by L. L. Soares
“Daddy! Help me, Daddy!” His voice was muted but the terror was clear. Especially when the voice of Will’s father returned from nowhere, and everywhere.
“Billy, get down here now!” Jacob’s voice again.
Will whispered, “What the fuck…” and ran for the door as his son screamed for his daddy again.
Chapter Twenty
Five minutes earlier, Billy had been curled upon his own bed, coiled and tense in the sudden dark of his bedroom, ready to run for the door. He still stared at the hallway light under the door, flickering as leaves brushed past it.
There are no leaves in the hallway, Billy thought. The power’s not out. Just the stupid bulb on the stupid clown light. Grow up, you baby!
All he would need to do was cross the room, flip on the light and get a new bulb from the stash Dad kept in Billy’s top dresser drawer. But that meant walking across the room in the dark. Maybe if he tossed a pillow toward the switch, he’d get lucky and it would hit just right, turn the light on. The more he considered this, the more it seemed like a stupid idea only a baby afraid of the dark would think of. He was eight. He wasn’t a baby.
He clenched his teeth and tossed the covers aside, much like his father would do in a couple of minutes. The moment Billy’s feet touched floor, the clown light glowed back to life. Billy gasped, mostly from relieved surprise, until he looked closer at the face shining from the wall.
The red around the mouth was too bright, redder than it had ever been before, the white of the face shone with such force it looked yellow, like the sun when he stared too long at it. The image of the face wavered, not content to stay in one place, wobbling, trying to free itself of the plug. The blue in the center of the eyes was as strongly alight as the rest, but the black eyebrows were furrowed into anger, belying the smile in the center of that red-painted mouth. The smile was not happy, no implied laughter between those red lips as before. Under the angry eyes, the clown snarled. Teeth now. Billy could see teeth parting for just a moment before the clown’s face pursed its red, red lips and shouted, “Billy!”
The volume of the leaves outside his door increased, a hurricane in the hallway. The clown’s voice, that one word, filled the room. No voice, he thought, there was no voice. He was dreaming, like before, nothing else.
The face changed. The eyebrows leveled, though one continued arching up, just a bit. A questioning look. “Billy?” it said, too-bright lips moving like a high contrast cartoon. “Want to go to the circus?”
Billy stood and sidestepped toward the door, never taking his eyes off the face glowing from the wall, colors spreading out as if burning, as if bleeding into the wallpaper. He gave no thought to something dark and slimy grabbing at his ankles from under the bed. The evil in the room was before him, lighting the wall and the floor in garish red and blue and white light.
The clown opened its mouth wide again, showing pointed teeth. It laughed, sending forth a shower of sparks. That was all Billy could take. He turned and ran to the door. Colored light danced off the knob then his hand as he grabbed hold of it. Any second he expected white-gloved hands to close around his arm. The door opened without resistance. Billy stumbled into the hallway amid a flurry of dry autumn leaves. Red and yellow and orange, all of them a dull rendition of the clown light.
“I would never hurt you, Billy,” the voice said. “I was only playing.”
The leaves swirled around him. They seemed to whisper, their words imperceptible, but there were voices, like sounds carried in the wind. The leaves whispered for him to listen to the monster that once had been his night light and…
“Dad!” His parents’ bedroom door was locked. “Daddy!” He pounded on the wood. Leaves tossed and whirled around his hand. They were beginning to scare him more than the face on the wall, more than the clown of his nightmares. The leaves were wrong. They shouldn’t be here.
The clown’s voice again filled the house, “Billy!” coming not from his bedroom but beyond the living room. “Get down here now!”
Not his father’s voice, but like it, a little, coming from far away but as loud as if he’d been directly behind him.
Billy looked back into his room. Something dark rose from the far corner beside the bed, then drifted forward, lumbering almost like a man but with odd parts, too-wide feet, too-big hair… was that hair, or horns, like a bull’s, like a devil’s? It was too dark in the room because suddenly Billy realized the night light had gone out again. He tried to open his father’s door again but the knob was frozen, not locked, not like in the past when they’d locked him out but the knob would wiggle. It was frozen, broken. He banged on his father’s door and shouted, “Daddy! Help me, Daddy!”
