"You're telling me nobody's been inside Wonderland for twenty years?" The guard at the gate—Harold, according to his rusted name tag—shifted his weight, eyes flicking toward the towering entrance behind him where faded paint peeled from the archway and cartoon letters once spelling out promises of magic now looked more like warnings etched into decaying wood.
"Twenty-three years," Harold corrected, his voice carrying the weight of someone who had seen too much and said too little over the decades he'd spent watching over this abandoned place. "Place shut down in 2002 when the owner vanished without a trace, and the city's been trying to sell it ever since but nobody wants to buy a theme park where something terrible happened, even if nobody remembers exactly what that terrible thing was."
I adjusted the camera bag on my shoulder, already mentally framing shots of the gates, the decay, the way evening light cut through broken windows in the main building creating shadows that seemed to move when I wasn't looking directly at them. "And you're sure it's safe to go in?" I asked, though I already knew what his answer would be because men like Harold always gave the same kind of non-answer that let them sleep at night while still collecting their paycheck.
Harold's laugh was dry and humorless, the kind of sound that came from a throat that had forgotten how to find genuine amusement in anything. "Safe in the sense that nothing's been touched in two decades and the structure is sound far as we know, but safe in terms of what you might encounter in there?" He pulled out a ring of keys, old brass things that looked like they belonged in a museum dedicated to artifacts from a world that no longer existed. "That's a different question entirely, and one I'm not qualified to answer."
"I'll take my chances," I said with more confidence than I felt, because backing out now would mean losing the deposit and more importantly losing the chance to film the documentary that would finally put my name on the map.
He studied me for a long moment with eyes that had probably seen dozens of people just like me walk through these gates full of confidence and cameras and dreams of discovering something the world had forgotten. "Your funeral, Ms. Chen, and the contract you signed says you got forty-eight hours starting from the moment I unlock this gate—two days, two nights, and after that I'm locking it whether you're out or not."
"Forty-eight hours is plenty of time to get the footage I need and document whatever's left inside," I replied, though a small voice in the back of my mind whispered that forty-eight hours might be far too long to spend alone in an abandoned theme park.
"Most folks can't last one night," Harold said as he unlocked the gate with a screech of protesting metal that sounded like the park itself was trying to warn me away. "Something about the dark in there gets in your head, changes the way you think, makes you see things that might or might not be real."
I stepped past him onto gravel that hadn't seen maintenance since I was in elementary school, my boots crunching on broken stones and debris that had accumulated over more than two decades of neglect. "I don't believe in ghosts, Harold, and I've explored plenty of abandoned places before without losing my mind."
"Didn't say ghosts," he corrected, swinging the gate wider while keeping his eyes on something in the distance that I couldn't quite see. "I said the dark gets in your head, and those are two very different things that people often confuse until it's too late to understand the distinction."
The main pathway stretched before me, lined with lamp posts shaped like playing cards that must have looked whimsical and inviting when the park was operational but now seemed vaguely threatening in the gathering dusk. Beyond them, Wonderland's central plaza opened up into a circular courtyard with a dormant fountain in the middle, and in the distance I could make out the shapes of larger structures including the main stage building, the Mirror Maze, and the Clockwork Tower that had once been the park's signature attraction.
"Power's still on," Harold called after me as I started down the path, his voice already sounding distant and disconnected from the world I was entering. "Most of it anyway, because the generator kicks in at night for the security lights and also for the animatronics that are still inside."
I turned back sharply, nearly dropping my camera in surprise at this new information that Harold had conveniently waited until now to mention. "The what?"
"Animatronics, entertainment robots, mechanical performers—whatever you want to call them, the owner never cleared them out when the park shut down." Harold was already closing the gate, the metal bars sliding between us like a prison door, or perhaps like a barrier meant to keep something contained rather than to keep people out. "They activate at night on some kind of automatic programming that nobody ever bothered to disable, but don't worry because they're completely harmless, just creepy as hell when you're not expecting them to suddenly start moving and performing for an audience that hasn't existed in over twenty years."
The gate clanged shut with a finality that made my stomach drop, the sound echoing across the empty plaza and seeming to announce my arrival to whatever waited in the abandoned buildings ahead.
"Wait—" I started forward, but Harold was already walking toward the small security booth without looking back, waving one hand in dismissal or farewell or perhaps in warning.
"Forty-eight hours, Ms. Chen, and the timer starts now whether you're ready or not."
