Episode 1 - The Clockmaker's Curse - Strange Tales of the Unexplained

Episode Transcript
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Speaker 1 (00:00):
Strange Tale.

Speaker 2 (00:02):
Tales of the early explain voices call.

Speaker 1 (00:08):
The non remain through the.

Speaker 2 (00:13):
With fears, take hold. Secrets lie in the darkened corner.
So listen close, let the story unfold, the strange and eerie,

(00:36):
the brave and bold. Each week of tale to ignite
your mind Strange Tales of the Unexplained you'll find.

Speaker 1 (00:50):
Welcome to Strange Tales of the Unexplained, a podcast from
the Unexplained Company. I'm your host, Flynn Davidson. In tonight's episode,
we are delving into an entro sveaging tail of a
clockmaker that has discovered a way to turn back time
in order to write what was wrong with his past.
If you enjoy this episode, please consider leaving a rating
on your podcast player. Thank you, and now on with

(01:13):
the Clockmaker's Curse. Chapter one, The Tick of Fate. The
mist curled thickly around the cobblestone streets of Windmere, carrying
more than just the damp chill of a late autumn night.

(01:34):
It clung to the village, heavy with whispered secrets, fleeting
and elusive, as though the fog guarded its mysteries jealously.
Shadows flickered under the pale glow of gas lamps, their
dim light barely an argument against the pressing dark. Yet
tonight that darkness was broken by a golden, unnatural glow
emanating from a solitary workshop at the end of Renhill Lane.

(01:58):
The building was alive with the of firelight, its tall
windows warped with age, but still revealing silhouettes that captured
the attention of every villager gathered anxiously outside. They spoke
only in murmurs, their words merging with the size of
the mist, but their gazes remained fixed on the clockmaker's lair. Inside,

(02:20):
Elias Farrow loomed over his workbench, his wiry frame silhouetted
against the forger's dancing flame. His hands moved with a
precision that spoke to decades of craftsmanship. Brass filings sparkled
like fallen stars across the battered surface, interspersed with smears
of black ink where he had hastily scrawled calculations. Yet

(02:41):
all of that, the chaos, the grime, the tools strewn
in an arc around him, was secondary to the creation
that sat at the center of it all, the clock,
a singular masterpiece of interlocking gears, flawless mechanisms and reflective
metal so intricately polished it almost seemed alive. Its frame

(03:03):
of dark mahogany had been inlaid with delicate gold filigree
that shimmered as the forge light played over it. But
it was its heart, the crystal orb at its core,
that drew the eye and held it fast. The orb
pulsed faintly, not unlike a heartbeat, casting an otherworldly glow
that transformed the shadows of the workshop into restless phantoms.

(03:26):
To an outsider, The clock's beauty was undeniable. To Elias,
it was everything. Yet his concentration, near obsessive in its intensity,
was broken not by the intricacies of the mechanism, but
by the sound of a cautious knock at the door.
He didn't seem to hear it. The rhythm of his
private world was dictated by the faint hum of the clock,

(03:49):
its ticking subtle yet pervasive, as though it resonated not
just in the room but in Elias's very mind. It
was Lucy Carter, his eighteen year old apprentice, who answered
the knock. She brushed her hands against her oil streaked apron,
some part of her distinctly unsettled as she made her
way across the cluttered room, though young Lucy carried herself

(04:12):
with a self assurance earned through hard labor and harder truths.
She reached the door, her curls bouncing faintly with each step,
and opened it to reveal the looming figure of Henry Blackwood.
Blackwood was not a large man, but his presence was suffocating.
The stormy skies behind him seemed a perfect reflection of

(04:33):
his mood. His cane tapped impatiently against the stones as
he stepped inside, without waiting for an invitation, his sharp
eyes darting past Lucy as though she were little more
than an afterthought. I trust there has been progress, he said,
his words clipped and cold. The cane tapped again, striking

(04:55):
the floor in sink with an invisible rhythm only Blackwood
could sense. Lucy, used to being dismissed, but unwilling to
be cowed, straightened her spine and answered carefully, he's nearly finished.
You'll have what you came for. It wasn't a lie,
not entirely. The clock was indeed nearly complete. Lucy's gaze

(05:17):
darted toward Elias, who now resembled a man possessed. There
had been something strange about him ever since they'd begun
this final phase of the project. His moments of brilliance
had grown sharper, his hands steady and sure as they
conjured perfection from brass and wood. But beneath the surface
lay something darker, a frantic hunger that burned in his eyes,

(05:39):
a desperation that made Lucy's stomach twist with unease. Whatever
seemed to drive him now wasn't just passion. It was
perilously close to madness. Blackwood swept past her without so
much as a glance. His footsteps echoed sharply as he
approached Elias's side, the firelight catching on the fine tailoring

(05:59):
of his coat. Pharaoh, he barked. When we spoke, I
made myself clear. No embellishments, no flourishes, just a tool. This,
he jabbed his cane vaguely toward the work bench, is
not what I commissioned. This is unnecessary vanity. Elia straightened

(06:20):
his frame, cutting a shadow that stretched long and ominous
across the room. For the first time since Blackwood entered,
he spoke, his voice even but layered with subtle defiance.
It is not a tool. It is, he paused, his
eyes sliding over the clock as though seeing it anew.
It is perfection, Blackwood sneered, his lips curling in disdain.

(06:45):
Perfection is irrelevant. Power. That's what matters. You promised me. Power,
Where is it? Lucy winced at Blackwood's tone and at
the words themselves. They struck a chord within her, one
that resonated uneasily, as though his greed was somehow amplifying

(07:05):
the danger tied to this project. She had never liked
Henry Blackwood. Few in Windmere did, but it was only
recently that she'd begun to truly fear him. She couldn't
put her finger on why, but there was something hollow,
something predatory, in his fervor for the clock's completion. Elias

(07:25):
didn't flinch under Blackwood's eye. Instead, he stepped closer to
the bench, his fingers brushing lightly against the smooth edge
of the glowing crystal orb. As he did, the light
within the clock surged, swelling enough to fill every corner
of the dim workshop. For a moment, the air itself
seemed to thrumb with the weight of it. Blackwood recoiled instinctively,

(07:50):
his confidence ebbing for the briefest instant before anger overtook
his hesitation. This, Elias said, his tone quieter, but no
less firm, is not a mere machine. It is something
far greater than you can imagine, and far more dangerous.
Blackwood's eyes narrowed, his grip tightening on the head of

(08:11):
his cane. You think your riddles intimidate me. I paid
for results, Pharaoh, and I expect them now. Results. Elias
turned to look Blackwood dead in the eye, his own
gaze sharp and unnervingly steady. Time is not a result,
mister Blackwood. It is not a prize to be seized,

(08:34):
or a river to be damned. It is the very
fabric of being, and those who seek to command it
often drown in the current. Blackwood's lip curled into a snarl,
his patience worn thin. Enough of this nonsense. Finish the
clock and deliver it, or I will make you regret it.

(08:54):
For a moment, silence stretched taut between them, broken only
by the steady, in inevitable ticking of the clock. Lucy
held her breath, her hands twitching at her sides, as
though unsure whether to intercede or retreat. She could feel
something shifting, not in the room, but in the entire world,
as though the act of building this clock had bent

(09:16):
reality itself. Elias's voice, when it came was barely above
a whisper. It is finished, but it was never meant
to be built. Those words chilled Lucy to the bone,
and judging by Blackwood's flicker of hesitation, they unnerved him
as well. The air seemed heavier, now, pressing against her chest,

(09:38):
as though the clock's light wasn't just illuminating the room,
but imposing on reality itself. Without warning, the church bell
in the village square began to toll, its mournful chime,
muffled by the ever present mist. Around the same time,
the clock let out a low, resonant chime of its own,
one that seemed to answer the bell in a way

(10:00):
that felt almost alive. Blackwood stormed out without another word,
but Lucy couldn't take her eyes off Elias. Elias, she said,
her voice unsteady, What is this clock? What does it do?
He didn't meet her gaze. Instead, his trembling hand reached

(10:20):
almost reverently to the crystal orb. Again. It marks time,
he whispered, but not as we know it. For the
first time, Lucy allowed herself to acknowledge the dread clawing
at her stomach. Whatever this clock was, it was more
than just a masterpiece of engineering. It would change everything,

(10:41):
and she wasn't sure they would survive what came next

(11:09):
Chapter two Whispers in the Workshop. When Lucy Carter walked
into Elias Pharrow's workshop for the first time, the room
felt alive, not with warmth or laughter, but with a hum,

(11:29):
a tangible vibration that seemed to rise from the walls themselves.
The air smelled of oil and aged wood. Tools of
all shapes hung in meticulous alignment on the walls, gleaming
under the amber light of gas lamps. Gears, springs, and
fragments of intricate mechanisms cluttered the vast workbench. It was

(11:50):
both chaotic and ordered, every misplaced object curiously feeling as
if it still belonged exactly where it was. The ticking
of clocks, some finished, others barely more than skeletons, echoed faintly,
each beat out of sink, yet harmonious in its cacophony.
Lucy stood near the threshold, unsure if entering further would

(12:13):
disrupt whatever spell lay over the room. She clutched the
strap of her worn leather satchel tightly, her usual confidence
tempered by the weight of anticipation. The name Elias Farrow
had been whispered throughout the village like a riddle. A genius,
they said, a recluse, temperamental but kind on good days.

