Coulrophobia (SPN, Teen, pre-season)
Title: Coulrophobia
Author: starrylizard
Rating: Teen, pre-season, horror themes similar to those on the show (Coulrophobia = fear of clowns.)
Spoiler Warnings: None
Summary: “Dean! Dean!” Sam whispered, rushing to the other bed, only to find it empty. “Dad?”
Author's Notes: Written for relativity1953 and spn_thur_nights The prompt is at the end of the fic. Also using this for author's choice for my Paranormal 25 Table Beta by rinkle, but (since I kept fiddling with it) any remaining mistakes are of course mine. Comments and constructive criticism are greatly appreciated.
Words: 1075
Christy stretched and yawned, letting the book she’d been reading aloud slip into her lap. In front of her, now sound asleep, her little charge looked like an angel - all mussed brown hair, pudgy rosy cheeks and his limbs splayed out across the bed. In fact, she almost wondered if he was an angel. His father had said he was an easy kid, but this had to have been the easiest baby-sitting job on record. The only small argument had been over the merits of Happy Jacks for dinner and, really, he’d only been stubborn until he smelt the spaghetti cooking.
Six-year old asleep; check.
House safely locked up; check.
Time for some TV and a nice cuppa; check.
Smiling, she pulled the covers up a little higher around the small boy, flicked the light off and tip-toed from the room.
The small, less than appealing apartment had three rooms - a small bathroom, the kids’ room and a small living room/kitchenette where it seemed their dad was sleeping on the fold-out couch. Wandering into the living room, she flicked on the lights and grimaced as they highlighted an ugly statue in one corner of the room, its garish clown costume and face paint, dirty blond hair and crimson stained lips creating such a disturbing spectacle that it made her take a step back. There was no accounting for taste, but she seriously wondered how she’d missed that before. She could only think it had looked less ugly in the natural light of day.
Christy shook her head and set about finding the TV remote, lifting up couch cushions and searching the tops of the heavy books that lay around the room, some of them on topics she certainly wouldn’t want to be reading late at night. The joys of being an academic apparently, not that he’d looked like an academic to her, but she hadn’t minded so much when he’d flashed that smile of his. God that smile.
Behind the couch was nothing but some change and an old record, The Replacements - Hootananny, which more than likely was from a previous occupant, since there wasn’t a record-player anywhere to be seen. Just as she finally spotted the remote, sitting atop a well-read hardback entitled The Book of Werewolves, the phone began to ring. She snatched up the remote and made for the phone in the kitchenette.
“Hello? Oh, hi, John. Yeah, no problems; he’s been an angel. Yeah, he’s already asleep; he’ll be sad he missed you though. Yep, uh huh. Hey, do you mind if I cover up that statue? You know the clown one. I hope you don’t mind me saying, but it’s kinda creepy. What? Yes you do; it’s right there. Chill, okay, it’s just a statue, I mean…”
A white-gloved hand landed on Christy’s shoulder. She looked up and screamed.
~00~
Sam sat up in bed with a start, feet moving, adrenaline pumping as Dad’s training kicked in before his brain had a moment to figure out what he was afraid of. Then it came again - a single scream and then silence.
“Dean! Dean!” Sam whispered, rushing to the other bed, only to find it empty. “Dad?” Sam’s voice came out with a small crack, barely even a whisper, as he realised they weren’t there; he’d been left with a sitter. Dad and Dean weren’t due back until… he wasn’t sure really, just that he’d been promise they’d be home before he woke up.
Sam stood still, his breathing coming quickly, body trembling, as he tried to think. Dad had made rules for Sam, rules he’d had to memorise and recite back, without mistakes, whenever he was asked, and, as he stood in silence, listening for what had made the baby-sitter scream, he started to go over them.
Dad’s voice started counting off in his mind: One, find Dean or me. Alert us to anything frightening right away.… but they weren’t there.
Two, always stay behind your brother or me. Sam’s breathing grew faster as panic began to really set in.
