by Scott Hale
Who had put this here? She took her time crossing the walkway. Small gusts of wind teased her into flattening against the cliff. Someone else who needed an escape? She gathered her courage and hoofed it. The boards creaked but held fast. Maybe it had been a woman like her, who didn’t have a place and found it fitting to make her own.
She reached the cave. Inside, there was nothing but a dead snake, a cracked egg, and cold, sea-sprayed stone. Could someone live in a place like this forever? Didn’t seem a bad idea. What she needed she could steal or work for. It would be hard, but it would be hers, and though Nature’s will could sometimes be cruel, she would be safe from everything else.
Gemma then looked back, at her house, which was now just a dark haze looming over the beach. Could someone live in a place like that forever? Already, the memories of midnight had begun to crystallize, becoming something permanent, but also different. Seeing her father naked, with that thing down his… thing. And her mother almost naked, holding them, speaking in dark tongues to the Dread Clock. These hardening memories were real, and they would be with her forever, yet they were losing their realness. They had happened, but it was becoming easier to tell herself they hadn’t. She had only been awake an hour and already these past traumas were transforming into tales.
She plopped down on the end of the cave, threw her legs out over the edge. She rolled up her pant legs, so that the sea could baptize them. With her favorite sharp rock, she carved her name, as she had done many times before, into the ground. She tried to distract herself with just about anything she could imagine, but her thoughts kept coming back to those stark, stomach-churning images that felt as though they had been nailed into her mind.
“Fuck,” Gemma screamed, throwing the rock out to the ocean. She balled her fist and punched the cave floor. She drew blood, and with blood, drew the Dread Clock on the stone.
“What the fuck? What the hell?” Rocking back and forth, she started to cry; her face stretched, as though the tears would be too big to come out normally. “What the…? Why? What the fuck?”
Gemma shrieked and bashed her heels against the cliff. She felt her father’s hands on her again, the taste from his thumb in her mouth. Every positive memory she had of him, she brought to light. She knew what he had done, or what he was going to do. They talked about it in school, or on TV. But Dad wasn’t like that. No, he wasn’t like that. He had never been like that. Not once, not ever. He had stopped himself, too. But, oh god, what if he hadn’t?
Gemma blubbered, stringy spit and snot connecting her nose and hands. Would he have gone further? She had an idea of what could have happened next but… Gemma retched, the notion making her physically ill.
“It wasn’t you. You wouldn’t do that,” Gemma said.
A flock of birds tore through the orange sky.
“He wouldn’t do that. No, it wasn’t him. There’s something going on and…”
She nodded, each excuse more convincing than the last. “Dad wouldn’t do that. He was drunk, or maybe he was trying to tell me something. Or maybe I did something wrong…”
And then the excuses sounded less likely, and she started to bawl again.
As Gemma sat there, rocking herself into a calm, she started to think about the divorce, and everything she had done to stop it from happening. Mom threatened to divorce her dad about six months ago. At first, Gemma didn’t take it seriously, but the fights got worse, and she kept catching her mom making calls to lawyers.
After that, the “outbursts”—even now, the word made Gemma roll her eyes—started. At home or in school, it didn’t matter. If someone wronged her, she was quick to let them know it. Piece of shit and bitch were often her choice of words—her mother’s and father’s, respectively—and she had even scuffed up a nose and a few elbows and knees in a couple of fights. It was all typical stuff for kids to do when their parents were going through a divorce. That’s what her mom said, and that’s what the Internet said, too. And the best thing about the Internet? It actually gave her more ideas on how to sabotage their split-up. She ratcheted up the detentions, made her grades plummet. She stayed out later than she was supposed to, and sometimes pretended as though she were dating some guy in secret. She even started cutting herself on her ankle. The Internet never said these things would work, only that kids going through what she was going through were known to do them. However, Gemma was determined to use them to her advantage. Whether or not her mom and dad were meant to be together didn’t matter. The thought of not having them together was impossible to hold. It didn’t make sense. Maybe her life wasn’t normal compared to everyone else’s, but the possibility of her family being torn apart seemed so much worse.
