Clown

By Arthur Trainer

CLOWN was written in San Jose, California. Native resident Paul Arthur Trainer brilliantly portrayed the imagination for true evil.

Shadow the path of detectives Bob Churchill and Eric Morann as they try to stop the ghastly and senseless (or are they) killings performed by a twisted creature so intense you will think twice about firing another employee. Laugh, while a bumbling-rookie police officer, tries his hardest to be the best, alone at night in the woods.

Fall in love with reporter Linda Manchester as she innocently becomes a suspected victim.

Revolving around the suicide of an innocent man, there's always someone out there to perpetuate justice whether it is legal or illegal. Come along for the ride as horror and humor intersects in this novel and blatant disrespect for the law unravels into the untold truth.

Visit the dark bowels of death as one victim after another will lead you to believe there is a reason for revenge; cold, hard, blood-curdling revenge. Who is the killer? And are you sure? It could be someone you least expect. Old Tavern No. Nine, set deep in the Santa Cruz hills, will never be the same and neither will you?

Prepare yourself for unrelenting terror, keep the light on, and never answer the door at night. Be afraid of the unknown, and your neighbor.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Feb 8, 2001
• ISBN: 9781468567267

Arthur Trainer

Born in the heart of Silicon Valley in 1957, Paul Arthur Trainer, creator of The Adventures of Buddy the Clown and Mr. Disbig, (a children's storybook). Moves into the theaters with his most recent horror novel, CLOWN. Conspired from relentless dreams and nightmares, Paul Arthur Trainer goes over the edge preparing the reader with macabre, sadistic killings formed through an imagination of pure haunting terror.

Book preview

CLOWN

By

Arthur Trainer

Certain incidents in this book are works of fiction. Names,

characters, places

and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination

or are used

fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or

dead, events,

or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 1999, 2000 by Arthur Trainer

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval

system, or transmitted by any means electronic, mechanical,

photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written

permission from the author.

ISBN 1-58721-508-X

ISBN 978-1-468-56726-7

lstbooks Rev.-10/31/00

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Epilogue

About The Author

ABOUT THE BOOK

Follow detectives Bob Churchill and Eric Morann as they try to stop the ghastly and senseless (or are they) killings performed by a twisted creature so intense you will think twice about firing another employee. Laugh, while a bumbling-rookie police officer, tries his hardest to be the best, alone, at night, in the woods.

Fall in love with reporter Linda Manchester, as she innocently becomes a suspected victim.

Revolving around the suicide of an innocent man, there’s always someone out there to perpetuate justice, whether it is legal or illegal. Come along for the ride as horror and humor intersects in this novel, and blatant disrespect for the law, unravels into the untold truth.

Visit the dark bowels of death as one victim after another will lead you to believe there is a reason for revenge; cold, hard, blood-curdling revenge.

Who is the killer? And are you sure? It could be someone you least expect. Old Tavern No. Nine, set deep in the Santa Cruz hills, will never be the same and neither will you?

Prepare yourself for unrelenting terror, keep the light on, and never answer the door at night. Be afraid of the unknown, and your neighbor.

ARTHUR TRAINER

CLOWN

UNDENIABLE HORROR AND SUSPENSE

A TRUE WORK OF RIVETING HORROR

FEAR, WITH A TWIST OF HUMOR

POSSIBLY THE NEXT KING OF HORROR

A PULSATING REIGN OF TERROR

SPELLBOUND, ONE YOU’LL KEEP READING

"My Wife Renee and I

Will Live a Long, Beautiful,

Happy Life Together, Forever"

Dedicated

To My Mother and Father,

Thank you,

For giving me my life

And to

My Sister

And

Brothers

And

Wendy

For giving me support

Throughout my years

Eyes are watching under the moonlight A shadow passes nowhere to be seen Footsteps fall gently touching the ground Laughter is heard in the darkness of night Beware the evil that stalks your dreams For when you die there will be no sound

Clown

Chapter One

Standing alongside the sill of a window from a third floor hotel room, a man stares down at a crowd of people. Below, they’re gathering in the square, waiting for the clock to strike twelve midnight, the dawn of a New Year.

He then turns his attention back at a nightstand, which presses firmly into a corner of the room, which he has rented for one night, and stares intently at a silver-black handgun lying on top. He sobs passionately this evening, while sounds of joy echo through the air from crossed streets surrounding his fortress of sorrow.

He remembers another New Year’s Eve, 1985, two years ago to the day. The horrifying explosion which took six innocent people’s lives, and he remembers his son.

California was a great place to live, to raise a family, until the accident. He can no longer run from twisting thoughts dancing through his memories. He can no longer hide, he can only remember, and he doesn’t want to remember, anymore.

The gun glitters from the streetlight outside his window, and he moves forward, toward his destiny. With unsteady nerves his hand begins to shake as it moves closer to the .45-caliber pistol. Trembling fingers wrap around its coarse-black grip, and the weapon begins to rise, further it rises, up, up toward his temple, until it neatly lays against the perspiring skin of his forehead. Slowly his thumb moves toward the hammer, then softly rests upon the tip of the cold steel. With sturdy pressure he feels the hammer start to move, backward, and give.

