The annual Brotherton tradition of starting fall off with a community haunted house ended the year the monster came home. Though no one knew he'd returned until All Hallow's Eve when hell did indeed break loose.

As far back as he could remember, they had called him a monster. Alastor's fate had been friendless and uneventful, apart from moments best forgotten. He lived in an orphanage after his parents, one or the other or both, he never knew, abandoned him at a fire station when he was four. A note pinned to his chest read, "Evil lives in this child. His name is Alastor." Alastor didn't know the full contents, either.

He passed through life a somnambulant on the outside. Made himself invisible, absorbing knowledge, gaining insight into human nature, and learning to mimic behavior enough to wear a mask of normalcy. He got away with "normal" until he ran away to join the circus at 16. Earning money by playing a clown for any and every occasion in town, he booked gigs online and arrived in full costume and make up. He found acceptance only in disguise.

Clowning allowed him to become close to them, to hug them in selfies, to feel their happiness because of something he did—he became almost human in their company. He relished mesmerizing children with sleight-of-hand trickery, but he also found a satisfying revenge in making the peers in his audiences squirm. He promoted himself as a combo mime/white face and Harlequin. Mute, he wouldn't give himself away with his voice; his agility and strength would keep him a mystery. He'd never shown off his tumbling skills at school, but he put them all on display in his act. Nothing scarier than an evil-looking clown cartwheeling his way from across the room to in-your-face interactions with members of his audience. Up close with those kids who never once came to his defense, he let his rage take over his face, turning it terrifying and dark with sinister emotion. Somehow, his teeth morphed into fangs in these encounters, evoking uneasiness or downright fear in the person under his spell. No one saw through his masquerade. Not one resident of Brotherton knew they paid good money to hire one of their own. The one they called Monster entertained them for hours. 

He might've stayed in the city known for brotherly benevolence until graduation, but all he wanted was to perform as a clown for life. These thoughts occupied Alastor's mind after a children's party when he took a short cut down an alley, wiping his make up off too soon.

"Ha! Wouldja look at that," an audible sneer interrupted his musings, and Alastor looked up. A particularly nasty bully who'd taken his frustrations out on him way too many times before approached. "Your secret is out, Clownface," he chuckled at his new replacement for the moniker he'd given Alastor in middle school. "Just wai—"

Alastor had been walking toward his foe, too. They stood face-to-face for a second before his hand shot out and jabbed into the boy's throat mid-threat. The words ended up being the last he would ever speak. As he clutched his neck and fought for breath, Alastor pushed him off. The cinder block did him in when the back of his head landed on it. A strange but welcome euphoria enveloped Alastor and hooked him as effectively as any drug. He knew he needed more.

The murder made the news but remained unsolved for a month before Alastor decided he could disappear without becoming a suspect. Maybe after he left, they'd think he'd been murdered, too, and look for a non-existent serial killer. He smiled at the thought as he packed and left town in the middle of his junior year without regrets. He did what so many might want to do but lack the courage. He followed his dreams—made a beeline for the circus.

What better way to earn a living while in disguise? he reasoned. When the interviewer asked why he wanted to become a clown, he replied by rote: no one fears clowns. The true answer he locked deep within himself.

On hiatus the year he turned 22, Alastor returned to his hometown in October, a few days before the opening of the Halloweenfest. The main streets and surrounding neighborhoods of the wealthy fit the typical all-American towns portrayed in movies. Along with the usual people. Those who ignore misfits, and those who torment them.

Brotherton had extended a charitable hand when authorities took him in. They made him a ward of the state, threw him into what they touted as a fine institution until he would've turned 18 and forgot him there. The orphanage fit the stereotype, too. Undermanned and underpaid employees looked the other way from uncomfortable situations, many involving Alastor. Of course, everything happened where no camera lens reached. His only reprieve came from the rate of recidivism in employees and residents. Bullies eventually left but more replaced them in an endless cycle of torture for Alastor.

Returning a wealthy man in the mood to settle some scores, he'd had years to plan his homecoming. Along with several surgeries to alter his appearance. Alastor strolled the main streets on the day he arrived. Back at the hotel where he'd checked in earlier, he smiled, telling himself in the mirror, "No one recognized you."

He kicked off his shoes and lay on the bed, scrolling through the town's social media

pages and finding the community had started erecting the haunted house in the same old place, a three-story brick and mortar mansion with dark wood interior and a haunted atmosphere all its own. His plan required an evil but likable clown. And he knew just the alcove where he would set up his act.

At breakfast the next morning, he read the local paper, glancing every once in a while at the manager. He'd screen shot pages of class photos in the school yearbook at the library the day before. He remembered the man. He'd been one of Alastor's more merciless peers, catching him in the gym dressing room for kicks and working up a fervor in the onlookers on days when Alastor didn't catch the signals fast enough to get away.

