Heartbeat of the Home

Why can't I remember? he thought. His mind would only reveal flashes of the afternoon's events.His head was on fire, sweat dripping down his face, like an addict on autopilot. Grant Liscomb burst through the front door, avoiding his mother in the kitchen. Like a spider returning to its web, his lanky teenage legs scurried up the wooden stairs of the old farmhouse to his bedroom. His arms flailed with uncontrollable fear as he yanked the dirt-covered shirt over his head, discarded it on the floor, then bounded to the bathroom, slamming the door.

"What have I done, what have I done," he muttered, lathering the perfumed soap through his fingers, frantic to wash the guilt from his newly calloused hands, watching the streaks of dirt dance and swirl down the rusty drain. His mind was confused by broken images of helping to clean the gutters, the ladder falling--or was it pushed--the thud as Nick's body hit the ground, and the gleam of the metal shovel as Grant dug the body-sized hole. He confronted the reflection in the mirror--, the gaunt, bloodshot, black-haired punk he had become--"Oh God. What have YOU done." The reflection glared back with an evil grin.

***

It began about a month ago, after his factory-worker stepfather, Nick, lost his job. Grant's middle-aged mother, Jane, with little work experience, was initially grateful for the offer to stay at her aunt's derelict house, remotely located in the Haliburton Highlands of Ontario. Soon she would regret it.

They arrived late on an October evening, rain pelting down. The overwhelming stench of mold and decay nauseated Grant as he stepped onto the porch, past two white rattan chairs resembling broken skeleton bones. Like two cracked teeth, the front window panes whistled as Nick opened the door, and a rush of twisted oak leaves fluttered into the foyer, landing at the base of an antique grandfather clock.

"Wow, look at that beauty," Grant exclaimed, smitten with the intricate carvings of the mahogany cabinet, the shiny gold filigree face, moon dial and hands, all in pristine condition, a sharp contrast to the rest of the house. "Hey Mom, didn't Grandpa have a clock like this?" He set down his backpack, rubbed his hands over the smooth, flawless finish, inhaling the rich smell of lacquer and lemon polish, opened the case to wind the weights, then set the hands to the correct time.

"Yes, he did," she answered, removing her coat and shaking the rain from her short, blonde hair. "But not as old as this one. Remember what Grandpa always said--,"

"The tick of a clock is the heartbeat of the home," they repeated in unison, their heartfelt laughter filling the room with his memory.

"But seriously, Grant," she said pointing at the clock, "That thing gives me the creeps."

Grant shrugged, then as he tapped the pendulum to start the clock, he felt a sudden chill in the air, a quiver in the continuum of space and time; the walls around him seemed to expand and contract, like the lungs of the house had taken a deep breath.

"Are you alright, Grant?" his mother's face concerned, "You look pale."

"He's fine," said Nick. "Quit coddling him, Jane. He isn't a child anymore," he chuckled and gently kissed her forehead. "I'll finish bringing in the rest of the stuff."

Grant sensed something was terribly wrong. Something had taken control of his body. His mind shouted with fear as his consciousness slipped deeper into an abyss, and a different, cunning voice answered,

"I'm okay, Mom."

After the family had settled in for the night, the clock softly chimed the midnight hour, and its demon contemplated setting its evil plans in motion.

***

Returning to his room, Grant changed into clean clothes and put on some loud heavy-metal music. He suspected his mother was having issues with his new identity. He began rifling through his closet, not sure what he was looking for, then at last he found it--the metal slugger baseball bat. As he held the handle, he confirmed, that Mother was next.

"Grant," his mother called from the kitchen, aroma of roast beef wafting up the stairs, "Are you guys done outside? Dinner's almost ready."

The stairs creaked with warning as he descended each step, slow and deliberate, bat at the ready. A satanic song blared out of his room, the heavy bass, pounding the walls--Thump, thump, thump.

"Turn it down!" she shouted, stirring the gravy pot, steam filling the room from the whistling kettle, but his music grew louder. He continued his mission, unhindered. From deep inside, Grant could feel the raw hatred of the demon inhabiting his body, its cruel intention, but was powerless to intervene.

Suddenly, like a beacon of light through the darkness, he heard a familiar voice--"Remember...The heartbeat of the home." It was Grandpa. "Grant.., the voice said, "Kill the heartbeat..."

Jane Liscomb turned off the stove and stormed out of the kitchen, down the hall, stopping at the grandfather clock at the base of the stairwell,.

"I said turn it--." stopping mid-sentence, she screamed and jumped back, just as the bat came crashing down, barely missing its target. Grant gripped tighter, then swung again, this time hitting a home run, as the bat smashed the glass of the grandfather clock, dislodging the pendulum and sending it flying across the room. The chimes clanged noisily in pain as he swung, again, and again, until the battered clock showed no signs of life. Grant's grandfather's undying love had helped him overcome the demon within him and return to hs former self.

"Mom! Are you okay?" he asked, reaching out to hold her, just as Nick came limping through the front door, rubbing his head.

"Nick! You're alive!" Grant shouted in surprise and relief, running to hug him.

"Nick, are you alright? What happened?" Jane asked, still badly shaken.

"I thought he was holding the ladder," he said angrily. "Must have fallen and knocked myself out." He looked around in disbelief, at the shards of glass and pieces of wood scattered on the floor . "What the hell happened here?"

"I'll explain in the car. We've got to leave-- Now!" Grant exclaimed, as he helped Nick and his mother out of the house. They drove to the nearest motel, never to return.

Two years later, a young couple turned the key in the tarnished brass lock of their newly rented farmhouse in the Haliburton Hills, and as the warm sunlight shone into the foyer, a spectacular sight was revealed--a beautiful mahogany grandfather clock.