The Clockmaker’s Gift

I’ve always been a light sleeper, but that summer in the old district of Verhaven, my nights turned into a waking nightmare. I had moved into a ground-floor apartment in a century-old building that smelled of dust and decay. The previous tenant, an elderly clockmaker, had died in the bedroom, and the landlord had left his belongings in the basement, as if waiting for someone to claim them. I worked at the local library, and my hours were irregular, so I often found myself napping at odd times. One afternoon, after a particularly exhausting shift, I lay down on the couch, the afternoon sun filtering through the yellowed curtains. I drifted off, and within what felt like seconds, I was awake but frozen. My limbs were lead, my eyes fixed on the ceiling. Sleep paralysis, I thought, having experienced it in college. But then I heard a ticking. Not from a clock on the wall, but from beneath the floorboards. It was rhythmic, like a metronome, and it seemed to be getting louder. I tried to move, to scream, but nothing happened. Then, from the corner of my vision, I saw a figure emerge from the hallway. It was an old man, gaunt and hunched, with long, pale fingers. He walked slowly, his eyes fixed on a pocket watch he held in his hand. He stopped at the foot of the couch, looked at me, and smiled. His lips moved, but I heard nothing, only the ticking. He then placed the watch on the coffee table, turned, and walked back into the hallway, vanishing into the shadows. As soon as he was gone, the paralysis lifted, and I shot up, gasping. The watch was still there, an antique silver piece with no visible brand. I reached for it, and the ticking stopped. Underneath, I found a small note, yellowed and brittle, with handwriting barely legible: ‘For the one who hears me.’ I don’t know why I kept it, but I slipped it into my pocket and tried to forget. But the nightmares didn’t stop. Every afternoon, when I lay down, I would slip into that state, and he would come, always placing the watch on the table, always whispering words I couldn’t hear. And the ticking grew louder, until it filled my dreams. I started sleeping less, afraid of the paralysis. I turned to coffee, to long walks, to anything to keep me awake. But eventually, exhaustion won. One night, I fell asleep in my bed, and I woke into the paralysis again. This time, he stood closer, his face inches from mine. His breath was cold, and his eyes were empty. He reached out with a trembling hand and touched my forehead. And suddenly, I was in a different place—a dusty workshop, filled with clocks of all sizes. The air was thick with dust, and the only light came from a single candle. I was sitting in a chair, and he stood at a workbench, his back to me. He was working on a clock, his movements precise. Without turning, he spoke, his voice raspy: ‘I was like you, once. I heard the ticking. I thought it was a gift. But it’s a curse. It lets you see what’s coming, but you can’t stop it.’ He turned, and in his hands, he held a clock with no hands. ‘I made this so I could forget. But it only made it worse. Now I’m stuck, and so are you.’ He placed the handless clock in my hands, and the ticking stopped. The paralysis broke, and I woke up with the handless clock on my nightstand, next to the pocket watch. The ticking in the floorboards has never returned, and I no longer suffer from sleep paralysis. But I haven’t slept soundly since. Every night, I check the clocks, making sure they don’t have hands. And every night, I hear a faint ticking from the basement, like a heartbeat, telling me he’s still waiting.