The Waiting: A Supernatural Thriller(20)

Evan deleted the last on the list, then opened a blank page. He stared at the blinking cursor. He wasn’t a fiction writer at heart, and he knew it. Without a subject, facts, something to research, he felt lost. He’d enjoyed many great books throughout his life, and he never understood how the authors did it. How could you venture into the unknown, no guide or map save the one you drew for yourself? He needed a solid groundwork laid out before typing the first word; anything else felt foolish and immaterial. He sighed, and drank more tea and looked out the dark window, as if trying to pluck a subject randomly from thin air.

A sound snapped him from his trance, and he glanced around the empty kitchen, waiting. It came again, a quiet snap, once, there and gone, almost like a coffeepot cooling.

Or a fingernail tapping on a window.

Evan stood and walked to the back wall, finding a switch near the sill and flipping it on. The backyard and solid line of trees beyond blazed into life with the glow of the floodlight. He cupped his hands around his face, searching the tree line and ground between. Nothing.

The sound came again, and Evan spun in place, his eyes flitting to the living room. The source was definitely inside the house. After shutting the outside light off, he made his way through the living room, checking behind the sofa and recliners. He threw a glance at the vacant entryway, then walked to the bedrooms.

Shaun still slept peacefully, one arm cocked above his head. Evan stepped fully into the room, and looked behind the door and tugged the curtains over the bed open enough to see nothing was there.

Tick. Tick.

His spine stiffened and goose bumps flowed over his exposed forearms, onto his back. The sound had come from the kitchen, he was sure of it. The idea of a weapon came to mind, and he mentally cursed himself for leaving his pistol at their home. He hadn’t seen any need to bring it here. Now, it seemed a stupid oversight.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

He walked through the living room, in what felt like slow motion. The air in his lungs became hot and uncomfortable with each renewed breath.

It’s Bob, he’s come back for his things.

Evan looked at the front door, recalling the moment he locked it. Yes, he was sure he’d locked it.

Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.

Entering the kitchen, he stopped, his stomach a ball of twisted snakes.

Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.

The sound was coming from the basement. The broken clock was ticking.

“No,” Evan said. He meant the word to be forceful, but it came out barely a whisper.

That wasn’t a possibility. He was no clock expert, but the one downstairs couldn’t run.

Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.

Slowly, methodically, the sound went on, perfectly measured in tempo. Evan found the strength to move to the door, and placed his ear against it.

The ticking stopped.

All at once it was gone. Silence returned.

It heard you listening.

Another wave of goose bumps rolled across his skin, and he forced the voice away. With determination, he pulled the door open and started down the stairs. The darkness waited, liquid and pure, just as the night before. Evan backtracked to the kitchen, his resolve unbroken. He found a flashlight in a junk drawer near the bottom of the cabinets. When he flicked his thumb against the switch, a solid beam of yellow light lanced from the lens. Not waiting for his resolve to crumble, he stepped to the basement door and shone the light down.

The doll stood on the landing.

Evan dropped the light, his mouth opening to cry out, but the need to pick up the flashlight was too great. He bent and fumbled with the smooth barrel, his fingers fat and unwieldy. The whole time his eyes were locked on the darkness, ready to run if he saw movement coming toward him. He picked up the light and pointed downward.

The landing was empty.

The bare boards stared back. Silence roared in his ears. He leaned against the doorway, all the strength going out of his legs. He rubbed his eyes.

“You’re f*cking losing it,” he said to himself.

Speaking out loud didn’t have the calming effect he hoped for. Evan stepped down onto the first stair, his light illuminating less of the darkness than he liked. Another step. Another. Down. Finally he stood on the landing, and as he turned, he couldn’t help but shine the beam in the direction of the doll. It still stood where he’d placed it, its eyes two glinting sapphires, the duct tape over its mouth.

Evan shook his head. He needed a drink. What was he even doing down here? Making sure an ancient clock with missing pieces wasn’t ticking? He should turn around and go back upstairs simply to prove he wasn’t insane right now. Giving in to your fears only led to more paranoia. He nodded— —and took another step down. Reaching out, he snapped the switch on, illuminating the basement. Everything looked in place. The table before the clock was the same as he’d left it.

He descended the last few stairs and crossed the room, stopping before the clock. Black. Eerie. Stoic. He stepped closer to it, gathering the nerve to actually touch it, waiting for it to tick again. Reaching out, he ran a hand up its closest pendulum encasement. The wood was cool beneath his palm, the ridges and grooves carved in its trim, almost like braille. An odd thought occurred to him. If he stood there long enough and closed his eyes, the pattern under his fingers would begin to mean something. Perhaps a long-forgotten language waiting for the right person to come along and listen. To hear. To see.

He stepped back, watching the clock’s twisted hands for movement. Nothing happened. Why the hell was this thing here? Who built it? Why didn’t it have numbers on its face?