‘The Curse of the Clock’ A ghost story by Harry Riley

(This story is fiction and resemblance to anyone living or dead is coincidental)

George Kendal was a creature of instinct. Now as he drove through the little Derbyshire village he spotted a bric-a-brac store called “Twice Used Emporium” and thought it was worth stopping off for a quick browse. His business was restoring old clocks and selling them for a big profit. His large house was full of timepieces he’d renovated. They came in all shapes and sizes.

Today he wandered into the dusty old shop with a casual air and gazed around. Most of the items were rubbish but his eyes eventually lit upon a long-case clock in a corner, covered in a thick layer of dust and almost completely obscured by piles of rubbishy furniture, tables, chairs and discarded books etc.

The owner, a shifty looking old man wearing a dirty brown overcoat, badly in need of a shave and a surly expression on his yellowish face, gave his visitor a brief nod which seemed as much as he could manage, then perched himself awkwardly on the corner of a rickety trestle table. His eyes furtively watched George’s every movement as the visitor examined various pieces of mild interest. On his way out again, turning to face the shopkeeper he asked: “Just a thought but how much might you be asking for the grandfather clock?”

The shopkeeper wiped his runny nose with a deft flick of his cuff and replied in a surprisingly deep and rasping voice: “Sorry mate, it’s not for sale. It’s a family heirloom and you couldn’t pay me enough to part with it.

If you come back next week I’ll have another one. This has only been stored here while I’m repainting the house.”

George thanked him and said he would call back. He knew the man was tricking him and would immediately start cleaning and polishing the clock to demand a better price. When-if he returned, he would be offered the same one again, patched up and in the guise of another.

George had experienced most trader’s tricks as he’d wandered about the country searching for bargains and was quite prepared to haggle for this item as he recognised it was almost certainly a genuine antique long case. 

The following week he breezed into the village odds and ends shop and right in the middle stood a well-polished grandfather clock. Within seconds the inner curtain was withdrawn and the owner appeared.

“Ah so you’re back again eh?’

George Kendal acknowledged his greeting and feigned ignorance of any deception as he went straight up to the clock. “So I take it this is your other clock? Looks in reasonable condition.”

“It doesn’t work! You’d need to get the mechanism fixed.”

It was clear the shop dealer had no idea of the importance of his timepiece and the eventual price of four hundred pounds that George Kendal agreed to pay was only a fraction of its true value of many thousands of pounds, when restored to proper working order. He was delighted to have put one over on the dealer and greedily anticipated a giant profit.

Once he had it in his workshop George began to strip it down and after several days of intensive oiling and toiling, stood back to admire his work. The wood was quality mahogany with an eleven-inch dial, the four seasons depicted in each corner and the maker’s name: ‘Jonathon Monkton of Norwich’ inscribed on a cartouche mounted around the top arch. Below this was a hunting scene. The trunk bore finely fluted columns. George Kendal estimated the age of the clock as early eighteenth century, the fine patina of the mahogany bearing this out. The eight-day movement was now functioning and chiming correctly and he would start on several weeks of time trials during which he would make final adjustments before offering it up for valuation. If only things could have been that simple.

After six days of failing to keep correct time George was beginning to pull his hair out in despair. He had tried everything but success eluded him. Standing back he noticed for the first time that the clock had a slight lean to one side. Removing the plinth and upending it he examined the four short feet. Three were solid wood but the fourth was hollow. His searching finger sprung open a secret hinge at the back and he removed a rolled up piece of silk with old English writing on it. Later an antiquities scholar examined the cloth under a powerful magnifying class and gave his verdict.

“What you have here my friend is a good old fashioned clockmakers curse.

A wealthy Squire commissioned this timepiece and refused to pay, which was quite a common occurrence in those days but which placed Jonathon Monkton in penury leaving him to die in a debtor’s prison. As he set up the clock Monkton hid this curse where it would not be discovered. The curse condemns the Squire’s soul to everlasting torment inside the clock.

That night as George slept he was awakened by a change of tone to the cursed timekeeper. The chime seemed to have a deathly morbid echo that reverberated through the whole house. He crept downstairs and there in the dim light from his torch saw the clock was pulsing with a ghostly green phosphorescence. It was still chiming the midnight hour and he heard an agonised moaning coming from within. ‘Whatever could it be?’

“If you have any pity please let me out. I have been trapped inside here for two hundred years and cursed for all eternity.”

Horrified, George asked what he could do?

“Turn the winding key backwards as hard as you can to break the spell and we will both be at peace.”

Shaking with terror the sleepy man tried to oblige. He forced the large key backwards with all his might and there came a crack followed by a loud bang and then he heard a triumphant whoop of joy. “Free! I’m free at last!”

George Kendal would have joined in the excitement but he suddenly felt very strange. He couldn’t move and was seeing the room from a funny angle. Then the penny dropped.

He had exchanged places with the ghost and was now locked inside the clock.

Six months later a man out walking with his young family stopped outside a small bric-a-brac shop called ‘Twice Used Emporium’

They begged him to enquire about the imposing grandfather clock inside.

“Can we buy it for our new house…please?”

Inside the store the shifty old man in the brown overcoat smiled to himself and absently touched his wallet.

End