The Guild of Fallen Clowns

By Francis Xavier

The Haunted Labyrinth of Mirrors was just your average walk-through carnival attraction to most of its visitors. However, for Alan, lurking behind the surface of the mirrored walls was the home of Peepers, the ghoulishly creepy clown spirit and leader of The Guild of Fallen Clowns. In the darkness behind the thin reflective coating, deception tugs at his immortal soul as Peepers preys on Alan’s desire to rid his life of fear and cowardice.

Skeptical of his decision to aid Peepers and the Guild by giving them a second chance to earn the light on the living side of the mirrors, Alan struggles to find direction and the strength needed to conquer his demons.

Can he unwind the handle and put Jack back in the box? Or will the influence of Peepers pull his weakened spirit through the reflections and into the realm of the damned?

If you enjoy:
Suspense-filled horror stories of the paranormal kind,

Peering deep into the darkness of the human psyche,

Hidden turmoil behind the masks of creepy clown spirits,

Laugh out loud one-liners and visual images that can only come from an awkward courtship between loners in a setting filled with clowns and carnies...

Then step right up and buy your ticket for this bumpy thrill ride into the minds of Alan, Boogy, Cracky, The Ringmaster, Spanky, Mary, Peepers, and many more in this cast of unusual characters, unpredictable directions and jaw-dropping twists and turns.

Keep your eyes open because it's about to get freaky!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Francis Xavier
• Release date: Aug 18, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465953612

Francis Xavier

To learn more about the author, please visit his blog at The Guild of Fallen Clowns website.

Book preview

Chapter 1

The sad clown’s face wilted as his predicament became most dire. The imposing figure glaring down at him was that of Peepers— the dark clown—casually swinging his black sword from hand to hand, savoring the moment as he contemplated the fate of his wounded foe.

Blood oozed from the open gash across Boogy’s thigh, dripping to the dirt floor of the big top. This once majestic leader found his only remaining support to be that of the center pole. Dazed and helpless, Boogy’s eyes rose to meet those of the dark clown. Peeper’s eyes widened; the sides of his cracked red lips tipped upward against the anemic backdrop of his face. His grin parted to a full-blown smile, exposing long, sharpened teeth. Boogy’s fear appeared to feed Peeper’s perverse hunger. It was much more than a power grab for this twisted challenger. His satiation came from drinking up every last expression of fright in the faces of his hopeless victims.

In an attempt to extract maximum terror from his prey, Peepers made several lunges and half swings of his sword, stopping short of killing the sad clown.

The torment became too much for Boogy. He barked a final plea. Get it over with already. Kill me, you bastard!

Sadistic bliss washed over Peepers’ face. Towering at close to seven feet with his tattered top hat, the lanky frame of the creepy clown folded at the waist toward Boogy. Inches from his face, Peepers glared into Boogy’s eyes. His head tilted back and forth as he examined the source of the contentious command.

Boogy’s eyes closed. Stop playing games and show me what you’re here for!

The smug grin returned to Peepers’ monstrous face. Peepers here to help you, he whispered in a guttural voice.

Funny way of showing it, Boogy said with his eyes still shut. Just do it and stop toying with me.

Help yes. Peepers free Boogy.

Boogy’s eyes opened to a squint. After all this you’re going to let me go? I don’t understand.

Boogy’s spirit strong. Peepers free Boogy. Grow strong together.

Boogy’s eyes opened. You’ll spare me if I join you? No freaking way, you sick freak! Kill me now!

Still mere inches from Boogy’s piercing scowl, Peepers cracked a smile before returning his body upright. Breaking eye contact with his captive, he looked down at his hands gripping his broadsword, while its tip rocked in the dirt. He returned his focus on the sad clown and appeared pleased with Boogy’s decision. He hoisted the heavy sword above his head. Boogy’s eyes shut as he braced himself for what was to come.

Strong we both shall be, Peepers said. Without hesitation, Peepers drove the sword with all his might through Boogy. His body offered little resistance as the lifeless halves fell in opposite directions.

YOU LOSE!

Please try your luck again in:

CLOWN WORLD.

*****

Right as the words flashed across Alan’s computer screen, the phone on the table beside him rang, snapping him out of his virtual mindset. Now what am I supposed to do? he muttered to himself as he reached to answer the phone.

Hello.

Hey, Boogy, this is Cracky down at the carnival.

