The Clockmaker’s Curse

The Bargain

"Your hands are skilled," the shadow-man said. "But they could be more."

I can’t recall the exact year it began; the decades have blurred together like the gears in my clocks. I know only this: I was young, ambitious, and foolish. My dream was to craft perfection, to etch my name into eternity with a masterpiece that would defy time itself. And in my arrogance, I welcomed the devil to my door.

He wasn’t what I expected—not horns and fire, but a man dressed in shadow, his voice smoother than the finest oil for my machines. He found me late one night in my workshop, hunched over a broken timepiece that refused to function.

“Your hands are skilled,” he said, his voice like the tick of a clock, deliberate and precise. “But they could be more.”

I didn’t ask for his name. I didn’t ask for the cost. When he promised me the knowledge and inspiration to create perfection, I didn’t hesitate. And so, the pact was sealed.

The Price

"Every tick of my clocks gave me time, but took theirs away."

The first clock I built after our deal was magnificent—a shimmering brass and silver creation that ticked with a melody so pure it brought tears to my eyes. But the first sign of my mistake came the following morning. My reflection in the mirror seemed... sharper. My wrinkles had softened, the gray in my hair receded. At first, I was elated. Had I discovered some hidden blessing of my craft?

But then I noticed something else. My apprentice, a boy of sixteen who had worked beside me for years, complained of aching joints. His hands trembled as he polished the gears of the next clock. Within weeks, his health deteriorated, and by winter, he was gone.

I began to notice a pattern. Every clock I crafted seemed to extend my life—but at a cost to those around me. My neighbors aged rapidly. My wife, the love of my life, grew frail before my eyes. By the time I realized the truth, it was too late. She passed in her sleep, her hand still clutching the small clock I’d given her as a wedding gift.

That was over a hundred years ago.

The Prison of Time

"This workshop is my mausoleum, filled with ghosts of my creation."

Now, my workshop is a mausoleum, a prison filled with the ghosts of my creations. Hundreds of clocks, each ticking away the life I’ve stolen, each a reminder of the curse I cannot escape. My tools are worn, but my hands remain steady. My eyes, glowing faintly now, see clearer than ever. Immortality, I’ve learned, is a torment, not a gift.

For decades, I searched for a way to undo the bargain. I pored over ancient texts, consulted mystics, and even begged the shadows that haunt my dreams for mercy. Nothing worked—until I began designing this clock.

It is my final work, a golden masterpiece unlike any other. Its gears are impossibly delicate, its mechanisms imbued with the faint, humming resonance of something alive. It is designed not to extend my life, but to end the curse. I have poured every ounce of my skill, my sorrow, and my longing into it.

But the devil is clever. What if this is another trap? What if the clock takes more than my immortality? What if it takes my soul entirely?

The Final Toll

"The golden clock ticks, and the shadows grow darker."

The final gear clicks into place. The clock begins to tick, its sound low and haunting, like a heartbeat. The workshop grows unnervingly quiet, the ticking of my other clocks fading into the background.

Suddenly, the air grows cold. The shadows in the corners of the room deepen, shifting unnaturally. And then, he is here—the man in shadow, the one who cursed me all those years ago.

“You’ve done well,” he says, his voice unchanged. “It’s a beautiful clock. Truly your finest work.”

I swallow hard, my heart pounding. “This will end the curse,” I say, though my voice trembles with doubt.

The shadow-man smiles, a flicker of amusement crossing his face. “End it? Oh, no. You misunderstand. This clock doesn’t end the curse—it fulfills it.”

Before I can speak, the golden clock chimes. It is not a sound of release or relief, but a resonant, hollow toll that shakes the very air around me. My body freezes as the room dissolves into darkness, and I feel the weight of time itself pressing down on me.

The Eternal Trap

"You wanted eternity. Now, you shall have it."

When the light returns, I find myself standing inside the golden clock. The gears turn around me, immense and unyielding. The walls shimmer with golden light, but there is no exit, no escape.

I hear his voice again, echoing through the space. “You wanted eternity. Now, you shall have it—in your masterpiece.”

I scream, but no one hears. Outside, the golden clock sits on my workbench, its hands moving steadily forward. In its reflection, my face is etched faintly in the glass, frozen forever in silent despair