The Clock maker's Curse

Chapter 1: The Shop That Ticked Too Loud

The bell above Holloway's Horology jingled weakly as Mrs. Pembroke stepped inside, her umbrella dripping onto the worn wooden floorboards. The air smelled of oil and aged mahogany, with a faint metallic tang that clung to the back of one's throat.

Elias Holloway didn't look up from his workbench, his magnifying glass screwed tightly into his right eye socket as he adjusted the delicate innards of a 19th-century French carriage clock. His fingers, though gnarled with arthritis, moved with surgeon's precision.

"Be with you in a moment," he murmured, his voice as dry as the parchment-thin skin of his wrists.

Mrs. Pembroke shifted uncomfortably. She'd always found the shop unsettling—too many ticking sounds overlapping at odd intervals, too many glassy clock faces watching from the shadows like disembodied eyes. Today felt worse somehow. The rhythm was... off.

"Mr. Holloway," she began, then stopped. Her gaze had landed on the wall behind him.

The clocks were wrong.

Not broken. Not stopped.

Reversed.

Every single one—from the stately grandfather clock in the corner to the row of delicate porcelain mantelpiece numbers—had their hands moving counterclockwise. And they were all synchronized, their ticks forming a single, ominous beat.

Elias finally glanced up when her teacup hit the floor with a crash.

"What in God's name—" he started, then saw it too. The blood drained from his face.

Chapter 2: The Unwinding

By midnight, Elias had checked every mechanism. Oil levels, spring tensions, pendulum weights—all perfect. Yet the hands kept slipping backward with eerie determination.

Then he found the engravings.

Tiny, nearly invisible dates scratched into each clock's face. Different styles, different hands, but the same date:

October 31st.

One week away.

His shaking fingers nearly dropped his heirloom pocket watch when he pried it open. There, etched into the silver backing where no marking had been before, was the same damned date.

And its hands were moving in time with the others.

A cold sweat broke across his brow. This wasn't malfunction. This was purpose.

Chapter 3: The Debt of Time

The Blackwood Historical Society's archives smelled of mildew and neglect. Elias didn't care. He tore through brittle newspapers until his fingers found the crumbling front page from The Blackwood Gazette, November 1st, 1893:

"CLOCKMASTER FOUND DEAD AMIDST FROZEN TIME"

The article detailed how Alistair Vane—considered the greatest horologist of his age—had been discovered slumped over his workbench, cold and stiff. The coroner ruled it heart failure.

But the clocks told another story.

Every timepiece in Vane's shop had stopped at precisely 11:07 PM. Witnesses reported hearing an unnatural chorus of final ticks moments before the silence fell.

The last paragraph made Elias's breath catch:

"Constable Edwards reported Mr. Vane's final words: 'Tell the Holloways—Time always collects its debts.'"

Elias's grandfather had apprenticed under Vane. Had stolen his designs. Had built his fortune on stolen chronometry secrets.

And now Time had come calling.

Chapter 4: The Final Countdown

By the fifth day, the ticking had become deafening. Customers stopped coming. Neighbours crossed the street to avoid passing the shop. Even stray cats gave the building wide berth.

Elias tried everything—smashing clocks, removing batteries, burying them in the garden. Nothing worked. The hands kept moving, their synchronized ticks now loud enough to vibrate in his teeth.

On the sixth night, the grandfather clock began striking midnight at 3:17 PM. The cuckoo bird emerged and didn't retreat, its beady eyes following Elias as he paced.

Then, at 10:58 PM on October 31st, the noises stopped.

Absolute silence.

Elias looked up.

Every clock read 11:07.

His pocket watch gave one final, shuddering tick.

His heart stuttered in response.

Epilogue: The New Tenant

The real estate agent showed the property to a young couple in December.

"You'll want to replace these floorboards," she said, wrinkling her nose at the dark stain near the workbench. "Previous owner passed unexpectedly. Some sort of heart condition."

The husband knelt to examine the stain. His wristwatch—a modern digital thing—suddenly glitched, its display scrambling before settling on 11:07 PM.

Then it began counting backward.

The wife screamed when the cuckoo clock—which the cleaners swore they'd removed—suddenly chimed from the empty back room.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

Time, after all, always collects its debts.