Clown Moon

by Alex Jameson

  When Zeke turned eighteen, their father had shared a shot of Glenfiddich with each of his three boys, unbeknownst to Mary, who would have hit the roof, as a celebration of him becoming a man. Zeke had said, at the time, that it was the best thing he’d ever tasted. Mary promised him whatever meal he wanted; he asked for steak, medium rare. Three days later he told his family he was joining the army. He wanted to follow in his older brothers’ footsteps. Sam had been a scout sniper with the Marines and did two tours in Afghanistan. Jake drove a Stryker for the Army in Iraq.

  At the time, Sam had worried for his youngest brother. Zeke had always been a gentle kid, but he tried to be tough so that he could better emulate his siblings. Jake had a squat, solid build, and Sam was tall and lean, but Zeke was downright lanky; at six-two and a hundred thirty pounds soaking wet, Zeke was built for running, not fighting. He’d been a track star in high school, and even earned a scholarship, but he turned it down to join the Army. Sam and Jake sat down with him one night, had a little brotherly powwow, and told him about what he’d face. The kind of stuff he’d see. They didn’t plead with him or try to scare him; they were candid. It didn’t change his mind. Zeke shipped off to basic and eventually became a forward observer. Then he got shelled in his sleep.

  “Yo, Earth to Sammy. Where’d you go?” Jake snapped his fingers in front of Sam’s face.

  “Sorry. I, uh, don’t know. My mind’s been drifting a lot lately.”

  “Night terrors back?”

  Sam hesitated. “Yeah.” That was part of the reason he didn’t often stay the night at Lynn’s.

  “You taking your meds?”

  Sam took a long swig of beer. “Mostly.”

  Jake rolled his eyes. “Come on, man. You know better than that.”

  “I don’t like how they make me feel.”

  “Better than the alternative.”

  Jake was right; he knew it firsthand. Maybe not to the same degree that Sam did, but he was a shoulder when Sam needed it. “Anyway. Big plans for this weekend?”

  “Uh, sort of. I’m taking Aiden to see a movie tomorrow. It’s some R-rated horror flick Sarah doesn’t want him to see.”

  They shared a grin. Their eldest sibling, Sarah, was thirty-eight; she’d followed in the footsteps of their mother by graduating college at twenty-one, getting married by twenty-two, and having a kid by twenty-three. When she announced it was a boy, Mom had lobbied hard for Sarah to name him Isaac—there was a trend in the Asher family of biblical names, though Mary Asher simply called them “traditional”. Parents Peter and Mary; daughter Sarah; sons Samuel, Jacob, and Ezekiel.

  And then Sarah went and ruined everything by naming her son Aiden, one of those twenty-first century new-age-sounding names.

  “Good. Kid needs a little excitement in his life. You know Sarah’s not going to let him get his learner’s permit until he’s eighteen?” Jake scoffed and shook his head.

  “Oh, I’m sure his two very cool uncles will do something about that.” Sam grinned. “You want to come with us?”

  “No can do. I have a date with a divorcee tomorrow.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Yeah. A very recent divorcee. Just call me Jordan, ‘cause I’m hitting those rebounds all day.”

  Sam shook his head. “If Mom were here, she’d remind you you’re going to hell.”

  “They say the journey is half the fun, right?” Jake grabbed another beer from the fridge and motioned toward the patio. “Grab those steaks. Coals should be ready.”

  CHAPTER 2

  * * *

  Asheville, North Carolina

  It was happening again.

  It was happening again.

  Why was it happening again?

  Thirty-five years. It’d been thirty-five years, almost to the exact month. Why. Why? Why?

  When he’d first heard about it, it was from some yokel on the plant floor—a Bill. Bill told the guys about it while he stood nearby with a clipboard. Bill told them about it, and then Bill and his buddies had laughed.

  They’d laughed.

  And he stood there, with his clipboard trembling in his hand, trying to contain himself. Trying to hold back tears. Trying not to break down and wail right there on the plant floor. It was a miracle he didn’t wreck his car on the drive home.

