Harland Bixby did not dislike theme parks; he simply did not trust them. Cheerful places had to be compensating for something.
But here he was, seated in a gently drifting boat on It’s a Small World, surrounded by singing dolls and pastel panoramas. His niece, Madison, sat beside him, pointing excitedly at every new set of animatronic children as though they were celebrities.
Harland nodded along, smiling in the way adults do when they have committed themselves to one hour of concentrated enthusiasm and are halfway through it.
The boat moved from one scene to another, the music looping with unnerving precision. The same chorus. The same rhythm. The same smiling faces. And yet, something felt off.
Not wrong, exactly. Just off.
The boat ahead had vanished around a bend, and there had not been another one behind them for a while. He glanced up. The overhead lights flickered slightly. Not enough to alarm, just enough to suggest someone had not done proper maintenance. Or maybe someone had.
The dolls kept dancing.
The music kept playing.
But the lyrics—were they slightly different?
It sounded like the same tune, but the words did not quite fit. He leaned in.
“It’s a small world, but larger than you see…”
That was not right.
He turned to Madison. She was humming along like nothing had changed. Maybe nothing had.
He looked back at the dolls.
One was new.
A figure stood between two dancing children. Taller. Dressed in black. A pale face, paint cracked just enough to look antique. It did not sing. It did not dance.
It mimed.
Harland blinked. When he opened his eyes, the figure was gone. Back to children and tambourines and painted smiles.
Probably a projection. Or an animatronic stunt. Disney magic.
The ride continued.
The boat drifted into a quiet hallway between scenes. No music here, just the soft churn of water beneath them.
A figure stood on the platform.
The mime again.
This time, closer.
He lifted a gloved hand and pressed it to an invisible wall, palm flat.
Harland frowned.
The mime tilted his head, then gestured. A subtle, practiced motion. Drawing his fingers together like pulling a zipper.
With that, the air changed.
Not colder. Not darker.
Quieter.
Madison looked up, blinking.
“Uncle Harland?”
He shook it off. “Probably part of the show.”
The boat turned, emerging into the final room of singing dolls. Everything was back to normal.
Sort of.
One doll—a small boy in a striped shirt—held up a tiny white-gloved hand and mimed zipping his mouth shut.
The others giggled.
Harland did not.
The ride ended. The boat bumped the exit platform. Music swelled one final time, cheerfully oblivious.
Harland and Madison stepped off. A cast member in a blue vest smiled at them.
“Welcome back. Was everything okay with your ride?”
Harland hesitated. “Yeah. Fine. Little long, maybe.”
The cast member glanced at a screen. “Actually, you finished early. Four minutes under.”
Harland looked back at the boat.
Empty.
Still rocking.
He turned to Madison. “Did you see the mime?”
She shook her head. “What mime?”
Harland did not answer.
He just zipped his lips and smiled.
Not because he had to.
But because, in that moment, it felt like the polite thing to do.