Night Terrors

by Tim Waggoner

  Tim Waggoner

  NIGHT TERRORS

  A SHADOW WATCH NOVEL

  This one's for all the coulrophobics out there. Mr. Jinx hopes to visit each and every one of you real soon.

  ONE

  Jinx lifted his nose and scented the air. He reminded me of a wild animal whenever he did this, and even after all our years together, it still creeped me out. Of course, it didn’t help that his skin was chalk-white, his lips dark red, and his eyes covered by large blue crescents resembling sinister eyebrows.

  He turned to me and smiled, red lips stretching wider than humanly possible.

  “He’s close.”

  His voice was a mellow tenor, pleasant on its own, but disconcerting when emerging from that face. The combination created a real lunatic/serial-killer vibe, which I knew amused him. His voice was one of the things about Jinx that I hadn’t gotten used to yet. I wondered if I ever would.

  Without waiting for me to comment, he stepped out of the alley and started heading north. I didn’t like it when he got bossy, but we were on the trail of a rogue Incubus named Quietus, and that meant he was in charge – for the time being. So I slipped out of the alley behind Jinx and hurried to catch up. He’s over six feet, and with those long legs of his, he can cover a lot of ground when he wants to. At five and a half feet, I sometimes have to work to keep up with him. Good thing I always make sure to wear comfortable shoes.

  Speaking of shoes, Jinx’s oversized red-and-whites slapped the sidewalk like bloated swim fins. They looked awkward, but he could move easily – and silently – in them when he wanted. He probably made so much noise only because he knew it annoyed me. I ignored it, because I knew that annoyed him.

  “Is it Quietus?” I asked.

  “Ask me no questions, and I’ll tell you no lies.” He let out one of his hyena giggles – loud, high-pitched, and not altogether human.

  It was after ten, but it was a warm night in April and the sidewalks were far from deserted. Jinx’s appearance always attracts attention – who wouldn’t look at a six-foot bald clown wearing a gray business suit, a blue tie with orange polka dots, a large yellow flower pinned to his lapel, a WWJD bracelet (which stands for What Would Joker Do?) and, of course, those gigantic shoes? But that eerie giggle of his sets off all kinds of What the hell was that? alarms in anyone who hears it, and everyone within earshot turned to look at us.

  I sighed. “Do you have to sound so psychotic when you laugh?”

  “It’s not my fault. You dreamed me this way.” He paused, then added, “Mommy.”

  As usual, he was baiting me, but this time I was irritated enough to respond. “I’m not your parent. I’m your Ideator.”

  Jinx twisted his features into a grotesque parody of a sad face. “What’s wrong, Audra? Don’t you wuv me anymore?”

  I was trying to decide whether to punch him in the shoulder or stomp on one of his banana boats, when someone said, “Dude! The circus is in town!”

  “Ignore it, Jinx. We’ve got work to do.” I doubted there was a chance in hell that he would let this go, but I felt I had to at least make the effort.

  Jinx stopped walking. A trio of young men in their early twenties blocked our way. They were only a few years younger than me – physically, at least. Mentally was another story.

  I stepped between Jinx and the boys. I pegged them for kids who’d driven in from the suburbs to hit some of the downtown bars. They wore light jackets, T-shirts, jeans, and running shoes. One had a Cubs cap and sported a scraggly soul patch, another had an anarchy symbol emblazoned on his shirt – How retro, I thought – and the third’s shirt said Down Here, Ladies! with an arrow pointing to his crotch. Charming.

  All three of them were smirking, and I really wanted to slap the smug little bastards – hard and repeatedly. But Jinx and I couldn’t afford to waste the time. With every passing second, Quietus’ trail grew fainter, and the longer we lingered here, the greater the chances that Jinx wouldn’t be able to pick it up again. And if that happened, there was an excellent chance someone would die tonight. Quietus was already responsible for three murders in the city – three that we knew of, anyway – and I was determined there wouldn’t be a fourth.

  “Look, guys, my friend and I are kind of busy right now. I know he’s dressed like a clown” – I glanced at Jinx – “and a freaky one, at that. And out in the ’burbs, I’m sure he would be quite the spectacle. But this is downtown. Here, he’s the normal one, and the more you make fun of him, the more you just look like hicks from the sticks.”

