Restoration

It was June when my grandfather died. I didn’t have a great relationship with the man. He was something of a recluse, and I only really saw him on the holidays. I was told he died from a heart attack, but it was hard for the coroners to tell with the state of decomposition his body was in. It took months before he was discovered hunched over in his study. An IRS agent was sent to his home after several warnings about late taxes. They finally called the cops after their knocks weren’t answered. The foul stench of decay could be smelled from the porch. 

It was a closed casket funeral, and nobody shed any real tears for him. What really surprised me was the reading of the will. I had apparently inherited my grandfather’s entire estate. Even stranger was the fact that not a single member of my family had any objections to it. Just silent nods of agreement as though they wanted nothing to do with man or his money even after death.

He lived in a lovely little house in the suburbs that looked quite adorable from the outside. The interior was a different story. It was packed with old magazines, random memorabilia, broken appliances, and general trash. Cleaning all of it out took weeks of work and at the end I had filled three dumpsters full.

Finally I had made it up to the attic. The dust layered every surface in thick clumps. There were boxes everywhere filled with old Christmas ornaments, family photos, and paintings. I would have lumped it all in with other garbage, but there was a chance there could be something of actual value in here. 

Tucked away in the back of the space was an old antique grandfather clock. There was some way that the light hit it that made the surface shine. It looked almost pristine like it was polished the day before. I couldn’t help but stare at it for a few minutes. I didn’t even feel my hand open the case and lift the pendulum. 

The mechanism clicked to life as hundreds of tiny gears spun in tandem. I watched as the inner workings moved in hypnotizing perfection.  I must have been staring at it for hours because suddenly the hands were joined together at 12 o’clock. I will never forget the chiming. The melodic tones it created were the most magnificent sounds I’ve ever heard. Words fail to fully express how enamored I was with this treasure. The thing was a priceless artifact, and I wanted everyone who came inside to see it. I was trying to be as safe as possible as I carried it down the stairs, but the old wooden boards snapped under my weight. 

The clock hit the ground with a sickening crack as its innards flew across the floor. My heart was crushed as I saw the beautiful vessel split upon the ground. I scooped up all the pieces and moved it all to the workplace in the garage. When I started I had absolutely no experience with clockwork, but I needed to hear the melody again. I tried to look up videos on how to fix broken clocks, but the mechanism that played the music was unlike anything I could find on the internet. This machine was a hand crafted original. 

In the next few months I became determined to restore it. I locked myself away from the prying eyes, and I never thought about hiring a professional out of fear they might try to steal it. This was my melody. I had inherited it and I would be the one to listen to it. Replacing broken parts was the most difficult part of the process. Some gears were custom made, and I had to get in contact with some local metal workers. Then I found a few even more unique broken pieces. 

They were small white and delicately carved. At first I thought they might have been porcelain, but upon closer inspection I discovered that they were in fact bone. This perplexed me more than anything. I tried to use other materials to make a copy of it, but they just wouldn’t move the right way. They didn’t have the grip or unique malleability that the shattered bone pieces must have had.  

That should have been the end of it. I should have given up, but in the dead of night I could still hear pieces of that tune. That sweet melody was fading just on the edge of my memory. It wormed its way into my mind and would not let go. I know that clock was taunting me. It had shown me a taste of its beauty for it to just take it away. I needed to fix it no matter what it took. 

I started with chicken bones. When that failed I trapped the mice and squirrels that were in my yard. Their skeletons were always too frail. One day the neighbor's dog got loose, and wandered into my yard. With a pale hand I held a bit of meat out as I beckoned the little rottweiler inside. I led it down into my basement where I bashed its skull in with a loose bit of masonry. 

It wasn’t enough. It was never enough. The clock wanted bigger, sturdier bones. I knew in the back of my mind that they needed to be human. I could no longer deny this apparent truth. It was a cold night when I dug up my grandfather’s pathetic old corpse. My hands pulled and ripped his decaying flesh apart as I found my prize. I knew it couldn't have been that easy. The decomposition was too far gone for the mechanism to work. There had to be somewhere I could find younger, fresher parts. 

I watched the mailman closely for weeks until his route had been committed to memory. He was the perfect candidate. A loner that nobody would miss. Just watching his joints flex as he opened the car door, or swiveled his head to look at the passing jogger made my mouth salivate. My thin fingers were wrapped tightly around a sharpened screwdriver as I waited in the back of the mail truck. His eyes went wide when I plunged it into his neck. I could hear the man try to speak through bloody gurgles, but I simply told him to be quiet and be glad that his body would be used for something greater. It was a strange feeling as life faded through my arms. Every time I tried to think about it the sounds of beautiful chiming would fill my mind.

I dragged the cadaver down to the basement where I quickly removed all the useless muscle, skin and flesh. I cleaned all the appropriate pieces in a solution to keep them preserved. This was a process that I slowly became quite accustomed to. The bones had to be carved with complete perfection. Any abnormalities were unacceptable, and I would be forced to go out and find another. I sacrificed eight people to the clock before it was finally finished.  

My blood smeared hands moved the pendulum once again. Tears of pure ecstasy flowed out of my eyes as I heard the chimes, but before the song could run its course I the mechanism caught. It strained as pressure built inside of it and then CRACK. A horrible snapping sound came from the inner workings as they burst apart. There was a hatred that bubbled up from my stomach. I realized the clock stopped itself on purpose. It didn’t want me to be satisfied. I screamed and cursed the infernal contraption as I pounded my fists against the case. 

Suddenly the glass gave in and my arms pushed though into the mess of gears. Hundreds of cuts covered my skin. My fingers were mangled in the hungry teeth of cogs and screws. I lay there in the workshop across from the clock writhing in pain. My reflection looked back in all of those tiny shards that covered the floor. I looked so sick and skinny. I couldn’t remember the last time I ate. Then I could hear it. The melody. It was coming from somewhere. I tried to strain my ears. 

*** 

It was October when my cousin died. Just a few months after they inherited our grandfather’s estate. Now all of that has been passed down to me. This surprised me because we had never had a close relationship. Their house was a mess and smelled rancid. Trash and detritus were strewn everywhere. I knew I would have to get the place deep cleaned and repaired. Maybe even torn down entirely. The only thing that seemed to remain untouched by decay and filth was a pristine grandfather clock in the garage. It seemed to shine like it was polished the day before. I didn’t even feel my hand open the case and lift the pendulum.