Terrifying Stories of Birthday Clowns

Good evening, it’s Spooky Boo Rhodes here from Sandcastle, California. Tonight I have for you some very chilling stories about clowns and birthday parties. The 22nd of this week is my birthday so I thought it would be fun to feature scary stories about birthdays and why not start with the creepiest type of birthday guest of all! KILLER CLOWNS!

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KILLER GHOST CLOWN BY ANONYMOUS

Like many, I’ve forgotten many years of my life due to stress, anxiety, or maybe just old age. Who even knows. I’m a 46 year old woman with many years of happiness and sorrow that I would love to remember. Sometimes I am reminded of something that happened in life because of a hint here or there and I write it down in a diary so I can piece it all together. I know it might sound silly to some but the memories are just as vacant as a bad hotel on a lonely highway.

It all started when I was around 10 years old. What I can remember are bits and pieces from happy or sad events and pictures–although I think the pictures simply let me remember  what its in the picture and not the surrounding events such as I don’t remember sleeping in a box after crying, but my mother snapped the picture after I had fallen asleep all curled up in a box like a cat. I think I must have been 6 or 7 years old. So I remember the box in the picture. Those are certainly not fresh memories.

What stays fresh in my mind is what happened when I was 10 years old. I’ll never forget it. I was just turning 10 and having a birthday in the middle of the summer is the best time because we would set up the slip and slide game on the lawn and have water gun fights while waiting for presents and cake. It was always the best time every year until my 10th birthday. Mom had ordered a clown to do tricks for us as a special treat. I was always trying to make funny animal shapes with balloons so she thought it might be fun for me especially since Killer Clowns from Outer Space was my favorite movie.

His name was Pops. He had a red shirt with big blue balls on the front and funny red and white striped pants that were poofy all the way down. He sported blue and red shoes that looked more like bowling shoes than clown shoes. His hair wasn’t the typical orange or red curly clown hair. No. It was long and stringy around the sides and he was bald on top. Now that I think about it, it looked more like he just didn’t wash his hair instead of it being thin. His facepaint was white and his sunken in eyes were ash grey with dark hollow cheeks and high red painted cheekbones. What I remember the most was his smile. He didn’t smile at first. The red paint around his lips was messy and his frown lines were obvious. This was no happy clown! Even his fingernails were gross. No gloves, just long white fingers with long and dirty, crusty nails. I think the tear on his cheek must have been a tattoo because it was the only thing that didn’t smear as his face dripped in the hot afternoon sun.

Pops never smiled when he did tricks. He would just stare at us while juggling the balls or pins. He looked at each kid for a moment before doing a new trick and then would point at one to come up. None of us wanted to be near him so we didn’t budge. Some of us held hands to hold the other back. He would just shrug and continue the trick. It wasn’t until the very end of his show when he spoke.

He then pointed at Jenny, my babysitter. Jenny lived next door to us. She often came by to babysit me to earn extra money while she went to college. I think she was 18 or 19 years old at the time and still living at home with her parents. All of the girls in the neighborhood wanted to be like Jenny with her long blonde hair and blue eyes. All of the guys wanted to date her.

“You’re a tough crowd!” he grunted through thin lips then packed up his dark blue van with the word POPS on the side and left.

The rest of the day was fun. We had cake and ice cream and then opened presents. It wasn’t until around 5:00 when everyone started to go home. My neighbor, Jenny, who lived right next door was the last to leave.  Mom offered to walk her home but she insisted that her parents were going to be waiting right out front for her. It wasn’t until about seven that night that we found out that was a lie.

“Is Jenny still at your house?” The girl’s mom blurted into the phone when my mom answered. I could hear every word she was crying so loudly.

“No, she went home about two hours ago and said you both were waiting for her.”

“She isn’t here, can you check? She was supposed to go out shopping with me when she got home but instead, I found this note on the front door written in what looks like blood. It says, “Mom, I won’t be home tonight. Don’t wait up for me. I might not be back at all.”

“Did you call the police?” Mom said.

“Yes, they said they’d be here as soon as possible but I still want to look.”

“OK, come right over,” Mom said as she hung up the phone.

Mom and I looked around the house and didn’t see her. Her parents were right over and we all checked the garage, cars, and shed. We even went back to their house and helped them look everywhere.  Jenny still wasn’t there.

