A second round of ringing blared from the first floor. With it carried the dreadful memory of the worst day of her life.
Lydia had just walked through the door of her previous home after a late night at the office when the phone rang.
“Yes, may I speak to Lydia Carrigan?” the gravelly voice on the other end had asked as she cradled the kitchen landline phone to her ear. It must have been the abrupt sternness in this man’s voice, but Lydia never forgot the lump in her throat and the chill down her spine at that question.
“ . . . Speaking.”
“Ma’am, my name is Officer Belardo. Is your husband a ‘David Carrigan’?”
She remembered dropping the knife on the cutting board, sliced carrots spilling onto the tile floor.
“Yes.”
“And does he drive a silver Toyota Tacoma?” Her heart froze as cold as the chicken she had just pulled out of the freezer.
“Yes, that’s him,” she said, nearly choking on her words.
“There’s been an accident. We are going to need you to come down to the hospital.”
“My god, what happened? Is he okay?” she asked, sobbing into the phone.
“Ma’am, we are going to need you to come down here,” he said, and then in a softer tone, “I suggest you clear the rest of your day.”
The last thing she remembered was standing there in the morgue, her husband lying across a metal table, a gloved hand peeling back the blanket that had covered his pale, bruised body.
As the ringing came to a halt, Lydia was out of breath.
How long did it take me to get up the stairs?
Lydia took a moment at the top of the staircase to steady herself and look down to the first floor. If she wasn’t mistaken, the surrounding windows seemed darker now, as if dusk had already fallen.
That’s when the ticking grabbed her attention yet again.
At the end of the hallway sat a massive grandfather clock crafted from beautiful dark walnut. A miniature roof crested the top of the clock with faux shingles burned into the wood, criss-crossed by what looked like vines. The face of the clock was the size of a dinner plate, with long, slender Roman numerals lining its perimeter—a regal gold trim boasting a sheen that reflected light like that of a lighthouse guiding ships. As Lydia walked toward the captivating clock, she discovered her footsteps falling in perfect sync with the pendulum’s swing.
Perched on four legs that resembled the paws of a mighty lion, the body of the clock was hollowed out to display the reflective pendulum. Kneeling and looking up into the space, Lydia observed a hanging brass rod as thick as her forearm swaying from left to right. It reminded her of peering into her own open mouth in the mirror, the dangling rod like a giant uvula. Attached at the end of the swinging rod was a weight made of the same brass composite, and as Lydia followed it with her eyes, she discerned a peculiarly carved pattern—the head of a rose. In complete transfixion, Lydia’s eyes imitated the swing of the pendulum, following its movements from side to side. She admired the color, the finish, the carvings, and especially the brass rose.
As she marveled at the clock, the loud ticking bore its way into her skull, and an image of David blipped across her mind, maybe from one of their first dates—a memory of him walking toward her with a single rose that bobbed in his hands with every step.
Step.
Step.
Step.
As Lydia stood, her reflection distorted and bowed across the curved glass that housed the face of the clock. Her button nose now elongated to that of a witch, her almond eyes rounding out to the sides of her head. She chuckled to herself and gently placed a hand on the side of the clock, the clicking of the pendulum pulsating against her palm like a heartbeat.
Later that night, after dragging in the mattress from her station wagon, she finally set her last box on the aging laminate kitchen counter. Hands on her hips, Lydia looked around the place and smiled.
If only younger me could be here to see it.
She’d finally got her blank slate.
Lydia then lay in the cool darkness of her new bedroom, grateful for her new life. A light warmth filled her body, the ticking down the hall transfixing her, ushering her into a gentle reverie.
Drifting off to the clicking, Lydia dreamed of the day she met David.
At her freshman orientation she had noticed a man wearing a green-and-black checkered flannel, sleeves rolled up, and holes worn through the knees of his pants. She wanted to scoff, but then he turned and smiled at her. She couldn’t ignore his piercing eyes. And that was all it took.
He leaned over and said something to his group of friends before standing and crossing the crowded room to greet Lydia himself.
“Hey, I’m David,” he said, the words seeming to float from his mouth, fluttering toward her ears. His eyes dropped to a textbook she was holding to her chest. The edge of the book peeked out from underneath her arm.
“I have First-Year Seminar too,” said David, lowering his gaze, likely to admire the rest of her.
“Would you want to get some coffee? On me?” he asked.
Five minutes later, they found themselves on the busy sidewalk leading to Addams Hall, paper cups in hand. Lydia had ordered her usual latte with milk and sweetener but was surprised to find that David wasn't a fan of coffee—he had ordered a hot tea with honey and vanilla instead. As they walked side by side down the footpath, their steps fell together in unison.
Left.
Right.
Left.
Right.
After pointing out a woman and her golden retriever on the path before them, David told Lydia about his ailing dog he had put down only a few weeks prior. Lydia sympathized, but fought the urge to console him. Her thought was interrupted when she marked the faces of the people surrounding her—their contorted expressions painted with shock and disgust.
