Sarah and her family were walking back to the car after a full day at the state fair, enjoying the cool, crisp air. Even though there was no sound to be heard, Sarah instinctively understood the conversation; they were re-capping the best parts of the fair: the food, the games, the rides, the entertainment, even that strange green-haired Conroy the Clown under the “Little Big Top”.

With the moon spinning gracefully, like a music-box ballerina, Sarah skipped ahead to the car, but as she reached for the door her mother stayed her hand. Facing each other, her mother mouthed soundless words with a reassuring smile, and lay her daughter down on the pavement and pulled covers up to her chin. Their daughter tucked in for the night, Sarah's parents got in the car and drove off.

Sarah lifted her head up and watched the car recede into the distance. Other patrons walked by her without a glance. She tried to get up but found something holding her down. Something...holding her...holding her...down...

Something...

Sarah woke up in her bed at home, remnants of her dream fading already. She tried to wipe the sleep out of her eyes but found her arms restrained.

She was tied down in her own bed.

Panic rising, she lifted her head and in the dim light saw a specter sitting in the chair at the foot of her bed. All Sarah could make of this intruder was his face; it was pale white, from the top of his forehead down to his chin. The eyes, however, where ink black, empty. There was something about his hair, too; it seemed to be up-swept, like flame, but she couldn't see very well in the shadows.

“Well hello, Sunshine.” The specters' voice was unusually smooth and melodious.

Sarah pulled against her bonds, but they held fast. She tried to scream for help but several pieces of duct tape covered her mouth. Terrified, her world was now encapsulated by the four walls, the ticking of a wall clock its only sound.

She stared at her captor. A lone car drove by out on the street, and as it passed its headlights painted the room briefly. In that moment Sarah recognized the strange clown from the fair earlier in the day, Conroy. His clothes were threadbare and excessively patched, one shoe was bandaged, cartoonishly, presumably to keep the flopping sole in check. His unbuttoned sweater would have looked right at home on Mr. Rogers.

The hair was...disturbing, disconcerting. It was, indeed, up-swept, but it was a sickly green color, reminiscent of powdery, dusty fungus. The eyes were ringed with black makeup, but something else was different about the face...

Sarah struggled and moaned, terror firmly in control. Conroy stood up and in a patronizing tone of voice admonished her.

“Now, now; don't struggle. You'll tire yourself out and then where will we be?” He put a hand up to his lips, a parody of innocent surprise, the nails painted alternately green and yellow. “Oops, almost forgot to finish my make-up. That's not very professional of me.”

Conroy started to slowly walk around the bed toward Sarah. As he did so, he produced a cylindrical object which he used to paint red around his mouth. The red was a deep ruby, and ran a bit. It almost looked like syrup. He dabbed the object once or twice in a dish to replenish the 'paint' as he worked.

Hovering over Sarah, he leaned down close to her face. His breath smelled of stale decay.

“I hope you had a good time today. Every so often I choose one lucky family to reward with...an encore performance, shall we say?” As he said this he placed the makeup tube on her chest.

“A souvenir for you.”

Sarah looked down at it and her eyes widened in horror. She was looking at a finger. Her mother's wedding ring was still on it.

Conroy reached out and stroked her cheek with his hand, his bloody grin a rictus of malevolence; Sarah felt as though grubs were tickling her skin.

“So pretty, so young...”

He sat down on the side of her bed, in a perversion of a loving father about to read a favorite bedtime story.

Conroy playfully clasped his hands together. “Let's play a game, what do you say?”

He unrolled a pouch of scalpels, tweezers and other surgical instruments on the covers.

“I've always liked “Operation...”

“Send in the clowns!” yelled the ringmaster as he ran out into the rings with Doc and the high-wire crew.

Dang it, but I am getting tired of this, thought Slim as he picked up his bucket and capered into the rings with the rest of the clowns. For the next twenty minutes the clowns did their job of distracting the audience from the real drama taking place under the high-wire.

The crew carried The Marvelous MacPherson out of the rings followed by Doc who walked with a defeated slump that was becoming characteristic these days. Slim left the rings a minute later throwing his bucket of confetti into the crowd yet again.

The young clown sat leaning against a tent pole out of the way and watched his companion clowns high five each other and laugh in excitement. Normally he would be just as hyped as the other clowns. But the cry of “Send in the clowns” had become a death knell. Today it was The Marvelous MacPherson somehow slipping off the wire and not quite missing the safety net. Yesterday it had been the lion tamer, whose cat had inexplicably sneezed while the tamer's head was in its mouth. Last week Anna, one of the trick riders had been trampled.