A few miles up the road the next morning I took the dog for a walk. He started acting crazy jumping and barking and I let him drag me to whatever he was so excited about. When I saw the white hand sticking up out of the grass I let his leash go in shock. I knew it was human, it had to be. He ran up and started sniffing the hand and then barking. As I approached, I felt the bile rise in my stomach as I looked at my babysitter lying there in the brown grass, face up. Her face was frozen in a terrorized stare–her eyes and mouth wide open I thought at first until I got closer. Here eyes were gone! I grabbed my dog’s leash and ran home crying.

They said she had been tortured for hours while being tied up. Where her eyes should have been were two hollow, bloody sockets. Her fingernails and toenails were ripped off. She had been stabbed multiple times so she would bleed slowly out and then hit over the head so hard that her cranium was crushed. When the police took the report my mother told them the last person they saw was that weird clown at the party. The police checked out the clown but something was wrong. The guy, who looked almost identical to the clown, had been dead for 50 years. He died doing a performance for the family who lived there before us in the backyard for a young girl named Jennifer.

BIRTHDAY CLOWN BY GKO

It was my son’s 5th birthday party. My wife and I knew it was an important birthday. Next year our little Mikey would go to school, so this was sort of an end of an era, however short. After a lot of debating, we decided on a clown for the entertainment. I was against it.

I was one of the many people who were afraid of clowns. As a kid I trembled, shook and started hyper-ventilating at the site of one on television. But our son was not. Ever since Laura bought him some sort of computer game starring a clown, he had loved them. As a father, I knew what I had to do in order to make my little boy the happiest. And if that meant ordering a clown, I would order a clown. Besides, I was a grown-up – they didn’t scare me anymore. Or so I hoped.

The kids were playing in the yard, stuffing their faces with cake and snacks and enjoying the world in the innocent way only kids can. Laura and I waited for the clown in the living room. He was already 30 minutes late. But you can’t expect clowns to be punctual. Finally he arrived, carrying a large pink bag.

He introduced himself as “Bonko” and sat on our couch. He really was your classic clown. White make-up, colorful puffy costume, big shoes, big red nose, an orange wig, the works. Laura asked if she could bring him anything. He declined. He sat in our living room for something like 15 minutes, smoking and tapping his shoe on the floor. He seemed nervous and I could have sworn that I could see him drinking out of a flask. “Is this your first time?” I asked. He chuckled and without looking at me, said, “It always is…” I did not understand what he meant.

After finishing his smoke, he put on a happy clown grin, grabbed his bag, and stood up. He gave me a tap on the back. I thought that it was possible that he had sensed my childhood fear and tried to relax me.

Bonko went outside and started the show. He juggled, told jokes, sprayed water around, did some classic slapstick. Even I had to admit he was good. And the kids were just entranced.

“And now for the big finish!” he declared. He took out three colorful boxes from his bag. They looked like birthday presents. “Pick one, birthday boy!”

Birthday-Presents-02902.jpg
Mikey thought to himself. He looked so cute, like he was pretending to be an adult. Laura snapped a picture. He finally picked the middle one. Bonko sighed and grabbed it.

“Oh boy! Good choice!” he said in a cartoony voice, though I swore I could hear some sadness in there. Bonko opened the box and took out a knife.

Laura and I were shocked and, before we could do anything, Bonko started cutting his own face. Bits of make-up covered skin fell to the ground, the children were screaming. Our little Mikey was covered in the clown’s blood and crying. I ran to stop Bonko, but he collapsed to the ground. The paramedics declared him dead.

I looked inside the other boxes. In one was a small rifle and in the other a can of lighter fluid and a box of matches.

All the kids, including our little Mikey, had to go to therapy. We told the police, and they just looked to the floor ignoring us. I decided that I couldn’t let this blow over. I tracked down the company that sent us the clown.

It was situated in a small, two story building. I expected a run down, scary, old place, but it was quite neat and modern. I marched to the manager’s office, not letting anyone stop me.

I looked around. In his office were blown-up pictures of clowns with their faces cut off, heads cut off, bullet holes in their foreheads, faces burned off; it was terrible. And every picture had poor, young children crying.

The manager was a skinny man in a tie. He looked to be in his late 40’s and had big bulging eyes. “Why are you even doing this?” I yelled. He didn’t answer, just laughed in my face. Two big guys came from behind me and dragged me out.

