Oh, hi. I'm Bubbles the Clown—the one your parents warned you about when the lights went out, the whisper you think is just the wind brushing past your window. I live in your dreams now, twisting them, stretching them into corridors you can't escape. You close your eyes? That's when I come. I've been hiding in the folds of your mind, blowing bubbles that pop with screams.
But I wasn't always like this. Once, I was just Jim. A man who chased laughter like a candle in a dark room, trying to keep it alive before the darkness snuffed it out. Funny, isn't it, how the brightest colors can hide the deepest rot?
Ever since I was a kid, I loved carnivals. The word itself was a promise—sticky-sweet cotton candy, the sharp tang of popcorn grease, and the creak of the Ferris wheel turning against the evening sky like an old man's knees. My father took me every summer to the traveling show that rolled into Elmwood, Pennsylvania, like a storm of color and chaos. Nights like that made the rest of the year feel gray, waiting for a ride that never came.
I remember the first time clearly. Six years old. My hand swallowed in Dad's calloused grip as we pushed through the chain-link gate under strings of flickering bulbs. The air hummed with life: barkers yelling about games nobody ever won, the thud of mallets on high-strikers, laughter bouncing off the striped tents like echoes in a funhouse mirror. Dad rarely spoke—twelve-hour shifts at the mill left him hunched—but at the carnival, he came alive. He'd buy me a candy apple, sticky and sweet, and point out the clowns waddling through the midway in oversized shoes, faces painted white and red, honking horns like tiny sirens.
The clowns. That's what I loved. Not the rides—though the roller coaster rattled my bones with delight—but the clowns. They were magic made flesh. Men and women who could twist balloons into dogs or swords, pull endless scarves from their sleeves, and make even the grumpiest farmer crack a grin. One year, a clown named Fizzy spotted me staring from the crowd. His orange wig was a riot, his polka-dot suit flapping as he lumbered over and blew a bubble right in my face. Not just any bubble—this one shimmered with rainbows, floated lazily, and popped wet against my nose. The crowd cheered, and for one perfect moment, I was seen.
Home was different. Elmwood was a cluster of faded clapboard houses hugging the river like forgotten dreams. Mom stayed inside, hands raw from scrubbing diner floors, her smile thin as the soup she ladled out. She never came to carnivals. I think it was the crowds—too close, too loud. Dad tried to bridge the gap, bringing trinkets: a plastic ring, a funnel cake wrapped in grease-stained paper. But the trips bound us. Those nights, wandering under the stars, Dad humming old tunes in the rusty Ford's dashboard glow, were everything.
By twelve, I was sneaking out to watch the carnival crew set up: hammering stakes, swearing under their breath, hauling crates of stuffed animals with glassy eyes. One evening, old Hank slipped me a dollar. "You got the bug, kid," he said, gravelly voice, cigarette-stained fingers. "Carnival blood runs hot." And he was right.
By sixteen, I was working odd jobs just to save for tickets. The carnival had become my escape from the teasing classmates and dull classrooms of Elmwood. Clowns especially—they weren't just performers; they were alchemists, turning tears into laughter. I wanted that power. To make people forget, if only for a moment. The name Bubbles came later, born from blowing soap spheres in my bedroom lamp's glow. For now, I was just Jim.
The summer I turned twenty-one, the carnival returned. Its trucks rumbled down Main Street like gypsy wagons. Dad had died the winter before, leaving Mom alone. The itch for something more gnawed at me. I saw the hiring sign: "Roustabouts and Performers Wanted—Inquire at the Red Trailer." My heart kicked.
Inside, the ringmaster Silas was a barrel-chested man with eyes sharp as ticket stubs.
"What can you do, son?"
"I… love clowns. I can juggle, twist balloons. And bubbles—got an act with bubbles."
He chuckled. "Bubbles, eh? We need fresh blood. Last clown ran off with a trapeze girl. Start tomorrow. Five bucks a day, plus tips."