(12:35):
Orphaned as she was, and eager to learn a trade,
Lucy had jumped at the opportunity to apprentice under him
when the offer surprisingly came. Though she had no illusion
it would be easy, she was ready to prove herself well.
A curt voice startled her from her thoughts. She turned
quickly to find Elias standing over one of his work benches,

(12:56):
angled slightly toward her, but not looking directly. His tall
frame cast a shadow long enough to stretch half way
across the room. His hands were busy fine tuning a
mechanism barely larger than a coin, the movements of his
slightly trembling fingers almost imperceptible to the human eye. You
planned to stand there all day? Or do you mean

(13:17):
to contribute something to my time being wasted? Lucy blinked,
then steeled herself, stepping forward. I I'm here to learn,
not waste your time, mister Farrow, I promise you that.
Her words hung in the air, as though waiting to
be measured for their sincerity. Elias finally turned his head

(13:39):
toward her, his gray eyes startling in their clarity, as
sharp as a blade, yet dull with exhaustion. He looked
at her as one might examine a new tool, curious, cautious,
yet not wholly convinced of its usefulness. His gaze flickered
to the satchel hanging at her side. You said in
your letter you've word with machines, these hands of yours,

(14:03):
he gestured, vaguely, show me. Lucy hesitated only a moment
before setting her satchel down and reaching into it. She
pulled out a small contraption that looked like a cross
between a music box and a wind up toy. Its
brass casing scratched and slightly uneven. It wasn't pretty, but
it worked, and she was proud of that. She placed

(14:25):
it carefully on the workbench before stepping back. Elias raised
a single eyebrow, the edges of his mouth twitching as
if suppressing the ghost of a smirk. Without asking, he
picked up the device and turned it over in his hands.
His movements were both scrutinizing and reverent, Like a jeweler

(14:45):
handling a raw gemstone crude, he murmured, twisting the tiny
key on the side and watching as the gears clattered
to life. A mechanism inside caused a small, tinny melody
to play, while a set of mechanical wings flapped unevenly
on a tiny figurine perch to top. Functional but barely

(15:08):
aesthetic is at war with practicality. You're trying to be
clever instead of efficient, though I suppose I've seen worse.
Lucy bit the inside of her cheek, torn between defending
her work and accepting the critique. I built it with
the scraps I could find. I figured out the mechanism myself.

(15:29):
If you gave me better tools or material I could
Elias waved her off with an ink stained hand. Excuses
tire me, miss Carter. You'll find no shortage of tools
here and even fewer excuses. What I care about is progress,
not potential. You will work, you will fail, and if
you survive that, you might one day claim to understand

(15:51):
what takes a lifetime to master. Do you accept this?
His voice was sharp, not cruel, but unrelenting, as if
he were testing a piece of metal, waiting to hear
if it rang true or cracked under pressure. I do,
Lucy replied, her voice steady, fierce, even She wasn't sure

(16:12):
if it was her pride or determination, but she refused
to waver under his scrutiny. Good Elias grunted, already turning
back to his bench. He gestured toward a smaller, dust
covered workspace near the far wall. That's yours. Clean it,
sort it, and if I hear anything clang, you'll answer
to me. Don't interrupt when I'm working unless the building

(16:34):
is on fire or worse, someone enters unannounced. Unannounced, she asked, puzzled,
You'll know it if it happens, he said, grimly, his
voice lowering almost to a murmur. A peculiar expression crossed
his face, something between disdain and foreboding, but he didn't elaborate.

(16:54):
As the hours passed, Lucy worked in silence, wiping down drawers,
sorting screws and rockets with painstaking precision. Though her arms
ached and her fingers grew sore, she found herself growing
in trance by the rhythm of her work and the faint,
melodic ticking that surrounded her. She glanced over at Elias
from time to time, watching as he leaned over the

(17:15):
clock that occupied the center of his workspace. She had
never seen anything like it. It resembled an ornate mechanical
labyrinth and glimmered faintly as it caught the light. It
was beautiful, yes, but there was something strange about it,
something almost alive. Watching him work on it felt like
witnessing a man carve a piece of his soul into existence.

(17:39):
Lucy wouldn't dare ask about it yet, not today, but
her curiosity burned hotter than ever by the time the
workshop windows darkened with the coming night. She wasn't so
sure what had drawn her here to Elias, to his
strange work, but she had a deep sense even now

(18:00):
she had stepped onto a path she could never leave.
And in the corner of the workshop, obscured by shadow,
the clock seemed to tick just a little louder. Somewhere
in its depths. Something shifted, something that neither Elias nor
Lucy could yet understand, but had already begun to stir.

(18:34):
Chapter three, The patrons demand as the heavy oak door
of Elias Varrow's workshop slammed shut behind Henry Blackwood. The
storm that had been brewing in the skies above Windmere
felt as though it had descended into the room itself.
The tension lingered like static electricity, crackling faintly in the

(18:55):
spaces between silence. Lucy Carter stood frozen near the workbench,
her wide eyes locked on Elias. She had never seen
him like this, his jaw tight, his hands trembling just
enough to betray the anger and something else entirely fear.
Perhaps whatever it was, he wasn't letting her see more

(19:17):
of it than necessary. But Lucy had always been quick
to notice the cracks people tried to hide, and she
could tell this particular confrontation with Blackwood had knocked something
loose in Elias that might not settle back into place.
Elias didn't speak for several minutes. He merely stood there,
his tall frame a looming shadow over the work bench,

(19:38):
his back turned to her, one ink stained hand pressed
flat against the table. It was an uncharacteristic stillness for
a man whose movements usually carried the relentless energy of
a machine. Lucy shifted uncomfortably, but remained quiet, unsure if
her voice would soothe or shatter him. But then, as
if he couldn't bear to stay motionless and any longer,

(20:01):
Elias began to pace. The rhythmic click of his boots
on the hardwood floor mirrored the uneven heartbeat of the
strange clock on the bench. Lucy couldn't help but glance
at it, the crystal, or at its center, still faintly
pulsing with that unearthly light. She didn't know much about
its inner workings. Elias had been secretive about this particular project,

(20:25):
sharing even less than usual, but she could feel its
weight in the room, its unnatural presence curling at the
edges of her awareness like smoke through a keyhole. Blackwood
is a fool, Elias muttered, suddenly sharp and harsh, his
voice cutting through the room like the snap of a
tightened gear. Lucy startled, but said nothing, her hands instinctively

(20:50):
clenching the hem of her apron. Elias continued pacing, his hands,
moving almost unconsciously, fingers plucking at invisible threads in the air,
as if trying to stitch together thoughts too frayed to
hold a fool who has no idea what he's unleashed,
he continued, more to himself than to her. Time cannot

(21:10):
be commanded. It's not a machine to be wound or regulated.
It's not a commodity to be bought and sold like
one of Blackwood's damned factories. His voice grew louder, more frenzied,
echoing off the workshop walls. It's alive and it has rules.
Rules I thought, no hoped I could outwit. But now

(21:33):
he trailed off, his words, dissolving into a grim silence
that had more weight than any outburst. He stopped pacing
and turned back toward the work bench, his gaunt profile
illuminated by the flickering gaslight. His gray streaked hair fell
in disarray over his brow, his face taut with an
exhaustion that seemed older than the years Lucy knew he

(21:55):
carried the ink stains on his fingers caught the light
as he reached once more for the clock, lightly brushing
its edge with a touch that felt almost like an apology.
Lucy couldn't hold back any longer. Elias, she said, gently,
her voice small but steady. What does it do? The clock?