“I will find someone who will make you pay! I will not be silent!” He smiled at me and motioned his goons to hold me in place.

“Do you love your family?” he asked.

“Of course,” I said, “That’s why I’m here!”

“You made a mistake, sir,” he said, “Enjoy the rest of your life.”

It has been 43 days since then. I am still very afraid.

COULROPHOBIA BY Orangesodaz

Coulrophobia is the fear of clowns and I’m pretty sure most of us at some point have experienced it.

For most it disappears after childhood, but for some it lingers longer, sometimes for their whole life…

I had the misfortune of being one of these people, at the age of 17 I was still as scared of clowns as I was when I first went to the circus at age 5.

So imagine if you will, my absolute horror when I found out a clown was going to be at my little cousin’s birthday party.

I almost refused to go, but my parents said it was time for me to get over my fears and my little cousin really wanted me to come.

I eventually resigned myself to going, deciding the clown would be too busy entertaining the little kids to bother with me- after all, that’s what clowns do, they entertain little kids.

So the time came and me and my folks went to the birthday party, it was mostly relatives and a few of my little cousin’s friends who were there- having rented out a bouncy castle and a large open space to entertain the crowds. I had to admit it was a pretty impressive party.

Then I saw the clown, already busy entertaining the kids, but even at a distance I began to freak out a little- I really wanted to go home but I pushed myself forward, making sure to look away from the clown and let him drift into the crowds as I made my way over to one of the tables filled with food.

The usual selection of party food awaited me and I began to help myself when I suddenly became aware of someone standing behind me. Thinking it was someone I knew, I turned around, only to feel a wave of fear rush through my entire body as that damn clown stood right in front of me.

The clown just stared at me with a large grin on his painted face, extending a hand towards me as I began to shiver- one gloved finger came closer and closer until finally resting on my nose and the clown’s grin spread further:

“Honk!”

I absolutely lost it at that point, shoving the clown out of the way as I ran straight into the nearby house and totally ignored the looks of surprise or my parents calling me back.

I didn’t even look back to see if that clown was following me… I just kept running.

I slammed the door shut and took deep breaths as I tried to calm myself, still shaking uncontrollably- I knew my parents were going to give me a verbal beatdown for acting up like this, but that clown really got to me… what was his problem anyway?

It was then I heard the door open and expected my parents to come rushing in, instead I once again found myself staring in utter disbelief as that clown entered the house- that stupid grin still spread on his face.

“GET AWAY FROM ME!” I yelled out, finally having enough- my fear slowly turning to anger at this stupid clown. Couldn’t he see I was scared? Why didn’t he just back off? It wasn’t fair…

The clown’s grin faded at this, and before I could react he threw himself at me, tackling me to the floor and spitting in my face- “You scared of clowns? I’ll give you something to be REALLY scared about, you little shit!”.

I struggled as this crazy clown pinned me down and began to wrap his gloved hands around my neck and choked the life out of me- I could feel myself getting weaker as the clown’s grip tightened: his face nothing short of pure, murderous rage.

Just when I felt like I was about to die, I watched as the clown was tackled by my uncle, my own parents soon entering- everyone was shouting and screaming but it was like a blur to me. As I coughed and spluttered, I heard someone yell to get the kids and another person called the cops as more people helped my uncle to hold that crazy clown down, who was struggling all the while and yelling obscenities.

I don’t really remember much else about that day, all I remember is a few days after the incidents a local paper got a hold of the story and released it: turns out the clown at the party was actually a psychotic who had managed to evade the police for several months, seems he enjoyed dressing as a clown and passing himself off as an entertainer, and he had attacked several people before… yet had always managed to escape… seems his luck finally ran out.

As for me, well let’s just say it may take a few more years for me to get over my fear of clowns…

Don’t even get me started on mimes…

MY 7th BIRTHDAY BY MR. NEGAN

I used to love going to this movie theater when I was a kid. It was a small building between two clothing stores on main street. Every Saturday morning I went in to see the $2 cartoons with most of the other kids in the neighborhood. The owner was a pot-bellied white-haired old man named Bucky. He was the only one who worked there, and everyone in town said he didn’t have any kids or a wife. He was always nice to the kids who came in. My parents said he treated us like family.

