Whimsical music chimed all around, droning on repeat. It was the same tune the circus played day in and day out to create a joyful ambiance for visiting patrons. Now, it had become so intrusive that it was no longer background noise. Instead, it was a dastardly tool used to drill brainwashing sequences into the performers’ heads. Why might one ask? To rewire their senses and keep them hostage in this chipper purgatory.
An extremely tired clown sat behind one of the performance tents, tucked behind the shadows. He sat enjoying a much-needed smoke break, inhaling the fumes and savoring the smoky flavor-filled moment. As if knowing he needed a moment alone, one of his fellow clown-mates walked over. Ignoring the side eye from the tired clown, he casually sat next to him, exclaiming, “I knew I’d find you here!” His smile then dropped, and he wore a somber expression that contrasted with the brightly painted smile on his face. He cleared his throat and started on his usual rant, “One of these days, I’m gonna get outta here! I’m gonna leave this place and never look back, just you wait…”
The smoking clown silently watched, questioning if the bitter clown read his face properly before taking another breath of the fumes. He began to tune out the routine rant, letting the other clown’s voice fall to a hum as he continued to relish in his smoke. As he exhaled, he had a tickle in his gut telling him to look up, and so he did. He stared off into the dark, empty field next to them, and it posed no threat. Tonight did seem a little darker than other nights. He reasoned that it was because winter was coming pretty quickly.
Staring into the empty field, he realized how late it was. One of the few perks of working at the circus was that the night moved quickly. However, tonight was not the case. Unlike his unfortunate clown buddy, he was leaving this place once and for all, first thing in the morning— a well-earned birthday gift to himself.
Begrudgingly, he stood up to head back to his show tent. He ignored the questions and inquiries coming from the other clown, continuing to walk away. As he did so, he tossed his cigarette on the ground and simultaneously heard a screech followed by gurgling sounds behind him.
Pausing in his tracks, he steadily listened, too nervous to turn around. The gurgles quickly turned into a quiet, soft moan, with rhythmic squelches coinciding. A foul odor trailed towards him, causing his stomach to twist into a knot, the scent leaving a rotten taste in his mouth. Suddenly, an ethereal, but somewhat demonic voice spoke, “This world is rotten. It needs to be cleansed.”
Slowly turning, he was met with a grisly sight. His bitter and truly unfortunate clown buddy lay before him, gone from this realm. At least he was now free from his life in the circus. On top of him, this otherworldly creature continued to claw into his chest and torso. His heart sank into the depths of him, unable to believe what was right in front of him.
This creature was black as the autumn night, a slight sheen from its oily skin reflecting the soft lights gleaming in the distance. It was bent over, resembling the posture of a decrepit humanoid being and the demeanor of a snake. Was it an alien? No. This felt far more earthly. Far more ancient and familiar. It looked much closer to being a mummified being with its shriveled skin and jackal-like head. Long, bony claws protruded from its hands as it focused intently on tearing into the unfortunate clown.
Slowly, he began to back away, praying the creature wouldn’t notice him. Yet, the prayer was wasted. The creature swiftly snapped its head in his direction, and his body turned to frost and ice. Without a second thought, he struck an odd pose, contorting his body to match a funny-looking abstract statue. The creature tilted his head, giving a low rumbling, raspy growl. Slowly lifting its body from the unfortunate clown, it sniffed the air before stalking its way over. The closer it got, he could hear heavy breathing, resembling how a horse does a quick puffing sound. The longer it carefully examined the space around him, the harder it became for the tired clown to remain still, especially when the creature’s beady eyes cautiously and slowly perused. His breathing became ragged, but he worked to calm himself with worry the creature would sense his movement. As seconds passed by, he could feel the sweat building on his forehead and the threat of his breaking the pose mid-inspection.
His prayer was answered in another form. As if an angel had descended to cause a distraction, a large crashing sound could be heard in the distance. The creature instantly sprang off, chasing down the source. He waited, hesitant to move. He stayed as still as a statue until he heard a multitude of screams coming from the direction of the crash. In this moment, he took off sprinting into the night.
He ran with no idea of which direction he was going. The only hope was that it was in the direction of the nearest town. He ran to the point where his lungs burned, his legs felt heavy as lead, and he cursed himself for not giving up smoking when he was warned.
Eventually, he saw dim lights on the horizon. A string of street lights illuminated the lining of a tall barbed wire fence. Reaching the fence, a bitter, muted laugh escaped him as he looked up at the peak of the wiring. He then looked along where the fence stretched, and it looked to wrap around the borders of the town. He was now faced with two options. He could look for the entrance to the gate, risking the chance of the creature catching up to him. The second, he could scale the fence and hope he wouldn’t be ripped to shreds by the piercing, sharp splinters on the wiring. This also looked to be the faster escape route. With a sigh, he readied himself, preferring the chance of the fence tearing at him rather than the bloodthirsty beast.