(22:17):
I mean, what's really going on here? He didn't look
at her immediately, his attention focused solely on the intricate
mechanisms before him. Slowly, his hand withdrew from the clock,
and he turned to face her fully for the first
time since Blackwood had stormed out, his gray eyes, sharp
yet tired, locked onto hers, searching for something understanding, perhaps

(22:40):
or permission to unburden himself. You've heard the rumors, Elias
said at last, though it came out more like a
statement than a question. His voice had lost its edge,
replaced now by something softer, something heavy with regret. The
villagers whisper about my work, my clocks. They imagine fantastic

(23:02):
stories of what they can do, the power they might hold.
Most of it, of course, is nonsense, superstition fed by ignorance.
Lucy nodded cautiously, unsure where he was leading her, but
afraid to interrupt. But this clock, Elais continued, his gaze,
flickering briefly to the object that sat gleaming on the bench,

(23:24):
as though it were listening this one. The whispers aren't
far from the truth. Blackwood knows its purpose, or at
least the purpose I foolishly promised him when I agreed
to create it. He wants to harness time, bend it
to his will, stop it when it suits him, speed

(23:45):
it up when it doesn't. He thinks he can hold
it in his hands like a leash and make it
obey his commands. Lucy frowned, her brow furrowing as she
tried to pass the meaning of his words. But that's impossible,
she said, slowly, though her voice wavered with uncertainty. Isn't it?

(24:06):
Elia sighed, his shoulders sinking as though the weight of
his thoughts were pulling him down. It should be, he murmured,
almost to himself, By all laws of reason and nature,
it should be. But my grief it clouded my judgment.
He paused, his gaze softening as it shifted from Lucy

(24:26):
to the far corner of the room, where a faded
portrait of a woman sat tucked on a high shelf. Margaret.
The name hung unspoken in the air between them, but
its presence was vast. I thought, I thought, if I
could create something powerful enough, something precise enough, I might

(24:47):
be able to undo what had been done, to go back,
to change the course of just one moment in time,
to hold on to that which I had lost. His
voice cracked and he turned sharp away from Lucy, as
though ashamed to let her see him so vulnerable. But
time he continued, forcing a steadiness into his voice that

(25:09):
Lucy could tell was as fragile as glass is, not
ours to command. And the more I delved into it,
the more I tampered and experimented, the clearer it became.
We aren't meant to touch its threads. Every attempt to
weave my way back to her, he broke off, shaking
his head. The clock fought me, Elia said, after a moment,

(25:30):
his tone darker now, his words slower, more deliberate, as
though it had a will of its own. It was
no longer my creation, but something other, something alive. It
knows things, Lucy, It sees things, possibilities, futures, memories, the
very fabric of existence. And if its mechanisms can truly

(25:51):
manipulate those threads. He stopped again, this time fixing Lucy
with a look so intense, so utterly resolute, that chill
ran down her spine, then it cannot fall into the
hands of Henry Blackwood. Lucy trembled under the weight of
his words. The workshop suddenly seemed darker, colder, the flickering

(26:11):
lamplight casting shadows that danced like unseen specters. Her mind raced,
piecing together what Elias had just revealed, alongside the unease
she had felt since she first stepped into this room,
that clock. It was more than dangerous. It was something unnatural,
something that shouldn't exist. And now it was finished. What

(26:34):
do we do? She asked at last, her voice barely
above a whisper. She didn't know what the right answer was,
but she trusted Elias, even in his grief, even in
his flaws. He was brilliant and broken, but he wasn't cruel.
He wasn't like Blackwood. Elias turned back to the clock,

(26:54):
his face hardening with a grim determination. We protect it, said,
and if necessary, we destroy it. Lucy swallowed hard, her
chest tightening at the thought of what might happen next.
Somewhere in the distance, thunder rumbled, faintly, rolling like a warning,
across the hills surrounding Windmere. Outside, the mist grew thicker, heavy,

(27:19):
with a sense of foreboding that seemed to seep into
the very walls of the workshop, and all the while,
the clock continued its steady, deliberate ticking, a sound that
felt less like the passage of time and more like
the countdown to a fate neither of them could yet comprehend.

(27:55):
Chapter four, threads Unraveling. The clock began to tick louder
in the still silence of the workshop, as though it
were not just marking time, but actively stealing it from
the room. Lucy Carter, still trembling from Elias's solemn oath,
watched him as he bent over the strange, glimmering mechanism

(28:17):
he had devoted months, if not years, of his life
to creating. His inkstained fingers hovered above the surface, as
if unsure whether to protect it or rip it apart
with his bare hands. The room felt colder now, though
no windows were open, and the low hum that seemed
to emanate from the clock filled Lucy's ears. It was
a sound she hadn't quite noticed before, as faint and

(28:40):
sinister as the tap of a fingernail against glass. It
made her skin prickle. Elias's words echoed in her mind.
If necessary, we destroy it. She couldn't imagine the man
before her, whose very identity seemed woven into this creation,
ever dismantling it. Despite all he'd said, despite the warning,

(29:03):
steeped in grief and dread, there was a part of him,
perhaps the part that still mourned his wife, that was
bound to the clock with unbreakable threads. He didn't just
want to master time. He wanted to redeem it, to
reclaim all that it had torn from him. And yet
as much as Lucy sympathized with the pain that drove him,

(29:24):
she couldn't shake the feeling that what Elias had made
was something that should never have existed at all. I
don't understand, Lucy murmured, her voice tentative, the words barely
escaping her lips. If it's so dangerous, Elias, why did
you finish it? Elias froze, his hand, still hovering over

(29:45):
the clock's crystalline face. For a moment, he simply stared
at it, the faint pulsing of light from within its
orb reflecting in his eyes. He looked as if he'd
been asked a question he had no right to answer,
like a child caught in a forbid act, even before
they fully understood their wrongdoing. Then, softly, without turning to

(30:06):
face her, he replied, sometimes the pursuit of an answer
becomes a greater compulsion than the answer itself. Lucy frowned,
stepping cautiously toward him. But you said it wasn't meant
to be built. You said you tried to stop. I
did try, Elias interrupted, his voice sharp enough to make

(30:27):
her falter mid step. He turned to her, now, his
eyes blazing with unspoken torment. You think this was easy
for me, That I didn't see the consequences growing like
cracks in the glass. I knew. I knew with every
gear I forged, every spring I fastened, that I was
tampering with something no man should touch. But Lucy, his

(30:52):
voice softened, breaking like a wave against rock, the thought
of undoing even one mistake of saving her, Lucy swallowed hard,
unsure of what to say. She'd seen flashes of this
side of Elias before, glimpses of the wounded, grieving man
beneath the stoic facade, but never in such stark, unguarded clarity.

(31:15):
He wasn't just a genius devoured by his work. He
was a man shackled to a moment in time. Every
beat of his heart aligned with it, pulling him backward,
drowning him. As much as she longed to reach out
to him, to offer some kind of comfort, she knew
instinctively that no words could sever those chains. Even if

(31:35):
you could change things, she said, cautiously, choosing her words
with care. How do you know it would be worth
the cost for you, for others? What if? What if
Margaret wouldn't have wanted this? His face hardened at that,
and for a moment Lucy regretted speaking. He turned away
from her, sharply pacing once more, his footsteps punctuating the

(31:59):
rhythmic hum of the clock. You think I haven't asked
myself that a thousand times? He snapped, though his anger
didn't feel directed at her. Do you think I haven't
stared into the very heart of this thing and wondered
what price it might collect if I dared to use it?
But none of that matters now, not anymore. He stopped suddenly,

(32:22):
his head bowing as though a crushing weight had settled
onto his shoulders. Because it's no longer mine to control,
A chill ran through Lucy. What do you mean? Elias
tilted his head slightly toward the clock, his voice dropping
into a gravelly murmur that sent shivers crawling down her spine.

(32:42):
It listens, Lucy, it watches. I thought I built it
to obey me, but the truth is I've only ever
served its will from the moment it first began to tick.
It has dictated its own purpose, and that purpose he
trained off, his gaze, distant, haunted. I don't think we

(33:04):
can stop it, Lucy's breath caught. Then why did you
tell Blackwood it was finished? At the mention of the
patron's name, Elias's expression sharpened with visceral disdain. Because Blackwood
is a parasite, he spat the words, dripping with venom,
the kind of man who believes the world owes him

(33:26):
more simply because he's lived long enough to snatch it
from others. He'd take this clock, and with it, he'd
carve an empire into time itself, more power, more wealth,
more ruin for the rest of us. But he doesn't understand.
His ambitions are blind and empty. He doesn't see what
it's already doing, what it's already taking from us. Lucy's

(33:51):
unease deepened. She glanced at the clock once more, its
glowing heart pulsing like a weak but steady heartbeat. For
the first time, she noticed something strange about the air
around it, a faint distortion, as though the very space
surrounding it curved differently, bending ever so slightly toward the mechanism.

