The Clockwork Visitor

I was six, and my grandmother, a woman with more stories than years, loved to drag me along on her visits to the old folk. I didn’t mind, not really. She always came bearing gifts: a peppermint stick, a small tin soldier, a knitted scarf that itched. So when she said we were going to see her cousin Marta, who lived in a dusty, sprawling farmhouse at the edge of the woods, I was excited. Marta was ancient, with skin like crumpled paper, and she had a dog, a fat, lumbering thing named Bruno, who smelled of wet earth and old bread. I liked Bruno more than I liked Marta.

Marta’s house was a maze of creaking floorboards and doors that never quite closed. The living room was dark, with heavy curtains that kept out the sun, and the air smelled of mothballs and dried lavender. My grandmother and Marta settled into worn armchairs, their voices low and serious. They were talking about Marta’s brother, who had died the previous winter, and the conversation was as interesting to me as watching paint dry. So I slipped away, through the kitchen, out the back door, and into the garden where Bruno was tied to a post.

Bruno wagged his tail, and I threw a stick for him, over and over, until I was hot and breathless. I was about to sit on the porch steps when I heard it: a high, thin voice, like a child’s, calling my name. ‘Mira! Mira!’ It came from the direction of the woods that bordered the garden. I froze. The voice was familiar, but I couldn’t place it. It called again, and Bruno let out a low growl, his fur bristling. My heart hammered. I ran back inside, straight to the living room.

‘Grandma! Someone called me!’ I blurted, my voice trembling.

My grandmother looked up, her glasses sliding down her nose. ‘Called you? Who would call you here, child?’

‘Out in the woods. I heard my name.’

Marta shook her head, her lips pursed. ‘It’s just the wind, dear. It plays tricks out here.’

But I knew what I heard. I didn’t go back to the garden. I wandered down the hall, looking for the bathroom. The house had a strange feel, like it was holding its breath. I found the bathroom, did my business, and came out. Then I saw it: a grandfather clock, taller than my father, standing against the wall at the end of the hall. It hadn’t been there when I came in, or maybe I just hadn’t noticed. It was ornate, carved from dark wood, with a face that gleamed like gold. And as I watched, something began to happen.

A thin wisp of steam curled out from behind the clock’s pendulum door. It was faint at first, like a breath on a cold day, but it grew thicker, more substantial. It didn’t rise; it coalesced, taking shape. A form emerged from the steam—a woman, tall and slender, with hair that seemed to float as if underwater. Her face was beautiful, but cold, like a marble statue, and her eyes were empty pits. She was dressed in a white gown that billowed, though there was no breeze in the hall. And despite everything, she smiled. Her lips stretched too wide, showing teeth like needles. She raised a hand, and it was like she was beckoning me closer.

I couldn’t move. My legs were rooted to the floor. The woman took a step forward, and the air grew cold. Then she spoke, and her voice was the same that had called my name in the garden. ‘Mira,’ she said, ‘I’ve been waiting for you.’

I opened my mouth to scream, but no sound came out. The woman glided closer, and I could see through her, to the clock behind. She reached out, her fingers brushing my cheek. They were icy, and they burned. ‘Don’t be afraid,’ she whispered. ‘We’re going to play.’

Then, just as suddenly as she appeared, she vanished. The steam dissipated, and the clock was still. I ran, screaming, to the living room. My grandmother and Marta were still talking, and they looked startled when I burst in. ‘The clock!’ I cried. ‘There’s a woman in the clock!’

Marta paled. ‘What did you say?’

‘A woman, made of steam, she came out of the clock and she called my name!’

Marta exchanged a look with my grandmother, one that was heavy with something I didn’t understand. Then she stood, slowly, and walked to the hall. I followed, clutching my grandmother’s skirt. The hall was empty. The clock stood silent, its pendulum still. Marta bent down and looked at me closely. ‘You saw her, didn’t you? The lady in white?’

I nodded, tears streaming down my face.

Marta sighed, a long, weary sound. ‘She’s been here since I was a girl. My father said she was a ghost, a woman who died on this land, waiting for something. But she never showed herself to me until I was ten. She tried to take me away, but my father, he knew what to do. He told me to ignore her, to never follow her. You must do the same, Mira. If you see her again, close your eyes and cover your ears. Don’t listen to her.’

I nodded, but I was still shaking. For the rest of the visit, I stayed glued to my grandmother’s side. I didn’t go near the clock again, and I didn’t go into the garden. When we left, I was relieved to be out of that house.

But the lady followed me. That night, as I lay in my bed at home, I heard her voice again, soft as a lullaby. ‘Mira,’ she cooed. ‘Come out and play.’ I hid under the covers, my hands over my ears, but her voice pierced through. ‘I’ll wait for you,’ she said. ‘I have all the time in the world.’

I’ve never returned to that house. My grandmother passed away years ago, and Marta, too. Sometimes, in the quiet of the night, I still hear that voice, calling my name, as clear as the day I first heard it in the garden. And I fear that one day, when I’m old and weary, I’ll answer, and she’ll be waiting for me, as patient as the clock that never runs out of time.