The Clockwork Bear

The summer I turned sixteen, my mother decided we would spend the holidays at my grandmother’s cottage in the hills of Kumaon. The place was a relic of another era, with creaking wooden floors and a grandfather clock that chimed at odd hours. My grandmother, frail and soft-spoken, had lived there alone since my grandfather passed. My mother spent most days in the kitchen, cooking and gossiping with the local women, while I roamed the pine forest that bordered the property.

My cousin, Rohan, was a year older and full of mischief. He had come from the city to keep me company, and we spent our days building forts and hiding from the sun. On the third evening, while playing hide-and-seek in the attic, I stumbled upon a box of my mother’s childhood things. Inside was a little teddy bear with button eyes, one of them loose and dangling. I thought it was cute and brought it to my room, intending to keep it.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. The wind howled through the gaps in the walls, and the clock downstairs struck midnight with a deep, resonant gong. I tossed and turned, my mind racing with stories of mountain spirits my grandmother used to tell. At some point, I realized I was clutching the teddy bear, and a sudden, irrational panic seized me: I had to have it with me under the covers, but it felt wrong, as if it wasn’t mine. I remembered my mother telling me, ‘Don’t take things that aren’t yours, Seema. They might come back for them.’

I decided to ask Rohan if he had seen my own teddy bear, the one I had slept with since I was a child. I found him in the hallway, a torch in hand, his face pale. When I asked, he looked at me with a strange fury, his eyes narrowed. ‘Are you mad, Seema? It’s the middle of the night. What are you doing with that?’ He pointed at the object in my hands. I looked down: I had unconsciously taken the old bear from the attic. He snatched it from me and shoved it into a drawer in the hall table, muttering, ‘Leave it for the moths. Go back to bed.’ I was taken aback by his anger and turned to leave.

As I walked back to my room, I noticed the door to my grandmother’s room was ajar, though I had closed it when she retired. A sliver of light spilled from within. I peeped in and saw my grandmother sitting upright in bed, staring at the wall. She didn’t seem to notice me. She was whispering a low, steady stream of words in a language I didn’t understand. I froze. Then she turned her head sharply and looked directly at me, but her eyes were milky white, as if she were blind. She said, ‘In three days, the bear will claim you back.’ I stumbled back, my heart pounding, and ran to my mother’s room, but the door was locked. I knocked frantically, but there was no answer.

I huddled on the floor outside, hugging my knees, until exhaustion took me. When I woke, morning light was streaming through the window. My mother found me there and scolded me for sleeping in the hall. When I tried to tell her about my grandmother, she laughed it off, saying, ‘She talks in her sleep. Don’t worry.’

But I couldn’t shake the dread. And over the next two days, I noticed the bear from the attic had appeared in my room again, lying on my pillow as if it had been waiting. I threw it out the window, but it was back the next morning. Rohan denied touching it. My grandmother no longer spoke to me normally; she only fixed me with a look that made my blood run cold.

On the third night, I woke to find the bear in my arms, its button eye staring up at me. I tried to scream, but no sound came. The room was freezing. The bear began to move, its stubby limbs twitching as if it were alive. It crawled up my chest and pressed its fuzzy muzzle against my ear. In a voice like a rusty hinge, it whispered, ‘You took me from my home. Now I will take you from yours.’

I tried to throw it off, but I couldn’t move. The bear grew heavy, pinning me to the bed. The walls of the room began to dissolve into a swirling darkness, and the floor gave way. I was falling, the bear still clinging to me, into an endless pit filled with the sound of children’s laughter, but distorted and wrong.

I jolted awake in a sweat. The sun was rising, and the bear was gone. I ran to the attic and found the box empty. My mother and grandmother acted as if nothing had happened. But when I looked in the mirror, I saw a small, faint bruise on my neck in the shape of a button. And in my pocket, I found a single thread of frayed, brown wool.

I never spoke to anyone about that night. But on the train home, I glanced into a window and saw a reflection that wasn’t mine: a girl with button eyes, smiling. And beneath my seat, something rustled. I looked down and saw the bear, missing an eye, holding the other out to me as if offering a trade. I screamed until the conductor came, but when he looked, there was nothing there.

To this day, I avoid teddy bears. But sometimes, in the quiet moments of night, I feel a small, soft weight against my chest, and I hear a tiny, rasping voice say, ‘We’re almost home.’