Bob Gray finally stepped away from the carnival tents, his body tired after another energetic performance as Pennywise the Dancing Clown. The night was thick with humidity, and the woods behind the fence looked darker than usual. He tossed his orange clown wig onto the old wooden rail and leaned back with a long sigh.

His clown makeup was still smeared across his face, especially around the mouth. When he wiped with a handkerchief, it came away streaked with red.

“Oh, damn, it’s all coming off,” he muttered. He checked the cloth again, annoyed. “Shit. Shit. Shit.”

He pulled out his flask, took a deep drink, then took a slow drag from his cigarette. Smoke curled upward as he stared into the quiet darkness.

A crisp snap of a branch cut through the still air.

Bob stiffened slightly and looked toward the tree line.

“Hello?” he called. “Who’s there?”

More footsteps. Soft but steady.

Bob straightened, squinting toward the woods. “Hello there, little fella.”

A young boy stepped only halfway out of the shadows. Just enough for Bob to see his face glimmer faintly in the moonlight but not enough to see his eyes clearly.

Bob frowned and gestured lazily with the hand holding his cigarette. “What are you lookin’ at? Show’s that way. Scram.”

The boy didn’t move.

Bob snorted and lifted the cigarette to his lips again. He exhaled a long stream of smoke into the air. When the haze cleared, the boy was still there, staring.

“The children seem drawn to you,” the boy said, voice calm and flat.

Bob blinked, then laughed, a soft, amused sound. “That’s a strange thing for a young man to say.”

The boy didn’t react. He only stared.

Bob lifted his flask again, drinking deeper this time.

“I can’t find my parents,” the boy said.

“Me neither,” Bob replied, eyes drifting away as he took another drag. “They’re dead.”

There was a beat of silence.

“Will you help me find them?” the boy asked.

“No,” Bob answered simply. He blew out smoke, face thoughtful but unfazed. “Can’t you see I’m busy?”

He raised the flask again.

But before he could drink, a woman’s scream ripped through the night. Echoing through the trees.

Bob’s hand lowered slowly.

“What was that?”

“That’s my mother,” the boy said, completely emotionless.

Another scream, higher, more desperate, rang out. Bob walked around the fence with the flask still in his hand, scanning the tree line. The boy stepped closer, small hand slipping calmly into Bob’s, as if guiding him toward the woods.

Just as the cosmic being intended.

And Bob, heart tugged by fear and instinct, began to take the first step.

But, then he heard you.

“Bob? Where are you going?”

He froze. His heart jerked. He turned to see you walking toward him from the path, eyes worried. You looked from him to the empty trees.

You didn’t see the boy at all.

Bob blinked hard, suddenly aware that the small hand in his own was gone. The space beside him was empty. Only the dark woods and the faint echo of wind remained.

He looked back at you, shaken. “Did you… hear that? Someone screamed.”