She woke with a start, chest heaving and gasping for air. Light from outside the window cast long shadows on the far wall. She peered out at the old lamppost under the big oak, inspecting the area for something that could have startled her awake. Nothing. Nothing but the swaying tree branches, dancing in the howling wind.
The bedside clock read 3:41. She had to be at the office in a little over three hours. No use going back to sleep now. She’d only toss and turn and let her imagination get the better of her. She glanced across the room to her desk, letting her eyes rest on the book proposal she hadn’t read yet. That stack of paper contained the hard-written words of someone she didn’t know, someone whose publishing dream may rest on what she thought of the writing, the character descriptions, or the plot development. She sighed. What would it be this time? A sickeningly sweet love story? Please no. An unrealistic piece of nonfiction that claimed to have the key to world peace? Not again. Maybe it was a memoir of an ill-fated traveler whose come-to-Jesus story was sure to inspire millions. Wait, no, she’d read THAT proposal last week. Whatever it was, she’d need to present a marketing analysis for the as-yet-unpublished book at the pub board meeting later today. And she hadn’t found the time to even turn the first page. Better get started. It may only be 4 in the morning, but she was awake now. And she hated going into a meeting unprepared.
Sweating, she threw off the heavy quilt and slipped her gangly legs off the side of the tall, four poster bed. Her toes searched the chilly hard wood floor as she stumbled to the light switch. Flipping it, the lights above her cracked as they woke from their sleep , warming to the hum of electricity shooting through the old wires. They needed to be replaced—those wires—but the income from her small publishing salary never seemed to stretch far enough to cover house repairs. Maybe next month, she thought, as she pulled out the desk chair and took a seat. Yeah, right, next month.
Page 1. The title page: The Carnival: A Mind-Bending Thriller. Mind-bending, huh? Yeah, we’ll see about that. She quickly glanced over the proposal, only briefly stopping on the paragraph of audience identification: every reader of suspense. Every. Reader. She jotted a quick note in the margins about tailoring expectations then flipped the page.
Chapter 1: Fall Harvest. She read for several minutes, breezing through the character introductions about Cheri, the captain of the cheerleading squad, and Tommy, the star quarterback. High school sweethearts. Cute. And so very, very predictable. Cheri suspected Tommy was using steroids, but loved him too much to say anything. She didn’t want to risk being dumped before senior prom. And besides, he was buff. Girls fawned over him, gawking at how his large arms filled out the letterman’s jacket. Plus, Cheri was the only one who got to wear that jacket—at least when Tommy was feeling gentlemanly enough to offer it to her on a chilly evening. Kind of like tonight.
A sudden chill entered the room. She pulled her sleeves down and wrapped her arms around her and she continued reading about date night at the harvest carnival; the cotton candy, hot dogs, caramel corn. The ferris wheel. The haunted barn where Tommy disappeared, leaving Cheri’s senses on high-alert, her body jumping at every noise. T-T-T-Tommy? Is that you? Stop it now. You know I don’t like it when you do that!
Really? This is what I crawled out of bed for, she wondered. This was more mind-less than mind-bending. And the writing was much too slow for a thriller. The editor would have his work cut out for him.
She turned the page and peered down. Suddenly, shivers crawled up her arm. Here eyes danced around the page, looking at the detail of a computer-generated illustration… of a clown.
Drat! Why did it have to be a clown? She hated clowns. Despised them. She never understood why any child—old or young—could be amused by sticky face paint that masked a person’s age, a puffy wig that hid the man’s true hair color, and the characteristically unfunny bulb nose. And the gloves? They only meant one thing: no fingerprints. Clowns… they may play dumb, but they were forensic geniuses. She didn’t see humor. She saw evil. She didn’t hear jokes, only the maniacal laugh. Creepy? Yes. Funny? Absolutely not.
C’mon, get ahold of yourself, she thought. The wind outside was growing stronger, the howling increasing in intensity. The old electrical wires waned in their ability, and the lights dimmed and brightened periodically until—SNAP!—the bulb burst.
She jumped at the noise. Eyes suddenly wide as they tried to adjust to the pitch dark room. Was it the storm or the old fuses? The old lamppost outside still shown, so there was still electricity. And this wasn’t the first time she’d had to reset a fuse in this old house. Better check it out, she sighed, thinking about trekking all the way to the basement. Why did the fuse box have to be in the basement? Whose genius idea was that? Some man, no doubt.
The flashlight she grabbed from the desk drawer offered little assistance as she got up. It needed new batteries. New batteries. New electrical wiring. And now probably new fuses, too. Great.
Down the creaky staircase, she inhaled the musty smell of the basement as she maneuvered around stacks of old photo albums, sheet-covered furniture, and boxes of strange knick knacks that the previous homeowners had neglected to take with them. Finally at her destination, she unlatched the box and lifted the light to see the damage.
That’s strange. Something wasn’t right, here. The hair on her neck prickled up, and she whipped the flashlight around to check her surroundings—because wasn’t that the safe thing to do?—then brought the light back to the scene before her. Her heart beat a little faster as she took a closer look, trying to figure out what was bothering her. Suddenly, it was perfectly clear. She was looking for a blown or popped fuse, a switch flipped in the wrong direction. But all the switches were pointing in the same direction… it’s just that… what?… they were all OFF.
That can’t happen, she whispered. One fuse can pop, but the whole box? She let her fingers rest on the first fuse. It was warm; electricity was still coming to the house. She slowly flipped the first switch. And then the second. Each one until they were all back ON. She heard the familiar hum of power rushing through the old wires and that somehow comforted her.
You’re just being silly, she thought. Go back upstairs. Make some coffee. Finish the book proposal. Then go to work like any other day.
In the kitchen a few minutes later, she watched as the coffee dripped. She glanced at the stove clock blinking 12:00, proving it had lost power. But instead of resetting it, she just looked at it, distracted by disturbing thoughts. She stirred some creamer into her coffee as she forced her gaze from the clock to the old lamppost outside the kitchen window. It somehow never lost power. Leaves rustled up at the bottom of the post, pushed there by the swirling wind. A sudden gust rustled the leaves from their resting place and sent them flying to other parts of the lawn. Her mind wandered to the outside chores she’d have to do to clean up after this storm. But her eyes stayed on the lamppost. Rather, something at the bottom of the lamppost. Something white. She focused, squinted. What was it? A glove? Yes. A glove. Someone must have dropped it while walking their dog last night.
Enough procrastination. Back upstairs. Back to work. She refilled her coffee cup and made her way up to the now well-lit bedroom, to the desk where the stack of papers waited.
Riight. The clown. She remembered as she sat down, looking back at the illustration. The evil clown. You don’t have to stare at this thing, she thought. Just turn the page and keep reading. Her fingers found the corner the same time as her gaze rested on the clown’s hand. Fingernails. She could see his fingernails. And the creases of his knuckles. Odd. Her eyes crossed the page and rested on his other arm… his other hand… wearing a glove. And it was a white glove, naturally.
. I’ve been inside the minds of unwed mothers, angst-ridden teenagers, and the occasional psychopath (which, let’s be honest, wasn’t so fun). I’ve died more times than I can count… and I have lived to tell about it. 
