Girl Clown Hatchet: A Novel (Girl Clown Hatchet Suspense Series Book 1)

by Mav Skye

  She was dimly aware of the pain in her back, along her arms and shoulders…but mostly she was watching. Listening. Waiting.

  She heard soft footfalls just to the right of the thicket, maybe ten feet away.

  The snake rattled its tail, though it didn’t need to. Chloe knew the clown with the hatchet was close. She licked her lips, tasting blood.

  The footsteps stopped.

  Chloe army crawled back down the tunnel, her movements fluid and serpentine. The thorns glided across her skin as if satisfied with her earlier blood sacrifice. She crouched by the entrance and raised the hatchet.

  Waiting.

  She heard a branch snap, and she saw his giant red shoe slap the ground, then the other. They stopped right outside the trail’s entrance. It knew her, sensed her. It probed her mind, feeling for her thoughts as he had done for years.

  Chloe didn’t hesitate.

  She swung the hatchet.

  The clown moved fast, but not fast enough.

  The sharp blade of the hatchet nicked his calf. Blood poured.

  Outside the bramble, the clown howled like a ferocious wolf and then it did something Chloe was completely unprepared for. Instead of turning around and fighting, her childhood monster fled from her.

  Chloe emerged from the thicket with her hatchet and chased Mr. Jingles. It was heading back to her trailer.

  The twins.

  Chloe ran as fast as she could, but even with those big, floppy shoes, it sprang with the energy of a doe. Blood and sweat dripped into Chloe’s eyes, and when she tripped over the stump that she had previously hidden behind, she lost sight of him. By the time she reached her mother’s garden, the clown was gone. His bloody shoe tracks led toward the driveway. She began to chase after them when Erin and Sharon’s faces popped up in the laundry room window. They were crying, and worse—they were covered in blood.

  Chloe decided to leave the clown, and go straight for the twins. They saw her approaching and cried out, pounding on the windows. Chloe dodged around the side of the trailer to the front porch, leaping up and through the open door.

  Near the hall, blood drenched the carpet. Whose was it?

  The twins cried inside the laundry room. Chloe rushed down the hall and before she touched the door handle, it opened and both girls tumbled out in a tangle of limbs, blood, and knives. Erin held a bread knife and Sharon clutched a butcher knife, but both dropped their weapons and fell into Chloe’s arms, tears streaking through the crimson on their cherub cheeks.

  A lump in Chloe’s throat swelled up to the point that she could hardly talk around it. “Are you hurt? What happened?”

  Sharon wailed, “The scary clown came for us.”

  Chloe shook her head, but that was impossible. She was just chasing him.

  “It kept pounding on the door!” cried Erin.

  Sharon said, “And I said we were going to have to fight like you said, so we went and grabbed knives from the kitchen like on Tales from the Crypt.”

  Erin said, “And we waited as it kicked in the door. As soon as it saw us, it ran at us with the hatchet.”

  Sharon said, “But, I stabbed the monster clown, Chloe. I stabbed it before it could hurt us.”

  “I stabbed it, too. And there was so much blood.”

  Sharon said, “It fell, but then it started crawling toward us with that awful smile on its face.”

  “So we ran to the laundry room and shut the door.”

  “Locked the door,” Erin said.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”

  Chloe hugged them both to her, then held them at arm’s length. She touched Erin’s face, elbows, hands. “It didn’t hurt you?”

  “No,” said Erin, she opened her palm and showed Chloe the earring. “Godzilla kept us safe.”

  She moved to Sharon and checked her over as well. “Are you sure?”

  Sharon said, “It didn’t hurt us, but it was going to. I could tell. I didn’t want to hurt it, but you said if we had to fight—”

  “We fight to win,” finished Erin.

  “Like one of the good guys,” said Sharon.

  “Right, right, like one of the good guys,” repeated Chloe. Her mind spun. Nothing made sense. The giant footprints led away from the trailer not to it. And where was Shirley?

  “Okay, okay, we are going back to your house now, and we’ll call the police, okay?”

  She picked up Erin and held Sharon’s hand. As they walked to the front door, Sharon scooped up the hatchet.