I stood there as his footsteps faded into silence, leaving me completely alone with nothing but the vast emptiness of Wonderland stretching out in every direction and the growing awareness that I had just locked myself inside a place that the entire world seemed to have agreed should remain forgotten. The sun was already sinking lower toward the horizon, painting the sky in shades of orange and purple that would have been beautiful in any other context but here only seemed to mark the countdown to darkness. I pulled out my camera and forced professionalism over the sudden knot forming in my stomach, reminding myself that this was fine, that I had explored dozens of abandoned places before, that Wonderland was just another location—bigger sure, more isolated definitely, but ultimately just a place that someone had poured millions of dollars into before abandoning it overnight for reasons nobody seemed willing or able to explain.
Just a place where the owner, Miguel Hopper according to my research, had disappeared without explanation on the same night the park closed, leaving behind millions of dollars in equipment and attractions and unanswered questions. Just a place where children used to laugh and play and celebrate birthdays before something happened that made the city shut it down so fast they left everything behind, even the animatronics that apparently still performed their shows for empty rooms and abandoned stages.
I took my first photograph: the fountain, cracked and dry and filled with dead leaves, with a statue of a rabbit in the center wearing a top hat and holding a pocket watch frozen permanently at midnight. Behind me, something mechanical whirred to life with a sound that was somehow both familiar and deeply wrong, like hearing a lullaby played backwards or a cheerful song performed in a minor key.
I spun around with my heart hammering against my ribs, but saw nothing except shadows lengthening across empty concession stands and silent ticket booths that still had faded price lists visible behind dusty glass. The sound died away as suddenly as it had started, leaving behind a silence that felt heavier and more oppressive than the noise had been.
Old building, I told myself firmly, trying to convince my racing heart to slow down to something approaching normal. Just the structure settling, or pipes expanding and contracting with temperature changes, or the generator kicking in like Harold mentioned.
I checked my watch: six forty-seven in the evening, which meant I had maybe fifteen minutes of good daylight left before the sun disappeared completely below the horizon. I needed to establish a base camp before dark, somewhere central with good visibility and multiple exits in case I needed to leave quickly, and the main stage building seemed like the logical choice since it would be large enough to explore while also providing shelter and security.
The pathway to it wound through what must have been the Dream Gardens, where overgrown topiaries shaped like chess pieces loomed on either side of the cracked pavement, their forms distorted by years of unchecked growth into shapes that barely resembled their original designs. Something rustled in the overgrown bushes to my left, and I told myself it was probably just rats or maybe a stray cat, definitely something mundane and explainable, certainly not anything that would require me to acknowledge the growing sense of unease settling over me like a heavy blanket.
The stage building's entrance stood open with the door hanging crooked on broken hinges, and beyond it darkness waited like a living thing, patient and hungry and somehow aware of my approach. I clicked on my flashlight and stepped through into a lobby that looked like it had been frozen in time, as if everyone had simply walked away in the middle of an ordinary day and never come back.
The beam of my flashlight cut across faded posters on the walls advertising shows like "Wonderly and Friends Present: The Tea Party Spectacular" and "An Evening of Magic with The Hatter," while the concession counter still had paper cups stacked behind dusty glass alongside candy that had probably rotted away to nothing inside wrappers that still promised sweetness and joy. A birthday party schedule board on the far wall listed names from August 2002: Emily's seventh birthday at two in the afternoon, Jason's sixth birthday at four, and several others whose celebrations had been interrupted or canceled when the park closed without warning.
I wondered if those kids remembered this place, if they ever thought about the birthday party that never happened, if their parents had told them the truth about why Wonderland closed or if they had invented some comforting lie to protect them from whatever reality lurked beneath the surface of this abandoned park. What truth? My research had found almost nothing concrete, just rumors and whispers and vague references to malfunctioning equipment, accidents that were never fully explained, and one anonymous source who mentioned "the incident" but refused to provide any details beyond those two ominous words.
That was why I was here, to find the story that everyone had forgotten or been paid to forget, to uncover the truth that had been buried along with this park's reputation and Miguel Hopper's legacy. The beam of my flashlight swept across the lobby and caught something in the far corner that made me pause: a door marked EMPLOYEES ONLY - BACKSTAGE in faded red letters that seemed to pulse slightly in the beam of my light, though that was probably just a trick of the dust particles floating through the air.
