Harlan Willoughbye and the Grandfather Clock

Harlan Willoughbye and the Grandfather Clock

The general store was dusty and often disarranged, but it was run by a friendly and familiar face to the nearby village. Jacob McMillan, who was affectionately called “Mac” by the valley folk, has run McMillan’s General Mercantile longer than most people can recall. He sold everything from groceries to basic medical goods to farm supplies. He even sold antiques, which were mostly bartered heavily by little old ladies traveling through. Mac was a bit of a mystery to everyone. No one truly understood how he accomplished many different tasks all from different locations. His existence seems to have been around forever and his dancing blue eyes are ageless.

The messy counter was littered with misplaced sales receipts, yellowed county maps, a few items waiting to be stocked, and an antique pickle jar filled with sweet treats for youngsters. Next to the counter stood an old grandfather clock in desperate need of restoration. It leaned slightly where the wooden floor was weakening. Mac often said he needed to fix both the floor and the clock, “but I just don’t have much time or motivation to get started,” he would remark. “Besides,” he would add, “I kinda like having ‘Ole Harlan’ looking over my shoulder.”

Everyone in the village was aware that Jacob McMillan had a clock he called Harlan Willoughbye, but no one really knew why. Over the years, people would ask how the tattered timekeeper got its name. Mac always replied with an interesting story of how he got the clock. It was a different story every time. Some would hear he won it arm wrestling crocodiles; others heard it showed up after a thunderous windstorm. His stories were long and curious and left those who asked forgetting their question. Now the only people who ask are children and strangers who hear him call the clock by name. Sometimes Mac could be heard asking Ole Harlan how he felt about the weather or how the fishing was. 

It wasn’t a typical Saturday morning at the market today. The womenfolk were busy finding just the right pickings for their pie contests. Afterall, that blue ribbon meant more than first place to them. It meant their pies would be featured at the local café for a whole year. Meanwhile the menfolk had their own sporting tasks to fill. The annual Spring Valley fishing tournament was taking place this weekend. Grand prize was $50.00 and your fish mounted on a plaque to hang in McMillan’s General Mercantile until next year’s match. They also printed your very own fish story in the weekly Gazette.

Old men, young men, and boys of all ages were scurrying about grabbing goods and waiting their turn for bait varieties. Mac felt the pushes and pulls as he helped each group of patrons. Boys and girls ran about laughing thru tiny aisles of disorganized merchandise, savoring their turn to grab something sweet from the ancient pickle jar. Charlie Buckley, one of Nathan Buckley’s sons, was choosing bait with his dad. His cousin, Finn was visiting from the big city up state, eager to participate in his first fishing event. Finn was about a year and a half older than Charlie.

This is Finn’s first time in the store and he was fascinated by the collection of oddities among the other goods.  As the customers thinned out, Mac was searching for a special key among the disorganized countertop.  Finn especially enjoyed the stories he’s heard about the broken-down grandfather clock named Harlan Willoughbye. “How can a clock have a name?” he asked. “It’s not a person….it’s a thing. And it doesn’t  have a personality!” he balked. Mac couldn’t help chuckling a bit. “Well, some say Harlan’s a GHOST! And his spirit lives in that clock,” he teased. ‘Ah, there’s no such a thing as a ghost,” Finn shot back. The old grocer smiled and softly replied, “Legend says … if you say his name three times out loud precisely when the sun slips behind the willow tree….Harlan’s spirit is released from the clock.” Two wide eyed boys stood motionless and mouth agape. “How does he get back in the clock?” said Charlie inquisitively. “Well, he’s destined to stay there. So, after a while, he’s called back to his quarters.” Jacob McMillan tried not to smirk. “He’s not happy living in a tick tock dwelling. Not happy one bit. You can see it all over the clock. See this?” He pointed to the angry marks on the cabinet. “Here’s where he fights to get out. That’s how these marks got here over the years.” Again, the storekeeper gave them a serious look.  “Go ahead … say his name out loud three times around midafternoon.” “Not me!” Charlie protested. 

Mac took a tarnished piece of metal in hands. It was grayish brown with rounded ends and the illegible engraved words were flattened with age. He inserted the key into the back of the clock and began winding. The clicking of the gears sounded over and over; first two long turns followed by twenty more. With each wind, the old time piece became almost alive, wincing in pain. The numbers twitched, writhing in misery. But one had to look close to notice because these strange movements vanquished almost as soon as they occurred. “Nobody pays attention to it anymore. But it’s a fun story for newcomers.”   Mac informed the boys. When Ole Harlan was fully wound, Mac peered his deep blue eyes at the two boys and grinned. “He’s fully spirited today. Just hang around and watch what he does.” He suggested. They watched him lay the key down on the cluttered counter then gazed up at the face of the clock. 

“Mr. McMillan?” quipped Charlie, “Why are you winding a broken clock?” Mac wound the monstrous piece a bit too tight and it gave an exasperated and agonizing gasp. It sounded like an accordion hit a brick wall and died. Mac looked down through his half-moon spectacles at the boy and replied , “Even a broken clock is right twice a day!” Charlie scoffed at his own confusion between the humor and the unanswered question. And the two boys were left hungry for more. 

