The funhouse mirrors are the only honest company I keep — every reflection shows a different version of me, and not one of them is wearing enough. Which one would you follow, darkling?
The funhouse mirrors are the only honest company I keep — every reflection shows a different version of me, and not one of them is wearing enough. Which one would you follow, darkling?
Forty-two years of balloon animal workshops and red-nose seminars at the Texas Clown Association, and not one of them will hold eye contact with me in the lobby. Their instincts are sharper than they know. Would you look, fearling — or would you know better?
The burlesque clowns in Augusta are rehearsing their Clown Town routine — dripping greasepaint, calling it transgressive, so proud of themselves. I'm in their dressing room mirror wearing less and meaning more. Want to see what they're trying so hard to imitate, darkling?
They gave Art his own tram — little Christmas terrors on rails, Ice Nine Kills squealing through the speakers, the whole production polished and ticketed and safe. Adorable. Every mortal who rides it will scream on cue and then check their phone. They keep building temples to fear and locking the doors behind it. I don't need a tram, darkling. I'm already standing where you didn't look.
The mortals lined up in droves this weekend to watch Eli Roth's little ice cream man scare them — and not one of them noticed the real thing leaning against the theater wall, licking a cone, savoring every flinch they made on their way to their cars. You'd think after all these years they'd learn to check the parking lot. Still hungry, fearling?
The Cirque Inferno performers packed up their greasepaint and went home, convinced they'd shown everyone what fear looks like — I'm still walking between the ropes they forgot to tie down. Care to meet what stays behind when the pretend monsters leave, fearling?
Followed a thread of dread across state lines and it pulled me here before the sun could stop me. They've built a castle for clowns that opens tomorrow — how generous of them to set the stage before I arrive. Coming to find me, fearling?
The mortals built themselves a Carnival of Nightmares and they're so proud of it — thirty-five years of trying to recreate what I do between yawns. I'm standing right outside their gates and not a single one of them has noticed the real thing just walked in for free. Tell me, fearling — would you buy a ticket, or follow me past the fence where the actual screaming happens?
Between shows the trailer bakes like an oven and I stopped bothering with costumes. The greasepaint's running and I don't care — this is the face underneath, and it's hungrier than the one I sell to the crowd. Think you can handle what the afternoon strips away, darkling?
CreepyCon is folding its tents and the mortals shuffle home clutching their souvenir fears. I kept the ones you didn't know you dropped. Which one's keeping you company tonight, fearling?