Oh, hi, Cracky, what’s up?

We was wondering if you might come out a day early. It’s lookin’ like tomorrow’s not gonna be a washout after all. And wid it being da first day, we think it might get a little crowded down here.

Uh, yeah, sure, Boogy—whose real name was Alan—said as he flipped his laptop closed and stood from the couch. What time do you want me?

Well, gates open at ten, so I was thinkin’ maybe a half hour early so I can give you da nickel tour before things get started.

Alan paused for a second. Yeah, yeah, that should work— but my other job starts at four, so I’ll have to leave by three-thirty.

Hey, no problem, Boogy. I’m just glad you can come out on such short notice and all. Hey, pal, we’ll see you in the AM then. Cracky hung up, avoiding the customary good-bye.

Alan’s body ached after his sedentary four-hour Clown World marathon. He stretched his stiffened muscles and returned the handset to its cradle. As he glanced back at the laptop resting beside a well-worn crater in the frayed, plaid couch, his mind returned to the game, in which moments earlier he was viewed as royalty. To him, other characters were real people just like him, living out their fantasies in front of similar computer screens around the world. His Boogy avatar wasn’t entirely fictional. He was a very real part of Alan’s existence. Now, thanks to this Peepers character, Alan was forced to mourn the death of his own virtual life.

In his small apartment, it was a short walk from the couch/bed to the walk-in closet beside the bathroom. In typical bachelor fashion, Alan had little use for the hanging rods spanning three of the closet walls. Five identical pullover shirts were the only items taking up a small piece of real estate on one of the rods. The floor, however, had a couple of suitcases and stacked piles of loosely folded clothes beside an overflowing laundry basket. It looked as if someone was living in a temporary situation until the furniture arrived. Sadly, this wasn’t the case. These stacks, and unused rod space, had changed little during the twelve years Alan called the studio apartment home.

He removed one of the green shirts from a hanger and placed it on the counter beside the sink. Next, he peeled off his faded, semi-transparent Hootie & the Blowfish T-shirt, listing tour dates from 1995, and tossed it toward the back wall of the closet, where it landed on top of the dirty clothes pile and continued to tumble to the floor before resting on overflows to the left side of the basket. His routine was down, and within a couple of minutes he emerged from the bathroom wearing his Vince’s Pizza shirt.

Without looking, he grabbed his keys from a wall hook opposite the front door and peered through the peephole. His was the rear apartment on the second floor of the two-story building. An open-air stairwell separated two units on each side.

All was clear, so he stepped outside, walking with the same stealth that a mother moves around a houseful of napping babies. As he approached the bottom of the stairs, the air began thumping from the sudden introduction of obnoxiously loud music coming from one of the apartments. He wasn’t able to distinguish which apartment, but due to the growing intensity and obvious lack of consideration for other tenants in the condensed complex, he knew the jarring noise could only come from one place, Lyle’s apartment.

Lyle lived across the hall, in the front of the building. Alan continued toward the row of parked cars lined up in front of the building. As he moved from the stairwell, the noise grew louder. He glanced up, confirming his suspicion. It was Lyle playing the music. He was entertaining three friends on his balcony, with his stereo positioned so that it was pressed against the rails, facing out as they talked and drank beer.

Alan continued toward his car, which was parked directly below Lyle’s apartment. The instant Lyle noticed him, the conversation stopped. Lyle stood and shouted out to his buddies, Hey, guys, guys, watch this.

Alan purposely avoided looking up at them. It didn’t take long for him to discover what Lyle was alerting his friends to. Lyle’s car was parked less than a foot from the driver side of his own. Alan stopped to assess the situation as Lyle and his goons busted out in mocking laughter. Alan tried his best to ignore them.

Still laughing, Lyle shouted, Hey, BOOGER! Looks like you have a little problem there. He snickered and added, You better not touch my car, Booger. If you do, I’ll come down there and beat the snot out of you. His pun was quickly acknowledged with a new round of howling laughter from the audience on the balcony.

Alan sighed and continued on to the passenger side of his car. His decision to find the least confrontational solution to the problem at hand fed the amusement of his audience. He aimed his keys toward the door and pressed the unlock button on his remote. Clicking sounds came from inside the car. However, the passenger door of his old economy car remained locked. The roaring gallery found pleasure in Alan’s comical efforts to flee their taunting.

