Creepy - Day 11 - Year of the Clown

Episode Date: October 11, 2019

Clowns...***Written by BunnyB03 and narrated by Nate Dufort***Content warning: child death***Check out the Bloody Disgusting Podcasts at https://bloody-disgusting.com/podcastnetwork/***See your donation rewards podcast at patreon.com/creepypod***You can also subscribe to us on YouTube:https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCQ3SrH_3fsROXFAjomKcUtw***Music by Steve Blizin***Title music by Alex Aldea***Intro/Outro Narration by Joe Stofko Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information. Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

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Creepy presents the 31 days of horror. Day 11. Year of the Clown. Written by Bunny B.03 and narrated by Nate Dufort. You should really pay attention to the things your kids watch on TV. I remember the first time I was snapped from my cartoon-laced illusion. I lost a part of my childlike innocence that day. That helped shape my views of the world? Forever.

My older sister and I were watching television like we did every evening before bed. It was the early 90s. I was barely six years old. My sister was almost nine. Special report from Illinois. popped up on the TV, showing a large man. He wore a sinister grin that was exaggerated by a smear of red makeup. Blue triangles took up most of the area around his eyes.

The rest of his face, white, like cold cream. His suit was complicated, a strange clown suit. Half of it is solid red, either half red and white striped. A frilly red and white collar puffed from under his second chin. A white-gloved hand was raised in a frozen wave. The newscaster said the man had been arrested for taking the lives of 33 young boys. We live nowhere near Illinois, but my young mind didn't understand that. I barely was able to understand or process what I was hearing.

All I knew was that one hour. ago. I liked clowns. After seeing this, I was terrified, especially being a young boy myself. I can't remember this next part, but it was talked about so much by family members over the years that I almost feel like I do. Six-year-old me burst into hysterics. I was heard throughout the house wailing to my sister. But Bobby, I thought all clowns. were nice. It was an hour before I was able to be calmed. My dad set me down, got out his map the United States, and showed me how far from Illinois we were. When that didn't work, he explained to me that they'd caught him and locked him away. The world was safe from him

forever. I couldn't understand why anyone would want to hurt children, let alone a clown. clowns were supposed to bring joy, happiness, laughter, not hunt down boys and stack their bodies underneath his house. My father distracted me with something normally forbidden for bedtime. Ice cream. My childhood innocence and mirth slowly returned with each syrup-drisled bite, but only a percentage. Before long, my dad was able to get me to fall asleep. Part of me knew it still bothered me. I just couldn't figure out why.

Flash forward, decades later. I'm divorced with a 15-year-old son of my own that my ex-Rachel and I share custody of. I still absolutely hate clowns. Last Christmas, Rachel sent me a wind-up clown figurine, special fuck you for the holiday season. I tried to be the bigger person, however, I couldn't help but send a thank-you card in response.

It contained only five words. Thanks for the excellent gift. If that wasn't bad enough, the new year brought a new trend. News reports all over the United States are appearing left and right about of all things. Clown sightings. It's quickly becoming known as the year of the clown. They're popping up everywhere. schools, supermarket parking lots, forests,

backyards, etc. Some stood there harmlessly, but there were others with far more serious intentions. A part of my subconscious reverts to the age of six every time a new sighting is announced. It's too jumpy to conceal and carry, so I always keep a knife on me, just in case. I figure it's only a matter of time before one pops up where we live.

If I ever do encounter one, hopefully it just stands there like a creep. It's a juvenile event for sure, but one that seems to unnerve the whole country. Halloween's barely seven short months away. Brodie'll be 16 by then and too old for trick-or-treating. I still can't help but worry about the upcoming house. holiday. He'll most likely want to go out with friends and I'd stopped accompanying when he was 11. If the clown shit didn't let up, I'd have to keep him home this year. I'd rather have him be pissed off at me than in danger or worse. Dead. The trend intensifies, spreading worldwide now

instead of just being limited to the U.S. The week before Halloween is rapidly approached. and I'm arguing with Brody about wanting to go out. After telling him for the tenth time how I won't change my mind, even though it hurts me to say, he charges off to his room and slams the door. The moment it closes, I hear a torrent of furious swears of complaint from within his room. Later I feel bad about what had happened and go to his room to end the night on a better note. The space under the door shows the glow of his bedroom light, signaling that he's still awake. After a quick knock, I turned the knob and open the door.

