The Tell-Tale Clock

"The pictures were hanging upside down," I said.

My friend gasped and smiled, "Mary, you are a born storyteller. I actually felt goosebumps."

I put my can of Pepsi down without taking a drink. "No, Cindy, I'm not making this up. I came home, and there they were. Perfectly level, but upside down."

"Now stop it. You're freaking me out."

"How do you think I feel? I have to live here."

Just as I finished speaking, my grandfather clock struck seven and began to play "Westminster Chimes." We jumped, startled by the noisy antique.

"Sorry, girl, I didn't mean to get you so worked up," I said. "I believe the small earthquake we had earlier is to blame. I felt the tremors while eating lunch. Somehow, it must have shaken the pictures."

Cindy visibly relaxed, as if she had just realized that the monster she had thought she saw wasn't a monster but a friendly stray dog.

Since buying that old grandfather clock a month ago, I have developed a habit of counting the strikes of each hour. It has become such a problem that I can count even while talking. While calming Cindy with my earthquake theory, I counted six strikes. I didn't miss one. The seventh strike never came. I guess that's what I get for buying an old clock.

We changed the subject to more pleasant topics. However, Cindy had an early day ahead and had to call it a night. She left a few minutes before eight.

I went into the kitchen to do the dishes. The grandfather clock hit eight, and it began to sing again. I stopped doing dishes when its final strikes began. I started counting. I expected seven, thinking it fell back an hour, but my heart began to race when it stopped at six. Six again?

After drying my hands, I inspected the old beast of a clock. The pendulum swung side to side, and the hands were in the correct position. After diagnosing that these parts were in working order, I reached the end of my expertise.

Suddenly, a door slammed behind me. I turned to see my bedroom door closed. Was it open? No, I closed it before Cindy came over. I keep a messing room. So, where did the noise come from?

I noticed a piece of insulation lying in the middle of the living room. I looked up and saw the attic door cracked open. The rope for opening the attic door swung like the door had been recently pushed back up into the ceiling. I grabbed the rope and pulled. The door easily opened. A folded ladder was mounted to the back of the door. I unfolded it. The ladder reached the floor, and I climbed up. I turned the flashlight on from my cell phone and searched the attic. Insulation evenly covered the attic floor. It wasn't the kind of attic meant for storage or an extra room. However, I could see foot-sized disturbances in the insulation along the trusses. Someone had been walking up here. My mouth went dry. I couldn't explain this away with an earthquake.

I quickly descended the ladder, trying to shake off the fear that was about to overcome me. There had to be an explanation. Perhaps those impressions had been there since the last time it was reinsulated. I folded the ladder and pushed it back into the ceiling. I immediately felt better until I saw my bedroom door. It was open.

"Cindy!" I searched the living room. "Okay. You got me. The game's over." I needed her to come out of my room or the kitchen – from anywhere, but she didn't. I cautiously walked to my room, holding my phone like a billy club. I turned on the lights. The pictures were hanging upside down again. I distinctly remember setting them right before Cindy came over.

The grandfather clock struck the three-quarter hour, sending a chill throughout my body. I felt a presence like someone was standing behind me. I spun around, but nobody was there. The ticking of the clock echoed throughout the house. It grew louder, or at least my near-panicked mind thought it grew louder.

I approached the tall clock carefully, expecting it to attack me or explode. However, it did neither and, instead, behaved like a normal grandfather clock. This bothered me more than the unusual noises - everything could be explained if it was broken. But if it was working – then what was happening?

I searched the entire house—not that it took long—bedroom, bathroom, living room, and kitchen. I wanted a tiny house to feel more cozy and less cluttered, which is not how I would describe my current state.

The clock struck nine. I held my breath. The tune played out, and the count began: one, two, three, four, five, six. It stopped at six again! Three times! Six, six, six.

That was it! I grabbed my keys and raced out the door. I drove to Cindy's and stayed the night. The following day, I Googled "clock repair man" to see if they still existed. To my surprise, I found one over an hour away, but he advertised that he was willing to travel. So, I called and asked if he could fix my old clock. He said he could fix any clock, and we agreed to meet at my house after lunch.

He pulled into my drive with a magnet on the side of his white cargo van advertising his company: Fix the Ticks. He unloaded a toolbox and asked where the grandfather clock was. I showed him and then asked if he'd like some coffee. He did.

I scooped the ground coffee into the hopper. Something was bothering me. I poured the water in and tried to figure out why I felt so anxious. I turned the coffee pot on. Then it hit me. I never told the repair guy I had a grandfather clock.

I stood, staring at the coffee beginning to percolate. I heard his footsteps behind me. I felt his breath on my hair. I knew he had a hammer in his hand. I don't know how I knew, but I did. There was no need to turn around. There was nothing I could do. My clock had run out.