The sun turns to blood and slowly sinks below the distant horizon. One by one the stars appear as the colour drains from the sky. The moon - little more than a ghost for the last two hours - becomes solid, shadows on its surface clearly visible as it hangs high above the woods. As night claims the world so the music begins.

 It is a still night, a cold winter's evening and the bare branches of the trees offer no resistance to the melody as it drifts through the forest. In a clearing stands the source of the music, a collection of tents of varying sizes, the largest bigger than a house. This main tent is made of striped canvas - red on white - the central pole from which it hangs is thicker than a tree trunk. Atop the pole flutters a pennant, a triangle of pitch black cloth. There is no wind in the forest tonight but still the flag flaps and ripples.

 The smaller tents are arranged in two lines forming a pathway to the main tent. Lantern-light lends them an eerie glow from within. To peer inside them would be to reveal the fortune teller, the bearded lady, the half-man / half-beast and a myriad of other peculiar entertainments. All, however, are unwatched. Nonetheless, they perform their acts as if to a full house. Having no audience - so it would seem - is of no consequence.

 In contrast, the main tent is well attended. Rows of children gaze at the procession of acts parading across the sawdust ring in front of them. Jugglers juggle, conjurors conjure, clowns cavort... ...to silence. There is no response at all from the audience of children. No laughter, no applause. The only sound is the demented waltz played on accordion and hurdy-gurdy outside the tent, the music drifting away into the dark night...

A bank of cloud sits on the horizon reflecting the moonlight. Two small wisps have broken away from the main mass and drift slowly across the face of the moon. This movement is mirrored on the ground as two figures make their way through the forest. Hand in hand, their steps synchronised, Pierrot and Columbine make steady progress, following centuries-old tracks between the trees.

They walk in silence, communication is unnecessary, both are fully aware of what is to be done. To talk would in any case be impossible. They have no faces.

On reaching the village they stop. Slowly, they scan the small cluster of dwellings before them. Smoke rises from chimneys but that is the only sign of life. The night is still young but no residents are abroad. Every window of every house is shuttered, the only light visible is that of the moon high above. As they stand and wait, the music from the distant carnival seems to get louder.

And then they are moving again, synchronised steps taking them past one, two, three wooden shacks. At the fourth they stop and turn to face the door. Their heads tilt towards each other and they give the briefest of nods. Pierrot releases his grip on Columbine's hand and steps towards the door of the shack.

Columbine follows him. Reaching out, he places his white gloved hand against the door and pushes it open. The shriek of the hinges is almost drowned out by another from within. As the door opens, lantern light floods out to illuminate the uninvited guests.

The family huddles inside the shack. Mother is crying now, hugging twin daughters tight to her. Father stands alongside, the emotional turmoil he now suffers written clearly on his face. His instinct is to protect his daughters - his family - but he knows that to do so would mean death for all of them. Not just himself and his family but the whole village. All those who make their homes in this region know this to be true. He knows what must happen now but the knowledge crushes him, breaks his heart, destroys his soul.

Pierrot and Columbine are both now inside his house. In the dim light he sees the shifting, swirling clouds of grey where their faces should be. He watches as, with an agonising slowness, they both raise their arms in a beckoning gesture.

The mother tightens her grip on her daughters, "No!" she screams as the tears begin to flow, "please no!"

The uninvited show no response. "You must..." the father says, his voice a mixture of urgency and sorrow. "You know what'll happen if we don't..."

She glares at her husband, anger and hatred in her eyes. Anger that it is they who have been chosen this time, hatred for the monsters that have come for her children. Resigned to fate, her body wracked with sobs, she releases the little girls.

There is no struggle - some demonic connection has been made between the twins and their abductors. They step forward and take a proffered hand each. Man and wife clasp each other tight, vainly attempting to comfort each other as Pierrot, Columbine and their daughters - who they will never see again - leave the house. Both scream as the door slams shut.

Four figures make their way through the forest. Hand in hand, two walk with synchronised steps whilst two skip happily. The distant music steadily gets louder as they approach the tents. Come the morning the carnival will be gone. No one will witness its going just as no one saw it arrive. In one year's time it will return. Not here, but near to another village where children play.

The carnival will return.

The harvest will continue.

For one night only.

For ever...