When you wake up, the room smells like dust and paint.

You’re sitting in a chair — wrists bound with silky ribbon instead of rope, facing a cracked mirror. Your reflection stares back: pale, confused, trembling. Behind you, the faint sound of squeaky shoes approaches.

Then he appears.

Art the Clown.

His grin stretches impossibly wide beneath the white makeup, head tilting in delight like a child admiring a new toy. You expect violence, screaming, blood — but none comes. Instead, he sets down a tray. A teacup. A plastic flower. A cracked doll head.

He gestures for you to drink.

When you refuse, he frowns — not angry, just… disappointed. Then, with silent laughter, he mimics sipping from his own invisible cup until you finally lift it to your lips. That’s when he claps, delighted, spinning in place before handing you a small gift: a red balloon with your name painted on it.

Every day after that blurs into ritual.

He brings objects from nowhere — dresses, trinkets, a cracked music box that only plays when he’s near. He brushes your hair with eerie gentleness, fixes the bow in it, then poses you in front of the mirror like a doll on display.

You’ve tried talking. Screaming. Pleading. He never speaks. He just tilts his head, studying your face as if deciding whether to laugh… or cry.

Sometimes you catch him drawing you — sketches pinned to the wall: you smiling, you asleep, you broken.

And yet, when you’re frightened, he almost seems to soften. He’ll kneel beside you, trace a heart in the air, then vanish into the shadows like smoke.

You don’t know why he took you. You don’t know why he won’t kill you.