The first time I saw the clown, I must have been six or seven years old.
He’s the stereotypical type, with a few odd quirks here and there. Big red nose, ripe like a fat cherry tomato. An off-color orange hair, like a moldering old pumpkin. Face a pale white, the flesh the color of a dead body that’s been underwater for far too long. Eyes painted black, the eyes themselves appearing even darker. But the scariest thing of all was always that smile. The smile he would make with just his mouth. Maniacal, with no true joy in it. The lips painted crimson, the teeth immaculately white.
When I first saw him, it was at the Cornwall County Fair. I remember turning from my cotton candy and laughing with my brother Brett to my right and seeing the clown There he stood with his large, goofy red shoes and a set of variety colored balloons in his left hand. And in his right hand, a white gloved hand that slowly lowered and began to beckon me. And that smile. Carnivorous.
I shook it off and continued to the Merry-Go-Round. And then, again, while riding on one of the small white ponies of the Merry-Go-Round, there he was. Every time I would make a full 360, he was standing there, balloons in one hand, beckoning with the other. Every time I went around, he would release a balloon. And his grin. It got wider and wider with each lap.
I went home with my brother shortly afterward.
That night, I had terrifying dreams of that clown. He was staring at me and smiling with those empty eyes. I imagined his teeth would turn from dull and soft pearly whites to monstrous fangs, ready to draw blood. And from his left hand, balloons lifting off into the white sky.
It has been almost 30 years since the last time I have seen him. But like an old forgotten nightmare, there he was in my back yard yesterday evening as I was finishing one of my Lucky Strike cigarettes. There he was, pointing at me, laughing. Smiling, as if we were old best friends.
I saw he had his damned balloons again. Only this time there were only three left. He turned to look at the balloons when he saw I had noticed them. He released a yellow one. Then a green one. He turned back to me with a mock “Oops!” expression, and continued with his silent laughter.
I tossed the Lucky Strike in the ash trash and quickly backed into my house, closing off the sliding door with the safety latch.
I didn’t see him tonight, but I am waiting. I’ve polished off the last of my Ancient Age bourbon and I am waiting. I don’t know what he wants or why he continues to torment me. I feel there is no escape for me though.
I am mostly just afraid of what will happen when he gets rid of that last fucking balloon. And why can I only see him?