The Odd Tale of Jim Olivine

The following are transcripts from the personal audio log of Jim Olivine of Elysium Estates. Mr. Olivine kept a handheld recording device on his person at all times, making observations throughout his day on a range of topics from his thoughts on the evening news to his opinion of the Super Tasty Value Menu at the local Chuck 'N' Cluck franchisee. The narrative you are about to read was compiled from selected recordings dated between April of 2018 to July of the same year. 
April 30th, 2018
2:30 PM
I hope the Realtor arrives soon. I have been sitting outside of this house for over half an hour. I do believe she said two o'clock was the time of our appointment. Why, then, am I still waiting for her? Etiquette dictates that one should make a simple courtesy call if one is going to be late for a scheduled meeting.
I have other things to do today. My time is important to me. I keep to a strict itinerary. It helps me to keep my life organized. Her inability to keep to a timetable has resulted in my timetable being thrown off. I was planning to read Ellery Queen at the library from 3:00 to 4:00. Now it appears –
[There is the sound of an approaching vehicle and a brief honk of a car horn.]
It seems that she has arrived at last. I hope she senses my displeasure. I hope my body language tells her everything she needs to know without necessitating a confrontation.
I don't like being confrontational.
Jim Olivine signing off.
[Click]
April 30th, 2018 
3:00 PM
The Realtor was most apologetic for her tardiness. She explained to me that her previous appointment ran long and that a mishap rendered her phone broken and unusable. She retrieved it from her handbag and, indeed, it was a complete loss.
Considering the circumstances, I decided to forgive the disruption of my itinerary and carried on as though nothing had happened. She showed me the house, going through a sales pitch about original woodwork. I told her there was no reason to try so hard. I had decided to make an offer upon seeing the listing on the internet, and the tour was but a formality. Since everything I'd seen inside the house matched the pictures and there didn't seem to be any signs of black mold or termite damage, I wanted it as soon as possible.
“If I were to make an offer today,” I asked, “how soon should I expect to hear back from the property owner? I need to plan accordingly.”
She told me that if there were no counter bids from other interested parties and the property owner accepted my offer, I could expect to hear back from her by the end of the week.
Let us hope that she is correct.
Jim Olivine signing off.
[Click]
May 3rd, 2018
5:00 PM
This home is everything for which I have been searching. I require a great deal of precision and practicality to function. My doctor tells me that I should take the medication which he has prescribed and that I should take steps to learn to deal with the unpredictability of the world around me. He doesn't understand how difficult that is for me. I'm sure that he thinks he does. With all of his years of schooling and all of those framed degrees that adorn the walls of his office, I'm sure he feels equipped to empathize with and understand anyone who reclines upon his couch.
This is a common misconception amongst those with the highest levels of education. They feel that they are wiser and more perceptive than the rest of us, that they can identify things that those of us who are not graced with as many higher learning certifications could never hope to see.
This is blind arrogance.
My doctor doesn't understand how much my schedules and my routines and my practicality mean to me. He asked me if my desire to move from the hectic inner city to a quiet and gated subdivision was going to be a crutch. He said that, again, that I need to learn to deal with people as they are. Life isn't something that can be planned down to the most minute detail, he told me.
“Buying your own home can be a wonderful thing,” he said. “In fact, people your age should look into making the transition from renting to buying. However, you need to understand that life will always throw curve balls at us. Things will happen that we can't plan for. That will be true no matter where you live.”
I need this. I need the quiet. I need the structure. The triple locks on my apartment door give me a certain feeling of security, but they don't block out the sounds. When the neighbors play terrible rock music from 1983 or they engage in coitus or their kids start making noise... I hear all of it. Every last bit. It is unnerving. It shatters the peace of my little world. It feels like, somehow, the chaos of the outside has made its way past the locks on my door and has invaded my space.
There will be no such madness in Elysium Estates. The Home Owner's Association there has strict policies on noise. They have strict policies on everything, including visits by the police. Causing a disturbance that merits police involvement carries with it a great number of hefty fines. According to the HOA bylaws, each of those fines can and will be the maximum amount they are allowed to impose by law. These rules are designed to keep undesirable people with violent or unstable tendencies out of the neighborhood; they also serve to drive out those who fail to take this not-so-subtle hint before they sign the contract.
It's one of the things that drew me to the neighborhood in the first place. There has never been a reported act of violence in Elysium's fifteen year history. Not one call to the police for domestic violence. Not one person arrested for disorderly conduct. Not one child initiated into a gang or caught defacing a bench or piece of playground equipment.
It's sane. It's controlled.
It's everything I need.
In short, it is perfect.
Jim Olivine signing off.