When the man reprimanded an employee loud enough for patrons to hear, Alastor's teeth clenched. He could hear the boy's voice in the man's when he used to punch Alastor in the gut or lower in passing and ask, "When you gonna grow a pair, Alice?"

Eloy's pals always jumped in at that point, piercing his quiet resistance with their own

barbs, making the hurtful taunt almost his school yard nick name. The day a teacher he'd respected had called him Alice made up his mind. The old man's apology came with a nervous chuckle, "I'm so sorry, my boy, but I hear your peers' pet name for you more often than your real one."

Though his stomach fell and he winced inside, Alastor's anger grew, and he replied,

"You mean you haven't heard the newest?"

The man had only given him a quizzical look which turned quickly to alarm when Alastor had hissed, "Monssssster." He'd resolved right then to get away.

Now, here he was about to speak to the man he remembered as Eloy.

"Excuse me," he said, "whom would I contact about volunteering at the haunted house?"

"Hey," Eloy turned around, clapped him on the back, and grinned, "terrific. We can always use volunteers. Out in the lobby, we have a message board. You'll find a flyer pinned there with numbers to call." He squinted and cocked his head a bit. "Do I know you?"

"Doubtful," Alastor lied. "I'm pretty sure you'd remember me." He walked off, the

sensation of Eloy's eyes on his back bringing a smile to his lips. You'll remember soon enough.

Another welcome surprise awaited on the board when he read the contact person was Debra Romero. Taking an instant dislike to him in elementary school, the girl had told everyone he had piojos, head lice. Before Alice, he'd been known as el Piojo. The Louse. The name echoed in the halls of the school, the cafeteria, the dorm, even whispered in the chapel. One boring Saturday afternoon, he had looked up "Alastor" and vowed to turn himself into the definition. Now, he understood what had prompted either parent or both to give him such a name: a vengeful spirit who possesses someone to get revenge on those who wronged them or others. The day he left as a murderer, he resolved to become a most special clown, one who inspired horror in humans of all ages.

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The haunted mansion opened for guests at nightfall. Alastor peered from from one of the narrow cellar windows as he put the final touches on his surprise for those who would reunite

with him tonight.

The brightly lit park around the building hosted a bazaar with booths of games and sellers

of trinkets and souvenirs of the spooky variety, food and drink vendors, eating areas, and a

section behind the house set apart for carnival rides. A child dressed as a witch spotted the clown looking out from the dirty cellar. He locked eyes with the girl who had nothing and everything to do with rekindling the rage in his gut. His eyes narrowed as he projected his anger into his eyes, turning them into glowing, red embers. He curled his upper lip in a half grimace, half snarl and chuckled when his teeth vibrated and elongated into fangs filling his mouth. The girl would have screamed but for the large bite of candied apple that caught in her throat when she inhaled. By the time the ambulance took her off, none had been alerted to the monster's return.

Alastor turned, admiring his handiwork. He'd positioned himself at the end of a maze, the door to the cellar concealed at the back. Throughout the house, groaning ghouls jumped from dark, dilapidated cemeteries; hissing vampires rose from coffins in crypts; two malicious monsters—a serial killer in a foreboding alley and a mad scientist in his lab—reached for passing victims until they rounded a curve and entered the one Alastor had created, a cavern so dark the back wall looked like a black hole. The unsuspecting public thought the room with the scientist was the final attraction. None expected the clown at the end, one whose face looked more like a death mask. His eyes radiated violence. Even his body moved more serpentine than human. Girls and children reacted with visible distress or outright horror and hurried out of the building, but most of the men and boys passed through Alastor's "cave" unhurried, feigning nonchalance as they left with unease in their guts for reasons they couldn't explain.

Midway to closing time, Eloy brought his children into the haunted house. Rather than accompany them, he toured the rooms like a museum patron while they ran from one attraction to the other, squealing and screaming the entire time. Alastor heard the commotion and prepared for the boisterous kids. "Nothing worse than unruly brats," he muttered.

They rounded the last hall and appeared at Alastor's entry, breathing hard from their

exertion, excitement, and perhaps a twinge of fear. Their eyes widened, mouths opened, and the girl moved close to the boy and clutched his arm. Alastor's eyes narrowed, and he smiled in a kind of snarl, exposing fangs where teeth should have been as he leaned down and forward. His fingers hadn't yet grown into razor-sharp talons, so he hesitated to grab for one or both or do something else to feed on the fear emanating from their little bodies right into his chest. He breathed deep of the stench of innocence, more foul because it had never been a part of him. Before he could decide what to do with the spawn of his enemy, their father appeared at the door so fast he slid to a stop on his shiny dress shoes. Adjusting his tie, he gave a stern look at the boy and girl and pointed to the hall. "Out," he hissed. Like pups with tails tucked and heads down, they marched out to find their mother.

