Psychological Horror Short Story - Sloth: Carnival of Sin #4

About the story:

When Marcy finally wakes from another day of slothful drifting, she discovers her roommate Lydia has been missing for days — and she never noticed. As guilt presses in and the apartment fills with accusing silence, Marcy flees into the neon glow of a nearby carnival, hoping to outrun the truth. But the deeper she wanders, the more the world dissolves into fog, choices, and something hungry beneath the lights. “The Woman Who Faded” is a psychological horror short story about guilt, supernatural disappearance, and the quiet terror of realizing you were too late long before anyone vanished.

 

Marcy shuffled out of her bedroom, rubbing her eyes. The hallway was dark, and so was the kitchen, and she wondered what time it was. The microwave clock said 12:05, but that didn’t help—afternoon or midnight, who could tell? When she turned on the kitchen light, she noticed the dishes still piled high in the sink: crusted plates, cloudy glasses, a spoon stuck to a bowl with dried milk from the last time she'd had breakfast.

Her fingernail picked at dried sauce on the counter. There was a musty smell in the air. She was mildly surprised. She wasn’t sure how long it had been, but this was certainly the longest she and Lydia had ever played the Who Can Be Lazier? game.

Marcy excelled at that game. Her mother used to say she was “the embodiment of sloth,” a phrase she hadn’t understood as a child but fully embraced now. It was her defining personality trait, and she was proud of it. Marcy excelled at the game because she truly didn’t care if the dishes piled up.

Lydia did. Usually after a day or two, Lydia broke down and washed them. Marcy wondered what was happening in Lydia’s life that she hadn’t done them this time.

Where had that thought come from? Marcy wondered. It wasn't like her to care about Lydia beyond when she would bring home the next batch of groceries. She opened the fridge and stared at the emptiness. Lydia hadn’t done the shopping either. Marcy didn’t usually care, but occasionally it was nice to have something for breakfast. She ruffled through the half‑empty bread bag and sloshed the mouthful of milk in the jug, then decided she wasn’t hungry enough to deal with any of it.

Slipper’s flopping, she went into the living room, where she could see around the edges of the curtains that it was noon, not midnight. Motes of dust danced in the ray of light that speared the dark, but it still barely relieved the gloom. That was fine by Marcy. That small amount of light was more than her tired eyes could handle.

It was surprising Lydia hadn’t opened the blinds—she usually did before she left for work. Even on the weekends, Lydia was up long before Marcy, spreading the blinds dramatically to ‘welcome the day.’ Marcy, of course, had no idea what day it was. Wednesday or Sunday afternoon, it didn’t matter. Sleeping and the occasional bout of TV were as far as she ever bestirred herself.

Not for the first time, Marcy thanked the heavens for her grandfather’s beneficiary money, which allowed her to be so very slothful. Without it, she’d have needed a job, needed to go out into the world. Instead, she could laze away her days.

People told her it was a waste of a life, but Marcy didn’t understand the yearning to leave something behind. If she could have, she would have come back as a cat—lying in the sun, doing nothing. That was the life.

She considered opening the windows, but the idea of looking out and seeing the world made her cringe. She’d just go back to bed. Eventually Lydia would return with groceries and insist on making her something to eat. She could wait.

Her hand was on her bedroom doorknob when the doorbell rang—sharp, insistent. ‘Ding-dong-ding’ it ricocheted through the rooms, indicating just how quiet the apartment was. Marcy froze. No one ever came for her. She had no family left, and sleeping her life away didn’t lead to making many friends. Usually when someone came to the door, it was someone else’s problem.

Her first thought was that their landlord was there, come to fix some minor problem that Lydia insisted on. Marcy remembered the time Lydia had called Mr. Pike fourteen times for the broken toilet paper holder. Marcy waited, hoping Lydia would magically appear or the ringing would stop.

It did, after three rings. Good. She’d never be able to go back to sleep with someone at the door.