The only group in the circus who hadn't lost someone to injury or death was the clowns. Slim couldn't understand it given the down right dangerous things that some of the clowns were doing. The group of clowns turned and looked at Slim as if they knew he was thinking about them.

He waved at them, and he saw one of them frown under his makeup. Slim was used to that. He was just the bucket clown. They were the real stars. They piled in and out of the little car they called Lucy. They climbed up and down ladders to nowhere, and tumbled around the circus rings with an energy that Slim could only envy.

The clowns always kept to themselves at the circus, but even among the clowns Slim was an outcast. He was claustrophobic. It hadn't mattered much until Lucy came on the scene. Sure he was teased unmercifully, but no more than Frank with his small feet or Joe whose nose kept falling off. Now it was different. They all wanted him to join them as they piled into the old VW beetle. Slim took a deep breath. Enough feeling sorry for himself.

“Hey guys,” he called as he pushed himself to his feet, “Let me try the car routine with you next show.”

“Why wait for the next show?” asked Joe putting his nose on firmly. Slim heard the trumpet of an enraged elephant and a cut off scream.

“Send in the clowns,” shouted the Ringmaster. The other clowns surrounded Slim and smiled. He noticed suddenly that they all looked the same. Even with their crazy clothes and unique paint, there was a sameness to them that stood Slim's hair on end. He didn't have time to think about it. The swarm of clowns exploded into the rings. It was like a mad game of tag. Slim would chase Frank with a bucket, then Frank would chase him with a bat.

All around clowns worked with frenetic energy to make people laugh. And the people did, they tittered and roared and convulsed with laughter even while the emergency crew was scraping the gory remains of a bullhand off the sand. It made Slim's skin crawl to watch the crowd. They didn't seem to be happy, but they laughed in spite of themselves. Tears rolled down cheeks and hand held aching stomachs, yet the laughter continued.

The body was gone - time for the big finale. Joe drove out in the clown car, and before Slim could think about what he was doing he flung open the door and dove into the car.

Twelve other clowns piled in after him. Slim was crushed against the seat. He could barely breathe and his heart banged painfully against his ribs. Then, even while he was crushed under his companions, Slim felt the new being come into the car. The air became hot and fetid yet filled with power.

“ARE YOU A CLOWN?” the deep growl made Slim both nauseous and excited.

“Yes,” he squeaked.

“ARE YOU MY CLOWN?” the voice demanded. Slim had a vision of endless laughter and pain. He felt red hot claws on his soul.

“Yes,” he screamed, “Yes, yes, yes.” The other clowns chanted with him.

“THEN SEND IN THE CLOWNS!” the voice howled.

Slim and the others climbed out of the car. He saw the world through the red fire in his mind. Slim roared with laughter as his felt the power flow through him. He could feel the sharp teeth behind his lips and he grinned. Behind him clowns continued to pour out of the little car, hundreds of them. They all had sharp teeth and feral grins. He was hungry.

Time to feed.

As the clowns took control of the planet, an underground movement developed. The Normal Face Rebel Army (NFRA) used the Internet and low level weapons against the Clown Government. All over the world they fiercely rebelled against the Clown Government proving that the no make-up movement was alive and very active against a supposed iron will. The NFRA fought at great risk against the superior adversary and, to its credit; the movement remained a large thorn in the side of the Clown Government. As a result the Clown Government was determined to stamp out the NFRA at any cost.

……….

“Now, Mr. Brotcher, we come again to the question of your involvement with the NFRA. We know that you are involved with some of the top ranking officials in the current south central organization of the United States. We don’t ask for much, Mr. Brotcher, just a few names. We don’t insist on all the names, just a few and we'll let you get back to your life.”

James Brotcher concentrated on the round, red nose of his interrogator. He knew that if he said anything, it could be the start of a flow of information that would not stop. He wondered if the interrogator had the red nose surgically implanted or did he still put it on naturally. It was obvious the interrogator had the genetic change to make his skin pure, bright white. Concentrate on the red nose. That was James Brotcher’s only thought when the voltage hit his groin. It traveled throughout his body, his muscles warping into spasms of hard ecstasies of pain. Daggers of white, hot bolts shot through his head as his mind went blank. He writhed, screamed, and slumped when the voltage left.