“Billy!” the voice shouted again, beside him, behind him, above him. Leaves swarmed like wasps around his head, slapping against his face, his back and legs, pushing him away from his father’s door. He waved his arms, turning to keep them from getting into his eyes. One scraped across his cheek. He looked up to see the too-large shadow thing stepping forward from his room. Billy swatted at the swarm but knew he had no time to try his parents’ door again. He ran from the hall into the living room. The leaves followed, pushing against him, pushing him forward. He prayed the monster from his room had not followed, grateful suddenly that his parents were locked safely in their room. Whatever was coming couldn’t get them…
He crossed the living room, urged on by the leaves. The floor under the braided rug was warm, heat radiating up to the soles of his bare feet. Whenever Billy slowed, the leaves pressed against him, pushing him with no more strength than a bug, but their presence was enough, their touch scaring him forward in jerky, spasmodic motions. Glasses in the china cabinet to his left clinked as he passed, along with the rattle of the ornate plates Billy never remembered Gram Lucy ever taking out.
The cabinet ended at the entrance to the kitchen. Just past this, the basement door stood open. A stale, dusty wind exhaled from below. Some leaves fluttered past him into the kitchen. That was where they were coming from. Billy risked a glance behind him. Leaves crinkled and slapped his face, but through their distractions he saw the living room and nothing else. No dark monster sneaking up behind him. No Mom or Dad, either. He finally turned back, face scratched from the surreal foliage and flipped on the kitchen light, stepped into the room. The leaves almost giggled, brushing the back of his neck and hair. The floor by the basement doorway was very warm.
He moved to the top of the stairs and looked down, then gripped the outer edge of the door
Light from the kitchen spilled down the stairs, while from somewhere in the basement, a glow-stick-faint illumination washed back over the creature at the bottom of the stairwell. Billy blinked, first seeing in the passive light a clown, dressed in tattered white and yellow clothes, face painted just like the night light with white face, red outlined mouth. Then the figure reached out and shifted onto the first step leading toward the kitchen and Billy saw the truth. Its head was bald, skin pulled back from the yellow-gray face like a weathered scarecrow’s. Its skinny fingers gripped the next step. They were dead fingers, belonging to a dead thing at the bottom of the stairs, looking up at him and smiling with broken black teeth.
Not real, not alive, but nevertheless reaching for the next step, craning its impossible neck closer toward the light. It looked nothing like a clown now, but Billy knew that was exactly what he was seeing. The monster from his dreams had fallen to earth, tumbled into the basement, into real life. Now it was trying to drag itself back into his head.
The dead clown crawled on its belly, staring straight up at him. Billy wanted to run but his feet wouldn’t move. All he could do was hold the door and stare down at a face that looked more like it was screaming than smiling. Billy’s body shook. The edge of the door pressed hard against his palm when he tried unsuccessfully to close it. The clown moved like one of those stick insects he’d seen on the Discovery Channe
l, slowly but with a set determination to reach its destination. Its proportions were wrong. There weren’t any legs.
The leaves gathered close around him. Go down, Billy, they whispered as they brushed his ears. They pressed against his back, pushing him forward even as he leaned back against their insistence. They wanted him to go down, into the arms of the monster. Thin scars like eyebrows rose along the gray forehead and when it spoke, the clown’s voice was soft and friendly.
“Billy,” it said, “aren’t you coming down to see me?” The rictus smile grew larger. Did he—it—actually expect an answer? Billy couldn’t talk, though he tried, tried to scream. He shook his head slowly, gripped the door as hard as he could, ready to slam it shut.
“Now, now, Billy-boy,” the clown said with a deeper, angrier tone this time, eyebrows suddenly downturned in mock seriousness. “If you won’t come down here…”
It continued crawling up the stairs, pulling its body forward on long, skinny arms. “…I’ll have to come and get you!”
It moved quicker than it should have then, like a movie on fast-forward, never turning its pale gaze from the boy at the top of the stairs.
Billy pulled harder on the door but it wouldn’t move. The leaves pressed against it, fighting him. That was stupid, he knew, they were just leaves!
