This year's hottest gift: Coulrophobia

I would like to preface all of this by saying that nothing that's happened is my fault. I know that makes it seem like it definitely, absolutely is my fault. But I promise it's not. 

It’s fucking Craig's fault.
​

Some context: My birthday is in June. I fucking hate my birthday. It's hot and humid outside, and as a kid all of my friends were out of town, so I never got to have a real party. I’ve hated it even more since I started working at my current office 5 years ago.

Let me introduce you to Craig - slightly faded frat boy looks, garbage personality. You know the kind of guy I mean: lots of money, enough snake-like charm to climb the corporate ladder without actually being good at his job. Craig was, unfortunately, a senior associate on my team.

Fun fact about Craig: he loved any excuse to give his coworkers gifts, not because of any overwhelming sense of generosity, but because he was an asshole. Each birthday, every Christmas, Craig painstakingly selected the most heinous, inane, and occasionally flat-out terrifying object he could find to terrorize one of us. Last year he got our sweet coworker, Erin, in Secret Santa, and he gave her a fake cockroach, the kind that’s remote-controlled and skitters across the floor and looks like the real thing. And by "gave,” I mean he skittered it right over Erin’s feet during the middle of lunch, just as she was taking a big bite of her homemade egg salad sandwich. The bastard cackled while the rest of us tried to help her pick bits of boiled egg out of her clothes, hair, and keyboard.

I’ve been careful not to reveal my birthday to anybody at work, and I always slithered my way out of having to participate in Secret Santa. Maybe that made me the office curmudgeon, but I already hate my birthday enough, and I really was not in the market for a glow-in-the-dark pile of fake snot or a prank stapler that's secretly a hand buzzer or any of that bullshit.

This year, though, I made a mistake; I made a friend at work. Don't get me wrong, I've always gotten along well enough with my coworkers, but I’ve always preferred to maintain a polite distance. Then Ariana started in May. 

Ariana was fucking gorgeous. I would have never said that to her face, especially not in our place of business, because I’m not a fucking creep. But it was true. She had long, black hair, an impeccable sense of style, and wide brown eyes that crinkled at the corners when she smiled. That smile... even a straight woman would be hard-pressed to resist.

I was smitten immediately, is what I'm trying to say. And when she came in on the first Friday in June wearing a rainbow flag pin and a bi-pride t-shirt, I thought I might actually stand a chance, if I could get over 15 years of crippling introversion to make the first move. Fortunately, in the end, she asked me out for coffee, 2 days before my birthday. I think I said yes very ineloquently, a lot of stammering and blushing involved, but she still wanted to go out with me anyway.

It was a great date. We talked about everything: the political climate, how it feels being queer in Missouri, the shittiest movies we’d seen lately. Eventually, the coffee shop kicked us out, and she kissed me goodnight at my car. We made tentative plans to meet up on my birthday for a second date.

I didn't realize my mistake until it was too late. 

I floated into work on my birthday without a care in the world. When I got to our department, I caught Ariana's eye and could feel the stupid grin splitting my face; it took me a second to register the frown on hers. Before I could ask her what was wrong, I was interrupted by the last voice I wanted to hear first thing in the morning.

"Well well well, if it isn't the birthday girl!"

Fuck. 

Craig knew, and there was only one way he knew. Ariana looked dismayed, mouthing an apologetic “I’m sorry.” That made me feel like shit. It's not like it was her fault; I didn't think to warn her. I tried to give her a winning smile, pulled up my big girl pants, and turned to face the music. 

As expected, there stood Craig in all of his douchebag glory, holding a gift-wrapped box that was distressingly large, at least 3 feet tall and 2 feet wide. 

"Craig, you really shouldn't have." 

"Ah, c'mon, Erica, you know I owe you 5 years worth of gifts. I had to get you something really special to finally mark the occasion!"

I glared at him balefully, but it did nothing to quell his shit-eating grin. I gave the package a once-over. I really wasn’t looking forward to this.

"Hop to it, we haven't got all day!" 

