Click here for nice stories main menu

main menu   |   standard categories   |   authors   |   new stories   |   search   |   links   |   settings   |   author tools

The Clockmaker (standard:horror, 1877 words)
Author: HulseyAdded: Dec 20 2012Views/Reads: 1576/925Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
A dark, Christmas tale of revenge.

It was Christmas Eve, and as usual, Maurice Whitaker ignored the carol
singers; the uncharitable, middle-aged man tuned in to the local 
evening news. Whitaker was a clockmaker, a dying occupation, or so he 
had boasted. He was a loner and had been all of his life. Some 
commented that stingy Maurice had never married or indeed been involved 
in a relationship, because that would mean him sharing. Sharing wealth, 
happiness or love did not appeal to the recluse. Others claimed that 
his refusal to smile contributed to his solitary lifestyle. 

The balding man with the hook nose and hollow cheeks had worn the same
suit and shoes for over two years. To conserve energy, he often sat in 
the dark. He lived in a small village just outside Whitby and drove to 
his workplace every morning. His cloistered nature ordained that he 
worked alone, unwilling to pay employees. Yes, Whitaker was a modern 
day Ebenezer Scrooge, a mean man without friends or scruples. 

His small cottage was sparsely decorated, many of his beloved clocks
adorning his habitat, the incessant sound of their ticking 
synchronised. No portraits or photographs hung from the plain walls, 
for friends or family, he discounted. There was no evidence that it was 
the festive season; Christmas just a waste of money, he would often 
tell himself. 

He would arrive home from work late afternoon and would dine on his
beloved homemade broth, which was made from the most inexpensive 
ingredients. As his eyes focused on his treasured television, the 
shadows of the dancing flames from his open fire seemed to give life to 
his austere living room. He was perspiring heavily, but his condition 
had nothing to do with the heat from his fire. His grey eyes were 
unblinking, as the newsreader reported on the main story. 

“A young eight-year old girl was killed this morning outside the village
of Ruswarp. It is believed that she was a victim of a hit and run 
driver... Sally Fitzgerald lived within the travelling community, and 
according to her parents, she was on her way to feed the ducks at the 
nearby River Esk, as she did every morning... Anyone with any 
information, please contact the police on this number... Now we turn to 
sport. The...” 

Whitaker switched off his television and buried his head in his bony
hands. The carol singers, obviously strangers to the area had given up 
and moved on. “She was only a gypsy girl,” mouthed the callous man. He 
switched on his television once more and tuned in to the cartoons, 
which offered him a rare opportunity to laugh. He resumed feasting on 
his hot vegetable broth, the dead girl for now forgotten. 

It was Sunday afternoon, two days before Christmas and Whitaker was
sitting in his threadbare armchair, reading a copy of Robinson Crusoe, 
which he had purchased at the local church hall jumble sale. He heard a 
mysterious, inhuman sound coming from outside and put down his book. 

“Piffle,” he groaned, and advanced towards his window. 

Outside it was snowing, and through the flurry, he could see an old
woman, holding what looked like a large cage. She was standing 
motionless at the end of his path, seemingly staring at his cottage. 

Whitaker reluctantly opened his door and shouted. “Whatever you're
selling, I'm not buying. Now please go away.” 

The old woman approached slowly, the bitter wind and fall of snow
obviously not concerning her. She was wearing a black veil and matching 
gown, her bejewelled, icy cold fingers attached to a cage. The parrot 
cawed, before speaking. “Hello. Hello.” 

Whitaker frowned, although he was impressed by the colourful bird.
Through the veil, he could make out the features of the woman. Her face 
was wrinkled and her teeth were rotten, but it was her eyes that 
bothered him. The orbs were black, like nuggets of coal, emotionless 
and dead. 

She held out her trembling hand and spoke. “Can you spare a few coppers
for an old lady?” The words were delivered in an Irish accent. 

“No, I don't encourage charity... Now please go away.” 

Click here to read the rest of this story (168 more lines)

Authors appreciate feedback!
Please vote, and write to the authors to tell them what you liked or didn't like about the story!
Hulsey has 50 active stories on this site.
Profile for Hulsey, incl. all stories
Due to abuse, voting is disabled.
For a quick, anonymous response to the author of this story, type
a message below. It will be sent to the author by email.

stories in "horror"   |   all stories by "Hulsey"  

Nice Stories @, support email: nice at nicestories dot com
Powered by StoryEngine v1.00 © 2000-2014 - Artware Internet Consultancy BV