My head is splitting, oh God... I feel so awful... my eyes... I can't open my eyes. Something crusted over them, gluing them shut... Something warm pulses in the center of my head; my hair feels matted together. My whole body aches so badly, but I can't move — only my stiff neck responds with a dull pain in the back of my head and down my spine.

“How long have I been like this? Where am I? What happened?” These questions swirled in my mind, unanswered. But one stood out among the rest, pounding in my temples as fiercely as my heartbeat. When I finally managed to pry my eyes open, through the crust of dried blood — my blood — the question screamed louder than ever: “Where is Mike?! Where is my son?!”

When my eyes adjusted to the harsh light of a single, old lamp swinging gently from the ceiling, I found myself tied to a chair welded to the floor. My head spun wildly, but it didn't stop me from scanning the room — groaning in pain as I did so— for my son, Mike. And the relief that washed over me when I spotted his blurry silhouette just three meters away... It was indescribable. He was alive. He was unharmed. But then it hit me — this wasn't right.

It wasn't good that he was here too, in this cold, dark, unfamiliar space. I had no idea how we got here. Panic gripped me, followed by a wave of helpless dread. What do you do in situations like this? How are you supposed to react when you and your six-year-old son, whose birthday is today, are tied up, with you barely breathing and concussed? And on him… what's that on him? A cloth? It looked like a chloroform-soaked rag.

A strangled groan escaped me as the spasm of nausea twisted my stomach, forcing me to retch and cough, which made it even harder to breathe. That's when I heard the sound — the unmistakable squeak of wheels. Someone was coming.

And then he appeared. A clown.

He was wearing a multicolored costume with a smeared, grotesque face painted in white, blue, red, yellow, and black. His mouth stretched into an unnatural, toothy grin, and behind him, a small cart filled with… things squealed across the floor, its rickety wheels grinding against the silence.

As he stepped into the light, I could make out more details: his bloodstained costume, the smeared greasepaint, his crooked, yellow, decaying teeth. And then everything came back to me. Everything.

***

Everything started a week ago with a thought about my son's upcoming birthday. I'm a single dad, thirty-eight years old, working tirelessly from 8 AM to 9 PM at an oh-so-successful, damn company that nobody, except other losers like me, has even heard of. You might think that's why my wife left me, but no... she died of cancer. Just six months ago. All the money we had as a happy, beautiful, and close-knit family was spent on treatment, which, unfortunately, didn't help. And now, well… I was barely making ends meet, working in a shitty job to buy shitty things I didn't need.

My son — he took losing his mother incredibly hard. He was closer to her than to me and blamed me for everything that happened. It hurt me deeply because, in a way, he was right. I was a bad father. A bad husband. I couldn't give my son the attention he deserved; I couldn’t buy him everything he wanted. I couldn’t even bring home proper food that wouldn’t leave both of us with aching stomachs. I was so tired… tired of everything. Dropping him off at daycare, being met with pitiful stares, watching people hand down secondhand clothes for him, getting unsolicited offers of help at work. Their handouts annoyed me. It felt like we weren’t even seen as people.

That’s when I decided: for his sixth birthday, I was going to give my son something unforgettable. I wanted to throw him a party so spectacular that every kid his age would envy him.

Ever since he was little, Mike had loved circuses, shows, and clowns. Especially those scary, painted men who, to me, seemed to be doing all kinds of “funny” nonsense. So, I decided to hire clowns as a birthday surprise. But after searching online, I quickly realized that hiring clowns was way out of my budget. I was already feeling pretty down when I stumbled upon an ad: “If your budget is tight and your child wants some real fun, Clown Tanti is just what you need!”

Clicking the link brought me to a vibrant webpage with contact information, details about the show, and fun facts about this clown to share with kids ahead of the big event. The price? Super tempting. And the tagline? “A show you’ll never forget.” Without overthinking, I clicked “Call.” A friendly woman answered, and we arranged for Clown Tanti to come to our address at 3 PM on November 21st — my son’s birthday. She explained that the show would last two hours and include bubble tricks, balloons, interactive games, funny jokes, and more. She mentioned payment was due upfront and non-refundable, but assured me that no one had ever been dissatisfied with their services — it was just a formality.

We discussed my son’s preferences, any allergies, and other specifics, and I hung up, feeling proud of myself. Finally, I could bring some joy to my son after six months of depression and apathy. I’d make him smile, make him happy, and maybe even make myself feel a bit better.

The week flew by, and suddenly it was 10 AM on November 21st. I’d taken the day off, which was no small feat, to spend time with Mike. I’d informed his daycare teacher he wouldn’t be coming, and he was thrilled to get a day with me and sleep in on a cold morning instead of bundling up in endless layers. Until 3 PM, the day was all his. We went for a walk, I bought him his favorite dessert — panna cotta, which we set aside in the fridge as an evening cake — and we built towers from blocks and colored in old coloring books I’d picked up from a church donation event. I hadn’t felt this happy in ages.

Then, the doorbell rang. My heart skipped a beat. Something felt… off. Another ring, more insistent. I got up, calling Mike to follow me.

