Nightmare Hour (8 page)

“The furnace!” Cal screamed from behind us. “It--it's going to
blow!
”

The explosion knocked us all onto our backs. I gasped for breath. Pain shot through my body.

I heard the loud
craaaack
above my head.

I looked up in time to see the ceiling beam splitting…splitting in two….

All four of us were screaming now.

Screaming…screaming…as the beam came crashing down and the ceiling started to collapse.

And in the final two seconds, in that last terrifying moment of my life, I realized the horror of it.

I realized the truth about the black mask.

We were wrong. We were so wrong.

Those kids were us!

The mask never showed us the past--it showed us the
future!

INTRODUCTION

ILLUSTRATED BY VINCE NATALE

A
fraid of clowns? Why?

Maybe it's the mouth--the blood-red slash against the ghostly white face. Maybe it's the silence. Maybe it's because of Christopher….

When I was a little kid, my friend Christopher told me that clowns were really bad guys. He said they were criminals who hid from the law by disguising themselves under all that makeup. He told me if you ever see a clown without his makeup--you'll die!

I didn't believe him. Not for too long, anyway. But I thought about Christopher when I came up with this
Nightmare Hour
story. It's about a boy who is afraid of clowns--and he
should
be!

This story is for you, Christopher. Sweet dreams….

I
've always been afraid
of clowns. I know it's silly, but I can't help it. I don't think clowns are funny. I think they are scary.

I know how my fear started. I can remember it so clearly….

It was Billy Waldman's third birthday party. All the kids there were three or four.

Billy had a clown at his party. At first the clown did magic tricks. Later he started squirting us in the face with a big squirt gun. Some kids laughed, but I didn't think it was funny.

I remember the clown's painted smile and his red mop-hair wig. But what I remember most are the clown's eyes when he came up close to me.

He didn't have laughing eyes. His eyes weren't kind. Beneath all the white clown makeup his eyes were cruel.

The clown squirted us with whipped cream. Then he smashed a pie into Billy's face. Other kids laughed and laughed. But I felt like crying.

And before I knew it, the clown came right up to me. He backed me into a corner, bumping me with his pillow belly.

The other kids forgot about Billy and began laughing at the way the clown was bumping me against the wall. But I was really frightened.

“What's your name?” the clown asked in a very deep, croaky voice.

“Christopher,” I said.

Then the clown leaned really close to me, so close I could
smell his sour breath. And he whispered, “
You could die, kid
.”

I remember it so clearly, even though I was only three. I gasped. “What?” I said.

And the clown whispered, his lips brushing my ear, “
You could die, kid. You could die LAUGHING!
”

I was terrified of clowns from that day on. If I saw one at the mall or in front of a car wash or a restaurant, I walked a mile out of my way to stay away from him.

Nine years later I was twelve years old, and I still dreamed about that terrifying clown at Billy Waldman's birthday party. I know it's crazy. But clowns still freaked me out, still made my heart pound and my breath catch in my throat.

At the middle school Fall Carnival I totally lost it. I didn't want to go to the carnival in the first place. I mean, ring toss games? Win a goldfish? Pay money to bounce on a trampoline? Make earrings out of seashells and beads?

Bor-ring.

But some of my friends were going, and I didn't have anything else to do. So I tagged along with them.

I didn't know a clown would be there.

I saw him all the way across the gym. He was a big guy with enormous floppy yellow slippers, a bouncing pillow belly, and a booming laugh.

He wore a red-and-white polka-dot clown suit with a bright-red ruffle around his neck. He had orange hair that stood straight up, a white face, a red bulb nose, a red-and-black grin painted from ear to ear.

“Christopher, do you want your face painted?” a girl at a card table asked. “It's only a dollar.”

I didn't answer her. I had my eye on the fat, ugly clown.

He was squeezing a small plastic horn, honking it in kids' faces, bumping his pillow belly against kids, bellowing out his booming laugh.

I tried to keep away from him. But the aisle was very crowded and I got trapped.

The grinning clown bounced up to me and messed up my hair with his gloved hand. Beneath the makeup he had watery brown eyes. Sick-looking eyes.

He laughed at me and honked his horn in my ear. I tried to back away. But I was pinned against the wall of the dart-throwing booth.

He laughed again and brought his grinning face close to mine. “
You could die, kid
,” he whispered. He honked his horn in my ear before I could say anything.

“
You could die LAUGHING!
”

And that's when I totally freaked.

I opened my mouth in a shrill, terrified scream. Then I ran, shoving kids out of my way, knocking things over, screaming…screaming.

I could feel everyone's eyes on me. I could see their startled, confused expressions. I could hear all my friends calling my name.

I burst out of the gym.

“Christopher!”

I turned to see my teacher, Miss Bienstock. She came running after me, her coppery hair bouncing, her eyes wide with worry. “Christopher! What happened in there?”

“The clown,” I choked out. “He
threatened
me! He--he's going to
kill
me!”

Miss Bienstock placed her hand on my shoulder. She
narrowed her eyes at me and pursed her lips. “Christopher, you're twelve. You know that isn't true.”

“Yes, it is! He's going to kill me! He's going to kill me!” I shrieked.

She called my parents. They were waiting for me, stern and solemn, when I got home.

Mom kept biting her bottom lip. “We have to do something about this, Christopher,” she said. “Your father and I are very worried about you.”