A clown thug standing in the corner of the room stepped over to lift James Brotcher’s head by his hair. James Brotcher looked at his interrogator with eyes of agony

“Come now, Mr. Brotcher. This must be getting quite painful for you. All you have to do is give us a few names. Just two or three is all we ask. Please Mr. Brotcher; we can do this all day if we must.”

The clown thug let go of James Brotcher’s head and it hit the steel interrogation table with a ringing thud. The thug lifted his head off the table, slapped his face, but his head hit the table again when the thug let go.

“He’s out, sir.”

“Very well. Let us move to step two.”

……….

James Brotcher woke up in a cell. It was surprisingly clean with a cot, toilet/sink and a small window. He was hungry, thirsty and ached severely. He went to the sink, quickly drank some water only to vomit it up into the toilet. He tried again, only slower this time and kept in down. He sat back down on the cot and began to take account of where he was. As he looked down at his hands, he was suddenly struck with terror. His hands were white. They had performed the genetic change on him to turn his skin white. The very antithesis of what the NFRA was fighting for. He cursed the clowns, wondering and fearing what was next. He thought about the round, red nose…

……….

They had dragged James Brotcher out of his cell and put him under sedation. Much later, he woke up on his cot. He was afraid to get up and look at what had happened while he was out. He looked down at his body and could not see any changes. He swung groggily around to a sitting position. He was suddenly struck by the fact that they had installed mirrors on all the walls in his cell. No mattered where he looked he could see himself. What he saw made him scream. His face was white with red and purple around his mouth, eyes, and on his cheeks. Permanently put there by surgery. He screamed and tried to break the unbreakable mirrors.

……….

James Brotcher wept uncontrollably. He could hardly walk now. His feet were three times their normal size, his nose a giant green ball, his face white, red and purple painted scars of permanent make-up around his cheeks, mouth and eyes. His body wracked into a grotesque hump-back shape. They called it auguste, as if the class of clown they were relentlessly twisting his body into mattered to him. At one point the surgeon had called his ruined body an “exquisite example of the art of true clown grotesquery.’

He had no idea how long it had been. He wanted to die, but they denied even that luxury.

……….

“Mr. Brotcher, we have a simple deal for you. Tell us what we want to know and we will let you die. We know you have expressed the desire to do so several times in the last few weeks and we would certainly like to accommodate. So give us the names, all of them if you please, and we will do all the work for you. I personally promise a nice, comfortable passing on.”

James Brotcher began to talk. He could not stop talking. His red mouth talked for hours it seemed. The interrogator smiled pleasantly and nodded as James Brotcher talked. He talked himself out. He lay there empty; mind and soul. Nothing left, but the promised expectation of release from his pain. The interrogator smiled and nodded to the clown thug who lifted James Brotcher gently off the floor and carried him to his promised peace.

‘No mommy no PLEASE mommy PLEEEAAAAZZZZE PLEASE don’t take me to see the clown!’

Hysterics. Screaming, crying, hyperventilating hysterical little girl. MY little girl.

‘Honey, come on! It’s a clown, just like Bozo, just like the guy from that fast food place and just like uncle Jimmy when he dressed up that one time for your birthday party. Ok, not quite like uncle Jimmy, but better! I promise this one won’t have bad breath and blow up all his balloons!’

‘No – sob – mommy – sob – no – I – don’t – wanna – sob – puhhhleeeeeezeee….’

Oh, wonderful. Everyone is looking at us. Look at the bad mommy forcing her child to see the big mean clown. And I just know the minute we’re in the car she’s going to start crying because she didn’t get to see him. What a day. Oh well, at least she liked the rides and the cotton candy. Time to call it a day.

‘All right sweetie, all right, shush now. You don’t have to see the clown if you don’t want to. Let’s just go back to the car, ok?’

Ok. Back to the car. I’m tired anyway. It’s been a long day and there’s almost nobody here but teenagers wasting their money trying to win a teddy for their girls. And that clown DOES look creepy. Seriously, what kind of make-up is he using? That shade of red around his mouth makes him look like a bloodied cannibal. And he isn’t even smiling. Look at those beady little eyes…is he looking at us? Oh my god, I think he’s looking at us! Just keep walking old girl, we’re going to the car, stop looking at him, just get to the car. What a creep!

‘Mommy?’