[Click]
June 11th, 2018 
2:00 PM
At 12:05 PM today, I unlocked the front door of my new home for the first time. It was like a great burden rolling off of my shoulders. To stand in the entryway, to take it all in and know that, for the first time in my life, I have a controlled space that is entirely mine, was more therapeutic than all the sessions I've attended with that quack of a doctor over the last five years. For the first time, it feels like the outside world can't get in.
Of course, I will be changing the locks. I can't be sure that copies of the keys weren't made before they changed hands. I'll also be adding new ones as well as the best home security system money can buy. This place will be my sanctuary, a fortress of isolation and routine.
I dare not call it a “fortress of solitude” because I'm not from the planet Krypton.
[Here there is the sound of snorting laughter.]
Look at me, making jokes! That never happens. I think things might get better for me from now on.
Jim Olivine signing off.
[Click]
June 14th, 2018
5:30 PM
Today was a productive day. There are but a few boxes remaining at my prior residence, which I will collect tomorrow. I refuse to hire a moving company because I will not tolerate another person, even a hired hand, stepping through the front door. This means that I will need to tote the new washer and dryer to the basement when it arrives tomorrow. This is not a problem. Despite what some may think of me, I am by no means helpless. I know how to utilize a dolly and a tow strap. I don't need anyone's help.
That being said, the basement required a thorough cleaning to prepare it for my new appliances. It had suffered from severe neglect over the years and there was a sickening amount of dust and grime on every surface. There were some boxes tucked away in a corner that held some old paperback books. I glanced through them, but found nothing that piqued my interest. Not that I would have kept any of them regardless. Those books were the forgotten possessions of someone else, and I can not have the slightest trace of another person within my private space.
I hauled the books out to where the trash receptacles sat by the curb and dumped them onto the bags of detritus already contained within. Then I broke the box down, folded it and placed it on top of the books. The Home Owner's Association here has strict policies on garbage. All waste must be contained inside the receptacle. No garbage is allowed next to or on top of it.
After finishing this chore, I washed my hands for ten minutes, locked up the house and went out. I am now sitting at the local steakhouse, trying to decide if I want a baked potato or a salad as a side. The waitress is doing her best to hide her annoyance. I can tell she doesn't like me, especially since I brought my own set of plastic utensils and told her to take her foul, disease-ridden silverware back to the depths of hell from whence it came.
There will be a better tip if she doesn't let her temper get the better of her.
[A faint voice asks Mr. Olivine if he is ready to order or if he'd like more time.]
We shall see.
Jim Olivine signing off.
[Mr. Olivine can be heard asking the waitress if a substitution of french fries will come at an added cost.]
[Click]
June 15th, 2018 
10:30 AM
This is unacceptable. When I stepped outside this morning to check my mail and retrieve my morning newspaper, I saw that my trash receptacles had been tipped over. There was garbage all over the sidewalk and the street.
What sort of an individual engages in this type of behavior? If you're the kind of bottom feeder who feels the need to dig through the trash like a raccoon, at least do it in a way that is respectful. Leave the receptacle upright and leave the unwanted garbage inside of it.
My initial thought was that it might have been a raccoon until I noticed that the books I brought up from the basement yesterday have been taken; I've yet to meet a raccoon with the ability to read.
The HOA will be hearing about this. I will not tolerate this kind of unspeakable low class behavior. That I had to spend thirty unscheduled minutes washing my hands after cleaning up the mess is just salt in an already unbearable wound. Now my itinerary has to be rewritten to account for the lost time.
Jim Olivine signing off.
[Click]
June 16th, 2018 
9:00 AM
First entry of the day. I am so pleased that the relocation process has been completed. The house is set up just as I want it to be, the new furniture and appliances have all arrived and, to my great satisfaction, all traces of other people have been removed.
I also contact the HOA yesterday about that little incident with my trash. They told me they would look into it. Let us hope that they do.
Other than the aforementioned incident with the waste receptacles, this neighborhood is everything I expected it to be. People leave for work at the same time every day and return at the same time every evening. When the sun goes down, people retreat inside and lock the doors. They eat dinner, watch The Tonight Show and go to bed. They sleep in peace-knowing that their security systems and constant police presence keep them from harm.
There is no chaos here. Only sanity.
Breakfast this morning will be poached eggs with no salt, dry toast and orange juice. After this meal is consumed, I will spend the rest of the morning in my office. At precisely noon, I will emerge to cook a lunch of--
[There is the sound of multiple locks being disengaged and a door being opened. There are three and a half seconds in which the only sounds on the recording are background noise. When Mr. Olivine speaks again, his voice is lacking the former cheerfulness and has a noticeable quiver to it.]
