I flick Steve’s power switch, and he springs to life. Jerry instantly reacts by becoming a horse in a burning barn. His ears pin back, and his legs go into Scooby-Doo mode before finding traction and launching him out of the room.
Steve, you need to understand, is a clown. I found him years ago on “CLEARANCE,” at the Home Sense on Brentcliffe – bottom shelf, covered in dust, face down. He’s three feet tall with a crazed, murderous grin and matted orange hair. He’s activated by sound – a clap, a yell – triggering laser-red eyes to flash and his arms to claw the air. What’s truly unsettling, though, is his sound effects: a hellish sound soup of carnival music and screams. All the while Steve howls with unhinged glee. He’s “scary AF,” as my son would say. (That’s “as f**k” to us non-acronym lovers.) I thought naming him Steve might take some edge off. Wrong! It only adds to his menace.
In other words, he’s the perfect Halloween porch ornament. So too, for last Halloween.
And here he stands, greeting the first wave of kids – the small ones who must be in bed early. They stop and look up at Steve. He eyes them, motionless. I open the door and tell them, “It’s okay, he’s not real.”
They move single file up the stairs to avoid getting too close. A parent says, “What do you say?” In unison, they yell: “Trick or treat!”
Steve erupts into action – the crazy laugh, the music, the screams, the horror. All at once, the kids screech and flee. “Wait, come back. Don’t you want a treat?” I’m aware of how creepy I must sound. The parents laugh. No matter. More Coffee Crisps for me.
Next wave – the 8-10 year-olds. They’re not as afraid but maintain a healthy distrust of Steve. “Creepy, clown, Mister.”
“Insult him, and he comes to life.” Parents laugh.
An hour later, wave three – the teenagers. They still want candy but are too cool to dress up.
“Sick clown, man.”
I ask a kid in sweatpants and a hoodie, “What are you supposed to be?” He points at his glasses: “A smart kid.”
“Are they fake glasses?” I ask.
“No,” he admits.
“So, your costume is a lazy kid who wants free candy.” His costumeless cohorts chortle.
I ask the next one, “And what are you?”
“A cat.”
“But no costume,” I deadpan.
“I identify as a cat.”
Not bad. She’s quick. “For that, you get a Coffee Crisp,” I tell her.
Her friend tries to cop the idea, “I’m a cat, too!”
“Ah, so close,” I feign sincerity. “If you had said you were a ‘copycat’ you would have gotten TWO Coffee Crisps. Instead, you’re a lame duck, and that gets you black licorice. Next.”
Soon out of treats, I bring in Steve and turn out the light. With another Halloween and several Coffee Crisps under my belt I eventually make my way to bed, where Jerry is still shivering through his Post-Traumatic Steve Disorder.
As I lay in bed reading, Jerry sits rigid, staring into the dark hallway. He grumbles.
“What is it?”
He answers by growling more loudly, looking more intently into the shadows. A little unsettled, I put on my Big Man Voice and yell downstairs: “HEY, who’s there?!”
Without missing a beat, Steve roars back with blood-curdling effect. His horrific cacophony rolls up the stairs. Jerry yelps out a “Yike! Yike! Yike!” I squeal. My book flies. Things that are inside me try to come out. Jerry peels off down the hall. Steve bellows with derision. I stomp downstairs, looking very unintimidating in my underwear. I grab Steve by the head as if to show him who’s boss and shunt him into the closet. Feeling drained and rubber-legged by my adrenaline crash, I head back upstairs to find Jerry. “Jerry!? Jerry…want a treat? Come back. Don’t you want a treat?”
This article was guest contributed by David Crichton.
