I’d forgotten. 

For years, the pearly face of Goggins had diminished in my memory. It promised to return - to collect on what I owe.  

And now. It wavers there. 

At first, obscured by the bedroom shadows, then a blotchy smiley face eager to collect on the promise shuffles into view at the foot of the bed. Its garish red mouth stretches a smile as it gawps at me. In one chalk white hand, a red balloon twirls as blood-shot eyes penetrate the dim light of the bedroom with a glow from the rims of its pupils.

I pull at the sheets, close my eyes, and try to disbelieve that a childhood phantom still haunts me. Chest heaving, driven to the point of speechlessness. Things are different now. My family sleeps in the house: my wife at my side, the kids in their rooms, Thomas in my old bedroom from so long ago.

It watches, only a slow sway at the knees, a slight dance on the spot. Angela slept, thank the lord. If she woke now to this spectral visitor from my past, I dread contemplating the terror in her face.

So, it’s not my fault. Yet it curses my family.

20 years earlier, my father and I drove to the popular Devon circus in town. In its prime back then, before decadence peeled away the essence of the circus. A time when interest in clowns lit up a child’s face. I recall my excitement as we neared the huge tent structure. Late too. Dad messed up when he had to work extra hours. Bless him. He sped back, and we readied ourselves and rushed off.

We drove too fast.

Dad curled into the circus grounds set in the town’s spacious park with haste, swerving at the rear. He should have slowed. Should not have mattered so much missing the first fifteen minutes.

Not worth the accident and cost.

Goggins came out of nowhere, hasty and also late for the dancing clowns’ starting act on the night. The clown bolted in front of Dad’s car.

Smash.

I remember the scared face of Goggins like that of a rabbit in the headlights as the steel chassis ploughed into the terrified clown. Dad rushed to Goggins, but the injuries were too severe.

As the once happy clown lay there in death’s throes, heavy eyelids rose for one last time.

Eyes stained with pain, looked at me.

At me.

Then a quick glance at Dad before they shut.

The police arrived just moments after the call. I wanted to leave; it was more than I could bear knowing Goggins lay dead, killed by Dad’s hasty driving. The night’s events changed everything. A cheerful clown who loved to give candy to kids and balloons had died right there.

The circus, in honour of Goggins, closed the shows early and left town when news spread.

But the clown came back.

The following night, my teenage eyes never experienced such terror as when Goggins crept into my room. It woke me, muffled my scream, and told me that Dad must leave now. It explained the curse now bestowed on my bloodline.

An icy tone I can never forget.

When your child reaches your age, I will return and claim you. Your bloodline will feel my pain through many generations. Your blood belongs to me.

Dad. Where did he go? Mother woke to find no sign of him anywhere. She called his friends, asked around for days. I’d always wondered. The spoken words chilled me, a warning impossible to forget as the years drew by.

For so long, I tried to make sense of the night Dad disappeared. I could never forget the face of Goggins visiting me or the chilling words instilled with a vengeance powerful enough to breach the grave.

I discovered much about the clown’s identity on the internet as I sought answers to my father’s vanishing. Not a male, a woman called Geraldine Harper, stage named Goggins. She loved clowns from birth. Like me, she frequented the circus as a child and wanted nothing more than to be a clown. Later, she travelled with the show and her dreams came true. She met and fell for one of the other performers, Gutas the human cannonball.

They were soon to bear a child.

My Dad stole that from them when he killed Geraldine and her unborn.

And Goggins took him.

That promise so many years ago, now is a reality for me. My eldest son, Thomas, I hear his whimpers from the next room. Goggins had visited him, just as she visited me the night Dad vanished. I knew she’d uttered the same insidious words to Thomas, a threat to carry with him until he too has children of his own, and must face Goggins again.

This was my curse, passed through the ether to my offspring. Now it’s my turn.

You or your child, decide? My soul will never rest.

Her words are flat, a croaked whisper voicing the pain of torment across time.

Goggins extends a pallid hand, a beaming smile on her cracked face like a cream cake left out for too long. This angry spirit that wore a strained white faced grin is no orange haired buffoon but a menacing subversion of the jolly fat child’s friend.

I can only accept. It’s my turn, not my son’s.

My wife too will wake soon and explain to my son that dad fled in the night. And for Thomas, my cursed son Thomas, a burden to carry until his time comes.

Wherever Goggins takes me, I will find my father.

And in the passing of time, I shall meet my son there in that dark place.