couldn’t stay away. Nostalgia, maybe. Or habit. That’s when I noticed it: the popcorn machine was still warm. The teacups? Spinning. Slowly. On their own.
At first, I thought I was losing it. Maybe a prank? Maybe squatters? But there were no signs of people. No footprints in the dust. Just… movement. Lights flickering on in the haunted house. The carousel creaking to life at dusk. Music playing — softly — though the speakers had been dead for months.
I started visiting at night. Watching. Listening.
One evening, I left a cone of cotton candy on the counter. When I came back, it was gone. Replaced by a single ticket stub. No date. Just one word printed across it: Admit.
I never figured out who — or what — still used the park. I only know it wasn’t for us anymore. Maybe it never was.
Still, I go back sometimes. I stand by the Ferris wheel and listen to the calliope echo through the fog. The place isn’t abandoned. It’s just… changed hands.
And somehow, I think I was never really an employee.
Just a guest.
Who overstayed his welcome.