Call of Clockthulhu

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Day 23

It’s a cold, cold night. I rub my hunds until my skin goes red. The fire is dimming and I’ve run fresh out of firewood. I have half a mind to tear down the walls of my shack to keep the hearth burning. But the more layers between me and the outside world, the better. The more barriers there are between me and that… thing in the woods, the better.

The clock on the wall ticks relentlessly. 3:30 AM. Just 3 more hours until day breaks.

I part the curtains just a crack. Through the grime of the window I see the snow piled high and the trees rising into the night, blowing this way and that through the wind. The wind howls, and my door rattles on its hinges as the gale’s blunt claws scrape against it. I jump – I imagine more than just wind knocking on my door. The mere thought of it brings a shiver down my back, colder than cold. I shut the curtains and scoot back to my fire. I need to sleep.

I close my eyes, but my ears bleed. The hands of the clock tick louder with every passing second. Tick, tick, tick. I put my hands to my ears, but the sound of ticking wriggles through.

Tick, tick, tick. I kneel before the fire and pray, whispering my little mantras before the Gods of Patience and Light. 3 more hours, and the night will be gone. Another day free from the terror of that Beast.

Tick, tick, tick. My eyes are shut tight but I can see the clock in my mind’s eye – that clinical, circular instrument of doom sitting on my mantelpiece – ticking and ticking and ticking.

Before long, the ticking drowns out my own whispers, and my prayers run short. Can nothing save me now? 23 days – I don’t know how long I can hold on until it comes for me again.

I can take it no longer. I stand up, drenched with sweat. I’m going to break that clock apart. I go to the mantelpiece and-

The clock isn’t there. I look to the bookcase, the shelf, the dusty dining table – the clock isn’t anywhere. And yet the ticking remains, deafening as ever. It whines in my ears and into my mind, so that my brains quivers with every tick.

TICK, TICK, TICK…

The ticking has consumed me now. My heart beats to its rhythm. The hairs upon my skin twitch with every second. My breaths, sharp and shallow, can’t help but follow the Call of the Clock.

Then it hits me. I don’t know how I hadn’t realised it before now. I turn to the door.

The ticking is coming from outside my door. Something – someone – is ticking at my door. My heart feels about to flop onto the floorboards.

Unbidden, I stumble to it. My hand rises like the hand of the clock: up, up, up to the knob. I clutch it. A gasp ekes out of my throat. I can’t control it now. My end is nigh.

The knob squeaks and whines as my trembling fist twists it round, round, round, to the feverish beat of the clock outside.

I open the door. And It’s standing there. The Thing. A beast of shadow that opens its mouth and says:

“Hey man you’re still timed out”

This is a revised version of a story I bashed out in 30 minutes last October because my friend hadn’t played his turn of Polytopia in 23 days. We still haven’t finished that game: he hasn’t played his latest turn in 96 days…