We moved into our house a little over two years ago. The woman who lived there before us was older, I'd guess in her upper 60s, and seemed a little bitter and crabby, someone who spent a lot of her time smoking and watching the local news on a tiny TV in the kitchen.
The second time we met her Barb commented on the clowns that were all over the house: paintings, small statues even in the bathroom. The lady said, "You know, I used to be a clown." Barb and I gave each other the barely raised eyebrow that married couples develop that says, "Did I hear what I just think I heard? Honey, follow up on that..."
So I said, trying to sound like I didn't quite hear her, "I'm sorry, did you say you were a clown?" She confirmed, said that it was a long time ago but in that tone of voice that said she might want to talk about it. But since the house was being inspected and we had more important things to do, we let it drop.
When we opened up our empty house for the first time we half-expected to find clowns. Thankfully, we were disappointed. We merrily went about ripping up carpet and wallpaper for a couple of months and the clowns left our minds.
But a couple months after we moved in we found the clown from the photo, leering at us from the attic. We didn't find it immediately because it was back a little from the door, and because the attic doesn't have a light you wouldn't immediately see it unless you were looking. So the first time I saw his evil face clown it gave me a nasty start. Not quite Stephen King, but still creepy.
Being lazy bastards we left it up there -- we didn't have much need for the attic beyond a few boxes. But with baby stuff taking over the spare bedroom we needed to use it more. So, I finally took the clown down to the curb this morning, finally rid of the last clown in the house. It had better be the last we see of it.