by Scott Hale
The effect was immediate. His past became a fractured series of meaningless scenes and vaguely recognizable people and places. The damage wasn’t just in the distant past, either. As memory after memory slid off the string, even events from a year ago became too difficult to make sense of. The confusion they inspired was agonizing, like a lightning storm raging across his brain.
He had to fix this. He couldn’t save Camilla or Gemma if he didn’t know them. He gathered up hundreds of memories, put them in what he thought was the right order. But as he waded through his own lifetime, it got harder and harder to read the pearls. The black mass from the memory of thirteen years ago had oozed out. It was everywhere, and it was in everything, infecting every memory that it came into contact with.
Trent moved as quickly as he could, but the corruption was quicker. Soon, he began to abandon memories so that he could salvage those which were most important to him. Wading through the black muck in his mind, he plucked out pearls for safekeeping. He started with those moments before the marriage, when he and Camilla were happy and arguments were five minute scuffles that a crappy joke or a bottle of wine could fix. But there were so many good times that he had to leave some behind.
The more he dwelled on what had been, the less he had any sway over what could be. So he hurried through the black mire filling up his skull, seeking out his wedding day and honeymoon night. There had been this one time, on a mountain with Camilla, that he absolutely loved. The sun had been setting, and the forest glowed orange and red. She had been smiling so hard, it had to have hurt. And then she told him she loved him. But the way she said it was different than before. Like it was some universal truth only they had figured out. God, where was that? He had to find—
The pearls of memory were quickly disappearing into the black mass. Trent jumped ahead years to after he had brought Gemma home. He went to the memory of her first word—Bat; hence, her stuffed animal, Scram—and the first time she walked for a good two seconds across the living room, where the Dread Clock now stood. After that, he found her first day at school, and the afternoon that happened later, when they bought her a bunch of toys, to bribe her so she’d go back the next day.
Trent was frantic. Every memory he passed up that had to do with Gemma broke his heart. Like a covetous dragon and its clutch of gold, he wanted them all. This thing that had invaded his mind, it didn’t deserve these memories. To make him pick and choose… it was like picking a favorite child and sending the rest out to die in the rain. He couldn’t do it. He wouldn’t do it. This was his mind. These were his memories. Gemma was his daughter, and Camilla his wife. Amazing or agonizing, it didn’t matter. They were his, and they were him. Without even one of them, he wouldn’t be Trent, and he couldn’t do that—
Corrupted pearls of memory bobbed to the top of the black mass. They rolled along the oily surface and fixed themselves to their proper places on the string. Trent hurried towards the most recent moments and polished the filth from them the best that he could. Gemma. The Dread Clock. Camilla. The Dread Clock. Oh god, had he really tried to touch his daughter like that? He dropped the orb into the mass, but the mass made no effort to fill it. It was tainted enough already.
Trent’s mind seized, like a strip of land about to break to an earthquake. In an instant, his past was remade. The string was complete, and the pearls that had fallen off it back in their proper place. But the content was wrong, the recollections warped. They were funhouse mirrors forged in malice, polished with spit.
Everything a year out from today was wrong. Especially anything that had to do with Gemma. The love he had for her was gone. The only emotion he had for her was hate. A long-standing hate, like a stagnant puddle no amount of happiness could dry up. What was this? It didn’t make sense. He knew he loved her, because in these recent memories of his, he did. He loved her unconditionally. He loved her more than Camilla, more than himself. Yet, ten years back, there he was, scolding her, making fun of her, sending her to school with no food and dirty clothes and laughing when she told him all the kids had laughed at her. And he felt justified for doing it. Like she had it coming. Like she was some pet that had pissed on the carpet and needed to be taught a lesson.
Disgusted, Trent retreated into recent memories, but they had been altered, too. The dark filth that filled the pearls had spread to them, as well. It was traveling through his memories, consuming them; replacing them with its foul regurgitations and passing the mush off as truth.