  I knew I was overstating my case by referring to Jinx as normal, but I was hoping to knock these guys off balance verbally – the best defense, etc. – so they’d let us go without pissing off Jinx any further. But I could smell the beer fumes wafting off them, and if they weren’t falling-down drunk, they were well on their way, which meant their judgment was – as the don’t-drink-and-drive ads say – impaired.

  And it didn’t help that I don’t present the most imposing presence. As I said, I’m only medium height, and I was wearing a white pullover shirt under a gray suit jacket, gray slacks, and the aforementioned comfortable shoes (my job requires a fair amount of running). My auburn hair – I like describing it that way; much nicer than saying brown – falls past my shoulders, and while I like to think that I’m pretty enough, there’s nothing remarkable about my features. I’ve been told that I’d look better if I wore makeup, but I’ve never liked the stuff. Besides, Jinx is made-up enough for both of us.

  They, of course, ignored me and focused on Jinx.

  “So who are you supposed to be?” Cubs-Cap said. “The Joker?”

  “Naw,” Anarchy-Symbol said. “He’s Bozo!”

  “Bozo has red hair, dumbass,” Down-Arrow said. “He looks like a cross between a Cirque du Soleil clown and a lawyer.”

  Jinx and I exchanged a look.

  “Five points for originality,” Jinx said.

  I thought about it for a second. “Four. The lawyer part was a bit too easy.”

  Jinx nodded. “Yeah, you’re right. Four.”

  Cubs-Cap scowled. “You makin’ fun of us?”

  Jinx turned to him and gave him one of his famous too-wide smiles.

  “Us? Make fun of you?” Jinx touched ivory fingers to his chest in a display of mock alarm. “Heaven forefend!”

  Down-Arrow frowned. “Heaven what?”

  Anarchy-Symbol didn’t speak. Instead, he stared at Jinx’s overlarge smile. He was starting to get it. There was something wrong about Jinx. Twilight Zone wrong.

  I took Jinx by the elbow. “Time to jet. Places to go, nightmares to catch, remember?”

  I tried to get him moving again, but he wouldn’t budge. Incubi are stronger than humans, and when they don’t want to be moved, nothing short of a dynamite blast will do the trick.

  “But our new friends are just getting warmed up. I’m sure they’re going to get to their A material soon.” He turned to face the three boys. “How about it? You fine gentlemen have anything else to say about my…” He paused as he searched for the right words. “Lifestyle choice?”

  He smiled again, and this time he showed teeth so white and straight, they almost didn’t seem real.

  Anarchy-Symbol was starting to look nervous. Some humans are more sensitive to the presence of Incubi than others, and it looked like he was one of them.

  “Uh, guys, maybe we should get going,” he said. “I– I got to get up early for work tomorrow.”

  “Shut up, Dale,” Cubs-Cap said, not bothering to look at him. Instead, he kept his gaze firmly fixed on Jinx. “You think you’re funny, huh?”

  I couldn’t let that one go, even though I knew better. “Seriously? You do know you’re talking to a clown, right?”

&n
bsp; “Are you a happy clown or a sad clown?” Down-Arrow said.

  “Is there a third choice?” Jinx said. His teeth were slightly pointed now.

  Down-Arrow went on. “Should we sing ‘Laugh, Clown, Laugh’ or ‘The Tears of a Clown’?”

  I groaned. “Don’t tell me: you were in the drama club in high school, weren’t you?”

  “I’ve always been partial to Smokey Robinson,” Jinx said.

  Down-Arrow leaned in closer. “How about musical theater?” he asked. His smile was a human smile, but it was no less cold than Jinx’s. Despite his moronic shirt, it looked like Down-Arrow was no dummy, and he was determined to make sure we knew it.

  But his mention of musical theater sent a chill rippling down my spine.

  Jinx leaned in toward the boy. “Love it.”

  For a moment, Down-Arrow just stared at Jinx. He was close enough now to realize there was something not quite right about Jinx’s makeup. Namely, that it didn’t look like make-up at all, but rather an elaborate tattoo job. Or maybe it wasn’t Jinx’s bizarre pigmentation that had caught his attention. Maybe it was the clown’s ice-blue eyes. They glittered like diamonds, and his gaze was just as hard and cold.