  “Thank you, Sharon.” She put Erin down and took the hatchet. “Now I need you girls to be really quiet and hold hands, okay?” Chloe paused to tuck the hatchet into her belt. “Let’s go.”

  “Can we bring our knives?”

  “Pleeeeease,” begged Erin.

  Chloe nodded. The more, the better. Sharon picked up the butcher knife, and Erin grabbed the bread knife.

  They crept down the stairs together, each skipping the third step, and hurried down the driveway, then Goose Avenue, holding hands, keeping watch for the clown with the hatchet.

  21

  We All Fall Down

  JOEY BREATHED HEAVILY AS HE wiggled through his bedroom window, pausing when he saw his bedroom door open.

  The wood plank had been removed and set aside. He tried to recall if he’d seen his grandfather’s truck in the driveway, but since his room was on the opposite side from where the truck was parked, he had no way of knowing whether Pops was home or not. He decided to go in and take the chance anyway. He had to change out of his clothes.

  Joey knew his Pops was angry—angrier than he’d ever been. Between the drinking and the drugs, he’d turned into a monster. Destroying that monster had consumed Joey’s thoughts at night for weeks. Joey had slept in his room only a handful of times the last two weeks. The last time he’d slept in bed, Pops had raged against his door from dusk until dawn, and that was when Joey knew it was time to take the Colt Pocket Nine. He hadn’t asked Dan, but he knew that Dan didn’t expect him to ask permission. He regretted not taking the lessons that Dan had offered, but what more did one need to know than point and shoot? He didn’t think he would need to use it on his grandfather, but if he did? Joey was ready.

  He left the door open the way it was, and limped over to his dresser and pulled out fresh clothes. He began to pull his shirt over the top of his head when he heard the slightest creak in the hallway.

  Years of abuse had sharpened Joey’s intuition to a razor sharp edge. Pops was out there. There was another creak. And another.

  Joey reached for the Colt in his back pocket. He grasped at air. It must have fallen out when he’d shimmied through the window. “Shit.”

  His grandfather’s shadow filled the doorway only a second before his figure did. His sweaty forehead protruded over his glasses and beady little eyes. His nose was sharp and pointed like a vulture’s beak, almost lost in his filthy gray beard. Pops was wearing the usual wife beater stained yellow at the armpits, and what appeared to be puke on the chest. His thick, fat arms wobbled when he brought around the baseball bat, thumping it up and down on the palm of his hand like a street thug sent to give a message. Pops’ voice slurred, “Do you know what the problem with you always was?” He took a step inside the room, then another. “Well?”

  Joey still had his hand in his back pocket when his grandpa swung the baseball bat. It struck his shoulder, knocking him to the floor.

  Pops took a step closer toward Joey. Joey grabbed his shoulder, then scrambled backward. “Shut it, old man.”

  Pops loomed above him, sweat dripping from his brow, drool slipping down his giant jowls, and yes, those were puked pineapple chunks on his wife beater. His grandfather laughed, bouncing the baseball bat, up and down, up and down, on his palm. “See, that’s it. That attitude of yours. That is why you deserve this, Joey. Your Mama didn’t love you. She left you. She left you because she knew better, even all those years ago, she knew better than to keep you. She knew that you were just
a little piece of shit with attitude, and she was right. And, you know what, Joey? That attitude needs adjustment.”

  Pops raised the baseball bat above his head, the force of it broke through the roof, surprising them both. It gave Joey just time enough to glance around the room, his eyes landing on the wood plank lying on the floor. His grandfather yanked the baseball bat out of the hole in the roof, and Joey lunged for the piece of wood. The old man brought the bat down, slapping it across Joey’s calf.

  Joey cried out but didn’t slow as he wrapped both hands about the plank and lifted it.

  He heard the crack to the back of his head before he felt it. He dropped the wood plank and collapsed on the floor, losing all motor control. He was still conscious as his grandfather stood over him, lighting a cigarette. “I told ya once that your Mama got knocked up by her teacher, but that ain’t the truth. And as I see it, every youngin’ should know the truth before they die—or come close to it.” He swung the bat again, hitting Joey in the ribs.

