by Alex Jameson
Harlan, he thought to himself. We’re coming for you.
PART III:
CLOWNING AROUND
“I hate clowns. I’ve mentioned that, right?”
– D.J. MacHale
CHAPTER 21
* * *
You travel to Jefferson City for the annual kayak race.
You go to Washington, D.C. to see the Lincoln Memorial.
Or Reno, to do a little gambling.
You go to Santa Fe.
Lansing.
Cheyenne.
San Diego.
They were there. They were everywhere.
It wasn’t getting better; it was getting worse. Clowns on street corners, growling at passers-by. Clowns in shadowy alleys, singing to people to come join them in the darkness. Clowns on playgrounds, spooking children. Clowns dancing on school grounds and peering in windows. Clowns in parks, brandishing knives.
What started in Greenville with one weirdo trying to lure children into the woods incited a thousand copycats, from coast to coast and then some.
In March of 1919, the Axeman of New Orleans, who had claimed six, possibly seven lives—he was never apprehended—sent a letter to the police. In it he admitted that he was fond of jazz music. He said that he would not enter any home in which jazz was playing. That night, New Orleans was alive with jazz music. No one was killed. But it seems we didn’t learn anything.
The clown murders didn’t seem to be deterring anyone. If anything, it seemed that the more clowns were killed, the more clowns appeared. As if people were daring him to come for them. As if they were trying to prove a point.
Why?
Why?
Back in 1919, some citizens sent announcements to the newspapers taunting the Axeman. They printed their addresses and challenged him to visit their homes. They said they’d leave windows open or doors unlocked. It was easy to taunt a killer when you weren’t face-to-face with them.
Sort of like hiding behind a mask or makeup.
The media was all over it. Turn on the television any hour of any day and you’d see clowns. A reporter in Tacoma was assaulted on live television by a clown with a Louisville Slugger. A reality show taping in Atlanta was overrun by a mob of clowns, who stole cameras and returned them two days later, the memory cards filled with terrifying shenanigans. The natural progression of things was that the trend had to escalate, or else it would simply die out.
The internet was fast becoming a breeding ground for new clowns. A thousand independent incidents were spurred, all over the country, and all these copycats, they began to rally. To find each other. To make plans. On message boards and chat rooms and social media, the clowns had virtual gatherings.
Online, it didn’t matter who you were behind a username. On the streets, it didn’t matter who you were behind a mask. If you were a clown, you were with them. If you weren’t, you were against them. They started to band together. Safety in numbers, not only because of the Clown Killer, but also because of the increasing number of anti-clown groups, neighborhood watch patrols, street gangs out for clown blood.
The worst part of all is that the clowns weren’t just bored teenagers and college kids and young misfits anymore. They were more than pedophiles and criminals and vandals and people that normally only indulged their secret fetishes via Internet videos.
Now lawyers were clowns. Nurses were clowns. Engineers and teachers and blue-collar workers were clowns. Your neighbors, who waved to you from their driveways and invited you to the block party…at night they put on their red noses and costumes with frills and pom-poms and fake blood and black teeth. They were clowns.
Why?
Why?
Why not?
It was a thrill, plain and simple. Be someone else. Be something else. Scare some people. Take a little risk. It wasn’t illegal; not really. Not yet. Plus there was the added rush of the Clown Killer out there. Or killers; nobody was sure. There was plenty of speculation that there was more than one of them. Were they networking too, just like the clowns? Were they in your town? Lurking nearby? It was exciting. It was intoxicating.
Everyone wanted a little danger in their lives.
Some got more than they bargained for.
CHAPTER 22
* * *
I-70, outside of Jefferson City, Missouri
“So, you a Royals fan?”
“S-sorry?”
“Your hat. The Kansas City Royals. Are you a fan?”
“Not really. I j-just like it.”
“Gotcha. How about football? You watch football?”
“N-no.”