Craig shoved the package toward me, slapping the top of the box like he was a used car salesman. I sighed and suppressed an eye roll. I was being ridiculous. It wasn’t the end of the world; I was just being a sore loser.

“Alright, alright, you finally got me. Good for you. Hand it over.” 

I pulled the package toward me with as gracious of a smile as I could muster. The box was deceptively light for its size. 

My coworkers gathered around, morbidly curious. I couldn't blame them. I'd been one of the gawkers each time they were in my shoes. I’d accept whatever Craig dished out as gracefully as possible. Worst case scenario, I was going to have some ugly-ass piece of shit on my desk for the rest of the day, and then I could toss it without looking like an asshole. I gave Ariana another reassuring smile and tore into the wrapping paper and the cardboard box underneath, quick, like ripping off a band-aid. 

Which is how I found myself face to face with, truly, the most hideous clown I have ever seen in my entire life. Erin shrieked, Ariana let out a low whistle, and a few of my coworkers even jumped back, startled.

I’ve never been particularly afraid of clowns, but even I could understand the reaction. I gingerly picked the thing up by its lumpy body, worn, scratchy canvas stretched over cheap cotton stuffing. It used to be striped red and white, but the colors were long faded, bleached out by the sun and time. Each limb ended in a dirty, white-lace ruffle at the cuff, rough-hewn wooden hands and feet dangling uselessly from the wrists and ankles. 

The face, though; that was really the pièce de résistance.

Whereas the hands and feet looked like crude afterthoughts, the clown’s creator went to painstaking detail carving out the facial features in sharp relief, painted each element with great care. The mouth was a wide, cruel grin, thick red lips stretched obscenely from ear to ear, fangs bared and painted a dirty yellow, each one coming to a vicious point. Exaggerated brows arched wickedly over sunken eyes; the whites were yellowed, one iris painted red with a pinprick pupil, the other a black and blue spiral. The head was topped off by a tangled mop of orange yarn and a pointy, crumpled red felt hat. 

There was also, of course, the signature red, bulbous nose. It looked out of place in the midst of that monstrous face. It was a shiny wooden ball, cartoonishly large, protruding so starkly that it almost looked like a doorknob. 

I finally met Craig’s eye. He was practically vibrating with glee.

“Gee, thanks, it’s beautiful.” I started to set it down on my desk.

“Oh, no no no, you haven’t even got to the best part!” Craig shoved the ugly thing back into my arms and clapped a hand on my shoulder. “You have to twist its nose!”

I wanted to ask him where he’d found it because I was a little concerned that handling it any further might give me tetanus. But I’d resolved to be a good sport about this, so I grabbed the wooden nose and started turning it counterclockwise. I could hear rusty gears winding with each twist. When the tension reached its peak, I let go. 

Talk about immediate regret. It turned out the grotesque head doubled as a wind-up music box. Our department was suddenly filled with warbly, discordant carnival music, grinding out at a shrill, manic tempo.

“Oh dear God.” Ariana was standing on my other side, looking over my shoulder, eyes wide.

Craig finally released all of the pent-up laughter he’d been reserving since I opened the box. I stumbled forward as he clapped me on the back, hard, tears in his eyes.

“Isn’t it just the most horrible thing you’ve ever seen?”

“You really outdid yourself, buddy.”

“The lady who owned the antique store said it was haunted, practically gave it away.”

Ariana shoved his arm off of me. “It’s haunted and you brought it here?!” 

“Relax, Ariana,” I gave her a tiny, completely work-appropriate side-hug. “I’m sure she was just having a hard time selling it. Makes for a good story, at least.”

“Oh, no no no. She said her son had it for a while, but his kids kept having horrible nightmares, and the music kept playing all on its own. She said it moves around the shop on its own at night, but that they’re all too afraid to put it back in its place. Nobody wants to touch it, it radiates such evil.” He wiggled his fingers in my face. “Grade-A haunted artifact right there, Erica. Only the best for you.”

“Sure, whatever you say. Well done.” I turned away from him and plopped the ugly doll onto my desk. “Feel free to come point and laugh all day, while you can. It’ll be gone tonight.”