I crossed the lobby with my footsteps echoing far too loud in the oppressive silence, each sound seeming to announce my presence to anyone or anything that might be listening from the darkness beyond my flashlight's reach. The employee door wasn't locked, which surprised me until I remembered that there hadn't been time for proper closure procedures, that people had apparently just abandoned their posts and fled, leaving doors unlocked and lights on and birthday cakes half-decorated in kitchens that still smelled faintly of vanilla and fear.
The door opened onto a narrow hallway lined with more doors bearing labels like Costumes, Storage, Maintenance, and at the very end, a set of double doors labeled MAIN STAGE in gold letters that had mostly flaked away but were still barely visible in the beam of my flashlight. I pushed through those double doors and found myself in a massive auditorium with easily three hundred seats, all facing an elevated stage where heavy curtains hung closed, hiding whatever waited behind them from view.
In the orchestra pit I could make out the shapes of instruments—a piano with yellowed keys, drums with torn heads, something that might have been a xylophone now covered in a thick layer of dust that had accumulated over more than two decades of silence. And on the stage, visible through a small gap in the curtains, I could see shadows that looked almost like figures standing perfectly still, waiting for an audience that would never come or perhaps waiting for something else entirely.
I climbed the stairs to the stage with my flashlight beam shaking slightly, telling myself it was just adrenaline and anticipation rather than fear, because fear would mean admitting that some part of me already knew I had made a terrible mistake in coming here. The curtains were thick velvet that released clouds of dust when I grabbed them, and they parted with a shriek of protesting metal rings that sounded almost like a scream echoing through the empty auditorium.
Five animatronics stood frozen in a semicircle on the stage, locked in the middle of some long-ago performance that had been interrupted and never resumed, their positions suggesting they had been caught mid-movement when the power was cut or when someone decided they should never perform again. Center stage stood a tall white rabbit in a blue waistcoat with one arm extended in a welcoming gesture that now seemed more threatening than friendly—this was Wonderly according to my research, the park's main mascot and the face of the Wonderland brand.
To Wonderly's left stood a jester in purple and gold with bells hanging silent from a floppy hat, his painted smile somehow managing to look both inviting and deeply unsettling in the beam of my flashlight—Jingles the Entertainer, whose performances had supposedly been the highlight of any visit to Wonderland. To Wonderly's right posed an elegant cat in a flowing dress with one paw raised mid-dance, her painted eyes seeming to track me as I moved even though I knew that was impossible because she was just a machine, just metal and wires and sophisticated programming—this was Duchess, the dancer whose grace had reportedly mesmerized audiences.
Behind them stood a gentle-faced character in flowing robes holding a microphone in delicate mechanical hands, their expression carefully crafted to project warmth and musicality—Harmony the Singer, whose voice had supposedly been recorded by professional opera singers and filtered through the most advanced audio systems available in the early 2000s. And at the edge of the group stood twin figures in matching outfits holding hands in a pose that suggested unity and friendship but now looked vaguely sinister in the way that all twin imagery becomes unsettling when viewed in the right context—Tweedle and Dee, the comedy duo whose synchronized movements had delighted children and unnerved adults in equal measure.
They looked disturbingly lifelike in the beam of my flashlight, with eyes too large and smiles too wide but painted with such incredible detail and precision that from the right angle in the right light they could almost pass for human, or at least for something that existed in that uncanny valley between machine and living thing. I circled Wonderly slowly while examining the construction with professional interest, noting that the synthetic fur looked and felt real even up close, that the joints were far more sophisticated than I had expected for early 2000s animatronics, that someone had poured serious money and genuine skill into creating these performers.
Miguel Hopper, the genius engineer who had built Wonderland from nothing using family money and technical innovation, who had revolutionized entertainment robotics with patents that other companies had spent millions trying to replicate, who had disappeared on the same night the park closed leaving behind nothing but questions and these silent mechanical performers. I reached out and touched Wonderly's paw, half-expecting it to feel cold and metallic, but instead the fur was soft and the underlying structure felt almost warm, though that was probably just residual heat from the generator or perhaps from my own hand projecting warmth onto an object that had none.
Then I realized with a sudden jolt of alarm that I could see the animatronics clearly even though my flashlight was pointed at the floor, and when I looked up I saw that the stage lights were on, bathing the entire platform in soft amber light that made the performers look almost alive. I spun toward the control booth at the back of the auditorium expecting to see someone there, expecting to find Harold or another security guard or perhaps a homeless person who had been living in the building, but the booth was empty and dark with no sign that anyone had been there in years.