“Okay… we’re gonna have to find some common ground here, Johnny. It’s gonna be a long ride.”
“Sorry… I’m n-not that in… interesting.”
“Fair ‘nuff. How ‘bout some music then? You like classic rock? I got a CCR disc around here somewhere.”
“That’s f-fine.”
***
Harlan had spent about an hour under the one-lane bridge in Cedar Bluff, rocking and crying and wishing he hadn’t done what he had just done. Eventually he crawled out from beneath it, made sure the coast was clear, and continued to follow the river upstream, heading north. He was exhausted, but he stayed vigilant; they’d be looking for him.
After a while the river forked where a thin stream joined it. He followed the stream, which led to a culvert that ran under some train tracks. It was just big enough for him to fit inside if he crouched. He went about fifty yards inside, until there was nothing but darkness around him and the daylight was just a small round circle in the distance. Then he settled into a position with his back against one round concrete side and his feet propped up against the other, the thin stream passing beneath him, and let the gentle sound of flowing water lull him to sleep.
When he woke again, it was dark, darker than before. Night. He made his way out of the culvert by feel. The seat of his pants was soaked; he’d moved in his sleep and sat right in the stream. He had only the clothes on his back and some meager cash remaining. No extra clothes. No weapons. No rubber gloves or smock.
Worst of all, no one was talking to him. He felt completely, utterly alone. The whole world would know who he was soon, if they didn’t already. It would be him against everyone. The despair was enough for him to want to give up, to just lie in the stream face-down until he drowned.
Go north.
His heart leapt. He took the advice and continued north, avoiding the roads. He cut through woods of leafless trees and wide, empty fields. He walked until there were blisters on his feet and the pain in his right knee made him limp with each step. Finally, the first rays of dawn showed on the horizon.
He came upon a small town on a flat stretch of land, lots of mobile homes and squat one-story houses. He went into the grocery store there and pocketed a pair of cheap sunglasses, a plastic razor and a four-inch pair of mustache scissors. He bought a bottle of water, a donut, and a baseball cap. He ate the donut in three bites and guzzled the water before heading across the street to a gas station that had bathrooms around the back. He went into the men’s room and locked the door.
The place was grimy and the mirror had a thin layer of film over it, but he’d seen worse. He used the scissors to trim his beard as close to the skin as he could, and then used hand soap and cold water to shave. The razor was a cheap disposable one, and the process was painstakingly slow. He nicked himself a few times and had to stick tiny wads of toilet paper to his chin, but by the time he was done he was more or less clean-shaven. With the baseball cap and dark sunglasses, he barely looked like himself.
He asked the clerk inside for directions to the interstate and followed them until he heard the roar of passing cars. He didn’t walk along the shoulder; that would be too conspicuous. Instead he stayed about twenty yards or so off the highway, in the trees, only coming closer to make sure he hadn’t lost the road yet. It was afternoon before he came upon a truck stop, which was little more than a couple of gas pu
mps and a Waffle House. He was hungry, but he had to conserve his cash where he could. He sat on the curb outside and rested.
Big rigs came and went, their drivers burly men in flannel and caps. The occasional mini-van carrying a family or a car full of road-trippers stopped for gas or food or both. He certainly couldn’t steal a car. He had no weapon to threaten anyone with, and they’d report it immediately. He could try to hitch a ride, but who would pick up a man in his forties, alone, with cuts on his chin and a limp in his step? He’d have to keep walking. But for now, he’d rest a bit. Harlan sat for what must have been two hours before anyone spoke to him.
“Hey, pal.”
He looked up. The guy was tall, six feet or so, with a paunch, a thin gray beard and a kind twinkle in his eye. His skin was dark, like he got a lot of sun, and he wore a green John Deere cap. Harlan vaguely remembered seeing the man enter the Waffle House a short while ago.
“You’ve been sittin’ in that same spot since I went in,” the guy said. “You alright there?”