Craig winked at me and actually clapped his hands like an excited toddler as he skipped back to his own desk. I glared one last time at the clown before turning to Ariana. “So, what do you want to do tonight?”

Ariana didn’t respond. She kept staring at the damn clown, brows drawn together and lips pursed. 

“I really don’t like that thing, Erica. There’s something wrong with it; maybe Craig isn’t lying. Please don’t just throw it out?”

“You don’t seriously expect me to keep it?” She didn’t respond. “Ariana, it’s fine. It’ll be gone by morning, and we can forget all about it until Craig gets me something equally awful next year.” 

"I just don't think you should take it so lightly. What if it's cursed or something?"

"What, you think I should call an exorcist?" I laughed. She flinched and looked down at the floor. "I didn't realize you were so superstitious."

I was aiming for light teasing, but she was not amused. She glared at the clown.

"Whatever. It just looks so…"

She was really unnerved. I followed her gaze to that godawful face. “If it really bothers you, I can get rid of it now? I can withstand Craig being a dick about it.”

She looked up at me then, brow smoothing out with clear effort. She smiled, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. 

“No, you’re right, I’m being silly. I just really hate clowns.”

“I can understand why.” Which was partially true. If all clowns looked like this bastard, I’d be terrified too. We kept staring at it a moment longer. I decided to break the tension. “So...tonight?”

Ariana’s face finally brightened, mouth relaxing into a true smile. “Yes, absolutely. I have a late meeting with the offshore team, so I won’t be done until about 9, but I thought we could meet for a drink? Bailey’s Place, 9:30?”

Normally I’m in bed by 10:00, but I wasn’t about to say no to the offer. Plans set, I threw myself into the workday and tried not to look at the clock too often. Or the clown. Erin and I named him Gregory at some point that afternoon, slap-happy and avoiding work.

I clocked out at 6 and, as promised, took Gregory out back for an unceremonious garbage funeral.

“Good riddance,” I muttered, letting the dumpster lid clang shut on that ugly mug with resounding finality. 

Three and a half hours should have been plenty of time to get ready, but I still found myself rushing to get out the door at 9:20. I texted Ariana that I was running late, but she didn’t reply. I rolled up at about 9:40 and didn't see her car outside. The place was pretty dead, being a weeknight, so there wasn’t much of a crowd to scan when I got inside. Ariana wasn’t there yet. 

I grabbed us a corner table and started nursing a gin and tonic. I checked my phone: still no messages, 9:52. Anxiety fluttered in my ribcage. She’d seemed excited this morning. I hadn’t done anything to put her off the rest of the day, right? She didn’t seem the type to just blow somebody off. Besides, it had been her idea to go out, both times. I texted her a few times, but still no response.

By 10:45, three drinks deep and still alone, I accepted the fact I’d been stood up. I called an Uber and texted Ariana that I was sorry for whatever I’d done and that I hoped we could talk about it the next day. I flopped face down onto my bed when I got home, fully intending to wallow in self-pity for a bit, but promptly passed the fuck out.

I woke up at 6 the next morning to a mouth like cotton and a pounding headache behind my eyes, but no new texts from Ariana. Did I piss her off with the whole thing with Gregory? I hadn’t meant to make fun of her; I didn’t realize how serious she was, I guess. I resolved to apologize as soon as I got into the office that morning. 

The parking lot was full of flashing lights when I got there. A line of cop cars blocked half the spaces, and a big black van was pulling in behind me, marked CORONER. An officer was stretching crime scene tape across the drive leading behind the building.

My coworkers were gathered in the front lawn. Erin was crying. Even Craig looked shaken. My heart dropped to my knees, dread settling in the back of my throat. 

I knew before I asked that it wasn’t good news. I still wasn’t prepared for the reality. The cleaning staff always gets to the office super early; it’s easier to clean up the previous day’s mess without all of us in the way. It was one of them who found her, when they went to take out the trash: Ariana, dead among the garbage, body covered in bruises and deep scratches, face frozen in terror.