The stage lights continued to glow steadily, and I told myself this was just the generator that Harold had mentioned, the automatic security system kicking in at sunset to provide lighting throughout the park even though there was nobody there to see it or need it. I checked my watch with hands that trembled slightly despite my efforts to remain calm: seven-oh-three in the evening, which meant the sun had just set and the automated systems were activating according to whatever programming had been left running all these years.
A mechanical whir filled the auditorium with a sound that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once, and I stepped back from Wonderly as the rabbit's head turned with smooth deliberation to track me with glass eyes that suddenly seemed far too aware of my presence. On either side of the stage the other animatronics began to move in perfect synchronization, their joints operating with a smoothness that suggested regular maintenance even though nobody had supposedly been inside this building for twenty-three years—Jingles straightened and his bells tingled with that familiar cheerful sound, Duchess completed her dance step with mechanical grace, Harmony raised the microphone with practiced precision, and Tweedle and Dee's hands separated and then rejoined in a new position that suggested the continuation of some choreographed routine.
Music crackled from hidden speakers positioned throughout the auditorium, cheerful and bright and welcoming in a way that seemed completely divorced from the reality of five mechanical performers moving in an abandoned theater for an audience of one terrified documentary filmmaker. Wonderly's jaw opened with a slight clicking sound, and a pre-recorded voice emerged from speakers hidden somewhere in his chest or perhaps in the stage itself: "Welcome to Wonderland where dreams come true and magic is real and every day is filled with wonder and joy, we're so happy you could join us for a magical night of entertainment and—"
The voice distorted suddenly, dropping into static that sounded almost like screaming if you listened to it the right way, and then it cut out entirely leaving behind a silence that felt somehow worse than the noise had been. The animatronics froze mid-performance with Wonderly's arm still extended, Jingles mid-bow, Duchess balanced on one foot, Harmony's microphone halfway to her mouth, and the twins locked in an embrace that now looked more like they were trying to strangle each other than perform a synchronized dance.
The music died with a final crackling wheeze, and the stage lights flickered once and then twice before steadying again, their amber glow now seeming less warm and more sickly, less inviting and more like the kind of light that exists in fever dreams and nightmares. I stood perfectly still with my flashlight beam trembling on Wonderly's face, noting that his smile was unchanged because it was painted on and permanent and would last long after everything else in this building had crumbled to dust, but his eyes—those glass eyes that should have been just simple spheres designed to catch and reflect light—still seemed to be looking directly at me with something that could almost be called awareness.
They're just robots, I told myself with more force than conviction, trying to slow my racing heart through sheer willpower and logic. Harold warned you they would activate at night, that they run on automatic programming that nobody ever bothered to disable, they're completely harmless just like he said, just creepy, just machines following instructions that are more than twenty years old.
But something felt profoundly wrong in a way that I couldn't quite articulate, some instinct that existed below conscious thought was screaming at me to run, to get out of this building and this park and to forget about the documentary and the footage and everything except getting back to the gate and waiting there for forty-eight hours if that's what it took to survive. The animatronics had stopped in positions that were different from their starting poses, as if the performance had been interrupted mid-routine rather than simply paused, as if something had cut them off deliberately rather than allowing them to complete their programmed show.
Or perhaps, and this thought made my blood run cold, as if something else had taken control of the power and was using these performers to send me a message that I was too frightened to properly understand. From somewhere deep in the building, from a direction I couldn't quite identify because the acoustics in the auditorium distorted sound in strange ways, I heard metal scraping against concrete with a sound that was deliberate and purposeful rather than random or accidental.
Footsteps, not the mechanical whirring of animatronics moving on their programmed tracks, not the smooth gliding of robots designed to entertain children, but actual footsteps like a person walking, like someone who knew exactly where they were going and was in no particular hurry to get there. I killed my flashlight and dropped into a crouch beside the stage, pressing myself against the wooden platform while my heart hammered so loudly in my chest that I was absolutely certain anyone in the building could hear it echoing through the silence like a drum announcing my location.
