Short Story: The Thirteenth Chime

You ever heard the story ‘bout the Clock Tower that chimes thirteen, and the man who winds her up?

Most people haven’t. It must be somethin’ only the people in our small town talk about. Our town, our Clock Tower. Maybe other towns don’t have Clock Towers. Or maybe theirs don’t chime thirteen like ours.

Story goes that ever’ once in a blue moon, the man that winds the Clock Tower chooses someone from the town. Someone evil, someone who has it comin’, someone who’s gotten away with it for too long. An’ then, he delivers their just desserts.

It’s said that the wrong-doer’ll wake at the bottom of the Clock Tower one night when the moon is high, the massive shadow of it hangin’ over ‘em. He’s trapped in the shadows. Unable to leave. Only to move forward, further into shadow, toward the Clock Tower. Then, they climb. Climb or wait for Death to catch ‘em.

If they make it to the top before Death catches ‘em, they go free. But if they don’t…

That was the last story Grandpop ever told me. I stared up at him, 8-years-old, teddy clutched tight to my chest. Then the Clock Tower began to chime, and I felt my eyes widen. Grandpop waved my fears away and sent me to bed as he poured himself another two fingers of scotch.

That night, Grandpop went out for a walk in the dark. He never came back.

I didn’t know what that meant at the time, but years later, I learned two fingers was the exact right amount to pour so you could swirl it around the glass without spilling. Even after the third glass, or was this my fourth?

“I don’t know what made me think of that,” I said to the bartender as I set my tumbler to the scuffed laminate bar top.

“Uh hu,” he said, pouring a pair from the tap for the couple down the far end. I watched him walk two beers down the bar and set the glasses on coasters in front of a smiling couple. Her skirt was too short, and he was too old, but they clung to each other like they’d float away if they let go.

I dropped a note on the table and pushed my stool out, bracing with one hand while I pulled my chair a little further to the right. Why did they always make these so hard to get out of? The engineer must’ve thought it was a brilliant design. Make ‘em easy to squeeze into. Hard to leave. And then what? I’ll keep ordering drinks? Idiots.

I stumbled around the stool and toward the exit. I felt the weight of my keys in my pocket, but I knew better than to reach for them before the parking lot. Fool me once, but I’m not walking home again.

I didn’t remember fishing my keys out of my pocket.

Didn’t remember getting into my truck.

Didn’t remember driving home.

Didn’t even remember seeing the parking lot.

All I remembered was hearing the chimes ring out as my hand closed around the door handle.

And then I was looking at pavement. My cheek was pressed into the jagged, loose rubble beneath me. I sucked in a breath, tasting the asphalt, and coughed. A puff of dust floated loose in front of me.

All around was darkness. No, that wasn’t right. All around me was darkness, but I could see where the street lights illuminated the surrounding area.

There, to my left, was the row of trees I’d played around as a kid.

That, just past the street lamp, was the bench I’d seen Old Gormley sleeping on the night I’d walked home from the bar.

And that there, behind it, was the park beyond.

Slowly, I pressed up and turned, taking in every familiar detail until only one remained.

I looked up at the Clock Tower. It loomed some twenty feet in front of me now, and I had been swallowed by its shadow.

“No,” I breathed.

“Oh, yes.” Came the gravelly answer.

A figure moved from within the shadow.

I stumbled back, reaching blindly behind me for the border of light, only to be met with a firm boundary. I turned, pressing into the invisible wall, but it didn’t budge.

“No,” I repeated, louder this time, and faced the figure, pressing my back into the wall.

“Yes,” the figure said. Only the outline, the shape of a man, was discernible. No facial features, no clothes, not even color distinguished it from the darkness around us.

“You have not been a very kind man, have you, George Smallworth?”

“I… I am kind. I have been kind. I am a good person. I haven’t done anything wrong.”

“Haven’t you?” The figure moved, disappearing and reappearing amongst the shadows.

“It no longer matters, George. Now--CLIMB!”

And as if my body had been waiting for the cue, I lurched forward and stumbled into a jog, then a run, and soon I was sprinting for the Clock Tower, terror clawing from my chest.

I had never come this close to the Clock Tower before. Now, as I pressed my hands into it, I saw that it had been built for this purpose. The rough masonry that propped up and surrounded the clock face had been left just an inch or two uneven. Small natural hand and footholds, if you could keep a grip.

Now, I reached for the highest stone I could get to, pressed the tips of my fingers into the short edge, placed my first footing, and hauled myself up.

I placed another hand.

Then another foot.

And another.

And another, and soon I was climbing.

I let myself believe, for just a moment, that I could make it to the top.

And then I felt him at my back.

The figure, or death, or whatever gave chase up the Clock Tower. I heard the scrape of shoes on stone, the rattle of ragged breath. It was just behind me. I didn’t dare look back. What if looking into the face of it, what if that’s how you lost, died? What if it reached out and plucked me from the wall of the tower, and I watched myself fall all the way to the bottom?

