Tock-tick-tick
Tock-tick-tick, tock-tick-tick…
Willyn cracked an eye open, staring at the ivy covered grandfather clock that sagged against the crumbling plaster wall, its rusted pendulum motionless. Weird.
He blinked hard, trying to rouse his sleep fogged brain from the late afternoon nap.
He knew all of the crumbling mansion’s sounds. Had learned each one over the passing decades of confinement. The hiss of the wind through broken windows. The slow groan of timbers that followed the rise and fall of the temperature. The occasional distant tumble as some grand finery gave way to rot. The erratic scuffling of tiny creatures exploring until they got wind of him, then scurrying quickly away.
The faint tock-tick-tick continued, drifting down the shadowy hall from deeper within the building. Nothing had stirred the cavernous house with such rigid consistency in… years. It was wrong. And yet, familiar.
He pushed up from the ragged couch, dust stirring into the air. He didn’t bother with his boots—the day was too warm and the cracked tiles offered a cool touch beneath his bare feet—as he followed the noise down the central hall.
He passed the open door of the musty den, barely glanced within the decrepit library. A time etched mirror reflected his passing face, but he purposefully didn’t look. Some people found it strange to watch themselves age. It was stranger to watch as you didn’t.
Shuffling steps mixed with the steady noise as he neared the ballroom, one of the oversized double doors hanging askew. Curiosity needled him, overriding the caution that lifted the hairs on the back of his neck. Larger things tended to avoid curses.
He carefully leaned inside.
A woman stepped and spun in the center of the room, arm’s poised in the air, eyes closed. Her knee-length skirt swirled around her, rugged boots leaving a swirling path across the ballroom’s dust covered floor, each turn in time with the tock-tick-tick. She was lovely. And yet, distant memories urged him to find the tick. He leaned further.
The door cracked, a chunk falling to the floor.
The woman jumped, spinning to face him.
“Oh, um,” she laughed nervously, inching backwards. “I didn’t think anyone else was here.”
“Pardons,” he mumbled, his voice scratchy with disuse.
She tried to smile, but her eyes skipped to the wall. They flared wide, dancing back and forth between him and the wall. He followed her gaze to a faded portrait of himself, decked out in regal finery.
“That’s…”
“Oh. That.” He sighed. “Yes, you should probably be off, then. Don’t want to accidently catch a curse.”
When was the last time he saw another person? He couldn’t recall. And yet, his mind drove him to ignore her, itched to seek out the tock-tick-tick.
There, in the corner, atop the weathered and peeling piano, a metronome clicked away.
He stepped towards it, memories whispering in the back of his mind. The feel of ivory keys beneath his fingertips as they followed the strict mechanical voice of the wind up contraption. The warmth of a partner against him as he moved through the steps of a dozen dances. He picked up the little wooden case as other sounds and smells crept back, memories of¾
Movement drew his eye.
He barely caught sight of her hem disappearing through the broken backdoor.
A wave crashed over him, fresh and hot, swirling with sorrow and frustration and grief. He gripped the tiny box, fighting for a breath. Pressure built inside him, heat running through his chest and neck.
A strangled scream tore from him.
He raised the tiny box, arm cocked back. But he couldn’t.
He lowered it, settling it carefully back on the corner of the piano. It resumed its ticking, but the memories didn’t return, their absence now raw and aching.
Willyn clicked the metronome closed, silencing its tock-tick-tick, letting the crumbling mansion settle back into quiet sleep.
flash fiction by S. M. Jake, fantasy short story,