The footsteps came closer with that same deliberate pace, slow and measured and patient in a way that suggested whoever or whatever was making them had all the time in the world and knew that I had nowhere to go, no way to escape, no option except to hide and hope and pray that I remained undiscovered. Through the gap in the curtains I watched the employee door at the back of the auditorium open slowly, and a silhouette stood framed in the doorway with proportions that were subtly wrong—too thin, with arms that seemed too long, wearing what looked like a long coat and a tall hat that made the figure seem even more elongated and unnatural.
It stood there for a long moment as if listening to the silence, as if testing the air for some scent or sign of my presence, and then its head turned toward the stage with a movement that was too smooth to be human and too deliberate to be mechanical. "I know you're here," a voice said, and it was not recorded, not mechanical, but human—or at least something that had once been human or was doing a very good impression of humanity despite the wrongness that lurked beneath every syllable.
The figure stepped into the auditorium, and as it passed through a shaft of emergency lighting mounted above the door I saw it clearly for the first time and wished desperately that I hadn't. It was an animatronic suit, yes, designed to be worn by a performer, but this one had been worn far beyond its intended lifespan and showed the damage of years or perhaps decades of continuous use—the purple coat was torn in multiple places revealing metal framework and wiring underneath, the top hat sat crooked on a head with a cracked faceplate that exposed servos and mechanical components, and one glass eye caught the light and seemed to glow with a faint illumination that couldn't be explained by simple reflection.
And inside the suit, visible through tears in the fabric and gaps in the mechanical structure, I couldn't tell if I was seeing shadow or something else, couldn't determine if there was a person inside or if the suit itself had somehow achieved independent operation through means I didn't want to contemplate. The figure stopped at the base of the stage with one hand resting on the edge of the platform, and I could see now that the glove was stained with something dark that had dried and cracked over what must have been years of accumulation.
"Twenty-three years," the figure said, and now I could hear the mechanical distortion underneath the human speech, could detect the way the voice was being filtered through speakers and processors and amplification systems, could recognize that this was something between life and death, between human and machine, between past and present. "Twenty-three years since anyone has been inside Wonderland, twenty-three years of waiting in the darkness for someone to finally come back and give me the opportunity I've been denied for far too long."
It placed both hands on the stage now, and I could see the mechanical joints in the fingers, could see the way the gloves didn't quite fit properly over the animatronic hands beneath, could see dried stains that extended up the arms and disappeared under the torn coat sleeves. "Welcome," it said with what might have been satisfaction or anticipation or perhaps hunger in its distorted voice, "welcome to my domain, to the kingdom I built and the empire I ruled and the laboratory where I conducted my most important work."
Then it tilted its head in a motion that was too fluid to be purely mechanical and too jerky to be entirely human, and I realized with horror that this thing was looking directly at where I was hiding, that it had known my location the entire time, that this whole speech had been performed for my benefit like some twisted reversal of the entertainment these animatronics were designed to provide. "I am The Hatter," it announced with evident pride, "and you, my dear guest, are going to help me with an experiment that I've been planning for longer than you've been alive."
I ran with no thought beyond pure survival instinct, vaulting over Harmony's still form, scrambling past Tweedle and Dee who remained frozen in their interrupted embrace, hitting the backstage door at full speed with my shoulder leading and pain exploding through my upper arm as I crashed through into the hallway beyond. Behind me, laughter echoed through the auditorium, not the cheerful recorded laughter that might play during a children's show but something else, something that carried genuine amusement mixed with anticipation mixed with something darker that I couldn't identify and didn't want to examine too closely.
"Run if you'd like," The Hatter called after me, his voice carrying clearly through the building despite the walls and distance, amplified perhaps by the same speaker system that allowed the animatronics to perform their shows. "Wonderland is quite large with many places to hide and many rooms to explore, and I appreciate enthusiasm in my test subjects even if that enthusiasm is currently directed toward escape rather than cooperation."
I slammed through the backstage hallway without looking back, burst into the lobby trailing dust and fear in equal measure, sprinted for the exit with my only thought being to get outside, to get into the open air where I could see the stars and the sky and remember that there was a world beyond this nightmare. "All the time in the world," The Hatter's voice crackled from speakers hidden throughout the building, surrounding me with his words, making it impossible to determine where he actually was or which direction I should run to avoid him, "because unlike you, unlike every other mortal creature that has ever walked through these gates, I am not constrained by the limitations of flesh or the inevitability of death."
