A Beautiful Torment

18. Pendulum

Tick...tock, tick-tick-tock, tick-tock...

I couldn't sleep.

I came so close to succumbing, the barest traces of dreams flitting along the edge of my subconscious, but each time a deep, constant tick, tick, tick pulled me back from the brink of slumber.

Eventually, I gave up. I rolled out of bed, shoving on a pair of black, silk drawstring pants and crossed to the door.

Belmont House was eerily quiet this time of night. Moonlight cast ghostly shadows across the dark, wooden floors and the portraits of previous owners stared unseeingly down the long, empty corridor outside my room.

Tick-tick-tock, tick-tock, tick... tick... tock...

A low, thrumming beat echoed in the timber beneath my feet.

What the hell was making that noise? My heart started to race in my chest as I padded silently down the corridor, winding through the east wing of the house. I was the furthest away from Draper's study and living quarters, probably by design more than coincidence, and with each step I took toward the west wing, the louder the thrumming, disjointed beat became.

Somewhere, in the back of my mind, I knew that nothing good could come from following the sound of a dark, hypnotic beat in a house full of demons, but it was like my head had suddenly become disconnected from the rest of my body. My feet continued to step closer and closer down the long, darkened corridors, a surge of curiosity overpowering my natural sense of preservation.

Tick-tock, tick... tick... tock-tick...

When I reached Draper's study, I was unsurprised to find the door open. Although Sophia had forbidden me from entering the room without express invitation, I couldn't stop myself from pushing the door open wider and walking inside. Every muscle in my body tensed, my senses flaring, wariness flickering through my system like a just-lit candle.

The thrumming in the wood grew louder, stronger, hopelessly hypnotic.

The fire was lit, casting dark, eerie shadows along the rows of bookshelves that lined the room.

And standing behind Draper's desk, tall and glorified, was the mahogany shape of an old, Grandfather clock.

I took a step ever closer, ignoring every instinct that screamed at me not to, and peered at the old, ornamental face. There was something peculiar about the way the hands moved on the clock, each second a different beat to the last. It stuttered and froze, raced and calmed, each hand tick, ticking unpredictably.

It reminded me, inexplicably, of the passage of time itself – remembered only in short, sudden spurts and long, wasteful days. Each tick burrowed its way deep into my skull, into the rhythm of my heartbeat, a constant, disjointed drone.

"Wyatt."

I flinched, my thoughts jolting back to the present.

Draper stood by the fire, his spine rigidly straight. His hands were encased in black, leather gloves as always, and he was dressed in his usual signature black – dress shirt, dress pants, leather shoes. He looked like a funeral director or an undertaker.

"Your clock," I voiced, a wave of apprehension rising in my stomach. "It's broken."

"It's not broken," Draper denied. "The time is correct."

I glanced at my wristwatch, my brows furrowing with consternation when I realized he was right – the hands were pointing toward the correct number on the clock face. But the quiet ticking remained disjointed, thoroughly out of sync with the rest of the contraption.