Do you like scary stories? How about monsters and things that go bump in the night? If you do, then I have the collection for you. This is an anthology of short scary stories, all of which are original; with more being added as time goes on. If you...
The Clockmaker was not a rich man, nor was he poor. He lived in the space above his shop in London and kept a steady business. His clocks were all unique and his customers ranged from simple farmers to royalty. When children were born, he would deliver a brand new clock to the family. Likewise, he would visit those who were dying, collecting his clock once their souls had passed. He hated these visits most of all, for every time, those that were dying would look at him in horror as though he were responsible for their coming journey into the afterlife.
In truth, it was not the Clockmaker they despised, but the secret he carried; a secret that would be passed to only one other soul--his apprentice.
The apprentice was a young boy who admired the Clockmaker a great deal. His master had taught him all of his secrets, the last being given near the end of the Clockmaker's life.
It had grown late, and as the city drifted off to sleep, the shop, filled with its ticking clocks, occupied the silence.
"Will you tell me now?" The Apprentice asked.
"Not yet." The Clockmaker said. "It is not yet the proper hour."
"But when will that be?" The Apprentice asked.
"Soon." The Clockmaker said. He kept looking to the great grandfather clock. It had slowed in its years and grown old. Soon, it would die, as all things were destined to do. That made the Apprentice think of his master and how he too had grown old in years; older still, since he had stopped selling his clocks as of late. It was an ironic thought, the Clockmaker having run out of time. He did not know that his master was dying, only that he had promised to give away his secret on tonight of all nights.
Before long, the clock struck twelve and so came the Midnight Hour. But not that only--there also came a loud knock, one that rose above the tick of the clocks.
Now, the Apprentice knew that nothing good had ever come from this time of night, the Witching Hour. A terrible storm had brewed since he last asked for the Clockmaker's secret, and, in between the stranger's knocks, the wind howled with the fury of a demon.
Usually, the Clockmaker would have made no motion to answer the door. He had feared that particular sound above all else, and in this, his last days, he had avoided answering the meager shop door. But tonight was different. The Clockmaker rose from his armchair and with his Apprentice in tow, he solemnly approached the shop's entrance. He opened the door only a little, before a great wind finished the job. With it came a flash of lightning. There, standing in the doorway was an imposing figure. They wore a cloak, black as the night that spawned this meeting, and a hood, which shrouded their face. The Apprentice held his breath as the stranger entered the shop at the Clockmaker's bidding. As the three of them made their way back to the parlor, with the stranger in the lead, the Apprentice kept his distance. Something was wrong with their new guest. But the Apprentice said nothing, and followed them in silence.
Once in the parlor, the stranger continued to the grandfather clock. The Clockmaker was shaking as their guest extended a withered hand to the clock. The slow ticking fell silent. With its last, distorted chime, the Clockmaker went pale. He swallowed as tears formed at the edges of his eyes. The stranger, silent as a grave, started back the way they had come.
The Apprentice could take no more. "What is happening?" He asked. "Who is our guest?"
"You asked me to tell you my final secret, my young apprentice." He said, tears streaming down his wrinkled cheeks. "So here it is: to all men, time is given. Once our accounts are spent, the debt is collected. But... There are times that one account might be transferred to another, and the date extended. Have you not wondered why it is that I have not given a clock away for some time? Guilt burdens us far heavier than the weight of years upon this miserable world, young one! Forgive me, my Apprentice. Forgive me!"
The ticking of the clocks had stopped and the shop had grown cold. The Apprentice could no longer hear even the storm. The Clockmaker wept as the shop's door swung open below, and a long, lonesome moan echoed from outside. The Apprentice watched as his master fell to his knees and the shapes of what had once been men, in the form of shadows, came crawling up from the shop below. The Clockmaker was dragged, screaming, down the steps and towards the open door. The stranger said nothing as the Clockmaker was dragged outside, into a world that had never seen, nor would ever see, light. Then, as the stranger was about to make their leave, they turned to face the young Apprentice.
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It was not the face of a man that met him, but a bare skull, with empty sockets as black as the unnatural world beyond. The stranger put a single skeletal finger to his lipless smile and then left, venturing into the yawning void. The storm returned, and with it, the ticking of a clock shop in late night London.
What did not return was the Clockmaker or the stranger. And, if the Apprentice had any say in the matter, they never would.
In fact, for the rest of his years, and there were many of those, the Apprentice built for himself a shop of his own. He would have to travel from time to time, of course, and only after many years in one place, from town to town, city to city where no one would know his name, nor would they know what would happen if they were to be given one of those infernal clocks.
No.
No one would ever know his ghastly secret and he would avoid the stranger's visit until so many years had passed that even the horrors of that night had become a distant, half-forgotten nightmare.
But time has a way of remembering what we do not and it is excellent at making guilt blossom in the heart. With its careful gardening, the flowers of the past sprang anew. The guilt unfolded yet again and the Apprentice found an apprentice of his own, someone willing to take upon them the mantle of clockmaker . And so, now old and frail, the Apprentice waited for that fateful knock at the arrival of the Midnight Hour...