(34:12):
She stepped back instinctively, her stomach churning at the sight. Elias,
she said, hesitantly, Are you saying it's alive? He hesitated,
considering the weight of her question. Not alive as you
or I are, he said finally, his voice filled with
cold certainty, but aware it exists at the edges, slipping

(34:37):
between seconds, threading through what we call time, but cannot understand.
It knows, Lucy, it remembers. He turned to face her fully, now,
his gaunt face more solemn than she had ever seen it,
and it demands its due. The impact of his words
settled over her, like lead, pressing down on her chest

(35:00):
until it hurt to breathe. Then Blackwood can't have it,
she said firmly, her voice trembling only slightly. We can't
let him take it. Elias nodded, though he looked anything
but reassured. I've delayed him for as long as I can,
he said, quietly, But the clock's drawer is too strong.

(35:20):
He'll return, and this time he'll bring more than empty threats.
Lucy clenched her fists, a fire sparking in her chest
despite the fear twisting within her then we need a plan,
she said. If Blackwood wants the clock, will make sure
he never gets it, or at least we'll make sure

(35:41):
that if he does, it destroys him before it destroys us.
Elias glanced at her, a flicker of something, admiration, perhaps
crossing his features. You're braver than most, Lucy, he said softly,
though his smile was hollow. But bray won't save us
if we're not careful. The clock has already begun to

(36:05):
twist its surroundings. Can't you feel it? The days don't
pass as they should anymore. The hours stretch and collapse
without reason, Memories bleed into dreams, and dreams into waking.
If we're not careful, we'll lose ourselves before Blackwood even
reaches the door. Lucy swallowed hard, but her resolve remained intact.

(36:27):
Then teach me, she said. If it's already out of control,
we need to understand it. We need to dismantle it,
or she faltered, but forced herself to continue, or destroy it.
Elia studied her for a long moment, his piercing gaze
both assessing and resigned. At last, he nodded very well,

(36:51):
he said, his voice low but once we begin, there's
no turning back. The clock doesn't forgive hesitation, and neither
will time. Lucy simply nodded, knowing there was no other
option now. Outside, the mounting storm rumbled softly, rolling through

(37:11):
the fog bound village like whispered thunder, and as the
first droplets of rain spattered against the workshop's windows, the
pulse of the clock seemed to grow louder, still, its
rhythm weaving itself into the very air around them. Whatever
came next, Lucy knew would be irreversible. Somewhere in wind mirror,
another clock began to strike, its chimes, discordant but hauntingly familiar,

(37:36):
as if echoing from a memory no one could place. Time,
it seemed, was already starting to fracture, and the pieces
were falling faster than either of them could hope to catch.

(38:10):
Chapter five, Echoes of the Past. The rain tapped against
the windows of the workshop, a persistent whisper that seemed
to sink with the relentless ticking of the clock. Inside,
the air simmered with an almost suffocating tension, thick and unmoving,

(38:31):
as if even the storm outside dared not intrude. Lucy
Carter sat hunched over her workbench, a magnifying lens propped
against one eye, her trembling fingers grazing across the delicate
brass gears scattered in front of her. She tried to
focus her thoughts, stubbornly tethered to the broken clock in
her hands, a simple, predictable mechanism, nothing compared to the

(38:53):
monstrosity looming behind her, and yet her mind wouldn't still.
Each precise tick of the large clock seemed louder than
the one before, a chilling heartbeat ruling over the room,
reminding her that they were far from the realm of
the ordinary. Seated across the workshop, Elias Farrow mirrored her agitation,
though his manifested differently. He poured himself into his work, scribbling, scrawling,

(39:18):
and revising a flurry of calculations in his battered notebook.
His jaw tightened with each swipe of the pen, his
gaunt face etched with shadows that matched the dim yellowed
light of the gas lamp above him. His disheveled hair
fell into his eyes, but he didn't seem to notice
whatever thoughts consumed him. They only seemed to burrow deeper.

(39:41):
Lucy Stole a glance at him, her unease building with
every page Elias filled. He'd been like this since Blackwood
had stormed out, not just silent but impenetrable. She'd seen
Elias driven by his intellect before, but now now there
was desperationquality that unsettled her more than any storm beating

(40:02):
against the walls ever could Elias, she said, breaking the
suffocating stillness. Her voice, though soft, carried with it a
weight that cut through the drumming rain. For a moment,
his pen froze, a single droplet of ink, hovering precariously
on the point before falling to smudge the letter beneath,

(40:22):
But he didn't look up. Do you think Blackwood will
come back? She pressed, her words careful as she dipped
into the pool of his distraction. Tonight, This time, he responded,
without lifting his head. Men like Blackwood don't wait. Impatience
is their life blood. The bitterness of his tone scraped

(40:43):
against her skin. Yes, Lucy, He'll be back with reinforcements.
I have no doubt. Her heart jolted as the memory
of Blackwood's last visit surfaced, a presence so commanding, so
wrought with menace, that even days later, his words words
lingered like smoke in the workshop's corners. Blackwood wasn't the

(41:05):
type to bluff. He meant every threat he voiced, and
something told her that this time he was prepared to
make good on them. Trying to curb the rising panic
in her chest, Lucy shifted her gaze toward Elias's notebook.
Endless streams of inked symbols and numbers blurred together, meaningless
to her untrained eyes. What are you writing, she asked,

(41:29):
hoping to coax him into meeting her gaze, to anchor
him back into something resembling clarity notes, He said, his
voice distant. She waited, but he didn't elaborate. Finally, after
a tense moment, his voice broke the silence again, lower
this time, and contingency plans. Her breath hitched at his words.

(41:53):
Contingency plans, she echoed, as though saying them aloud might
reveal some hidden meaning for what. When Elias finally met
her gaze, it struck her like a blow. His steel
gray eyes, sharp and yet so heavy with exhaustion, cut
through the dim light like blades. For when Blackwood makes

(42:13):
it impossible to avoid the fight, Lucy recoiled slightly, gripping
the edge of her work bench as if it might
stabilize her spiraling nerves. His words didn't carry the anger
she'd expected. No, Elias spoke as if this looming battle
were an immutable fact, reality itself bending to its inevitability.

(42:34):
You don't plan to hand it over to him, she said,
though even she could hear the wavering current of hope
in her voice. No, he replied flatly, and he won't
leave this workshop with it. The weight of the declaration
hung between them like a tangible thing. Lucy pulled her
gaze away, unable to meet his eyes again. We should

(42:55):
destroy it, she said suddenly, her voice urgent as her
thoughts darted to the simplest solution. She nodded to herself,
trying to will the plan into existence. If we dismantle it, now,
take it apart, piece by piece, Lucy. His interruption was sharp,
not in anger, but in the clipped authority of someone

(43:17):
forced to state an unwelcome truth. We don't have time
to destroy the clock, even if we did, he paused,
his eyes drifting toward the glowing crystalline heart embedded at
the center of the monstrous machine. Even if we dismantled it,
its influence wouldn't end. The mechanics are one thing, but

(43:40):
it's the forces it's anchored to, the connections it's begun
to cement that make it dangerous. Lucy felt a chill
crawl across her skin. She wanted to argue, to insist
that he was wrong, but she couldn't deny the gnawing
unease that had settled over the workshop ever since that
clock's arrival. It was more a machine. It infected the air,

(44:02):
the time, the space around it. She could feel it.
What do you mean, she asked, though part of her
wasn't sure. She wanted to know. His gaze traveled back
to her, filled with a rare and raw honesty. Every
tick he began, slowly, his voice calm but terrifying in
its steadiness, pulls at the threads of time of order.

(44:26):
It warps everything it touches, not all at once, but
little by little, like a knot tightening. And it's already happening.
Lucy murmured. She didn't phrase it as a question because
she already knew the answer. She could feel it without
needing his confirmation. Still, hearing him say it tore through

(44:47):
her resolve, Elias nodded faintly. Yes, And the longer it exists,
the worse it will become if Blackwood gets his hands
on it, if he amplifies its influence. He exhaled sharply,
as though the mere thought was a weight pressing against
his ribs. It won't just be this village, It'll be more.

(45:09):
Lucy sagged back in her chair, her hand slack in
her lap. For several long moments, she said nothing, her
mind racing yet unable to form a single productive thought.
At last, her voice broke the quiet, trembling but resolute.
Then what do we do if we can't destroy it,
and we can't let him leave with it? What's left?

(45:32):
The pause between her question and his answer was filled
only by the storm's muffled growl outside and the clock's
insistent rhythm. Then, softly, Elias said a single phrase that
stole the breath from her lungs. We use it. Her
head snapped toward him, disbelief flooding her expression. Use it.

