The Hollowgram

In the autumn of 2019, I opened a small antique restoration studio in the old mill district of Lantern Creek. The building had been a textile mill in the 1920s, and the upper floors still smelled of oil and old wood. We started taking in pieces in October, just before the town’s Harvest Festival. By the first week of November, I noticed odd things: a clock that had stopped at 3:47 would be ticking again in the morning, its hands set to 3:47 exactly. I chalked it up to drafts and old gears.

But then the bell over the front door began to ring on its own. At first, it was a single chime, as if someone had brushed it. Then it became a pattern: two rings, pause, two rings. I checked the door; it was deadbolted from the inside. My assistant, Mara, said she heard it too, but she always laughed it off as the building settling. One afternoon, while I was in the back room polishing a walnut cabinet, I heard the bell ring twice. I walked out, expecting a customer, but the front was empty. The air was cold, and a faint smell of camphor hung in the room. I called out, ‘Hello?’ No answer. I looked at the security camera feed later; the bell moved on its own, no one near it.

As the weeks passed, the events grew more deliberate. A music box that I had repaired would play a few notes at night, always the same lullaby, even though its mechanism had been removed. Tools would shift places. One morning, I found a set of brass polishing cloths laid out in a perfect row on the workbench, as if someone had prepared for a task. I asked Mara if she had done it; she shook her head, pale. ‘You know, my grandmother used to tell me about this mill. There was a fire in the 40s, and a night watchman named Elias died in it. He was known for his strict routines.’ We both fell silent.

On the first of December, I arrived at dawn to find the front door unlocked, the bell silent. Inside, every clock in the shop (I had a collection of antique timepieces) was set to 3:47. I walked through the rooms, my breath visible in the cold air. In the back, I found a small, leather-bound journal on the workbench. It was not mine. The pages were yellowed, but the ink was fresh. I opened it; the first entry read: ‘They found my watch, but I can’t leave until I wind it. The hollowgram keeps time. I am not dead, just unwound.’

I searched the building for a hidden compartment or a watch. I knew the old mill had a basement that had been sealed. I pried open the trapdoor behind a shelf. The stairs descended into darkness. Mara came in just as I was about to go down, and she begged me not to. ‘There’s something down there, Alan. I’ve heard it at night, like gears turning.’ But I felt compelled. I took a flashlight and descended.

The basement was vast, with thick beams and dust. In the center, under a tarp, was a tall cabinet entirely covered in clock faces. All were stopped at 3:47. But as I approached, one of the clock hands moved, ticking to 3:48. Then another, and another. Soon all were ticking, in unison, but they moved counterclockwise. At the base of the cabinet, there was a keyhole. I felt my own pocket watch (a gift from my father) grow warm. I pulled it out; it was ticking in reverse. My hand trembled as I inserted the key into the cabinet’s lock. It turned.

The cabinet doors swung open. Inside, there was a mannequin dressed in an old mill worker’s uniform, its face a porcelain doll with blank eyes. But its chest had a glass panel, revealing a complex mechanism of gears and springs that was slowly unwinding. A small engraved plate read: ‘Elias P. – Night Watchman, 1947. Wound only by those who hear the bell.’

I realized then that I had become his successor. Every night, the bell rang to summon me to wind him. If I didn’t, he would unwind, and time itself would unravel in the mill. I backed away, but the door slammed shut behind me. From the upper floors, I heard the lullaby playing, and the bell rang twice, twice, twice. The journal in my hand fell open to a page: ‘The hollowgram is a promise. Once you hear it, you are bound. There is no escape, only the endless winding.’

I am writing this from the basement now. Mara has not come. I have a key, but I know the moment I wind him, I will have to do it every night, forever. The clocks above are ticking backwards, and the light has dimmed. I hear footsteps on the stairs. But when the door opens, it will not be Mara. It will be the hollowgram, and I will be its new caretaker.