The Clock


Everyone nowadays believes that inanimate objects simply stay that way forever. But do they?

Jonathan Smith was a young boy when he first carved a simple toy out of wood. His woodcraftsman father taught him as the years went on and when Jonathan was thirteen, he carved his very first clock. It was a fine clock made of mahogany and silver trimmings. He also added a special feature. Whenever the minute hand reached the twelve, a small clown would come out of the clock, like a cuckoo bird. It had a circular wooden head with eyes that were drawn closed and a straight line for a mouth. Since Jonathan wasn’t a master craftsman, it had small wooden spheres for hands. When it popped out, it would wobble back and forth. His father was very proud and kept it in his office. Every day, Jonathan cleaned and oiled the clock with his father’s help. The clock was his best friend. He’d come back from school and regale it with stories. Even though it couldn’t talk back, he still thought it could understand him. His father often joined in these conversations.
But one day, when Jonathan was a young man, his father fell ill and passed soon afterwards. Heartbroken, he took his beloved clock and belongings and moved.

Decades later, old man Jonathan owned a mansion with acres of land. He’d bought it using the money he made from carving clocks, furniture, you name it. He also had a butler named Tom. His butler seemed like a very nice man on the outside. He came when Jonathan called, and he took care of him in his old age. He cooked the most delicious food and was quiet and obedient. But you should never judge a book by its cover. Deep down, Tom had a dark secret. That was why he always had a five-inch knife in his pocket.

Jonathan coughed. He felt like he was literally coughing up his lungs.

“Are you all right?” his butler asked. “I could go fetch some medicine from the village.”

Jonathan shook his head. “I’ll be fine. But a bowl of soup would be nice.”

The butler nodded assent. “I’ll be back soon.”

“Wait. Could you bring me my clock?”

Tom nodded again. “Of course, sir.”

In the hallway, Tom punched the air as hard as he could without causing his arthritis to flare. Finally, he thought, finally I can get rid of that lunatic clock lover, now that he’s dying anyways. When he reached the bottom of the stairs, he subconsciously touched his pocket. Then he went to go make his master’s soup.

“I’m back,” Tom said. “I’ve made your favorite: tomato soup with toasted bread.”

Loud hacking coughs echoed around the room. “Oh, thank you Tom. You’ve always been so good to me. Is my clock there?”

Tom lugged the clock over to Jonathan and carefully placed the piping hot soup on his nightstand.

“Is there anything else you’d like?” Tom asked.

Jonathan shook his head.
Tom bowed and walked out of the room. He went to his room and thought, the time is right. I can’t afford to make any mistakes tonight.
Eleven fifty nine P.M.
Tom crept into Jonathan’s room holding his knife and wearing nothing but black. His heart matched his clothing, as he felt no remorse at slitting his master’s neck.
After the sudden death of the owner of Smith Manor, possession of the manor was turned over to Tom because Mr. Smith had no living relatives or descendants. Tom was overjoyed. He had to work hard to keep a mournful face during the funeral.
A year later, Tom was living comfortably in the mansion. He put the clock back where it belonged in the hall. But he didn’t quite trust it, for the clock gave him a feeling of unease. Every now and then, he would walk past it and feel like someone or something was watching him.
One night, he and his friends had a party in the living room. It went late into the night, and Tom had to clean up the mess. As he was sweeping in the hall, he heard the clock start chiming. Bong, bong, bong, until it had chimed twelve times. Midnight. Shivers went up his spine and goose bumps erupted on his skin. It was then when he remembered that today was the one-year anniversary of Jonathan’s murder. Tom heard a small click behind him. Then all he saw was darkness.
Police sirens flashed in front of the Smith estate. The sheriff rang the doorbell.
“Mr. Tom? Are you there?”
The sheriff had gotten a call from a concerned neighbor who hadn’t seen Tom leave or enter his house in over a week.
The sheriff sighed and said, “Okay guys, let’s get out the ram.”
His squad smashed the door out of its frame and took in the scene before them. The hallway was empty.
“Come on, let’s keep looking.”
As his squad split up to check for any sign of Tom, he heard a bloodcurdling shriek of horror. The sheriff ran towards the noise and saw his trainee standing in front of an open closet with his mouth stretched into another scream.
“Calm down, what’s going on?”
The trainee squeaked and pointed.
His entire squad looked into the closet. Tom lay there, pale and bloodless. His clothing was ripped and covered in red stains. His eye sockets were smeared with dry blood and from the looks of it, the killer had gouged out his eyes. His arms were bent in odd places, and the pristine white carpet was dark. The trainee made the mistake of looking down. Tom’s hands were reduced to gory stumps and all his fingers were gone. The bone was visible, and the stench of rotting flesh permeated the room. The poor trainee sank to the floor in a dead faint. Although the squad covered the entire property, they couldn’t find a single shred of evidence. Other police squads did the same and were unsuccessful. Not a single footprint, hair, or fingerprint was left behind. The mystery remains unsolved to this day.
If only they hadn’t overlooked this clue. The clown in the clock now had two eyes and all ten fingers.