She had just turned the knob when the ringing doorbell became the heavy thud of a fist against the door. Then a voice: “Police department. Open the door.”

Marcy’s stomach dropped. She had no reason to fear the police—she’d done nothing wrong, unless sleeping away her life was illegal. She considered pretending she wasn’t home, hiding, doing nothing. But the knocking grew louder, impossible to ignore. She wouldn’t be able to sleep through this. For the first time in a long time, she realized she couldn’t sloth her way out of something. She slumped her way to the front door.

Outside were two police officers stood there. One was a short blonde woman, polite but firm. The other was a tall man, with a reddish beard. His hand rested on the butt of his gun.

Marcy stood blinking in the sunshine for a minute. “Yes?”

“Hello, ma’am. We’re looking for a – “she looked at her notebook. “Marcy Steven.”

“I’m Marcy.”

“May we come in?” the man asked.

Marcy didn’t want them to, but resisting required energy she didn’t have. She stepped aside.

It’s funny how you see the world around you differently when other people are there. Marcy turned on lights as she led the officers into the apartment, picking up her shoes and laundry that littered the floor.

“Do you live here along?” the blond officer asked.

“No, I have a roommate. Lydia Daniels.”

The officers exchanged a look.

“I’m sorry for the mess,” Marcy said, pulling clothes off chairs and gesturing for the officers to sit. “It’s Lydia’s fault. She’s the messy one.” 

“So, how long has your roommate been gone?” the blonde officer asked. She sat while her partner prowled around the room.

Marcy blinked at the woman. “Gone? As in to work? A couple hours. She usually starts around eight.”

“When did you last see her?”

Marcy thought. And thought. And realized she wasn’t sure. She shrugged. “I don’t keep track of her. She does her thing, I do mine.”

The second officer called from the hallway: “Her rooms untouched. Beds made. Looks like she hasn’t been here in days.”

Marcy’s cheeks burned—not with guilt, but embarrassment at her own indifference.

The blonde officer closed her notebook. “Marcy… Lydia’s missing.”

The words hung in the air. Marcy’s first reaction wasn’t fear—it was annoyance. Of course, Lydia would do this to her. Missing meant questions. Questions meant responsibility. Responsibility meant effort.

“How did you not know?” the second officer asked.

Marcy had no answer. The truth was simple: she didn’t notice because she didn’t care enough to look. But she didn’t admit that. “As I said, she does her thing, I do mine. I can go days without seeing her. It’s not like we’re friends. She could’ve found a man. Who knows.”

“We don’t think she’s ‘found a man’.” Marcy heard the sarcasm as the man used finger quotes around the words. “She hasn’t been to work in days. Her boss is the one who called us.”

Marcy’s shoulders sagged. Lydia didn’t miss work. Lydia didn’t miss anything.

After more questions, the officers left, saying they might return. They told her not to leave town. Marcy stood with her hand on the closed door. ‘That was ominous,’ she thought.

Returning to her bedroom door, she noticed the apartment felt heavier. The quiet was thick. As she flicked off the lights, the dark became smothering.

Accusing.

Marcy stood in the living room, staring at the mess she’d blamed on Lydia. Now she noticed things she hadn’t before: Lydia’s mug on the counter, her shoes by the door. Lydia’s bedroom door, which the police officer had left slightly ajar, beckoned to Marcy. She stood staring at the perfectly made bed, Lydia’s pajamas folded on the pillow, as if she were expecting to be back any minute.

Each piece is a tiny formal accusation.

Marcy heard the words everywhere she looked. She should have noticed when Lydia didn’t come home. She should have asked questions.

She should have cared.

She tried to sit on the couch but couldn’t get comfortable. Tried to watch TV, but the noise grated, the flashing lights pierced her eyes. Lydia’s belongings whispered accusations at her.

You could have done something.

It’s your fault.

Your fault she’s dead.

