Stubborn Old Clock

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Horror  |  House: Booksie Classic
A story with an unexpected twist in the end...

Submitted: April 22, 2012

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Submitted: April 22, 2012




Stubborn Old Clock


The clock in my room was strange. It stopped at midnight without fault every day. I was scared. I wanted to throw it away.

But my grandfather kept on telling me, yelling if needs be, murmuring at times:

“Never throw that thing away; it will watch upon you. It’s a gift from my father, your great-grand father, who died after returning from World War I. Old man! He was such a brave and relentless soldier!”

I had nothing against both old men.  The clock was just horrible; old wood, rotting with a bad smell, high like a 10 year old kid. I could see his father’s face on it. Why should I keep that tired piece of junk in my room? The clock was not doing its job well, stopping at midnight and ringing without rhyme and reason. It was just a waste, an old thing harbouring the evilness of a fallen hero who may have massacred innumerable souls in foreign lands. I didn’t like it. I attempted to explain “You know, I will get married soon and the bride will not like it.” But such explanations met with unyielding ears and I was nearly cursed every time I moaned about that precious rubbish. I tried to tolerate the clock’s presence, sometimes covering it with cloth and sometimes just ignoring it.

Time passed by and my grandfather passed away. He was such an old man himself that, at 92 years, his departure time came in an expected way, one Sunday morning. It was high sorrow. I would be alone in that house now. I took it positively.  I will transform the house, giving all its content a new face: new painting, new plants, new furniture and a new soul. The first thing to be tackled: the old clock. Within less than a week, one night, I packed the old black clock in a big cloth bag, ready for withdrawal straightaway.

It was night. I preferred to do finish with the clock when no one would see me. I neither wanted to dismantle it nor throw it as ordinary garbage.It deserved another ending. I carried the heavy thing in the bag, on my shoulders, until I reached the river, after walking two kilometres. There, after dressing the wicked machinery with petrol, I ignited it. The wood cracked, sizzled and suffered. It was my dream. That thing had been observing me since my childhood. The clock had been a constant eye, mocking me, playing with my fears…Everything would stop now. Free from that fake time-giving beast, at last!

After an hour or so, the old filthy timber was reduced to mere ashes after a tedious process of unwilling farewell. But the metallic parts remained on the ground. I cleaned the space and threw all the remains in water. Game over. Everything must have an end.

On my way back, I contemplated my house as I approached it. The house appeared alleviated and happy. Just one object could cause so much dread! I slept peacefully that night. No ticking sound in the background, no waking up feeling observed and no checking of any midnight abnormality. It was just a peaceful night.  

The next day seemed brighter than usual. I felt refreshed and as if back from a long cure.  Suddenly an intense shiver glided through me; a tremor one may sense only when jumping head-on into the void. Was I still dreaming? I was overpowered by a fear exceeding all fears. I can’t believe what was in front of me. No one would ever believe me; not even the editor of this book. I jumped from bed and ran out. I don’t know where I was going. But I had to run away. The clock was back in my room. I saw it near me, in one piece, standing by my bedside, with a pungent sulphur smell…


© Copyright 2018 Joy Beesoon. All rights reserved.

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