(45:54):
You just said it was dangerous, that it's already warping everything,
and it is, Elias shot back, his tone clipped, but
not unkind. Do you think I want this do you
think this is a choice I'm making lightly? I would
dismantle it in a heartbeat if that were an option.
It's not. And when Blackwood comes back, he won't be alone.

(46:15):
If we're not prepared, we'll lose everything. Lucy gripped the
edges of her bench again, anger flaring behind her unease.
And if we use it, if it gets out of control,
then what? Elias's face darkened, shadows spilling over his features
like ink from his notebook. There was a long pause

(46:38):
before he finally spoke, his voice hushed and faintly trembling.
It's already changed us, Lucy, We just don't fully see
it yet. A knock at the door shattered the moment, Sharp, deliberate,
and dripping with impatience. Lucy jumped, her stomach, twisting itself
into knots. Elias was already on his feet, his entire

(47:01):
frame taught like a held breath. He's here, he said, coldly,
and as the clock ticked on behind them, its rhythms
seemed to quicken. Chapter six, Lucy's warning. The rain lashed

(47:36):
against the workshop's windows in relentless waves, now, each drop
dissolving into streaks that blurred the outside world into an
unrecognizable haze. Inside, the air felt thick enough to cut.
The knock at the door reverberated through the room, an
intrusion too solid and deliberate to belong to the storm.
Lucy's chest tightened as her gaze darted between Elias and

(47:59):
the door. She didn't need to ask if it was
Blackwood on the other side. The tension in Elias's body
spoke louder than words. He stood rigid, his ink stained
hands gripping the edge of the work bench so tightly
that his knuckles turned white. For a moment, the only
sound was the ticking of the clock, now impossibly loud,

(48:19):
each tick echoing like a hammer driving in nails. Another knock, harder,
this time, each pound against the oak, a command rather
than a request. Faroh, Blackwood's voice cut through the barrier
of wood and glass, sharp and imperious. Open this door
before I have it splintered into kindling. Elias exhaled slowly,

(48:43):
the sound more like a hiss than a breath. His
eyes flicked to Lucy, his sharp, gray gaze piercing her
like a blade. Stay out of sight, he said, his
voice low, steady, but edged with the kind of authority
she knew better than to question. No matter what you hear,

(49:03):
no matter what he says, do not come near that clock.
Lucy wanted to argue, to insist that she could help,
that she should be there to stand by him, But
before she could form the words, Elias was already moving
toward the door, his boots tapping against the floorboards with
measured precision. He reached it just as the knocking began again,

(49:26):
this time rattling the door frame. With a forceful turn
of the brass handle, he swung it open. Henry Blackwood
filled the doorway like a storm cloud, his bulk seeming
to blot out the flickering glow of gas lamps on
the street behind him, Rain glistened off his coat pulling
on the threshold. As he stepped inside without waiting for

(49:48):
an invitation, his cane struck the wooden floor with a
deliberate thud, the rhythm ominously in sync with the ticking
of the clock. Behind him, two figures loomed, armed men,
their flintlock pistols gleaming in the dim light. Unlike Blackwood,
they didn't bother with the semblance of gentlemanly decorum. They

(50:11):
were here for one purpose well, Blackwood demanded, his gaze
sweeping the workshop with a predator's precision. It landed briefly
on the cluttered work benches, on the half finished clocks
scattered across the room, and finally on the masterpiece at
the center of it all. His lips curved into a smirk,

(50:33):
though it was less an expression of amusement than of possession.
I trust I won't be disappointed. Elia stood motionless, his
tall frame blocking Blackwood's direct path to the clock. Though
his posture remained straight and controlled, Lucy could see the
tension in his shoulders, the slight tremor in his fingers

(50:53):
as he clenched them at his sides. You were warned, Blackwood,
he said, his voice cold, resolute. The clock isn't ready.
Blackwood's smirk didn't falter. Instead, he leaned heavily on his cane,
tilting his head as though humoring a child's protest. Strange,
he said, his tone dripping with condescension, Because from what

(51:17):
I saw through that window, and from what I gather
from the whispers in the village, it seems quite ready
to me. Don't take me for a fool, Farrow, I
waited as long as patience allows, and now I've come
to collect what's mine. He gestured with the silver tip
of his cane toward the clock, its crystal heart catching
the light like a polished jewel. I paid for a tool,

(51:40):
not excuses step aside. Lucy crouched low behind the smaller
work bench at the far end of the workshop, her
breaths shallow and slow. She couldn't see Elias's face from
where she hid, but his silence spoke volumes. Seconds stretched
unbearably as the tension tightened, each tick of the clock,

(52:01):
marking a moment closer to whatever catastrophe teetered on the
edge of the room. When Elias finally spoke, his voice
was calm, almost serene, but beneath the surface, a storm broowed.
What you paid for, he said, was something you should
never have asked for, something that should never exist. Walk away, Blackwood,

(52:24):
take your men, and leave this village before it's too late.
For the first time, Blackwood's smug veneer cracked, his expression
darkening like the skies outside. He took a threatening step closer,
the tip of his cane grinding against the floorboards. Too
late for what he sneered for you to indulge your theatrics,

(52:46):
for your apprentice to hide under a table while you
cower behind words. Don't overestimate your importance, Farrow. You're a craftsman,
nothing more. Your brilliance means nothing if you can't deliver. Now,
step aside. Elias didn't move. The ticking of the clock

(53:07):
seemed to grow louder, filling the spaces between their stand
off like the beating of some enormous, invisible heart. Lucy's
hands clutched the edge of the bench, her nails digging
into the wood as she resisted the urge to jump
to her feet. There was no mistaking the tension in
Blackwood's voice, the heat rising to a boiling point, and

(53:29):
yet Elias remained steady, unyielding. You don't understand what you're
asking for, Elias said, softly, the words almost a murmur.
If you touch that clock, if you try to use
it to wield it, you'll set events in motion that
no living soul can stop. Time is not a river

(53:50):
you can redirect with a whim, Blackwood, It's an ocean,
and it will drown you. Blackwood barked a sharp, humorless laugh,
his voice echoing harshly in the confined space of the workshop.
And yet here you are standing between me and your
so called ocean. If you were so afraid of its power,

(54:10):
you wouldn't have finished it. Admit it, Pharroh. You believe
in it as much as I do. You just lack
the courage to embrace what it offers. But I do
not courage, you see, is what separates men like me
from men like you. With a subtle motion, Blackwood raised
his cane, and one of the armed men took a

(54:32):
step forward, pistol glinting in hand. Lucy's breath caught. This
was it, the moment when words would no longer hold,
when the delicate balance of the workshop would collapse into chaos.
She gritted her teeth, ready to spring into action if necessary,
though what she could possibly do against a pistol was

(54:53):
beyond her. But Elias didn't flinch. If anything, he seemed
to grow taller, his sha sadow stretching behind him like
a figure carved from stone. Throw as many men at
me as you like, he said, his voice resolute. You'll
never understand the cost of what you're trying to take,
and if it's the last deed of my life. I'll

(55:14):
make certain the clock never leaves this workshop in your hands.
Lucy swore she could feel the clock shiver at those words,
its pulse quickening in response to the charge in the air.
It wasn't just alive, it was listening. Blackwood's smirk returned,
but this time it carried the weight of a man
who had lost his patience entirely. Then so be it,

(55:38):
he said, simply flicking his wrist toward the armed men.
The sound of a hammer being cocked shattered the air,
and Lucy knew the storm outside had nothing on the
one about to rage within these walls. The first shot
rang out, deafening in the confined space, and as the
echoes subsided, the clocks ticking thundered on, as relentless and

(56:00):
fateful as a drum beat, marching toward the inevitable Chapter seven,

(56:21):
unwinding reality. The shot thundered through the workshop a crack
so loud it seemed to split the air itself. For
a heartbeat, everything else stopped, the rain, the storm, the
unrelenting tick of the clock, and the world held its breath.
Lucy's heart froze, her body instinctively curling tighter behind the

(56:45):
workbench as she waited for the aftermath that never came. Slowly, carefully,
she peeked out from her hiding place, eyes wide with terror.
The bullet had not found its mark, stood motionless in
the center of the room, unscathed, his tall frame silhouetted

(57:05):
against the golden lamplight before him. The crystal are but
the center of the clock now throbbed with a furious,
pulsating light, refracting eerie patterns across the walls and ceiling.
The hum that Lucy had noticed earlier was louder, now
almost unbearable, vibrating through her rib cage like the toll
of an invisible bell. Blackwood's armed man stared at his

(57:29):
pistol in confusion, the barrel still smoking faintly. He had
been aiming dead center at Elias's chest, but the bullet
impossibly never made contact. Instead, it hung suspended in mid air,
frozen mere inches from Elias's heart, a piece of time itself,
plucked from its natural flow and held captive. The mercenary

(57:52):
stumbled back, his mouth working soundlessly as every eye in
the room locked onto the impossible sight, and then with
a faint shapes and the screech of metal, Twisting against
unseen forces, the bullet disintegrated into a cloud of dust.
Loose particles drifted downward, catching the faint glow of the
clock like motes of gold, before vanishing entirely fools, Elias growled,

(58:16):
his voice, cutting through the silence like a blade. He
didn't move, his expression hard and unyielding, though something in
his posture betrayed the cost of holding his ground. Do
you see now, Do you understand? This is no weapon
for your profit, Blackwood? This is no tool for your empire.
It is power beyond mortal grasp, and it will unmake

(58:37):
anyone who dares to claim it. Blackwood didn't flinch, though
his cane tightened visibly in his hand. The mercenaries exchanged
uneasy glances, and one of them took an involuntary step backward,
his resolve already wavering, but Blackwood's eyes fixed on the
clock burned with something other than fear. Greed, pure, unrelenting greed.