He steadily climbed, surprised at how easily he was reaching the top. It took less than a minute, and now the real challenge was here: scaling the barbed spikes. He just needed to chance it, so he closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths. Slowly opening them, he proceeded to grip the top line of wiring and pulled himself upwards, careful to keep his torso from being scraped. His ruff collar did snag on the spikes, along with his clothes. His palms began to burn, his grip trembled, but he pushed forward. He grimaced and winced as the barbed wire dug into his palms, pulling and ripping at his skin.
The pain was quickly forgotten when he heard the familiar snarling closing in quickly. He used all of his might to shove himself over the top and did his best to fling himself over. Just as he managed to lift himself over the top, the creature slammed into the fence with such force that it sent him flying off.
He slammed to the ground, the wind knocked directly out of him, causing him to groan and moan. As he lay there, he watched through blurry eyes as the creature attempted to tear down the fence to reach him. In between snarls, the creature repeatedly hissed, “Rotten! Cleanse!” It banged against the gate, screeching, and it looked to be throwing a tantrum. He slowly sat up, his ears ringing from the collision, and fixed his gaze on the hysterical beast. His eyes drifted, and this is when he noticed a tarp lying on the other side next to the creature. A tarp that would’ve been useful to get over in the first place… Irritation filled him as he mustered up the strength to stand, limping into town.
⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺
It wasn’t long before he entered a sleep-filled neighborhood that contained middle-class homes with cars scattered on their driveways. He didn’t bother to stop at any of the doors, instead continuing until he exited the neighborhood. Here, he came across a small shack built to resemble a miniature Victorian home, decorated with a dainty flower bush next to the entrance. In the window, flashing letters read “Psychic: Reader Open.” He entered through the shabby door.
Inside the shop, it was overcrowded. He was met with antiques and trinkets galore, piled on the various rows of shelving. There were plushies probably passed down from generations ago, aged books of many different topics, oddball ceramics, and even a collection of vintage trading cards mixed in with art prints of differing sizes. The shop had the distinct smell of mothballs and aged leather, and as he walked further in, there was a table in the center of the room. It was bare with only a book and a couple of chairs decorating it. Stepping closer, he took a closer look at the book, which lay open faced, realizing it was a journal, presumably left by the currently missing psychic. On the page, the first word read, “reaper,” and something deep within him connected the name to the menacing creature. He continued to read further:
“ ‘Reapers
‘Grim reaper? No, not exactly like our preconceived notions of this, but it is easy to default to the classic image of grim reapers. They are protectors of Mother Earth, originating from Ancient Egyptian times.
‘Reapers spend most of their time underground, burrowing and hibernating without the need to feed often. It seems the main use for them is to help keep the balance, the exact details on this being spotty. From previous research, it seems that reapers are the most active in places with high corruption. This corruption can be instances of nature being physically damaged to extreme levels, or due to the populace displaying high levels of moral corruption. There are more instances of the latter being the cause for a reaper to make an appearance.
‘The next question is where did the reaper species originate from? One option is they were summoned from another dimension or realm, such as an apocalyptic one depicted in Revelations. The other is a more earthly realm, with accounts of these creatures having sightings in South America. However, the strongest possibility lies within Egypt. With their anthropomorphic jackal features, it is a strong chance that these beings are tied directly to Anubis. It also helps further validate they were created and/or summoned in Ancient Egypt due to its strong connection to moral codes.
‘For certainty, these are ancient creatures, neither human nor animal. They live for centuries, but are not immortal, keeping to their space deep underground, only clawing their way to the surface when summoned.’ ”
He had barely finished the page when he heard someone clearing their throat in front of him. Looking up, he was met with a peculiar woman staring back at him, eyes behind thick-framed glasses. She was young, probably in her late twenties, and was not dressed like a typical psychic. She wore a simple all black outfit, a long-sleeved shirt paired with skinny jeans. Her black, curly hair was pulled back into a high ponytail. If anything, she looked more like a college student rather than a psychic. She spoke, her voice flat and stern, “You look like you lost a fight.” She walked to the table and asked, “How can I help you?”
The fully exhausted and tired clown straightened his posture, then made a writing motion with his hand. When she looked confused, he pointed to the reaper word in the journal. When she looked at the word, she scrunched her brows together, following up with, “What about them?”
When she looked back at him, he lifted his other hand to his neck. Taking his thumb, he slowly dragged the nail across his neck before pointing back at the page. She scoffed, a small smile of disbelief forming on her lips. Studying his face, she found he held no sign of joking around, and her smile faltered. “You can’t be serious… These things aren’t real.”
