Black Clown who is a wizard
Black Clown who is a wizard
The whispers started subtly, carried on the chill October wind. “He’s back,” they murmured, voices hushed with a terror that went beyond simple fear of the dark. He was known only as the Black Clown, a figure of nightmare painted in shades of charcoal and midnight blue, his painted smile a grotesque rictus against a face that seemed to shift and writhe like melting wax. But the whispers spoke not just of his appearance, but of his power – a dark magic that twisted reality to its whim.
Ten years ago, he’d vanished, leaving behind a trail of shattered sanity and petrified laughter. Children disappeared, their screams echoing only in the minds of those who knew them. Now, the whispers confirmed his return, and with him, a creeping dread that settled over the town of Havenwood like a shroud.
My brother, Thomas, dismissed it as superstition, the ramblings of old women clutching their rosaries. But I remembered the things I’d seen – the impossible angles of the abandoned carousel, the unsettling stillness of the once vibrant town square, the lingering scent of ozone and something else…something sickeningly sweet.
One night, a storm raged. The wind howled like a tormented soul, whipping rain against the windows of our old Victorian house. Suddenly, a knock, soft as a phantom’s breath, echoed from the front door. Thomas, ever the skeptic, went to investigate.
A moment of silence, then a bloodcurdling scream that tore through the night.
I ran to the door, my heart hammering against my ribs. There, silhouetted against the lightning-streaked sky, stood the Black Clown. His painted eyes, usually unnervingly blank, glowed with an infernal light. He held Thomas’s hand, limp and lifeless, in one gloved hand, a twisted grin plastered across his face.
“He was…uncooperative,” the clown rasped, his voice a grating mix of whispers and whispers and cackles. “But he made a marvelous addition to my collection.”
He gestured with the other hand, and the ground before me rippled. A vortex of swirling darkness opened, revealing a glimpse of a grotesque carnival, its attractions impossibly distorted, its laughter a cacophony of despair. Within, I saw fleeting images: Thomas, his features contorted in silent agony, and others, countless others, caught in a nightmare that defied logic.
The Black Clown’s hand extended towards me, his fingers long and skeletal, tipped with impossibly sharp nails. He didn’t need to speak. His magic spoke for him, a chilling whisper of inevitable doom. The ground beneath my feet seemed to buckle, a prelude to being pulled into his nightmarish realm.
I screamed, a primal sound lost in the fury of the storm. The last thing I saw before the darkness swallowed me whole was the Black Clown’s smile, a horrifying promise of eternity spent in his twisted amusement park of horrors. The whispers, once faint, now echo in the abyss, a horrifying chorus welcoming new arrivals to his forever carnival.