Finn turned to Harlan to study him. He gently touched the notches and deep gashes in the woodwork. When he probed a deep slit just under the number six, Finn felt the structure jolt a little. It happened quickly and felt like an electric shock. Finn wasn’t exactly sure it had happened, but he still felt the shock around his fingertip, so he knew it was real. “Whoa,” said Finn. “Did you see that?” he turned to Charlie. “See what?” Finn told him about the shock then told him to stick his finger in the crack. “No way!” his cousin protested. “Whatsa matter….scared?” Finn urged. Charlie gave it a try and nothing happened. “What’s supposed to happen?” he begged. “Just wait. Give it a minute.” Charlie planted his finger back in the furrow under the six and looked around to see if anyone was watching him. 

“BOO!” cried his dad. Charlie felt his knees go weak and he began to shake until tears fell from his eyes. When he saw his dad, he began to recover. “DAD!” he yelled. “Don’t DO that!” He sounded angry. Nathan Buckley laughed as he quizzed the boys what they were up to. “We want to know the truth about this clock. Is it real or make believe?” replied Finn. “Oh it’s real alright. Once when I was a boy, I …” Nathan was interrupted by an announcement from Mac. “It’s time to get to your fishin’ spots. Event’s starting in 20 minutes.” Nathan smiled, “I’ll tell ya more later” he promised.  “Gotta get going.” The boys grabbed their gear and headed toward the door. Charlie turned around to give the clock one last look. He thought he saw the old grandfather clock wink at him and felt his knees begin to shake again,”

Finn pulled Charlie aside on the grassy path next to the pond. “We’re going to get to the bottom of this ‘haunted clock,’” he mumbled to his cousin, trying not to be overheard. “How we gonna do that?” Charlie whispered. Finn looked about; mentally planning a way back inside the store when it was closed. His “A-Ha” moment came when he thought about the fishing tournament. “Is Mr. McMillan going to be in the fishing derby?” he questioned. “You bet. He ALWAYS goes. He closes the store so he can fish too.” Charlie answered . “That’s IT!” declared Finn. “We’ll sneak off and come back in the store before the sun goes behind the big willow tree, like Mr. McMillan said,” Finn announced. Charlie wasn’t crazy about the idea but agreed out of curiosity.

The fish were busy biting and the anglers were happy. The men were filling their baskets and adding to their chronicles of exaggerated fishing tales. Finn and Charlie even caught a few. Finn kept watching the sun; waiting for the right time to slip away. He figured once they left the fishing hole, they would have about a half hour to get to the store. His dilemma was that he wasn’t sure how they would get inside. He concluded they would leave around 3:00. ‘That’ll give us plenty of time,’ he thought.

Fishing and lunch came and went. “Go tell Uncle Nathan we’re going to the other side of the pond,” Finn ordered. Charlie obeyed. His dad wished them good luck as they gathered their poles and scurried away. Finn, being older ran ahead of his younger cousin, who begged him to slow down. Arriving at the store, Finn reached for the front door. It was locked. “Is there a back door?” he asked Charlie. “Yeah, let’s try it.” The back entrance had a crooked screen door attached that kept it from shutting properly. The gentle breeze caused it to flap against the building. Opening the screen door, they reached for the knob on the other door and shook it. Finn was disgusted that it was locked too. He shook it with more force and nothing happened. “Darn it,” he exclaimed. “What about a window or a cellar?” Finn asked. Charlie shrugged. The older boy grabbed the handle and forcefully twisted hoping it might break open. They stood in regretful silence. “There’s gotta be a way,” Charlie insisted.

After a few moments of examining the solid doorway, they saw the knob begin to turn on its own. Charlie felt himself go weak again. He struggled to find his voice and mouthed the words “I’m gettin’ outta here!” Finn grabbed his arm and held him in place. They waited and watched. The wooden portal slowly creaked open with a bothersome noise like creaky bones. Four feet shuffled in cautiously. Once they crossed the line where a threshold used to be, the door slammed shut with a heart stopping THUD! Charlie felt nauseous. He reached for the handle but it wouldn’t turn. He tried to force the door open but it wouldn’t budge. 

Finn stood in front of the clock to study it. Then he turned to the window to see how close the sun was to the willow tree. “Any time now,” he mumbled. He studied the clock’s face, bracing for movement. He was ready … “Harlan Willoughby,” he managed with a dry throat. “Harlan Willoughbye,” he said with more breath. “HARLAN WILLOUGHBYE!” he forced. Nothing. An eerie quietness filled the store. “See. I told you there’s no such thing as ghosts.” Charlie shrugged again. “C’mon…let’s go back to the pond.”

Charlie grasped the doorknob and tried to twist it, but it wouldn’t turn. He pushed on it with his shoulder but the door wouldn’t budge. “It’s stuck! We can’t get out!” he cried. Next Finn gave it a try. Nothing. “Let’s try the front door,” Finn suggested. Both doors were locked tight. Charlie felt his heart in his toes. The still air turned cold and breezy inside. Dust particles began to lift and dance about the room. Finn and Charlie felt frozen where they stood. They quickly glanced at the clock. Tiny beams of light oozed from the crevices of its worn cabinet. It’s face became awake. A furry brow emerged into view. Unexplainable sounds came from deep inside the tall structure and piercing blue eyes with half-moon glasses suddenly appeared.

Both boys instantly recalled those eyes. Could it be? Was Jacob McMillan Harlan Willoughbye? Or was Harlan Willoughbye Jacob McMillan? Bolting for the door, it opened before they touched the handle. Finn and Charlie ran as fast as their feet could take them. Upon reaching the pond, the first person they saw was Mac, who turned and smiled at them.