As the rain pounded on the stainless-steel roof like a relentless drumbeat, each drop echoing the loud beat of Kingsley's heart, Outside, the world was a watercolor mess, the air thick with the smell of damp earth and something else, something metallic and sweet. It was the scent of greasepaint, a scent that sent a fresh wave of terror through him.
The birthday party had been a day sprinkling with decorations and forced merriment. Kingsley, his stomach rumbling with unease, watched as this monstrous figure in oversized shoes and a wig that defied gravity floated around the room. He never wanted to come to Iska’s birthday party but his mom forced him. He stood in the room as he watched the strange man act. The clown's smile, too wide and too white, seemed permanently imprinted on his face; he wondered, "Doesnt it frown?" His friends seem happy as this figure keeps making signs and movements to make them laugh, but Kingsley finds nothing funny about it. He looked around to see if anyone felt what he was feeling, but he seemed alone.
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Then a stupid, cruel word escaped Kingsley's lips. A childish taunt hung in the air like a bad smell. "Stupid man; he's not even funny. "Acting like a fool all day," Kingsley said underneath his breath, but the clown's ears were as sharp as a razor to pick up what Kingsley said. The clown's eyes, black pits beneath, turned towards Kingsley, and a smile, more like a snarl, stretched his painted face. His eyes were fixed on Kingleys for some brief seconds, his smile disappeared, and a frown came upon his face as he said these words to Kingley. "You'll regret that, little man." Then he turned to the other children, and his smile was back.
At first, Kingsley dismissed it. A party clown throwing a tantrum? Ridiculous, Kingsley thought to himself.
It was the rainy season, and as the rain began its relentless assault, a new fear took root. It all started four nights after the birthday party. Kingsley and his parents just had dinner. He was in the kitchen washing the dishes when he heard his name. The voice came so soft but sharp, like someone calling for his attention. "Kingsley!!"
He stopped what he was doing and left for the sitting room. "Mama, are you calling me?" he asked his mom with a confused face. "No, my dear, are you done with the dishes?" his mom asked. He made his way back into the kitchen without giving any answer.
"Good night, mom; good night, dad," he said as he made his way to his room immediately after he had finished washing the dishes. He was tired already, so he jumped on the bed to have some rest.
"Oh, Kingsley......" His voice came again, but this time it was more timid and soft. "Do you think I forgot you?" Kingsley became so shocked that he lost his voice. He sat upright as he scanned his room with his eyes.
There, in the corner, half-hidden in the shadows, he saw the clown.
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It was no longer the clumsy entertainer but a silent, menacing figure. The garish colors of his costume seemed muted by the dim light, and the smile was a horrifying, empty void. Then he disappeared. Kingsley ran to the sitting room and stumbled down the stairs.
"My God, son, are you okay?" Mr. Fash, Kingsley's dad, rushed to him to check what was wrong. As Kingsley tried to explain several times, his voice failed him, and all he could do was point to his room. His dad hurriedly took his rifle and head to the room but found nothing there. A few hours later, Kingsley explained everything, but they seemed not to believe him.
The first few times, Kingsley had convinced himself it was a dream, a figment of his guilt-ridden imagination. But as the days turned into weeks, the figure solidified. The stench of fear filled the room, and the smell of something metallic, something cold, hung in the air.
He confided in his parents, his voice trembling and tears blurring his vision. They'd ruffled his hair and dismissed it as a bad dream, a childish fear. But Kingsley knew. He knew this wasn't a dream. Every night, the icy touch of the clown's gloved fingers brushes his cheek; desperate gasps for breath are trapped in his own throat, almost choking him before he falls asleep.
The nights turned into a relentless cycle of terror. The clown would loom closer each night, its eyes burning with an unholy light. Kingsley, trapped in his own bed, would scream, and his parents would find him shaking in his cold, sweaty bed.
Then, one night, Kingsley dropped his fear, ready to face the clown. He sat on his bed, sweating and breathing heavily, as he awaited his night companion. "Do you miss me, Kingsley?" He felt a hand brushing the back of his neck and rubbing his head. With tears in Kingsley's eyes, he shut his eyes and said, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, ok. I never meant to insult you; I am just a kid who lacks friends. I wanted to have fun, but I don't know how, so please forgive me for my insult." He kept crying, then was everywhere quiet.
He raised his head to see what was happening, and face-to-face, the clown was staring right back at him as if he wanted to plant a kiss on his forehead. Kingsley's breath seized again, but this time he noticed the clown was giving the awestruck smile he used to. There was sadness lingering on his face, and in that instance, he vanished into thin air.
Kingsley sat there, sweat clinging to his skin, the sheets cold and clammy. Had the rain finally stopped? He couldn't tell. The line between nightmare and reality had blurred, leaving him with a terrifying question: was it all real or was it a dream? Ever since that day, Kingsley has never visited a party with a clown.