Three, in any scary situation, make sure you’re armed and know where the danger is. Sam dashed to his bedside table, opening the top drawer. He picked up the tin of salt. It was heavy, but small enough for one hand, the evenly spaced holes in the top making it easy to throw. Next to that was his water pistol, fully loaded with holy water and only for emergencies. He wasn’t allowed to spray Dean with this one or drink from it in the night.
Know where the danger is. Sam crept to the bedroom door, peering carefully through the gap where a wedge of light spilled into his room.
Four, hide if you can. If you’re seen, make lots of noise and move around. Focus on escape, rather than attack.
Something brightly coloured swept past the partially closed door and then suddenly it burst open. Sam screamed, throwing the entire tin of salt at the swirl of colours, before he landed heavily on his bottom, his head connecting painfully with the bed frame. The top came off the tin, spraying salt into the brightly painted face. The thing screamed and Sam aimed his water pistol, scooting backwards in a crab crawl until he was underneath the bed.
He could hear the haggard sound of his own breathing in his ears, punctuated by the jangle of bells as the costumed thing moved blindly about the room. Sam’s head really ached, eyes stinging with tears as he lay hidden.
There was a bang. Dark red splashed across striped costume feet, stain spreading like beet juice, as Sam’s vision faded and blackness took him away.
~00~
“Sam. Sammy! Open your eyes. Sam.” John knelt down holding Sam close, relief flooding through him as Sam groaned, cracking open his eyes.
“Dad?” Sam croaked, small hands coming up to clutch at leather as John held him close. “You weren’t here, Dad. I tried.”
“You’re okay, Sammy. It’s okay.”
“She’s still alive, Dad.” Dean’s voice came from the living room.
“Good, Dean. We’ll call the police on the way out.”
John stood, carrying Sam as he did. He picked up Sam’s duffle and stepped over the body in the doorway - crimson blood was already staining the carpet. Dean joined them, touching his brother’s head as if to be sure and then looking back briefly to take in the dead clown. He followed his father in silence.
________
The prompt was: Apple Jacks, crimson, “hootenanny” and This urban legend: Clown Statue that spooks babysitter turns out to be a man hiding in the house.
Author: starrylizard
Rating: Teen, pre-season, horror themes similar to those on the show (Coulrophobia = fear of clowns.)
Spoiler Warnings: None
Summary: “Dean! Dean!” Sam whispered, rushing to the other bed, only to find it empty. “Dad?”
Author's Notes: Written for relativity1953 and spn_thur_nights The prompt is at the end of the fic. Also using this for author's choice for my Paranormal 25 Table Beta by rinkle, but (since I kept fiddling with it) any remaining mistakes are of course mine. Comments and constructive criticism are greatly appreciated.
Words: 1075
Christy stretched and yawned, letting the book she’d been reading aloud slip into her lap. In front of her, now sound asleep, her little charge looked like an angel - all mussed brown hair, pudgy rosy cheeks and his limbs splayed out across the bed. In fact, she almost wondered if he was an angel. His father had said he was an easy kid, but this had to have been the easiest baby-sitting job on record. The only small argument had been over the merits of Happy Jacks for dinner and, really, he’d only been stubborn until he smelt the spaghetti cooking.
Six-year old asleep; check.
House safely locked up; check.
Time for some TV and a nice cuppa; check.
Smiling, she pulled the covers up a little higher around the small boy, flicked the light off and tip-toed from the room.
The small, less than appealing apartment had three rooms - a small bathroom, the kids’ room and a small living room/kitchenette where it seemed their dad was sleeping on the fold-out couch. Wandering into the living room, she flicked on the lights and grimaced as they highlighted an ugly statue in one corner of the room, its garish clown costume and face paint, dirty blond hair and crimson stained lips creating such a disturbing spectacle that it made her take a step back. There was no accounting for taste, but she seriously wondered how she’d missed that before. She could only think it had looked less ugly in the natural light of day.
Christy shook her head and set about finding the TV remote, lifting up couch cushions and searching the tops of the heavy books that lay around the room, some of them on topics she certainly wouldn’t want to be reading late at night. The joys of being an academic apparently, not that he’d looked like an academic to her, but she hadn’t minded so much when he’d flashed that smile of his. God that smile.
