The house was alive with chaos that morning. Bags being slammed shut, shoes kicked into corners, arguments about who forgot what. My family was never quiet, never calm—and today was no exception. We were going on a trip, and like every trip, it felt like war before the peace.
Finally, after too much shouting and laughter, we piled into the van. Our countryside home rested high in the mountains, far from the paved comfort of normal roads. Getting down was always strange—no straight highways, no carved paths, only towering shafts of steel buildings clinging to the cliffside, with elevators and endless stairs plunging down like throats into the valley below.
Most people took the usual ways, but today the lines were endless, a swarm of people crowding every entrance. My family, restless and impatient, decided on the abandoned path.
That should've been the first warning.
The moment we stepped into it, I noticed it. A heavy red light, bleeding across the rusted walls. A sour, metallic stench in the air—like iron, like rot, like something that shouldn't be breathed. But my family, loud and careless, kept walking. So I followed.
The elevator sat waiting, its doors wide open like a mouth. Inside, bottles were scattered, their wine long dried into sticky stains. Used syringes glimmered faintly in the dim red light. Knives—actual knives—were lying on the floor, some with dark stains on their edges. A handkerchief, stiff and soaked with old blood, sat crumpled near the corner.
My older brother picked it up, twirling it with mock disgust.
"Pfft. What is this? Someone tried to kill themselves but got saved halfway?" he laughed.
The elevator groaned shut around us. My heart thudded as we descended.
When the doors opened, they were waiting.
Clowns.
Not monsters, not horror-show freaks—just clowns. Colorful wigs, painted cheeks, bright costumes. They smiled wide, and not the jagged, nightmarish grins you'd expect. No, these were warm, playful smiles. And yet… something inside me twisted. My nerves shrieked, every instinct clawing at me to *run*.
But my family didn't run. So I didn't either.
"Play a game with us," one of them said lightly.
We asked who they were. Their answer was casual, friendly. Just performers, traveling from the valley to the town above for a show. But since the other paths were too crowded, they took this one. Their voices were cheerful, their eyes kind. My family laughed and chatted with them, as if nothing was wrong.
But their friendliness was only toward my family. For me, it was different. I felt their gaze crawling under my skin, cold and unblinking.
"Come," one said. "Let's play a little game."
And everyone agreed.
Naturally, I had to agree too.
We were split, one clown for each of us, led into separate rooms. Each room was small, plain, and quiet—except for the single chessboard waiting on a table. Beyond the wall, an opening gaped into a pitch-black chamber. A darkness so thick it felt alive.
The clown across from me sat down, his painted smile unwavering.
"If you lose," he said softly, "you'll come into that room with me."
That smile. That calm voice. My instincts went wild, screaming, clawing, *run*.
But I sat down. And I played.
My hands shook, my mind clouded. The pieces blurred. It didn't take long—I lost.
The clown leaned closer, his eyes gleaming behind the paint.
"Now it's time," he whispered. "Come with me."
I froze. Something inside me snapped. My instincts finally took control. I shoved the board aside and bolted—past the table, past his unmoving stare, straight for the exit.
And when I looked back… he hadn't moved. He was still sitting at the table, smiling that same calm smile.
Then—sunlight.
Blinding, brilliant sunlight hit my face as I stumbled outside. My family was already there, cheerful as ever, stuffing bags into the van as though nothing had happened.
I forced myself to breathe, to steady my face. They hadn't noticed. Not one of them looked shaken. They were the same as always, laughing, hyped for the trip.
I slipped into the van, trying to silence the storm inside me.
Then my little brother tugged my sleeve.
"Hey… what did you get?"
I blinked. "What do you mean?"
"You know, in the dark room," he said. "Didn't they give you something to eat? Big bro got a banana. I got this toffee. Sis got chips. Mom got a cold drink, and Dad got an orange."
The blood drained from my face. The image of the clown's words, the dark room, that unbroken smile—all slammed back into me.
I swallowed. "I… I got nothing."
He tilted his head, confused, about to speak again—
But Mom cut in, sharp and quick, changing the subject before he could finish.
And I sat there, staring out the window as the van rolled downhill. My family laughed, but my hands were trembling. Deep down, I knew:
Something was wrong.
Something was *very* wrong.