  “Randy, forget about it,” Anarchy-Symbol said, tugging at his friend’s sleeve. “Let’s go!”

  The fear in the kid’s voice was palpable, and I prayed Randy/Down-Arrow would hear it and heed it. But he didn’t.

  “I especially love Sondheim,” he said.

  “Me, too.”

  “Then you won’t mind if I sing a little?” Randy asked.

  “Go right ahead.”

  Randy grinned. Then he began singing. “Isn’t it rich? Aren’t we–”

  Jinx’s ivory fist pistoned forward and smashed into Randy’s face. Blood spurted from his nose, and I heard the sickening sound of cartilage crunching. The fact that the kid didn’t go flying backward a dozen feet – not to mention that his head remained attached to his body – told me that Jinx had pulled his punch.

  Randy clapped his hands to his face and took a stagger-step backward. Blood ran through his fingers and splattered onto the sidewalk. “Fuck!” he shouted, although it sounded like Fwuk! “Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

  “Jinx really hates that song,” I explained, although I doubted Randy heard me.

  Anarchy-Symbol’s face went about as white as Jinx’s, and Anarchy-Symbol took a step backward. I expected him to turn and run, but he remained where he was. Maybe Anarchy-Symbol couldn’t bring himself to abandon his friends, but more likely he was too terrified to do more than stand and stare open-mouthed at Jinx.

  Despite the fact that these three morons had interrupted our investigation, I could sympathize with Anarchy-Symbol. I’d seen this reaction many times before. Lots of people are freaked out by clowns, but Jinx isn’t just a scary clown: he’s something out of a nightmare. My nightmares, to be exact.

  Jinx’s attack on Randy had taken Cubs-Cap by surprise, but he recovered quickly. Anger clouded his face and his hands curled into fists.

  “What the hell is wrong with you, man?” Cubs-Cap demanded. “Are you crazy or something?”

  “Or something. Definitely.”

  “You clown-faced bastard!”

  Cubs-Cap started forward, obviously intending to make Jinx pay for hitting his friend. Jinx didn’t make a move to defend himself. He didn’t brace his gigantic feet, didn’t raise his fists. He simply stood there, smiling. But before Cubs-Cap could take more than two steps, a stream of liquid jetted forth from the flower on Jinx’s lapel. It arced through the air and splashed Cubs-Cap in the eyes.

  The kid screamed and broke off his attack. He rubbed at his eyes with both hands, shouting, “It burns! God, it burns!”

  “You promised me you wouldn’t use acid anymore!” I accused.

  “I didn’t,” Jinx said. “It’s juice from the Moruga Scorpion, one of the hottest peppers in the world.” He paused, then added, “With added ingredients of my own.”

  Then Jinx started in with his unearthly hyena impression, his laughter growing in volume and intensity until it sounded as if it issued from the air around us. His laughter continued growing louder until it echoed up and down the street.

  Randy forgot about his broken nose, which was still gushing blood onto the front of his shirt, and stared in horror at Jinx. Cubs-Cap’s eyes were red and swollen, but he no longer rubbed at them, either because he’d adjusted to the pain or, more likely, he was too terrified by Jinx to care how much he hurt. Anarchy-Symbol looked on the verge of tears, and if I could’ve heard anything over the din of Jinx’s maniacal laughter, I was confident I would’ve heard Anarchy-Symbol keening softly, as if he were on the verge of losing his sanity.

  Pedestrians on both sides of the street stopped and stared at Jinx, and while most were too creeped out to do more than look, their eyes wide and jaws slack, a few still possessed enough presence of mind to pull out their phones and start taking pictures. Traffic had ground to a halt, and drivers and passengers were reacting the same way as those on foot, goggling at Jinx and holding out their phones as if they were some manner of technological talismans to ward off evil.

  I could imagine the headline in tomorrow’s Tribune: Psychotic Clown Terrorizes Loop!

  Sanderson would not be pleased.

  I punched Jinx in the shoulder as hard as I could. The flesh beneath his suit was rubbery, but the bone it covered was hard as marble, and pain flared in my hand. I ignored it.

  “Cut it the hell out!” I shouted.