“Y-yeah. Fine.” Wait. This could be an opportunity. “Actually, I-I’m not so great. I l-lost my wallet and m-my phone.”
The guy’s eyes widened in surprise. “What, you get robbed or somethin’?”
Harlan nodded. “Yeah. Got robbed.”
“Huh. Well, why don’t you go inside and ask to use their phone? I’m sure they’d let you.”
“D-don’t remember any ph-phone numbers. They were all in m-my cell phone.”
“You could call the police.”
“Don’t w-want to in… involve the police.”
The guy nodded knowingly. “I can respect that.” He sniffed and hitched his jeans. “You live around here?”
Harlan wasn’t sure what to say. He just shook his head and said, “Heading n-north… northeast.”
“Hey, I get it. I wouldn’t tell a stranger where I lived, neither. Tell you what; I’m heading to Columbus. If that’s getting you any closer to where you need to be, I’d be glad for the company.”
“It w-would. Thanks.”
Harlan had some difficulty climbing up into the cab of the truck, a red eighteen-wheeler with a long, nondescript white trailer hitched to the back.
“What’s your name, pal?”
“John.”
“No kiddin’! That’s my name, too. Though I shouldn’t be that surprised; it’s a common name.”
John the trucker piloted the rig back onto the interstate, heading northeast. “Tell you what; how ‘bout I call you Johnny, to avoid confusion? That alright with you?”
“D-deal.”
“So, you a Royals fan?”
***
Seven and a half hours later, the truck rumbled past Indianapolis, heading toward Dayton.
“So with two little ones at home and a third on the way, I told my wife, I said, the cost of child care’s gonna be more than you’re making anyhow. So she stays home, and I went with the long-haul gig. It’s more money than short-haul, and in a year or two I can be up to fifty thousand, maybe more. It’s hard bein’ away from them for weeks at a time, but hey. Beats sittin’ behind a desk.” John arched his back in a stretch. “I’m gettin’ hungry again. How ‘bout you, Johnny, you hungry?”
“A little.”
Harlan hadn’t spoken much the whole trip, but John seemed grateful for some company; he’d been talking almost the whole trip so far. Every time he stopped, Harlan asked him another question, just to avoid having to answer many himself.
“W-what are you hauling?”
John grinned. “You wanna guess?”
“Uh… food?”
“Nope.”
“Con… construction m-material?”
“Nuh-uh.”
“I d-don’t know.”
“You’d never guess it, not in a millions years.” John chuckled. “It’s Halloween stuff. You know those stores that pop up all over the place this time of year? Delivering to them.” He glanced over at his passenger and wagged his eyebrows. “You wanna guess what kind of Halloween stuff?”
Harlan didn’t have to guess. “C-clown stuff,” he said quietly.
“Bingo, my man. This truck is chock-full of it. I’m talking wigs and noses and makeup. Big red shoes, masks… people are going nuts over it. I’m delivering to three stores in the next two days—they’re sold out. They paid extra to rush this stuff out there. My boss says, he says to me, ‘John, if you’re late on even one delivery, I’ll fire you on the spot.’ Lucky for me I’m ahead of schedule.” He shook his head and snorted. “You know about this thing, yeah? This crazy clown thing that’s got people all riled up? You heard about that?”
“Yeah,” Harlan said. “I h-heard.”
“It’s nuts. But I gotta tell you—it’s fun.”
Harlan’s stomach rolled and flip-flopped.
“I’ll tell you a secret, Johnny. Take a look in that box behind my seat.”
He didn’t want to look.
“Go ahead, take a look. You’ll laugh.”
Harlan turned halfway around. There was a cardboard box right behind John’s bucket seat. He lifted the flap slowly, and then dropped it. In that brief moment, a clown mask stared back at him, oozing fake blood from each black eye socket. Anxiety welled within him. His hands started to shake.