Trent bore his mind down on the string of life events and tried to break it, to stop the black mass from infecting everything. But the string would not give. Hate had hardened it. Entitlement reinforced it. In the blink of his mind’s eye, his little Gemma, so smart, so creative, so beautiful and talented, became something he feared and regretted.
He screamed, even though he couldn’t scream, as memories twisted upon themselves, doing everything they could to make his daughter the culprit of all life’s crimes. Anything that broke in the house, it was Gemma’s fault. Any argument he had with Camilla, it was because of Gemma’s behavior. His beautiful girl became disfigured, repulsive; a sum of all the shitty features her birth mother, Candice, possessed or put into herself. He found himself getting angry thinking about Gemma. About the fact she still lived at home with them. About the fact that she had told her mother to buy the Dread Clock, just to get back at him. About the fact that she had gone to her friend’s house last night, to talk badly about her parents, and to spend the money she probably stole from his wallet.
Where once he had wanted to hug her, he wanted to hurt her. He started to think about the excuses he could come up with that would keep Children’s Services at bay should someone notice a bruise or a welt. He remembered the moment with Camilla, where they both agreed to take care of Gemma, no matter what. And then he remembered it differently. He remembered the medical bills, the late hour screaming. He remembered how, even at a young age, Gemma seemed so damned determined to ruin their lives.
He hadn’t taken her from Candice to protect her and raise. No, Candice had dropped her off, threatened to accuse him of rape if he didn’t raise Gemma for her. And Gemma never appreciated what they did for her. No, never. She always wanted to go back to Candice. Sometimes, she’d cut herself, or even… Jesus, yesterday, they caught her with a boy up in that cave. Pregnant at thirteen. Bullshit. Not going to happen. He would do everything in his power to make sure that baby didn’t survive. He wouldn’t be embarrassed by Gemma anymore. He wasn’t going to give up his life or Camilla’s for this ungrateful wretch anymore.
Black had been the hours since her birth. If this midnight were ever going to end, then she had to leave.
GEMMA
The last time Gemma woke up face down on the living room floor, it was because she had mistaken a bottle of vodka for a bottle of water. A big swig in the small hours had sent her careening through the house like a runaway bumper car. When she came to then, she was alone.
This time she hadn’t been so lucky. As she peeled her face away from the carpet, there were two people standing over her. And they weren’t her mom or dad.
“Don’t say anything,” the smaller one, a young guy, whispered. He knelt down beside her and said, “Actually, never mind. Can you tell me—”
The older man slapped his bald head and said, “Which one is it, college kid?”
“Shut up, man. Hey, uh, Gemma, right?”
She nodded. Eyes catching up with the rest of her mind, she could tell this guy was in his mid-twenties. He had black gloves on and black clothes. He smelled weird, too. Like a hospital, and the bottom of a garbage can.
Gemma managed to mutter, “Get… away from me,” before she lost consciousness for a second.
“Do you remember the clock?” the older man asked.
Gemma’s eyes shot open. She rolled over. The Dread Clock. It wasn’t here. Where it should have been, it wasn’t. And where it had been, there were scorch marks… and a stack of one hundred dollar bill
s.
“You’re a brave girl,” the old man said. He tapped the young guy and told him it was time to go.
“What did you do with it?” Gemma grabbed the young guy’s pant leg. “Who are you? How did you? Where is it?”
“Uh, can I tell her our names?” he asked the older man.
The older man groaned.
“God, what? We just bagged the Dread Clock. I’m sorry if I’m a little out of it.”
“Connor?” Gemma croaked. “I read your website. G-Gethin, the antique shop owner said you were coming to get it.”
The old man let out a laugh. Gemma craned her neck to have a better look at him. Yeah, definitely old. What did Uncle Jasper use to say? Had more wrinkles than a nut sack. And there was a faded scar on his neck, like someone had cut open his throat.
“I don’t know how much you remember,” the old man said.
“Everything,” Gemma told him. And that was true. The nights before this morning, and everything she had seen in the Dread Clock—she remembered it all.