  They talked about it on the radio. They laughed too. They LAUGHED.

  By the time he’d gotten home, he could barely get the top off the prescription bottle. Several pills skittered across the floor, he was shaking so badly. Then he’d curled up in a ball on the floor and cried until he was hoarse. When he couldn’t cry anymore he rocked himself to sleep. When he woke up, the feelings of dread and panic and pain and confusion and terror were all still there.

  Thirty-five years. Why were they back? WHY?

  He couldn’t go back to work for a week. He got better—a little better. But out there, things got worse. He knew they would.

  It was happening again.

  He’d called off too many days of work now. They demanded to see doctors’ notes. But he hadn’t been to the doctor. He needed more pills. He’d gone through them all in two weeks. He chewed them up, unintentionally, because he couldn’t stop his teeth from chattering. Even the ones that went under the fridge—he moved it and found them and swallowed them dry.

  He was out. He couldn’t get more. No, he could; he could lie and say he was mugged. Yes, junkies took them. He could get more.

  But he didn’t. Instead he lay in the fetal position on the floor and cried and let it play over and over and over and over in his head.

  See this? You see this, kid? You try to run, this is gonna slit your fuckin’ throat.

  Please… no…

  Shut up. Stop squirming.

  Please… let me go…

  What’s your name? I wanna know your name.

  I… I…

  Your name, goddamnit!

  H-Ha-Ha-Har—

  Harry? Doesn’t matter. Shut up. I’m gonna call you Harry. Now listen here, Harry. You feel this?

  Aah! P-p-please…

  That’s about a half-inch. Every time you squirm I’m gonna push this knife in a little further. You keep squirmin’, you’re gonna die, Harry. And my hands ain’t as steady as they used to be.

  I-I-I want my mommy!

  I bet you do, kid.

  He didn’t talk for almost a year after it happened. When he finally did, the stutter was still there. His parents took him to every doctor, every shrink they could find. One time they drove him all the way to New York City to see a renowned psychiatrist. It had cost a lot of money, but his parents didn’t care. They just wanted their son back. They wanted to know what was wrong with him.

  He didn’t say a word.

  I know where you live, kid. I know who you are and where you live, and I’ll always be able to find you. If you say a word about this, I’ll kill your mommy first. Then your daddy, right in front of you. And then I’ll kill you. And it’ll take a lot longer than this.

  P-please…

  No…

  Stop…

  Thirty-five years. The only thing that could distract him from what was happening was why it was happening. Why? Thirty-five years later, almost exactly. He had to figure it out. He had to be able to stop what was happening. It was the only way… the only way he could avoid smelling the pungent scent of wet dirt. Feeling the dead leaves clinging to his face. Hearing the rasping voice in his ear. Feeling the knife in him…

  Why?

  Some people could explain away crazy behavior by a number of outside influences: crowd mentality. Human nature. A full moon—

  Oh god.

  Oh god. That was it. It was the moon.

  He recalled hearing something at work about the moon this year. Hunter’s Supermoon, they had called it. Something about it being bigger and brighter and more visible in the night sky. The last time this had happened he remembered the moon being large and bright in the sky. That must be it. It was the only logica
l explanation. It was the moon driving the madness.

  He could not verify it online for fear that he’d stumble across a photo or article about the attacks. That he’d see the clowns. That would send him over the edge. But he knew he was right.

  It was the moon. It had to be the moon.

  There was nothing he could do about the moon.

  Then how do I stop it?

  I can’t.

  For three more days after his epiphany he curled on the floor and sobbed until the upstairs neighbors stomped on the floor and shouted at him to shut the hell up. A thought began to sprout in his mind. He quelled it, at first, but like a weed pushing through concrete it persisted.

  You’re not a kid anymore.

  I know where you live, kid.

  You’re not a kid anymore.

  By that third day, he was able to pull himself off the floor. He drank some water and stared for a long time at the bathroom door. The phone rang; he ignored it. There were more important things happening.