The only strict rule Bucky had was to never go through the red door between the auditorium and the concessions door leading to the other side of the snack bar. He said that was where he kept the spare projector parts, heavy machines and tools. I always wondered what kind of heavy machines such a small theater would have. I remember one time my trouble making friend Travis tried to go through it but it was locked, making me wonder why he told us not to open it anyway.

On my 7th birthday I was really excited because every birthday kid is given a tour of the theater projection room upstairs by Bucky. The Wilson twins, Lucy and Robbie, had their birthday tour three weeks ago, but I hadn’t seen them so I couldn’t ask them how it was. My parents dropped me off early that morning in front of the theater before it was even open. I sat on the curb waiting for whatever car Bucky drove to pull up. After a little while I heard the door behind me open, and Bucky was standing there with a giant grin he always wore, wishing me a happy birthday.

I was shocked that he was there, because there wasn’t any parking space in the back of the theater and I hadn’t seen any car pull up in the front.

He invited me in and led me through the concessions door into the back room behind the snack bar. It was small and smelled like cement and mold. There wasn’t much back there except for the soda syrup boxes and the hoses connecting them to the machines on the other side of the wall. There was a staircase in the middle of the room that Bucky said would take us to the projection room.

“You excited, son?” Bucky enthusiastically asked.

“Yes,” I eagerly replied.

“Good! Good!”

He looked more excited than I’ve ever seen him. His eyes were widened and his smile looked glued to his face. I heard some cars pull up out front as he took my hand and led me up the stairs. He gripped my hand rather firmly and kept glancing back at me as we went up the stairs, which stopped at a wooden door that looked out of place. He pulled a key from his pocket and used it to open the door.

The room wasn’t what I had expected but it certainly was interesting. The projector stood in the middle of the room, in front of the window overlooking the auditorium. That was the only ordinary thing in there. There was a queen sized mattress in one corner of the room and a table with a clown suit laid out on top of it, next to a Kodak camera. What caught my attention the most was a padlocked trap door surrounded by dark-looking stains. I pointed to it.

“Where does that go?”

Bucky stood by the entrance and looked at me menacingly.

“That place…” he started. “That goes straight down into the room with the red door..”

Bucky started to shut the door when two police officers slammed it open, hitting him in the face. One of them tackled Bucky to the ground and the other picked me up and told me to stay calm because I was safe now. He waited for more officers to run into the room before he took me downstairs. The last thing I saw was Bucky pleading as two officers held him on the ground, and the rest of them looked around the room.

My parents arrived by police escort 15 minutes later and the police filled us in. Lucy and Robbie Wilson had apparently gone missing on their birthday three weeks ago. Bucky had kidnapped them during their tour and kept them somewhere. They suspected it was the theater, and that’s why they were searching the building thoroughly. They wouldn’t tell me what he did to them, but they told me that Jenny Fitzer saw Bucky drop Lucy into Crescent Lake while she was playing. She ran and told her parents.

My mother fought back tears as she put her arm around me, and we heard a gunshot from inside the theater. By then the entire police force was there. Both the onlookers and police turn their attention towards the theater as another shot was heard. Multiple cops stormed inside before several others ran out. There was so much shouting and confusion, but I heard someone say something about them shooting “the padlock” off because Bucky wouldn’t show them the key, and that “he” grabbed an officer’s gun and shot himself.

Most of the officers I saw run into the police station started to sprint outside with expressions I had never seen before. Most of them just paced around with their hands covering their faces and some went to the curb and cried their eyes out. There was too much going on for me to make out entire spoken sentences but from most of the cops I heard two distinctive words, “red door”.

One officer finally offered to take us home for questioning, so we didn’t have to see anymore. My parents sat with me in the back and held me as they drove off into the streets while several of my friends and neighbors watched us. I looked back, and the last thing I saw were two people walking out of the theater and carrying a large body bag. Behind them, a teary eyed policeman, holding the hand of Robbie Wilson, emerged. Robbie struggled to walk right and his face was hidden under the policeman’s jacket for reasons I never found out myself, and my parents never told me.

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Thank you for listening. If you enjoyed these stories head over to my website at www.scarystorytime.com and make a comment. I’d like to thank the listeners and the Patreon members including madjoe, Bobbi Elliott, DrJoeBlog, PA Nightmares, Ivy Iverson, John Newby, Lana, and Patrick. If you would like to listen commercial free and support the podcast, sign up at www.spookyboo.club.

That’s all for tonight. I’ll see you in your nightmares.