The Lullaby of the Marigold Clock

The clock in the hallway had always been a faithful companion, its pendulum a steady heartbeat to the rhythm of our house. I’d wound it every Sunday, a ritual inherited from my father, and he from his. But on the night of my grandmother’s twentieth death anniversary, that heartbeat faltered. I woke to a strange silence, a void where the tick-tock should have been. The digital clock on my nightstand blinked 3:47 AM, and a cold draft crept under the door, carrying with it a voice—thin and reedy, like dry leaves skittering across pavement.

It was singing. A song in a language I hadn’t heard in years, drifting from the living room. My grandmother’s native tongue, the dialect of a small village in the mountains, now spoken only by the dead. The words were muffled, but the melody was unmistakable—a lullaby she used to hum to me when I was a child, a tune that had always felt like a warm blanket. But now, at this hour, with the house creaking in the wind, it felt like a summons.

I pulled on my robe and shuffled to the hallway, my bare feet cold against the wooden floor. The singing grew clearer, and I could make out fragments: ‘Come, child, the marigolds are blooming…’ I reached the living room archway and stopped. The room was bathed in a sickly yellow glow from a single lamp I didn’t remember leaving on. On the mantel, the old Marigold Clock—a family heirloom with a face painted with orange blossoms—had stopped, its hands frozen at 3:47. But in the corner, an antique gramophone, which I had never seen before, was spinning a cracked vinyl record. The needle traced the grooves, emitting that voice—not a human voice, but a recording, warped and distant.

I stepped closer, my heart thumping. On the table beside the gramophone lay an old photograph, yellowed and faded: my grandmother holding me as a baby, both of us smiling. But she was looking not at the camera but at something behind me, her eyes wide with a fear I never knew she had. I turned, expecting to see a shadow, but the room was empty. The singing continued, now louder, and I realized it was coming from the hallway—from the clock itself. The pendulum had begun to swing, but in reverse, and the clock’s face had changed: the marigolds now appeared wilted, and the hands were spinning backward, faster and faster.

I backed away, but my feet felt glued to the floor. The song crescendoed, filling my ears, and I felt a cold hand on my shoulder. I spun around—nothing. Then the voice behind me, unmistakably my grandmother’s, whispered in my ear: ‘You did not come to the temple today. You forgot the marigold offering.’ I opened my mouth to protest, but no sound came. The clock chimed—thirteen times—and the room went dark.

When I came to, it was dawn. The lamplight was off, the gramophone was gone, and the clock on the mantel was ticking normally as if nothing had happened. But on the table where the photograph had been, there was a fresh marigold, its petals brushed with dew. And in the reflection of the window, I saw my own face—but older, wrinkled, with my grandmother’s eyes. I blinked, and it was gone. I haven’t wound the clock since. But every night, at 3:47 AM, I hear the lullaby, and I know she is still waiting for me to bring her the marigolds. This year, I will not forget.