Clown Chase

Under the dim glow of neon lights on a Sunday night, I wandered into the mall, where an unusual sight quickly caught my attention. A clown, bright and cheerful, was peddling yellow daisies, each one available for just a dollar. Without a second thought, I snatched one up as I rushed by. Why should I hesitate? The clown’s curious gaze held no threat—it was merely a flower, after all.

Joy bubbled within me as I strolled through the mall, clutching my newfound treasure. However, as I passed by, I became acutely aware of the glances from the crowd. Their stares felt tangible, as if time had momentarily halted, leaving only their eyes and heads animatedly tracking my every move. A jolt of fear coursed through me, freezing me in place, seemingly paralyzed. Then I heard it: a heavy, labored breathing echoing from behind.

Squeak… step. Squeak… step. The rhythm of the clown's oversized shoes reverberated in the air, heightening my anxiety. Suddenly, a honk from his horn jolted me back into action. Instinctively, I dropped the yellow flower and dashed away, desperate to lose myself in the throng of people. Alas, my futile attempt only seemed to incite the entity pursuing me even more. A low growl echoed from the shadows as I moved deeper into the crowd.

Suddenly, the faces of those around me faded into oblivion. When I dared to glance back, their expressions re-emerged, ghostly and haunting, gliding toward me with an otherworldly grace. Panic surged as I heard the unmistakable squeak of those shoes grow closer. It was as if a bell had tolled, signaling the vanishing of every face until, right before me, the clown appeared once again.

His smile was malevolent, with a nose as red as a tomato and a grin painted wide across his alabaster skin. The sight was enough to send shivers down my spine. “You really should’ve paid for that flower,” he teased, brandishing a pie overflowing with gooey green whipped cream. In a sudden, startling motion, he smashed the pie across my face.

Stunned, I felt the slick substance melting away my composure, prompting a horrified scream that echoed into silence. The piercing sound yanked me from my slumber as the shrill tone of my alarm clock pierced the morning stillness. Disoriented, I swiftly turned it off, only to discover a familiar slimy residue on my fingers—the same green cream from my nightmare.

Leaping from my bed, I raced to the kitchen, eager to wash it away. But there, on the table, lay an unmistakable sight: a greenish whipped cream pie sitting temptingly beside that solitary yellow daisy, a memento from my unsettling dream.

Just then, behind me, the unmistakable sound of squeaky clown shoes began again.