Family Secrets

The clock stood in the hall. One of the truly magnificent pieces of the Walter Family's estate, the clock was made of heavy mahogany and showcased a large, mother-of-pearl face with hands of sculpted bronze. Each hour the tall clock rumbled in the hall, resolutely calling the hour, the passage of time.

No one knew who originally designed the clock. Some in the family claimed it was made by an Austrian watchmaker by special commission. Others said it was given to the family many generations back as payment for some debt. No one knew for sure, but it mattered little. The general consensus was the same: although the clock was magnificent, there was something oddly sinister about it.

It was a hard thing to explain, really. It wasn't that the clock was ugly. Indeed, quite the opposite was true. It was heavily decorated with carved cherubs, shined glossy. The face radiated pink, blue, and ivory in the sun, while the heavy bronze hands moved about elegantly, their pieces intricately carved. Even the deep groan of its chiming bells resonated with a kind of stately grandeur.

Guests to the house often stopped to comment on its beauty, but only at a distance. Even the most ardent admirers of its artistry rarely approached it directly. Indeed, most people walked by it quickly, suppressing a shudder. Even Nadia, one of Old Lady Rose's many descendants and the current owner of the estate, rushed passed it when outright avoidance was impossible. In fact, the only person who seemed able to maintain her nerve in the face of the clock's strange atmosphere was Nadia's youngest daughter, Isobeth.

At thirteen years old, Isobeth was the quintessential misfit. She preferred books to play, spiders to dolls, and twilight to midday. Although she was both pale and blonde in appearance, she was a dark spirit drawn to all things macabre. However, even she was not totally immune to the influence of the clock.

She'd never mentioned it to anyone, but she'd always felt oddly drawn to the elegant timepiece. Sometimes, as she made her way down the mahogany-paneled hallway, she felt as though it were actually calling to her. She found this somewhat unsettling, but also intriguing. She'd approach the wooden monolith with an odd mixture of curiosity and trepidation. Then, she'd stare it down as though she were challenging it to a duel. Sometimes Nadia would catch her daughter in the act; her back rigid, her violet eyes peering into the clock's iridescent face the way one might stare down an adversary. Nadia was never quite sure what to make of it.

"What on earth are you doing, my dear?" her mother would ask.

"The clock...it watches me," is all Isobeth would say.

Nadia was always left standing, awkwardly, in the shadowy hall. After her daughter had gone, she would approach the clock gingerly, trying to feel what Isobeth had felt. But, she could never feel anything but the vague uneasiness.

Things took an odd turn when, suddenly, the nightmares began. Each night at 3am Isobeth would awaken, screaming. It was a blood-curdling scream; the kind that caused one to freeze upright in bed, unable to move. Servants inevitably rushed in to assist her. They always found her in the same posture: in a tight ball under the covers, face on knees. When she was extricated from her sheets, she always seemed oddly surprised, as though she'd been set free from a terrible trap. Then she'd roll over and go right back to sleep as though nothing at all had happened.

This went on for a fortnight. Various attempts were made to explain the sudden appearance of the nightmares, but no solution could be found. When queried, Isobeth could never really recall what had happened to cause her to scream, but she felt, vaguely, that it was somehow connected with the front hall and the clock. After two weeks of disturbed sleep, Nadia became desperate. The staff looked half dead and she was at her wit's end.