Short Story Based on an Image: Coulrophobia

"Føroyar," read the terrifying stamp. Though I had been inundated with images since birth, never had I seen one that seized me with such fear as this.

Beyond the usual bills, magazine offers, and worthless coupons, I hadn't received any meaningful mail in months. So I was rather caught off guard when I pried open my mailbox that morning, finding the lone envelope inside. It was addressed to me, so there had been no mistake. Furthermore, my address was handwritten, in what looked to be professional calligraphy.

Seeking shelter from the glacial cold, I wandered up the path to my modest house, hoping to have time to inspect this mail. As my boots crushed the freshly fallen snow, I could barely take my eyes off of that stamp, seeming to smile back at me.

I opened the door, its hinges groaning as if to beg for oil, and quickly shut myself inside. The sky, overcast yet still, allowed little light into the house's six windows. Steadily creeping into the kitchen, which had gorged itself on the aromas of pancakes and smoked bacon an hour earlier, I sat in one of the wooden chairs.

There I sat, under the faint ginger glow of candlelight, which for the moment was my only light source. With apprehension, I studied the image once again...

Clowns. Three of them, smiling as if we had scheduled our encounter, confronted me with the hand-drawn crosses that represented eyes.

Some find my intense fear laughable. If you had known my childhood experience, however...I doubt you would laugh. Or smile.

At six years old, I attended a birthday party, at a neighbor's home. One of the entertainers, of course, was a clown. Although most of the children enjoyed themselves, I had a moment where...the clown and I eye locked eyes.

The red streaks across his face seemed caked on, like dried blood, and his eyes seemed lit with a purple gleam.

Much later, when most of the guests had left, I sat alone in a corner. My parents hadn't yet arrived...leading me to wonder if they would ever come.

Then I felt it. The sinister jester was approaching...and yet I couldn't see him. I tried to alert one of the parents, and everyone seemed occupied. All I could think to do was walk outside. Creeping through the back door, thinking that I was unseen, I escaped.

As I started down the block, with no destination in mind, a mysterious car pulled up alongside me. I still remember...the vehicle, black with tinted windows, slowed to a crawl, and gently came to a stop. With caution, I drew near.

The passenger-side window rolled down halfway, screeching like nails against a chalkboard. From inside, I could barely make out a man's face. He muttered something inaudible, and though I had been warned never to ride with strangers, something drew me closer.

The door popped open. Before I could turn and run, a powerful hand clutched my arm...

I remember only sections of what happened next, but one vivid memory remains etched on my brain: waking in a basement room, cluttered with broken furniture, an old phonograph, and what looked to be coffins. A pungent odor, like that of decaying flesh, overpowered the space. When I tried to move, I realized my hands were wrapped in razor wire (though I didn't know the name at the time).

After waiting for what seemed like days, I heard heavy footfalls descending the stairs. In desperation, I attempted to escape...and only succeeded in cutting my arms. My heartbeat increased steadily...

Moments later, he confronted me. The same clown, now dressed in blue overalls and a yellow t-shirt, eyed me like a ravenous dog. He pressed his face close to mine, and in doing so, exposed me to his horrific breath. The stench of recently-consumed alcohol invaded my lungs.

I wished myself unconscious.

Yet, in the few minutes before I passed out, I screamed in agony as the nameless horror removed my clothes and proceeded to rape me, brutally...

When I regained consciousness, still faint, I found myself wrapped in the razor wire once again. Upstairs, I could make out those same heavy footsteps I'd heard earlier. If I wanted to escape, I knew I would have to act fast...

Working through the intense pain, which eventually began to subside, I carefully removed the barbs from under my skin. The blades left deep gashes which started to bleed almost immediately, but I continued, holding back screams.

Once free, I knew that I still had to find my way out of this nightmarish maze. Attempting to make as little noise as possible, I inched across the dirt-ridden floor, searching for some kind of escape route.

In the dim light, I could just barely make out a number of antique-store objects. Among them were an old jukebox, an ancient violin, and some glass bottles of Coke.

It was then I spotted it: an exit. There was a small door on the wall about five feet from me, and I thought I just might be the right size to fit through.

Crawling more quickly, I worked my way through the maze of junk, until I was up against the rotting wooden door. Soon, I found myself trying desperately to squeeze through the tiny space, which was just barely possible.

Abruptly, I once again heard the heavy footsteps descending the stairs. Pushing with an almost inhuman force, I somehow worked my way through the mini-passage.

Though I barely had the energy to run, I hobbled over to a neighbor's house and frantically rang the doorbell, knocking at the same time. Finally, a shocked young woman answered, her face horrified when she saw my bloodied arms.

As far as I can remember, she dialed 911; I made it to a hospital.

I thought I had forgotten that day, despite still having scars on my arms. Yet those three grease-painted ones, reaching towards me, seeming to come off the page, brought me back, as if I were still there.

With apprehension, I forced myself to pry open the envelope. A mysteriously sweet scent emanated from within, enforcing my curiosity...

A rapping at the door knocked me from my trance. Three distinct knocks, about half a second apart. I wasn't expecting anyone; therefore, I rose with trepidation.

Creeping back into the living room, I glanced out the frosted window.

I swear, when I looked through the glass, I saw a face. It was indistinct, like a Surrealist character. Was it real?

Pressing my skin to the window pane, I strained to see through the falling snow.

At that instant, I heard the squeal of a back door opening. My heart rate rose rapidly. Unwilling to find out who my uninvited guest was, I threw open my front door, dashing across the yard, the hostile winds burning my face.

Instinctually, however, I turned to face my backyard. In the haze, I could just barely make out a human shape approaching. Terror overtook me; in my mind, I pictured the horrific stamp again, coming to life.
Was I going to run? No, I decided. It was time to face this nightmare. I stood my ground, as the shadow advanced.

Reaching into my pocket, I drew a flashlight, and focused it toward the stranger. His obscured features took form...he looked like some sort of puppet, or a...clown.

My heart beating furiously, I began to back away once more, the stranger lumbering toward me again.

Unable to contain myself any longer, I turned and fled. Unfortunately, I had forgotten something. It was winter; and with winter comes ice.

In mid-step, I lost my footing and hit the pavement. While lying there, I looked up, in terror, to see a man standing over me. His face, caked with paint, gaped at mine.

The last I remember, he drew a blade from his pocket...

And my vision turned black.