My father used to work as a clown, and in doing so, he seemed to possess a sort of surreal magic. He was always weird about his family seeing him in action, so I only witnessed him performing a few times, but it was truly a sight to behold. He underwent a complete transformation when he put on that costume – a neon purple suit, puffy blue hair, and a bulbous red nose complete with brightly colored makeup.

You see, my dad had always been a solemn man. He spoke tersely and never exhibited even the slightest enthusiasm about anything. He didn’t seem sad, just neutral. My father simply existed, and that’s all that could be said of him.

However, when he donned his clown suit, it was as if he was an entirely different person. He laughed, joked, danced, and tumbled. Every aspect of him changed before me. His eyes took on an unusual depth, and he seemed much more spry than I ever remembered him being. He could stretch and twist and leap like a man half his age. He actually became relatively popular for a while and ended up performing all over the country.

However, time weighs down upon all, and eventually he became too old for it. Even with his eerie transformation, he wasn’t energetic or flexible enough to go on entertaining people and was forced to retire.

He soon began to show signs of dementia. I prepared myself for the slow decline, but fortunately my mother remained in good health and was able to take care of him. However, she passed away two years ago. I considered putting my father in a home but couldn’t bring myself to do it. I wanted to ensure that he was well taken care of, so I moved in with him.

The first thing I noticed after moving back in was that his clown costume hung in the corner of his room. I suppose it reminded him of happier days, and I think he liked always having it in sight. Sometimes I’d catch him staring at it with a solemn look on his face, his eyes distant and glossy.

Soon, severe arthritis began to take hold, and he had difficulty moving about. He would just sit in his bed all day, usually watching TV or listening to the radio. We didn’t talk much. Like I said before, he’d always been the silent type, even more so since my mom died.

However, one day I visited his room to find him missing. I checked his bathroom, but he wasn’t there either. Suddenly worried, I moved to search the rest of the house. However, something seemed off about his bedroom, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. Then I realized. His clown costume was no longer hanging in the corner.

Concerned that he had wandered off, I frantically moved through the house. Still, I couldn’t find him anywhere. I had heard horror stories about people with dementia wandering outside and disappearing. With the missing clown costume, I had the sneaking suspicion that he had gone out believing he was living in a bygone era.

I ran outside and began to search the neighborhood. I searched everywhere – in backyards, wooded areas, and even under the occasional car. I must have been out there for at least an hour before I decided to return home and call the police.

When I walked inside, I heard rustling coming from my father’s room. I glanced in to see him sitting on the bed doing something he hadn’t done in a long time; he was reading a book. I was surprised. He had always loved reading, but his arthritis had gotten so bad that he couldn’t turn the pages very easily. I bought him a Kindle, but he hated reading on it and just stopped altogether.

“Where were you?” I asked. I noticed that his clown suit was hanging in the corner once again.

He shot me a confused look. “What do you mean?”

“You were gone just a little while ago?”

He shook his head. “No, I’ve been here this whole time. Are you sure I wasn’t in the bathroom?” His voice lacked the gruffness that I had become accustomed to and almost younger in a way.

I hesitated for a moment then decided not to press the issue any further. “Yeah, that must have been it.”

As I was leaving his room, I noticed a strange smell. It was acrid, kind of like burning plastic, but more biological if that makes any sense. I couldn’t wrap my mind around where he could have gone. I knew he wasn’t in the bathroom. So why would he lie?

Something else bothered me. He seemed…younger. I can’t explain it, but it was strange to see him reading a book. I don’t think he was even wearing his glasses. And he spoke more coherently too. He was my own father, and yet something about him sent chills down my spine.

The next morning, I watched the local news. They reported that a young boy had gone missing, and my breath caught in my throat when I saw the name. It was Billy Lyle. He was the ten-year-old son of some family friends. The Lyles had actually lived next door until they moved about a year ago, and I remembered that my father had always been fond of them.

I went to his room to deliver the news and found him sitting on his bed reading a book again. I watched him for a moment. He seemed nimbler, his hands lacking their usual tremble. I noted that he wasn’t wearing his glasses again and wondered if he was just trying to show off or pretend that he was better so I wouldn’t worry about him.

“Hey Dad,” I said. He glanced at me then immediately went back to reading his book. “Did you hear about the Lyle’s boy?”

“No, what?” He said, still reading.

“He’s gone missing. They say he disappeared from his room in the middle of the night.”

He glanced up at me. “That’s a shame. I hope the poor boy’s okay.” Without another moment’s hesitation, he went back to reading his book.

“Don’t you think we should call them or try to help?”

“I’m sure they’re busy enough as it is. We would only distract them or get in the way.”

“I suppose…” I trailed off. He seemed fixated on his book, so I left.

That night I laid awake longer than usual. I couldn’t stop thinking about Billy Lyle. I had always been particularly affected by stories of missing children, and this one hit close to home. I remembered attending his birthday party only two years ago. I told myself he would be alright, but still fear gnawed at my gut.

I ended up staying awake until almost four in the morning, glaring forlornly at the clock, acutely aware of the fact that I had to be up early for work. Just as I was drifting off to sleep, I thought I heard the front door closing. It sounded as if someone had just come inside. I laid there for a few minutes longer, debating whether it was worth getting up and investigating.

Finally, I roused myself and ventured out of my room to look around. My father’s door was closed, and no light shone from beneath it. I glanced inside to see him laying beneath the sheets. However, I noticed that the acrid smell had returned. I figured it had something to do with the vents. We lived in an old house and it had been a while since we’d done any repair work. I made a mental note to check it out at a later date.

The front door was locked, and I was about to return to bed when I noticed something strange. The welcome mat was wet. It was raining outside, and it looked as if someone had recently come in and wiped their feet. I pressed my hand against it to double-check. There was no doubt about it, the mat was wet.

Unnerved, I returned to my father’s room and once again checked on him. He still appeared to be fast asleep in his bed. The light from the hallway illuminated the clown suit in the corner of the room, and I saw that it was facing the wrong way. My father always kept it neatly hung with the front of the outfit facing his bed so he could look at it. Instead, it was now facing the wall.

The next day I saw on the news that another boy had gone missing. This one was eleven years old, though I didn’t know him. Police were still searching for Billy Lyle and were worried that they had a serial kidnapper on their hands.

However, what happened next was even stranger. I went out to the kitchen to find my father sitting at the table. He had made himself breakfast and was drinking a cup of black coffee. This was the first time I’d seen him venture from his room in months, and I couldn’t remember the last time he was able to make himself breakfast.

It’s silly, but I swear he seemed younger. His hair was a little thicker and he gripped his mug with a firmness that I hadn’t seen in years. When he glanced up at me, there was a depth in his eyes that had long evaded him, that shimmering liveliness which had only appeared when he performed for large crowds. Then, he did something even more surprising – he smiled, and I couldn’t help but think that it looked like the jubilant, painted grin of a clown.