As if a dam had burst, a flood of people rushed toward her, knocking into her without concern. Lydia stumbled and tripped over her own feet. Inundated with a wave of panic, Lydia looked over to see David reaching out to her. Suddenly, strange hands grabbed and grasped all over her body, one after another. Each grip stronger than the last, the hands pulled at her hair; Lydia’s scalp nearly tore away from her skull before her vision faded to black.
She couldn’t see, she couldn’t move, she couldn’t even scream—but she could still hear.
All she could do was listen.
A chorus of a hundred feet surrounded her and stamped the sidewalk in reverberating lockstep.
Knock.
Knock.
Knock.
Lydia’s eyes jolted open, sweat beading on her forehead. Three heavy knocks on the front door broke the morning silence. Another round of hammering pulled Lydia from her daze, and she forced herself to rise and answer the door. As she walked down the hall to the stairs, the ticking reverberated inside her skull. Her body pulsated with every click. Head throbbing, eyes squinting, teeth clenching, she shuffled down the steps.
Lydia opened it to find a stocky man in a crimson shirt standing on the veranda.
“Mrs. Carrigan?” asked the man.
“Yes. Hi, I’m so sorry for the wait.” She peered at the moving truck parked in the street beside her station wagon. “Should I move my car?”
“No need, we’ll bring everything in.” He glanced back to the truck for a moment, revealing a tattoo of a rose on the side of his neck. She could see the petals quivering with each tick of the clock that echoed behind her.
“Just as soon as you let us know what goes where.”
Lydia could see two other men dressed in the same crimson uniform waiting by the moving truck. The bold black letters that clung to its side read clement & sons.
“Of course. Thank you,” she replied with unease.
A couple hours and a few signatures later, the house was looking more like a home. Organizing bookshelves always brought her joy—she gazed at them and smiled, admiring the numerous rows of hardback nove
ls organized into genres. Beyond the books, the knick-knacks were all sorted, her clothes folded and put away. Framed photos of David and the boys dressed up the home as a finishing touch.
As night crept in, she went from room to room turning on lamps; the light revealed more and more of her hard work. Weary from the unpacking, Lydia eventually moved to her favorite couch that had been pushed against the living room wall. As she lay down and leaned her head against the cushion, the weight of her eyelids transported her to a much-needed sleep.
The echo of the swinging pendulum upstairs hurled itself down the hall, bouncing down the steps and rippling through the living room. Lydia jerked awake, gasping for breath, her hands reaching down to the couch to center herself. Her eyes immediately darted to the stairs.
The hair on the back of her neck prickled as she listened to the clicking from the floor above. Lydia pushed herself off the couch and paused after a couple of shaky steps. Crowning the top of the steps on unsteady legs, she stared down the hall, unable to help herself from gawking at the clock’s beauty—the carvings, the color, the lustrous wood finish. But what mesmerized her most was the rose at the end of the pendulum. Clicking from side to side, it almost beckoned her. Her feet shuffled toward the clock against her will, her eyes following the pendulum’s swing. The closer she got, the faster her heart pounded against her chest.
Lydia squeezed the last globule of her travel-size shampoo bottle into her palm. The hum of the mower outside the bathroom window blended with the steady torrent of the showerhead to create a soothing effect. She felt dazed, almost like she had fallen into a stupor. As Lydia drifted into a trance, she bore deep into her memories.
She recalled sitting at the end of a dock, David at her side. The Minnesota lake house stood behind them while they both gazed out toward the sun as it dipped over the lake. Lydia remembered it vividly, resting her head on David’s shoulder as her legs hung over the edge, swinging back and forth above the dark green water. The smell of David’s cologne filled her nostrils. He reached behind his back for a moment, then his hand reappeared, a single rose rippling in the wind from the lake. Lydia plucked it from his gentle grasp. Roses were her favorite so she kissed him.
Lydia looked down at the water, and the image of her swinging legs in the lake’s reflection burned into her mind.
Back and forth.
Back and forth.
Back and forth.
The sudden sting from hot to ice-cold water shocked Lydia back to the present. She slammed the stainless steel knob sideways, and the full force of the blast immediately quieted. She no longer heard the mower. The drops from the showerhead beat against the bottom of the tub, echoing in a synchronized pattern. She wrung the excess water from her hair while her eyes followed each free-falling drop to the drain below.
From down the hall, the sound of the pendulum joined with the droplets, keeping time.
After the water stopped dripping, Lydia eventually stepped out of the tub and got dressed. When she later passed through the hallway, hair still wrapped in a towel, she examined the clock in the morning’s gentle glow. The ticking greeted her.
With dreamy eyes, she whispered, “Morning, my love.”
Once again she caressed the side of the grandfather clock. A strange set of grooves tickled her fingertips, so she removed her hand and leaned closer. Engraved into the paneling were the words clement & sons.
A shiver rippled across her skin.
Later that night, part of the golden moon peeked through the trees in Lydia’s front yard. As she came down the stairs, a familiar scent wafted through the air. She tried to place the aroma, her brow furrowing as remnants of nostalgia flickered through her mind.
Vanilla. And . . . honey.
