It's late at night. You can hear the ambient noises of the wildlife surrounding your home through your balcony's screen door as you peer into the silver-washed night. The night is tranquil as your vision blurs with the gentle lull of the moon. You turn to face the ceiling as you close your eyes. Before you do, though, there's a shadow of the edge of your peripheral vison. You sit up with a jolt, unease washing over you as you glace over to where you saw it. Whatever "it" was, it's nowhere in sight. You swipe the curtains close and hesitantly settle back into bed. But sleep doesn't come. You have an eerie feeling, like a troop of ants are crawling on your back. You manage to calm yourself for a minute before a shadow appears behind the drapes, blocking the moonlight shining through. You begin to shake as the figure approaches. Each slow step forward, an echo of a squish from his large shoes sounds, the noise getting louder until it stops. It's him, the wet clown. He's leaning over your bedside, the sweat he secretes pooling on you sheets as he stands, silently, watching. Waiting. You blink, and he's gone. You don't sleep a wink.