The only response he gave was lifting a single brow at her dismissing him. Though he couldn’t blame her. He gently lifted the book with one hand, and with the other, he raised his invisible glasses, proceeding to sit down and read. Understanding what his theatrics meant, she sat in the other chair and teased, “Since you sat down, that’ll be five dollars.” He ignored her and kept reading.
“ ‘Reapers are highly intuitive and possess high levels of dexterity. Most of their senses are acute. Their vision is limited, but is balanced with increased abilities for hearing and sense of smell. The mummy-like skin of the reaper also puts them at a disadvantage with handling the sun. They have an extremely high sensitivity to it.’ ”
He was once again interrupted when the psychic stood up. He pulled his focus from the journal and watched her go to the window. She squinted her eyes as he laid the journal back onto the table. Gasping, she started running to the front door. The clown’s eyes went wide as he shot up from the chair, getting in front of her. She tried to push him out of the way, but he kept blocking her path. She yelled at him, still trying to push past, “Someone is hurt! I saw them hunched over in the street!”
He deflected her hands, grabbed at her arms, doing everything he could to keep her from reaching the door, all while frantically shaking his head. She almost slipped past him a few times. He ran quickly to block the door at a last attempt to stop her, continuing to shake his head. Still, she wouldn’t listen to him, rapidly reaching around, over, and under him, yanking at the door. Instantaneously, this brought snarls and scratches to the door.
The reaper rammed the door with brute strength, and countering this took more and more of the clown’s stamina, trying to hold the beast back. During the force, it managed to reach a lanky hand through the door, intensely clawing at air and screeching further. The psychic started screaming, only agitating it all the more. He swiftly surveyed the room, looking for an escape route, because he knew he wouldn’t be able to hold it off much longer.
“What is that?!” She kept screaming.
“Rotten!!!” The reaper hissed.
The exhausted clown stayed silent.
Taking a deep breath, he grabbed the psychic’s hand, relying on what little adrenaline he had left. He sprinted, pulling her with him, running straight to the back of the shop. Again, he prayed as he heard the reaper trample through the door, loud crashes and bangs at alarming volumes as it barreled around. There was an ajar door, and he plunged through, shutting it once the psychic was inside with him. He barricaded the door with his body again as she flipped the lights on. They were in the bathroom… and there was no window.
He felt his eyes start to burn as tears of all the overwhelming feelings threatened to make an appearance. Nevertheless, this was not the time to break down. He rested his head against the door, anticipating the blows from the reaper. Meanwhile, the psychic stayed in the corner of the room, pacing. She was crying and panicking, adding noise he did not need in the moment.
He bit his lip and reached into his pocket, pulling out his cigarettes and a lighter. He held it up to the psychic, who calmed herself to a soft cry. She stopped pacing and walked over to him, grabbed his lighter, then took a cigarette out of the box. She placed a cigarette in his mouth and lit it for him. As he inhaled the smoke, he felt the expected crashing force of the feral reaper collide with the door and almost lost his balance. He steadied himself, holding back the beast with the psychic jumping in to help brace him. Despite that effort, as briefly as the crashes and bangs began, they had ended.
They waited a few moments. Those moments then turned into minutes, as they kept the door braced. Listening, he heard nothing. No snarls. No haunting voice repeating “rotten” or “cleanse.” No ear piercing screeches. The only thing he heard was the psychic’s ragged breathing and silence on the other side of the door.
Slowly, he stood up straight, and she backed up. As quietly as he could, he cracked the door open, peeking through the sliver of the opening, finding no sign of the reaper. He could only see some shop items knocked over onto the ground. He opened the door further, stepping out into the shop, and still nothing. Walking to the table in the center of the shop, he looked at the now broken window, receiving his answer to why there was nothing. The sun was up.
The early morning sunlight filtered through the glass, broken pieces on the ground shimmering like glitter. The psychic stepped past him and quietly stared out of the window. He turned around and went back into the bathroom.
Stepping in front of the mirror, he looked at himself. The ruff collar around his neck was shredded, and his clothes were torn and tattered. His wavy hair was a bird’s nest, disheveled and flying in multiple directions. His eye makeup streaked down his face. The painted smile was smudged about, and the remnants were barely there. The cigarette hung from his mouth, kept between his chapped lips. He sighed deeply, blankly staring at himself while going back to savoring his smoke and fumes.
‿̩͙⊱༒︎༻♱༺༒︎⊰‿̩͙
Thank you for reading this short story from me which was written in response to a weekly horror challenge hosted on Substack.
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ﾟ。 Skelly ۶ৎ
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