Clock Strikes || ONC 2024

Two

The longer I stare at the canvas, the more lifelike my mother seems.

The detail is insane. Each stroke captures her beauty, even the birthmark on her left cheekbone. Just like in life, her ivory skin is a stark contrast to everything around her; you'd have thought her an albino if not for her amber-colored eyes and dark hair.

Some kids at school used to assume I was adopted, and I can see why looking at this painting.

I'm about seven years old, planted next to her with no grace to speak of. My skin is sun-kissed, and I have the same jet black hair as hers, only much wavier and erratic.

I feel a pang in my stomach, a feeling that's immediately familiar but has been absent for a long time now. Jealousy wells up and leaves the taste of bile in the back of my throat. Shouldn't a daughter be happy seeing her mother after so long?

The clock strikes 8 a.m. in the painting, and the coo-coo down the hall confirms the time.

"It started last night," Max says, leaning in closer to assess what detail has me so enthralled. If nothing else, his closeness pulls my attention from my mother for the moment. "The clock, I mean, our paintings don't normally come with working timepieces." He laughs at himself and casts a smirk at me. Why does it feel like he already knows me? A scent of wood smoke and something sweet wafts off him, a smell that stirs a memory, but one I can't pin down. He almost smells like a summer night in front of a campfire, somewhere far away from here, and whatever mess I'm mixed up in.

When I turn to look at him, I see Beth walking down the hall toward us. Her posture reminds me of my gym teacher in ninth grade: shoulders back, head up.

"I see you've taken the liberty of letting our guest in," she says, and I'm stunned by the transition. Five minutes ago, she was screaming bloody murder upstairs.

Max sighs. "Beth, take the day off, please."

"Absolutely not, I have too many-"

"Beth," Max squares his shoulders and turns so that I'm hidden behind him. "Go home. You are not needed today."

"Spoiled little shit," Beth huffs, and then I hear her footsteps, heading for the front door, followed by it slamming behind her.

Max shakes himself as if a chill has run through his body, and he turns his attention back to the painting, "So, do you recognize it now?"

"No." My voice is flat. "I don't remember the clock or this painting. People tend to remember when they've posed for hours to have a painting done."

He reaches out a finger and pokes the clock's face. As if it's covered in water, the surface of the painting ripples at the point where his finger has landed. "I've been up for six hours," he says, but every time I look at my phone or any clock, for that matter, it is always between 8 a.m. and 9 a.m.

"Are we stuck?" I don't even know what I'm asking, how could we be stuck? Do I actually believe that something like this could happen? I'm a journalism student, we rely on facts, and the fact is that time moves in a straight line. It's fucking linear, it doesn't reset.

"I don't know," he assesses me, his gray eyes searching my face and body as if I've hidden the answer on myself. "My father was determined to meet with you today, specifically today, something about 'Celeste and the speakeasy.'"

The way he utters my mother's name and the speakeasy in the same sentence makes me wince as if he'd played the wrong key on a piano. "Why did you say it like that?"

"I didn't mean anything by it. That's how he said it, I'm just the parrot. Anyway, my father and his team discovered this cave in the 70s."

"Yeah, I know it. The Herringbone Cave on the Hudson is kinda the reason I'm here and actually how I got this interview to begin with. My best friend's father, Harry Burns, was on the professor's team."

"Along with your mother," he watches as my face contorts in confusion. " You didn't know?"

"Max?" A man's voice calls out from somewhere above us, and I feel the blood drain from my face, not just because I'm almost certain that voice belongs to Professor Anthrop but also because I had no idea my mother knew him and worked with him.

"That's your father, isn't it?" I ask, and then, within the time it takes me to blink, Beth is back in front of us, mumbling under her breath and heading to the front door all over again.

"What the fuck?" My anxiety is revving up to send me into a full-blown panic attack, and part of me is wondering if I should bolt for the door right behind Beth.

"Interesting," Max's voice is calm as if he's just been handed another puzzle piece to muse over.

"Hello? Did you not just see that?"

"I did." He says, crossing his arms and sighing, "he was positive you'd remember this clock."

"Well, I fucking don't." My trauma response is kicking in, and I can feel my walls go up, exchanging fear for anger. Before I can think, I'm stomping up the staircase.

"I wouldn't do that." Max is at my back, but he's not trying to stop me physically, so I keep marching.

"Hello?" I call out as I reach the next floor, which is surprisingly homey compared to the downstairs. The wooden floors are layered with an assortment of gray-scale shag rugs, and the wallpaper is yellow with green vines. The whole room has Beth's name written all over it, right down to the ornate doilies on the back of the matching gothic chairs.

On either side of me, there are hallways, both lined with about three doors, but the hall on the left has an extra door all the way at the end. I choose to head in that direction, "Professor Anthrop?"

There's no response until I make it past the second door. I jump at the sudden, almost violent cough coming from the door at the end of the hall, and when I come to a stop in front of it, I realize it's made from the same dark wood as the clock. Coincidence? Not in this fucking house.

The door is slightly ajar, and I look through to see random papers scattered across the floor as if someone were looking for something in a hurry. I push the door gently, and before me, behind a desk, is Professor Anthrop. He's seated, arms spread wide, dangling on either side of him, and his face is pointed up to the ceiling. "Professor?" I take a step closer and realize there is blood oozing from his mouth.

My mouth opens, but no scream comes out. Panicking, I cover my face with my hands and turn away, but not soon enough because the professor's dead face is forever etched into the back of my cornea. Holy shit. I run forward, eyes closed, only to smack into Max's chest.

His arms wrap around me, "I tried to warn you. It's so gruesome. I'm sorry."

"Why are you so fucking calm?" My voice cracks.

Max places his hands on my shoulders and turns me around to face the professor again, only this time, he's staring right at me.

"Apologies, Miss Wright." He says as he cleans off his glasses and slides them onto his face. "I will try to explain what I know. Please have a seat."