On a cold, dark night in the run down farmhouse he felt something warm nuzzle his hand and he instinctively reached out to stroke it. The rabid dog took two of his fingers before he was fully awake.
Everyone thought he’d gone because he said, “See you later,” and they watched him leave. But every night he’d creep from his basement hideaway to study them whilst they slept.
He had often wondered what it would be like to ride the night bus all the way to its terminus and finally found out the night he fell asleep and missed his stop. As the bus came to a stop he awoke to a panorama straight from the bowels of hell: dim lighting; rusty chains; meat hooks; a grinning man in a bloody apron waving a gore-smeared cleaver.
Being afraid of clowns seems like something of a trendy phobia these days. I’m afraid of them because I once saw an appallingly skinny man dressed as an evil clown throw his head back and swallow a live mouse.
They wandered the wasteland through ruined counties and barren states asking the same question again and again. “We prayed, we were righteous and God was on our side so how did we lose the war?”