The Wicked Clown

Cece Pace parked her car along the curb and shut off the engine. She loosened her thick blond hair out of its bun so she could pull her hood up all the way to keep off the rain. Climbing out of the car, she closed the door, which sounded particularly loud in the quiet neighborhood. Most of the houses were dark and empty, its inhabitants either at work or at school. Cece was satisfied that she would work without being observed.

She stepped onto the sidewalk and stood for several seconds, looking at the house she had parked in front of. It was gray, and it looked even grayer in the November rain. Water-logged bushes fronted the house, standing next to empty flowerbeds. She briefly noted the lawn and empty driveway. On its face, there was nothing unusual about the house, and it was much like the surrounding neighborhood.

Cece took a key out of her coat pocket and ventured to the front door, which she opened. She entered the house and walked around for a few minutes, but she saw nothing. It was the clean, well-kept house of a divorcee without children with no clutter and minimal furniture. The only suggestion that the house had once belonged to two people was the king-sized bed.

Cece wandered into the living room. The sofa, decorated with a blue blanket throw, was angled to face both the fireplace and tv. She sat down and called the homeowner.

"Hi, Teresa, this is Cece."

"Oh, yes," said Teresa excitedly, "are you at the house?"

"I am."

"And?"

"Nothing to see here," replied Cece. "Everything looks, well, normal. No ghosts, apparitions, not even a cold draft of air to send shivers down my spine."

"Really?" She was disappointed.

"I just got here, so I don't mind sticking around, if you don't mind. Maybe I'll see something, but this feels like one of the least haunted houses I've ever been in. You have a nice house, by the way."

"Thank you," said Teresa, absently. "I thought - I mean, I really did see - "

"I'm not doubting your word," she clarified. "But sometimes, ghosts appear only to certain people. I don't suppose you could leave work early and come over? Your presence might trigger the haunting."

"I'm sure it will," she said bitterly. "The stupid clown stalked me in life, I guess he figures he can stalk me in death. Don't worry, I'll come over soon."

"Great."

Cece relaxed against the sofa, but wondering. She had been a paranormal investigator for three years, after having been identified as particularly sensitive to the supernatural by other paranormal investigators. She had had conversations with ghosts throughout her childhood and adulthood, but she had never spoken to the ghost of a clown before. This was one of her strangest cases.

Sometimes, being a paranormal investigator was hard work, though the hard work was usually caused by the living, not the dead. If the ghosts were real, people were often hysterical and hard to work with. If the ghosts were fake, people were defensive and argumentative. But she liked the part of the job - the easiest part - in which she simply waited for the paranormal activity to occur.

Eventually, she heard the front door open and close. Standing up, she saw Teresa Porter hanging her coat on the coat rack. She strode quickly up to Cece, her worried, freckled face framed by many bouncing brown curls.

"What do we do?" she asked promptly.

Cece countered with her own question. "Where do you see this clown the most?"

Teresa pointed at the sliding doors that led outside into the backyard.

"Good," said Cece, glad she did not have to go outside in the bad weather. "We need to stay in the living room."

"I'll make a fire," said Teresa.

Cece watched her go outside to the collection of logs stacked against the house. She had not looked closely at the backyard before, but now she peered at it through the misty rain. There was no ghost of a clown but wet grass, trees lined up against the fence, and a toolshed. Teresa brought in some wood and shoved it into the fireplace.

Bored, Cece returned to the sofa. "What does the clown look like?" she asked.

Teresa lit a match and placed it carefully amongst the logs. "What does it look like?" She looked at Cece, puzzled. "I mean, just like a regular clown."

"Well, not all clowns look the same. The colors can be different, the make-up different. Does the clown have any unusual defining features? Sometimes, knowing more about the ghost can help us figure out why he's haunting someone," explained Cece.

"I know why he's haunting me," said Teresa, almost tearful. "He was a stalker, and then he died somewhere and came back to haunt me."

"You're sure it's a ghost? The police haven't been able to find him. They think he disappeared once you threatened him with legal action and he knew the police were after him."

"I saw him vanish," she insisted, "into thin air. I see him vanish all the time." She sat down and sobbed. "I wish I had never gone to that stupid circus. Then he wouldn't have seen me, he wouldn't have stalked me . . ."

Cece listened to her ramble, but Teresa said nothing she did not already know. She wondered why Teresa would not tell her what the clown looked like. She could be lying, or there might be another reason. After a couple of minutes, Cece decided it was time to sober her up.

"Do you know how ghosts are usually gotten rid of?" she asked.

Teresa raised her head and looked at her. "N-No," she responded.

"You see, ghosts usually have a reason for coming back. More likely than not, there's some unresolved problem that they want to fix before they move on into the afterlife."

Teresa sniffed. "Oh. I didn't know that."

"A lot of people don't. Now," continued Cece, "I don't think that stalking you is a strong enough reason for the ghost to haunt you. That's not an unresolved problem."

"Why not?"

"Look, he wanted you and couldn't have you. That's a problem, but haunting you doesn't solve that problem. As a ghost, he can't have you any more than when he was alive. So, the question is, why is he haunting you? What problem is he trying to fix?"

Teresa gaped at her. She almost spoke, then Cece saw her snap her mouth shut. It was then she knew that Teresa probably had the answer, but she would not be willing to give the answer.

"Did you know this clown before he started stalking you?" asked Cece.

"No." Her answer was swift and sounded honest. "But I can tell you this: he looks . . . different from when he was alive. At the circus, and when he was stalking me, he wore a red and white costume with make-up to match. As a ghost, he wears a blue and white costume with a large, blue tear on his cheek."

"If the costume is different, then how do you know it's the ghost of your stalker?"

"The shape of the face and his height are the same," she said firmly.

"Okay, then." Cece considered. "The large, blue tear. That interests me. It means he's sad. His problem must be causing him a lot of sadness."

"The police said that he was mentally unstable. Depression."

"Hm, maybe." Cece studied Teresa's nervous expression for a moment. "Or something caused him a lot of sadness."

Teresa suddenly jumped up, her voice high-pitched. "I don't like your tone of voice. I'm the victim here. You make me feel like - like I've done something wrong!"

She ran out of the room, and Cece heard her slam the door of the master bedroom. It was just as well, she thought, for Teresa's mood swings were exhausting her.

The rain had stopped, and Cece took the opportunity of going outside. Breathing in the fresh, chilly air, she looked around, and then her eyes stopped at the toolshed. Standing next to it, in full clown regalia, was the ghost. His appearance was exactly as Teresa had described him. He smiled sadly at Cece.

She walked slowly over. "What are you - " she began, but then he disappeared.

She came up to the toolshed, and a smell coming from it made her nauseous. It was a sweet smell, but not, she knew, a good one. She had no intention of opening the shed and exposing herself to its contents, but she called the police.

The clown had been shot. He had usually stalked at night so his costume would not attract attention, but he would tap at her window or sliding doors, asking to be let in. Teresa, between her tears and gasping for breath, admitted that she had finally shot him. She accused the police of doing nothing and needing to protect herself, though he had not threatened her with a weapon.

Cece watched Teresa being handcuffed.

Teresa glared at her. "This was your fault. You were supposed to get rid of him."

Cece shrugged. "Finding out the truth was the only way to fix the problem. But fixing the problem doesn't always make things better for everyone," she admitted, as an afterthought.