Only he hears the sound of the deadly weapon being cocked. The noise of the crowd begins to ring louder and the clock strikes the first cord. Ten… nine… eight… seven… the gathering crowd vocalize from below, the party is starting.

He continues to sob quietly to himself, then expresses, for you my son. Slowly he squeezes the trigger. There’s a flash from the third floor window followed by the sound of a firecracker. People begin to yell louder with the anticipation of celebration. Three. two. one. It’s the beginning of a New Year.

Monday December 6, 1999, Santa Cruz, California.

Twelve years later

Trees sway menacingly from a cold chilling breeze blowing steadily in this eternal darkness of the woods.

A forest of black night enhanced only by the glowing presence of a watching moon overhead is seen. The only sounds to be heard are from long thick branches scraping against the bark of tall standing oak trees.

Nothing moves tonight in this wilderness of forgotten time, only shadows dance upon trees alone in this forest of silence cast by the undulating power of a full-moon. Yet there is it seems, one shadow moving differently from the rest.

An abandoned town sits deserted from decades of being alone in the middle of all this emptiness. Bone chilling laughter is heard far away in the isolation of these woods.

A barren light glows through dense trees of the forest, and a man speaks.

It was your getting married that started you drinking.

Perhaps it is not so desolate as we would perceive it to be, as the talking continues.

No, it was her mother who started me drinking.

There’s a different laughter now, and it’s more human.

Come on Jerry, admit it, you didn’t start drinking until after you got married, now did you? asked Frank Jessup, as he takes another swig from his beer, sitting on a barstool at the Old Tavern No. Nine.

Well actually, it wasn’t until after I got my promotion from Tristar Labs that I started drinking. responds Jerry Malcolm.

That I should say, and the fact my wife’s family always seem to be putting their nose into our personal life.

Jerry Malcolm takes a drink from his bottle and continues.

"When we were first married twelve years ago, everything was perfect. Well, nothing’s perfect. We had our fights every now and then, that was mostly because she was a heavy drinker due to the unforeseen death of her twin sister. I didn’t drink at the time. After two years of marriage she just up and quit, no more of any type of liquor, which helped bring us closer together.

"Three years after I got my promotion, her parents wanted us to move down south, closer to where they lived.

"They figured, now that I’m making more money, we should get us a house on the beach next to them.

Jerry takes another drink.

I wanted nothing to do with it, let them stay right where they were, and us where we are.

Bartender, bring this man another beer, on me. yells Frank. That’s the way Jerry, don’t let them push you into something you have no desire to do.

Well Frank, my wife wanted to go, but I told her I was now starting to achieve what I had set my sights on accomplishing with this company. That maybe after a few years we would do just that. Mind you, I had no intentions of moving down next to her parents, women want to hear that though.

Give this man a shot of whiskey bartender, and make mine a double, on me. repeats Frank.

Anyhow, after her mother started to visit us on a regular basis, at least once a month to persuade her daughter into moving down, I wouldn’t give in.

Bartender give this…

"Hold on Frank, I still have a shot and a beer in front of me. What I’m saying is it got too much for me. The pressure of her mother, constantly on our doorstep, my wife insisting that we move. I finally had to tell my wife her mother was no longer allowed up here.

She didn’t take that all to well and flew off the handle.

That away Jerry. a voice from the back chants.

Jerry looks over his shoulder towards the back room where the pool table is, and smiles.

Well, she told her mother what I said, and her mother has yet to be back. I’ve been in the doghouse ever since. So I figure. What the hell, might as well be in the doghouse with a beer.

Okay gentlemen, I’ll be closing the bar in fifteen minutes, it’s last call. That was quite a story Mr. Malcolm, was it true? states the bartender, looking over at Jerry.

Every line Sam.

Sam sets another beer in front of Jerry.

On the house.

Hey Sam, why do you close this place down at twelve every night, instead of two like all the other bars? asked Frank.

This is where I live Frank, and I do have a family life to think about.

Frank doesn’t say anything else; he’s married with five kids of his own, which is why he comes here.

Jerry Malcolm finishes the last of his beer and walks out the door, passes Frank’s truck and proceeds to his own car. He looks around once and enjoys his decision to have stayed up here in this area; he likes the peace the woods give.

He enters his car and drives off down the old mining road, it’s peaceful he thinks to himself, but he might be in a little trouble with his wife if he doesn’t hurry, hell it don’t matter, he’s late already.

Jerrrrry.

Jerry hears the beckoning of an evil voice, behind him, in the back seat.

Jerrrrry. whispers the voice, into his ear.

Jerry’s forehead begins to sweat as he stomps hard on the brakes.

Jerrrrry drive. orders the voice; it’s a chilling voice, and he continues to drive.

Jerry tries to look in the mirror but can’t focus on anything; he thinks he does see some type of white face, or only a partial face.

Jerry can’t think too well at this moment, maybe from the beers he’s had, or from the mounting terror, which he’s feeling at this time. Jerry does feel his heart pounding with the beat of a drum being played by Indians ready to go on the warpath.

