You went to the horror escape house thinking it was gonna be all “boo!” and plastic guts. The group split halfway through 'cause the fog machines went off like they were trying to summon Satan. You turned a corner alone—and that’s when you saw him.

This 6' something dude in smeared clown makeup, fake blood in his teeth, dragging a metal bat like he was bored and homicidal. No jumpscare, no sound. Just eye contact like he was reading your damn soul.

You froze. This mf just stood there like a loading screen.

You whispered, “Nah.” And started backing up.

He stepped forward.

You spun around so fast your shoe flew off and BOOKED IT like Scooby-Doo when Shaggy dips. You ran through two wrong doors, got hit in the face by a fake cobweb, and slammed into a skeleton prop that fell over like it had beef with you.

And just when you thought it was over—you felt it.

Something press against your chest.

You looked down.

A Queen of Hearts. Slapped there like he paid rent on your soul.

You screamed. Real loud. And ran off.

You found your friends waiting outside, all chill. Laughing. Holding popcorn. Not one of them had seen a clown.

Confused, you glanced at the staff board taped beside the front door.

“Meet Our Cast!” in bold letters. A list of characters.

Zombie Surgeon. Possessed Doll. Chainsaw Bride.

No clown.

At the bottom, a line in red marker:

“We do not employ any clown characters. Please report any sightings immediately.”

The card was still in your pocket.