Oh, my God.
[The door slams and the locks are rapidly secured.]
I don't understand. It can't be. Not in the suburbs. Not here. Not in this controlled place. Not in this land of The Tonight Show and microwaveable dinners and Leave it to Beaver! No!
Normalcy!
[Wheezing can be heard.]
Sanity!
RATIONALITY!!
[The wheezing grows worse.]
I have to calm down. Have to compose myself. Can't let this get to me. But how can it be? This is--
[Click]
June 16th, 2018
9:21 AM
I spent the better part of ten minutes breathing into a sack and trying to slow my heart rate. Now that I have regained control, I am daring to peek through the curtains of my front window to verify that what I saw wasn't some hallucination.
[It is clear from the hushed tones that Mr. Olivine is trying to be as quiet as possible.]
It was not. My neighbor-- I-- He's outside watering his lawn, but he's dressed like a twisted clown! Sweet merciful Christ. Why is he dressed like that? He has a stringy blue wig, floppy black shoes, and a purple suit with green pom buttons. There is a rotted sunflower on his lapel. No doubt it is the kind that shoots water at anyone foolish enough to bend down and attempt to sniff it. There are dingy white gloves on each of his hands.
And the make up? It's like Pennywise and the members of that clown band-- what the devil is the name of it? Posse of Insane Clowns? It's like Pennywise and those insane musical clowns rolled into one. It's meant to look evil, and it does.
[Here there are sounds of Mr. Olivine attempting to duck out of sight.]
He saw me! He saw me! He actually waved at me! Oh-- oh no--
[The rest of the entry is nothing but deep, ragged breathing.]
[Click]
June 16th, 2018 
9:31 AM
I don't understand how this can be. It was my understanding that Elysium was a place of order. Its reputation seemed to be one of safety and normalcy. Did I not mention in my May 3rd entry that this neighborhood has not, in its entire history, had one disturbance or arrest?
I need that kind of place. I need that Leave it to Beaver white bread piece of Americana. My... my condition will not permit that which is not practical. I left the apartment because of the chaos. The children. The music. The coitus. There were times that I would hear people fighting at two or three in the morning. Once there was the sound of breaking glass and some man calling someone else a stupid bitch. She'd broken a beer bottle over his head because, according to her, he was a worthless drunk who couldn't hold a job.
Am I to believe that such randomness and chaos could exist here? Here?
It shouldn't, but...
The clown.
I recall with a bitter and unpleasant feeling in the pit of my stomach the words of my doctor: “You need to understand that life will always throw curve balls at us. Things will happen that we can't possibly plan for. That will be true no matter where you live.” I'd scoffed at the idea. I'd thought it absurd that such unpredictability would follow me here. But...
The clown.
What am I to do? I cannot simply walk outside and demand he take off that ridiculous outfit. I cannot call the police. He is, after all, not breaking any rules. I have read the HOA contract many times. I have gone over the bylaws until they are seared into my memory as if by a branding iron. I felt it my duty to know the rules so as to not break them. There is not one rule against dressing like a... like a freak!
The feeling of being secure is slipping away. That weight that lifted off of my shoulders upon entering this house for the first time has started to return. If I do not take some action, everything I have worked for will be ruined.
Jim Olivine signing off.
[Click]
June 18th, 2018 
3:03 PM
It has been two days. Two days since I first saw the clown. Perhaps if it had been an isolated incident, I might have been able to let it go. I could have shrugged it off as circumstantial. Perhaps he worked part time as a party clown for Satanic children, and he had a gig that he had to play. Maybe he was a follower of that aforementioned clown band. He'd gotten dressed up and was doing nothing more than giving his lawn a final watering before heading off to take care of twisted clown business.
That would have been an easy and acceptable explanation if I hadn't seen him multiple times since then. He goes to collect his mail dressed as a clown. He weeds his garden dressed as a clown. He pushes his mower in full clown regalia. There is not a single task too mundane for the dark clown outfit.
Today, he took it a step further.
I had an hour written into my itinerary for sitting at the library and reading Ellery Queen. This was to take place starting at 2:00 PM. I backed my car out of my driveway at 1:30 and saw him standing at the edge of his property. He was juggling six or seven rubber balls designed to look like shrunken heads. When we made eye contact, he grinned like the cat that had eaten the canary.
I floored the gas pedal and sped off. I didn't want to start hyperventilating again, and the longer I sat there the more I felt my composure slipping.
When I reached the library, I couldn't focus on what I was reading. I kept seeing the clown in my mind's eye, juggling those heads and giving me that smile. That unpleasant, unsettling, almost taunting smile.
I feel like this entire trip was wasted. I think I will stop at the supermarket on the way home and buy some chamomile tea.
