The world can be a strange place and when one thing goes bad, usually it was in concert with many other nasty dominoes that fall behind it. "When it rains, it pours." It had become his mental refrain, one that felt especially true in 2016 when it seemed like the whole world had spiraled into chaos. He was no stranger to life’s oddities, but this year felt different, like the absurdities had taken on a life of their own. The news cycle was relentless, flashing images of creepy clowns stalking neighborhoods one moment and heated political debates the next. It was a strange time to be alive, with the country seemingly on edge, flipping between real dangers and imagined threats with every scroll through his phone.
He could still recall the first clown sighting he read about on Facebook. It was some grainy, shaky video taken in the woods of South Carolina, the eerie figure half-lit by a dim streetlight. Before he knew it, the stories were everywhere—clowns lurking outside schools, standing at the edge of forests, or appearing in the flickering headlights on dark roads. His Twitter feed exploded with #ClownSighting hashtags, and even his friends started swapping stories, claiming to have seen one behind the local gas station or outside a Walmart. It was as if the entire country had become a circus, and nobody could tell what was real anymore.
And then there was the election. Every time Blake turned on the TV or glanced at his phone, he was bombarded with clips of rallies, debates, and pundits shouting over each other. The debates between Trump and Clinton became must-watch spectacles, not for the politics, but for the sheer theater of it all. Every scandal, every leaked email, every outrageous comment seemed to drive people into deeper frenzy, like the clowns were just another symptom of a nation losing its grip. It mirrored Blake’s own growing sense of unease, like he was drifting through a world that was one bad headline away from tipping over the edge.
Whenever the weight of it all became too much—the clowns, the election, the never-ending deluge of negativity in his newsfeed—Blake would hear his mother's voice in his head. "When it rains, it pours," she’d always say, usually in response to something far less dramatic, like a flat tire or an unexpected bill. But now, those words seemed to hold an almost prophetic weight, anchoring him in this bizarre reality. They were a reminder that sometimes, life didn’t just throw you curveballs—it hurled an entire circus your way. Blake couldn’t help but wonder if his mother ever realized how deeply that phrase had embedded itself into his psyche, becoming a constant echo as he navigated this tumultuous year. Words like that were kindling for his "Why me?" mentality. It wasn’t just about handling life's difficulties anymore—it was about surviving in a world that was going mad.
Blake was fully aware of how the media could magnify every event, but he still found himself cycling through a familiar range of emotions: frustration, sadness, even a sense of helplessness. He’d grown up believing he could manage life's complexities with a bit of emotional intelligence, but this year was testing him in ways he hadn’t anticipated. The clown sightings became a metaphor for all the absurdities he couldn't control, while the election cycle amplified every fear and insecurity he’d buried deep down.
It was Friday, October 7th, and as Blake left his last class of the day, he spotted his friend Louis lounging on a concrete wall beside the choir building steps.
"Did you hear about the clowns?" Louis asked, eyes wide with excitement.
"Yeah, of course. I’m on social media," Blake replied casually.
"Well, my mom sent me a text about it. Apparently, the school sent out a warning too. Total overreaction, if you ask me. I’m not scared of clowns. Such bullshit. My dad gave me my first gun when I was..." Louis trailed off as Kathryn Dell walked by. He always hung around after choir practice, waiting for that perfect moment when she'd come out with her friends, and depart for her car. He enjoyed watching her walk, captivated by the bounce in her step, making her butt twitch with each bounce, as she made her way to her car. On a good day, his old Toyota pickup would be parked right next to her Mustang GT.
Meanwhile, Blake realized he'd left his phone at home that day. He could already picture the string of worried texts from his mom. And as he thought about the upcoming Halloween, he knew he’d have to reconsider his costume choice. Maybe a scary clown wasn’t such a good idea after all.
Blake unlocked his old, battered sedan and slid into the driver’s seat, the vinyl creaking under his weight. He fumbled with the keys, turning the ignition, and soon, the familiar hum of the engine mingled with the opening chords of "Let it Happen" by Tame Impala. The synth-pop beats poured from the speakers, instantly settling into the small space like a gentle rain. As he pulled out of the campus parking lot, the autumn sky hung low with thick, gray clouds, matching his mood and making the drive feel dreamlike.
