Ben and the Clown

I promised you guys I'd post another story excerpt here—I like to mix it up now and then. I talk about writing a lot, and how I like to call myself a writer. I figure it's only fair to let you sample my stuff. So this is a piece I wrote (and am still working on) for class this semester. The assignment is Story with Clowns, which is something I always enjoy writing about.

So here's my story with clowns. Well, one clown. But sometimes one is all you need. Enjoy!

Ben and the Clown

     There had always been a clown in the basement. At least as long as Ben could remember. His parents insisted it was just his imagination, but then they had never seen it, not like Ben had. Every time he tried to show them, the clown would not be there—he must hide, Ben thought. But he knew what he saw, and the clown was down there.
     The first time he had seen the clown, it had been crouched low, near the bed frame his parents stored down there. Ben had been quite young, and all he could really remember was how the clown’s long arms had been draped over the small bed, how his body had almost seemed to coil around it, white-gloved hands gripping the bed posts as if to strangle the life from them.
     The clown had big red shoes, and he was very tall. Ben had to look up to most everybody—his young age gave him certain height disadvantages—but with the clown, it was more so. On the top of his head, the clown wore a small yellow hat. It had a single pink flower in it, and if he hadn’t been stooped over, the flower would have tickled the ceiling of the basement. Ben felt pretty sure that the clown was abnormally tall.
     To Ben, time seemed to slow and stretch, and stop. Then the clown swiveled his head, and Ben was frightened to find that where the clown’s eyes should have been, there were only two black holes, like empty wells.
     Then the clown had smiled.
     It was a slow movement, a process which peeled back the layers of paint on the clown’s face to reveal an expanse of bright white teeth, sharp and sinister—an alligator grin.
     Ben had scrambled back up the stairs as fast as his little legs would carry him, leaning against the door after he shut it. He must have looked as distressed as he felt because his mother leaned down, scooped him up, and asked him what in the world was the matter. Concern was written all over her face, in every feature.
     “—man,” Ben managed, still breathless. “—in the dark place.”
     Naturally Ben’s mother had assumed the worst—well, not quite the worst, for the worst of all was the clown. No, Ben’s mother was afraid of something much less frightening than what Ben saw there. Perhaps a thief, a trespasser. Soon after he’d emerged from the basement, Ben found himself tucked away in his room, never mind that it was the middle of the day, while Ben’s parents searched every corner of the basement.
     They found nothing. No one.
     That evening, Ben’s father scolded the boy for telling white lies—They’re still lies, Ben, no matter how small—and sent him to bed without dessert.
     The next morning, Ben’s parents had encouraged him to stay away from the basement.
     “No need to work up your imagination with scary things,” his mother said.
     “It’s dangerous down there, anyway,” his father said.
     They were both right, of course, at least in part. Ben had an active imagination, and he much preferred it to be filled with happy things rather than things he feared. And the basement was full of old, rusty stuff. There was Ben’s father’s workbench, overflowing with hammers, nails, saws, and sharp tools. The walls were lined with boxes, any of which were liable to topple over on a clumsy little boy who got close enough to bump them.
     But eventually Ben’s curiosity got the best of him. He had heard his parents tell him again and again that there were no clowns down there. Just stuff. He had never known his parents to be wrong before, or to lie to him.
     They must be right, he thought. So if I go down there again… 
     I won’t see any clowns. 
     Working the doorknob was a little tricky—Ben stood on two old phonebooks so he could reach the shiny brass handle. He pushed the door open slowly, just enough to fit himself through. For a moment, he considered shutting the door behind him, but he wasn’t too keen on his parents catching him anywhere he wasn’t supposed to be. Besides, shutting the door seemed like such a bad idea, such a foolish thing to do, because—
     What if there is really a clown? 