Dad placed his hands on my shoulders and lowered his face to mine. “Clowns are funny--not frightening,” he said, his eyes locking on mine. “I thought you got over your silly fear when you were four.”

“It isn't silly,” I told him. “That clown…he said I could die laughing.”

“That's because he's
funny
,” Mom said. “Die laughing. That's just an expression.”

“We have to cure you of this,” Dad said, shaking his head. “We
have
to.”

 

The next Saturday Mom and Dad forced me to go to the circus with them. Farnum's International Circus of the Stars. I fought and screamed. I tried to lock myself in my room.

But Mom and Dad dragged me to the car. “This will cure you of your clown problem,” Mom said.

“You'll see,” Dad insisted. “Clowns are funny. Everyone loves clowns. You'll see.”

We sat in the front row of the circus tent. I crossed my arms tightly in front of me and watched the circus acts. I gritted my teeth until my jaw ached.

I was so frightened….

When the clowns came tumbling and bouncing into the ring, I gripped the arms of my chair. My hands were cold and sweaty.

The silly clown music rang out over the tent. The clowns honked their horns and whistled. They ran around the ring in a wild circle, big shoes flapping loudly on the sawdust.

“
Our clowns need a VOLUNTEER!
” The ringmaster's voice boomed over the loudspeaker. “
We need a VICTIM from the audience!
”

Before I could move or try to hide, a tall, skinny clown with yellow mop hair and an enormous blue bow tie grabbed me by both arms and lifted me into the ring.

I shut my eyes as the spotlight washed over me. I could barely hear the cheers of the crowd over the thudding of my heart.

“Nooooo,” I moaned. “Please. Pick someone else! Not me!”

I tried to climb out of the ring, back to my seat. But the yellow-haired clown spun me around. He pushed a huge daisy into my face and squirted a cold stream of water on me.

I heard laughter and cheers.

I struggled to breathe. “Please…” I begged weakly. But the clown pulled me into the act.

Four clowns surrounded me. They began bopping me with big shoes. The shoes were real. The clowns swung them at my head and pounded them into my stomach until I doubled over.

“Hey, wait! That hurts!” I gasped.

The audience roared with laughter.

The clowns poured buckets of confetti over my head. Then they smacked me with brightly painted two-by-fours.

“Owwww!”

The boards were real wood--not fake.
Slap. Slap
. They smacked my back, my shoulders. Pain shot through my body. I raised my hands to protect my head.

The audience cheered and laughed.

But it wasn't funny. They were really trying to
hurt
me!

They tripped me. They pushed my face into a bucket of disgusting, sticky slime. They whacked my head with a fire hose and made me dive through a burning hoop.

Everything was real. They weren't pretending. They slapped me and hit me and tripped me until my body throbbed with pain.

All the while the audience laughed and cheered them on.

Finally the act ended. Blowing their whistles, honking their horns, waving their hands at the crowd, the clowns ran giggling from the ring.

“Please…” I was dizzy, gasping for breath. “Please, someone help me…. Help me back to my seat.”

To my horror four clowns came running back out and circled me. Two of them hooked my arms behind me. They lifted me off the ground and carried me out of the ring as the audience continued to cheer.

“Please…let me go! Let me go!” I tried to scream. But a clown slapped his gloved hand over my mouth.

Frantic, terrified, I grabbed his red, bulby nose. I yanked at his bright-yellow ruffle. Then, with a burst of power, I jerked myself free for a moment. I spun away from them,
desperate to get back to my seat.

But the clowns surrounded me quickly. I gazed at a blur of grinning, painted smiles. And above the smiles their eyes, watery, cruel eyes.

The circus music drowned out my screams as they dragged me into a small, dark tent and pulled the flaps shut.

They shoved me into a wooden chair and tied me down with a heavy rope. “You could die laughing!” a fat, bald clown said.

And then they all took up the chant: “You could die laughing! You could die laughing!”

They pulled out enormous red and yellow feathers and waved them at me. “You could die laughing! You could die laughing!”

“Why are you doing this to me?” I screamed. “Why? Tell me!”

They stopped chanting. “Because you are afraid of us,” the fat clown said. “Because
you
know our secret.”

“You know that we aren't funny,” a tall, skinny clown with huge red ears said. “You know that we are scary and cruel.”

“We have to find the kids who are afraid of us, the kids who know our secret,” the fat clown said. “We have to stop them. We can't let our secret get out.”

“But why do you do it?” I asked, my voice high and trembling. “Why pretend to be funny when all you want to do is terrify kids?”

The skinny clown winked at me. “Why not?” he said.

“Yeah. Why not?” a fat clown croaked. “It's a lot of fun.
And we get
paid
to do it!”

“Some kids are smart,” the skinny clown added. “They know they should be scared. But their parents always try to convince them they shouldn't be! It's a riot!”

The clowns all laughed.

As they talked, I struggled to free myself. But the rope was too tight. I was trapped.

I swallowed hard. Sweat poured down my forehead. I realized that I was doomed.

“You could die laughing! You could die laughing!” They began chanting again, circling me, their stomachs bouncing, their big shoes flopping on the tent floor.

Then they lowered their feathers and began to tickle me. My face. My cheeks. Under my chin.

“You could die laughing! You could die laughing!”

“No! Please!” I begged, straining at the rope. “I won't tell anyone! I won't tell! Please…”

They tickled my forehead. Tickled my armpits. Tickled my stomach.