Opening the door, I was greeted by a tall, slender man dressed in a harlequin-patterned costume, his face painted, with a fully decorated cart of props and a bag I assumed was full of supplies. I invited him in, paid the agreed amount, and let the show begin.

Mike’s face lit up with joy as he laughed, jumped, and clapped while the clown performed. My heart felt warm, a tear of happiness even welled up in my eye. I excused myself for just a moment to use the restroom.

But when I returned, the house was too quiet. Uneasily, I stepped into the living room where I had left Mike with the clown — and froze in horror. Mike lay on the floor, a cloth pressed to his face. He was breathing, shallowly, but beside him was an empty black bag. Before I could remove the cloth, something hard struck my head, and the world spun into darkness.

***

“Eenie, meenie, miny, moe, should we hang or cut it off?” the clown chanted gleefully, his voice teetering on madness.

The meaning of his words hit me as I saw him approach my son with a noose and a pair of oversized shears.

“Don't you dare, bitch, I'll fucking kill you, get away from him, you hear me, you bastard?!” I screamed with every ounce of strength I had left.

The clown slowly turned his face towards me and very quickly jumped to my chair, laughing madly: “Ho-ho-oh-ho, and who here has woken up already, huh?)” the clown spun toward me, grinning wildly, and leaned in close, his rancid breath making me gag. But, pulling myself together, I threw my head back a bit and jerked it forward, trying to hit him with my forehead on the bridge of my nose, but I didn't succeed..either because of my still poor coordination or because of his hyperactivity.

He jumped back without ceasing to giggle and jump from foot to foot, approached his son under my watchful eye and removed the cloth with the sleeping pill. Mike immediately began to come to his senses and howl, and the clown turned to me: “If you solve my riddle, I’ll leave the boy alone. COME ON!” the clown sneered.

“I will not play your stupid games, man, what is going on here?! Let us go, or else!”

“Mystery! Mystery!!! MYSTERY!!!” he said, holding the scissors to my son.

Unable to endure these provocations and noise, which echoed throughout the room and pounded my ears, I surrendered: “Well, well, well! Just get away from him!”

He smiled again with all his thirty-two teeth and removed the claw-scissors from my son's throat.

Reluctantly, I agreed. I had no choice.

He began: “Invisible to all, without a body at all. That’s why they frighten — some say they fly, persistent as flies. What are they?”

“Evil… spirits?” I stammered, unsure.

He changed his expression instantly: his brows lowered, his smile vanished, his shoulders slumped, and his gaze... became so cold and glassy, it felt like he was piercing right through me. My heart probably stopped at that moment. I thought I had made a mistake, said something wrong. But then he roared:

“YEEES!!!” throwing the rope aside, he ran toward me. Circling around, I didn’t even realize at first what had just happened... He cut off two of my fingers on my right hand. Oh, how I screamed then... oh God, that pain... I can't even describe it. I heard the crunch of my bones just before the phalanges of my fingers fell to the floor.

“I said I wouldn’t touch him, but I never said anything about you! Hahahahaaa!!! How fun! This is so much fun with you guys! Isn’t it?! Are you having fun too?!” his mood shifted from manic joy to aggression. He started throwing and overturning everything he could find on that cart. Then, retreating into a corner, he sat there rocking back and forth, muttering and muttering endlessly.

A few minutes later, when I could no longer scream due to my shredded voice, and the clown seemed to calm down a bit — as did son, who had been silently watching everything unfold with tear-filled eyes and sheer terror — the man suddenly jumped up and screamed: “Another riddle! I’ll GIVE YOU ANOTHER ONE!” he picked up a huge cleaver from the floor and lunged at my son, slashing his cheek.

“Fine! Fine, you bastard! Don’t touch my son, I’ll play, I will!” my already hoarse voice broke into a falsetto.

“White, but not sugar,

Cold, but not ice!

What is it?”

I froze in shock... I knew what it was... but I didn’t know... My mind was completely blank, and he kept slicing deeper into my son’s cheek. My boy was sobbing, and it was impossible to focus. My thoughts were spinning, but not on what they should’ve been. Finally, I gave up when I caught the clown’s questioning look.

“I... I-I don’t k-know...” I stuttered, trembling at my own words.

My son’s sobbing stopped immediately. Instantly. Forever... His head dropped and rolled toward me, leaving a trail of dark, viscous blood in its wake.

“It’s a corpse!” the clown declared theatrically, pointing at my son..

I don’t remember how it happened... Everything moved so fast... Somehow, I managed to free myself from the ropes that had bound me. It was like something had taken over me, and suddenly I was hacking that monster’s body to pieces with those same scissor-like shears.

I cried and hacked, slashed and wept... My son’s lifeless, headless body remained seated across from me... until the police arrived. Someone must have called them, hearing the screams and crying.

***

No matter how much I tried to convince the officers that the clown was the real killer, no matter how many times I showed them my right hand, now missing two fingers, no matter how many times I retold the story again and again, the surveillance cameras told a different story. They clearly showed that only my son and I had entered that room. When the police arrived, there was no trace of a "Tanti the Clown," and my head was perfectly intact with no signs of a concussion.

And the psychiatrist’s diagnosis of "Dissociative Identity Disorder," or in simpler terms, multiple personality disorder, said it all...