That is, until last night. Now, now she wasn’t so sure they ought to be together. Gemma stood up and went to the back of the cave, where the ceiling sloped upward into a grimy pocket of stone and shadow.
Was what had happened at midnight what happened to all marriages that were meant to end but didn’t? Like this hole in the cave’s ceiling, did everything just get sucked away, stripped down to nothing? Could a marriage like theirs eventually make them into the monsters they were last night? Better yet, did she do this to them? And if she did, maybe she had it coming last night. Maybe that’s what she got for being so fucking selfish.
Gemma’s pocket buzzed. She jumped, her heart at the top of her throat, and then realized it was her cell phone. Fishing it out, she saw she had a text from Mom.
Please, don’t smudge the clock’s glass.
That was it. Please, don’t smudge the Dread Clock’s glass. It was an instrument that, supposedly, absorbed all the sin in the world, and she was worried about it getting dirty? And not only that, she didn’t even ask where Gemma was or if she was okay.
“That stupid freaking clock. I swear to god, ever since that—”
She read the text again, remembered how her mother had seemed to be listening to the Dread Clock last night. She remembered how it made a sound at 1:00 AM, like a feral animal, and how afterward, Mom and Dad carried her to the family room, left her there, and disappeared.
“—that stupid freaking clock. That stupid freaking clock!”
Gemma opened her web browser and searched for the phone number of Gethin Yates’ antique shop. Things hadn’t been great at home, but they had definitely gotten worse ever since that clock had shown up. Uncle Jasper would say she was just being immature, naïve, but if he had seen what she saw, he, too, would be looking for any excuse in the world to explain her parents’ behavior.
She dialed the number, stepped out of the cave, onto the cliff’s walkway for better reception. The phone rang and rang. No answer. And, crap, it was Sunday. Was his stupid store closed?
I bet I could find where he lives if—
Gethin Yates, on the side of the line, shouted, “Hello?”
Gemma, not having prepared herself for what to say, lowered her voice, did her best impression of her mother, and said, “Gethin.”
“Camilla? Jesus Christ. Jesus Christ, I’m glad you called. Are you okay?”
Am I okay? Gemma swallowed her excitement and kept it simple. “The clock.”
“What happened? I told you, woman! I told you. I’m sorry I sold it to you.” Some scratching in the background. “I’m sorry. I was scared, and I wanted it out of here. But the original buyer, Connor Prendergast, called. I told him I sold it to you, and he bawled me out. There’s something wrong with that clock, Camilla, okay? Have you felt it, too?”
“Yes,” Gemma said, almost crying again.
“That Prendergast guy was very vague about the clock. I looked into him. He’s into that supernatural, paranormal… I don’t know, but—” more scratching in the background, “—he’s coming to get it. Bring it back. I’ll refund you in full. He said to keep our distance, so I’ll lock it up back in the warehouse. Camilla. Camilla?”
Gemma sniffled her nose. She was there again, in front of the clock, her mom’s arm around her, the smell of despera
te, sick sweat wafting off her.
“What… did you… see, Gethin?”
He shuddered. The phone went dead for a second, as though he had hung up. Then: “My grandmother. She used to make me write down in a book why I was a bad b-boy.” More scratching in the background, like he was covering something in ink. “What did you see, Camilla?”
“I did things.” Gemma got choked up. “Not proud of.”
“Bring it, Camilla. Full refund.”
“No,” Gemma said. There was no way she was going to be able to get her mom to part with it. “Come and get it.” Her voice cracked, but she was sure Gethin couldn’t tell. “It’s mine.”
Gemma hung up the phone. She took a deep breath and then opened the web browser again.
“I knew it. I knew there was something. Connor Prendergast? Where do I—”
She typed in his name, found the site she had almost clicked on last night, and opened it.
TRENT GEMMA CAMILLA
“What did we do to each other?”