‘Uh, yes pumpkin? What is it?’

‘Why is the clown following us?’

‘What? No, sweet pea, the clown isn’t following us, he’s just walking around. See, he’s going to see other children’

IS he following us? No, he’s not, you’re just working yourself up because of that awful make-up. You’re freaking out just like your 4 year-old! Come on, relax, just keep walking normally and you’ll get to the car and drive home and tell yourself you’ve been silly. We’re almost to the parking lot. Alright, where did we leave the car? It’s getting pretty dark out here, isn’t it? You’d think these traveling fairs would think of installing some lights on a generator or something…Where are my keys? Where’s the car? Where’s that clown? Oh my god, he’s right behind us! Why would he come into the parking lot? He wouldn’t attack us right here would he? There are still people over there, he wouldn’t do that! What kind of sicko is he? Ok, here’s the plan : find the car, push your baby in there, jump in behind the wheel, lock the doors and drive off. Where’s the CAR???

‘Mommy!!’

‘Yes baby, I know, just walk faster! When we get to the car I want you to jump in and lock your door, ok honey? Quick as you can! Do you understand me?’

‘No, but mommy…’

‘No buts, you listen to me, understand? You just do as I say!’

There has to be a parking lot attendant in here somewhere, come on!! Why did I leave the fair grounds? I should have stayed right there where there were people around! I’m so stupid! Oh my god, what I am going to –

‘Ma’am? Excuse me –

Thank god. There’s someone here. I’ll just – oh no. No. It’s him. I can see his bloody mouth from here even though it’s dark. Oh my god, oh my god, what do I do?

‘Don’t come any closer! I have mace! Don’t you come any –

What in the world is he doing? Am I really seeing this? Oh he’s really loony. Making a balloon animal? What kind of deranged psycho is this?

‘Here you go little girl – it’s a dog! Do you like it?’

‘Um, yes, thank you, it’s really pretty’

‘There. See? Clowns aren’t scary! Have a good night ma’am. I’m sorry if I scared you, I just felt so bad at how scared your daughter was of me…I just thought she’d like the balloon. Hope you had a good day at the fair!’

I – that’s it? Yeah, that’t it…he’s leaving. I’m so stupid. I can’t believe he actually wanted to attack us. I can just see the headlines now : hysterical mother maces nice old fair clown! Oh, what a day! And here’s the car. Right in front of me. Wow, freaking out really makes everything else disappear, doesn’t it?

‘All right sweetie pie, let’s head home. That was really nice of the clown to give you a balloon, wasn’t it? Sweetie? Honey?’

**************************************************

The WaterTown Herald
Monday, October 13
‘Bozo’ claims another victim
‘Bozo’ the fair clown, known to authorities as the ‘Animal Balloon Kidnapper’ because he befriends children by giving them balloon animals, has claimed a fifth victim, this time a 4 year old girl who was at the fair with her mother on Sunday. Witnesses claim the little girl, who had seemed afraid of the clown, was heading for the parking lot with her mother when…

God help me, I'm so scared.

He's coming for me. I can hear him laughing. I feel like he's right behind me. I can smell him. He smells like spirit gum adhesive and latex makeup. He smells like old popcorn and elephant manure.

Let me start at the beginning.

Has it really been almost thirty years since that day? I remember the field trip vividly. I remember the big yellow bus that jostled us back and forth as we rode through the Lincoln Tunnel. I remember the busy streets and tall buildings. Except despite my clear memories of that day, I don't recall any of the museums we visited or monuments we saw. I only remember the clowns.

They were street performers, I guess. They were hitting each other with huge hammers. They must have been inflatable or made of rubber or something, but they looked real enough to an impressionable seven-year-old girl. I remember that clown with green hair towering over me, his smile a crude red slash, and the hammer in his hands. The entire ride home, I couldn't shake the mental image of a white-faced man attacking someone with a hammer while smiling. I couldn't shake it when I went to bed, I couldn't shake it from my dreams that night, and I couldn't shake it for the rest of my life.

Coulrophobia, my psychiatrist called it. He assured me that lots of people have this condition. "The behavior of clowns is intended for our amusement," he explained. "However, many people are distrustful of characters who wear disguises — false noses, false smiles, as though they have something to hide. This, combined with the slapstick behavior of clowns, behavior that can easily be interpreted as aggression — throwing pies, tricking people into smelling a squirting flower — causes some people to view clowns as sinister, even malevolent."

