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Run, run, ditto moon.
Pullin' back, shape up to
The know
The funky lyrics of Fever the Ghost's "Source" clambered through the dark mishmash of your slumber. The pale ceiling sharpened into view.
High stream, pushing steam
Rolling eye is forced to dream, you go
A groovy tune had always been the right way to wake up, and you slowly tilted your head toward your bedside table. Your phone's screen was bright and awake as your alarm sang gleefully into the morning air. You lightly tapped the digital colors, ordering the members of Fever the Ghost to rest until tomorrow called.
The room quieted to the breathy whispers of the ventilation, and you crept over to the yellowing window.
The streets of Derry were empty as dark thunderclouds slipped closer, and a few gray droplets slapped onto the dusty glass. You hastily trotted to the kitchen and snatched the camera resting on the table; you pulled a black slicker off its hook. With the raincoat thrown over your pastel pajamas, you slipped on a pair of red boots and rushed out the door.
Your footsteps produced a metallic racket as you barreled down the stairwell, trying to beat the oncoming storm. Dark clouds always call for eerie pictures, especially in rundown towns such as this. You were on your second year of a nationwide traveling spree, desperate to capture all the images of America. Freelance photography does not supply you with an impressive income, but it fills your heart with such a pleasure that you cannot resist.
The angry wind ripped through your hair as you burst outside into the misty air, and you smiled brightly at the blackness consuming the sky above. The camera whirred alive and clacked as pictures were saved to the tiny SD card nested inside its mechanical body. Tiny splashes of the sky's tears plopped against the lens, and you paused to wipe the water off on your pants.
The camera was whipped back up again, poised to click more, but a bright redness distracted you. A scarlet helium balloon lazy bobbed down the street, fighting against the rugged pushes of the wind. You snapped a few pictures of the balloon, admiring its contrast against the glum world.
You lowered your camera to flip through the pictures. The balloon elegantly glided towards you before being thrown off course by another rogue burst of wind. It resumed its track towards you, and you paused your observation of the images to watch it.
As it edged near, you took a few steps forward, clearing the distance that was between you two. Suddenly, an apparition of a ghostly hand appeared inside the latex balloon, causing you to flinch. You had heard strange rumors around Derry about demonic happenings, but since those tales were mostly told by the elderly, you often ignored them. You had heard the wild wives tales at a donut shop you visit each morning.
"See those missing signs?" the counter-lady had said, gesturing to the blue paper stuck to the telephone pole outside. "Kids and adults go missing all the time. Why did you come here?"
You had glanced at the sign and turned back to the ancient woman. Her eyes were bloodshot and sunken in from her years living. "I am a photographer. I came to Derry to find interesting things to take pictures of."
The counter-lady smiled pleasantly. "It is an interesting town, but weird things happen. I would leave."
"Well, why don't you?"
"I'm old. Might as well stay." She handed your pastry bag to you.
"I'll stay safe. I'm leaving in about a week, anyways."
"You might want to shorten your stay." A chubby vet settled at a table remarked. There were four veterans.
"It's a demon, that's what I say," one of the cubby vet's comrades added.
"Don't be ridiculous; no such things exist. I say there's a slasher among us," another one of the vets said, this one wearing a worn baseball hat with "Derry" printed in faded white across the crown.
The fourth veteran simply nodded in agreement before taking a sip of his dark roast, his aged hand shaking as it brought the porcelain cup to his wrinkled lips.
"It could be a demon," you replied. "I think ghosts exist, so there must be bad spirits."
And that could be the only possibility. The hand gently formed into a fist before politely pounding against the wall of the balloon, as if asking to be let through a door. You glanced around, looking for a magician to jump out from one of the musty alleyways, announcing that he was the cause of this insane image.
As no magic man appeared, you turned back to the balloon. The hand was now waving gleefully at you; it was hard to tell if it belonged to a man or woman. You hesitantly waved back, and the hand suddenly pointed to your face. It then flipped over, palm up, before making a "come hither" motion.
You shook your head and stepped back. A sharp shriek burst out of your mouth as the balloon popped, and the hand fell to the road, making a soft, grotesque cracking sound. It pulled itself up, now poised on its white fingers, and it aimlessly crawled around. It suddenly pinpointed your position. You quickly walk backwards, overwhelmed by conflicting sensations of awe and horror, as it circled towards your feet.
Your retreat was interrupted as you crashed into someone.
"Oh, I'm sorry –"
Your genuine apology was stolen off your tongue as you gaze up at the stranger. The hand clambered over your boot and dashed towards its owner. The stranger bent down, allowing the hand to reattach itself to its wrist. The popping of numerous bones echoed through the street as the clown rose back up again. Its yellow eyes sparkled with dark mischief, and it smiled cunningly before holding its gloved hand out toward you.
You sputtered some gibberish as your brain desperately tried to comprehend what was occurring. Was it a psychopath? Maybe the vet was right about the slasher, but who would go about their murderous shenanigans dressed as a circus comedian? A psychopathic slasher might.
The clown giggled as it watched your confusion.
"Those townsfolk really didn't bother to tell you?" It brought its hand back to produce a red balloon from its pocket. It brought the balloon to its mouth and blew into the neck of the balloon. The balloon's rosy body grew into a lovely orb before the clown tied the bottom into a neat knot. It offered the balloon to you, the dark sky reflecting off the shiny, latex surface.
"Take it," the clown cooed, its voice hissing over the whistles of the storm.
You shake your head, tears blurring your vision. "No, I don't want it," you replied.
The clown's sly smirk dropped to an expression of disgust. He let go of the balloon, and it disappeared up into the sky, becoming a drop of blood among the black. You wiped your tears on your sleeve, and when you raised your head back up, the clown was gone.