(59:01):
Whatever he had just witnessed only served to confirm what
he had long suspected. The clock wasn't just capable of
altering time, it owned time. Impressive, Blackwood said at last,
his words slow and deliberate, a poisonous smirk, curling his lips.
Very impressive, Farrow. But let's leave theatrics aside, shall we.

(59:22):
A few parlor tricks won't dissuade me. You have my clock,
and I will have it. You still believe it can
be possessed, Elias said, his tone low and bitter, more
to himself than to Blackwood. He turned slightly, placing himself
completely between the clock and the intruder, his shadow stretching

(59:43):
long across the intricately carved face of the device. But
you would be wrong. It possesses you the moment you
seek it. It already has you, Blackwood. You're too arrogant
to realize it. I grow tired of your riddle's farrow,
Blackackwood snapped, his calm veneer fracturing under the strain of

(01:00:03):
his rage. Enough of this posturing. Give me the clock,
or I'll burn this workshop down with you inside it.
Do it, Elias said, and the words stunned everyone in
the room, Lucy most of all. She nearly gasped aloud,
but bit her lip to stay silent, her mind whirling.
He sounded resigned, no, not resigned, defiant, as if daring

(01:00:28):
Blackwood to make good on his threat. You think I won't,
Blackwood said, though there was hesitation, now a flicker of
uncertainty bleeding through his bravado. You underestimate me, Pharaoh, you
always have. Oh I don't underestimate you, Blackwood, Elias replied
with a grim smile, though there was no humor behind it.

(01:00:49):
I know exactly what you are, A man who fears
the one thing he can never escape. Time. You think
this clock can grant you dominion over it. But time
is not chain you can break, nor a beast you
can tame. It's a chasm, a void, and it's already
devouring you. Blackwood sneered, though his hand shook slightly where

(01:01:11):
it gripped his cane. Spare me your sermons if you
won't give it willingly. He lunged forward, aiming to shove
Aliis aside, But in that instant the clock pulsed again,
brighter and faster than before, filling the room with a
blinding surge of energy. The hum crescendoed into a deafening roar,

(01:01:31):
and the air crackled with a static charge that made
Lucy's hair stand on end. She ducked lower, shielding her face,
unable to look directly at the light radiating from the clock.
It wasn't just light, it was presence, a force that
seemed to crash into her like a wave, stealing her breath.

(01:01:52):
The walls of the workshop groaned under the strain, wood
splintering faintly as time itself seemed to ripple outward in jagged,
fractured way, and then abruptly it stopped. The light dimmed,
the roaring hum faded into silence. Lucy dared to look up,
her breath hitching as she took in the scene before her.

(01:02:13):
Blackwood was frozen mid motion, his outstretched hand mere inches
from Elias's chest, His expression a mixture of triumph and fury,
had been twisted into something almost grotesque, as though caught
by surprise in a moment he could never escape. Around him,
the air shimmered faintly, like heat rising from pavement, bending

(01:02:36):
his frozen silhouette into something otherworldly. Elias stepped back, his
chest heaving as though he'd run a great distance, though
his eyes burned with the fire of someone who refused
to give in. He stared at Blackwood for a long moment,
then turned his attention to the clock. The crystal orb

(01:02:56):
at its center no longer pulsed with light. It burned
a deep, angry red that made Lucy think of molten metal.
It looked alive in the worst way, as if aware
of what it had just done and eagerly waiting for
the opportunity to do it again. Elias Lucy croaked, her
voice breaking. She hadn't meant to speak, but fear clawed

(01:03:19):
at her throat, demanding release. She couldn't tell whether Blackwood
was dead, trapped, or something far worse, but the sight
of his frozen form felt like a warning, a glimpse
of something horrible that might come for them both if
the clock wasn't stopped. Elias exhaled shakily, turning to meet
her gaze. He looked older, somehow, years etched into his

(01:03:43):
face that hadn't been there moments ago. Stay back, Lucy,
he said, hoarsely. It's waking up. Her stomach dropped. Waking up,
he nodded, grimly, returning his focus to the clock as
its gears began to click and spin on their own,
independent of any touch. The sound that followed wasn't the smooth,

(01:04:07):
methodical ticking of a clock. It was erratic, chaotic, like
the last gasps of a dying creature refusing to succumb.
But beneath that chaos, a faint rhythm began to weave
itself together, growing louder with each beat it was counting down.
Lucy stood her legs trembling beneath her. But she couldn't
stay hidden any longer. Elias, we have to do something,

(01:04:31):
she said, moving cautiously toward him. We can't just let it.
I know, Elias interrupted, sharply, though his voice cracked. I know,
but it's too far gone now, it's he trailed off
the words, dissolving into a grim silence. His hand hovered
over the clock, trembling as though he wanted to smash it,

(01:04:52):
and knew that doing so might only make things worse.
Before either of them could speak again, a new sound
filled the room, a soft, faint whisper that didn't come
from any human throat. It was the clock. The whisper
wasn't made of words, but of impressions, fragments of sound
that slithered into their ears and their minds, like smoke,

(01:05:14):
impossible to hold onto, yet undeniable in their presence. Lucy
staggered clutching her head as nausea swept through her. What's
its saying? She managed to choke out, though the words
felt pathetic against the enormity of what she was hearing.
Elias didn't answer right away. His eyes remained fixed on

(01:05:35):
the clock, his face pale and drawn. Finally, he whispered,
just loud enough for Lucy to hear, it doesn't need
us to understand. It's already decided. The clock's ticking grew louder, faster,
more erratic, and somewhere deep inside its labyrinthine mechanisms, Lucy

(01:05:56):
heard something else, a scream, quiet at first, then rising, twisting,
splitting into a thousand echoes that bounced off reality itself.
She didn't know whose voice it was, or if it
was a warning they were already too late to heed.

(01:06:26):
Chapter eight, The Cost of Hubris. The rain eased momentarily,
a fleeting lull, as if the storm outside hesitated, drawing
in breath before resuming its symphony. Inside the workshop, the
air hung dense and electric, alive, with attension so thick

(01:06:49):
Lucy could almost feel it pressing against her skin. The
clock on the bench ticked unnaturally fast, each erratic beat
like a warning shot through the silence. The sinister red
glow of the crystal orb bathed the room in an
almost otherworldly light, painting Elias's face in harsh shadows. His
expression was a mask, equal parts dread and determination. But

(01:07:12):
his earlier words echoed in Lucy's mind like a curse.
It's already decided. Lucy clenched her fists, her body a
coiled spring of anger and fear. It would have been
so easy, so cathartic, to scream at him, to tell
him he was wrong, that whatever fate loomed over them

(01:07:33):
could still be rewritten if they fought hard enough. But
even as her chest burned with the urge, a deeper,
more ancient instinct held her back. Somewhere in the marrow
of her bones, she sensed the truth. This wasn't something
they could stop. It was something far bigger, something beyond

(01:07:53):
their grasp. Maybe it always had been. Across the room,
blackwood stood frozen, grotesque permanence, a macab silhouette in the
orangish flicker of the lantern's flame. The strange shimmer surrounding
him distorted space like a dream, unraveling, warping the edges
of his form. With an almost nauseating stability. He was

(01:08:15):
trapped mid sneer, his arm outstretched as if defying some
unseen enemy, yet powerless, a statue carved from hubris and failure.
The sight chilled Lucy in a way she hadn't expected.
Whatever temporary victory this was, it came with the knowledge
that something worse had arrived, something that had found its

(01:08:36):
way into their world through the clock. Elias moved suddenly,
snapping Lucie out of her thoughts. He adjusted the lamp
nearest the clock, its light illuminating the intricate chaos of
gears and mechanisms within his hands trembled as he sifted
through a tray of delicate tools, selecting a tiny screwdriver

(01:08:57):
and needle like pliers. These were the instruments Lucy had
seen him wheeled a thousand times, tools he treasured for
their precision, but tonight they seemed pitifully small against the
enormity of the task ahead. What are you doing, Lucy asked,
her voice a fragile thread in the oppressive silence. She

(01:09:20):
gripped the edge of the smaller work bench beside her
for balance, Nausea churning in her stomach as dread coiled
tighter around her. Elias didn't look up. I have to
reduce its power, he said, his voice low but resolute.
He leaned over the clock, his hands moving with cautious urgency.

