The white van chugged up the sodden hill, water pouring down from the sky, dripping and spilling down from the trees. A utility van, former fleet vehicle for some corporation, its number and insignias having long ago been replaced by the maniac bright colors of a business owned and solely operated by its current and only driver, Gerald Simmons, aka, Jolly Jerry the Birthday Clown!
He slowly yielded to the stop sign at the end of Whitby road. In front, water rushed down the far side of Milford road, coursing its way from Mount Vernon to his right down to the direction of Londonderry township to his left, where he was heading home. He should have stuck with his decision to cancel on his last client on account of rain; Eight-year-old Kay's birthday party depended on the wide-open back yard for the event he arranged, it couldn't be held indoors, even if less than ten kids showed up. But her parents insisted their house, a twelve-foot wide trailer with a built-on living-room addition would suffice. So he tried, he really tried. ----
It wasn't until his flourish-gesture hit poor little hyperkinetic Billy square in the face that Mr. and Mrs. Sanders decided that yes, this party should be cancelled. They didn't yell, having acknowledged Billy's uncontrolled running having been the major contributor to the accident, but the anger, the you goddamn fool! sentiment was simmering underneath.
The honking from behind broke his reverie. After looking both ways he turned left. He should head straight home and set aside this whole incident for now. Just keep driving. However, willpower couldn't stop Gerald from looking into this one matter. He pulled over in front of the abandoned Bolten mansion on the right, letting the impatient motorist pass. Then he pulled out his phone.
The smiley JollyJerry foam casing didn't elevate his mood one bit. It usually did as it was often accompanied by the memories of children laughing at its appearance, adults chuckling at its clever design. It was one of his two phones he had, the one he used for and at his parties. It had a very small contact list and of course, no naughty pictures or videos, no questionable browsing history. Anything like that had nothing to do with children, thank you very much. He looked up Jolly Jerry the Birthday Clown on Google. Just as he half-expected, the proud parent of Kay Sanders had down-rated him a one-star, providing a stormy review he didn't want to read but glanced at, stopping at the word ...violently!! Oh fuck this!
Gerald's husband may or may not be understanding about this incident. Spence, middle-aged elementary-school principle will point out, again, his dislike of being the sole means of providing Jerry with clients. His budget had been a little short on advert spending of late with him pleading with his husband to reach out to his large sphere of contacts for potential clients. Gerald understood his resistance to help out with his business and love of performance in this was, but lately Spence's talking to him as if he were a wayward son instead of his spouse angered him. The thought of being treated like that drove him to slam his fist on the steering wheel. In doing do he inadvertently released his hold on his phone. It bounced off his left knee, landing on the floor.
As he started reaching down he glanced to his right at the grey three-story Bolton house. Thoughts of entertaining a large group of children there at least brought a small grin to his face. It's been a long time since he performed before over a hundred children and child-hearted grownups. He sat up, still looking at the house. His dream of performing beyond Londonderry had started slipping away of late, he didn't know why. Not anymore. He's going to rekindle that dream, he promised the old ruined mansion...
Then visions of screams, terror and blood slammed through his head. He quickly shook away those thoughts, then regarded the mansion. He recalled the horrific event his parent said had occurred there before even they were born. The contradictory tales of what actually happened to that large family decades ago were never sorted out. No one wanted to even mention the Bolton place, not even out-of-towners could be interested in its history. Weird.
Not taking his eyes off Bolton, he opened the door to give himself space to reach down to the floor for his phone.
It wasn't until he felt the metal floor instead of his phone that he peeled his eyes away from that accursed place. He saw with shock that it had fallen from the door into the rushing water, its JollyJerry foam casing keeping it afloat.