“I’m sorry for that, Gemma. That’s one thing we can’t take away from you.” He sighed. “My name’s Herbert North. This guy next to me, so wet behind the ears you can see it in the sunlight, his name is Connor Prendergast. That’s his website, but I wrote the Dread Clock article.”
Connor made a noise to interrupt, then stopped himself.
“We usually stay, to counsel. But we have to get the Dread Clock out of here right away. It’s maybe the most dangerous object in the world. I know you know this, because when we pulled you and your mommy and daddy out, you were telling us what you saw inside it.”
“W-where are they?” Gemma, still struggling to stay awake, scanned the room for her parents. “How did you get us…?”
“They’re in their beds,” Connor said. “Sleepwalked right into them. I don’t think they remember anything.”
Gemma sat up and scooted backward until she was against the foot of Mom’s fifteen-hundred-dollar chair.
“Used spells to get you out,” Connor said. “The Dread Clock still works outside of midnight, but it’s a lot weaker.”
“Learned a trick for finding people from a giant mosquito,” Herbert said, grinning, “but that’s, uh, neither here nor there. Listen, Gemma, Connor put his phone number in your cell. He does that with all the ladies he meets. Most of them never call him back, because, I mean, look at him.”
Connor smiled and widened his eyes, like a starlet.
Herbert said, “We can’t stay. And I don’t think your parents remember. But I know you do. And that’s a lot to shoulder. So call us, when you need us. There’s not much we can tell you, other than to hang in there. You’re going to feel like you’re crazy, but just know you’re not crazy alone. We’ve seen it, too.”
Tears welled in Gemma’s eyes. “If they don’t remember, will they be okay, then?”
“Most people go back to the way they were,” Connor said.
Back to the way they were? Gemma snarled at the thought. They’d go back to fighting every day? Granted, that was better than what they were turning into, but if they knew what the Dread Clock did to them, to her, maybe they would have tried to be different.
“Will they know I went into the clock to save them?” Gemma asked, voice shaking.
Herbert and Connor exchanged glances. Together, they said, “You did?”
Gemma nodded. She pointed to where the Dread Clock had been and said, “I went through the case. There was a portal. I tried to save them.”
“Oh wow, that makes sense,” Herbert said.
“Yeah, yes, yeah,” Connor agreed.
Wiping her eyes, Gemma said, “What? What does?”
“Pulling someone out of the Dread Clock isn’t easy. They lose themselves almost immediately. They want to stay.” Herbert tapped his chin. “Your love for them must have kept them from losing everything.”
“I don’t know,” Gemma said. “I saw them—”
“No, he’s right.” Connor nodded. “They were very lucky to have such a brave girl save them.”
Gemma laughed. Tears leapt from her eyes. “Are you two real? This isn’t how I thought this would end.”
“Things like this seldom end any way but insanely,” Herbert said. “You have a strong family, Gemma. Most don’t last this long. The Dread Clock chews through people. Often, all it takes is just one night.”
“Strong?” Maybe they were. After all, after everything, they were still together.
Connor checked the time on his phone and then said, “Here’s the plan, Gemma. We had to break in to Gethin’s antique shop to get your address. He wasn’t there, or home. And when we came here, the place was… a mess.”
“My room. All my stuff is outside.” Gemma tried to get to her feet. “We have to get rid of anything that might make them remember.”
“Don’t worry,” Connor said. “We cleaned it all up the best we could. We don’t really know what a girl’s room should look like, so you might need to do some rearranging, but it’s all up there.”
Gemma smiled. “Thank you.”
“Oh, except for this guy.” Connor reached behind him and pulled her stuffed bat, Scram, from his back pocket.
She took it from him, and then pressed Scram to her face to soak up her tears. At this point in her life, he had a whole ocean’s worth of tears inside him.
