I never knew of a time where the clown doll was not in our house. My parents received him as a wedding present, back in the 80s from a well-meaning if not absolutely batshit aunt who was so sure that he would enrich their lives more than a baby possibly could. She was an old spinster, never having settled down and when news of my impending arrival spread throughout the family like an insidious weed, she was sour at the thought of my mother throwing her life away. “Babies and husbands,” she would say, “are not necessary for a life of value.” As an adult, I agree with her but hearing that story as a young child did not do much to warm me towards her.
He always sat in a small chair in the hallway outside of my room, a silent watchman. I hated him when I was little. His glassy eyes were empty and creepy, haunting me when I needed to run past him to use the bathroom in the late hours of the night. He was a hearty, thick plastic and many times, I thunked him on the head, watching for any reaction. A narrowing of the eyes, a glistening of the teeth that were bared into a terrifying smile but nothing. He stayed there, smiling and ignoring my abuse.
It wasn’t until I was a bit older that I began to appreciate him more. When I had a boyfriend who was insistent on coming over when my parents were out of town for a wedding, the clown watched. He stared as my boyfriend kept trying to climb the stairs, making excuses about just wanting to see my room, though I knew he had more on his mind. I was resistant and not very into the idea. Even having my boyfriend here was a bit much but I was never the best at saying no to people, fearing their disappointment in me for having boundaries.
My boyfriend, Chase, made it most of the way up with me tugging at his arm until he saw the clown. Chase recoiled and barked out a laugh, asking me what the hell that was. I felt… protective of the clown. He didn’t do anything wrong and he was a present and Chase was being rude, in my opinion. I crossed my arms and coldly responded that he was a wedding gift to my parents and Chase at least had the common sense to stammer out an apology and finally let me lead him back to the living room. We sat in awkward silence until he found a reason to go home and left, much earlier than I think either of us had intended.
I climbed the stairs to my room and said a quiet thank-you to the clown before going inside and closing the door. My dreams were nice and sweet and when my parents returned a day later, I was well-rested and happy to see them. This was the first time I had been alone for more than a few hours and we were all thankful that it had gone so well, though probably for different reasons.
From that point on, the clown (whom I had affectionately named Wiggles) became even more of a protector for me. Anytime something untoward seemed about to happen or I felt overwhelmed by a boyfriend, friend or even my parents, something about him would change their minds or course of action. My mom would be yelling at me about the state of my room, stressed from a bad day at work and unable to keep herself from being upset about the house in some way or another. She would be red in the face, asking me how I could possibly live in such a sty and then THUNK. We would both look at each other and go out into the hall and there he would be, face down on the floor as if he simply got tired of sitting and wanted a change. She would shrug and put him back before sighing out apologies and requests to just try to be better. I would agree, we would hug and it would all be forgotten.
It wasn’t until my senior year of high school that things got…strange. I turned 18 early in the school year, just at the tail end of summer and I was one of the oldest in my grade. My introverted nature did not really make me eager to rebel, though I did buy a pack of cigarettes on my birthday, giggling at the novelty before handing them over to my dad, who did smoke. He laughed and ruffled my hair, calling me a weird kid before pocketing them and walking away.
I began to notice that Wiggles attempts at protection started to get more strict, less of a last-ditch attempt at protecting me and more a preemptive strike at anything resembling “danger”. My mom would come in and chat and start to offer for me to tag along to the store. She would quip about maybe seeing a cute boy while out and there’d be a bang in the hallway. The small table next to Wiggles would be about half a foot to the side, as if kicked in anger.
I would have a male friend over and begin to take him upstairs to see my latest art project and Wiggles would be ever present but somehow…foreboding. He would seem cast in shadow, mean in his plasticine form and my friend would shudder and ask if maybe we could put him away or if I could bring the project down. I would agree and the friend would go back downstairs and it would be like Wiggles never changed, was never…dark.
For me, I appreciated the attempts at saving me from things that could hurt me in any way, whether emotionally or physically but this was getting old. On the evening of him scaring off my friend, I squatted in front of him and sternly said, “You stop this. You can’t always do this. They’re my friends and if I need your help, I will tell you.”
He, of course, said nothing.
From then on, he seemed to calm down. He kept up his practice of keeping me out of trouble but he was back to his usual method of doing so without being so strict. It wasn’t long until my parents had yet another wedding to go to, two hours away that he ramped up the intensity again. That morning, my mother kissed me goodbye and told me what food had been prepared, what to do if someone came by, the usual. I nodded and pushed them out the door. I was quite literally an adult now and looked forward to the freedom that came from not having to go to my snooty cousin Victoria’s wedding. Once they left, I raced up to my room, grabbing snacks before settling in to binge Hannibal, free of interruption.
The night passed uneventfully. I ate dinner when I was hungry and went to bed after checking the alarms. It was setting up to be a mundane evening until I was woken up at 3am by the noise of scraping.
I sat up, bleary eyed and exhausted as I tried to place where the noise was coming from and scrunched my nose in confusion when I realized the sound originated in the hall.
