The clock is now in my possession. Or maybe it possesses me. In hind sight, I regret that I didn’t notice the bizarre coincidences before taking “ownership” of the clock. For a while at least, I couldn’t bring myself to believe that this unusual clock was anything but a lovely old family heirloom. Now that I have it in my home, I am a little afraid, no, to be more accurate, I am apprehensive about it. After all, I am the one that keeps the thing wound and the pendulum moving.
My mother always held to the belief that everyone on this earth has a fixed lifeline. I’ve seen shredded metal along the highway that used to be someone’s car, and I thought, in no way could anyone have survived that accident. Yet, I find out later that the driver of that car had just walked away. Strange to me, but mother would have said, “It was just not their time to go.” Still, it was inconceivable to me that people were pre-programmed robots.
I believed that each person made decisions every second of every day which had a direct bearing on life or death. Death is always lurking. It could come through an act of “nature” or by the hand of man. If my life-span is already defined for me, why should I bother to take safety precautions at all? Is there any reason to wear seat belts? Couldn’t I save a lot of money on prescriptions? If I choose to walk out in front of a moving Mack truck, do you think I might get killed? I think so. So then, why am I now feeling so much anxiety?
Lately I sense that my whole belief structure is collapsing in on me. I am stressed, a little paranoid and yes, afraid. I know it’s all because of this damn clock taunting me in my living room. I suppose I need to talk more about the clock.
How the clock came into the family originally may seem like folklore. From my earliest recollection, it ticked reliably in the hallway of my grandmother’s house. When grandma died, my parents inherited the clock, and it remained in their home for some thirty years. Father was next to go, then about two years ago, my mother departed. Mother always insisted that I should be the one to inherit the clock, since I am the eldest son.
My father once told me the story of the clock, and oddly, I remember his exact words. “In the mid 1800’s, there was this old sailor by the name of William Smythe who would stay with my grandma at her home in Charleston, South Carolina for a week each summer. One hot August day while in port getting supplies, Smythe entered a pub to quench his thirst. Grandma worked there as a barmaid, and Smythe was smitten with her. Now, the old salt never confessed to grandma that he was a pirate, but she suspected as much. He never paid rent in cash, but always gave grandma gifts of jewels, silk, exotic perfumes and other such things. On what turned out to be his last visit, Smythe presented the clock to grandma. He told her that the clock had once belonged to one Edward Teach, more commonly known as the infamous Blackbeard. The clock did come with one small caveat. ‘Dare not let the pendulum stop, lest the dark angel shall be dropt,’ were his words to her. So enamored by the beautiful clock, grandma paid little heed to the warning. Once Smythe left for sea, she never heard from the old pirate again.”
I was a teenager when father told me this tale, so naturally I was skeptical. Father liked to joke a lot, but this time he was very serious. Now that I have the clock, a sense of urgency has come over me. I wanted to find as much as possible about the clock. I hired one of the last few remaining clock restorers in my area to take a look at it. The man must have been at least ninety, but when he saw my clock, his eyes widened and he beamed like a young boy.
After several hours of inspection, the old man gave me the following assessment. “A most unique specimen as I have ever seen! The condition is exquisite. Its case is of a superior walnut and all accoutrements appear to be fine silver and bronze. Though there is some wear on the finish, this clock has a very young heart. However, I believe it is at least four hundred years old. Funny though, the only markings I could find were on the inside bottom right corner. See here, with this magnifying glass the letters ET are carved in.” This was not what I wanted to hear.
On the day my grandmother died, father went to her house to check on her as usual. The first thing he noticed was that the clock had stopped. When he tried to wind it up, there seemed to be very little play, so he just nudged the pendulum and the clock started ticking. “That was sure funny,” father said later. The coroner said she died peacefully in her sleep.
I was with my father at his moment of death. It was a relief actually, since cancer had taken over his body. Later, at mother’s house, she and I were commiserating about father. At one point, I noticed the silence, too silent. The clock was stopped. I checked it, and it appeared to be wound up, so I started the pendulum moving again.
Ten years passed, and there were deaths in the family as to be expected. I still hadn’t recalled the story father told me years ago. Mother lived in a different state from me but I would visit her as often as possible. My brother, who lives not far from her, went to check on her one morning. She would not answer phone calls or the knock on the door. It was November 1, 2002 , her wedding anniversary, and the deputy found mother’s body lying on her kitchen floor. Most likely, a stroke had taken her.
Days later when I arrived at mother’s house, for some reason I happened to notice the clock. Once again, the coils of the clock had been wound yet the pendulum was not moving. At that moment, my father’s story found its way to the fore of my brain, but at that time, I didn’t associate it with mother’s death. There were a number of things at the house that I wanted to bring home so I rented a truck and loaded it with memories, including the clock. After a days driving, I finally had the clock in my home according to mother’s wishes.
In the two years since bringing the clock home, I have faithfully kept its coils wound and the pendulum swinging. Over time, my fears have grown and festered. I dare not go away longer than is necessary to keep up my responsibility. It’s as if something compels me to keep it running “lest the dark angel dropt”.
Before I had the clock, I wonder how many of my relatives were at its mercy. Suppose some family member stopped the pendulum intentionally. Would that be a perfect murder? This is ridiculous; certainly there can be nothing other-worldly about the clock except my imagination. I am ruining my life and those around me. They have all left me because of my insane behavior. Even now, as I write this story there is a dead silence in the house. Wait, it is too silent. In fact, I can’t hear the ticking of the cl…
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