Still avoiding eye contact, Alan unlocked the door with his key. He climbed in and started to work his way over the center column. The space was tight and difficult to maneuver. Just as he twisted his body over the shifter, his remote’s panic button accidentally activated, filling the air with the annoyingly loud, rhythmic honking of the car’s horn. This, combined with Lyle’s radio blasting and the chuckleheads’ hysterical laughing at Alan’s awkward dance into the driver’s seat, was a sight to behold. As a matter of fact, the commotion drew the attention of at least a half dozen onlooking residents of the Meadowbrook apartment complex.

Alan deactivated the panic button and started the car without hesitation. Before he could shift to reverse, a half-empty can crashed against his windshield. Beer burst out, temporarily obstructing his view with foam. After a few swipes from the wipers, Alan could see Lyle looking down from his balcony, motioning Alan to roll down his window. He cracked it open enough to hear Lyle’s last bit of advice.

If you scratch my car, you’re a dead man. You best be careful, Booger!

Through clenched teeth and still lips, Alan rolled up the window and mumbled, Yeah, right. Keep picking on Alan, why don’t you? You know I won’t fight back. He cautiously backed his car out and drove away. In his rearview mirror, he saw Lyle and his friends still celebrating at his expense and public humiliation.

Alan continued to let out his pent-up aggression. Go on, laugh at me as I drive away in fear from you. Don’t you look tough, Lyle? I’m sure your friends think you’re some sort of big tough-ass punk for picking on someone bigger than yourself. That’s right, I know that I’m bigger than you. And if you ever push me too far, well, heaven help us both, because I don’t know what I’m capable of. Maybe that’s the reason I don’t fight back, Lyle. Maybe I’m not the wimp you think I am. Maybe the only thing I’m really afraid of is going to jail for killing your ass. Yeah, so you better back off, or things might get ugly. You really don’t want to see what might happen if you push Boogy too far. Did you hear that, Lyle? It’s Boogy, not Booger. Boogy!

*****

Alan’s car disappeared from the complex as onlookers returned to their lives. One of the witnesses to the spectacle was an elderly man walking his dog. He glared up at the gang. Lyle noticed the look. He puffed out his chest and shouted, What are you looking at, old man?

The older gentleman didn’t take his visual aim off Lyle. He simply shook his head and softly replied, Nothing. Returning attention to his dog, he continued on his walk. Lyle viewed it as a retreat and decided to let it go with a glib chuckle. Turning back to his cheering section, Lyle said, Who wants another beer? I’m buying.

Chapter 2

Bells above the glass door rang as Alan rushed into the shop.

You’re late! Joe announced without taking his attention off the task of boxing a freshly baked pizza.

Sorry, Joe. I would have been here on time except—

Before Alan could finish his excuse, Joe cut in, Let me guess, car trouble.

Alan paused to consider Joe’s explanation. Uh, yeah, you could say that.

Still avoiding eye contact, Joe put his hand up, halting Alan from punching in. Alan froze as Joe grabbed a pizza peel and slid it under a baking pizza to check the crust. With a quick jerk, he shifted the pizza deeper in the oven and returned the peel.

Wiping his hands in his apron, he looked directly at Alan. He didn’t say a word, but Alan knew from his expression that his late arrival wasn’t going to be overlooked. After a short pause, Joe simply tilted his head and raised an eyebrow, motioning Alan to follow him to his supply closet/office at the rear of the shop.

As Alan followed, he tried in vain to apologize once more. I’m really sorry, Joe, but I’m not even five minutes late.

Joe ignored his plea as they walked past three teenagers deeply focused on their tasks. After they passed, the young employees glanced at each other in shocked disbelief.

Joe opened the door and motioned Alan to the five-gallon sauce bucket in front of his desk. Alan slid the bucket to a suitable location and sat on it. As soon as Joe closed the door behind them, Jamie’s voice came over the intercom. Joe, your mother is on line one.

I got it. Thanks, Jamie. The phone rang once. Joe picked it up. Hi, Mom, is everything okay? He looked at Alan and held up his index finger, indicating this would only take a minute. Alan nodded and leaned against stacked cases of napkins behind him.

Within seconds of listening to his mother, Joe’s stern expression turned to a frustrated smirk.

Ma, you’ll have to wait…no…no, listen—Ma. I can’t tell you how to do it— He looked at Alan and rolled his eyes before trying to interject a second time. No, Mom, hold on a second...Wait…please stop talking…so… Another failed attempt. Joe lowered the handset to his desk and looked to Alan for sympathy. Alan grinned. Joe returned the phone to his ear.