I hit the outside air and kept running with lungs burning and legs screaming in protest, across the Dream Gardens where the chess piece topiaries now seemed to be reaching for me with twisted branches, past the fountain where the rabbit statue's frozen smile looked knowing and cruel in the security lighting. Behind me, Wonderland's buildings lit up one by one in a cascade of illumination that could have been automatic security protocols activating or could have been something else, some consciousness awakening and taking control of the park's systems to announce my presence to every corner of this abandoned domain.
I ran toward the gate where Harold had left me, ran with every ounce of strength and speed I possessed, ran until I crashed into the metal bars hard enough to rattle them in their frame and send pain shooting through my hands. The gate was locked, of course it was locked, Harold had told me it would be locked, had warned me that I had forty-eight hours and that he wouldn't open it before then no matter what happened inside.
"Harold!" I screamed into the night with my voice cracking from exertion and terror, screamed toward the dark security booth that showed no signs of life or occupation. "HAROLD, PLEASE, YOU HAVE TO LET ME OUT!"
The security booth remained dark and silent and probably empty because Harold had probably gone home hours ago, had probably driven away from Wonderland thinking about the foolish documentary filmmaker who had signed a contract and paid a deposit and walked willingly into a place that any reasonable person would avoid. Forty-eight hours, he had said, forty-eight hours before he would return to unlock the gate and collect whatever was left of me.
Behind me, music began to play across Wonderland's speakers, the same cheerful theme from the stage show but distorted now, played slower than it should be, pitched wrong, transformed into something that sounded like a funeral dirge played on children's instruments. And underneath the music, barely audible but impossible to ignore, I heard those footsteps again, not running, just walking at that same measured pace that suggested infinite patience and absolute certainty that there was no escape.
I turned back toward Wonderland with my back pressed against the locked gate, toward the buildings now blazing with light like some twisted parody of the grand illumination ceremonies that must have marked the park's opening all those years ago, toward the stage building where The Hatter had emerged and where he presumably still stood watching me with those glass eyes that seemed to see far too much. The figure appeared in the entrance to the stage building, silhouetted against the glow of interior lights, standing perfectly still in a pose that conveyed both menace and patience.
"Welcome to Wonderland," his voice echoed across the empty park, amplified by speakers mounted on lamp posts and buildings, surrounding me with sound until it felt like the entire park was speaking with his voice. "Welcome to Wonderland, where nightmares come true, where the impossible becomes inevitable, where you will help me continue the work that was so rudely interrupted twenty-three years ago when small-minded bureaucrats decided that my experiments crossed some imaginary line between acceptable and unacceptable research."
I looked down at my watch with hands shaking so badly I could barely read the display: seven-fifteen in the evening, which meant I had been inside Wonderland for less than thirty minutes and already everything had gone catastrophically wrong. Forty-seven hours and forty-five minutes remained until Harold would return to unlock the gate, forty-seven hours and forty-five minutes until I could escape this place if I survived that long, if The Hatter allowed me to survive, if whatever experiments he had planned didn't end with me becoming another piece of this park's dark history.
If I survived until dawn, until that distant moment when the sun would rise and perhaps bring with it some hope of rescue or escape or at least the comfort of daylight to replace this oppressive darkness. The Hatter remained motionless in the distance, watching and waiting, and I realized with sickening clarity that he wasn't chasing me because he didn't need to, that I was already trapped inside his domain with nowhere to run and no one to help me and nothing but my own wits and determination standing between me and whatever fate he had planned.
This was going to be the longest forty-eight hours of my life, assuming I lived that long, assuming The Hatter's experiments didn't end with my consciousness trapped inside one of those animatronics or my body hidden in some dark corner of Wonderland where nobody would find it for another twenty-three years. I took a deep breath and forced myself to think, to plan, to remember that I had survived difficult situations before and that panic would only make me an easier victim.
Somewhere in this park there had to be answers, had to be some explanation for what The Hatter was and what Miguel Hopper had been doing in the years before Wonderland closed, had to be some weakness or vulnerability that I could exploit to survive until the gate opened again. I pushed away from the bars and started moving along the perimeter, keeping the fence in sight, looking for any gap or weakness or alternative exit that Harold might not have mentioned.
The Hatter's laughter followed me through the darkness, and the cheerful music continued to play its distorted melody, and the lights of Wonderland blazed around me like a cage made of illumination rather than bars, and somewhere in the distance I heard mechanical whirring as the animatronics began their nightly performances for an audience of one terrified documentary filmmaker who was beginning to understand that some stories should remain buried and some places should stay forgotten.