(01:09:40):
Destroying it isn't an option, not with the time we have,
but the crystal it's amplifying everything. If I can isolate
it from the rest of the mechanism, maybe weaken the connection,
he paused, exhaling sharply, it might buy us some time.
Lucy's heart twisted at the word time. It had always

(01:10:02):
been the one thing they didn't have enough of. Leaning
into her unease, she managed to ask, and if it
doesn't work, what if you only Lucy? Elia snapped, the
sharpness of his tone, cutting her off. Her breath hitched,
the force of his words hitting harder than she'd expected,

(01:10:23):
but as quickly as the anger flared, it softened. Guilt
clouded his expression as he risked a glance in her direction.
I know what's at stake, he said, quietly, the tremor
in his voice betraying the burden of his guilt. But
doing nothing. It'll cost us more than trying ever could.

(01:10:44):
Around them, the workshop seemed to shrink, the clock's ominous
hum filled the space, its pulsing rhythm pulling at Lucy's thoughts,
eroding her composure. She tried to focus on Elias, on
the careful precision of his hands. He turned the mechanism,
his ink stained fingers, navigating wires too fine for her

(01:11:05):
eyes to follow. But the sound was relentless. Each tick
and whir gnawed at her nerves, burrowing deeper until she
could feel it in her chest, like a second heartbeat
out of sink with her own. The glow dimmed, almost imperceptibly.
Lucy straightened, her pulse quickening as she clung to the

(01:11:26):
faint flicker of hope. Elias, it's I know, he interrupted,
his voice tight with concentration. He turned one of the
clock's delicate gilded gears just enough to cause a faint
mechanical shift. The ticking changed, ever so slightly. If we
can just weaken it enough, His words trailed off, as

(01:11:48):
if saying them aloud might break the fragile progress he'd made.
The glow vanished for half a breath, the room plunged
into shadow, but the reprieve was short lived. The crystal
irerupted with a violent flash of crimson light, the force
of it throwing Elias backward. He crashed against the far

(01:12:09):
wall with a sickening sound, a grunt ripped from his throat.
The tools skittered to the floor in a metallic cacophony.
As Lucy stumbled, ears ringing from the blast Elias. She
reached him as he slumped forward, dazed but conscious. Relief
battled with terror. As his pained groan confirmed his survival,

(01:12:32):
she clutched his arm, grounding herself in his presence. Amidst
the nightmarish chaos consuming the room, But the clock was alive.
Its glow darkened, deepening into something ominous predatory. The hum
became a maddening crescendo, a mechanical scream that filled every corner,
vibrating through Lucy's bones. The gears spun impossibly fast, the

(01:12:54):
case in quaking, as though the entire contraption were ready
to shatter, and yet somehow untouchable reality itself seemed to falter.
The flames of the lanterns flickered unnaturally, jerking into strange shapes,
stretching and stuttering, as though caught in a loop of
flawed time and blackwood. He moved, or at least something

(01:13:17):
that resembled blackwood did. The shimmer around him crackled with
an unnatural light, and his once human form flickered between
distorted frames. The motion was jarring, fractured. His expression looped
endlessly between rage and anguish, his sneer folding over itself
like a corrupted image. His mercenaries suffered the same haunting fate,

(01:13:38):
their forms shifting in jagged bursts, their faces stripped of humanity.
Lucy Elias's voice came back to her, ragged and urgent.
He used the bench to steady himself, his legs trembling
as he found his footing. His eyes locked on to
hers across the chaos, the hammer by the door. Her

(01:13:58):
body moved on in instinct. The clock's pull felt heavier now,
as if the air itself had turned against her, but
she pushed forward. The hammer lay exactly where it had
been left, a reassuring weight. As she snatched it up,
it felt real, solid, unlike everything else in the workshop,
which seemed on the verge of dissolving. When she turned back,

(01:14:22):
Elias was already braced against the clock, his arms shielding
his chest. As the crystal's light flared again destroy it.
He yelled, his voice nearly lost beneath the clock's deafening scream. Now,
for the briefest second, doubt stopped her cold. She knew

(01:14:42):
what this clock meant to him. It wasn't just a machine.
It was his grief, his hope for redemption. Breaking. It
would break far more than gears and crystal. It would
destroy the last trace of his dream. But then his
voice cut through her hesitation. Raw and desperate, Lucy she ran.

(01:15:05):
The heat of the crystal seared her skin as she
neared it, the glow swallowing everything light, shadow thought. She
raised the hammer, her grip tightening despite the weight of
the moment pressing hard against her. Behind her, blackwoods, twisted,
fractured form loomed closer, a ghost of his own arrogance.
Lucy saw none of it. All she saw was the crystal,

(01:15:28):
pulsing like a heart filled with malice, and as she
brought the hammer down, the world held its breath. Chapter nine,

(01:15:54):
The Apprentices Resolve. The hammer struck with a force that
reverberated through Lucy's arms, the sound ringing out like a thunderclap,
splitting the heavens. The crystal at the heart of the
clock let out an unearthly shriek, a sound that wasn't

(01:16:14):
quite mechanical and couldn't be mistaken for anything human. It
was alive in the way a storm is alive, pure
raw chaos. The glowing red orb resisted her strike, cracked
spider webbing across its surface, but it didn't break, not yet. Instead,
it pulsed violently, throwing her backward onto the floor with

(01:16:37):
a force so strong it ripped the breath from her lungs.
She gasped, the glow still searing behind her eyelids as
she tried to scramble to her feet. Above her, the
clock groaned, its myriad spinning gears, grinding and screeching in protest.
The light emanating from it darkened, deepening to a blood
red so fierce it painted the entire workshop in its shadows.

(01:17:01):
Danced madly along the warped walls, stretching and twisting as
though they were wrestling against the edges of reality. The
air around her was impossibly thick, now, a pressure that
seemed to weigh down her very soul, as if the
clock was trying to crush her under the magnitude of
its existence and within its fractured heart. The hum grew louder,

(01:17:21):
more insistent, resonating with an alien rhythm that shook her bones.
Lucy couldn't tell if the noise was coming from her
ears or from the depths of her own mind. Elia
stumbled towards her, his arm raised against the light, his
movements frantic and disjointed. He reached for her, pulling her
up with a strength that seemed impossible for his gaunt frame.

(01:17:45):
You have to keep going, he shouted, his voice hoarse
and cracked, but filled with an urgency that allowed no
room for argument. The strange shimmer in the air was stronger, now,
rippling around him, distorting his outline so that he seemed
to flicker in an out to focus. His gray eyes,
sharp and desperate, remained fixed on hers. Hit it again,

(01:18:08):
Keep hitting it. Lucy's hands were trembling, her fingers clutching
the heavy hammer like it was the only thing tethering
her to reality. She wanted to scream, to tell Eleas
this was madness, that the clock had gone too far
and there was no way to stop it now. But
deep down she knew the truth. It couldn't be reasoned with,

(01:18:29):
it couldn't be left intact. It was winning, and if
they didn't stop it, they wouldn't just lose themselves, they'd
lose everything. With a deep breath and a sharp cry
of defiance that surprised even herself, Lucy lunged forward, the
hammer arcing high above her head, she brought it down again,
this time with all the strength her small frame could muster.

(01:18:53):
The hammer struck the fractured crystal directly in its core,
and this time the cracks deepened. A high pitched, keening
sound escaped from the orb, louder and more piercing than before,
as though it were screaming. But still it didn't shatter. Instead,
the shimmering waves emanating from it exploded outward, rippling through

(01:19:15):
the workshop with such force that objects were thrown from shelves,
glass lanterns shattered, and the air itself seemed to tremble.
Elia staggered, barely managing to brace himself against his work bench.
As the shockwave tore through the room again, he roared,
his voice, strained but unwavering. You're breaking it. It's weakening.