Ma! he snapped. This more forceful command acted like a needle being temporarily lifted from a spinning record. She instantly stopped chattering. Seizing the opportunity to be heard, he continued, You know I can’t help you with this over the phone. I’ll be there tomorrow morning. I’ll show you then, okay?

The needle returned to its place on her side of the conversation and she continued as if he said nothing. Joe placed his free hand over his forehead as his head snapped back.

Look, Ma, I can’t do this now. I gotta unload the truck. I’ll see you tomorrow. I love you. He lowered the handset; her voice continued until he released it on the cradle.

Aaah! Joe blurted out in frustration. I love my mother, but she just doesn’t listen. I never should have bought her that computer. It’s my own fault. It’s my own fault. I knew this was going to happen. So what did I do? I bought her a freakin’ computer. I’m such an idiot. What was I thinking?

Alan smiled. Maybe you were thinking she wouldn’t call as often if she had another way of keeping in touch with you.

Joe nodded. You know what, Alan? You might be right about that. Come to think of it, the first thing I showed her was how to send email. I can get through an email much faster than talking to her on the phone.

So what was her problem? Alan asked.

Oh, you’re gonna love this, Joe said. She wanted to send pictures to her sister, but she forgot how to get the pictures from her camera to the computer. And she forgot how to attach pictures to an email. I showed her this stuff fifteen times already. God love her.

Alan chuckled and Joe smiled.

Joe’s expression instantly shifted to guilty embarrassment. "I’m not complaining, Alan. I really do love my mother and I appreciate the fact that she’s still around to give me agida. I don’t mean to disrespect your situation. I mean, I’m sure you must think—well, you know—if—"

Alan quickly realized where Joe was going with this and cut in. Oh— god no, Joe! No offense taken.

Oh good, Joe said. I wasn’t thinking. Here I am hanging up on my mother with you sitting there wishing you could talk to yours again, rest her soul.

Forget about it, Joe. I’m fine—really.

Joe put his hand over his chest and leaned back in his chair. Oh, thank god, because I didn’t want to be mean to you twice in one day.

Mean? Alan asked.

Well, Alan, here’s the thing. You were late today.

I was only a few minutes late.

True as that may be, those few minutes happen a lot. Now, personally, I don’t really care about a few minutes here and there because you’re a good worker, but the problem isn’t about that. The problem is that the kids see you doing it, and then they start doing it. Only, for them, it’s ten or twenty minutes late. If I say anything to them, they ask why I never say anything to you. They think I’m showing favoritism—and I gotta say, they might be right.

Alan nodded. I totally understand, Joe.

Good! Because then you’ll also understand that I need to set an example. I need to tighten things up around here. So, I hate to say this because you know I love you like I wish I could love my real brother, but I’m gonna have to write you up. And if you’re late again, it’s going to escalate. You understand what I’m saying, Alan?

Yes, I get it, and I’m sorry I put you in this position.

All right, then, let’s get to work, Joe said as he stood from his chair. They exited the office and Joe stopped. He put his hand on Alan’s shoulder, stopping him as well. "I almost forgot. Mrs. Henderson called in her order. Must have been twenty minutes ago. Better hurry or she’ll get Mr. Henderson after ya."

No problem, Alan replied. He punched in on his way to the front of the shop.

And there’s another one, should be about ready, Joe said

Ready, Jamie said as he removed a pizza from the oven.

Alan found the Henderson pizza on the rack, slid it into a warming bag, and waited for Jamie to box the second pizza.

In an effort to lighten the tension, Jamie looked at Alan and said, "Hey, Boogy, when are we gonna see you at the carnival?"

Alan glared back at him. "You can call me Boogy at the carnival. I start tomorrow morning."

Sorry, Alan, just trying to get in the carnival mode. Speaking of which, what’s it like being a carny?

Sensing that Jamie was toying with him, he answered, I don’t know, Jamie. I’ve never done it before. If you really want to know, ask me again next week.

I hear carny chicks are sexual freaks. They might even get off on doing a clown. You shouldn’t have any trouble getting laid there, Jamie said.

Jamie’s statement got the attention of Natalia, working at the toppings station a few feet away.

Watch it Jamie. Mixed company, she warned.