Behind the couch was nothing but some change and an old record, The Replacements - Hootananny, which more than likely was from a previous occupant, since there wasn’t a record-player anywhere to be seen. Just as she finally spotted the remote, sitting atop a well-read hardback entitled The Book of Werewolves, the phone began to ring. She snatched up the remote and made for the phone in the kitchenette.
“Hello? Oh, hi, John. Yeah, no problems; he’s been an angel. Yeah, he’s already asleep; he’ll be sad he missed you though. Yep, uh huh. Hey, do you mind if I cover up that statue? You know the clown one. I hope you don’t mind me saying, but it’s kinda creepy. What? Yes you do; it’s right there. Chill, okay, it’s just a statue, I mean…”
A white-gloved hand landed on Christy’s shoulder. She looked up and screamed.
~00~
Sam sat up in bed with a start, feet moving, adrenaline pumping as Dad’s training kicked in before his brain had a moment to figure out what he was afraid of. Then it came again - a single scream and then silence.
“Dean! Dean!” Sam whispered, rushing to the other bed, only to find it empty. “Dad?” Sam’s voice came out with a small crack, barely even a whisper, as he realised they weren’t there; he’d been left with a sitter. Dad and Dean weren’t due back until… he wasn’t sure really, just that he’d been promise they’d be home before he woke up.
Sam stood still, his breathing coming quickly, body trembling, as he tried to think. Dad had made rules for Sam, rules he’d had to memorise and recite back, without mistakes, whenever he was asked, and, as he stood in silence, listening for what had made the baby-sitter scream, he started to go over them.
Dad’s voice started counting off in his mind: One, find Dean or me. Alert us to anything frightening right away.… but they weren’t there.
Two, always stay behind your brother or me. Sam’s breathing grew faster as panic began to really set in.
Three, in any scary situation, make sure you’re armed and know where the danger is. Sam dashed to his bedside table, opening the top drawer. He picked up the tin of salt. It was heavy, but small enough for one hand, the evenly spaced holes in the top making it easy to throw. Next to that was his water pistol, fully loaded with holy water and only for emergencies. He wasn’t allowed to spray Dean with this one or drink from it in the night.
Know where the danger is. Sam crept to the bedroom door, peering carefully through the gap where a wedge of light spilled into his room.
Four, hide if you can. If you’re seen, make lots of noise and move around. Focus on escape, rather than attack.
Something brightly coloured swept past the partially closed door and then suddenly it burst open. Sam screamed, throwing the entire tin of salt at the swirl of colours, before he landed heavily on his bottom, his head connecting painfully with the bed frame. The top came off the tin, spraying salt into the brightly painted face. The thing screamed and Sam aimed his water pistol, scooting backwards in a crab crawl until he was underneath the bed.
He could hear the haggard sound of his own breathing in his ears, punctuated by the jangle of bells as the costumed thing moved blindly about the room. Sam’s head really ached, eyes stinging with tears as he lay hidden.
There was a bang. Dark red splashed across striped costume feet, stain spreading like beet juice, as Sam’s vision faded and blackness took him away.
~00~
“Sam. Sammy! Open your eyes. Sam.” John knelt down holding Sam close, relief flooding through him as Sam groaned, cracking open his eyes.
“Dad?” Sam croaked, small hands coming up to clutch at leather as John held him close. “You weren’t here, Dad. I tried.”
“You’re okay, Sammy. It’s okay.”
“She’s still alive, Dad.” Dean’s voice came from the living room.
“Good, Dean. We’ll call the police on the way out.”
John stood, carrying Sam as he did. He picked up Sam’s duffle and stepped over the body in the doorway - crimson blood was already staining the carpet. Dean joined them, touching his brother’s head as if to be sure and then looking back briefly to take in the dead clown. He followed his father in silence.
________
The prompt was: Apple Jacks, crimson, “hootenanny” and This urban legend: Clown Statue that spooks babysitter turns out to be a man hiding in the house.