Pogo the Clown is a scary story written by a member of this website named Pete in collaboration with ScaryForKids. It’s about a young boy who loves clowns and claims to have an imaginary friend.
When I was 4 years old my parents moved out of the city and bought a house in the suburbs. It was a really nice two-story home with a big garden. They managed to get it at a very low price. The real estate agent told them that nobody had lived there for at least 10 years. They never thought to ask him why.
At the time, I was just a little boy and my favorite thing in all the world was clowns. I collected clown dolls and figurines, my bedroom wallpaper was covered in clown faces, my bedclothes and pillowcase were adorned with smiling clowns and even my pyjamas had a picture of a clown embroidered on the chest.
I loved the circus and whenever it was in town, I would beg my parents to take me there. On TV, I would sit and watch any show that featured a clown. I guess you could say i was a little obsessed.
One evening, about a month after we had moved in, I was watching TV with my pet dog, Buster. There was a clown show on and I was enjoying the familiar, amusing clown antics like juggling, riding a unicycle, squirting people with flowers, throwing cream pies in peopleâ€™s faces, making balloon animals and honking rubber horns.
All of a sudden, Buster started barking. He was looking at something behind me and growling loudly. I turned slowly and was horrified to see something peeking out from under the couch. It was a clown.
His face was grotesquely fat and sweaty and was covered in pasty white makeup. He was wearing a red and white striped jumpsuit and a matching red hat with a white tassel. His beady eyes were lined with blue facepaint and he had garish red makeup around his lips.
As he slid out from under the couch, he looked at me said, in a squeaky voice, â€œHi Jeremyâ€.
Taken aback, I asked how he knew my name. With an eerie giggle, he told me his name was Pogo the Clown and he claimed that he came from the land of clowns. He said he watched over me every night while I slept.
“Why?” I managed to blurt out.
He said he had to protect me because my mother and father were evil and had plans to harm me. He assured me he would take care of them and when he was done, he would bring me back with him to the land of clowns.
“I don’t believe you,” I said.
Then, he pulled out a pack of crayons and a piece of paper and told me to draw a picture of him and show it to my parents. He stood there and waited as I sat on the floor and scribbled on the paper. Eventually, I was finished. He took one look at my drawing, smiled and then vanished into thin air.
I ran into the kitchen to tell my parents about the clown I had seen. They told me it was just my imagination and scolded me for being so obsessed with clowns. I showed them the picture and tried to tell them the clown was hiding under the couch, but they wouldn’t believe me. They just took my crayon drawing and pinned it on the fridge.
That night, when I went to bed and my parents tucked me in, I had almost forgotten all about the clown. After my parents left and turned out the light, I heard a rustling sound in my closet and Pogo stepped out. He was clutching a knife and told me not to worry about my parents. They would get what they deserved, he said.
The next morning, when I went downstairs for breakfast, the drawing of Pogo was still on the fridge. When I tried to tell my mother that a clown named Pogo had been in my bedroom the night before, she cut me off and told me to stop making up stories about my imaginary friend. I needed real friends and this needed to stop.
Later that day, our next door neighbor stopped by to have lunch with my parents. As they were eating, he looked around and happened to notice the picture I had drawn of Pogo hanign on the fridge. His face suddenly went pale.
“Who drew this?” he asked.
When my mother told him I had drawn the picture of the clown and added that I was telling stories about a clown who appeared around the house, the neighbot got a look of terror on his face. He pulled my parents into the living room and shut the door. I couldn’t hear what they were talking about inside, but they seemed very upset.
Later that day, a priest showed up at the house and began splashing water all around the place and saying strange things in a language I had never heard before. That night, Pogo didn’t come back and I never saw him again.
Years later, when I was in high school, our teacher gave us an assignment for history class. She told us that we had to research the history of our neighborhoods and write an essay about it.
When I researched my house, I found something that chilled me to the bone. 10 years before we had moved in, the house had belonged to a man named John Wayne Gacy. He was well-liked and well-respected throughout the town. Everybody thought he was a really great guy.
However, as it turned out, unbeknownst to everyone, he was a serial killer who murdered children. He liked to lurk around the neighborhood looking for fresh victims. He would often lure children into his house where he would do unspeakable things to them. He gained their trust and convinced them to go with him by using a variety of lies and tricks.
After the police caught him, they seized all his belongings and put them in evidence. The house lay vacant for ten years while he was in prison. Eventually, he was executed by electric chair and after his death, the house was put up for sale.
The most chilling part was not that I discovered I had lived a house that was previously owned by a serial killer who lured children to their deaths. Instead, it was a picture I found at the end of the article. It was a photo of a fat man in a clown suit and the caption beneath it read: “John Wayne Gacy often lured children into the house by dressing up as a character named Pogo The Clown…”