OMFG, that thread has just given me the best laugh when I came across this post:
MitziK Wed 13-Mar-19 22:54:56
You think your knitted Murder Clown is scary?
When I was 20, I started dating a dim, but, oh, so fucking pretty lad who invited me to stay with him at his Nan and Granddad's 3 bedroom ex council house on an estate whilst they were away (with their permission).
We went in at about midnight after going to the pub. The house was in darkness, but downstairs looked alright, in that Old People Who Love Velvet, Shagpile Carpet and Textured Wallpaper way.
We went up the narrow stairs, minding the stairlift, all in darkness. He said 'Nan's made the spare room up for us' and I followed him into the darkened room. I sat on the ten foot high, two mattressed bed that had been raised specially for Old People and, just as my eyes were becoming accustomed to the darkness of inch thick velvet and thought 'Oh, there are a lot of wardrobes or bookcases', he flicked the switch for the chandelier fitted with what felt like a ten thousand Watt bulb in each branch.
Without a word of a lie, the entire room was lined with double width shelving. On every shelf, put onto custom built raised bits for the rear half to make a double row, there was at least twenty porcelain dolls per shelf, all on stands. The room was floor to ceiling porcelain dolls, staring at me with a thousand eyes, darker and deader than a Great White in their ocean of plush dusky pink textured shagpile, velvet curtains, bedlinen, headboard, wallpaper and woodwork.
He noticed my surprise horror and suggested we looked in another bedroom. A tiny boxroom, just big enough for normal people to have a single bed. This one was mauve. And filled with display cabinets.
Of China Fucking Clowns. Teeny ones that would crawl up your nose and eat your brain, medium sized ones that would eat the cat, three foot high ones that would stab you. And a fucking four foot high Clown Head in the centre of the room at face height. Just the head.
The entire upstairs was like I'd fallen inside Stephen King's head.
I was too scared to go into the bathroom in case there was a scary fisherman with glowing eyes, a yellow Sou'wester and a hook, waiting to disembowel me for the sins of my grandfathers. Turned out that there was only a risk of drowning in the sea blue textured shagpile underneath the sea green textured pedestal mat, seat cover and bath mat. And a painting of a fucking fisherman clown on the back of the door for you to look at whilst you took a piss. Which, as it turned out when I had to go in there, carefully leaving the light off, had details picked out in cunting glow in the dark paint.
I should have suspected something by the way the front garden full of gnomes, gently lid by solar lighting sticks had been untouched by the local yobs. But nothing had prepared me for that.
It traumatised me so much that, when I went home with somebody I had started dating a few years later and spotted a replica Star Trek: The Next Generation costume hanging behind his bedroom door, that seemed almost normal in comparison. although I called a taxi to go home when that one suggested he put it on if I wanted.
Still not as scary as Nan Peel's Shagpile House of the Ten Thousand Evil Eyes."
The murder clown stuff was good but this beats it into a cocked hat! 