Our Town’s Evil Clown

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John: The man in the leisure suit came to town in 1938. Some folks laughed others sneered. Mother said never to judge. I saw the evil inside that suit. Every town needs a jester, they said. I could never agree. A town good enough did not need such a contrivance. All the same, they let him stay. None of the town’s people, not one of my friends or family ever believed the things I knew that beast capable of. Least of all my sister.

Lynn: “You did not hear what you think you heard, last night. It is impossible, Johnny, simply impossible. I will grant you, though, we should never have gone there. Visiting Miss Beacher’s schoolhouse was my idea, I know. But we should not have gone there. Not in the dark.”

John: She’s back there again, my sister. Back to the old school, and the terror of last night. Sis, don’t go there, don’t dwell in that ugly place. It wasn’t always ugly. I loved that place on the hill, and I loved Miss Beacher. So young and pretty in those days. I was eight when we moved to Pentacost; Lynn was ten. Our teacher was, well, perhaps she was twenty-five. That bluebird-blue ribbon always in her corn silk hair, the effected ponytail bounding off her shoulders. Even wore it to the mercantile, where Dad would fawn over our teacher when we ran into her there on Saturdays.

Lynn: “Mind you, we could have gone there in the daylight. But no, you had other things to do, other prioritizes, your buddies to see. That poor old oak tree where the swing set used to be, now dead. Tarnished silver in the moonlight, that is how it looked, did it not, Johnny? Spooky, no doubt about that. Just the thing to set off your always vivid imagination, little brother.”

John: She’s talking again; has never really stopped, not since she learned how. We did see that lifeless oak. It did look, well, “spooky” is as good a word as any. We walked up from 2nd Street. That was my idea. And, looking back, a stupid one. We climbed the grassy slope on the side of the building where the bell still swings. It clattered lightly in the wind. Neither of us bothered to heed its warning. 

They don’t make buildings like that anymore. No one uses stamped metal siding nowadays. It was dark, yes, but not hard to see our way in the light of a full moon. That sheet metal appeared as if the day they built the place. Course, that’s hard for me to say. It was already twenty years old when we started school there.

Lynn: “What exactly did you hear, Johnny? The thing you said then, what was it? All I know is you squealed so when you said whatever it was you said. We had not come to the entrance and the stairway yet. And you thought you heard something. Then you let out that horrific screech. You were as pale as the moon, too, and sweat streamed down your face. That, yes, that right there is what scared me—if I ever really was afraid. But it was cold last night, up there at the school. And you were perspiring like an Indian monsoon was on its way up the valley.”

John: Pentacost was a nice town back in the day, quiet and safe, and everyone had a job that wanted a job. Then the fiend came to our settlement. That’s what I heard last night, Sis. I’d tell her this if she’d ever shut up. His deep voice and his sickly words for little kids, that’s what I heard on the wind in the moonlight. It was just before we were to turn the corner toward the front of the school. You see, the bell is on the town side of the old building. The front faces to the valley and the Comstock ranch. We always loved that view. Everyone did. If the weather wasn’t crap, we could eat our lunches out there while sitting on those stairs. Then a horrible being came to town, just moved in like nobody’s business.

Lynn: “Now, I will grant you another thing, Johnny. Things did change after that man moved into the area. They said he lived at the old Evan’s place. The one down by the creek, not the shack up Gold Hill way. However, it had to be a coincidence, little brother, simple happenstance. The mines were always going to play out one day. Why not then, uh, little brother?”

John: I’d answer my sister if she truly wanted an answer from me. She never does. Never shuts her yap. Coincidence my ass is what I would say, if I could say. When that beast showed up at the Martindale’s for little June’s birthday party, that was the day it all changed. Word came the next day, I swear, the very next day, that the gold seam was running thin. After a few more days, reports came that the cobalt and the copper were drying up as well. Within a month, the company had prospected as far as they could stomach financially. The Martindale’s store closed a month later. Then Miss Beacher pulled up stakes, worst day of my life.

Yesterday, Ronnie, my old friend said that horrible being I hate so had never left. Ronnie was here for our reunion, too. Though we feared it would collapse at any moment, we sat on the porch at his folk’s old house, catching up and rehashing the old days. He didn’t know the whereabouts of Miss Beacher.

Lynn: “Johnny, that old fellow would be dead and buried by now. I think he was a hundred when he moved to town. There is no way in hell you heard him last night up at the old school. We can drive by there now, on our way through town. It would only take a minute to set your mind at ease. Then you can live your life never worrying about your ill-bred jokester again. Go ahead, Johnny, turn up Elm Street when we get there. You will see.”

John: I know the way, Sis. But I’m not going to turn the car. I don’t want to see the school again, won’t look toward it. But my eyes do. The schoolhouse peeks up and over the dusty, rotting ghost town we once called home. Those were happy days. Times I wish we could have back. Running these streets in our bare feet. Tossing a stick for our old black lab, Daisy. If the school had burned to the ground long ago, it would still be there in my memory. I’ll stay to Main Street, avoid going close to the evil being. I know he’s up there. The steering wheel is slippery in my grip, Lynn’s words my ragged breath. I cannot breathe.

Lynn: “This is Elm. Turn, Johnny, turn now. You missed it. Do you want to live with that fear for the rest of your life? Turn up Maple Street. We can backtrack. Well, I never. Just look at you, you are a mess. You are perspiring again. Look at me, little brother. Just drive the car up there. Up Maple Street.”

Johnny: There goes Maple Street, Sis. The school is now behind us. As I mash down on the throttle and return my attention to our escape, it’s Lynn’s turn to release a bloodcurdling screech. I gasp, probably more of a squeal, and slam the brakes hard. The seller of jokes, the painted man, the red-yarn hair and his giant shoes are there, in the middle of the street. We have nearly hit the fiend. Could have run him over if I’d been paying attention. I’ve almost shat myself. Smells as if my sister has. Dust and bits of rotten town swirl around the car and over Lynn’s ill-bred man. A frown so sad it pulls cracks in his whitewashed face even makes me sad, sadder. Which is better than scared to death. Lynn is still screaming, as if a steam whistle locked open. I’d turn to her, hold her, but I’m locked eye to eye with the beast. Then he turns and runs, the toes of his red shoes flapping like swim fins as he enters the alley that leads toward Mrs. Barrett’s place in the back of the erstwhile stable. My sister has stopped her attack on reality. She’s gasping for air, readying for another go. Then she slackens a smidgeon.

Lynn: “Oh. My. God.”

John: My sister never curses and seldom ever declares the divine.

Lynn: “We nearly ran him over. Where the hell did he come from?”

John: “A moron with a coulrophobia. You’ve called me that all these years, haven’t you, Sis?” She doesn’t tell me she’s sorry. Those words, of all the words, have never crossed her lips.