Carefully, Trent took a seat beside Camilla in the living room. She was still in her underwear, and she was still staring at the Dread Clock. In one hand, her husband was holding the crotch of his pants, and in the other, a bag from the hospital with antibiotics, an anti-inflammatory, and probably a note from the doctor diagnosing him as a complete dumbass.
It still stung badly between Camilla’s legs. She couldn’t piss without crying. Looking at Trent and his mini pharmacy, she asked, “Can I have some, too?”
“Huh? Oh. Yeah.” He handed her the bag. “You okay?”
No, she thought, opening the bag and unscrewing the lids to the bottles. She took a pill from each and swallowed them. They lodged in her dry throat, but she couldn’t be moved to move, so she let them dissolve there. It burned like hell, but as the days went on, she found hell was getting easier to deal with.
“Did you put something down my dick?”
Camilla shrugged, said, “You did a number on me.”
“I did?”
“Couldn’t have been anyone else.”
Trent bit his lip. He scooted closer to the Dread Clock, closer than Camilla. A pang of jealousy, a flood of venomous hate. She scooted even closer. Childish, yes, but triumphant.
“I woke up outside, naked. Jasper ran me to the hospital.” Trent rubbed his face, stretched his jaw. “Feels like my head is full of cotton.”
Might be, she thought. Might be all that’s up there. “I woke up in the bathtub. I guess I spent all night eating part of the Bible.”
Trent nodded, the statement not fazing him one bit. “Did we take something last night?”
“I don’t have a stash anymore.”
“Yeah, me neither.”
Camilla leaned forward and, for the first time since she had brought the Dread Clock, opened the glass case behind which the fleshy pendulum was concealed. A rancid odor rolled out. Her vision became blotchy, and she had to close her eyes because the living room had started to spin.
“Close it. Christ, close it, Camilla,” Trent said, pinching his nose. “What is that? Smells like something died inside it.”
Nothing is dead in there.
She pushed her hand inside the case, stopping short of the rocking pendulum.
That’s life. The smell of it. The reek of it. Fleshy clockwork lubed with sin and satisfaction.
She closed the case and leaned back. Looking at Trent, she noticed there was something different about him now. For one, she didn’t want to bite his head off, but that wasn’t it. No, no, that wasn’t it at all. There seemed to be a bond, a connection between them. The kind a narcotic could create, but stronger. It was their wounds, the proof of their shared communion in the Dread Clock’s midnight service.
Trent, still staring at the clock, looked as though he were going to doze off. “I’m sorry, Camilla,” he slurred.
She scooted closer to him. Her legs touched his. A spark of excitement made her flesh flush. “For what?”
“Everything.” An eyebrow went up. He tilted his head towards the Dread Clock.
Was the clock talking to him now? Camilla hoped so. She needed someone to share in this secret, and Gemma was too young to appreciate its spoils.
“I don’t know what happened last night, but this isn’t us. I don’t want Gemma exposed to this sham anymore. I—” he swallowed hard, “—found your letter. You were right about everything you said in it.”
“I don’t know, Trent.” Camilla touched his knee. She took a deep breath, and with that breath, her lungs were filled with the Dread Clock’s musings. “I don’t know what happened last night, either, but I feel like things are different.”
Trent’s smile gave him away as he said, “W-wait. What do you mean?”
“Maybe we hit rock bottom last night.”
His hand found hers. She wove her fingers between his.
“Maybe we can rebuild this thing again.”
She pressed her other hand to his cheek. It was still covered in ink from the Bible, and his perspiring face made the passages run off onto him.
“I don’t want to give up just yet.”
TRENT GEMMA CAMILLA
It was eleven in the morning, and Trent didn’t know where his daughter was. Though he would never admit it aloud, he didn’t actually care. He might have yesterday, but as he stood over the oven, making breakfast for Camilla, who was sitting at the table, watching him cook, he didn’t. He didn’t care at all. He had his wife back. With the help of the Dread Clock, he realized what he suspected all along: he loved Camilla more than Gemma. Or, wait. Maybe that hadn’t been true yesterday, but it was today. He shrugged, flipped the bacon. Today was all that mattered, anyway.