Oh, sorry, Nat. Just trying to help ol’ Alan out. It’d be nice to see him arrive late for a better reason than car trouble.

If I need your help, I’ll ask for it. Just give me the pizza, Jamie, Alan said.

Jamie closed the lid and handed him the boxed pizza. Good! Maybe I’ll see you there tomorrow night and give you some pointers.

"I don’t want your help, and I’ll be here tomorrow night," Alan said.

From across the shop, Joe chimed in. So will you, Jamie! You’re on the schedule.

Alan grabbed his deliveries and headed out the door. At the passenger side of his car, he pressed the remote and pulled the handle. The door remained locked. He remembered that the remote control was broken on the passenger door so he unlocked it manually and placed the pizzas on the seat. From the floor, he pulled out the magnetic sign with the words "Vince’s Pizza" and stuck it to his roof before heading out on his first delivery.

*****

Hidden Valley was the oldest townhouse community in Riverside. Many of the original residents still lived there, but their numbers were in decline. Alan and the other delivery drivers irreverently referred to the neighborhood as Death Valley.

He pulled up the driveway, put the car in park, and tugged twice on his high beams. The house was completely dark, but Alan’s trained eye spotted a flash of light as Mrs. Henderson peered through a carefully peeled back section of aluminum foil from a corner of the window to the right of the front door. He waited for the signal. One, two, three, he whispered. On three, the porch lights came on. This was his cue to exit the car and proceed to the porch. Making his way through the fine mist of rain, Alan laughed to himself as he prepared for the remaining sequence of this ten-year ritual.

"Mr. Henderson. Pizza delivery," he said as he stood at a mark exactly three feet in front of the garlic-clad door.

The metal mail slot creaked as it pivoted half open, fluttering from the rickety finger supporting it. From the gap, the voice of an elderly woman scolded him. You’re late, Alan. Mr. Henderson won’t give you a tip.

Alan grinned. I understand, Mrs. Henderson. I apologize for being late. The standard tip from the Henderson residence was only fifty cents.

An envelope slipped through the slot and fell. Eighty-seven cents in change jingled as the envelope settled on the welcome mat. Alan retrieved the envelope, placed the boxed pizza on the mat, and returned to his car. His earlier amusement turned to sadness as he wondered if Mrs. Henderson would ever get over her fear of the world since Mr. Henderson’s passing nearly a decade earlier.

*****

One Krauss Drive. A medium pizza with everything. A few dozen houses lined Krauss Drive, but this address was unfamiliar to him. Before Alan was born, a developer bought the front parcel of land from a farmer named Krauss. He built a small neighborhood of mostly ranch-style homes. The farmer’s driveway was at the end of the suburban street. To Alan’s knowledge, the old farmhouse had been abandoned since the horse barn burned down when he was eight years old. Parents claimed a boy playing with matches started the fire. However, since none of the kids in the area confessed, the younger generation was skeptical. They thought it was another clever tactic devised by adults to scare children from playing with matches.

Nobody knew what happened to farmer Krauss and his wife after the fire. The adults of Krauss Drive assumed that the loss of income from renting horse stalls was the tipping point that forced the old couple to move. The house sat, abandoned and boarded up. The barn and grazing land were subsequently sold off, but the farmhouse remained untouched as it decayed from years of neglect.

The children of Riverside had a different story for the old place. The Krauss farmhouse became known as Krauss House. In their active minds, it was the most haunted place on earth. Its seclusion, age, and decaying condition made it the quintessential haunted house. Every campfire story told since the unfortunate demise of the horses and disappearance of the old Krauss couple involved some variation of this tragedy.

*****

At the age of fourteen, the closest Alan came to Krauss House was fifty feet from the porch, partially hidden from view in the thicket of growth which, in an earlier time, was the front yard of the old farmhouse. His younger brother, Dale, and three other boys dared each other to get closer. Fifty feet was Alan’s chicken point. It was early afternoon that day, but the boys trembled as if it were midnight, and in the darkness, they could hear wolves howling in the distance as the front door creaked open, exposing a disembodied ghostly arm motioning them to come closer.

Another boy found his chicken point five paces ahead of Alan. Over the next five minutes, Dale stood between the remaining two kids. Always known as the leader of any group he participated in, Dale and his fearless nature drew the boys tight to his sides with each half step closer to the foreboding structure. As they stood shoulder to shoulder, with no earth remaining, the steps to the old porch were the only things separating the trio from the weather-battered mouth of the beast, the front door.

