Nightmare Gallery: A Treasury of Twisted Terror Tales

The Clockmaker's Gift

The clock arrived on the doorstep of 17, Maple Street on a rainy Tuesday afternoon. There was no return address, just a simple note attached to the top: "A gift for the past."

Eleanor picked it up gingerly, reading the note again with a puzzled expression. She couldn't recall ordering anything, and she certainly wasn't expecting any gifts. Yet here it was, a beautifully crafted antique clock wrapped in old newspaper. Its face was intricately detailed, with golden Roman numerals and ornate hands frozen at exactly 3:15.

She brought it inside, placing it on the mantel in the living room. The clock seemed to fit perfectly in her otherwise modern home, adding a touch of an era long past. As Eleanor admired the craftsmanship, she noticed something peculiar. Despite its still hands, she could hear a faint ticking emanating from within. It was soft, almost imperceptible, but constant.

Shrugging off the unease, she went about her evening routine, occasionally glancing at the clock. The rest of the day passed uneventfully, the steady ticking becoming background noise. By nightfall, she had almost forgotten about it.

That night, Eleanor woke suddenly, gasping for air. Her heart pounded in her chest, her body covered in a cold sweat. She had been having the same recurring nightmare again — one where she was trapped in a dark room with no windows or doors, and the walls were closing in on her.

She glanced at the bedside clock. 3:15 a.m. The red digits glowed ominously in the darkness. Eleanor sat up, trying to shake off the lingering feeling of dread. As she moved to get out of bed, she heard it. The ticking.

It was louder now, more insistent, as if it were right next to her. She cautiously made her way to the living room, her eyes fixed on the antique clock. The hands had not moved; they remained at 3:15, but the ticking was undeniably coming from within it.

Eleanor reached out and touched the clock's face, and for a moment, the ticking stopped. She held her breath, waiting for something to happen, but the room was silent. She let out a sigh of relief, thinking it was just her mind playing tricks on her.

But as she turned to go back to bed, the ticking resumed, louder than before. It was rhythmic, hypnotic, drawing her in. She turned back and stared at the clock, now feeling an inexplicable pull towards it. It was almost as if the clock was calling to her, urging her to do something.

With a deep breath, Eleanor removed the clock from the mantel and inspected it more closely. There was no visible way to open it; the back was sealed tight, and there were no screws or latches. She turned it over in her hands, feeling the cold, polished wood against her skin. The ticking grew louder, echoing in her ears until it was the only sound she could hear.

Desperate to silence it, she grabbed a small hammer from her toolbox and pried at the seams of the clock. It resisted at first, but with a final tug, the back panel popped off, revealing the inner workings. Inside, instead of gears and springs, she found a small, folded piece of parchment. She pulled it out and carefully unfolded it, revealing a single line of elegant script:

"Your time is borrowed. Return what was taken."

Eleanor's blood ran cold. She had no idea what it meant or who it was from, but the words sent a chill down her spine. She quickly reassembled the clock and put it back on the mantel, hoping to forget about it.

The following days were strange. The clock continued to tick, louder each night, always stopping at 3:15. Eleanor tried to ignore it, but it was as if the sound was burrowing into her mind, growing more insistent with each passing hour.

And then, the dreams started to change. In the darkness, Eleanor saw glimpses of a man's face — pale, gaunt, with hollow eyes and a sorrowful expression. He reached out to her, whispering words she couldn't understand. Each night, the dream grew clearer, and each morning, she woke at 3:15, the ticking echoing in her ears.

Unable to take it any longer, Eleanor began to dig into the history of the house. She discovered that it had once belonged to a clockmaker named Henry Graves, who had lived there in the early 1900s. He was known for his intricate designs and precision in his craft. But the records showed that he had died under mysterious circumstances, his body found in the workshop at exactly 3:15 a.m.

The townsfolk believed he had been cursed by a rival craftsman, his soul trapped within his final creation. According to legend, anyone who possessed the clock would be haunted by his restless spirit, compelled to return the time that was taken from him.

Eleanor's heart pounded as she realized the implication. The clock was a conduit, a vessel for the trapped soul of Henry Graves. And now, it was her responsibility to set him free.

That night, she sat in front of the clock, the hammer in her hand. As the clock struck 3:15, she pried it open once more. The ticking stopped, and a cold breeze swept through the room. The figure from her dreams appeared before her — the ghostly form of Henry Graves, his eyes pleading.

Without hesitation, she smashed the clock with the hammer, the wood splintering under the force. As the pieces scattered across the floor, the figure began to fade, a look of relief washing over his spectral face.

The room fell silent. The ticking had stopped. Eleanor stood there, staring at the broken remains of the clock, feeling an overwhelming sense of release. She had done it. She had freed the restless spirit.

From that night on, the dreams ceased, and the house was quiet once more. The shadow of the clockmaker's curse had lifted, and Eleanor finally felt at peace. She had returned what was taken, and in doing so, had restored the balance between the living and the dead.

Yet, sometimes, late at night when the wind howled through the trees, she could swear she heard the faintest echo of a ticking clock, a reminder of the borrowed time she had given back.