“This is nice,” he said. He poured the entire skillet, bacon and grease, onto a plate and carried it to the table. He lay the still hissing meal in front of Camilla. “I missed this.”
“Yeah.” Right away, she went in for the bacon. Little yelps of pain escaped her lips as she gobbled down the meat. “It’s good,” she said, her voice already raspy from the scorching.
“I cheated on you, too,” Trent said.
Camilla drank the grease. “I figured.”
“Some eighteen-year-old. Can’t even remember her name.” Trent grabbed an apple and put it onto the open flame of the stove. “Did it the other night. When you kicked me out.”
“Past is in the past.”
Trent took the apple off the burner, threw it into the sink. “I like that we’re talking again.”
Camilla licked her fingers. She went to the sink and grabbed the apple out of it. Taking a bite, she mumbled, “It’s the clock.”
Trent grinned. She gets it. Though it had been hard to admit, buying the Dread Clock had been the best thing for them. “There is something about it.”
Together, they went to the table and sat. She threw her feet up on his lap. He rubbed them. “Feels like it’s already been here. Thought it was strange, at first. But it makes perfect sense.”
Camilla giggled as Trent leaned forward and started trimming her toenails with his teeth. “You know, there’s something living inside it?”
He spat out a nail. “Really?”
Camilla took her feet off him and stood up. “Yes. Want to see?” She held out her hands.
Do I want to see? He took her hands, pulled her into an embrace. I want to see everything. I want to thank whatever it is personally. He buried his face in Camilla’s hair. She smelled terrible.
“Show me,” he said, picking a Bible passage out of her hair. “Hey, do you think we should invite Jasper over?”
Camilla shook her head. “No, it’s ours.”
“What about Gemma?”
“The Dread Clock doesn’t want her to see what’s inside yet.”
“How come?”
“All this isn’t normal enough for her yet. But we know, don’t we?”
Trent nodded, kissed her forehead. “I think we just forgot. Hey, what time is it?”
Shrugging, Camilla said, “Not midnight.”
TRENT GEMMA CAMILLA
THE DREAD CLOCK & AND ITS BLACK HOURS: A HISTORY AND WARNING
BY CONNOR PRENDERGAST
We like to think of time as something that we own. Something that, despite existing before and beyond us, we can appropriate and designate and rely upon to always be consistent and true. As with air, we take it for granted and seldom consider how or why it’s there. Perhaps it’s the simplicity of the science, or the inescapability of its use. In the end, for most, time is no more than a constant flow of events with sometimes hazy beginnings and indefinite ends. Like water in a river, we suspect the source is always the same, and the watershed from which it flows bound by unchanging rules, however obvious or obscure.
But what if time could be manipulated? Or dislodged and replaced completely? What if there was another source of time in our universe, and its watershed was not bound by rules but guided by madness?
Time has a tapeworm, and it is the Black Hour. It is not an alternative dimension, but an entirely new one. One that has fed on and gotten fat off the foul gristle and scum of our existence. Every night, at midnight, regardless of location or time zone, this Black Hour imposes itself upon reality. For one hour, it subjects the world, perhaps even the universe, to random and sometimes impossible events. From environmental abnormalities, such as small fires and upside-down lakes, to moments of absolute depravity, such as a rape or a murder by a creature that has never existed, the Black Hour knows no limits, for it has no limits. And because it is limitless, unlike our time and reality, it is even more difficult to measure and understand. The only thing that is known about the temporal aberration is that it lasts for one hour, and that it always begins at midnight. But even those supposed facts are flimsy at best, for though they’ve proven to hold true so far, that doesn’t mean they are.
But what is true and perhaps even more unbelievable than the abilities of the Black Hour itself is the fact that it has a physical presence in our world. The “heart” of the Black Hour is a very real object that has been recorded throughout history as existing—and existing solely to subjugate humanity to its sadistic ways. Likened to a cancerous mass, the Black Hour’s heart is either a symbol of the event, or the origin of the event itself. Either way, the key to understanding and destroying the Black Hour lies in obtaining the heart.
