All Nonfiction Bullying Books Academic Author Interviews Celebrity interviews College Articles College Essays Educator of the Year Heroes Interviews Memoir Personal Experience Sports Travel & CultureAll Opinions Bullying Current Events / Politics Discrimination Drugs / Alcohol / Smoking Entertainment / Celebrities Environment Love / Relationships Movies / Music / TV Pop Culture / Trends School / College Social Issues / Civics Spirituality / Religion Sports / Hobbies
- Summer Guide
- College Guide
- Author Interviews
- Celebrity interviews
- College Articles
- College Essays
- Educator of the Year
- Personal Experience
- Travel & Culture
- Current Events / Politics
- Drugs / Alcohol / Smoking
- Entertainment / Celebrities
- Love / Relationships
- Movies / Music / TV
- Pop Culture / Trends
- School / College
- Social Issues / Civics
- Spirituality / Religion
- Sports / Hobbies
- Community Service
- Letters to the Editor
- Pride & Prejudice
- What Matters
Insanity Room 7
The red pupils of its big, glaring eyes flashed all so suddenly. The shiny face and wooden body became over-sized with my growing fear. Its red lips formed in a smile as the aforementioned held the knife above Jerald’s head. We were covered with darkness, but I could decode a trashcan in distance; our trashcan by our estate garage.
“Jerald,” I tried to scream, but no voice of mine came out. He just stared vacantly while the doll held his face. Just as the hideous clown was about to bring the six inch blade down toward Jerald’s head, I blinked and opened my eyes into a different place.
“Wake up, Claire!” Jerald, my husband, had been stooping beside my bed, shaking me. “Are you alright?”
“You’re going to die,” I blurted out. “Jerald, don’t go anywhere; that clown will kill you!”
“I’m not going to die,” Jerald whispered. “If you are that worried, I’ll sleep over my friends’ home for today; so don’t ever open the door. Not even if I’m there.”
I just nodded.
Jerald got ready for work and treaded out of our estate gateway. I stared at the opening through our big porch window as he reminded me to lock every entry. In our six bedroom home was total of 28 openings. As I paced back and forth in the luxurious living room, the cordless phone rang.
“Hello?” I answered hesitantly.
“Don’t pace around just yet, my dear!” the voice giggled, then hung up.
The flashback of my dream overwhelmed me with such horror that I fainted. The clown was back; and he had Jerald. The dream was repeating itself.
When I woke up, the living room was dark. In total fear, I scrambled to get up and turn on the lights. As if I was being watched, the doorbell rang as soon as the lights came on. No sound came out of my mouth to even say, “Who’s there?”
Through the peephole was my Jerald! Just as I was about to open the door, I remembered him telling me to not open the door for anyone; including himself. Instead, I called the police. I was out of luck; the phone line was down. Although this wasn’t something that happened often, I wasn’t surprised.
Suddenly, I saw my husband’s face slide past the living room window. I knew it wasn’t Jerald though, because his eyes weren’t alive.
Running out through the back door I screamed, “What are you?”
The shadow of Jerald led me to the side of the house where there was a passage way that led to the garage. By the opening of our garage was my husband; my cut up, bloody Jerald, who’s head was sliced off from his body.
“Oh, Jerald,” I cried softly. Then I saw a movement; a clown-doll out of nowhere came to life and held a blade, just as in my dream. It grinned, showing unrealistic, white wooden-teeth. Everything darkened out as the clown gently sauntered towards me.
“Mrs. Henderson,” an Indian man in a white gown kneeled down beside me with a worried expression on his face. “Are you alright? Did you have the same dream again?”
I looked around; where was Jerald? Where am I? I was in a room with yellow, cushioned walls. “Did... Jerald die?” I asked the man.
Looking confused, he answered, “I assume you don’t recognize anything?”
I shook my head side to side.
“Mrs. Henderson, ---”
“Doctor Jerald,” A voice called through the intercom. “We need you in insanity room 8.”
“Mrs. Henderson,” the doctor called, once again. “It’s time for your medicine.”
Two nurses came through the door that opened only from outside and handed him something. And then Dr. Jerald shoved a needle with pink liquid right into my veins. The drug settled in and my eyes closed. When I opened them, I was in our estate again; the phone was ringing.