  Jinx gave no sign that he heard me – or for that matter, felt my punch. He continued laughing, his eyes now the size of golf balls, his teeth sharp as a shark’s.

  I pulled my trancer from its holster and jammed the silver muzzle of the weapon – which looks too much like a toy ray gun – against Jinx’s temple.

  “I’ll fire if I have to. You know I will.”

  I didn’t shout this time, didn’t raise my voice above my normal speaking tone. But Jinx’s laughter cut off as if a switch had been thrown somewhere inside him. The sudden silence was startling – which I knew was precisely the effect he wanted.

  I still had my trancer pressed to Jinx’s head, and now he turned until the muzzle rested at a spot just above his eyebrows. His gaze locked on mine.

  “Go ahead,” he said in a low, dangerous voice. “Make your day.”

  Ice water flooded my gut. Jinx had never tried to harm me – as his Ideator, I wasn’t sure he could – but that didn’t reassure me much. As you might’ve guessed by now, I had a thing about clowns. Big-time. I didn’t trust them, and that included the one I created.

  Especially him.

  I lowered my weapon, and when I spoke, I tried to sound tougher than I felt right then. “We don’t have time for this crap. We need to–”

  That’s as far as I got before Randy – owner of the oh-so-amusing Down Here, Ladies! T-shirt – let out a choked gurgle. I turned to look at him, figuring that he had probably swallowed some blood from his broken nose and it was making him gag. But when I saw the hilt of a knife protruding from his throat, I knew that Randy had a more serious problem than a busted beak. The hilt was black, as was the blade itself, but it wasn’t an ordinary black. Instead of reflecting light, it absorbed it, giving the impression that if you tried to touch the blade, your fingers would pass through its nonexistent surface and keep going into a realm of nothingness, deeper and deeper… I’d seen shadow daggers like this before, and I knew where it had come from. I also knew what would happen if I didn’t get it out of Randy fast.

  “Shield me!” I ordered Jinx, and without looking to see if he was going to do it – with Jinx, you never know – I ran toward Randy.

  As bad as his broken nose was bleeding, it was nothing compared to his throat wound. Blood sprayed from it like a fountain, and while I knew there was a very real chance he would bleed out within moments, it wasn’t the bleeding I was most concerned about. I managed to reach him just as his knees buckled, a
nd I was able to catch Randy and lower him to the blood-slick sidewalk. I knelt next to him, and I felt the knees of my slacks soak through with his blood, but I ignored it. His eyes were wide with confusion and disbelief, and I couldn’t blame him. First he got punched in the nose by a clown, and now he had a dagger sticking out of his throat. It definitely was not his night.

  His eyes shifted to look at me, and he opened his mouth to speak, but all that came out was a dribble of blood.

  “Shhh,” I said. I wanted to tell him that it was OK, that he was going to be all right. But I couldn’t lie to him, even if it would’ve given him a few moments of hope before he died.

  The dark blade had already started its work. Thin lines of black spiderwebbed out from the wound, running beneath the surface of Randy’s skin like a rapidly spreading infection, which I suppose in a way was what they were. He grimaced in pain, teeth gritted, neck muscles tensed, and I had to resist the urge to grab the dagger’s hilt and pull it out of him. If I so much as brushed my fingers against the blade, its taint would spread to me.

  I still had my trancer, and I switched the gun to its highest setting. Trancer fire concentrated Maelstrom energy, and since that’s what the dark blade had been made from, I hoped that a short burst would destroy the dagger, and – if Randy was lucky – nullify the effect of its poison. And once that miracle was accomplished, then I could see what I could do to stop Randy’s bleeding.

  It had only been a few seconds since Randy had been wounded, and his companions hadn’t had time to do more than stand and stare in shock. Now Cubs-Cap said, “No, he didn’t! No, he didn’t!” He kept repeating that phrase, but I wasn’t sure exactly what he was trying to say. Maybe he wasn’t trying to communicate anything in particular, just speaking nonsense out of sheer terror. Anarchy-Symbol was doing something similar, only instead of talking, he was shaking his head rapidly, as if by doing so he could alter reality and negate what had happened to his friend.

  I glanced at Jinx. He stood facing the street, gigantic shoes planted far apart, arms stretched wide. I couldn’t see his face, but I had no doubt he was grinning.