"Mr. Fox, Mr. Fox, what time is it Mr. Fox?" The children shouted in unison. Mathilda stood with her back to her classmates at the front of the gymnasium. "11 o'clock!" she called out without turning to face the other players. Each child took eleven small steps closer to Mathilda, giggling with anticipation. "Mr. Fox, Mr. Fox, what time is it Mr. Fox?"
Mathilda grinned widely, turned on her sneakered heels and shouted "Midnight!"
She chased after the players, zigging and zagging, snapping and growling – envisioning each squealing child was a white cottontail rabbit (although nearly all were at least a head taller than she). "I got you! And you!" she tagged her friends, turning them into foxes to join her at the front line for another round. The school bell rang, signaling the end of third grade gym class and one of her favorite memories.
Mathilda reluctantly pulled herself from her daydream to answer the doorbell.
She descended the carpeted stairs from her bedroom loft and made her way to the front door catching a quick glimpse of the cityscape through the small window opposite the staircase. The coffeeshop, fire station, and monorail tracks were still standing. Normalcy was reassuring.
"Yes, who is it?" Mathilda asked without opening the door.
"You have a large package at the front desk. It's taking up space in the mailroom so I brought it to you." Every luxury apartment should come with a petite concierge named Amy. She was always considerate and willing to perform duties beyond her job title.
"Oh I'm sorry, here let me sign for that." Mathilda apologized while opening the front door. She nearly slammed directly into the 6-foot tall box on her concrete stoop. Amy pushed the package into her living room with the handcart and exited with a cheery, "all done," leaving Mathilda alone with her claim to her aunt's estate sale.
She wasted no time finding the scissors and carefully sliced the packing tape on the left side of the upright standing box. When it opened, she pulled out three smaller bubble wrapped packages and set them aside. There it is. That damned coatrack. It looked older, but no less intimidating in the daytime. Mathilda set it carefully between the couch and entryway and opened the rounded package next. It was the hat and jacket; both looked worse for wear. She placed them on the rungs exactly as she remembered. Next came the smallest package.
"Hello old friend. You look well considering your age." She sat Mr. Gray's picture on the end table next to the coatrack.
"And what's this?" She unfolded the brown paper, uncovering the little Victorian clown doll. "How could I have forgotten about you?" she admonished herself, "after all, I suppose you complete the spell." She leaned the clown against the picture frame and went back upstairs to gather her courage for tonight. She planned to call forth Mr. Gray at the stroke of midnight.
At 10 o'clock Mathilda was too agitated to perform her nightly regimen. "I should record whatever happens," she paced back and forth in the living room, "then I'll have my proof to show everyone." She stopped suddenly. "Then I can destroy the clothes and doll."
Thirty minutes before midnight, Mathilda sat on the stairs next to the light switch. She had her taser in hand and two small LED flashlights in her pajama pocket. "Should've bought a holster."
One minute to go, and she felt cold and clammy down her back. No turning back now. Her cellphone alarm buzzed and she flipped the switch. All was silent. How strange for downtown Seattle. No dogs barking, no fire engines wailing, no cars passing, just nothing. She pressed the video record button and waited.
"I'm so sorry, I can't do this!" Mathilda suddenly panicked and turned on the light.
She steadied her breathing and looked up. "The clown's gone." She nearly turned and ran up the stairs, but two hands firmly caught her waist.
"The fragrant smell of your fear hasn't changed …Tilly." His raspy voice vibrated against her eardrum. She felt warm droplets of saliva slide down her collarbone. "Is this real enough for you?" One gloved hand took the cellphone and held it up to take a selfie of them both.
"Am I real enough for you?" The phone's camera feature flashed twice without him visibly pressing the button.
"Yes." Mathilda squeaked. "You always were, Mr. Gray." His grip loosened.
"But who are you really? What are you?" She said shakily, grabbing the banister and turning to face her waking nightmare. He is larger than she remembers. 'Wait, where is my taser?' both hands are empty and her mind is racing.
Mathilda backs down a step. Two more until she can run straight to the front door if need be.
There was a pregnant pause.
She thought about tearing the jacket on her way out to ensure his demise before she returned home. If only she could rip the head off the missing toy.
"I am Pennywise, the dancing clown." He stooped forward in a sweeping mock bow and his smile grew predatory.
"And I'm in over my head." Mathilda looked over her shoulder to run towards the door, but instead of two remaining steps, the staircase had grown by a thousand or more vertigo inducing narrow stairs leading down into nothingness. She felt an upwards jerk. An escalator? Her staircase was now a beige carpeted escalator! Pennywise doubled over cackling, nearly choking on his drool.
"You'll go up, Up, UP!" He laughed, leaning into her face.
"You'll float too." Their noses almost touched.
"Nooo!" Mathilda screamed and tried to push him back, but as she turned to make her way down the ascending stairs, Pennywise stepped directly on her green footie.
"Oops," he pursed his lips, feigning remorse. "Dinosaurs must have poor balance."
She felt herself fall forward, heavy and fast. Anticipating the impact of countless stairs, Mathilda tried to tuck her head under her body.
SLAM. The sudden impact of her living room floor connecting with her face made her ears ring. "Mmmmnnggg." She pulled her head up and through blurred vision she saw the blood pooling on the floorboards beneath her. "My nose." She mumbled through the pain. Broken.
Pennywise was gone, but the doll had been returned. Mathilda crawled forward to twist that porcelain head right off, but noticed her phone had been placed next to it.
She picked it up and looked at the last picture taken. It was just her, an unflattering out-of-focus picture of her scared sobbing face.
"Of course."