Killer clown

We are down to five. Lucas went out to check the perimeter an hour ago, and all we found was his flashlight, face down in the mud, still humming. The six of us—now five—have been barricaded inside this abandoned summer camp mess hall since the storm knocked out the power grid. Maya is hyperventilating in the corner, her back pressed against a stack of rusted metal chairs. Sam and Chloe are trying to brace the heavy oak double doors with a dining bench, their hands shaking so badly they can barely lift it. Ben just sits by the dead fireplace, staring at the floorboards, gripping a fire poker like a lifeline. Outside, the rain is relentless, drumming against the tin roof. But it can’t drown out the sound. Squeak. Squeak. It’s the unmistakable, rubbery screech of wet oversized shoes walking across the wooden porch. A face presses against the grimy glass of the high window. The storm flashes, illuminating the rain-streaked features: a stark white painted face, an exaggerated red smile stretched impossibly wide, and a pair of dark, hollow eyes crinkling with cruel amusement. He’s wearing a bright, water-logged jumpsuit, the polka dots bleeding into the fabric like fresh bruises. He taps a long, gloved finger against the glass. The high-pitched honk of a bicycle horn echoes through the dark room. He knows the doors won't hold. He knows we're trapped.