Frozen in place, Dale glanced back at Alan as the two boys glued to his sides waited to be guided by his next move. Dale smirked and shot Alan a wink. Then, from behind his back, his clutched right hand opened, revealing to Alan a golf ball-sized stone. Alan returned a grin and a supportive nod. He knew that Dale was about to demonstrate one of his most practiced and skilled tricks.

Dale returned his attention to the house. Did you hear that? he whispered to the boys pressed against his sides.

No, hear what? one replied nervously.

Inside. I thought I heard the ghosts coming to the door, Dale said.

No, you didn’t. You’re just trying to scare us, the other boy chimed in.

No, really, Dale said. I think they are coming to get us. Then, with a quick jerk of his wrist, the stone in the hand behind his back flung over his head to the roof of the porch in front of them. He did it without flinching a single muscle aside from his wrist, and the boys pinned to him were unaware of his deceit. The knock and rumbling sound as the stone rolled down the porch roof appeared to come from within, an audible warning to all who dared trespass inside Krauss House—Riverside’s own gateway to hell.

The two boys no longer found comfort in Dale’s courage. They gasped for air as their bodies broke away from their protector. With arms flailing above their heads, the two screamed as they ran past Alan for safety a few hundred yards up the driveway. Although he was aware of Dale’s practical joke, Alan got caught up in the fear of the moment and fled in close pursuit of the horror-stricken duo. His slightly braver friend, five paces closer to the house, joined in their escape.

Shortly after their retreat, Dale caught up to the gang, his body hunched over with both hands on his belly as he tried to catch his breath from his uncontrollable fit of laughter. When he finally regained the ability to speak, he stood tall, raised his clenched fists above his head, and proudly declared himself the winner. The two boys who made it to the base of the porch with him claimed Dale cheated. They called him a jerk and a few other choice words, but none could deny Dale his moment of glory. If he weren’t between the two boys, they wouldn’t have gotten much further than Alan.

Alan had always both admired and envied his baby brother’s fearlessness and his ability to take control in any situation. Their father died when Alan was seven. Dale was only four. As the older male, he couldn’t help but feel a deep sense of failure for allowing Dale to assume the role of man of the house while he retreated and silently struggled with his own loss.

*****

Alan gradually drove past the small cluster of houses lining Krauss Drive. It didn’t take long to realize the address One was indeed the old farmhouse. As he approached the driveway, he couldn’t help but wonder if the Demons inside the house had ordered a medium pizza with everything just to lure him back for another visit.

He stopped in front of the driveway. The house was set back a half mile from the street and wasn’t visible through the dense forest and winding gravel path. Taking note of how narrow the driveway was, he knew that once he entered there would be no room to turn around.

What the hell is going on here? Alan thought.

He double-checked the label on the box with the hope that he was at the wrong house. No, the address clearly said One Krauss Drive. Further down on the label, below the address, a name was printed. A single word—KRAUSS.

Instantly, Alan was transported back to that moment where he stood motionless, fifty feet from the front porch of Krauss House. He was back again. Only this time he didn’t have his brother’s courage or the light of day to draw strength from. Without those, Alan discovered that his true chicken point was a half-mile away.

Calling Joe wasn’t an option. What would he say—I’m scared of the haunted house? No. There had to be a logical solution. He looked back to the driveway. This time he searched for signs of life.

It’s not as overgrown as it used to be, and there appear to be fresh tire tracks, he thought.

It was possible a person made the tracks. It was also possible that the spirits were making him think he was seeing tire tracks. "Are you trying to trick me into going to Krauss House?" he whispered, half expecting to get an answer.

Still parked in the road, he knew that he didn’t have a choice. He was already on thin ice with Joe. If he didn’t deliver this pizza, Joe would surely fire him. This should’ve been enough incentive to push him through his fear, but it wasn’t.

For additional motivation, Alan needed only to go back to his last stop. He pitied the old woman afraid to leave her own home without the safety of her long-deceased husband. Was he so different from her, believing in haunted houses and evil spirits whose mission it was to frighten the pizza delivery guy? Were tin foil hats and garlic-clad doors in his future?

He shifted the car into drive and slowly pulled forward until he was about fifty feet into the property. He pressed on the brake and looked around. So far, everything was okay. He proceeded another hundred or so feet before stopping again. To his surprise, his chicken point was getting shorter. Invigorated by his newfound courage, he drove progressively larger distances forward until ten minutes passed and the old house came into view.