“Everything should look pretty close to the way it was before the Dread Clock showed up, okay?” Connor pointed to the scorched floor and the money on top of it. “We made it look like a robbery, because if we flat out told your parents we were taking it, then they might remember. And we don’t want to see them try to take the clock back. The money is how much your mom paid for it. It’ll be weird for her to find it, I know, but money is money. I don’t think they’ll ask too many questions.”
“No,” Gemma said, shaking her head. “No, I think my dad will be over the moon.”
“Good,” Herbert said. “I hate to leave you all like this, but we have to get this thing very far away from here, from anyone. Call us, Gemma, if you need to.”
Connor headed for the front door. Opening it, he said, “I don’t want to jinx it, but I think everything’s going to be okay for you.”
Gemma’s mom and dad woke up a few hours later. They stumbled down the stairs, one after the other, talking about what time it was, if the coffee was ready, and if it wasn’t, who was going to make it. Gemma, who hadn’t left the living room, jumped to her feet when she heard them and went to the staircase, a big, stupid smile on her face.
Before Mom had even made it to the landing, she knew that something was wrong. She pushed past Gemma, ran into the living room, and started screaming at the top of her lungs about the burn marks in the carpet. Dad, glaring at Gemma, hurried down the stairs to see the damage done. Gemma told them that it looked like someone had broken into the house. They didn’t mention the Dread Clock, but they didn’t seem to believe Gemma about the robbery, either.
In the weeks that followed, Mom and Dad were different. They didn’t fight like they used to; in fact, they barely fought at all. They woke early in the morning and went to bed early at night. Every Saturday, her parents went out to dinner, just the two of them. They didn’t really talk to Gemma very much, and when they did, they had a look on their faces like they had just smelled something awful.
Her parents’ behavior hurt a lot more than Gemma let on. But she couldn’t hold it against them, because she hadn’t recovered from the Dread Clock, either. Every night, she had nightmares, and every morning, she woke mourning the loss of something she couldn’t place. She made a lot of phone calls to Herbert and Connor during that time. They didn’t answer much, being busy supernatural hunters and all, but when they did, they told her this was normal. They even offered to come back to the town in the fall. Gemma, instead of shouting yes, because she wanted to sound strong, told them she’d think about it.
Everything went awful in August. Mom took her cell phone, w
iped her contacts, and told her she couldn’t have it back because she couldn’t be trusted with it. Dad cancelled their Internet subscription and started locking her in her room at night because he was tired of her “talking to boys.” The cave suddenly became off-limits. And any time Gemma brought up Uncle Jasper and his disappearance, her dad made a fist, as though he were going to hit her.
Gemma didn’t understand what was happening to her parents. They had isolated her from friends, as well as anything that would help her make sense of what was going on with them. She couldn’t be around them without one or the other bringing up something Gemma had done during the school year. If it wasn’t her grades, then it was the fights. And if it wasn’t the fights, then it was something Gemma didn’t even remember doing. They kept talking about the boys at school, or how they smelled pot on her. They kept bringing up some woman named Candice, and how Gemma was “just like her.”
Two weeks until school started, and Gemma couldn’t take it anymore. Every day, every time they saw her, they pointed out some flaw of hers. They blamed her for things she knew hadn’t happened because the details didn’t make sense. They said she had keyed a neighbor’s car, which wasn’t true, because they had no neighbors. Then they said they got a call from Jen’s mother, complaining about Gemma and how she had been flirting with her husband a few days ago. Which didn’t even make any fucking sense, because Gemma hadn’t been over there since she came home to save them from the Dread Clock.
The lies mounted so quickly that Gemma couldn’t keep track of them. Suffocated by all the bullshit, she stormed into the kitchen one night and told them everything. She told them about the Dread Clock, the Black Hour. About how it had changed them, how it was still changing them. She showed them Herbert’s and Connor’s website. She even ratted the two men out and said they had been the ones to take the clock away from the home. The men had warned her not to remind her parents about the antique, but what else could she do? If they saw the way they were treating her, they would have done the same thing.
