🐦‍⬛The Curse of the Crimson Tent

“I don’t know if we should put that tent up, sir,” Augie muttered, shifting his weight in the damp grass.

“You worry too much,” the captain of the crew said, waving a dismissive hand.

Augie cast a glance at his fellow sailors. They said nothing, but the flicker of unease in their eyes mirrored his own. Once they’d worked the sea, rigging sails and surviving storms, but the work had dried up.

Inland now, they’d found employment with a modest traveling circus. It wasn’t the life they’d imagined, but it paid in hot food and a place to sleep. And in truth, putting up tents wasn’t so different from hoisting sails.

They were good at it. Knew the rigging, knew how to raise a tent and bring it down again. It was honest work. But some superstitions you just didn’t mess with, especially ones older than sea rot and salt.

One of those? You never raised a red tent.

“Sailors come with their own rules,” Augie muttered to himself. “And we don’t break ’em.”

The captain wasn’t a seafaring man, didn’t believe in signs and portents. Thought it was all, as he called it, “stuff and nonsense.”

“Sir,” one of the younger men called, holding up a canvas-colored tarp. “Can’t we just use this one?”

“You’re putting that one up too, Smith,” the captain growled. “But I want the red one in the center.”

A grumble rippled through the men like wind across water.

“I don’t want to hear any more whining,” the captain snapped. “Put it up. And if I hear another word about your superstitions, every last one of you can hit the road.”

He spat in the dirt and walked off, muttering under his breath about silly sailors and their foolish beliefs.

Augie straightened. “All right, men. You heard the captain. We’ve got to get these up.”

“But sir,” Smith whispered, drawing close. “The legend… If we raise that tent, we’ll be out of work in a week.”

Augie gave a grim shake of his head. “If we don’t raise it, we’ll be out of work tonight.”

The men crossed themselves in unison, each performing their own small rituals, touching talismans, muttering prayers. Then they got to work. All of the tents went up, the red one planted squarely in the center.

No one turned their back on it as they walked away.

That night, as the townsfolk came from far and wide to see the show, Augie couldn’t shake the feeling in his gut. He could see it in his men’s shoulders, taut as rigging rope. But the show went on.

When the last candle flickered out and the final child’s laughter had faded, each man curled into bed. Augie exhaled slowly, relieved there’d been no trouble.

The next morning, the captain scoffed over breakfast.

“Told you. Nothing but sailors’ nonsense,” he said, slapping his tin cup on the table.

The men ate in silence, their porridge and salt pork tasteless in their mouths.

Days passed. Shows came and went without incident. Augie began to believe maybe the curse was just a tall tale after all. Each day, the captain crowed louder. Each day, the men looked more sour.

Augie tried to keep them simmered down, but the tension hummed like a storm waiting to break.

Then, the last night, as the final townsfolk drifted from the fairgrounds and the crew began breaking down camp, a scream split the dark.

“He’s dead! He’s dead!” cried one of the acrobats, pointing toward the ringmaster’s tent.

Everyone ran over as the captain stumbled out, clutching his gut. Blood bloomed beneath his hands.

“He came at me,” he gasped. “I had to defend myself.”

Augie caught him before he collapsed into the dirt, his shirt already crimson. Inside the tent, the ringmaster lay facedown on his bedding, still as a cut rope.

Augie didn’t need to check. He’d seen enough death at sea.

Movement behind him made him spin, heart pounding.

It was Smith.

“I told you,” Smith said hoarsely. “Told you we shouldn’t have raised it. I told him.”

He pointed at the red tent, standing stark in the twilight.

“What do we do now?” he asked.

Augie swallowed hard. “We’ll have to call the police.”

Smith shook his head and backed away. “Not for me, sir.”

He turned and motioned to the others. One by one, they ducked into their tents, grabbed their bags, and slipped off into the night.

Augie watched them disappear across the field. He knew they’d find another circus somewhere.

And he’d soon follow.

Maybe next time, the captain would listen.

Maybe next time, they’d leave the red tent rolled and buried in the wagon bed where it belonged.

Teacake Tidbits - Historical Facts

1. Sailor Superstition: Red as a Harbinger of Blood and Death

In maritime lore, red was often associated with bloodshed, danger, and violent storms. Sailors were notoriously superstitious—refusing to sail on Fridays, renaming ships being taboo, etc. A red sail or flag was seen as a symbol of battle or impending doom. If a crew that had worked the sea saw a red tent rise inland, it could evoke a visceral association with blood in the water, shipwrecks, and death. To them, red was not festive—it was a warning.

2. Carnival & Theatre Lore: The Red Curtain Curse

In the 19th century, traveling circuses and vaudeville theaters often used red curtains due to their dramatic effect under gaslight. However, in folklore, it became whispered that red curtains "held death in their folds" because of several tragic accidents—including fires and on-stage deaths—reported in tents and theaters with deep crimson backdrops. The rumor grew: red absorbed misfortune and amplified it. A red tent became an omen of tragedy to come.

3. Folk Belief in Color Magic and Spirit Attraction

In various European and American folk traditions, red was believed to attract spirits, particularly violent or vengeful ones. It was a color of energy, blood, and summoning. A red tent erected at night could be seen as a beacon for restless spirits, especially if placed in a liminal or traveled space like a crossroads or carnival ground. The fear was that spirits, confused or drawn by the color, might attach themselves to the performers—or worse, possess them.