Sarah wasn't thrilled about the job, but the pay was too good to refuse. The house was old, Victorian-style, located at the very end of a dead-end street. The parents, Mr. and Mrs. Henderson, seemed anxious, repeatedly instructing her to keep the two children in the basement playroom after 8 PM.
"Whatever you do," Mr. Henderson said, his voice unusually strained, "do not go into the upstairs rooms after dark. Stay in the basement. It's... safer."
By 8:30 PM, the children were asleep. Sarah was alone, surrounded by outdated toys and a dusty couch. In the far corner, a life-sized clown statue sat on a pedestal. It was hideous. Its painted smile was too wide, and its glossy, black eyes seemed to follow her every movement.
The silence of the house was oppressive. Sarah tried to watch television, but her eyes kept drifting to the clown. It felt as if the air around it was colder. Finally, unable to take the sensation of being watched, she grabbed a thick wool blanket from the couch and threw it over the figure, covering the smile.
A sense of relief washed over her, but it lasted only a moment. She decided to call Mr. Henderson to ask if she could move to the living room.
"Everything okay?" he asked on the second ring.
"Yes, but... is it alright if I move upstairs? The clown statue in the basement is... it's creeping me out," she admitted.
There was a long silence on the other end, followed by the sound of Mr. Henderson catching his breath.
"Sarah," he said, his voice trembling. "Take the kids. Leave the house. Now."
"What? Why?"
"We don't own a clown statue."
A cold spike of adrenaline slammed into her chest. Sarah hung up and turned slowly toward the corner.
The blanket was on the floor. The statue was gone.