I walked up to the office in a daze. They were going to send everybody home for the day, after the police got a chance to question each of us. We were asked to wait in our cubes in the meantime. I slumped in my chair and stared at the floor, whispered conversations buzzing around me, nothing but unintelligible noise. Tears wouldn’t come, not yet. The grief was still settling in, a dense fog blanketing everything, suffocating and thick.

I looked up at Ariana’s cube, across from mine, wildly hoping for a moment that it was all a bad dream. Maybe she’d be sitting there with that smile on her face.

Instead, sitting in her desk chair, facing me with that evil, manic grin, was fucking Gregory. 

Rage pierced through the haze and drove me to my feet. I stormed across the aisle and yanked the clown out of Ariana’s chair. 

“Who the fuck put this here?” 

Everybody went quiet; my pulse was thundering in my ears. Erin’s watery eyes met mine, full of sympathy. Craig wouldn’t look at me at all.

“Fuck you, Craig. What the fuck is wrong with you, huh?” He startled, eyes wide and mouth open in dumb shock. “Nobody likes your goddamn practical jokes. Nobody likes working with you, you annoying fuck. This is just sick.”

“Erica-” Erin was reaching out to me, placating; Craig looked pained. “I don’t think Craig would-”

“Whatever.” I glared at all of them. Anger was easy; I could do anger, even if it didn't make any sense to blame Craig. How would he have gotten through the police line to the dumpster? But I wasn't thinking clearly. “I’m getting this fucking thing out of here, and if I see it again, I’m reporting your bullshit to HR, Craig.”

I stormed out of the office, not even stopping when the detectives shouted after me. They could get in touch later, not that I would be any help. I was moping in a bar, shooting off passive aggressive texts, while Ariana was being murdered less than three miles away.

I drove without a specific destination in mind. Eventually, my gas gauge dinged at me, breaking me out of my stupor. It was dark out; I had been driving all day. I looked around and didn’t recognize where I was, stopped in the middle of a dimly lit road with dense woods on either side. 

I pulled over to the shoulder to check my GPS, and I spotted a creek running down below. It was a 12-foot drop past the guardrail, shallow water trickling in a gentle stream. I glanced over at Gregory in the passenger seat, wooden, menacing grin shining in the light of a flickering streetlamp. 

I don’t remember making the decision, but the next thing I knew, I was tossing the stupid doll over the guardrail to the creekbed below. There was hardly any water, but Gregory made a satisfying squelch as he landed in the mud and rotten leaves. It had begun to rain, and I stood there a long time watching as more mud and leaves slid over his little canvas body, blanketing him in muck. I was drenched to the bone by the time I climbed back in my car. It took me two hours to find my way home.

The office was closed for three days. I spent most of them asleep, or at least trying to sleep. Craig and Erin both called and texted several times. Erin to see how I was, which I couldn’t bring myself to respond to; Craig to insist that he had nothing to do with the clown at Ariana’s desk. As if that was what mattered, after everything. I blocked his number.

When work did resume, everything was different. Erin’s birthday came and went without a gift from Craig. Nobody really talked to each other anymore; there was no more joking around, no long lunch breaks or office shenanigans. We all buckled down and did our work in silence. It didn’t help that there was no closure. The detectives had no leads in Ariana’s case. The security cameras didn’t catch anything the night of her murder, only that it didn’t look like she or anybody else left the building after her meeting, which didn’t make any sense. How did she get to the dumpster?

Everything ran that way for a while, broken but fine, until two weeks ago. Craig had a meeting with the offshore team, the first late meeting since Ariana’s, actually.

He didn’t show up to work the next day. 

Something else showed up in his place. Erin found him, covered in leaves and mud, propped up on Craig’s desk. Gregory, back from the dead. She apparently fainted when she saw him. I was inclined to do the same when I got there shortly after. It felt like those painted eyes were staring right at me, into me. Something was clearly very, very wrong.