     —because then he wouldn’t have anything to light his way down the stairs. He was certain he couldn’t reach the light switch, and he didn’t want to risk standing on slippery phonebooks so near the staircase. Falling to the basement floor wasn’t quite how he wanted to revisit the room.
     So he left the door open a crack, prayed his parents wouldn’t find him, and summoned up all his courage before he took the first step.
     He was cautious the whole way, cringing each time an old wooden plank creaked underfoot. He kept one hand pressed against the wall as he went, like a security blanket, the cold plaster against his fingertips grounding him to reality.
     The temperature seemed to drop as he descended, goose bumps appearing on his arms, raising the hairs at the nape of his neck. He took a deep breath and planted both feet firmly on the ground, the stairs at his back, and looked around.
     A faint light broke in through a single small window on the south wall, positioned high up near the ceiling where the room was a bit aboveground. Ben was grateful for whatever light he could get, and he paused for a moment, blinking until his eyes began to adjust.
     Soon he could make out faint silhouettes of things—the workbench, the boxes, and finally the bed; the place he’d seen the clown before. Its mattress was stored upright, leaning at a slight angle against the wall next to the twin-sized oak bed frame. Trash bags full of seasonal clothes were nestled on top of the slats, an old quilt thrown over the whole thing, giving it an awkward lumpy look, like something was hiding under the covers. Ben squinted against the shadows, but saw no brightly dressed clown loitering there.
     They were right, he thought. No clown. Just in my head.
     He moved a little closer, wanting to be sure, absolutely sure.
     Nothing.
     He supposed he felt relieved, although he was upset at being wrong. His parents hadn’t taken him seriously about the clown, and it turned out they had no reason to. Because there wasn’t anything down in there, besides the boxes, and the bed, and the stuff. Slightly disappointed, though he couldn’t say why—who really wanted a creepy old clown in the basement?—Ben turned and headed back for the stairs.
     A soft rustling sound stopped him in his tracks.
     “Huh?” He whirled around, eyes wide as they darted left and right, up and down, looking for the source of the sound.
     He still didn’t see anything. But the air had a chill in it, one that hadn’t been so strong before. And Ben had an odd feeling, like he was being watched. Still nervous about getting in trouble, he glanced over his shoulder at the staircase, thinking perhaps his mother or father had found him and would be standing up there giving him The Look. He had already prepared himself for a stern scolding, but when he looked, the door was as it had been, open just a little, and no one was there.
     The sound came again, a soft but persistent scratching, like the ticker-ticker-tick of rodent feet scurrying across hardwood or cement.
     “Hullo?” Ben said softly. “Is there somebody?”
     Come clossser… 
     Ben furrowed his brow, small fists clenching and unclenching anxiously at his sides. “How come?”
     So I can sssee you…
     “Where are you?”
     Not telling… Not telling ‘til you come heeere, boyyy…
     “I’m not gonna,” Ben said, forcing his voice to sound decisive. “Not s’posed to talk to strangers.” 
     Not a strannnger… Friendsss… We can be friendsss…
     Ben wasn’t sure that he wanted to be friends with a disembodied voice, but he felt a tug of persuasion deep in his belly, as if the low whisper already held some sway over him. Uncomfortable at the thought, Ben turned tail to run. He caught the toe of his shoe on the first step up and fell, choking out a muffled cry.
     “Ben?” His mother’s voice caught Ben’s ear.
     Stay with usss… Bennn…
     The voice sounded closer, and Ben began to panic. “Mommy?”
     Stayyy… 
     “Mommy!” Ben scrambled up as fast as he could and crawled on hands and knees up the stairs, his backside dusty from his fall. He felt the slightest tug on the leg of his jeans and cried out, kicking desperately. And then his mother was there and scooping him up, and Ben was holding on tight, his face pressed against his mother’s shoulder, his tears wetting her shirt.
     He didn’t look back as she carried him up the stairs, but if he had, he might’ve seen the white-gloved fingers peeking out from beneath the bed, and a muted white smile, that alligator grin. Then his mother closed the basement door and the bed fell into shadow once again.





 
Ben and the Clown by Sarah Thomas is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.