No, I wouldn’t look back. I would climb, and faster. I would climb until my fingers bled, until my own breathing tore from my throat from the exertion.

I climbed harder now, faster. I would not let this thing catch me. I would not die today. Not like Grandpop. I wouldn’t leave Maisey and Beth Anne alone. I had already left them alone for too long. Spending each night at the bar or in someone else’s bed.

How could I have done that to my Beth Anne? I saw her sweet, round face in my mind as she walked toward me, all dressed in white, almost a decade ago now. And darling Maisey, who only ever wanted to play outside among the flowers. Who’d plucked one just this morning to bring me, and I’d waved it away in my rush to get to work.

My climb was slowing now, my muscles fatiguing. My fingers lost grip for a second, and I only just caught myself.

I took a moment to catch my breath, but I heard it again and froze. The thing that chased me breathed long and deep from just behind me.

I felt its putrid breath wash over the back of my neck, the tang of something familiar lingering in the air.

I wanted to climb, to escape, to move so fast that what was left of the flesh on my palms peeled away as my hands scraped against the rugged stone in their haste. But fear kept me rooted where I clung.

I didn’t want to turn and see the thing behind me. I didn’t want to see my own death in its eyes as it ripped me apart or sucked my soul from me.

Slowly, my head began to turn.

My eyes followed, seeking out the source of the suck and exhale at my neck.

And then, as a claw gripped my left shoulder and sliced through my coat, a rock beneath my feet fell away.

And I dropped.

Falling, I scrambled for a grip. My right hand caught a ledge, and I jerked to a stop. Pain radiated across my chest from my left side, but I couldn’t find a second grip. I glanced over and horror rolled from my gut.

My left arm was gone. All that was left was a tattered, bloody stump protruding from my shoulder.

Vomit followed the wave of horror, burning my throat as I coughed rancid scotch onto the Clock Tower. The bricks blurred in front of me, but the sound of shoes shuffling on rock pulled me back.

It was back.

It had climbed down the wall. Followed me. And now I was stuck. I couldn’t climb with one arm. I was barely conscious. Warm blood ran down the inside of my jacket, into the waistband of my jeans, and pooled in my boot. It wouldn’t be long now.

I was dying. And the thing that chased me had come to finish the job. I could hear it, lurking around the corner, just out of sight. Why wasn’t it attacking?

I looked up. The top of the Clock Tower was within sight. Maybe fifty feet.

I glanced at what remained of my left arm. There was a long, thin strip of flesh dangling from the wound. The light breeze pulled at its end. It reminded me of one of those paper party streamers flapping in the wind.

I closed my eyes, fighting the wooziness that threatened to pull me under.

The feet shuffled closer. The breath, just as ragged and guttural as before, snapped me back into focus.

If I was going to die, it wouldn’t be because I gave up. I’d quit on everything and everyone my whole life. I didn’t want that to be the last thing I ever did.

I lifted one foot, dug the toe of my boot into the wall, and threw my right hand up. I gripped the next brick, then lifted my left foot and threw my hand up again.

The thing followed.

Forty-five feet.

Then forty.

Still, it didn’t attack, but it closed the gap between us until we were back where we started.

Thirty feet from the top.

Sweat poured from my face and dripped on the wall, washing blood away.

I climbed.

Twenty-five feet.

Now it was next to me on the wall. It rasped just below my right shoulder.

Twenty feet.

The breathing was level with me now. It climbed alongside me. Keeping my pace as if urging me on.

I didn’t dare look at it. Didn’t want that to be the last thing I’d ever see.

Fifteen feet.

Ten feet.

My fingers were slipping. I could barely hold my grip. My legs trembled. The wall spun. Darkness narrowed my vision. It was the blood loss. I wasn’t going to make it.

My breathing matched the thing next to me. We sucked in and exhaled at the same time. The thick, sick of digested scotch and vomit breath filled the air.

My eye trailed, just for a second, to my right. My hand gripped the wall. The thick gold wedding band that cut into my finger glinted despite the shadows.

Several bricks across, another hand gripped the wall.

It wore an identical ring.

I couldn’t help it. My glance trailed up its arm. It was covered in the same dirty work jacket I wore. The opening of it revealed the same faded white t-shirt I had under my own coat, now stained in rust-colored blood.

My breathing came harder now, and the thing breathed harder to match. I was going to look at its face. I was ten feet from freedom, and I was going to die. I couldn’t stop it.

My gaze caught on the mangled shoulder of my pursuer.

And then I looked into his face, and my fingers slipped.

The Clock Tower struck thirteen as the barman locked the door, and for a second, he thought he heard something screech in the night.

The feedback I got was that my baddie needed to seem like he deserved it more. Maybe in the conversation with the bartender. What did you think?