The rain beat against the workshop windows as if trying to force its way inside. Surrounded by the scent of oil and aged wood, Arthur was adjusting the final screw on a mantel clock when the entrance bell chimed with violent frenzy. A soaked, pale man stepped in, his eyes wide with terror. Without a word, he bolted the door and dropped a heavy box onto the counter, his voice raspy and broken as he pleaded:
"Stop it… please. You’re the only person in town who understands these mechanisms. I’ve been trapped for days in a nightmare I can’t wake up from".
Arthur pulled back the cloth wrapping with the quiet composure earned from forty years in the trade. Inside sat a dark mahogany clock—devoid of numbers or hour hands—except for a single bronze second hand turning backward.
Tick… tack… tick… tack…
"It’s a countdown," Arthur said, adjusting his magnifying loupe. "Whoever built this didn’t want to measure time; they wanted to consume it."
"It wasn’t built. I found it in the safe of an old estate," the man confessed, leaning heavily against the counter. "The moment I touched it, the hand began rewinding. There are only three minutes left until midnight, and for days I’ve been hearing a whisper inside the wood demanding a delivery. If it reaches zero, it takes my life."
Arthur studied the piece calmly.
"Ancient mechanisms don't demand lives; they demand balance," - he replied softly.- "And the illusions of these trick clocks feed entirely on the fear of those who watch them."
He picked up a precision scalpel and removed the back panel. There were no gears or mainsprings inside—only a thin sheet of black wax holding the shaft of the second hand in place. With a swift, practiced motion, he pried it away, and the second hand froze instantly.
Silence flooded the workshop as the heavy, suffocating air cleared. The visitor touched the wood in disbelief, realizing the clock no longer vibrated and was now merely a cold, harmless antique.
"Mechanical tension and resonance," - Arthur explained, wiping his tool on a cloth. - "The heat from your hands kept it wound; the more you panicked, the faster it spun."
The man’s shoulders dropped, releasing all his built-up tension. He pulled a bill from his pocket, laid it on the counter, and shook Arthur’s hand warmly before slipping back out into the rain.
Once the door locked behind him, Arthur turned off the lamp and picked up the clock to store it in the drawer for repaired pieces. That was when he felt it: a soft, almost mocking tick emanated from the mahogany casing. He looked down and discovered the second hand wasn't still—it was moving forward. And for the very first time all evening, the clock featured an hour hand, which clicked into place precisely at midnight.
Arthur was certain it hadn't been there before. From the back of the workshop, hidden behind the dusty shelves of forgotten spare parts, something answered the tick.
Tack.
![FYI]
The images are from Pixabay.
The cover was edited using Canva and Photoshop.
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