The Clown at the Doorway

It was a damp autumn evening in 2004 when I first noticed the sounds. I’d moved into a post-war council block in the outskirts of Leeds, a temporary flat on the third floor while they fixed the roof of my usual place. The walls were thin, and I’d grown used to the creaks and groans of the building settling, but this was different. It was the sound of a party—muffled laughter, the clink of glasses, a faint hum of old jazz. I checked the clock: 11:47 PM. My neighbours were mostly elderly or families with young kids, not the type to throw soirées. I shrugged it off as a TV left on, but the sound persisted, growing clearer as I lay in bed, my door slightly ajar.

An hour later, I gave up trying to sleep and got up to investigate. I tiptoed to the living room, but the sound seemed to come from the corridor outside my flat. I pressed my ear to the door and heard voices—dozens of them, chatting and laughing, as if there were a cocktail party right on my landing. I peered through the peephole: the hallway was empty, dimly lit by a flickering fluorescent tube. But as I watched, a shadow moved across the frosted glass of the stairwell door, and then another. I stepped back, my heart hammering. The sounds grew louder, closer, until they seemed to come from inside my own flat, just beyond the bedroom door.

I returned to my bedroom and stood in the doorway, facing the open door to the living room. That’s when I saw them: ghostly figures, translucent but distinct, drifting past my bedroom door as if they belonged there. They were dressed in 1940s fashion—men in trilby hats and trench coats, women in floral dresses and victory rolls. They walked casually, some holding imaginary glasses, others deep in conversation. I froze, unable to process what I was seeing. Among them, a woman in a tight-fitting petrol blue dress caught my eye. She smiled at me as she passed, her lips moving though I heard no words. I felt a chill run down my spine.

Then I saw the clown. He was tall, unnaturally so, with a face painted in stark white and red, a wide grin that didn’t reach his eyes. He moved through the crowd with an odd, jerky gait, stopping every few steps to strike a comical pose—arms outstretched, one leg kicked back, as if performing for an audience. He made his way toward my door, ignoring the other ghosts who parted around him. When he reached my doorway, he stopped. He stood straight, the grin frozen, and stared directly at me. His eyes were dark, bottomless pits. He tilted his head slowly, then dropped the pose, letting his arms hang limp. He just glared, as if to say, ‘What are you going to do about it?’

I couldn’t move. My breath caught in my throat. I wanted to look away, but his gaze held me. Finally, I forced myself to turn and stare at the bare wall beside my bed. I squeezed my eyes shut and counted to ten. When I opened them, I was facing the wall, but the sounds continued—the clinking, the laughter, the faint shuffle of feet. I turned back, and the clown was still there, still staring. But now he took a step into the room. I saw his mouth open, wider than any human mouth should, and a sound emerged—not a word, but a low, guttural hum that vibrated in my chest. The other ghosts faded, leaving only the clown, who began to advance.

I stumbled backward, tripping over a chair, and fell onto my bed. He loomed over me, and his painted smile seemed to stretch even wider. I screamed, but no sound came out. He reached out a gloved hand, and I felt a cold pressure on my shoulder. Then he vanished, and the room was silent.

I didn’t sleep that night. The next morning, I told my neighbour, an old woman named Mrs. O’Leary, about what I’d seen. She went pale and crossed herself. ‘The clown again,’ she whispered. ‘That’s the third time someone’s seen him. They say that block used to be a dance hall during the war. A girl died here, and her lover was a clown in a travelling circus. He never got over it. They say he still walks the corridors, looking for her, and if you see him, he’ll mark you for death.’

I laughed it off nervously, but I couldn’t shake the image of that grin. Over the next weeks, I saw him twice more, always in the reflection of a window or at the foot of my bed at night. Each time, he got closer. The last time, he was inches from my face, and I woke up screaming. I moved out a month later, but I still see him in my dreams—standing in a doorway, posing, then dropping the act, staring into my soul. I never learned what happened to the others who saw him, but I know one thing: he’s not just a ghost. He’s a warning. And he’s still waiting.