I need something to soothe my nerves.
Jim Olivine signing off.
[Click]
​​​​June 30rd, 2018 
4:03 PM
Every day that I live with this feels like I have stepped into a nightmare from which there is no waking. Some nights it actually becomes a nightmare. I dream that I pack up my possessions and relocate to a different part of town, but he is there waiting for me.
The clown.
I move across the country, but again he finds me. I decide to leave the country and board a flight to Italy, but he is there on the plane with me. He pushes the beverage cart up and down the aisles, offering drinks that all turn out to be blood. On every can and bottle is printed the same word: Omicidio.
I've entered this word into Google and found that it is the Italian word for murder.
The clown serves everyone on the plane murder-blood until we hit a severe air pocket or something (I don't know aeronautics) and the plane crashes into the sea. We all die, but the clown waits for me in Hell, where he assaults me with cream pies and fizz water for all of eternity.
It has been two weeks since I first saw him, and things have gotten worse. I can't read. I can't sleep. I can barely eat. It is difficult to work, though I force myself to do so because I have mortgage payments to make. I always feel his eyes upon me no matter where I am, even in the privacy of my bathroom. When I see him outside, he always seems to be staring directly at my house. Standing in that absurd costume, watching my house like a guard dog in oversize shoes.
Is that simply a product of my own paranoia? Does he watch my house or does it seem that way? Does he only turn to look at my house when he sees me? I don't know. The only thing I am certain of is that every time we make eye contact, he waves at me. Like we're old friends or something.
I wonder if it was he who plundered my garbage can. Perhaps he was looking for a tiny car in which to squeeze himself. Perhaps he was looking for romance novels involving clowns.
I'm afraid. In my own home, in my sanctuary, I am afraid. This fear makes me angry. I should not have to feel this way. Not here. I know I should go out and confront him, but... Well, I've stated in the past that I don't like confrontations. Besides, it might be nothing. He seems amicable enough. He has not shown me any hostility. Yet. He may be eccentric, but he does not appear to be dangerous.
So why do I feel such fear?
Why do I feel eyes upon me all the time?
I have considered calling the police, but it would be a waste of time. Law enforcement cannot take action based upon a hunch. Just because someone thinks that one of their neighbors may be potentially dangerous does not mean that they are. Besides, everything that he has done has been on his own property. He had not approached my home or me.
If I was somehow able to convince them to simply look into the situation, they might mention that there were some “concerned neighbors”, but they would not make an arrest. This might be enough to push him over the proverbial edge and make him dangerous.
He might take offense.
He might decide that I needed to be taught a lesson.
I don't... I don't know what to do.
Jim Olivine... signing off.
[Click]
July 3rd, 2018 
2:36 AM
[The entirety of this log is spoken in hushed tones.]
What the living Christ?
I got up to use the bathroom and I saw him, standing on the sidewalk in front of his house. He's out there now. I have the lights off so he doesn't see me. He's slowly pulling an endless line of multicolored handkerchiefs from his sleeve. It's not a goofy, slapstick kind of a motion. The way he's doing it... it seems so menacing. Like he's trying to intimidate me.
He's...
[There is a faint, almost inaudible squeaking noise.]
He's stopped pulling the line from his sleeve. He's using the same slow, menacing movements and he's honking the big black nose on his face. Can you hear it?
[Several slow, faint squeaks.]
What in God's name is he doing out there?
[Click]
July 3rd, 2018 
10:36 AM
After last night, I have decided that I have had enough. I don't like confrontations, and I'm more scared than I've ever been in my life, but I'm going to put the recorder in my shirt pocket and I'm going to confront him. He's out there right now, trimming his hedges in that absurd outfit. Why is he even here on a Tuesday morning? Shouldn't he be at work? Or at the circus?
Freak.
I can't take this anymore.
[There is a rustling of fabric against the microphone as Mr. Olivine slips the recorder into his shirt pocket. This is followed by sounds of locks disengaging and a door opening. After forty-three seconds, we hear Mr. Olivine call out to his neighbor.]
“Excuse me! Sir!”
“Yes? Can I help you?”
“Would you mind telling me what you think you are doing? Is this some kind of game to you?”
“What do you mean?”
“Don't play the ignorance card with me, sir. You've been walking around in that asinine clown outfit for weeks, staring at my house. Last night, you were standing on the sidewalk at two-thirty in the morning, pulling handkerchiefs from your sleeve and honking your absurd nose.”
“There's no reason to be rude or aggressive. I've done you no harm. If anything, I've been a good neighbor to you. Here. Have a dead flower.”