The clown was more than halfway up, bringing with it an awful stench, stronger as it drew itself closer. The stairwell smelled of a mixture of dust and rotting garbage. Billy’s entire body had become stone, except for his arm which pulled and pulled at the door, fighting the leaves.
“Don’t try closing the door on me, Billy.”
Another step, more stink of death.
Billy pulled harder, focusing, concentrating only on the door.
“That wouldn’t be…”
The door slammed shut. The momentum sent Billy falling back against the refrigerator. He slumped to the floor, landed hard on his butt.
The leaves were gone. The house was engulfed in silence. Billy looked at the closed basement door, expecting to hear a pounding, maybe even a crash as the clown fell backward in surprise. No crash, but there was suddenly a pounding from elsewhere in the house, back where he’d come from. His parents’ room. Instead of getting up and running to them, Billy only listened. Still no sound from beyond the basement door, only that muted thudding from the other end of the house. Billy stared at the knob.
The little button to lock the door was out. The door was unlocked.
Slowly, he reached out his hand to push it in, to lock the nightmare away forever. When his finger reached the button the door slammed open, knocking his hand away. Perched on its dried, bony arms the clown crawled over the top step, breathing hard through lips that hung like deflated balloons from a face pulled tight against the skull, torn in places. The flesh was thin, like skin peeling from an old sunburn. The eyes were alive, though, bright with life and full of rage. The lips parted and in the same booming voice Billy had heard in the hall, it said, “Next time, Billy, lock the fucking door!”
It cackled and grabbed his ankle in a bony grip. A dry coldness spread up Billy’s leg. As he was pulled toward the basement stairs he tried to kick out but his leg wouldn’t work. “Now come down, little boy,” the dead thing said. “Time to play!” It scooted backward, bumping down the stairs, pulling Billy along. Too late, Billy tried to wedge his free leg against the door jamb. His butt slammed hard onto the first step as the thing with the cold grip slid farther down the basement stairs.
It has no legs, he remembered with a horror hardly felt amid so much other fear and panic rising over him, and it’s going to take mine!
Chapter Twenty-One
Will tried to turn the bedroom door’s knob again. Locked. It wouldn’t even jiggle. He pounded against the door, shouting, “Billy! Is that you out there? Open the door!” No, that was ridiculous. The lock was on the inside. Too dark, couldn’t see anything. He fumbled around the knob, found the tiny push-button lock. It was out, nevertheless he pulled on it. Nothing gave.
Behind him, Lisa said, “Will, turn on the light for God’s sake!” She’d woken fully as soon as he’d gotten out of bed. He tried the knob again. Still no motion, completely frozen. Something had it wedged shut. Had to be. Lisa’s words finally registered and he banged his palm against the wall beside him, looking for the switch, hitting Lisa’s hand in the process—she’d obviously decided to do it herself. He found the switch and turned it on. The room filled with light. A welcome sensation, clarifying everything. The door wasn’t locked, couldn’t be. Something was blocking it.
He knew right away that couldn’t be the case. There was nothing in front of the door except him, and it opened into the room. Still, now he could see, that was better, wasn’t it? Billy’s voice had not returned since his last, frantic cry. And that other voice… No, it was Billy, shouting from his nightmare, nothing else. Lisa didn’t seem so convinced. “Will, someone’s in the house. I think someone’s in the house,” she said, her voice rising with each word. She pressed against his back, not in fear but frustration. “Open the fucking door!”
He tried again, made a fist and pounded. Something felt different this time. Before, he got nothing for his effort except a hard pain on the side of his hand. This time the door had less resistance. It felt soft, like clay. The sensation was so unexpected he stumbled back a half step, pushing against his wife. Lisa slapped at his shoulder, her panic filling the room.
“What the hell are you doing? Get out of the way.” She pushed against him but Will didn’t move.
Something was wrong with the door. It was moving.
The stranger’s voice echoed through the house. “Don’t try closing the door on me, Billy!”
I know that voice, Will thought. I know that voice and—
Lisa screamed, “Who the hell is that?” She finally managed to shove Will aside and ran to the door, but she only stopped and stared.
The grain in the wood of the door was swirling like ink. The lines meshed then separated, forming into the face of a boy, Billy, it could be Billy, as if they were seeing him through the door. The face contorted in a scream, in silent pain because the eyes were shut tight, the impression denoted by a tightening of the wood grains. Will blinked, waved both hands in front of him to dispel the illusion.
