From childhood, the mere glimpse of a red nose and exaggerated makeup sent shivers down my spine. I don’t remember exactly when it started, but even if you don’t have a phobia, you have to admit they’re (at the very least) strange, painted faces, loud, and all the rest. Throughout my life, I had managed to avoid encountering one most of the time, whether it be at circuses, birthday parties, or even at that fast-food chain (fortunately they’ve already removed the clown from their marketing). It was my safety bubble, but now, that bubble had been burst, like a balloon pricked with a needle.
I was there, having my coffee, ready to head to work, when my doorbell rang. “Damn, who could it be so early?” I thought.
“I’m coming.”
I got up still stumbling and walked to the door. Upon opening it, however, I saw no one. I looked around, at the empty street, but there was no one in sight. The morning dew left the air slightly chilly. I was about to close the door when I noticed something on the ground, a small white rectangular paper, delicately placed on my doormat.
I picked up the paper, curious, but when I turned it over, I almost had a meltdown. And I definitely did when my mind processed what it was: A clown. I know, it’s just a photo, you must be thinking, but it wasn’t “just” a photo. That figure with red hair and a toothy grin was holding a balloon, posing in front of my house. It was taken at night, but even so, with the streetlight, I could recognize the location. He was on my lawn while pointing with his free hand to my window.
Reluctantly, I walked to the window and pulled the curtains slowly. The lawn was empty, no sign of the clown. I went to work somewhat disturbed, and during my shift, I couldn’t get it out of my head. Every time I looked out the office window, half expecting to see that sinister smile staring back at me from outside. My mind wandered between trying to rationalize what was happening and imagining it was some kind of prank and the terrifying possibility that maybe, just maybe, that clown was real. A mix of fear and paranoia consumed me as I tried to focus on work tasks.
However, the hours dragged on, and the day finally came to an end. I returned home with a knot in my stomach, hoping it was all just some kind of sick joke. But upon opening the door to my house, what I found made me freeze in place.
There was another photo, this time, it had been placed through the letter slot of the door, lying on the cold wooden floor of the living room. My heart hammered hard in my chest as I approached the image. It was even more disturbing than the previous one. The clown was now in front of the door, it wasn’t a smile, but rather an exaggerated expression of surprise, mouth wide open being covered by one of its hands, eyes widened, and as I lowered my gaze to the bottom, it was written in bold, straight letters, almost mechanical: KNOCK KNOCK. The words seemed to jump out of the image, echoing in my mind like a sinister mantra. My breath grew heavier, my heart felt like it wanted to jump out of my mouth.
I didn’t know what to do. Call the police? And say what? That there was a creepy clown harassing me with photos of my lawn? Yeah, it sounds like a joke indeed. I decided to call my girlfriend, Jenny, and tell her a bit about the situation. At first, she thought it was a prank, but I think my genuine panic convinced her, we stayed on the line until she got home, quickly entering while I looked around the lawn.
“And so, what’s going on?” she asked.
I showed her the images. She examined the photos with a serious and worried expression, and I could feel her hand trembling slightly as she held the phone.
“This is disturbing,” she muttered, “Maybe we should call the police?”
“And what can they do? It’s just a guy taking pictures on the street and sending them to me.”
Jenny sighed, clearly concerned about the situation.
“I know, but… it’s not normal, right? What if it’s someone trying to scare you on purpose? We can’t just ignore this.”
She was right. No matter how irrational it seemed, it was deeply affecting me. I could no longer feel safe in my own home.
We then decided to call the police and report the incident. I explained the situation as best as I could, but still felt like they didn’t take it very seriously. Within an hour, a patrol car came to us, and two officers searched the house, checking all the doors and windows, and asking some questions about the events. However, they found nothing out of the ordinary besides the photos.
