Hickory, dickory, dock, blood ran down the clock. The clock struck one, yet down it run, hickory dickory dock.
One a.m. was greeted with complete silence. This would be expected due to it being so early, but this silence was different. This silence was more of a complete nothingness. There were no noises of harsh wind hitting the shutters, or noises of cats stretching before laying to rest again, and even the floorboards kept hushed. To add to this eerie silence, a thick fog hung low in the dying moor.
The clock broke the silence with a soft tick, this soft noise almost deafening in the ghoulish, soundless night. One o'clock and one minute and a blood-curdling scream rang throughout the damp hills. Nothing followed this nightmarish noise aside from the out of place upbeat tick of the grandfather clock.
Disrupting the darkness soon after was the low glow of a gas lantern. The light swayed in the air as the owner walked over the hills and approached the dark home. This light cut through the fog as well as a pin. It would fade before deciding to burn bright for a split second, the knob remaining unturned to fix such an issue.
The owner seemed unbothered by his lantern, the cloaked figure continuing to limp forward to the home. It wasn't much longer before the door creaked open and he was facing the interior. The said interior was just barely better than the exterior. It was flooded with the everlasting darkness and dusted with cobwebs. What was once a lavish, Victorian home, was now dismal and falling apart fairly quickly.
This again did nothing to the hidden figure. He simply stepped inside and walked down the narrow hall from the entryway. It was quite obvious he knew his way about the ruins of a home, his lantern keeping its rhythm as he trudged along. The hall branched off into others and contained many doors. Without the slightest hesitation, the silhouette made his way through the labyrinth and before long he finally came to a halt in front of a door.
Opening the aforementioned door, the stranger simply limped in. The chosen room was clinging to its once glorious decor. A fainting couch and a grandfather's clock were the stars of the room, still quite alive amongst ash and dust. It was as if they were completely immune to the devastation wreaked upon the entirety of the home.
The man let a large sack upon his shoulder slip to the floor with a thump, causing a bit of dust to cloud around it. Opening the rough sack, he slipped the corpse of a petite and beautiful woman out. Some incoherent words were whispered to her with an almost loving tone as he laid her delicately on the fainting couch. Slipping something from her he set it on top of the grandfather clock along with something from his pocket. They were two blood soaked wedding bands, sitting on top of their new home where they seemed to produce more blood and bleed down the clock. With that, the hooded figure dropped his cloak and was gone.
Hickory, dickory, dock, blood ran down the clock. The clock struck one, yet down it run, hickory dickory dock.