  Joey moaned, the bat cracking his ribs had brought feeling back into his body. He moved his fingers over the wood plank.

  “And being the situation you’re in, I think you deserve to know that he wasn’t the father. I was. Your Mama was angry about that. She didn’t like it when I forced her into my bed.”

  The shock of Pops’ confession stunned Joey out of the physical pain that consumed him. “But she was your daughter.”

  “Damn straight. Looked just like her mother. Had the same sense of vengeance, too. Your Mama was so pretty; she seduced her math teacher. She came home one day, so defiant, so disgustingly proud. She told me how he was touching her, screwing her, that the baby was his. I went blind with rage.

  “How dare he? Your mother was mine. She was mine. I took care of your Mama and that ninnyhammer the same way I’m taking care of you now.”

  “I thought she ran away.”

  “Listen to what I’m saying, stupid. I lied to you, just like I’ve lied to everyone else. The only reason I didn’t bury you alive back then is because she had you at the hospital, and after I had told them your Mama ran away with her teacher, them darned nosy nurses were always calling, asking if you had enough to eat, how many diapers did you crap in, on and on they yapped and then you were in school. And the teachers felt so bad for little Joey, and they were always offering to help with homework, sending home meals. Blah, blah blah. Their kindness disgusted me. I drank it off, always knowing that I should have just done you in when I did in your Mama. Gonna fix that now. And I’m gonna plant you in the dirt the same place I put her—and her teacher, too.”

  Joey moaned, a deep ache filling his entire being, whether it came from the smack to his head, the cracked ribs or the truth about his poor, poor mother, he didn’t know. He used that pain to clench his fist about the plank and sit back on his knees.

  “That’s better. Yeah. Sit on your knees so I can see the look on your face when I knock it from your skull.” Pops laughed and shook his head. “Pitiful, really.” He spat out his cigarette and stepped on it. “Prepare to go to hell, son.”

  His grandfather lifted the bat like a baseball player for the final strike, if he hadn’t paused to smirk one last time, he might have made that homerun he was aiming for. But that pause gave Joey just enough time to get to his feet, lift the plank, and swing with all his might.

  He clubbed his grandfather in the skull and knocking him to the floor. Joey kicked the bat out of his hands.

  “Darned blasted kid!” Blood poured from Pops’ mouth into his beard. His glasses twisted off his face. He was trying to stand up, but Joey kicked his hands out from underneath him.

  “No, no, don’t, Joey.” The old man was shaking, and by the smell of it, had shit his pants as well. “I wasn’t going to do you in. I really wasn’t.”

  Joey clenched the board between both palms, oblivious to the pain radiating from head to toe. “This is for raping my mother.” He swung the board again, slamming it against the back of his grandfather’s head. There was a snap of the old man’s beak as his face slammed straight into the hardwood floor. “This is for murdering your daughter.” He smacked his old man again. His grandpa’s dentures flew out of his mouth before his head once more hit the floor.

  “And this is for what you’ve done to me.” Joey pounded the old man, again and again. He was out of control—and he knew it—but he couldn’t stop. Night after night of fear, the pain after a beating, the loneliness for his mother, the rage from how he’d been treated, all of it clashed together and demanded he swing again and again until his ribs ached so badly that he couldn’t continue. He threw the plank on top of the bloody mess that might have been born human, but somewhere along the way had transformed into a beast that knew only cruelty and selfishness.

  Joey hobbled over to his dresser and lifted the bloody t-shirt over his head, wiping the makeup and blood off his face. He screamed, “All I wanted to do was change my clothes. Change my frickin’ clothes. And now…?” His voice quieted as he snapped the button on a fresh pair of jeans and tugged on new socks. “I think you’re dead.”

  Blood. It was everywhere. His. Pops’. He was going to jail for this. “Oh Lord, oh God—”

  His first instinct was to run to Chloe and Mama Nola’s—they’d know what to do. They had always figured problems out together, but, just in case, Joey reached under his bed and grabbed a duffel bag of money and supplies.