  The bathroom. He very slowly entered and turned on the light. The fan started up too; he was glad for the background noise. He unbuttoned the top button of his shirt. Then the second. He stared into the mirror while he did, daring himself not to look away.

  He hadn’t looked at his naked torso in almost thirty-five years. Not since he was out of the hospital and home and not talking and not at all feeling safe. He usually dressed with his eyes closed or averted toward the ceiling.

  Third button. Now comes the fourth. Just do it.

  He couldn’t help it. He squeezed his eyes shut as he undid the last button. He slid the shirt off his shoulders by feel. Heard it drop to the bathroom floor.

  Open your eyes.

  No.

  Do it.

  No.

  DO IT!

  He was pale. Too pale. He’d always been chunky, but his belly protruded further these days, with a smattering of coarse black hair from his navel down to the hem of his trousers, the so-called “love handles” spilling over his belt. That was enough of a look. He glanced at his face in the mirror; he was completely bald on top of his head, and had been since his mid-twenties. He’d grown a beard to make up for it, even though it came in a little patchy on his cheeks.

  Look down. Look at it.

  He turned slightly and looked down. Right around where his right kidney was. A jagged pink scar about two inches long. That’s where the knife had gone in.

  Keep turning.

  No!

  He couldn’t do it anymore. His lip trembled. He sank first to his knees, then all the way to the floor as he sobbed and wailed. He called out for his mother. She had died nine years earlier.

  He cried until he was dehydrated. Then he just laid there, his cheek and bare stomach against the cold tiled floor, staring at nothing.

  You’re not a kid anymore. Get up.

  I can’t.

  You have to.

  No. Let me die here. I’ll just die right here.

  But… they know where you live, kid.

  “Huh?” he sat up, suddenly alert. “H-h-how?”

  The moon told them. They’ll come for you, like they did before.

  “N-no!”

  He scrambled to his feet, swaying with dizziness. Made it to the kitchen. Grabbed the first handle from the wood block—a serrated bread knife. Got to the closet. Closed it tight. The knife trembled in his fist.

  They’ll find you here.

  “No.”

  They will. They’ll find you here… unless…

  “Unless wh-what?”

  Unless you find them first. You’re not a kid anymore. Do something about it.

  “I c-c-can’t.”

  Then just die. Just wait here in the closet until they come for you.

  “P-please…”

  DO something!

  “H-how?”

  Same way they did to you…A half-inch at a time.

  CHAPTER 3

  * * *

  Kingston, North Carolina

  Sam’s blue truck pulled up in front of Sarah’s house and honked twice. The curtains parted for a brief moment, then a thin sandy-haired teen bounded out the front door, calling to his mother as he did.

  “Sam’s here, going out for a while, be back later!” Aiden closed the door quickly before his mother could protest or tell him to be home at a certain time. He hopped in the truck, trying to suppress his broad smile.

  “Hey, Sam.” From the age of four, Aiden had been expressly forbidden from calling him “Uncle Sam,” for obvious reasons.

  “Aiden, my man. Here, put these on.” Sam handed him a pair of mirrored aviators.

  “Why?”

  Sam put on a matching pair. “Because we look fly as hell.”

  Sam blasted ZZ Top all the way to the movie theater, while Aiden laughed and called him a loser.

  The movie was alright. It was only a few weeks until Halloween, so Hollywood was spewing out what would normally be a B-movie at best and calling it the “scariest movie of the year.” This one was about a bunch of teenagers that mess with a Ouija board and (surprise!) manage to conjure up a killer ghost. Yawn. Afterward, they went to a nearby burger joint, where Sam ordered a cold beer and Aiden got a milkshake.

  “What’d you think of the movie?” Aiden asked while they waited for their burgers. “Scary, right?”

  “Oh, yeah,” Sam said emphatically. “Almost pissed myself a couple of times. That happens when you get old; you can’t even control it. Ask your mom.”

  Aiden snorted. “Shut up.”

  “So what’s new with you?”

  “Nothin’.” Aiden shrugged.

  “Come on. I haven’t seen you in like three weeks, and you got nothing?”

