The Crimson Stare

My name is Elise, and I live in a cramped studio apartment above a twenty-four-hour laundromat in the neon-lit sprawl of downtown. The constant hum of dryers and the faint, chemical smell of detergent are the only company I’ve had since I moved here three months ago. I work nights at a call center, so my days are spent in a twilight of sleep and blurry television. It’s a lonely existence, but I’ve made peace with it. Or I thought I had.

It was a Tuesday, I think. I was lying in bed, rereading a dog-eared paperback, when the porcelain smile of a small, antique clown figurine caught my eye. It was a garish thing, with chipped paint and a frozen grin, a memento from my great-aunt, who had passed away the previous year. She’d left it to me in her will, along with a cryptic note: “Keep an eye on him.” I’d always found it unsettling, so I’d shoved it onto a high shelf above my closet, next to a stack of old photo albums. I’d wedged a matchbook under its base to keep it from tipping over.

Without warning, the clown pitched forward. It didn’t slide; it toppled, as if pushed, and landed face-first on the worn carpet with a soft thud. I yelped, my heart hammering. The clown lay there, unbroken, its painted eyes staring up at the ceiling. I stared back, my skin crawling. I hadn’t touched it; I hadn’t even moved. The air in the room suddenly felt thick, charged with an electricity that made my hair stand on end.

I forced myself to get up and retrieve the thing. As my fingers closed around its cold, painted head, I felt a wave of dizziness wash over me. I propped it back on the shelf, more carefully this time, using a thicker book to brace it. I tried to return to my reading, but the words blurred. The feeling of being observed was overwhelming, a pressure at the back of my neck, a prickling on my skin. It was worse than any imaginary fear I’d ever had. It was a presence, a consciousness, and it was focused entirely on me.

I tried to ignore it, to rationalize it away. But the feeling only intensified. I could almost hear a faint, tinny music, like a calliope, coming from the closet. I turned on my TV, cranked the volume, but the music didn’t stop. It was inside my head. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw the clown’s head turn. Just a fraction, but it turned. I froze, my breath caught in my throat. I didn’t dare look directly at it.

I spent the next hour in a state of paralyzed terror, my back pressed against the headboard, my knees drawn to my chest. The presence grew stronger, more tangible. I could feel it breathing in the corner of the room. I could smell dust and old paint, and something else—something metallic, like blood. The clown’s painted smile seemed to widen in the dim light.

Finally, unable to bear it any longer, I grabbed my keys and bolted out of the apartment, down the stairs, and into the neon-lit street. I walked for hours, my mind racing, until exhaustion set in. I returned just before dawn, the apartment quiet. The clown was back on the shelf, as if it had never moved. But I knew it had. I knew something lived in that painted shell, something that had been waiting for me to be alone.

Since that night, I haven’t been able to sleep without the lights on. The clown watches me from its shelf, and every time I close my eyes, I see its chipped smile, and I hear that faint, tinny music. It’s getting louder. And sometimes, when I wake in the dead of night, I find the clown sitting on my nightstand, its painted eyes fixed on mine, its grin a mockery of warmth. I don’t know what it wants, but I know it’s not done with me. It’s waiting, patient, and the worst part is, I don’t think I can get rid of it. It’s a part of me now, that crimson stare, following me everywhere I go.