Almost too dark to see anything, she gingerly entered the kitchen. Between the stainless steel sink and the still-hot coil of the stove top was her favorite mug filled almost to the top with milky water. A swirl of vapor rose from the cup.
That can’t be possible.
Lydia’s heart rate quickened as a brick formed in her chest. Finding herself holding her breath, she forced herself to relax then reached out for the handle.
Lydia turned off the stove with a shaky hand and dumped the tea down the drain. During the process, she smacked the bottom of the mug against the kitchen sink. The sound sang through the house. Lydia flinched from the noise then placed the mug in the dishwasher, effectively erasing the evidence of what she was already telling herself was a hallucination.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
She thought how odd it was that only at certain moments she could consciously hear the clock or how it crept into her ears out of nowhere when she was busying herself with everyday chores. It felt like a deceiving hug from a parent, reassuring her but at the same time squeezing her tighter and tighter with each breath.
Lost in thought, she wandered into the living room. The plush threads of the thick area rug tickled her bare feet, pulling her from her trance and pushing her into the present. Out of her peripheral vision, Lydia detected something through the banister rails at the top of the stairs—a pair of black leather shoes topped with navy work pants.
“Hello?” she croaked.
The stranger didn’t answer, only stood there without moving. Lydia waited in the stillness. Her throat was dry. Blood pumped harder through her ears. Every muscle in her body tightened.
“I’m going to call the police,” she announced to the stranger.
The ticking grew louder, and she felt compelled to see who the mysterious individual was. But something inside her already knew the answer. She took a deep breath to gather what courage she had and trudged up the staircase as if wading through a swamp. An urge to investigate swelled in her chest and consumed her against her better judgement.
Lydia reached the first step, looked up, and discovered the stranger was now facing away from her. She could hear the intruder, who she took to be a man, tapping his hand on the banister with a distinct clicking sound—as if he was wearing a ring.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
With the same beat as the man's hand, the same rhythm as the clock, Lydia unconsciously swayed her head from side to side and took the steps one at a time. The man on the stairs suddenly raised his foot, turned, and meandered down the hall. His footsteps, her swaying head, the pulsing in her ears—all were synchronous.
Lydia reached the second floor and followed the man's direction. Down the hall, the stranger's body was staggering back and forth between the walls in concert with the clicking pendulum.
The intruder was now at the end of the corridor, standing toe to toe with the clock. He turned around and faced Lydia before delivering a massive grin, the rest of his face painted black from the shadows.
Her stomach dropped with recognition as her heart swelled, and all the stress that balled up in her chest melted away.
There he stood, not looking any older than their wedding day. She couldn’t mistake him for anyone else: the dark hair, the small dimple when he smiled. She moved toward him with a soft shuffling, and as she got closer, the unmistakable scent of his cologne enveloped her. It was her David.
“Hi, sweetheart. You’re right on time,” he whispered in the soft tone that crawled out from the past and into her heart.
Their eyes locked. The closer Lydia floated toward him, the wider his smile grew—stretching to almost unnatural proportions. The hallway seemed to be three times longer than usual. Lydia extended her hand, and David reciprocated with his own—now a sculpted rose at the end of a long, brass arm.
Dread smothered the hope and longing within her heart. She would not lose the love of her life again.
She moved to within a couple feet of her husband. David was now the size of the face of the clock, and he beckoned her from the other side of the glass. His smile and the sway of his head stirred the deep longing she held within her heart since his departure from this world. But here he wa
s—he had come back for her. Lydia’s hands gripped either side of the clock, knuckles white, standing inches from its glass face. Her head rocked along with David and the rose of the pendulum.
With a smile on her face, she exhaled with a breathy voice, “My love.”
The community welcome wagon—who had long since abandoned paying attention to the house and its occupants—neither noticed the abating cicadas nor the new abundance of ticks and snakes in their own yards. It wasn't until neighbors became curious about the rusty station wagon with expired plates that sat outside the home that anyone heard the rhythmic, muffled ticking. The sound leaked through the broken windows shattered by neighborhood kids who had hurled rocks from across the street. If only they had the courage to enter, they may have found their way upstairs, followed the noise down the hall, and discovered the most gorgeous of grandfather clocks. Below its face, they wouldn't have seen a swinging pendulum, but the severed leg of a woman who gave everything for her past—swaying back and forth, blood dripping to the dark puddle below.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
JOE RADKINS is an illustrator, horror writer, and a cheesecake connoisseur. Born and raised in Florida, he now resides in Pennsylvania with his wife and son. At a young age he discovered his love for film, stories, and art, leading him to attend Columbia College Chicago to study cinematography. He spends his days training his Padawan, writing, and fulfilling art commissions. You can find his work on Instagram @thecinemaddiction or contact him at [email protected].
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Illustration by Drew Nault
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1
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Sarah opened her eyes behind the counter of a convenience store, the dirty barrel of a .38 Special inches from her face. The snub-nose peeked above a skeletal fist. It was close enough to smell—rusty, like ore pulled straight from the earth, dirty and raw. A scrap of faded brown fabric clung to the front sight where it had ripped when the homeless man tore the gun from his pocket.
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