Alastor's already highly emotional state contributed to his recklessness. He'd waited for

this opportunity for so long. Forcing himself under control, he blanked his facial features from an

almost rabid viciousness to bland in an instant before he faced Eloy.

"Sorry about the kids," Eloy began. "As they say, kids will be kids. Right?"

"Kids will be kids," Alastor parroted, "like when you were a kid, huh?"

"Who—"

"Call me Alice."

Eloy's eyes narrowed as his mind worked on remembering, and then they opened in surprise. An almost pleased and welcome one. "Alastor! Buddy!" he punched the clown on the arm like a friend and then clapped him on both shoulders. His arms opened for a good hug, but he stopped cold when Alastor's hands pushed him away. He took a step back.

"Did you really forget, or do you remember what you want? Think before you respond. Friend." Alastor's fingers tingled, and a bubbling rage burned in his gut. "The word is as

abhorrent as the thought."

"Look, Alastor, I was a kid."

"So was I."

"I was a stupid bully of a kid. I'm sorry for that."

"I wasn't," Alastor replied. "I never was, even after all you did to me."

"Forgive and forge—"

"I never did that either," Alastor hissed, gliding over and now standing nose-to-nose with

his childhood tormentor. "You used to do this to me routinely," he added with a swift knee lift

into the man's groin.

Inside, Alastor tingled with anticipation. On the outside, the features which had scared the man's children, reformed. Eloy's eyes widened and his mouth opened in a scream. Picking the writhing man up from the hair, Alastor grinned into his face while cramming his clown nose into Eloy's mouth. "I've waited for this—"

"Dad?"

"Aw, hell," Alastor groaned, "I'll make quick work of it then. Your offspring will be safe

with me."

In a macabre dance across the small space, Alastor waltzed Eloy into the back wall and

pushed him through the laundry chute which emptied into the cellar. A large vat he'd prepared awaited. He had no intention of doing anything to Eloy's brats. But he knew the father would suffer all the way down with the thought of what Alastor could do to them until he lost consciousness.

Only a minute later, the clack of heels on the linoleum floor outside set Alastor in motion, and he gathered up his props as Debra arrived in a huff.

Breathless, she panted, "Mr. Tay…Taylor. It has come to my attention…children and

several parents have lodged complaints about you. Some…something about you gro…grossing them out."

"How the audience reacts to my routine is not something I cont—"

"Ah, but it is. Something you did triggered something in them. You won't be coming back tomorrow." She waited for an apology, arms akimbo, toe tap-tap-tapping on the floor.

Alastor said nothing, just returned her stare for a moment before he reminded her of his

identity. His gaze notably raised from her eyes to her head. "Having a piojo problem, are you?

That why you're a mess?"

Her hands shot up to her hair as her jaw fell, and then Alastor saw her expression change. "You!" she spat. "You're alive? What the hell…"

"Alive, well, and kicking," he replied before springing up in a jaunty heel tap and coming to a stop toe-to-toe with the woman who had brought out the monster in him first. "Remember the name you gave me when we were kids? Hmmm? The one that added to my status as persona non grata everywhere," he punctuated the syllables with sharp finger jabs at her forehead.

"I was a child," she cried, backing away until the wall stopped her.

"A thoughtless and cruel one," he retorted, moving forward to face her again. "Did you ever feel anything for me? A hint of sympathy in the almost twelve years of school we shared. No? I thought not."

Tears pooled in her eyes, and Alastor saw for the first time a trace of empathy before he hardened himself. "You're going to learn just how insignificant you are in the grand scheme of things, Debra Dung." He laughed, "Wish I'd been quick witted enough to call you that back in the day."

"Please," she pleaded, "I have childre—"

"And a husband and parents and friends, people I never did, partly because of you."

"Deb," they heard from somewhere in the vast house. Many footsteps rang out in the hall coming toward them. "It's the devil," someone cried. "Keep the kids back," another yelled.

Alastor gave Debra no time to react; he grabbed her and spun her around in front of him. With one hand tight around her neck and the other over her mouth, he drove her head into the wall, effectively silencing her. Then he boosted her body into the black to join Eloy.

The beginnings of a distant scream rose from the hole before he shut it closed and gathered his belongings. The footfalls in the doorway stopped and with shoves from behind, several men, women, and teens stumbled into Alastor's darkness. Others forced their way forward, and the room filled with gawkers. Surrounded on three sides, the clown stood with fists clenched. Chest heaving, nostrils flaring, Alastor welcomed his transformation. His face tingled, his flesh tightened, even his teeth throbbed, and his gut churned—his hunger built and so did an awareness of what would satisfy it. The crowd saw the humanity in his eyes vanish. They fled into the night screaming, and Alastor's black-hearted, psychotic side emerged. The sad Harlequin had become the most feared clown of them all.

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