Within the hoarder's hell, that is his room. I finally locate a Brody-shaped bundle underneath the covers in his bed. He must have dozed off with the light on. Not wanting to disturb him, I turn off the light and shut the door. I wash the dinner dishes and turn off the kitchen light before attempting to head to the door. to bed myself. Hover over the sink and look out the window. Let my hands air dry. The blood in my veins chills. As I notice something out of place in my periphery, motionless figure stands out against the blowing branches of the trees at the edge of the woods, electric green hair,

red makeup, white face. I clench my eyes shut and slam my hands on the ledge of the sink to try and wake myself from the nightmare before me. When I opened my eyes again, No one's there. I blame it on exhaustion. It's easier to accept than the truth. And just go to bed. Clowns chase me through my dreams till the morning. The morning greets me with sweaty disdain.

I awake disoriented and more tired than I was before I went to sleep. After making sure Brody is set to go to his mother's house for the weekend, I head off to work. It's an uneventful workday, just how I like it. There's a gas station less than two miles from my house, so I slept to get some beer and L&Ms. The cashier tells me to have a good night, and be careful. I nod in response and open the door to leave. The sun starts to set early this time of year. When I walk into the parking lot, the clear blue sky is already replaced with a pink and orange sunset.

My car turns the last corner before home, and there it stands. The green-haired clown, he stands off in the woods, staring at me. A white-gloved hand creeps up to wave and freezes. Just like the clown from the 90s news report, my mind instantly takes me back there and I struggle to keep the car on the road. It's difficult to perform such an adult task while reverting to such a childish emotional state. I look in my rearview mirror. A clown is still at the edge of the woods, but is walking the same direction that I'm driving. What's the point of all this?

There are hundreds of people nearby to harass. Why choose me? I pull into the garage as quickly as I can and hit the button to lower the door. I hold my breath until I hear it close behind me. I run inside and quickly call the police. After the operator takes my information, She tells me there'd been several clown reports lately, but so far they've been harmless. She assures me they'll investigate it before hanging up the phone.

My mind races. I run through the house checking all the doors and windows to make sure they're locked. The woods at the edge of my yard look no different than they do any other night. The assumptions made that the police are on their way to check the neighborhood, so I start to relax a little with the help of a beer or two. Four beers in, and it's cigarette time. Even though Brody's not with me this weekend, I still go to the garage to smoke. Because of me coming out here to smoke, my garage has become a place of comfort and relaxation to me.

I sit on the steps and listen to the crackle of the tobacco taking flame. I've been smoking since I was 14. It's been the longest commitment of my entire life. I love everything about it. Having only stopped once when Rachel was pregnant with Brody, I catch myself humming a tune that I'm not too sure of. Halfway through my cigarette as sound rings through the acoustics of the garage that doesn't belong. A click of a car door handle slices through the silence like a katana.

There's barely any time to move or react. Tufts of a radical electric green hair poke out through the top. of the door. As the figure stands to get out of the car, he walks towards me. He's cocking his head to one side. Then the other, like a dog, sizing me up. He's cornering me in the direction leading away from the door leading inside. This is bad. What do you want? I shout at him. No answer. I take out my wallet and throw money at him. Here, just take this and go. Go the fuck away, please. Again, no answer.

And he's closer to me now than ever. There's not much room left behind me until I'm backed into a corner. And I have limited options. He stops about four feet away from me, reaches into his clown suit, and pulls out a gun. Terror invades my skin like dry ice. Burning me, yet chilling my bones at the same time. Before he is time to shoot, I rush him with my knife. I'm able to attack him to the ground, and the gun falls from his hand.

Something about the way the gun sounds when it falls bothers me. I see a rush of red spread under the floor beneath us. It doesn't make sense. The gun didn't go off. No one's been shot, realizing that it can only be one other option. Pull away from the figure in the clown suit. My knife is sliced clean through his chest. almost directly where his heart is.

I can't feel for a wrist pulse through all the frills on the cuffs of the clown suit, so I have to remove his mask to check his neck. Lots of emotions hit me at once. Each one more heart-shattering than the one before. I scream. I sob. I clawed my face with lunacy at the horrific situation. Laying in front of me as a teenage boy,

there's no pulse to be found because there's no life in his body. I've taken that away. The gun, he pulled, was a too realistic water pistol. I hug his blonde hair to my chest, and I stroke his lifeless face. The police will be here soon. I want you all to know how it happened before they take me away, and everyone makes their own assumptions. I have always done my best to make sure to be a good father.

The saying goes that a parent should never have to bury their child. Can you imagine how I feel? and the one that actually killed theirs. For more information, including pictures and videos of the stories told on this podcast, or to suggest stories for future episodes, please visit us. At CreepyPod on Twitter, Instagram, and Facebook. Or email us. All stories told on this podcast can be found at CreepyPyPy.

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