I stood and went into the hallway, rubbing my eyes as I did so. What I saw made me shriek and run back to my room, slamming the door.
My heart raced and I pressed my back to the door, willing it to stay closed. Outside, arranged in hearts were…rose petals? All laid out in front of Wiggles chair, spreading their fragrant musk into the air.
With trembling hands, I picked up my phone and shot off a text to my mom, who I was sure would not be awake.
Mom, I’m scared.
Ten minutes pass, 15 minutes and no answer. I chanced a glance out of the door, barely cracking it to avoid being bum-rushed by a doll. All the petals were scattered, pushed aside like someone was trying to clean a slate. I hesitantly took a step out and quietly apologized to the doll for my reaction. I felt silly doing so, when he was the one who scared me but I didn’t know what to do! What the hell was this supposed to be? The doll, once again, did nothing. This time, though, I felt the disappointment I so often tried to avoid from boyfriends, felt when I denied them a kiss or something more.
I went back to bed, my fear not subsiding and spent much of the night staring at the door before finally falling into a restless sleep. A chime from my phone woke me up a few hours later.
What happened?? Are you okay??????
Barely had the text been received before my mom was calling me and asking frantically what was wrong. I asked her to hold on as I moved downstairs, avoiding eye contact with Wiggles as I did so. I didn’t want him to hear me.
I explained to her the weird events, omitting that I thought it was the doll because that sounded insane, even to me. I could hear my mother’s confusion and worry as she promised that they would drive home immediately. I was grateful for her urgency but assured her that they could at least stay for the wedding. Though I asked them to race home immediately after. I wasn’t that confident in being alone another night. She agreed and made me promise to text every hour to assure her that everything was okay. I asked permission to invite a friend over (female so as not to anger Wiggles) and she agreed. I texted my best friend, Laura and she excitedly responded that she would be happy to stay over and would be here shortly.
I cleaned my mess up from the night before and made coffee, something I seldom do. I never liked the way it made my heart race but the little sleep and fear from the night before motivated me to make an exception.
Laura arrived shortly after and if she picked up on my hesitance to go upstairs, she stayed quiet. I took her into the backyard and swore her to secrecy and begged her not to try to get me sent to the funny farm for what I was about to tell her. I laid out all of the behavior, good and bad that I had witnessed from Wiggles and though she seemed doubtful, she did believe me in the end. She confessed to hearing stories about my creepy doll and even further, feeling thrown off by him before herself.
We sat in silence at the end, brainstorming ideas to deal with him as the sun began to set. My parents would likely not be home until around 11pm and I was again grateful that my mother, who liked to be in bed no later than 9pm, took my fear seriously enough to come home early and deal with the drive so late.
We finally went back inside, walking past Wiggles and closing my door behind me. We ordered a pizza and enacted our plan of sharing no personal information while in my room. We talked about superficial things and kept it light as we watched tv and waited for dinner to arrive. While chatting about rankings of pizza places and other fast food joints, I casually opened my laptop and set my webcam to record. If any other weird stuff happens tonight, I want proof.
When the pizza man rang the doorbell, we both sighed in relief and ran downstairs to get it and eat at the table, nothing that would set off Wiggles as unusual behavior.
A stocky, pudgy man was at the door and when I opened it, his face lit up and he began to leer at me and Laura.
“Oh, hey. You girls alone tonight?”
Alarm bells rang and it was like every afterschool special my parents made me watch came to fruition. I stammered out a no and handed him the cash, even as he kept leering and licking his lips.
“Are you sure? No cars in the driveway.”
Laura had walked, her house not far from mine. Of all the times for my parents to not be here, this was the worst.
I tried to harden my voice as I informed him the car was parked in the garage. Laura finally spoke up, asking him what business it was of his. His eyes narrowed and he mumbled something about her being a bitch before finally letting go of the pizza that I had been tugging at, trying to free it from his hand. I shut the door as he glared at her and locked it for good measure.
We both had already been jumpy and on-edge from our talk about Wiggles so this on top of that, yikes. We tried to hide our nervousness but dinner was mostly silent. Only an hour until my mother was hopefully home with my dad and I would be able to take a deep breath. My parents were not the most physically imposing people but I trusted them to take care of me and keep me safe from anything, dolls or creepy delivery men.
We made our way back upstairs, saying goodnight to Wiggles as we discussed, not wanting to anger him. No response as usual and I shut the door for us to begin our nighttime routine.
We were changing out of view of the camera when we heard it. Footsteps, on the stairs. I felt a chill down my spine as I realized that I did not reset the alarm after dinner. I looked frantically to Laura and her widened, fear-filled eyes mirrored my own. I called out, asking who it was but got no answer. I grabbed Laura and my phone, pulling us both into my closet, holding the knob tightly to keep it closed.