Lisa whispered in a voice no more than a gasp, “Billy?”
The face swirled apart, came together and Will understood, more than he wanted to, as the grains atop the head streaked and fragmented into a surreal rendition of a clown’s wig, the kind doffed atop the usual false skull cap his father would wear, always the worst part of the outfit, aside from the terrible red mouth. No color in the wood, but the face was a clown’s, like Billy’s night light. Like Jacob Pallasso’s disguise…no his face, his true face. The one without the make-up was the disguise.
Sounds of leaves swirling and tapping against the other side of the door. Lisa turned to Will, grabbed his bare shoulders and squeezed her nails into the skin. “The front door’s open, someone’s in the house, Billy’s in trouble,” each obvious fact brought more pain, more cutting into his flesh, “and we need the get the hell out of this room.”
He stammered, “I don’t… I need…”
She leaned toward him until her face almost touched his, like a kiss, except she screamed, “Break the fucking door down!” She shook him. His wife was insane with panic and needed him to act, no matter what the door was doing. “Break the fucking door down now!” She looked up. “Mommy’s coming, Billy! Mommy’s coming!” She stared back with a look half-terror, half-rage. “Now!”
He shoved her aside, mostly to stop the pain of her nails and did not think about what to do next. Only, break down the door. If it was soft it could bend, could break, never mind that it shouldn’t be soft. Will aimed his right bicep and shoulder toward the grain-drawn clown face, which was now wide and laughing. He ran sid
eways, slamming his full weight into the impression of the round nose.
For a moment, one short moment of hope, the door bent outward, the clay it had become failing against his weight. Too late the trap was realized. It folded around him, burying shoulder and arm. The clown was taking a bite. He screamed both in anger and to dispel the image, while trying to pull free.
Lisa shouted behind him, “Will!” But whatever she might have said after that was blocked out as two hands stretched from the sides of the door, closed around his head and squeezed. Will screamed, heard a whisper coming from the door—it was the door, talking in his father’s voice. Should’ve left well enough alone, Billy boy. Hands squeezing tighter, grinding his skull, cracking it, caving it in.— Should have let sleeping clowns lie. It laughed. Lisa clawed at the hands, scratching Will’s face in the process. He screamed, shouted, grabbed at his father’s hands—not my father, not my father, he’s dead, he’s dead, he’s dead!—finding Lisa’s hands instead. She was screaming in rage and anger. Sometimes the sounds were nonsensical, sometimes she cried out Billy’s name. The room darkened, splintered like his head must have been doing in that moment, bone collapsing, shattering and stabbing into his brain. They were both screaming, now, and the clown was laughing and—
Lisa grabbed Will’s head and pulled. They tumbled away from the door. He landed on top of her but Lisa kicked and shoved at him until he got the message and rolled his weight off of her. Something dripped into his eyes, fell in red spots on the floor. The house was shouting something about locking the door and Will knew that it wasn’t the house, but a monster had come for their child. Will was bleeding. Lisa gave him one short, assessing glance, then turned back to the bedroom door.
It was open.
She ran out into the hallway.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Billy flattened his hands against the walls on either side of the stairs and kicked with his free leg. The other leg remained numb in the grip of the dead, crawling monster below him. The wall on his left disappeared. Billy’s balance tipped and overcompensating to the right, he rolled hard down the last two steps to the landing. The feeling in his right leg returned, shooting pain as it twisted when he slammed against the wall at the bottom of the stairs. Billy kicked with both legs now, not caring about the pain or anything but being free. He stopped when he realized his attacker was gone. For a brief, heart-stopping, wonderful moment of relief, there was no clown, he was alone, bathed in the kitchen light from upstairs and that strange, dull glow from around the corner in the basement where his legs now dangled. Dreaming, he thought. I was only dreaming, sleepwalking. When something moved toward him again, he kicked wildly at it, but like a monstrous spider it jumped on top of his legs. No weight to it, a thin pointy bag of sticks. But it would not let go. It was the clown from his dreams again and none of it could be real, but this was not a dream, this was really happening.