  Sam liked hanging out with his nephew; it made him feel young. Even though he was only thirty-four, he already felt like he was out of touch. He blamed technology. Good thing he had Aiden around to show him how to use his phone and how to reset a router. Last time they’d hung out, Aiden had to explain what an internet meme was.

  “Let’s see.” Aiden sighed. “Mom’s got me looking at colleges. That’s one thing.”

  “You’re kidding me. You’re what, a sophomore? There’s plenty of time for that stuff later. You should be, I don’t know, going to parties and doing dumb shit with your friends and underage drinking. Wait, actually, nix that last one. I never said that,” Sam grinned.

  He could get away with stuff like that because he knew Aiden was a good kid that didn’t give in to peer pressure. But he did need to get out of his shell a little bit.

  “I told Mom I wanted to go to school in Boston. She almost had a heart attack.”

  “Yeah, well, she’s getting to that age.” The waitress dropped off a plate of mozzarella sticks between them. Sam bit into one and immediately regretted it; they were nuclear-hot. “Ouch. Give those a minute. In the meantime, I gotta ask. What’s with the leather jacket? Is that look coming back around?”

  Aiden shrugged, looking down at his clothes. He wore jeans and a plaid shirt under a black leather jacket, with his hair combed in a neat part. Sam thought he looked like an adolescent combination of Richie Cunningham and the Fonz.

  “I don’t know. I just like it.”

  “Come on, you look like a hipster greaser.” Sam hazarded another bite of mozzarella stick. “Oooh, I get it. This is for a girl, isn’t it?”

  Aiden looked down and bit his lip to try to keep the smile off his face. “Nah.”

  “Look at you. You’re blushing. You keep trying to forget that I was a teenager once too.”

  “Please, that was like a thousand years ago—”

  “Smartass. What’s her name?”

  Aiden made a face. “Taylor.”

  “Taylor?” Sam almost spit out his beer. “Taylor is a girl’s name now?”

  “Haven’t you ever heard of Taylor Swift?”

  “That’s a girl? Huh.” Sam was joking, but he liked messing with the kid. “Is she into you?”


  “I don’t know. I tutor her in math a few times a week after school.”

  “Yeah? Does she sit close to you?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “How close?”

  Aiden held up his hands about eight inches apart. “Like this.”

  “Does she ever look at you when you’re tutoring her?”

  “Sometimes I see her looking at me.”

  Sam whistled. “Dude, she’s so into you. Listen, I’m no charmer, but I have two pieces of advice: number one, be confident. Don’t be an asshole, and don’t go changing for anyone. Be yourself. You’re smart; own it. Women like a confident guy.”

  “You said there were two things.”

  “Right. Don’t ever, ever listen to anything your Uncle Jake says about wooing women. He is irresponsible and sleazy and is not to be trusted.”

  Aiden laughed. “Got it.”

  The waitress came by again to drop off their burgers. Sam lifted his bun to check it: no onions, with bacon and a fried egg on top. Perfect. He wondered grimly how much longer he could keep eating whatever he wanted. He hadn’t been to the gym in three months.

  “Come on, kid, give me something more. I have to live vicariously through you to stay young.”

  “It’s not working. You’re starting to go gray.”

  “You shut your mouth.” Sam shook some salt onto his fries. “Halloween is coming up. You got any plans?”

  Aiden shook his head. “No, not really.”

  Sam felt bad for him; he knew he was too old to go trick-or-treating, and was at the prime age to start going to Halloween parties, if Sarah would let him. He wished his nephew would tell him that he at least got invited to a party, or at best that he and some buddies were going to egg the principal’s house.

  “I’ll probably chill at home and watch horror movies on TV.” Aiden shrugged as if he didn’t care and took a bite of his burger. “I mean, there is this other thing… but it’s stupid.”

  “What other thing?”

  “Never mind. It’s dumb.”

  “Good. You could use a little dumb now and then. Tell me about it.”

  “It’s…” Aiden sighed. “Well… you know about the whole clown thing?”