I called my mom, whispering out that someone was in the house and she loudly gasped before telling my dad to drive faster. She assured me they were close, only about thirty minutes out. They left the reception early, unwilling to deal with annoying family members for much longer when they knew I needed them. My heart once again filled with love for my parents and I quietly begged my mom to call the police, afraid to make too much noise. She hung up to do so and I turned to Laura who had silent tears running down her face. I was terrified and all I knew was that someone was here and logically, breaking into someone’s house was not really indicative of good intentions.
“Laaaa-ddddiiiiiiessss…” a voice called and I heard my bedroom door open. Heavy steps echo through my room and Laura has a hand clasped tightly over her mouth and we’re holding each other’s free hand in death grips, squeezing with all we got.
I clench Laura’s hand in my own and whisper as quietly as I can, “Wiggles, please.”
I know it’s insane to ask a doll for help but I promised him to let him know if I needed anything and here I was, stuck in a closet and fearing for the lives of me and my best friend.
“I knew you were alone…I knew you wanted me to come back. Why don’t you come out and we can talk?”
More steps as I connect that this must be the pizza man and my heart sinks. He’s in my room, my parents are still so far away and I have no idea when the police will be here. He gets closer to the closet and the knob begins to turn against my hand when a loud thud from the hallway distracts the pizza man who blissfully lets go of the knob.
“What the fuck?” we hear, followed by steps back towards the hall.
“Ha! What a stupid fucking doll. Is this what you’re into, girly? Pretty weird but I’ll forgive it.”
A loud noise, like something is thrown on the floor into my room. I keep quiet but I know the man has thrown Wiggles and a nonsensical part of me hopes that Wiggles is okay.
The footsteps come back into the room and grow closer. Our palms are slick against each other and the knob begins to turn before a scream breaks the silence. A thump outside the closet and I see a pool of blood seeping under the door. Laura and I scramble back in shock and I let go of the knob as the door bursts open, still clutched in the man’s hand.
He’s on his knees, his face screwed in agony and Wiggles sits behind him, sitting up and holding a razor blade in his hand, one from the boxcutter my father uses to open all of our packages from Amazon. Wiggles’ smile is still slapped on his face but his eyes…they’re wild and his painted-on brows are narrowed. His hand comes down again, this time on the man’s other ankle and the man shrieks again.
Again and again, Wiggle’s arm comes down and more blood gushes out, staining my hardwood floors red. Wiggles’ bodysuit is covered in blood, sticky with it and the smell of copper is making me nauseous. Laura and I have been frozen in fear but she begins to shove at my back, urging me to move now while the man is distracted.
I vault forward and barrel over the man in the process. He’s now on his back and Wiggles is showing no signs of stopping, looking almost happy about having more area to work with now. His hand swipes over the man’s stomach and I have to look away from my place at the door, where I stopped mid-escape. No blade that small should go that deep, slicing skin open like it was mere paper on a gift you are all too eager to open.
Laura is now in the hall and she grabs my arm, moving me and pulling me down the stairs and out the door. We run outside as a cop car pulls up and beeline for the uniformed officers getting out. We babble and point at the door and the officers look at each other before one goes inside and the other stays to watch over us.
Minutes pass like hours and we’re clutching each other and sobbing, the relief at being saved making us break down. The fear is still there but I am so happy we got out, I can’t bring myself to care too much. Beneath the giddiness, adrenaline, fear, all of it…is worry. I worry about Wiggles and I worry about how much damage he sustained in his fall and subsequent brutalization of the man.
The officer comes back out, staggering. He stops on the porch and vomits, heaving into our bushes. He pulls the other officer aside once done, glancing at us and back to the window of my room, lit from the inside.
My parents pull up soon and my mother bolts to us, grabbing Laura and I in a vice-like hug. She sobs and wails as she too feels the relief of our escape. I let it go on for a few minutes before pulling back and telling her the whole story.
Eventually, an ambulance arrives and even though he definitely wanted to hurt us, I hold my breath and hope, perhaps naively, that the man is alive. When he is brought out, it’s on a stretcher. And covered with a sheet.
In the end, the only thing that seems to save us from any kind of charge relating to his brutal death is the recording I had the forethought to set up. The police didn’t believe me when I insisted it was Wiggles but after watching the recording, they were silent, stunned at what they were witnessing.
The police took Wiggles, not letting him be released to me. I begged to be able to have him back but they just stared at me before informing me that he was evidence, as was my laptop.
I got the laptop back eventually. Wiggles is still out there. When I could bring myself to do it, I watched the tape. I vomited watching the brutality of the attack and I sobbed seeing the fear on both of our faces. Watching the man sneer as he threw Wiggles down, seeing him yank and pull on the door, licking his lips while doing so…I can only be thankful that something stopped him from whatever his plan might’ve been.
I know it’s weird and dumb but I miss Wiggles. I know now why he was trying to protect me and that while maybe his love could have taken a darker turn after the display of petals, it didn’t. He saved me and Laura that night and I will never stop being grateful that my aunt got him for my parents all those years ago. But beneath that gratitude is always my fear. My terror that Wiggles will escape and be mad at me for not saving him too.