Tick. Tick. Tick.
He walked through the living room, in what felt like slow motion. The air in his lungs became hot and uncomfortable with each renewed breath.
It’s Bob, he’s come back for his things.
Evan looked at the front door, recalling the moment he locked it. Yes, he was sure he’d locked it.
Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.
Entering the kitchen, he stopped, his stomach a ball of twisted snakes.
Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.
The sound was coming from the basement. The broken clock was ticking.
“No,” Evan said. He meant the word to be forceful, but it came out barely a whisper.
That wasn’t a possibility. He was no clock expert, but the one downstairs couldn’t run.
Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.
Slowly, methodically, the sound went on, perfectly measured in tempo. Evan found the strength to move to the door, and placed his ear against it.
The ticking stopped.
All at once it was gone. Silence returned.
It heard you listening.
Another wave of goose bumps rolled across his skin, and he forced the voice away. With determination, he pulled the door open and started down the stairs. The darkness waited, liquid and pure, just as the night before. Evan backtracked to the kitchen, his resolve unbroken. He found a flashlight in a junk drawer near the bottom of the cabinets. When he flicked his thumb against the switch, a solid beam of yellow light lanced from the lens. Not waiting for his resolve to crumble, he stepped to the basement door and shone the light down.
The doll stood on the landing.
Evan dropped the light, his mouth opening to cry out, but the need to pick up the flashlight was too great. He bent and fumbled with the smooth barrel, his fingers fat and unwieldy. The whole time his eyes were locked on the darkness, ready to run if he saw movement coming toward him. He picked up the light and pointed downward.
The landing was empty.
The bare boards stared back. Silence roared in his ears. He leaned against the doorway, all the strength going out of his legs. He rubbed his eyes.
“You’re fucking losing it,” he said to himself.
Speaking out loud didn’t have the calming effect he hoped for. Evan stepped down onto the first stair, his light illuminating less of the darkness than he liked. Another step. Another. Down. Finally he stood on the landing, and as he turned, he couldn’t help but shine the beam in the direction of the doll. It still stood where he’d placed it, its eyes two glinting sapphires, the duct tape over its mouth.
Evan shook his head. He needed a drink. What was he even doing down here? Making sure an ancient clock with missing pieces wasn’t ticking? He should turn around and go back upstairs simply to prove he wasn’t insane right now. Giving in to your fears only led to more paranoia. He nodded— —and took another step down. Reaching out, he snapped the switch on, illuminating the basement. Everything looked in place. The table before the clock was the same as he’d left it.
He descended the last few stairs and crossed the room, stopping before the clock. Black. Eerie. Stoic. He stepped closer to it, gathering the nerve to actually touch it, waiting for it to tick again. Reaching out, he ran a hand up its closest pendulum encasement. The wood was cool beneath his palm, the ridges and grooves carved in its trim, almost like braille. An odd thought occurred to him. If he stood there long enough and closed his eyes, the pattern under his fingers would begin to mean something. Perhaps a long-forgotten language waiting for the right person to come along and listen. To hear. To see.
He stepped back, watching the clock’s twisted hands for movement. Nothing happened. Why the hell was this thing here? Who built it? Why didn’t it have numbers on its face?
His eyes fell to the table beside him, and he scanned the stacks of paper. Upon closer examination, he realized that many of the sheets were handwritten. A hazy scrawl covered the paper with lines of text, written in pencil, pen, and what looked like charcoal. Again he glanced at the clock, its glass doors reflecting three dark images of himself.
“That’s enough fun for one night,” he said.
With as much composure as he could muster, he walked to the stairway and flipped off the light. He treaded upward until he reached the safety of the kitchen, and let out a held breath like a man rising from beneath water. Evan shut the door and sat at the table, then pulled up his blank document once again. After a moment he tapped at the keyboard.
Clock’s origin, purpose, and history.
He stared at the dark words against the white background, then shut the computer down. As he left the kitchen, he paused by the light switch near the doorway, listening. After a minute, he shook his head and turned the light off, then headed toward his room.
9
He cries with a vehemence he didn’t know he possessed.
The agony pours out of him through his eyes as he sits at her bedside, her hand, so warm before, cool now. Everything is cold here, this hospital, the people. But he knows it would be no different going outside, going home; there is no place that would make him feel unlike he does now.
“Evan, I love you.”
He blinks through the tears and swallows his sobs long enough to look at her. “I love you too.”
“I’ll always love you both.”
He shakes his head, re-grips her hand. “There’s still a few tests to run, the doctor said there was this new treatment in Texas, radio waves or something.”
She smiles, so sad. A longing there for life just out of reach, a chance, a hope. “Yes, we’ll have to be patient and strong for Shaun.”
Shaun.
Shaun.