When desensitization and immersion therapy didn't work, my therapist finally decided that I should simply avoid clowns. Which isn't so hard to do, of course. When the kids wanted to go to the circus, Eric took them and explained that Mommy wasn't feeling well. When Ralphie, our youngest, wanted a clown for his birthday party, Eric talked him into a magician instead. When I see a mime doing his act for quarters in the city park, I turn around and walk the other way. No big deal.

But what do you do when the front page of every newspaper carries stories about a serial killer who dresses like a clown ... and bludgeons his victims to death with a hammer, no less?

I couldn't escape him. Every time I turned on the news, there was the Circus Killer, hamming it up for the security camera at the apartment complex where he claimed his seventh victim. The lurid smile, the pasty white face, the ridiculous bow tie — he was everywhere.

It finally got to the point where I couldn't even leave the house. Eric and I have some savings, and he has his job at the supermarket, so we scraped by for a while. I mostly watched old movies (not regular television — you could never tell when they might interrupt a broadcast with a live report detailing the Circus Killer's latest grisly crime). I rearranged my sewing room. I made a new sweater for Janice. And everything was fine until Eric started telling me that I ought to see my psychiatrist again. You need to get back to work, he said. You can't sit around here all day doing nothing, he said. This is ruining your life, he said.

Where have you been going at night? Why have you been sneaking out after I go to sleep? He just wouldn't stop. That's probably why he came here. He probably heard Eric jabbering and came along just to shut him up.

I'm barricaded in my sewing room on the second floor. The phone lines have been cut. I'll be dead soon.

The Circus Killer is in the house.

As soon as I realized he was here I went down to the basement and got a hammer. I knew if I didn't get it over with quickly, he would take his time with Eric and Janice and Ralphie. And I won't subject them to his cruelties. I've read the stomach-churning accounts of that monster's sadism. I know what he does to children. I did it while they were sleeping so they wouldn't feel a thing. They'll dream their sweet dreams and wake up in heaven.

I love them so much. It's the least I could do.

I dragged Jance and Ralphie into my sewing room — Eric was just too heavy — and put them in my closet so that he wouldn't find them. And when I went in there I found one of his bloody clown suits on a hanger. He's taunting me, you see. He put it there so I'd know there's no place to hide.

I can hear him shuffling up the stairs, those giant size-25 shoes. I can hear him laughing as he rattles his hammer against the banister.

Oh my God, I'm wearing the clown suit, how did he do that, how could he do that, oh no he's here help me he's here and it's the same clown from when I was a little girl oh Jesus help me it's the same clown please don't

plea s

some so mebody help me ee

Bongo peered out through the ragged cutouts in the ancient wooden display, waiting patiently for full dusk to hit the midway. Only when the remnants of sunlight were nearly gone from the sky would the Manor of Maniacal Mayhem finally open. Not that anyone wandering the midway ever tried to get in during the day. Most people didn’t even notice the rickety wooden catwalk with its sun-faded murals, not with the Ferris wheel and merry-go-round and endless pitchmen distracting everyone. At least, they didn’t intentionally notice during the day.

Another town, another dry, dusty fairground. Bongo had lost count of how many late fall fairs he and his troupe had chased.

As the second star appeared in the dim night sky, the Manor’s lights flickered on with the reluctance of the just woken. The displays brightened in the artificial glow, and images that paled in sunlight became almost obscenely gay and nearly lifelike. Bongo crept out into the shadows of the catwalk, admiring the way the neon lighting articulated the laughing faces ranged around the Manor’s title lettering. Bongo fondly remembered the day each of those faces had been placed… er… painted on.

Bongo nodded to the twins Melody and Harmony. Their oversized, white-gloved fingers were oddly dexterous as they flicked switches at random to start the Manor’s music. It was almost inaudible under the noise of the Autumn Festival, but the hypnotic strains wove their way through the throngs of people, wrapping around their brains and pulling them to the far ends of the fairground.

Taking one last look in the cracked mirror, Bongo adjusted his rainbow-hued curly hair and straightened his polka-dot bow tie. He reached down to a tiny drawer at the bottom of his makeup table and took out a small silver box. Inside were two sets of cards, one with writing, one with blocks of color. He shuffled each carefully and laid them out on the desk, mumbling to himself as each card was dealt.