“Ain’t that a hoot? It gets boring out here on the road sometimes, so yeah… I wanted to see what all the fuss was about. I snagged that mask from the back. Don’t worry; I’ll put it back before I make the delivery. Sometimes I put it on to freak out other truckers.” He chuckled again. “Oh, man, this one time, I wore it into a bathroom at a rest stop. This family comes in with like four little boys. I hid in a stall, and…” He slapped the steering wheel. “I jumped out, and they all went tearing out of their like they were on fire! Ha!”
John took his eyes off the road long enough to glance over at Harlan, stone-faced, his balled fists trembling. He tried to control his breathing; it was coming faster.
“What’s the matter? You don’t think that’s funny? Wait—you’re not one of them people that’s scared of clowns, are you? What do they call that?”
“Coul… coulrophobia,” Harlan said quietly. “No. I’m n-not.”
He was in a vehicle with one of them. Oh, god. They had trapped him. They had tricked him again, and now they’d trapped him in a metal box going sixty-five miles an hour down a highway.
The grin disappeared from John’s face. “Hey, pal, it’s cool. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to freak you out or nothing…”
He’s one of them.
“You’re b-back,” Harlan said.
“What’s that, Johnny?”
I never left. You know what you need to do.
“I c-can’t…”
“Can’t what? Scare people? It ain’t that hard. It’s kinda fun, being honest…”
You can. Just wait for the right moment.
“I know I shouldn’t, what with that Clown Killer offing people. You hear ‘bout that? That nut job killin’ people in clown costumes?”
He knows. He knows it’s you.
“N-no…”
“Really? Been all over the radio. So this guy is going around the country killin’ clowns. Mostly at night, except for this last one—maniac bashed some guy’s head in right in the middle of some town, with all these people watchin’… that’s a special kind of crazy, I tell you.”
“M-maybe he’s j-just protecting p-people.”
John scoffed. “Clowns ain’t hurting anybody. They’re just people, havin’ a good time.”
Harlan suddenly smelled damp soil in his nostrils. Felt wet leaves on his face.
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.
“Oh, hey. There’s a Mickey D’s up ahead. What do you say we stop for a quick bite?”
“Sure.”
He knows. He’s going to try to kill you.
John pulled
into the parking lot and parked the truck behind the restaurant. He pulled the keys from the ignition and reached for the door handle—
“Wait. P-put it on.”
“What’s that, Johnny?”
“The m-mask. I want to s-see it.”
John snorted. “Right now?”
“Yeah.”
He shrugged. “Well, alright. Just real quick.” He twisted in his seat to reach the box behind him. Pulled out the clown mask. “This ain’t gonna freak you out or nothing, right?”
It was halfway over his head when Harlan struck. He gripped the mustache scissors, about an inch of the silver tip protruding from his fist. He stabbed them into the clown’s neck.
John made a shrill sound that was halfway between a choke and a gasp.
Harlan stabbed again. Blood spurted onto the windshield. Over the dashboard.
He stabbed again, in the throat. His fist was wet.
John’s hand flew to his throat. Blood eked between his fingers. Into the cup holders. Onto the steering wheel. He choked once more, and then slumped forward over the wheel.
Harlan took deep, jagged breaths through his nostrils, waiting for the clown to move again. It didn’t. Those black eyes stared back at him, but it didn’t move.
Good.
“Oh… god.” He was covered in blood. It was on his pants, his shirt, his hands. It was all over the cab of the truck. “I c-can’t be seen l-like this.” His hands shook. His teeth chattered.
Clothes. Search the cab for clothes.
Harlan dropped the scissors to the floor and scrambled over the seats. Behind them were some cabinets that were reminiscent of the overhead compartments on an airplane, and beyond that, a cot no larger than a twin bed. He opened each compartment until he found clothes, smearing blood on the handles and doors.
He tore at his shirt, popping a few buttons, and used it to wipe as much blood as he could off his hands. Then he took off his pants, balled up his clothes, and stuffed them in the bottom of a half-empty cabinet.
