The Clockmaker (standard:horror, 1877 words)
Author: Hulsey	Added: Dec 20 2012	Views/Reads: 3366/2167	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
A dark, Christmas tale of revenge.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story


The parrot, with its plumage of blue and yellow cocked its head to one
side and cawed. “Spare a few coppers! Spare a few coppers!” 

Whitaker was now amazed by the antics of the bird. “This... This parrot.
Is it for sale?” 

Although Whitaker detested companionship, this creature had mesmerised
him. The woman's dark eyes were unblinking. “This bird is special. You 
cannot afford this bird.” 

“Five pounds,” offered the clockmaker. “I'll give you five pounds for
the parrot.” 

The woman was now covered in a film of snow, but no invitation to pass
over the threshold was forthcoming. “You have a deal.” 

Whitaker almost smiled. “Wait here.” 

He returned seconds later with a crispy five-pound note and handed it
over to the woman. “What does it eat?” 

“She... It is female,” croaked the old woman. “Seeds, nuts and fruit.” 

“Does she have a name?” 

“Afrit.” 

Whitaker accepted the cage and felt the woman's cold hand gripping his
wrist. She grimaced, her vile breath repulsing Whitaker. He wrestled 
his hand free and watched as the woman shuffled away, disappearing into 
the growing snowstorm. 

Whitaker settled down in the evening in his armchair, nibbling on an
apple, which he had purchased at a supermarket. As usual, he would wait 
until the produce was almost out of date before purchasing it cheaply. 
He fixatedly watched the cartoons, slicing pieces of his apple and 
feeding them into his mouth. 

“Twelve, seven, thirty four, sixteen, one, thirteen,” came the call from
the parrot. 

Whitaker turned in amazement towards the parrot and slowly approached
the cage. “Tch, tch,” he mouthed. 

“Twelve, seven, thirty four, sixteen, one, thirteen,” repeated the
parrot, moving its colourful head in time to the words. 

Whitaker grinned and hurried towards his sideboard. He returned moments
later with a notebook and pencil. “Again, Afrit.” 

“Twelve, seven, thirty four, sixteen, one, thirteen.” 

The excited clockmaker copied down the numbers. He wedged a slice of his
apple between the bars of the cage and retreated once more to his 
armchair. Outside, he could hear the whistling wind, crashing the snow 
against his window. He inspected the numbers, wondering what they could 
mean. 

After a few minutes, Whitaker whooped with enthusiasm. “The lottery!
They're lottery numbers!” 

That week, Whitaker had waited in anticipation of the Wednesday lottery
draw. Never before had he felt the need to gamble, but the parrot's 
constant calling of the numbers convinced him that the creature had a 
gift. He had parted with his beloved one-pound coin and was now sitting 
eagerly in front of his television. 

Christmas Day has passed him by; just another scam for shop retailers to
sell their goods in abundance, he deemed. In truth, Whitaker had 
advertised a sale in his shop, professing that the clocks were vastly 
reduced, but it was all a fiasco. 

The ticking of the many clocks were audible, seemingly becoming louder
when the lottery programme commenced. The parrot again called out the 
numbers, and Whitaker grinned, holding up his precious ticket. 

“Yes, I know, Afrit.” 

The result was read out and the grin on the greedy clockmaker vanished,
as one by one, his numbers proved to be incorrect. His eyes bulged with 
rage and he approached the parrot. With his pencil, he poked the bird 
viciously, causing it to fall from its perch and to cower in the corner 
of its cage. 

“Useless bird! I wasted money by listening to you... You'll be
punished... Oh, yes, you'll be punished. No seed, fruit or nuts for 
three days. I'll compensate for my lost money.” 

Afrit cawed at its owner, not realising that the punishment and abuse of
the magnificent bird would be ceaseless. 

Four weeks had passed since Whitaker's initial attempt at winning the
lottery. He was now obsessed with the numbers, as Afrit constantly 
called them out, usually every hour. With every failed attempt at 
becoming wealthy, Whitaker had punished the parrot. It was now 
undernourished, its feathers beginning to moult and dark welts on its 
body, where its master had viciously poked it with his sharp pencil. 

The death of Sally Fitzgerald was for now forgotten by the media. During
his trips to work, Whitaker now drove the long way around the village, 
not wishing to be questioned by the police. 

It was just before midnight and interior of his living room illuminated
with the flash of lightening. Outside, a vicious storm was imminent. 
Whitaker placed another log onto the dying embers of his fire, a 
blanket wrapped around his shoulders. 

“Shut up!” he screamed at the parrot, which was again reciting the
numbers. Earlier in the evening, the lottery numbers once more failed 
to match the prediction of the bird. That the numbers may have had 
nothing to do with him winning a fortune did not occur to the obsessed 
man. 

He picked up his book and proceeded to read his new purchase from the
church hall, Tom Sawyer. There was now almost complete silence, apart 
from the incessant ticking of the clocks. In unison, they chimed 
midnight, which prompted a chorus of words from the neglected parrot. 

“Tick, tock, it's twelve ‘o'clock. Tick, tock, it's twelve ‘o'clock.” 

The peeved man looked towards the parrot, its face now lit up by another
flash of lightening. Never before had it recited those words. He 
squinted, his tired eyes watching the bird. He laid his book to one 
side and approached the cage, his eyes disbelieving. The face of Afrit 
had now transformed to that of the old woman who had sold him the 
parrot. He blinked rapidly, his eyes obviously playing tricks on him. 

“Tick, tock, look at the clock. Tick, tock, look at the clock,” the
parrot repeatedly said. Whitaker reached for his pencil, and after 
poking the offending bird, it hissed, the eyes of the parrot now 
jet-black. The shocked clockmaker now covered the cage with a sheet and 
slumped into his armchair. 

A tremendous clap of thunder caused his heartbeat to accelerate. He was
now finding it difficult to breathe. 

“Tick, tock, look at the clock. Tick, tock, look at the clock.” 

Whitaker's frightened eyes now focused on one of his many clocks. It was
six minutes past twelve. His heartbeat now accelerated, the reciting of 
the parrot incessant. 

“Shut up! Shut up, be damned!” 

“Tick, tock, look at the clock.” 

Again, a flash of lightening illuminated the room and Whitaker was now
clutching at his chest. He watched as the clock now showed seven 
minutes past twelve. 

“Twelve, seven,” he gasped, recalling the obsessive numbers. His eyes
now turned to his calendar, the date tormenting him. It was the 
sixteenth of January, 2013. 

“Tick, tock, look at the clock, tick tock, look at the clock!” 

“Twelve, seven, thirty four, sixteen, one, thirteen,” he wheezed. “Seven
minutes past twelve... Sixteenth of the first, two thousand and...” 

The second hand was now on number seven, proclaiming the last dying
breath of Maurice Whitaker. 

The clocks stopped, as if their maker's death had asserted their demise.
The sound of the parrot falling from its perch could be heard. Afrit 
had served its purpose. The death of little Sally Fitzgerald had been 
avenged. 


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