“I’m going to the store,” Matt called out into the hallway.
No response.
He pushed his chair away from his desk with a tired sigh.
He slept little the night before and found himself facing another all-nighter.
“Want anything?” He called again as he left the comfort of his warmly lit room and wandered into the rest of his apartment. Maybe Marcus wasn’t home after all, he thought, shuffling his feet across the hardwood floor and grazing his hand against the side of the wall in hopes of a light switch.
“Ah,” he paused, his fingers finding the switch in the black abyss their apartment had become. “There it —”
A roar echoed down the hallway and throughout the living room. “Surprise sucka!”
Matt’s fingers barely flipped up the switch as he jumped up, a startled shout escaping from his lips. His roommate, Marcus burst into peals of laughter.
“Oh man, I got you good.”
Marcus was wearing a rubber clown mask — a stretched, plastic face painted white with an upturned mouth like an old hot dog and red-rimmed eyes.
“That’s not funny, Marcus. Have you seen the news lately?” Matt scowled. “Americans are in real danger with all of those people dressing up like clowns and trespassing on people’s property.”
Marcus leaned toward his friend and pulled the mask just far down enough that Matt could see his eyes.
“What? No way. You can’t make me feel bad for this. Dude, they’re all kids. There was like one guy with a machete. The rest are totally someone’s punk kids running around, being stupid.”
Matt pushed passed Marcus and grabbed his shoes by the front door.
“I’ve gotta get an energy drink from the store. Need anything?”
Marcus shook his head as his roommate crouched down to tie the laces of his shoes.
“Oh,” Matt interjected, “And you know what? People have gotten hurt. And there have been sightings in the area. It’s just not cool to joke about.”
Marcus tossed the clown mask to the floor and gave Matt a sly sideways glance.
Matt let out a frustrated sigh.
“You know what? Whatever. Don’t believe me. These sightings mean something though. These people are creeps. But whatever. I need caffeine. Leave the door unlocked for me, will you?”
Marcus’ resting grin grew wider.
“Did you lose your keys again?”
Matt laced his shoes, stood and began to zip up his sweatshirt.
“No, it’s so when the friggin’ clowns are after me I don’t have to struggle with the lock for twelve million years.”
Marcus, a smirk on his face, lifted his arms and faced his palms out toward his friend in a gesture of peace.
“Fine, I’ll leave the door unlocked.”
Matt threw him a “thanks” as he walked out of the apartment. Marcus nodded a good-bye to his roommate and leapt onto the couch with a satisfied exhale. He crossed one foot over the other, pulled a gnarled red throw blanket up from the floor and draped it over his body.
“What a goofball,” he chuckled, thinking of Matt. “That key-losing scaredy cat.”
Marcus nestled his body into the couch and closed his eyes.
He wasn’t like Matt, he thought. He was strong. Brave. Fearless. No gurgling water cooler or creaky floorboards or punk kids in clown suits tiptoeing around outside could scare him. But then, Marcus had always been a heavy sleeper. He never heard the things that went bump in the night.
That Thursday night, he didn’t hear his roommate’s frenzied footsteps — Matt’s legs churning furiously, the soles of his shoes slapping against the sidewalk. He didn’t hear the wheezing of Matt’s lungs or the panic in his breath every time he threw a look back over his shoulder, struggling to distinguish between the shadows cast by street lights and the figure he thought he saw moving between the trees.
He didn’t notice the calls that lit up the screen of his phone, still set to vibrate, every minute with a new voicemail — the first one a tentative, worried Matt who thinks he saw a clown by the convenient store. Should he call the police? He’s asking.
In the second, he’s more breathy, more panicked. He’s running now, huffing each word into the phone. In the third, his voice is high, he’s screaming.
“Lock the door. Lock the door. Lock the door. Save yourself. Lock the door.”
Marcus, passed out on the couch, swaddled in red, snored instead.
He didn’t stir when the front door was sidled opened. He did not hear the hinges creak. Nor did he see the hand in the tattered white glove with fingernails like long, black, mangled claws that teased the door open, or the shoes — two sizes too large and glistening red.
Corrin Bond
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