“I don't want a dead flower. Put those plastic daisies back up your sleeve, sir. Where do you even buy dead and wilted plastic flowers? What I want is for you to stop scaring me.”
“Scaring you?”
“Yes, scaring me! You can't tell me that little early morning circus act was a friendly gesture. It was a threatening move meant to intimidate!”
“I think your Coulrophobia is causing you to misinterpret a lot of things. I'm going inside to feed my cats. Have yourself a wonderful day.”
“There aren't a lot of ways to interpret a twisted clown juggling shrunken heads. Hey! Hey, don't walk away from me. Sir! Sir!”
[After some distorted audio, there is the sound of the door opening and closing, followed by the now-familiar locks.]
I don't believe this. Coulrophobia, indeed. He's doing this on purpose. Does he not realize that intimidation is against the law?
This isn't over.
Jim Olivine signing off.
[Click]
July 3rd, 2018 
10:56 AM
I have a feeling there's about to be quite the show. A mere two minutes before I began recording this log, two of my neighbors emerged from the house to the right of me. One is a middle-aged man and the other is, I presume, his wife. A nervous little greasy-haired man of around twenty years of age followed them from the door to front gate, but they stopped him. The man shook his head and said something to Greasy Hair. Greasy Hair looked down at his feet and nodded. The couple proceeded without him.
Towards the clown's house. They did not look at all pleased.
Now they're knocking on the door. Nothing is happening. The man seems to be growing impatient. He folds his arms, irritated. I can ascertain just in these few moments that this is not a fellow who likes to be kept waiting. I can respect that.
The door is opening. The clown emerges, holding a kitten in his arms. My neighbors gesture at my house. The clown nods, shakes his head, nods again. The woman jabs an accusatory finger at him. The clown, cool as a cucumber, never lets his composure slip. He looks down at her finger then back up at her face. He shakes his head again, says something, then offers her the kitten. She huffs at this and the clown shrugs.
He turns to the fellow and asks a question I wish I could hear. The clown raises a single eyebrow as the man gives a gruff and heated response. The clown smirks at him, gestures towards the kitten, then retreats into his house. He politely but firmly closes the door in their faces.
The couple remains on the clown's front porch, conversing amongst themselves. The man is furious. He gestures with one arm towards the closed front door. His wife raises her hands as if saying, “I don't know what you expect me to do about it.” The man storms down the front walk in a huff with his wife tailing behind him.
Greasy Hair timidly joins them as they step into the street. He makes his way up to the lady and asks her a question. He repeatedly runs his fingers through his foul mane. The couple turns to look at him and their mentality shifts in an instant. They are no longer angry; rather, they take on a warm and loving air. They speak to him with far more kindness than they did the clown. The lady's presumed husband puts a hand on his shoulder.
I can best describe the way they're speaking to Greasy as similar to the way parents will speak to a child who swears he has seen a monster under his bed or in his closet.
Now Angry Man, his wife and Greasy are making their way to my house. I suppose they wish to discuss this debacle with me.
I will continue this log once this mess has been settled.
Jim Olivine signing off.
[Click]
July 3rd, 2018 
11:57 AM
Knowing that I have allies on this street makes this whole affair a little more bearable.
Angry Man turned out to be a fellow named Andrew Pilate. He introduced himself and his wife Francine and apologized for the trouble.
“We've never seen him do this... clown thing before,” Andrew said. “He's lived on this street for close to a decade. While we haven't always seen eye-to-eye, we've never viewed him as a particularly creepy. Often cold and distant. Sometimes unreasonable. But creepy? Not until recently.”
“What do you suppose triggered this behavior?” I asked them.
Greasy spoke up from where he was standing behind them, looking at his feet.
“He's a f-freak.”
“Now, now, Claude,” Francine chided. “Calling people names won't help anything.”
Returning her attention to me, she said:
“This is Claude. He's had a rough time of it since his mother died about two years ago--”
“Two years, f-five months, th-three days, f-four hours a-and f-fifty-eight minutes,” Claude cut in. His fingers went through his hair again. “Cl-Claude misses her.”
“I'm sorry for your loss,” I said.
Claude said nothing.
“We've known Claude for years,” Francine said. “After Angela passed, we took him in as our own son. We certainly love him like he's our own son.”
She ruffled his foul hair like one would do to a small child. A child who has doused his head in Crisco.
“Mr. Gosling d-doesn't like Claude,” Claude said, casting a nervous look over his should at the clown's house. “Mr. Gosling tells lies about Claude. Bad clown.”
“Yes, well,” Andrew said, “just give him a wide berth, Claude. As for you, Mister....?”
“Olivine. Jim Olivine.”