Marcy jumped up from the couch. ‘Just because she’s missing doesn’t mean she’s dead,’ she told herself. ‘She’ll be back in no time. Then the police will know I had nothing to do with this.’

She went back to bed hoping that once she woke Lydia would be back, bustling about the apartment like normal. Marcy tossed and turned, remembering the last conversation they’d ha. Lydia had growled about the mess, as usual. Marcy would be willing to help clean up if it just meant that Lydia was home.

How did I not notice? The guilt gnawed at her.

Then the phone rang. A shrill, insistent sound. She’d argued against a house phone, but Lydia had insisted.

“What if something happens. You’re forever letting your phone die. We need to have a way to get help if we need.”

Marcy checked the display. Unknown number. It rang again. And again. Could it be Lydia’s family? The police? A coworker?

She stared at the phone, heart pounding. She didn’t answer. She couldn’t. What would she say? The ringing kept going, filling the apartment like pressure. She clamped her hands over her ears. Stop. Stop. Stop.

Finally, the ringing stopped and the silence filled the room again.

“Oh my god, what if that was Lydia, calling for help?” Marcy stared at the phone, which sat quietly judging her.

Marcy gagged. The gloom in her room pressed against her eyeballs and her ears strained to hear something, anything, through the silence.

Suddenly, she had to get out.

She grabbed her keys, didn’t put on proper shoes, didn’t grab her purse, didn’t lock the door. She just ran. Strangely, she moved fast—electric, jittery, propelled by panic and guilt.

She reached her car, collapsed into the seat, and drove. Marcy had no destination in mind. Just away. Everywhere she drove she saw memories of Lydia. Her workplace. Her favorite grocery store. The ice cream shop where she took Marcy to celebrate buying her new car, despite Marcy’s reluctance.

Every place reminded Marcy of how she had ignored her friend. Now she realized Lydia was her friend.

Her only friend.

The sky darkened. The road emptied. She didn’t notice where she was going.

Then—lights, music, color.

The carnival.

She exhaled, relieved without knowing why. She turned into the lot and parked. She sat looking at the lights and sound and knew this was the place. She would be able to block out the thoughts crowding her mind.

Sloth didn’t choose the carnival; sloth chose not to choose anything else.

Marcy wandered without choosing anything, letting the wild world of the carnival wash over her. She was hungry, but there were too many choices. She wandered from the taco truck to the hot dog stand. Hamburgers. Fries. Soda. Each looked better than the last. She couldn’t decide.

Game booths called to her. Fluffy stuffed prizes. Fun for all! the barkers shouted.

Souvenirs.

Rides.

She pushed past them all. Each rejection was a decision – not to decide, not to think, not to remember why she as there. Behind her, she didn’t notice as the tents started to disappear one by one.

Every time Marcy pushed a thought or decision away, here malaise grew stronger. The air grew thicker, as if she the lights and sound were suddenly pushing back.

She noticed fog gathering along the ground. It thickened around her ankles. Soon it was up to her knees. Marcy looked around in surprise. The lights had dimmed. The sounds of laughter and music seemed to come from a long way off.

It can’t be, Marcy thought. She turned away from the dimness behind her and the carnival dissolved further.

The fog thickened. Soon it was waist deep and she waded through it like water.

Another thought intruded - What if Lydia needed me? She pushed thrust the though away and the carnival disappeared completely.

No lights. No tents. No music. No people. No path.

Just fog.

Thick. Deadening. Soft as cotton. Heavy as guilt.

She sank into it. Not falling—drifting. Like lying back into a warm bed. Her outline softened. Her breathing slowed. And slowly, she dissolved into the white.

Outside the fog, at the edge of the empty lot, a woman with long black hair watched the last wisp of Marcy’s silhouette fade. She nodded, as if this was exactly how it was supposed to go.

“Some folks fade long before we find them,” she murmured.

Then she turned away. Behind him, the carnival lights flickered back on—bright, colorful, alive.

As if nothing had happened at all.

The next Carnival of Sin story is next week.