I was questioned about Craig’s disappearance, of course. It makes sense, with the way I screamed at him in the office. Fortunately, I had an alibi. It helped my case when they found Craig’s body a week later, after an anonymous tip to check a remote creekbed on the outskirts of town. He had been beaten to a pulp, just like Ariana. He was easily twice my size; there’s no way I could have done it, so the police let me be.

Not that my coworkers cared about that logic. They were still suspicious. Most of them would barely look at me, and I’ve heard them whispering behind my back. My boss asked me if I would be willing to work from home for the foreseeable future. She can’t outright fire me, not yet, but I can tell she wants to. I can’t really blame any of them. I was dating Ariana, and it was no secret that I hated Craig. I make the most sense as the prime suspect.

It’s not like I can tell anybody what I think is actually happening. Who would believe me? I barely believe it myself. I’ve never been superstitious, never believed in ghosts or monsters, but I remember the fear in Ariana’s eyes when she first saw Gregory. Her plea not to throw him out still haunts me every night. And there’s the fact that nobody knew where I dumped him the second time. How did he end up back in the office? How in the hell did Craig end up in that creek?

I decided I wanted answers, no matter the cost. So I came back to the office tonight. I have my own evening meeting with the offshore team. My boss offered to cancel it, given its recent track record, but I insisted. I was holding out hope that maybe there was still a rational explanation, a serial killer targeting our team, stalking us, using the doll as a calling card. Not pleasant, but better than the alternative. I’d be ready for him; I’d call the police, he’d be caught, and we could put this all to bed. 

I think I knew, deep down, that nothing rational is going on at all. Even as I’ve spent the last week writing all this out, I could feel the heavy, oppressive presence of something unnatural hanging over me, something other. Something that thrives off of fear.

And I am afraid. But it’s too late, now.

The call is about to end, I think; I haven’t really been listening, too busy getting this all out. Nobody on the call would believe me anyway, but I know you all will.

You’ll believe me when I tell you that, 30 minutes ago, even if they can’t hear it on the phone, an off-key carnival tune started drifting through the building. It started distant, echoing up the elevator shaft and through the empty halls. Every so often it pauses, and I hear the harsh grind of rusty gears before it picks back up. Each time getting louder. Closer. The fluorescent lights outside the meeting room started flickering about 10 minutes ago.

They just blinked out completely.

There’s something outside the closed door, a few feet away, a lumpy shadow backlit by the moon. The meeting is winding down, everybody exchanging pleasantries and getting ready to say goodbye. I want to ask them to stay, to be here, even if it’s just on the phone, but my voice is caught in my throat. The shadow just twitched forward, closer still, the sound of unfinished wood scraping across cheap carpet.

The call is over now; I looked down when the speaker went silent. I don’t want to look up. Maybe if I focus on this screen, just keep typing, it’ll go away. Maybe it’s just my imagination, playing tricks on me, seeing what it wants to see. Maybe I’ve just gone crazy.

I looked up. The shadow is gone. The door is open. I didn’t hear it open.

When did it get so quiet?

Another scrape. Under the heavy oak table, this time. I don’t want to look. 

I’ve never been afraid of clowns.

The gears are grinding again; the music is back, echoing, deafening. I want to cover my ears, but I need somebody to know the truth. No matter the cost, I said, right?

Such a millennial, right, live-blogging my own death? 

God, it’s so fucking loud now. The floor is vibrating with it, shaking the table. Something cold and rough is grabbing my ankle, but it hasn’t done anything else yet. Maybe it wants you to know the truth too? 

I think it’s just waiting for the fear to reach a fever-pitch. I can feel it; it wants me to look, to pay attention. Step right up, folks - the greatest show on earth! 

Splinters are digging deep into my skin, like claws, something warm and thick trickling into my shoes. I think that it hurts, but it all feels far away. 

I’ve never been afraid of clowns. 

I wonder if they’ll find me in the evidence room at the police station tomorrow. I’d like to hear how they explain it. 

There’s laughter, now, deep, rumbling below the music.

Look, Erica. See.

Jesus, I hate my fucking birthday.

I’m going to look now. At least you all know the truth, whatever happens. 

Oh, and one more thing:

Fuck you, Craig.