Oct 7, 2026 · 1 hr 21 min · 9 segments
What lingers in the quiet shadows after an unbearable tragedy strikes? On this hair-raising edition of *Nightfall*, we tune into the sinister airwaves to explore the dark, unpredictable horror of…
Doreen Luck has thirteen clown heads.
They stare at you with crooked eyes and hand-painted smiles, red as pig's blood.
They grin and turn and grin and turn as you try to score that giant plush kangaroo for your girlfriend.
Then they spit balls into chutes that earn you cheap rubber pythons and make your hand holding stink like tar sweat.
They're ugly things with peeling faces and Pierrot caps But Doreen loves her clown heads.
She inherited them from her daddy, and he from his daddy before him.
And when she recovers, she'll follow the carnival trail north like they did.
In the meantime, Chessy says we should all pitch in to keep the Lucky Laughers operating.
Family is as family does, she reckons.
She's narrow shouldered with steely eyes, and when she starts delegating from behind the stalls and thrill rides, people listen.
She wants us to do something special for Doreen, something more meaningful than dead flowers and gift cards.
She scans the familiar crew, finds me in the shadows.
Aha, face painter.
And although I've barely been here for a fortnight, she says I'm the one for the job.
She wants me to repaint the clown heads, all thirteen wide-mouthed jesters.
That would be fine for twelve of them, but not for number nine.
The ninth clown is different to the others.
It reeks of rotting burlap and old glue, its face a melted mask of plaster of Paris with paint that drips in colored blisters.
Its mouth is wide and crumbling, like someone used a hammer to fit something inside and never bothered to fix it.
Doreen told me before the incident that she had to repaint it every night.
If she didn't, it frightened the children.
I'd asked her once why she kept it.
He's vintage.
His brothers are fiberglass, far less trouble, but he was the first of the Laughers.
Granddad Luck would turn in his grave if I got rid of him.
Doreen Luck has thirteen clown heads.
They stare at you with crooked eyes and hand-painted smiles, red as pig's blood.
They grin and turn and grin and turn as you try to score that giant plush kangaroo for your girlfriend.
Then they spit balls into chutes that earn you cheap rubber pythons and make your hand holding stink like tar sweat.
They're ugly things with peeling faces and Pierrot caps But Doreen loves her clown heads.
She inherited them from her daddy, and he from his daddy before him.
And when she recovers, she'll follow the carnival trail north like they did.
In the meantime, Chessy says we should all pitch in to keep the Lucky Laughers operating.
Family is as family does, she reckons.
She's narrow shouldered with steely eyes, and when she starts delegating from behind the stalls and thrill rides, people listen.
She wants us to do something special for Doreen, something more meaningful than dead flowers and gift cards.
She scans the familiar crew, finds me in the shadows.
Aha, face painter.
And although I've barely been here for a fortnight, she says I'm the one for the job.
She wants me to repaint the clown heads, all thirteen wide-mouthed jesters.
That would be fine for twelve of them, but not for number nine.
The ninth clown is different to the others.
It reeks of rotting burlap and old glue, its face a melted mask of plaster of Paris with paint that drips in colored blisters.
Its mouth is wide and crumbling, like someone used a hammer to fit something inside and never bothered to fix it.
Doreen told me before the incident that she had to repaint it every night.
If she didn't, it frightened the children.
I'd asked her once why she kept it.
He's vintage.
His brothers are fiberglass, far less trouble, but he was the first of the Laughers.
Granddad Luck would turn in his grave if I got rid of him.
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