The Clockwork Man

The house on Maple Street was only ten years old, but it had a way of feeling ancient. My family moved in when I was three, and I remember my first night there, lying in my crib, staring at the ceiling. The room was dim, lit only by the soft glow of a nightlight shaped like a crescent moon. I was just learning to talk, and I had a habit of pointing at things and asking, ‘What’s that?’ My parents would laugh and tell me, but some things they couldn’t explain.

One afternoon, when I was four, I was sitting on the kitchen floor, playing with a set of plastic blocks. My mother was at the sink, washing dishes, and my father was in the living room reading the paper. I looked up at the wall above the stove, and I saw a man. He was tall, thin, and completely white, like a figure cut from paper, but he was solid. He walked right through the wall and disappeared into the pantry. I remember thinking, ‘How did he do that?’ But I didn’t cry. I just stared, and when my mother turned around, I pointed at the pantry and said, ‘Man.’ She looked, but there was nothing there. She told me to stop being silly.

When I was six, I saw him again. I had woken up in the middle of the night, thirsty, and I padded downstairs to get a glass of water. The kitchen light was off, but the moonlight came through the window, casting long shadows. As I reached for a glass from the cabinet, I heard a soft tick, tick, tick, like a clock, but irregular. I turned, and he was standing by the refrigerator. He was paler than the moon, and his eyes, if he had any, were hidden in the hollows of his face. I froze. He took a step toward me, his movements jerky, like a marionette. I wanted to run, but my legs wouldn’t move. He took another step, and the ticking grew louder. Then he stopped, tilted his head, and pointed a long finger at the window. I followed his gaze, and for a moment, I saw a shadow outside, a figure with a wide-brimmed hat, and then it was gone. When I looked back, he was gone too. I ran to my parents’ room, crying, and they held me, telling me it was just a nightmare. But I knew it wasn’t.

At my grandmother’s house, when I was eight, I had a similar experience. She lived in a small cottage by the woods, and the house was filled with old clocks. My uncle had passed away a month before, and the house was in mourning. One night, I was staying over, and I woke up to the sound of ticking. Not from the clocks, but from the hallway. I crept to the door and peered out. There was a man in a long coat, standing at the end of the hallway, his face hidden in shadow. He was winding an old pocket watch, and the ticking was coming from it. He looked up, and I saw his face—it was my uncle, but pale as death, with hollow eyes. He smiled, and I felt a chill run down my spine. He pointed at me, then at the window, where I saw a shadow with a hat, just like before. Then he faded away, and the ticking stopped. I didn’t sleep the rest of the night.

The strangest thing happened just last week. My brother and I were the only ones awake at five in the morning. We were sitting in the living room, watching the sunrise, when we heard a noise from the kitchen. It sounded like someone was rummaging through the drawers. We exchanged a look and crept to the kitchen door. The lights were off, but we could see a figure standing at the counter, his back to us. He was tall, thin, and white, and he was inspecting a kitchen knife. He turned, and I saw his face—it was the same man from all those years ago, but now he looked older, more gaunt, and his eyes were empty. He looked at us, and then he placed the knife on the counter and walked through the wall into the pantry. We ran upstairs and hid under my bed, and we didn’t come out until our parents woke up.

We told them, but they just said we imagined it. But I know what I saw. And now, every time I walk into the kitchen, I look at the pantry door, and I wonder if he’s still there, waiting. The ticking has never stopped.