Okay, I’ll admit it.
I have Coulrophobia.
Fear of clowns.
I grew up with my mother putting a picture of (I guess) some famous actor dressed as a clown. So, you wake up at 3 am with some little kid’s nightmare, and the FIRST THING you see on your wall is some horrific grinning whitefaced monster with big red lips and an evil grin. Somewhere beneath the picture frame, you just KNOW is an axe.
So, I turned the picture around.
My mother put it back.
I took it off the wall.
She put it back.
I threw it away.
She took it out of the trash.
I finally did something with it, I don’t remember what, but the picture eventually stopped making its appearance.
Then I made the mistake of reading a short story years ago by some British author about a man who was kidnapped and driven insane by a researcher… and got out. And the researcher had coulrophobia.
And the trick of the lighting made the insane man look like a clown, as he came, hopping and skipping, clutching an axe to kill the researcher.
And I’ve got a friend who from time to time harasses me with clowns. Yes, indeed. I’m still deciding upon suitable revenge.
So, a month ago, I jotted down a note at work, “killer psycho clowns”. I thought it would be a great short story.
I wrote 400 words in it last week before bed.
I woke up from a horrific nightmare.
I tried musing about the plot from the story, and had another nightmare.
I tried filling out the info on Homy Sidal, the lead clown, and… had nightmares.
So I’m dumping the story. Apparently, it takes me as long to get the point as just about everyone else!
Clowns are horrific. I’m sure Ronald McDonald somewhere is plotting my gruesome death.