Eve hummed tunelessly as she whipped together a pad of butter and a large lump of garlic. She reached for a bottle of white wine and splashed it onto the mixture as well. She closed her eyes as she stirred, well lost in the simple ecstasy of being home alone for the weekend. When her daughter was around things were always a crazy mess, not to mention that the child would never eat Eve’s favorite food with her.
She stuck her pinky in the bowl, and eyed the mixture that came out with it. Everything appeared to be well mixed, but there was only one way to really be sure. She delicately licked her concoction off her finger. A grin sidled its way onto her face as the richness of what she had made snuck up on her. It was excellent. Beyond excellent. It was a masterpiece, fit for consumption by the gods themselves. Once she added in the snails and cooked the whole thing, nothing would stand between her and pure happiness.
A series of sharp yips filled the house. “Damnit, Frijole, not now. I’m busy,” Eve called. Either her Chihuahua didn’t understand her or, and this seemed more likely to her, the little dog chose to ignore her since his barks continued to ring through the house. She set the bowl down with a theatrical flourish and stomped out of the kitchen. “Little Bean, if you need to go back out after I just let you in I will be very upset.” She found the dog at the front door. He was reared up on his back paws with his front scratching at the door. His head was tilted back and he was still barking with metronomic regularity.
“What kind of calamity is so dire that you interrupted my cooking?” Eve asked him as she crossed the entry hall to the door. She pulled the door open with the intention of simply pushing the dog outside but she never made it that far as she gasped instead. A clown stood on her doorstep, head tilted to the side, hands folded behind his back. A massive smile was plastered across his face with red paint and his eyes were surrounded by large blue circles.
“Uhm, can I help you?” she asked. The clown remained silent and still. If it weren’t for the occasional flicker of movement in his eyes or the shallow rising and falling of his chest she almost would have thought him a statue. She stared at him for a second before he tilted his head to the other side and giggled. Frijole whimpered behind her. The clown still made no response.
“Well, alright then,” Eve said, moving behind the door. “Have a nice day.” She shut the door but it didn’t close all the way. She looked down. An oversized shoe blocked the doorway. “Uhm, excuse me but-“
“Wanna smell my flower?” the clown asked in a song-songy voice. “It smells so good, I swear. Here take a whiff.” As he said that the clown pulled a small silk rose from behind his back. The petals were red and faded slightly, as if they had been left in the sun for far too long.
“No, that’s okay, I’d really rather not,” Eve said, trying again to close the door. The clown’s enormous shoe was still in the way.
“That’s too bad,” the clown said, though he really didn’t sound all that disappointed to her. He stepped forward, shouldering the door open. “If you don’t wanna smell the flower, how about your own blood?” He produced a giant cleaver form behind his back with the flowerless hand, still grinning like a skull.
Eve screamed and ran back through the house, Frijole right on her heels. She skidded to a halt in the kitchen and threw the door closed behind her. Her phone, where was her phone? She cast around but there was no sign of it, nor of her purse where she normally stored it.
“Come out, come out,” the clowns voice said through the door. “I do so hate to work for my food.” There was a thunk as the cleaver bit deep into the wood. Frijole started barking again as splinters were blasted inwards. Eve screamed louder. The clown chopped a hole through the thin wood in no time and reached through for the doorknob. Eve pressed herself against the counter, fumbling for something, anything, to stop him. The clown turned the knob and stepped through, examining it on his way.
“Wouldn’t you know it, not even locked.” He turned to her, still smiling ridiculously. “You’re not so good at this whole surviving thing.”
Eve turned and grabbed the knife block. When she faced him again the clown was advance on her at a leisurely pace. She grabbed a knife from the block and threw it without looking at him. The four inch paring blade sailed harmlessly past his head and clattered to the floor.
“That all you got?” the clown asked. He stopped and spread his arms out to the side. “Try again, I know you can do better!”
She threw the bread knife this time. It wobbled as it flew through the air and hit the clown’s chest flat on.
“This is really pathetic. One more shot, come on, hit me!”
She pulled another one out of the block and glanced at it. The six inch paring knife. She hurled it at the clown with all her might and was rewarded as it squelched into his cleaver arm. The giant blade fell from his nerveless fingers as the clown howled up at the ceiling.
“You bitch.” He wasn’t smiling anymore, and somehow that was even more frightening. “I liked that arm! It was my second favorite arm!”
She turned away as the clown came at her, much faster this time, and grabbed the first thing that came to hand. She whirled around to the onrushing clown just in time to see him clawing towards her with his good arm. She held the cheese grater up in front of her. Her arms shook as the clown’s fingers bashed into the grater. A mist of blood erupted from his fingertips and fell across her face and hands. The clown screamed and she lashed out at him with the grater. More blood filled the air as it took off a layer of skin from his cheek. He swatted her away and staggered back, hand held to his face.
Eve grabbed the bowl of her stand mixer and slammed it down over the clowns head. Her marvelous mixture dripped down over his face. She shouted something, not words so much as an expression of hate and reached for the rolling pin. The clown tackled her just as she grabbed the rolling pin and she fell against the counter. Her eyebrow split open on the marble countertop, but she was well past caring. How dare this circus freak ruin her weekend alone, her kitchen, her dinner. The mix for her escargot had been in that bowl. The clown raised her metal bowl high above his head, insane grin back on his face as he prepared to bash her head in with the remains of her dinner. She didn’t give him the chance. She swung the rolling pin with all her remaining strength. The clown went from grinning to a look of mild surprise as the rolling pin cracked him across the forehead, splitting his skin open and flattening the butter on his face. Rivulets of blood ran down his white painted skin and into his painted on red smile. The clown swayed and toppled to the floor. She hit him again, just for good measure.
The mixing bowl lay on the floor. Bits of white face paint sat on top of her seasonings. Frijole was licking at the insides of the bowl, apparently oblivious to the fact that a clowns head had just been inside it. Her kitchen was a mess. Even worse than when her daughter was around.