He offered a hand and I accepted it, trying not to grimace as I did so. Even after washing my hands in scalding hot water for ten minutes prior to making this recording, they still feel dirty.
“Pleasure,” he said. “Mr. Gosling won't be bothering you anymore, Mr. Olivine.”
“How can you be certain?” I asked.
“We made our position on the matter quite clear,” Francine said.
“After paying his mortgage and his alimony, Mr. Gosling is barely able to pay his HOA dues each month,” Andrew said. “We've recommended he cut down on the number of cats he cares for. 'Fewer cats means less money spent on cat food'. That's what I've told him. Several times. He won't listen. So he stays damn near broke all the time. He keeps his yard meticulous because he can't risk getting penalized. I reminded him of this and told him that if this little joke of his continues, law enforcement will be brought in to settle the matter and the penalties will destroy him.”
“B-bad joke,” Claude said. “Bad clown. Not funny.”
“No, it isn't funny,” Francine said. “Claude here corroborated your story, Mr. Olivine. Actually, it was more like you corroborated his. He came to us earlier today and told us that he'd gotten up for a drink of water in the early hours of the morning and saw Mr. Gosling outside in his clown outfit. At first, we thought he might have had a vivid nightmare, but then--”
“He th-threatened you,” Claude cut in, not taking his eyes from his shoes. “Cl-Claude heard him.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Claude...” Francine warned. She had clearly intended to avoid this subject, but I was having none of that.
“What do you mean?” I asked. “How did he threaten me?”
Andrew and Francine exchanged an uneasy glance.
“You may as well tell him,” Francine said after an awkward moment.
“First of all,” Andrew said with a sigh, “it's nothing to be concerned about. It wasn't a direct threat. He didn't say he was going to 'flay you like a fish' while softly stroking his kitten or anything like that. We didn't want to tell you because we didn't want you to worry yourself over something that is probably nothing.”
“I'll be the judge of that,” I replied.
“Of course,” Andrew said. “Well, when we told him that he needed to stop masquerading as a clown, he refused. He said that he wasn't breaking any laws, but I pointed out that at least two people had seen his behavior this morning as blatant intimidation, which is very much against the law.”
He paused, selecting his words carefully and trying not to say something that would escalate the situation.
“When it became clear to him that his neighbors were not going to tolerate this freakishly weird behavior, he said something vague that could... be interpreted as a threat without being so blunt that he could be arrested for it.”
“Which was?”
“He said, and I quote, 'If he knew what was good for him, he would leave well enough alone.' Then he offered to let my wife pet his kitten, as if he'd just made an observation about the weather or something.”
I fear that I have angered a dangerous man.
Jim Olivine signing off.
[Click]
July 3rd, 2018 
8:58 PM
I have triple checked my locks and my home security system. There has been no sign of the clown since I confronted him earlier today, but I am taking no chances. I still feel as though eyes are on me all the time. I worry that my life may be in danger.
I don't think I'll be able to sleep tonight.
Perhaps I should move.
No, that wouldn't work. He would follow me, serving murder-blood until the plane crashed into the sea.
Jim Olivine signing off.
[Click]
July 4thg, 2018 
11:35 AM
Francine came by and asked if I'd like to join her and her family for the Independence Day festivities. She remarked that she'd noticed I was a bit of a loner, but that they wanted me to feel welcome in the neighborhood. I declined, but requested that she sit on the porch with me for a few minutes before returning to her potato salad and cooked animals. When they dropped by yesterday morning, her foster son mentioned something about Mr. Gosling making up lies about him. I felt her visit today provided an opportune to ask her to clarify.
She seemed hesitant. The subject was no doubt a sensitive one for her.
“I mean no harm,” I said. “I'm asking because I'm trying to make sense of this situation with Mr. Gosling. I thought the answers might shed some light on his personality.”
She was quiet for a few moments as she thought it over, then she said:
“There are some people in the world who don't trust people who have special needs. They will point the finger of blame at them for just about anything that goes wrong. It's a sad fact of life, but it's still a fact of life.
“One of those people is our lovely neighbor, Mr. Gosling.”
“What kind of accusations has he made against the boy?” I asked.
“About six months ago,” Francine explained, “several neighborhood cats turned up missing. You've seen how cool and collected Mr. Gosling is, Jim. May I call you Jim?”
“Yes, that's fine.”
It wasn't, but I didn't say so. I wanted her to be as comfortable with me as she needed to be. The more she spoke, the more likely she would be to say something that might turn out to be a potential clue to this whole thing.