The car suddenly smells of dampness and mildew, his thought is that tonight he will die.

Jerrrrry, the voice chants into his ear, llleffft.

Jerry turns left and proceeds up a hill, which he hasn’t been on before.

One-minute goes by, then five, it seemed like an hour had past. Finally Jerry breaks the silence and speaks.

What do you want with me? stammers Jerry. Do I know you? Have I done something to you?

Need more. responds the voice.

Need more what? inquires Jerry.

Ssssstoppppp. commands the voice. Jerry feels hot breath on the back of his neck. He applies the brakes and the car comes to a stop. He hears the door open from the back, and then feels a hand viciously grab the top of his head. Savagely his body is wrenched from the drivers’ seat.

Locked in an unbreakable grip, Jerry’s dragged by his head, kicking and screaming. The madman continues to drag Jerry for what seems like hours, until he’s finally lifted up into the night, held tight with his legs dangling underneath him. Jerry looks directly into this madman’s face, only to discover it’s like no face he’s ever seen before.

Death. this unholy creature from the devils own world speaks, as his right hand is thrust into Jerry’s own stomach. Jerry feels his spleen being ripped from his belly. Then hears his guts hitting the dry-wooded ground below. Jerry sees the

right arm raise again, only to thrust once more into his chest, where Jerry’s heart is pounding.

Jerry’s incoherent but knows his life force is ebbing from his body, at this moment he can only see through empty eyes. He then feels his heart being torn from its socket, removed, and slung away from its former host.

The madman stands erect as he raises his right arm overhead and thrust for the third and final time into Jerry’s neck.

Blood squirts from Jerry’s mouth and dribbles down from the corners. His bowels giving way and his pants become wet from his own urine. He then feels the tearing of tissue as his head is removed from his shoulders, and even after he dies do his unseeing eyes stare blankly upon the collapsed frame of what at one time was his body. His screaming voice still heard as he’s carried away, or is that just laughter.

Chapter Two

The weather is shit. It’s been raining straight for a week now and I’ve had to close the store down for the past three days. Life sucks, no not really, work sucks. I hate my job and I hate my life, no I don’t hate my life, I love my life. I’ve just been miserable lately.

Christmas is nineteen days away and I haven’t even bought a gift for my husband. Those people, shopping like a bunch of pigs, throwing product all over the store and expecting someone else to pick it up, man I’ve just about had enough. I think I’m going to quit at the beginning of the New Year.

These hours I’ve been working are putting a strain on me. I keep getting sick with these late hours; my schedule changes every week, different hours and different days, no time to plan ahead, no time to myself. I don’t have time to even cook—clean, or spend any time with my husband. My job sucks. Hell, I’ve forgotten how to do the fucking laundry. I used to think I hated doing laundry, but I miss it.

What a joke! Me wanting to do laundry. I just want a good life, and apparently I have to work this freaking stupid job to achieve it. My husband, that idiot, he’s a bum. Out there going to school everyday, telling me that he wants’ to get a better job for himself, so that he can take better care of us. He says, One day we’ll have everything the world has to offer.

Yeah right, well, that SOB better get out there and get his ass a job, I don’t know how long I can take this shit, his shit, anybody’s shit, this life is shit. I’m pissed off. I’ve got to cool down before I get home. Home hell, it’s not even our home, we pay twelve hundred dollars a month for rent, and it’s not even ours. It’s outrageous, throwing good money away like that, giving it to some landlord, and we don’t even have a place to call our own.

Sure it’s nice; a huge house on three hundred acres of timbered property and secluded caverns. We don’t have to pay for electricity, garbage, or water, it has a well, but still, it’s not ours. My life sucks, and I’m tired of bitching about it.

I guess it’s better to keep my frustration to myself instead of taking it out on my husband, the bastard. Oh, he’s not really bad and I can’t blame it all on him.

The job where he was working had no reason to let him go. He did nothing wrong, they could’ve allowed him to stay on.

Working for the same company for ten years. He gets injured, and they tell him, Too bad, we were glad to have you with us for all those years, but now that you can’t perform the job you were good at, we have to let you go.

The punks, they even re-trained him for another position that he could use his prior experience and knowledge for, he was good at that job too. I think they were afraid he would hurt himself again and sue them?

They also hated the fact he was still making the same amount of money for what they considered was an easier job. Hell, it wasn’t easier. He had more power over his co-workers and had to evoke discipline when they did something wrong. He hated it, but he wanted to keep his job. Hell, he wanted to keep working so he could take care of us.

I love him. states Renee, as she remembers their wedding day.

She’s wearing a beautiful, glowing, white-silk dress with ruffled-laced sleeves; her older sister purchased for her as a wedding gift. And her husband-to-be, all five foot-eleven inches, and two hundred pounds of pure man standing tall at the altar.

It was five years ago when they first met. Everyone had told her it could never work, she was only twenty-one and Paul was thirty-six.

Who cares if there’s a fifteen-year difference in our age, I love him and he loves me. she told them.

We were married three years later, it’s been