After the police left, Jenny suggested that perhaps it would be a good idea to install security cameras around the house, just as a precaution. I agreed. In the following days, life seemed to return to normal, the security cameras were installed, but they didn’t capture anything out of the ordinary. I was starting to convince myself that it had all been a sick joke, until one morning, I woke up to find the security cameras on the counter, their wires shredded and the words “only I take pictures here” written on the back of another photo.
This time, the clown was inside the house.
The image showed the clown on my couch, with a finger pressed to its lips in a gesture of silence. The background of the photo was familiar: the living room. I began to tremble, my legs weakening, forcing me to sit down. Gradually, my breathing intensified, making each breath more difficult.
“This can’t be happening,” I murmured to myself.
I called my workplace, informing them that I wouldn’t be coming in today. And I sent a message to Jenny, letting her know that I would be going there, to spend a few days, until I could find another place to stay. I was finishing typing the message to her when a “click” followed by a wave of light flooded the kitchen. I stood still, not even my breath making me move. I turned around, already expecting what I would see: The clown, at the top of the stairs, facing away from me. He held a camera facing in my direction, as if taking a selfie.
The silence that followed seemed to last an eternity as I watched the half of his body that was visible, with the other half blocked by the wall. His hair waved at the ends and stood up, in a very strange shade of red, even for a clown. I swallowed hard, fighting against the panic that threatened to engulf me whole. My eyes remained fixed on the figure of the clown, paralyzed by terror. The click of the camera reverberated in my mind, and now it was followed by the sound of printing. I could see a small piece of paper, like the others from the photos, coming out of an opening in the camera and falling to the ground.
He was still facing away from me when I realized I didn’t have time to grab my things. With trembling hands, I slowly approached the keys, terrified at the thought of the clown turning around at any moment. My heart pounded so hard it felt like it wanted to escape my chest. I stood up trying not to make noise, and walked slowly to the door, without taking my eyes off him.
My fingers trembled as I tried to turn the doorknob, and for a moment, it seemed like the door was stuck, as if the universe was conspiring against my escape. Finally, with a soft click, the door opened, revealing the outside world as a tempting refuge. I was about to leave when I noticed the gradual movement of the terrifying figure, turning around to look at me.
His eye met mine, glowing with disturbing intensity, his face still partially covered. The macabre smile was present, cutting through the clown’s pale face. A wave of terror ran through my body as I found myself trapped in the mesmerizing gaze of that sinister figure. Suddenly, his hand covered by a white glove slowly rose, and then, raising his index finger, he shook it, making a “no” sign.
I found myself unable to respond, my throat closing with paralyzing fear. In a last act of desperation, I turned and ran through the door. I ran to my car, the cold air cutting my face, my heart pounding wildly in my chest. The feeling that something was following me haunted me at every corner, making me check the rearview mirrors at every strange sound.
Finally, I arrived at Jenny’s house, knocking frantically on the door and begging to be let in. We called the police again, this time desperate, begging for help. They promised to investigate but I already know they won’t find anything. It’s been a week, and during these days I stayed at Jenny’s house, everything has been normal. I told my boss I caught a flu and have been avoiding leaving the house as much as possible. Sometimes, at night, when I’m about to close my eyes, I have the feeling that something is lurking in the shadows of the room, patiently waiting for me, luckily, they’ve always been false alarms.
This morning, however, Jenny left for work, but before she even closed the door, she came back, a wide-eyed look on her face. She held a white envelope, and her fingers trembled as she extended it towards me. I took it, feeling a chill run down my spine as my eyes fixed on the photo inside.
It was a photo of the two of us, taken from the backyard, through the window. We were sitting on the couch, laughing, watching a movie last night. But in the foreground, right in the corner of the photo, there was only a piece of a figure that I knew very well who it was, those strands of red hair and the pale skin with black eyes could only belong to my nightmare. Now, the two of us are holed up at home, trying to buy tickets out of town, to escape this madness as soon as possible. However, what tortures us as we hug in the room is the sound of an old children’s toy echoing through the house.