“He's damn near unshakable,” she said. “Damn near. When we found what was left of those cats, which was mostly a few severed paws and chunks of bloody fur, Mr. Gosling lost that composure. He hit the ceiling. He said that Claude was the one who did it. He accused Claude of being unstable and called him a 'serial killer in training'. He said, 'It always starts with small animals. If you let him get away with it, it won't be long before he kills a person.'”
“Was this the first time Mr. Gosling had ever behaved that way?” I asked.
“Oh, yes,” she replied. “Up until that day, he was always like you've seen: composed and unflinching. We told him he was being unreasonable and making unfounded accusations, but he wouldn't listen. He went on and on about how Claude needed to be institutionalized.
“'The crazy little fuck needs to be in a place where he can never hurt another living thing ever again' were his exact words. He said that to my husband, and Andy didn't take it well. He told him to calm down before he had to call the police.”
“Did anyone ever solve the mystery of the dead cats?” I asked.
“Yes,” she told me. “About two days after Mr. Gosling's blow up, it was discovered that a couple of coyotes were living in the treeline at the edge of the neighborhood and they saw Mr. Gosling's numerous cats as an easy food source."
"Claude had nothing to do with it,” I said.
"Claude had nothing to do with it,” she replied in a bitter satisfactory tone.
“I take it Mr. Gosling didn't buy that story,” I said.
“You hit it right on the head,” Francine replied. “He refused to hear anything about coyotes. Said that the paws weren't bitten off. Cuts were too clean. Said that it was done with a knife. Hogwash, all of it.
“Claude, to his credit, took it in stride. He never seemed angry with Mr. Gosling. He never tried talking to him again, and you can tell he has a low opinion of him, but angry? No. He just looked at me over the kitchen table and said, 'Bad man'. He went to his room and never spoke of it again.”
“That was mature of him,” I said.
“Yes, well,” Francine said, “I don't know if he would have been as forgiving if he'd known the other things Mr. Gosling said about him. We chose not to divulge to him the part where Mr. Gosling speculated that 'the crazy fucking kid probably killed his own mama'.”
“That's... abominable,” I told her.
There were several moments of silence. I looked across the street and saw Mr. Gosling. He was standing in the shadows along the side of his house and he was staring at us. He was not dressed like a clown, and there was no smile today. Francine saw him, too.
“He knows full well that what happened to Angela was a tragic accident,” she said. “Poor woman was heading to the basement with a basket of laundry and fell down the stairs. It happens all the time with senior citizens. Claude came to our house screaming that his momma was hurt. We called the paramedics, but there was nothing they could do. She broke her neck on impact.”
Her voice quivered with emotion.
“That sweet lady died almost instantly, covered in dirty socks and underwear. He was so broken up at the funeral that he couldn't stay to the end of it. Andy brought him home and put him to bed, then returned for the burial. Kid wouldn't say a word for a month.”
Her voice dropped to a sad whisper.
“Only a monster would accuse a loving boy like that of killing his mother.”
She wiped a tear from her cheek and sniffled. After a moment, she got to her feet and said she needed to return to her barbecue preparations. I thanked her for her time and wished her a pleasant holiday. She wished me the same and made her way down the front steps. As she reached the sidewalk, she stopped and turned back. Her expression was solemn.
“I think what happened to his cats might have rattled something in his brain,” she said. “He's always told anyone who will listen that he loves his cats like they are his own children. Having them eaten by coyotes was... hard on him. Like losing his mother has been hard on Claude.”
I looked back to where Mr. Gosling was still standing in the shadows, watching us. From that distance, it was hard to make out his expression. If I were to hazard a guess, I would say it appeared to be a look of pity. As if he felt sorry for me.
Even though I don't want to, I'm going to have to punish you soon, that expression said. It's your own fault. You should have left well enough alone.
“It broke him, Jim,” she said. “A broken man might not always show it on the outside. He might carry on like nothing has changed. Inside, though, he's nothing but a shattered pile of broken glass, and broken glass is always dangerous. It always has the potential to cut.”
I am beginning to wish I had not been so hasty in making an offer on this house. There were others within my price range. I feel I have made a grave mistake coming here.
Jim Olivine signing off.
[Click]
[Mr. Olivine provides no date or time stamp in this recording. However, available archives and documentation pinpoint the events to July 7th at around 11:00PM. The entirety of the log is almost impossible to hear due to a loud, blaring sound that drowns out everything else. What could be extracted from the racket is reproduced here.]
...the hell is going...
[unintelligible]
...he's come... knew he....
[Mr. Olivine puts the recorder on a nearby table and pushes the table against the door. For the next ninety seconds, there is the sound of the table legs scraping against the hardwood mixed with the blaring of the security system.]
…come to kill me... knew he would...
...on't let... get m...