Blake passed rows of trees with leaves beginning to turn, their colors muted in the overcast light. He slowed at a stop sign, watching a group of kids waiting for a bus, their jackets zipped up against the cooling air. The world felt strangely still, like it was holding its breath, and he let out a sigh he didn’t realize he’d been holding in.
As Blake turned onto his street, the familiarity of his neighborhood washed over him. The basketball hoop at the end of the cul-de-sac was crooked, as always, and Mrs. Klein’s flower beds were overflowing with marigolds, their orange petals vibrant against the fading daylight. He parked in the driveway, the car’s engine shuddering once before falling silent, and for a moment, he just sat there, letting the final notes of the song linger.
Finally, Blake stepped out, the wind tousling his hair as he grabbed his backpack and shut the door. He walked up the cracked pathway, noticing the way the porch light had already flickered on even though it was barely 4 PM. The screen door squeaked as he pushed it open, and the familiar scent of his mom’s cinnamon candles greeted him—an after-school ritual she kept year-round. The hum of the washing machine vibrated through the walls, and the faint sound of the news drifted from the living room TV. Blake stood there for a moment. The hum of the sounds in his house wrapped around him like a blanket, and he could almost forget the clowns, the hurricanes, and the weirdness of the world outside. He was home.
Blake stepped into the kitchen, the familiar creak of the linoleum under his sneakers echoing off the faded wallpaper. He tossed his backpack onto the table, the weight of it making a dull thud that seemed louder than it should have been.
His eyes fell on the counter, where a small plate held freshly made peanut butter and jelly sandwiches—his favorite after-school snack since he was six. But what really caught his eye was the envelope perched on top of the sandwich, just slightly stained by a stray blob of grape jelly.
Blake stared at the letter, a simple, folded piece of paper, crinkled at the edges. It had clearly been handled with care, but not without haste. It sat on the kitchen counter, on top plate with two peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, crusts cut off just the way Grandpa Reggie used to make them when he was a kid. The way his mother made them too. There was no mistake. The smell, the way the jelly oozed out from between the bread, it took him straight back to summers spent in his grandfather's musty old house, a place that always seemed to buzz with static from an ancient TV that never quite worked right.
He peeled the letter open, heart pounding in his ears, as if he already knew this wasn’t just a friendly note. It was from his cousin, Paige—written in her scratchy, hurried handwriting. He started to read:
"Dear Aunt Linda, Grandpa Reggie’s in the hospital. It’s bad this time. They’re saying he might not make it through the night. You should come. He’s been asking for you…"
Blake’s breath hitched. Grandpa Reggie. The black sheep of the family, the old man no one ever talked about unless they had to. The one who never could stay in one place long enough to plant roots, who’d whisper to Blake about how the world was full of shadows and how sometimes, if you weren’t careful, the shadows could swallow you whole.
Blake remembered one night in particular, years ago, when he was maybe ten. He’d spent the weekend with Grandpa at his small cabin in the woods. It was just the two of them, a stack of old VHS horror movies, and a storm that rattled the walls. Grandpa had gone out to the shed, saying he had something to show him. He came back with an old shoebox full of frayed letters, brittle photographs, and a revolver that gleamed like it had just been polished. Blake remembered how Grandpa’s eyes, usually wild and bright, had softened as he looked at the gun.
"Sometimes," Grandpa had said, voice low and gravelly, "you gotta make choices in this world, kid. Choices that ain’t ever easy. And sometimes, the only thing you can do is stare the darkness right in the eye and make sure it blinks first."
Blake hadn’t known what to say then. But Grandpa Reggie had just laughed, a long, drawn-out cackle that seemed to echo in the woods outside, mingling with the wind and the rain. Blake remembered shivering, feeling that same electricity that comes just before lightning splits the sky.
And now, Grandpa Reggie was lying in some hospital bed, fighting to hang on. Blake felt a chill creep up his spine, the kind that whispered that maybe, just maybe, the old man had known this day was coming all along. That maybe those stories about the shadows weren’t just drunken ramblings.
Blake folded the letter back up and set it next to his sandwiches, suddenly not hungry. He stared out the window, out into the thickening twilight, and for just a second, he thought he saw something flicker at the edge of the yard. A shadow, long and thin, slipping behind a tree.
He blinked, and it was gone.
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