  He shimmied out his bedroom window, crying out in pain when his ribs rubbed against the windowsill. He scooped the pistol off the ground and crammed it into his back pocket. He couldn’t run, but he limped the best he could down Gander Avenue, then around the corner to Goose Avenue.

  He didn’t know it, but he’d just missed Chloe and the twins.

  “Hurry!” Chloe ushered the girls into their trailer, checking out the living room, kitchen, then bedrooms for any signs of intruders or clowns. She had the girls huddle behind her as she picked up the telephone and dialed 911.

  Joey saw Mrs. Price with pink curlers in her hair looking out her window at him with a pair of black binoculars, and that is when he started to run. Slowly and with a limp, but running. When he reached Chloe’s trailer, he noticed the front door swinging wide open.

  And he got a bad feeling deep down inside. A similar feeling he’d get right before his grandfather started beating him.

  “Chloe? Mama Nola?”

  Joey drug himself up the porch steps and through the open door, saw blood pooled on the carpet. “Oh no. No, no, no!”

  Dread filled every inch of him. He stared at the blood and quickly inspected the kitchen and living room, and that is when he heard the faint sound of music. It drew him back through the kitchen to the dark hallway. Joey opened his mouth to call out for Mama Nola and Chloe again, and then he saw the bloody footprints leading to Mama Nola’s open door.

  He dropped the duffle bag, and yanked the Colt out of his back pocket and clicked back the hammer. He limped down the hallway quiet as a mouse, pausing at Chloe’s open bedroom door. Other than the mattress shoved off the bed (someone had taken the hatchet), the room was empty.

  Something was wrong. Terribly, terribly wrong. Whose blood was in the living room, and the footsteps leading down the hall? Had someone killed Mama Nola? Could they still be in the house?

  He took a step toward Mama Nola’s room. The faint music was definitely coming from her room and not just any music—it was circus music. The same music from Chloe’s jewelry box. “Mama Nola, is that you?”

  The music continued.

  He slid against the wall, his arms straight out holding the cocked pistol. He paused, breathing deeply before walking into the open door of Mama Nola’s bedroom.

  After a second, he stepped up to the door.

  The clown met him there, holding the hatchet the same way Joey’s grandfather had held the bat, ready to strike Joey that homerun straight to hell.

  The clown opened its mouth of sharp white teeth and howled.
r />   Joey aimed for the open mouth and fired.

  The clown froze with the hatchet still in the air, the red smile on its mouth smeared, turning the smile upside down into a frown.

  Mr. Jingles dropped the hatchet and fell backward, collapsing on the floor.

  And that was when Joey recognized her stormy gray eyes, the smeared lipstick.

  “Ohanzee.” Mama Nola looked at him with sad, knowing eyes before the last breath poured from her lips.

  “Mama?” Joey touched her mouth, the bloody torn ears. He jumped back and cried out. He hit himself on the head with the gun. “Stupid! You’re so stupid!”

  His despair was complete. He had turned into the monster he dreaded the most, and there was no going back.

  Still holding the gun, Joey clasped the sides of his head, leaned back and screamed like the hulk monster he was.

  He then dropped his gun, and fell to Mama Nola’s chest and grabbed her hand that was already cold. “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry,” He sobbed.

  Chloe’s face flashed through his mind, and he ached to feel her arms about him, to tell him everything would be okay, but Chloe would never forgive him. Never.

  Joey dropped Mama Nola’s hand, and snatched the Colt off the ground, paced back and forth down the hallway, pounding his forehead with the gun. “Think. Think. Think!” With sudden clarity, he knew what he had to do. He walked back to Mama Nola’s room. Put the gun in her limp hand, used her thumb to click back the hammer of the gun, and aimed…

  He scooped up his duffel bag, heard someone at the front door, so he sneaked out the laundry room window and fled past the garden and into the woods.

  Shirley skidded the station wagon to a halt in the driveway. Chloe and the twins had rushed out of the trailer just as they all heard the gunshots.

  “Oh, oh my…” Shirley had grabbed Chloe’s arm, then Chloe’s shirt. “Why are my girls covered in blood? Why are my—!”