Refractor Industries Presents:

You step out into the glass reflection of hard white light, off the curb, displacing the water in the puddle. Why did you walk directly into a puddle, you may wonder, or you may simply blankly continue on your path, across the street in the abandoned industrial district in the old part of town. You may also wonder what you’re doing here, or perhaps why you’re internal monologue is in the second person. You don’t know what you’re currently thinking and therefore feel the need to ask yourself continually. Mysteries stacked upon mysteries, and such is the life you live. What isn’t in question is the looming silhouette of the rundown factory’s water tower up ahead, and off in the distance amongst the slouching corpses of dead factory buildings inside the gated property.

At some point, how many workers came daily to man the machines, operate the elevators, move supplies from one end to the other, load trailers and trains with product, or unload with supplies?

These matters, however, currently matter not to my— or rather, YOUR urgent predicament.

First of which being, apparently, is this immediate personality crisis, and in which person (second or first) I’ll be monologuing to myself. You’ll take for granted, as of now, dear reader, that this is an internal monologue, yeah? That you’re privy to the inner neurotic ramblings that go on inside my head.

“There is no time for this now,” you speak aloud to yourself/myself, as you style hilariously meta (read: schizophrenic) commentary about your state of mind as you attempt to break into the old factory complex.

Mounting the chain-linked fence, the tip of your shoe barely fits into the diamond-shaped hole; however, it’s enough to leverage for some upward momentum. One, two punchy jingling sounds as one pounds the section of fence, then heaves himself over, until finally landing on the other side.

Cracked concrete, an illuminated courtyard by moonlight, sprouts of tall grass erupt here, and there out of these cracks, blades lined up in rows that zig and/or zag. You’re like a lone thief breaking into a castle, presently, you may think to yourself romantically. You step toward the black mass of the ruin ahead of me. The sound of crickets and croaking frogs from a nearby creek floods in from, and echoes off of and all around the brick edifices of the enormous structure complex from the dark, shrouded woods behind me. Animals must scurry around here, so you’ve got to be careful, as you scan up ahead for breaks in the exterior walls to get into. The honking before you started this internal second-person monologue now breaks the serenity of the scene, and from far behind. Before this happened in the factory area, here on the edge of the woods and town, where no foot traffic goes anymore, you were chased by a van. Inside this van were those clowns again. Reports have been flooding in ever since they’ve arrived here, in town— you call it a town, but technically it’s a city, no matter.

HONK HONK

“What? Do you think they have a homing beacon on me?” you think aloud as you pat yourself down for any small device that may have become hidden on you. Thinking back, there was no time that they were close; you had seen them shove a protesting man in a van violently, and with a bag over his head— stolen from his home. The door was left open, and then I turned to look at you.

There were no video cameras or film crew. The animatronics on the face, as it broke into an uncanny smile upon noticing you noticing him, or it was shocking enough, but then they all, and you at that point, saw that the others too were some variety of Halloween clown costume, stole into the van with you in their sight. Halting, thinking rapidly, weighing all the options as fast as my reasoning mind could (was this a practical joke? were they masked men? Why so elaborate? What kind of budget…) before these thoughts could meld together and arrive at a reasonable conclusion concerning my situation high beams were flicked on, the LED kind that blind you, and the one driving testing the horn. So much for inconspicuous, you think, as you ponder the scene in retrospect.

The honking grows louder still, and you swear you can even hear the squealing of tires as if the van were taking decisive turns in your direction.

It’s one of those paranoia-inducing instances in which, yes, perhaps there was a Demiurge-type macro entity watching your moves and reporting to its minions via some ethereal telepathy. It’s not the first time that you have considered the possibility of an unnamed evil ruling over this world in the supernatural.

Among the overgrown grass, weeds, and thorny bushes here, there is a hole in the factory, so many of the windows and entries had been boarded up by the town to prevent people from trespassing and getting hurt.

I’d explored similar factory ruins before. Dammit! YOU have, somewhat— right? Is it still cute, or novel? No? It never was?

I’ll flip it to first person then, who cares really.

When I’d walk a lot, I’d explore all parts of town— there was a period when I’d walk for hours in the middle of the day, while most normal people were working or attending class. Smoking pot and exploring all the nooks and interesting liminal spaces that were so common for street people and homelessness. I’d entertain the possibility of my counting myself among them at some point. Still, I was too stable, and even today, years later, I don’t touch pot— even though the paranoia remains.

