Joey 1997 __exclusive__ -

At the top, the slide twisted into darkness. Joey hesitated, then let go.

That was his name. Joey. Born 1997. Same as the date on the box. joey 1997

"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. At the top, the slide twisted into darkness

"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

The next morning, the carnival was gone. Under the sycamore tree, a fresh patch of dirt. And in a little boy's bedroom across town, another Joey woke up with a strange feeling, a scar on his palm he didn't remember getting, and a whisper in his ear: