02 – Wyllow

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“That’s a load of crap,” Chuck said. “You have to be nuts to think we’d buy that.”

Livia shook her head. “It really happened. I swear to you.”

“You fell in the canal and banged your head. You can’t trust what you remember.”

Livia shrugged. “That could also be true.”

A sharp whistle from the Caretaker silenced the two and all heads turned to face him.

“Alright,” he said, “let’s keep it moving. Half these decorations are ruined but the other half can still be salvaged. Find the useable ones and we’ll keep them for next year.”

Everyone split off and gathered the remaining decorations. Some were plastic, easily wiped clean and stored in boxes stacked on the side of the hall. The other half were paper and were dumped in a pile on the other.

While sifting through which decorations to keep or throw, one of the other girls tugged Livia’s sleeve. She almost didn’t see the girl a good head shorter.

“Oh, Wyllow?”

“I believe you,” Wyllow said. “A lot of us have been talking about the weird stuff that’s been happening around town this week.”

“Like what?” Livia said.

“I saw a light, too. But it wasn’t a candle or a floating one. It was a spotlight.”

“What’s so strange about a spotlight?”

“It didn’t come from anywhere, and it shone on–“

The Caretaker’s head rose from the other side of the trash pile. “Are you telling a story now, miss Wyllow?”

Wyllow nodded. “I guess so.”

“Well speak up so we can all hear. We might as well have some entertainment while we work.”

Chuck scoffed. “Oh great, another one.”

Wyllow looked around. Everyone’s eyes were on her now.

Wyllow’s Story

My mummy and daddy took me to the circus last Friday, but the whole night was ruined when the clown died.

It was near the end of the show. After the flock of budgies bowed and flew off with their trainer, a clown climbed on top of a giant hamster wheel and ran. We never got to see what the trick was, because his foot got trapped in the rungs and threw him off. We laughed, thinking it was part of the act, but then the floodlights came on and the ringmaster told us to leave in a calm and orderly manner.

The clown was staring right at me when he died. Just like grandma did.

We went for an ice cream after, dad’s way of keeping us calm. He let my brother and me stay up late at the arcade. I think I could have forgotten about the clown if the ambulance didn’t stop there.

The drivers didn’t leave it, just sat in its front, staring at us through the window. Then the back door opened and the clown got out to wave at us. My brother laughed and told daddy

“It was part of the show,” he said. “The clown’s still alive!’

The Clown pulled out some balloons, which inflated without him blowing into them. Each one was already in the shape of an animal or toy. Me and my brother joined the queue. All the other kids wanted his balloons, too.

“And I have a very special one for you,” He told me. It was balloon clown. It looked just like him.

I said “Thanks, mister,” and ran back inside.

The paint on his lips was the same color as blood and his eyes were glazed over.

Once we were home, daddy sent us to bed. I don’t know how long I slept because my next memory is being woken up by a tap at the window. When I opened the curtains, I expected to see a bird or a bug or something. What I saw was the Clown, giggling through red-smeared teeth, as well as the equally smeared lips he put his finger to, to shush me before he pushed away from the house like he was a balloon himself.

He floated to the ground and the second he touched the lawn, a spotlight appeared around him. Then he clicked his fingers.

Fire burst from his hands and he threw it in the air. And then he threw another, and another, juggling with the flames faster until he caught all the fireballs in a single hand and threw them at the house.

They didn’t make a sound as they exploded on window, but I did, screaming for mummy and daddy. Even my brother came to check on me.

I couldn’t find the words so I just pointed outside while mummy gave me a tissue to dry my eyes. When I could see again, the clown was waving at us.

“What the hell is that freak doing here?” Daddy said, and went to grab his phone.

A few minutes later, the police knocked on our door and daddy showed them around to where the Clown was still performing.

He’d picked himself up by his own head and climbed a ladder he’d pulled out from his pocket to hang a picture of himself in mid-air, and then had the picture fall on him so his real head replaced the portrait. The cops circled him and shouted for him to come with them. He looked so happy to have more of an audience.

One told him to come quietly back to the station, but that just got him a pie in the face. Another pulled out his gun and warned the clown he’d open fire. My dad joined the police with his hunting rifle and told the clown to get off our property, although I don’t think the cops were too happy about that.

The clown had nowhere to go. He looked at us and bowed, yet didn’t rise again. The spotlight faded, he tilted forward and collapsed, almost like he was deflating. The officers crept forward and one even poked him with a nightstick. The clown didn’t move.

The nightstick cop talked into a radio while the other talked to daddy. A few minutes later, the same ambulance from earlier arrived. The men inside were just as confused as the police. They didn’t remember falling asleep at an arcade.

The police helped them load the Clown back in and followed the ambulance back to the hospital, probably to make sure they got there this time. When they were gone, daddy sat us down around the dining table and clutched his gun.

“It’s just bizarre,” he said. “That clown was pronounced dead back at the circus, and just now the cops told me he was stone cold and stiff like he’d been dead for hours.”