Night 4:

Black Bart’s Haunted

Hideout

Cartman huddled in the damp darkness of Black Bart’s cave. The air clung to his skin, thick with the scent of ancient secrets. The puppet theater had been a temporary refuge, but now he faced the heart of Casa Bonita’s haunting—the very place where Black Bart himself was rumored to roam. “Why did I think this was a good idea?” Cartman whispered, his breath visible in the chill. “I could’ve been home, binge- watching cheesy sitcoms. But no, I had to chase nacho dreams.” The cave walls seemed to close in, their rough texture mocking him. Shadows danced, and Cartman’s imagination conjured ghostly cowboys, their spurs jangling. He’d heard the stories—the whispers among the Casa Bonita staff. Black Bart, the outlaw who’d met a gruesome end, now wandered these tunnels, seeking revenge. “Maybe I can reason with him,” Cartman muttered. “Offer him a churro or something. ‘Hey, Bart, buddy, let’s share the cave. You haunt one corner, I’ll haunt the other. Deal?’” But reason had fled. The animatronics had followed him here, their glowing eyes lighting the darkness. Chica’s feathers rustled. Even Bonnie, with his tattered ears, seemed more menacing in this eerie atmosphere. Thankfully they didn’t see him. “I just wanted to live in Casa Bonita,” Cartman thought. “Not become its midnight snack.” He tiptoed deeper into the cave, the ground uneven beneath his sneakers. The walls dripped with moisture, and the distant sound of water echoed. Maybe it was the waterfall, or maybe it was Bart’s ghostly weeping. Cartman couldn’t be sure. “Stick it out,” he told himself. “You’re Cartman—the kid who once ate an entire cake in one sitting. You can survive this.” But then he heard it—the unmistakable twang of a guitar. Cartman froze. Was it his imagination? Or was Black Bart tuning up for a spectral showdown? “Maybe he’s friendly,” Cartman whispered. “Maybe he’ll serenade me with a cowboy ballad. ‘Oh, Cartman, you’re stuck in my cave, but don’t worry—I’ve got nachos and vengeance aplenty.’” The guitar chords grew louder, and Cartman’s resolve wavered. He stumbled over a rock, and the animatronics closed in. Their movements were synchronized now, like a macabre dance. The light of Freddy’s eyes got closer, and Chica’s beak opened, emitting a low hum. “I’m not cut out for this,” Cartman thought. “I’m a nacho enthusiast, not a ghost whisperer.” He backed against the cave wall, eyes darting. Maybe he could find a secret exit—a hidden tunnel that led to safety. But the walls were solid, and Black Bart’s ghostly tune filled the air. “Stick it out,” Cartman repeated, his voice shaky. “You wanted adventure, right? Well, congrats—you’re now part of the Casa Bonita ghost tour.” And so, in the heart of Black Bart’s haunted hideout, Cartman trembled—a dreamer caught between nacho cravings and terror. The enchantment of Casa Bonita had twisted into something darker, and survival became his nightly challenge

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