[Click]
July 8th, 2018
1:30 AM
The clown came, just as I knew he would. He used a rock to smash the back door window. He tried to reach through the glass shards and disengage the locks, but wound up with a deep laceration on his forearm. The wound was enough to slow him down until the police got here approximately five minutes later.
They found him trying to flee the scene while holding his endless string of handkerchiefs over his wound. He ended up tripping over them.
I had a long talk with the neighbors afterwards. They asked me if I needed anything and assured me that they were there if I ever needed to talk. We discussed how surreal the whole thing has been. A lot of the conversation was a repeat of my prior visit with Francine. There seemed to be a general consensus that it was the death of his cats that rattled his marbles, but no one could figure out how it all linked to the clown gimmick. Or to me. Why did he feel the need to target me in particular?
I locked eyes with Mr. Gosling for one moment before he was taken away. I'd never seen his costume look so sloppy and unkempt before. As unsettling as it was to see him mowing his grass or tending to his birdbath in full costume, the costume had always been meticulous. It was apparent that he took great care in applying the paint, shining the shoes, adjusting the wig.
Tonight, though?
Tonight, his clown costume looked as though it had been put on in a rush. The makeup was smeared and garish; the wig was crooked and sat on his head at an angle. He hadn't taken the time to fasten all of his green pom buttons or even put on his dead sunflower. Why was this?
And behind that hastily applied make-up, I saw no malice in his eyes. No hatred. No anger. There was just a cold resignation and acceptance of a situation which he could not change. He did not thrash against the handcuffs. He did not scream. He didn't even speak. He went peacefully and complied with every order issued by the arresting officers.
Was it a demonic force or a lapse of rational thinking that caused Mr. Gosling to attempt this terrible thing? I will never know. One thing that I can be sure of, however, is that whatever his driving force was, it had departed by the time he was being read his Miranda Rights.
The person arrested by the police tonight had no desire whatsoever to kill me.
Jim Olivine signing off.
[Click]
[The last entry starts with silence. There is no date or time stamp. Records place it on July 8th, 2018 at around 3:30 AM. At about seven seconds, the faint voice of Mr. Olivine can heard in the background. The person holding the tape recorder moves closer to him.]
“Please... I beg you. I'll give you anything. ANYTHING!”
[Mr. Olivine can be heard weeping.]
“Bad m-man. T-took Claude's m-momma's house. Claude c-could have let th-that go.”
“Claude, please! Listen! I--”
[There is a sound of a blade sinking into wet meat. Mr. Olivine screams. His screams are muffled by something later discovered to be his own pillow.]
“Claude w-would have l-let it go, but th-then you t-took momma's books and th-threw them in the trash!”
“This is all a misunderstanding! I--”
[Another stabbing sound. Another muffled scream.]
“M-momma collected th-those books all her l-life. B-bad man. C-Claude had to d-dig them out of the t-trash.”
“Please! I'm sorry! I didn't know!”
“D-didn't know. D-didn't ask! W-wanted to k-kill you right away, but the c-clown k-kept scaring Claude away.”
[Mr. Olivine is sobbing now.]
“Claude doesn't l-like clowns. Claude is s-scared of clowns. Bad clown. Bad clown watched C-Claude after Claude got m-mad about the books. C-clown didn't like Claude bec-cause Claude killed his c-cats.”
“I wasn't trying to disrespect your mother, Claude. You have to believe me. I would ne--”
[Another stabbing sound. Another scream.]
“Bad man n-needs to be qu-quiet now. If C-Claude st-stabs him too many m-more times, the bad man will d-die too soon.”
[Mr. Olivine has resumed his sobs.]
“Clown c-caught Claude trying to get the b-bad man. Claude st-stabbed the bad clown in the arm. Then the b-bad man made the bad c-clown go away. Thank you, bad man.”
[There are several breaking sounds as Claude wanders about the room, smashing anything he can pick up.]
“While the b-bad man talked to Cl-Claude's f-family,
[smash]
Cl-Claude came in and hid.
[smash]
Now Claude can k-kill the bad man
[smash]
for d-disrespecting his momma!
[smash]
For t-taking her house
[smash]
and th-throwing away her books.”
[smash]
[Four seconds of silence, then there is a rustling sound as Claude puts the recorder down on the floor. Mr. Olivine resumes begging for his life. Then there is a more grim sound as his throat is cut and he begins to gag and asphyxiate on his own blood. This turns into a gruesome gurgle. Then it falls silent.]
“B-bad man is dead. B-bad clown is gone. Cl-Claude's work is done. M-momma can rest in peace.”
[Ten seconds of silence.]
“Cl-Claude signing off.”
[A faint titter of laughter.]
[Click]
Category:Diary/Journal