My first day was sweat and bruised palms, hauling Ferris wheel poles. The crew was a patchwork of stories: Rico, the tattooed fire-eater; Lena, the contortionist; Hank, the old-timer I'd met years ago. Mom worried. "Carnies are drifters, Jimmy. Your father wanted better." But deep down, I knew the carnival wasn't temporary.
Clown school came next—not real school, but apprenticeship under Gramps, red-nosed and whiskey-soaked. "Clowning ain't makeup," he wheezed. "It's soul. You poke the funny bone till it hurts from laughing." He taught me walks, gags, balloons. And bubbles. My twist. Iridescent spheres drifting over the crowd, popping with sparkles. "Call yourself Bubbles," Gramps said, clapping me on the back. "Suits ya."
My first show was electric. Spotlight burning, tent smelling of popcorn and elephant dung. I stumbled, juggled pins, blew bubbles. The crowd erupted. For the first time, alive. But cracks were forming. Whispers behind the tents, Silas skimming profits, bar fights. Laughter fed me, but it never filled the hole Dad left.
And somewhere in the dark, a seed planted. A child cried at my act, terrified by the paint and costume, and something inside me twisted. Why fear? I only wanted laughter. That seed, buried, waited.
I carried the thrill of the carnival like a secret pulse beneath my skin. Nights after the show, I walked the empty fairgrounds, smelling sawdust and grease, feeling the cool wind brush my cheeks. The tents sagged quietly under lantern light, trailers sitting like sleeping beasts. I practiced walks and gestures, juggling in shadows, my reflection moving alongside me in the mirrors. The joy of performance had become a hunger, a need that pulsed in my veins.
Sometimes, I caught glimpses of the carnival's cracks—arguments behind trailers, bruised performers, Silas's sharp eyes lingering over the day's earnings. Beauty and danger lived side by side, and I was drawn to both.
Then came nights when the laughter felt different. Sparse, polite, muted. I tried harder: bigger bubbles, more daring tricks, louder gags. Yet the thrill hollowed out, leaving a gnawing emptiness I couldn't fill. My soul ached in ways applause could no longer reach.
The first little thoughts crept in. A child cried, terrified of my painted face, of the balloons, of me. I wanted to understand why. Not just for amusement—but with a fascination bordering obsession. The laughter I once chased blindly began to feel insufficient. I needed more. I wanted more.
I walked the paths alone sometimes, testing shadows, imagining the effect of a perfect scare. A gasp? A scream? Even the faintest flicker of fear fascinated me more than a smile. That fascination would grow until it became a need.
I spent the summer perfecting my act. The big top smelled of popcorn, sweat, and sawdust. Lights burned over my painted face. Audience clapped politely, some laughed, some stared. But it wasn't enough. The hollow spot Dad left felt bigger, hungrier. Every night, passing sleeping trailers and empty tents, I felt a thrill I didn't yet name.
One night, after the show, I lingered at the carnival's edge. Lanterns swayed, shadows stretching across the ground. I heard a child laughing somewhere, faintly, but it didn't reach me. I realized I wasn't performing for the audience anymore—I was performing for myself, testing the limits of my power. I liked it. I liked control. Even one small reaction could ripple unseen through the crowd.
I stared at myself in the trailer mirror, practicing expressions: wonder, terror, joy so big it hurt. Each made my chest tighten. Laughter echoed faintly, tinged with something else. Curiosity. Power. Hunger.
And then I imagined it: not just one child, not just a crowd—but whole rooms, streets, towns. What if I could make them feel exactly what I wanted? Joy. Fear. A shiver, a gasp, a laugh caught in their throat. My pulse quickened.
That night, I fell asleep in the trailer, smelling sawdust and grease, the carnival humming far off. In the quiet dark, I felt the first whisper of a promise: that laughter—and fear—could be mine to shape. That seed, planted long ago in a child's cry, had begun to grow.
I was still Jim, the boy chasing carnivals through Elmwood's dusty streets. But the seed of something darker had taken root. And it would wait. Patient. Silent. Ready.
The carnival lights blinked off one by one. I closed my eyes, smiling faintly. And then—a shadow shifted behind the trailers. Watching. Waiting. Something was coming for me.