theurgy “Tee hee! Don’t talk about that bad, bad man. Sprinkles the Clown is your friend.” Arlen stared at him, shaking his head. “Dude, seriously, stop it. You’re freaking me out.” “That’s the idea. Like the old saying goes, ‘there’s nothing funny about a clown in the moonlight’. Capish?” Bret’s porch was obscured from the sidewalk, thanks to a tall, brambly hedge that lined the property. The break in the hedges opened up to a flagstone path that led to the front porch. The plan was that Arlen would run the camcorder hidden in the heavy foliage in front of the house, at an angle where he wouldn’t be seen. Bret was glad for Arlen’s help, but there was another reason he wanted someone else around – he was reluctant to admit it, but...well, he just didn’t want to do it alone. The night went better than Bret hoped it would. He’d been worried that news about the weirdo clown scaring the crap out of children would spread quickly, but apparently the news didn’t spread at all. Wave after wave of kiddies in costume washed up on his doorstep, totally unprepared for Sprinkles. A group of trick-or-treaters would appear around the hedge but as soon as they heard the Bible songs they hesitated, and the uneasiness began. Bret watched them from the darkened living room window as they approached. There was some giggling, some horseplay – more than a few of them would shout ‘boo’ as they grabbed each other – but it was mostly posturing. They way they moved up the long path to the house, like a herd of spooked cattle, betrayed their real emotions. The monstrous jack o’ lantern stopped more than a few of them in their tracks when they got close enough for a good look. It set off warning signals in their little heads: something’s not right. But still, on they came. Bret was ready behind the door. The bell would ring and the door would open, slowly. Then Sprinkles would peek his head out, smiling at them with wide, hysterical eyes. One half of his white head glowed blue, the other half red, raising unnatural purple shadows across the meticulous greasepaint on his face. Then he would show his teeth in a horrible grin. “Happy Halloweeeens!” he would squeal in a shrill, girlish voice. That was usually enough to send the littlest ones running. Candy spilled from plastic pumpkins as they fled in terror. The older kids usually stood their ground but with very little confidence. Cries of trick-or-treat died in their throats. They shrank back from the clown in the doorway with their bags raised protectively in front of them. Then Sprinkles swooped out onto the porch and went into his routine, dancing and capering. The unsettling way Sprinkles moved – all herky-jerky, like a spastic marionette – that made the rest of the kids turn and bolt. The parents couldn’t see very well from their vantage point back on the sidewalk.
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