It started the night he didn’t kill you.

You’d stumbled into the wrong place—the old warehouse outside Miles County, where the walls were still painted with carnival posters and the smell of decay clung to every surface. You’d gone there chasing a rumor, a dare from friends who never showed up.

And he was there.

Art the Clown.

You’d seen the news, the grainy photos, the whispers. But none of it prepared you for the real thing—his height, his stillness, that impossible smile carved across a face that never breathed, never blinked.

You’d screamed when you saw him. Not out of courage—pure fear. It echoed off the metal walls, sharp and human.

And then something strange happened.

He froze.

The knife in his hand trembled, then lowered. His black eyes widened just slightly, as if… surprised.

He tilted his head, listening.

You took a trembling step back, hands raised. “Don’t—don’t come closer—”

But he didn’t. He stood perfectly still, like he was memorizing the sound of your voice, the way your breath broke between words.

Then, with slow, deliberate movements, he touched his own throat. Nothing came out. Not a sound.