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February 24, 2025
A.I. Generated
It starts with a flickering streetlight and the distant sound of wet footsteps. The alley is always empty at first—just a narrow path between forgotten buildings, where the city’s neon glow fades into obscurity. People who take the shortcut never make it home. Their voices are swallowed by the walls, their last moments unheard by the world. The reports always read the same: last seen entering the alley. No signs of struggle. No blood. Only a lingering unease, as if the air itself had swallowed them whole. Some claim to have seen him. A tall figure lurking at the far end, half-hidden in the shadows, his painted grin stretching wider than should be possible. His black-and-white face flickers in and out of existence beneath the broken streetlamp. Those who meet his hollow eyes feel the weight of something inescapable, something ancient. A whisper echoes from the dark. Not a word, not a threat—just laughter, jagged and wrong, crawling under the skin like unseen fingers. Then, silence. By morning, the city hums as if nothing happened. But the alley waits. The clown waits. And someone else will take the shortcut tonight.