Krauss House, he said as he pressed on the brake and placed the car in reverse.

His watchful eyes locked on the house for the slightest sign of trouble. He swung his right arm over the back of the passenger seat in readiness to retreat. At closer examination of the house, he noticed the room to the right of the front door was lit. He also noticed a car parked out front. It occurred to him that the windows weren’t boarded up and the yard wasn’t overgrown.

Someone, a human someone, lives in Krauss House, he thought.

Whoever this person was, they must be the bravest soul on the planet. Even Dale at his current age would proudly surrender his throne to someone this gutsy. This stranger’s courage was all he needed to put the car back in drive and roll cautiously toward the house.

I’m about to go to the front door of Krauss House—at night! he thought as he bravely got out of his car with the medium pizza in hand.

His pace slowed to a crawl. With every inch forward, the house appeared to swell around him. The gravity of each step became more intense. "My car is at the fifty-foot mark, and I’m less than ten feet from the porch. What was I thinking? Even if there was a human inside, this was still Krauss House— and he was still that frightened little boy, reliving a moment from so many years ago.

Those fearful thoughts regained control over his body, casting out all regard for the consequences of a retreat. He started to turn, and as he faced away from the house, the sound of the creaking screen door sent waves of cold shivers along the length of his body, paralyzing him in mid-stride.

Don’t worry, you’re in the right place, came the comforting words of a woman’s voice.

Alan slowly turned around to see who, or what, had spoken to him. Standing on the porch was a petite woman in paint-covered overalls with her hair pulled back in a bunch. With a paintbrush in one hand, she held open the screen door with the other.

C’mon in. I need to put this brush down and get your money, she said as she turned back into the house.

With those few words, a sudden sense of normalcy washed away his built-up anxiety. Seeing this woman casually penetrating the depths of the beast was like watching someone removing a thorn from the foot of an angry lion. She was in charge, and the house succumbed to her powers. He inched closer to the porch. Her reassurance should have been enough to quash his fears— but it wasn’t. He harnessed enough of her courage to wait for her on the first porch step, one step closer than Dale’s personal best.

Still there? she called from inside the house. Don’t worry, I won’t bite. Bring the pizza in and put it on the table. I need to wash the paint off my hands before getting your money.

That’s okay, ma’am. I’ll wait here, Alan replied.

Don’t be silly. Come inside, she said.

Alan never was good at saying no to the opposite sex. To his surprise, her command was more powerful than his fear, and his feet eagerly responded to her suggestion. Before he knew what happened, he was standing in the foyer of—Krauss House. Looking around the rooms for ghosts or evil spirits, he noticed the left side of the house was piled high with boxes and old antique furniture. The right side had newly plastered walls, paint rollers, and a long aluminum platform placed over a pair of empty five-gallon paint buckets, all indications that the house was in the state of rebirth. It was coming back to life.

I’m remodeling in stages, the woman said as she approached with the money.

Is your name—

Krauss, she said before Alan was able to complete his question. Mary Krauss. My grandparents used to own this place. And lucky me got it in the will, she said while exchanging the pizza for money. I suppose it’s a good thing, but it sure is taking a lot of time and money to restore.

I bet. Oh, my name is Alan. I actually grew up not far from here. I didn’t know old farmer Krauss and his wife had kids.

They had three boys. My father was the youngest. He moved out before the neighborhood was built. He and my uncles moved out of state, so I guess people around here didn’t see much of them before my grandparents left.

Have you…been here before? Alan asked, still surveying the house for spooks.

My parents tell me I was, but I don’t remember. I was maybe three or four at the time.

Still gazing around the rooms of the old house, paying little attention to Mary in front of him, Alan asked, Have there been any…problems working on the old house?

"Well—I’ve had to replace the plumbing, the wiring, furnace, hot water heater, windows, and siding, to name a few. Oh, I’ve also had to get the foundation repaired. Other than those few minor things, it’s been a piece of cake." She smiled.

Don’t forget the walls, Alan said, pointing to her current project.

Oh, right, like I said—piece of cake.

It was clear that Mary spent many hours, night and day, working on the house. Maybe it was never haunted in the first place. Could it be possible that Krauss House was like every other house in Riverside? Nothing more than sticks and nails? With this new