“Red shirts get… the snake tank. Purple shirts will get… the chainsaw. Blue shirts… ah, the spider web. And yellow shirts…”

Bongo looked up and smiled to himself in the mirror. Tonight, it would be the children wearing yellow shirts who would earn themselves places of honor in the Manor of Maniacal Mayhem, and be enshrined in the beautiful wooden display outside as the laughing children they were. Laughing… or screaming. Either pleased Bongo.

Have you ever heard the story? The story of Marion Casey? He was a boy that grew up on “the wrong side of town”. A boy that never learned the word no, because his parents beat that word out of him at the age of two. Yes, you could say that it wasn’t Marion’s fault he turned out the way he did. You can blame Gogo for that.

Surely you know of Gogo the clown. He is the answer to every child’s problems. He brings sweet candy and lets the children ride in the Gogomobile. All the way to his house, where they go away forever and ever. No one knows where they go except Gogo, and clowns never tell! He just smiles and laughs the day away, and comes to feed at night.

You see, Gogo isn’t like any other clown. Gogo doesn’t need to wear makeup, because his skin is already alabaster pale, from years and years of hiding in his basement. His hair is already patchy and frizzed, because he pulls it and tears it as his giggles howl to the moon after a nice long meal. And his lips, his lovely lips, glisten and glint of ruby red blood from the meals he eats every night.

Marion met Gogo at the ripe age of ten, when his father had beaten him to sleep. He awoke in his closet, so safe downstairs, and looked at the clown looking in. “Hello little boy, come and play for a while, where everything you do is okay. You can run, you can skip, and can sneak a cookie treat, and mommy and daddy are far away!” The clown smiled deep, with yellowing teeth, and breath like ice cream and dolls. Young Marion looked up and agreed. So he went out the door, and went up, up the stairs, and found his mother’s favorite carving knife. He smiled and laughed as he stabbed swift and long into his mother and father’s sleeping hearts.

Gogo and Marion ran off into the dark, and found a man selling drugs from his van. His eyes were empty and dark, like the sky up above, and his body shook like Marion’s little hands. “What a pretty little truck.” Gogo whispered in Marion’s ear, as Marion nodded with his hand tight on the blade. With not a peep or a word, he appeared from the night, and placed the knife in the man’s twitching neck. Then off they went, for days and days, until Marion saw a little shack.

Made of wood, dirt and tape, the little house did abide as Marion and Gogo’s abode. Gogo placed black trash bags in the broken windows to keep the wind and sun from coming in. Marion looked at the clown, with empty tummy and eyes, saying “Gogo? I’m hungry, whatever will we eat?” And the clown did smile and understand. “Little boy,” he spoke, with his eyes empty too, “I think we shall go find fresh meat.”

And it was then a little girl, knocked on the broken door, calling “Hello? Is there somebody there?” She was young, nine or eight, with a quiet, almost squeaky, tone of voice. Marion opened the door, and let her inside, hiding the knife at his back. “Why hello!” The girl greeted, with a sweet honey grin, “It’s so nice to meet a friendly new face!” She looked all around and returned her gaze to him, saying “where’s your friend? I heard you speak to him.”

Gogo was there, right in front of her. “She can’t see me,” he told, “only you can.” Marion looked lost, his hallow eyes confused and perplexed, saying “Gogo? Whatever do you mean?”

“Gogo?” She asked, looking right through the clown, “Is that your imaginary friend?” Gogo pointed to the girl, with hungry glare, instructing “There is your meat! Make your kill!” No words for his lips, no blinks from his eyes, Marion stabbed and stabbed at her chest. She screamed and she cried, with tears made of blood, falling sadly and strong from her gut. As she stumbled to the ground, she groaned as he cut her skin from her back. His feast had begun for the week.

“Gogo?” He asked, with his lips bloody red, “why couldn’t she see you today?”
“Little Marion,” Gogo cooed, his hand on the boy’s shoulder, “because deep inside…I’m just you.”

And that’s how it went, for years upon years, bringing children for food in his van. But just two weeks ago, Gogo couldn’t stay full on children’s flesh alone. He met a young woman, freshly grown out of school, with diploma in hand at a bar. Five drinks he would buy, and with him she would go, to the shack where he had quite a meal. Sadly he didn’t know that that young woman was the daughter of the head cop in town on his trail.

So you see, Sergeant Clark, that’s why I ate your little girl, and why you are now tied to this chair. I am Young Marion, a boy who just follows a clown. But when night falls, Gogo will come. So let me show you the knife that Gogo does use, and pray that he doesn’t come soon.

