((Another installment from our Ghost Event!))

Chelody

It’s a lovely spring day in Stormwind city. The temperatures are high, the winds are low, and there’s nary a cloud in the sky. Birds chirp as they pass from tree to rooftop and back again, creating an almost idyllic cityscape.

You walk through the trade district, and then along through the canals. The street vendors are out in full force today, hawking their goods from their carts. There’s glass and jewelry and dolls and other things that seem little more than worthless, pretty trinkets. Armorers polish breastplates until they gleam in the sun, leatherworkers display their most colorful pieces to capture the eye. The tailors have strewn swaths of fabric so they look like rainbows draped over their mannequins.

And though these things are nice, though the assortment of goods is marvelous, it’s the food vendors that have the highest appeal. Sausages on sticks, muffins, fried dough, icecream and popcorn – every kind of food imaginable can be found here. The smell of cotton candy is strong on the air, almost like you’re at a carnival instead of the same old cobblestone streets of Stormwind.

You approach one of the snack vendors, a man dipping fresh fruit into melted milk chocolate, when you spy the clown. He’s a jovial looking sort with a wild green wig – the middle patch is bald but the sides have wiry looking hair tufting out above his ears. His nose is a huge red cherry, his skin is painted chalk white. There’s a black smile drawn around his painted lips, and enormous blue circles outlining his eyes. He’s holding a bunch of balloons in one of his hands.

As you near him, he offers you a closed mouth grin and a balloon. It’s yellow and has a big smiley face drawn on it. You accept it with a ‘thank you’ and move along the stretch of street, your present bobbing above your head. About ten yards away, you’re approaching a cart with a spray of fresh flowers, and you see . . . the clown again. You didn’t hear him moving behind you, nor do you see alleys in which the clown could have traversed, but there he is again anyway, offering you a lime green balloon with a star drawn on it. You thank him again, your brows knit, and continue along your path. He waves goodbye with his enormous stuffed purple glove.

Ten yards away, next to a jewelry stand, there he is again with a blue balloon. You turn around, trying to see if there are multiple clowns along the street behind you, but you see nothing other than the vendors. You turn back to wave him off, your other balloons in hand, and he frowns. You watch as a makeup drawn tear simply appears on his cheek like it was there all along. Feeling guilty, not knowing quite what else to do, you take the blue balloon and hurry along, fast losing your desire to shop the canals. You turn the corner and . . .

The clown is in the trade district next to the fountain with an orange balloon. More makeup tears are drawn on his cheeks now, and his smiley face has turned into a frown. He waves the balloon. You’re now nervous enough that you bustle through the crowds with your balloons, trying to avoid the clown that seems to be everywhere. You turn the corner towards the gates and he’s there again, hunched over, mutely sobbing into his hands, a deflating violet balloon billowing towards the ground beside him.

You run back now, unsure of how to get away from this freakish man with his freakish balloons, sprinting towards the cathedral district with a shriek threatening to spill from your lips with the slightest provocation. You let the gifted balloons go, your feet pounding on the road that leads to your house. All you want is to get home, to wrap yourself in the comfort of your family.

You fumble up the front steps, breath coming in short pants. Your hand is shaking as you turn the front knob. When you push it open to slip inside, the clown is standing in the front foyer, hunched over and silently weeping into his palms, the deflated, popped remains of a hundred balloons near his feet.

You scream and pick up the vase by the door, wielding it as a makeshift weapon in case the brightly colored freak makes a move. You hold it steady, your breath coming in short gasps, and he lifts his head to peer at you. You stare in horror. The man’s face is melting before you as his tears come, dribbling off, and not simply the makeup, but the actual flesh beneath too. You want to retreat, to back away, but your muscles are frozen to the spot as you watch the clown ooze into a puddle of swirling color on the floor.