We raised our eyes to the ceiling in unison.
Thump, thump, thump.
“Storm?” my brother said.
Mom indicated the windows: dark but clear skies.
“The cat?” my sister said.
“Downstairs,” I said, my knees wobbly.
Mom drew her gun. Our family huddled together, shaking.
The clowns had escaped the attic.
Crimson Blackstone writes fantasy and horror, and is especially proud of her former students’ incurable addictions to books.