Every day since the fourth she looked out her window. Every day since the fourth she saw a clown, standing, watching, with a sharp, bloody knife. For days this went on, and for days she dismissed the clown as a hallucination, or a practical joke that could not possibly get inside her locked home. One morning she woke up and put her feet on the fuzzy carpet. She loved her fuzzy carpet, always there to comfort her when things were rough. But today, something was different; as her feet pressed against the soft floor, her toes squished through the mysteriously wet carpet. Groggily turning on the lamp, she gasped at the now-red carpet--the blood red carpet. Two hours later, the policeman asked who the blood belonged to, how did it get there, did she have any enemies. She explained she did not know, although there was a bizarre clown that stood outside the window every day. Following the woman’s finger to the window, then back to the woman with a confused look on his face, he asked: “the mirror?”