The light from the sun setting outside had vanished over the horizon and the rising full moon cast its ghoulish white hue over Rory who was sitting in his bed. Plastic heroes, toy cars and smiling clowns of all shapes and sizes sat around the room, their eyes seemingly keeping a close watch. A pall of sweat appeared on his brow. His mum had forgotten to close the curtains before he went to bed so the whole room now took on a foreign appearance. Shadows stretched from the dark corners like malevolent fingers and his treasured collection of toys seemed to take on the characteristics of an audience at a circus, all watching, waiting for him to perform some sort of act. Too proud to call out to his mum, Rory ducked under the covers trembling, hoping against all hope that it would all go away and this nightmare would end. Even his favourite toy clown that he took to bed with him, Mr Tumbles, normally bright, cheerful and with a big, laughing smile on his face now seemed to stare in his direction as it lay under the sheets with Rory. The smile now replaced with a devilishly evil grin. He went to push Mr Tumbles out from under the covers but it would not budge. No matter how hard he tried, the clown would not move. Giving up, he crawled to the other end of the bed and used his blankets to shield himself from Mr Tumbles' vacant stare.

“This is not real, this is not real, it's just a dream!” Rory spluttered to himself barely able to keep from choking on his own rising fear.

Suddenly a voice echoed from the other end of the bed. Whatever it was moaned in a hollow, half stuttering, half cackling voice right out of a horror movie “It is just a d-d-dream, it is all j-just a bad dream so come give your Mr T-tumbles a hug and it will all go away”.

Paralysed with fright, Rory could only stare in abstract terror as he heard the blankets down the other end of the bed rustle and a shuffling noise work its way towards him.

“Mu...,” squeaked Rory as Mr Tumbles half dragged himself into view invading the now cramped space Rory was occupying. Glowing red eyes pierced the darkness, highlighting a maniacal, lopsided grin on the now distorted face of Mr Tumbles. His usually bright red nose had taken on a sickly green hue.

“Hi R-rory,” breathed Mr Tumbles, his mouth barely moving yet the chill in his voice raising the hairs on the back of Rory's neck.

With a backwards shuffle to get away from the possessed plaything, Rory suddenly felt the bed give way beneath him and he landed on the floor with a dull thud. Limbs spread-eagled and complete with blankets entombing him at the foot of the bed, he did not know where the nightmare clown was. Unraveling himself from the blankets, he jumped up ready for anything, his heart felt like it was about ready to jump out of his chest.

“Muuuum!!!” yelled Rory expecting to hear his own voice reverberate around the room and wake his parents but all that escaped his throat was but a pitiful mewling noise like that of a new-born kitten. A quick scan of the bed for Mr Tumbles turned up blank. Glancing around the room conjured even more terrifying images as some of the toys' eyes blinked and he could of sworn he saw his stuffed toy dog open its mouth and utter a long, low pitched growl in his direction. Running to the door to escape this horrible room, he found it locked.

“Mum never locks the door!” panicked Rory.

A creaking noise from the direction of his wardrobe made him spin around planting his back to the door. Everything had suddenly grown very large or he had just shrunk, he couldn't decide which but from out of the wardrobe Mr Tumbles appeared, this time almost twenty times larger than Rory which made his lop-sided grin all the more terrifying. The ground shook as Mr Tumbles dragged himself towards Rory. The toy audience seemed to fold in around him, watching, staring, some noiselessly cheering and all waiting for something to happen.

The demented Mr Tumbles reached out 2 hands, both the size of Rory's largest toy truck, ready to enclose him in some sort of final, murderous hug.

Rory sat bolt upright in bed, sweat glistening on his forehead, too frightened to wipe the stinging sensation away. It was morning, the sun shone through his window adding a pleasant warmth to the room as if trying to comfort Rory after such a vivid experience.

With a violent shove, Rory knocked Mr Tumbles onto the ground. His door creaked open and to his relief his mum walked into the room.

“I had this really awf...,” Rory's voice caught in the back of his throat. A new wave of terror washed over him as his mum reached up and clawed at her face, peeling off what seemed to be some sort of sick and twisted human mask revealing once again the evil grinning face of Mr Tumbles.

“Don't you want to be my f-friend any more Rory?” cackled Mr Tumbles.

Rory opened his mouth to scream.