25 Creepy Stories You Should Literally Not Read If You Plan To Sleep Tonight

11. Terrorized by a clown


I was five years old, and I was invited to a neighbor’s birthday party. We lived in the quiet suburbs of Baltimore, Maryland. It was an idyllic town. Trees lined the streets, looking over the neighborhood like giant looming sentinels. It was early October. I remember this because the houses were decorated for Halloween.

The boy’s parents pulled out all of the stops to make their son’s party one to remember. There was a slow moving, sad faced donkey that the smaller children were permitted to ride. I was not allowed to ride the donkey. I was a fat boy, even at age five. I was also as loud as I was fat. It was my loud mouth that caused this pleasant afternoon of cake, ice cream and piñatas to quickly unravel into a horrifying nightmare.

Aside from the usual accoutrements at a seven year olds party, there was a clown. The clown walked around silently, prancing and smiling. He would laugh silently. He would do the old “I got your nose” trick, and pull coins out from behind our ears. He made balloon animals, and attempted to ride a unicycle. The other kids laughed. I hated the clown. Everything about him made me uncomfortable. And because of this, my fat five year old self decided it was a decent idea to give the clown a hard time.

Birthday Boy announced aloud that it was time to head inside to see the special clown magic show. All the kids went into the living room and sat on the hard wood floor. I stood in the back. The clown proceeded with the magic show. He pulled a fake rabbit out of his hat, and performed other hack tricks, as I stood in the back of the room and jeered him. I would yell out how the tricks were done.

The clown continued to silently smile; making no sound as he went about his magical presentation. His face said happiness, but his eyes screamed in rage at me. This went on for 15 minutes. The kids laughed as the clown fumbled through some crappy dime-store magic tricks. I do not know if it was an act of mercy, but Birthday boy’s parents shouted “Piñata time!” And all the kids ran outside to smash a cardboard donkey stuffed with candy.

After a few minutes outside, all of the fruit punch I drank throughout the day wanted out. I scurried back into the house in search of the toilet. The house was quiet, and the sun had shifted in the sky, leaving the kitchen and the adjoining hallway bathed in a murky early evening light. As I walked through the kitchen and into the hall, from a room in the hall, stepped the clown, into the hallway. He stood there staring at me, staring at him. It seemed like one of those Wild West showdowns from the “cowboy movies” my dad use to watch on television. He lurched slowly toward me; his painted smile unwavering, but his eyes, bloodshot and filled with unbridled hatred.

“Here piggy piggy”

I walked a few steps in reverse before spinning on my heels and trying to make it to the kitchen. I felt a large hand land on my shoulder. I was spun around forcefully and fell to the floor. The clown stood above me for a moment before putting a giant clown shoe on my fat chest. I remember trying to squirm, and I remember wanting to scream and cry for help. But it never happened. He stood over me, pinning me to the floor before brandishing one of those old style seltzer bottles. He proceeded to spray the crotch of my pants and in a sing-song voice; he cooed “piggy goin’ pee- pee, piggy goin’ pee pee” until the contents of the bottle were drained. When he removed his foot from my chest, I lashed out with my feet, kicking at his shins and trying to scurry away at the same time. I ran into a pantry and slammed the door.

It was really a terrible hiding place. He had to see where I went. The pantry was about four feet away from where I was laying on the floor just moments ago. It was dark in the pantry and smelled of Pine-Sol cleaning solvent. There was no lock on the inside to protect me from the clown. In the dark pantry, I slid to the floor and tried not to sob uncontrollably. Minutes passed. Those minutes felt like hours. I heard no sound other than my wheezing, and a fear-fart that squeaked out.

“Oh piggy piggy. Did you make poopy in the pantry?” The voice came from inside the dark pantry in which I was hiding. Or so I thought. I froze in fear. Not moving. Not breathing. I did not know where the clown was. If he was in the pantry with me, I needed to get out. If he was out there, I needed to stay in the pantry.

I lowered my head to the floor, and squinted through the gap between the bottom of the pantry door, and the floor. There was not much to see. What little light bled through the bottom of the door was quickly blacked out, and a blood-shot eye stared back at me from the other side of the door.

There was a low, guttural laugh, and a voice that either hissed “boo piggy” or “poo piggy.” I squeezed my eyes shut and started crying at a near hysterical level. The door swung open, and I screamed as loud as I could.
Standing in the doorway was my dad.

“What the hell are you doing?” he asked.

“Clown!” I screamed.

He carried me out of the pantry and out of the house and back to the safety of our house.

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