Minions of Satan by Stacie

Chris Larabee smoked his cheroot thoughtfully, trying to interpret the looks the woman at the bar was giving him.

He recognized her as the widow Hinkley. Buck had pointed her out yesterday as she stepped out of the general store, carrying a tightly-wrapped package as if it was a newborn baby.

"Now there's a gal who needs a thick slice of Buck," the mustached ladies' man had said.

"She's in mourning, Buck," JD replied, rolling his puppy-dog eyes.

"Exactly. I'm sure the poor thing needs a shoulder to cry on."

But the widow Hinkley had proved impervious to Buck's charms, and had hurried home clutching her package.

Now she sat in the nearly empty saloon, eyeing Chris with hooded lids. He had seen other women look at him like that, a coy come hither glance followed by a demure look at the floor. On more experienced women it looked tempting. On Mrs. Hinkley, it looked awkward and downright silly.

Out of curiosity, Chris gestured to the empty seat beside him, and Mrs. Hinkley joined him for a drink.

A few hours and a few whiskeys later, Chris found himself kissing the demure Mrs. Hinkley in her parlor. He wasn't exactly sure how he'd got there, and at the moment, he didn't care.

Mrs. Hinkley took his hand and led him back to her bedroom. She set a candle down on the dresser and smiled at him seductively.

He glanced at the bed, and froze.

"What the hell are those?" he said, staring at the dozens of twisted, distorted figures scattered on the bed. They had huge evil grins and faces painted white as death. The colorful clothes they wore only made them more grotesque. He looked around and saw more of the hideous creatures scattered around the room. Some held round balls attached to strings, some were contorted in inhuman shapes, their big feet splayed above their heads.

"You like them?" Mrs. Hinkley asked. "I collect them. They're clowns."

Chris had never felt such fear and revulsion. "I've got to go," he whispered, and hurriedly backed out of the room. Once outside, he gulped in fresh air, trying to erase the memory of the creatures in Mrs. Hinkley's bedroom.

"Mr. Larabee, wait," he heard her call from the porch. "You haven't seen my newest addition. Shipped all the way from New York." She held up a life-size clown head with big, red, grinning lips and blue, curly hair.

Chris Larabee, possibly for the first time in his life, ran like hell.

THE END

Apologies to anyone who actually collects clowns. They give me the creeps.