Inside the pitch darkness, you’d think I’d have a cell phone with a flashlight function, but no, I do not. I’m stuck somewhere, very possibly a dream, in which is totally informed by the past.

I can now hear the tires of a vehicle close by, just outside the fence, crackle onto the broken concrete close by. How did they zero in and bee-line directly toward me?

I hear breathing, and realize it’s mine. I stand beside myself, the breathing sounding like it’s coming from another body, nevertheless, beside me. Then a flicker of light from within the shrouded complex. My eyes adjust, and the silhouettes of the dead dinosaur corpse machines that did whatever at the time of this factory’s heyday are shown in stark contrast to the large factory windows. The flicker, again, however, came from down below. I thought perhaps it could have been a momentary reflection from the vehicle outside’s headlights, as it turned and parked.

Then I hear noises, cackling laughter. Why must they laugh? For the chilling effect, of course, if I may answer you/myself. The light remains, and as I move slowly toward, I find a railing for which to grasp, and then faintly some stairs— my eyes have fully adjusted at this point.

Rattling of chain-linked fence, and snipping of those links, I can ascertain, as if the sounds and the conjuring of the actions that create them are streamlined in my mind—1 for 1. The chain link fencing now is being rolled; I imagine it's being coiled up, and these Halloween costumed freaks are simply walking right through.

As I step onto the first step, I feel obligated to state, very clearly, no, no, I’m not tripping, and this isn’t a trip— it's genuine. I understand there are several meta layers we’ve been entertaining here, you and I, but I cannot stress the felt reality of the current situation enough.

I step with faith onto the next dark step, as the light is halted by the corners up ahead. The corridor is there, however, and the light is not an overhead one, or it would appear powered by the same electricity that once powered the factory. It is more of the stark illumination of the moon, once again. I will be disappointed to find a large reflective surface at the end of a vertical shaft, simply tricking me with the light of the moon, in that case. However, regardless of this, I continue; it is truly my only option at present.

I leave behind a short case of steps leading down here, perhaps only eight or so, to find myself in a slightly shifting straight corridor, square in frame, leading down, down, and further down.

Then I see it. It’s a large shimmering, swirling hole. What do you want from me? That’s the description! It’s blue, and pulsating, and literally swirling as a spiral galaxy would swirl, slowly and clockwise.

When I instinctively look behind me, 4 of the clowns appear, and they’re facial expressions definitely indicate that they are not wearing masks. Yes, demonic clowns are real, in this world, anyway. They are just as astonished, or actually, more so astonished than I am!

Reality breaks down here with these realizations. The clowns are not the combination of actors in suits combined with practical special effects, and the swirling, light-producing portal before me is not a computer-generated or projected image. There is no script; there is no prestidigitation (which is just a fancy word for: you’re the only one in on the fun house ride). Wide yellow eyes and astonished expressions on their hideous, make-upped, and sinewy faces as they stand there stunned, suddenly unconcerned with me.

So one must ask themselves, you, me, I, What Do You Do? Do you jump into the portal? It’ll be quite the other thing if you were to jump through some smoke, or a mirror, and hit a hard surface, that’d be cause for a good laugh; if not from you, then you’re soon-to-be captors. Or do you err on the known and allow yourself to be kidnapped? …kidnapped, followed by drawn-out sadistic torture, probably filmed as an entertainment product. Just another hapless victim of the avatars of our world: Demonic Killer Clowns. No, let me answer for you: You jump. Just shut up. As soon as you do, you find yourself in, at this point, precisely what you would expect traveling through an interdimensional wormhole would look like. It’s fast, the lights burst and flash all around you, it winds and jerks you this way and that, though, you are cushioned by some force as you’re moved rapidly along, and insulated from the harsh, deadly edges of space/time just outside the ethereal, supernatural conduit.

Then the sound of lightning erupts, as the space/time on the other side breaks through to create an exit. The ride slows down just enough to condition a landing that doesn’t immediately destroy your human frame. Somehow you come out feet first, but as soon as you touch down, you wobble anyway, and fall, but not even enough to skin a knee. So you pick yourself up and look around in the bright light of midday to find yourself in the next place. You’ve evaded danger for now, but it's to come. FIND OUT IN THE NEXT EPISODE OF….

I still haven’t thought of a name yet, so instead of hyping the next thing, I’ll continue walking around. It’s a new town, and there’s a lot of stuff to check out.