(01:19:38):
Don't stop. Lucy wiped the sweat from her brow with
a shaking hand, her grip on the hammer threatening to falter.
Her arms ached. Her body screamed for her to stop,
but she ignored the pain, her focus narrowing to the
orb It was no longer glowing evenly. Its light flickered erratically,

(01:20:00):
and the cracks along its surface were spreading like veins,
glowing faintly at the edges, as though the thing were
trying to stitch itself back together. It wasn't just resisting destruction,
it was fighting back. As she lifted the hammer again,
something changed. The keening sound shifted, lowering into a guttural,

(01:20:22):
resonant tone that seemed to vibrate the very foundation of
the workshop. The clock's hum became deafening, its ticking collapsing
inward on itself, a chaotic, rhythmic distortion of time's natural
order Around her, reality buckled further. The floor beneath her
feet felt uneven, like it wasn't quite there, and the

(01:20:45):
workshop's walls appeared to stretch and fold. Images flashing across
them that didn't belong. She saw glimpses of other places,
other moments, fragments of memory she didn't recognize, faces she'd
never see, events that hadn't happened. Time itself was fraying
unspooling like thread untangled from a spool, and the clock

(01:21:08):
was pulling every strand taut, ready to snap. And then
she felt it, the whisper. It was different, now, no
longer faint and indistinct. It was inside her head, threading
through her thoughts like an invasive root. The words were incomprehensible,
not a language she recognized, but they carried meaning none

(01:21:30):
the less. She could feel their intent like heat under
her skin, Alien and overwhelming. It wasn't pleading or commanding.
It was mocking, taunting her with something ancient and unknowable.
The voice wasn't one. It was many, A cacophony of
overlapping presences, some faint and others roaring and woven into

(01:21:53):
the maddening chorus. Was a truth she could no longer deny.
The clock wanted her to fail, no more than that
it expected her to. Lucy stumbled backward, clutching her head
as her vision blurred and her thoughts twisted. She wanted
to scream, to drown out the voices, but they grew louder, stronger,
consuming every corner of her mind. She was losing herself,

(01:22:16):
slipping further into the pull of whatever horror. The clock
had awakened. She couldn't think, couldn't. A hand gripped her arm,
firm and grounding. Lucy Elias's voice snapped her out of
the spiral, pulling her back to the present like a rope,
anchoring her to solid ground. Don't let it in, do
you hear me? Don't let it in. You're stronger than

(01:22:39):
it is. Focus on the crystal. Nothing else matters now.
His words cut through the noise, and Lucy forced herself
to look at him. His face was pale, his eyes
wild and desperate, but there was a determination in his
expression that steadied her. Elias was right. She couldn't let
it win. The clock ticked faster now, its sound warped

(01:23:02):
and impossible to follow. With every beat, Lucy felt the
world stretching further. This wasn't just about stopping the orb anymore.
It was about stopping time itself from unraveling into madness.
The thought terrified her, but it also lit a spark
within her, a fierce, defiant flame that refused to be extinguished.

(01:23:23):
Gritting her teeth, she raised the hammer once more. This time,
when she struck, she did so with everything she had left. Fear, anger,
hope and despair, all driving her forward. The hammer collided
with the crystal with a deafening crack, and suddenly the
room imploded into light. The red glow consumed everything, blinding

(01:23:44):
and absolute, and for a moment, Lucy felt as if
she'd been swallowed whole by the clock's heart. The hum ceased,
replaced by a staggering silence that pressed against her ears
like static. She couldn't see Elias, couldn't feel her own body.
There was nothing, just light, endless and unyielding, and then darkness.

(01:24:10):
When her vision returned, the workshop was still. The glow
was gone, The clock's gears were frozen, its ticking silenced
for the first time since she'd entered the room. The
crystal orb lay shattered. Shards of glass and jagged fragments
scattered across the work bench, catching the faint glow of
the lantern light. Whatever power had once thrumbed within it

(01:24:32):
was gone, extinguished, like the last dying ember of a fire.
Lucy collapsed to her knees, the hammer slipping from her
grasp and clattering to the floor. Her chest heaved as
she gulped down air, her body trembling with exhaustion. Everything
hurt her arms, her legs, her very soul. But she

(01:24:54):
was alive, and so was Elias. He was slumped against
the far wall, staring at the shattered remnants of the
orb in stunned silence. For a long moment, neither of
them spoke. The absence of sound in the workshop almost
surreal after the chaos that had just unfolded. The mercenaries
and Blackwood were gone, vanished without a trace, as if

(01:25:17):
they had never been there at all. Time itself seemed
to breathe again, slow and steady, no longer a fractured mess.
Lucy finally turned to Elias, her voice hoarse. Did we
did we stop it? Elias didn't look at her, His
eyes were fixed on the ruined clock, his expression unreadable.

(01:25:39):
He exhaled slowly, the sound heavy with both relief and grief.
For now, he murmured. Lucy followed his gaze, something cold
settling in her chest. The clock might have been silenced,
its heart destroyed, but a faint, insidious whisper still lingered
in the back of her mind. It wasn't over, not really,

(01:26:03):
and she wasn't sure it ever would be. Chapter ten,

(01:26:25):
Confronting the specter, the room pulsed with silence. It wasn't
the tranquil kind that brings relief, but the sort heavy
with the echoes of something unresolved, a silence that waits.

(01:26:45):
Lucy knelt on the floor, her hands trembling as they
pressed against the splintered wood for balance. Shards of the
crystal orb were scattered in front of her, catching the
dim light like fractured stars. They looked harmless, now, lifeless
fragments of glass, but Lucy knew better the memory of
its malevolent pulse still lingered, wrapping around her thoughts, like

(01:27:09):
a shadow that refused to let go. At the edges
of her mind, it waited, a faint, almost imperceptible whisper.
Elias hadn't moved from where he leaned against the wall.
His ink stained hands hung limp at his sides, His
shoulders slumped, as if the weight of the last few
moments had drained whatever strength he had left. His gray eyes,

(01:27:32):
usually sharp and calculating, stayed fixed on the remnants of
the clock, now little more than a broken mess of
gears and smoldering wood. He inhaled slowly, raggedly, as though
testing whether his lungs could still manage the task. For
a moment, Lucy wondered if he would speak, or if

(01:27:53):
the silence would swallow them both. Then his voice cut through,
low and hollow. It shouldn't have been made. The words
caught Lucy off guard. They were quiet, almost fragile, but
they carried with them something that sounded like disgust. Aimed
not at her, or even at the clock, but at himself.

(01:28:15):
She turned toward him, though her body felt reluctant to move.
But it's done, she said, her voice strained, unsure. She
wanted the words to feel definitive appeared at the end
of a sentence, but they hung in the air, questioning,
it's over, isn't it the clock? It's gone? Elias shifted slightly,

(01:28:38):
still not looking at her. A muscle in his jaw tightened,
his ink streaked fingers curling slightly against the floor. Gone.
He repeated the word like it tasted bitter, number, not gone. Finally,
his gaze snapped to hers, sharp and haunting. Broken. Yes,

(01:28:58):
silenced for now, but not gone. Lucy froze, goose bumps
prickling along her skin as his words sank in the
subtle hum nagging at her thoughts suddenly seemed louder, more insistent.
You feel it too, he pushed, his voice, taking on
a sharper edge. Don't you, Lucy, the whisper, the pull

(01:29:22):
you know as well as I do. It's not finished.
She wanted to deny it, to argue that his guilt
was feeding his imagination, but she couldn't. She felt it,
the presence, clinging stubbornly to the edges of her awareness,
like rot that wouldn't be scrubbed away. She tried to
push it aside, to shake it loose, but it was

(01:29:44):
no use. Then what was the point, she asked, her
voice barely audible. If breaking it didn't destroy it, why
did we do all this? What did we accomplish? Elias
pushed himself upright with visible effort. His movements were stiff, slow,
each one showing the toll this endeavor had taken on him.

(01:30:06):
When he finally stood, his gaunt frame seemed taller, more ominous.
He placed his hands on the work bench in front
of him, gripping its edge as if it were the
only thing keeping him tethered. His expression was raw, pained
in a way that went deeper than exhaustion. The point
he echoed bitterly, almost to himself. His voice cracked on

(01:30:29):
the word, his tone laced with self loathing. The point
was to undo what should never have been done, to
try foolishly to make amends for a mistake that damn
near broke the fabric of reality, he gestured weakly toward
the remains of the clock. It was a desperate hope, Lucy,
That's all it ever was desperation. The admission hit her

(01:30:52):
harder than she expected. Her chest tightened, the frustration building
inside her until it spilled out. You promised, she shot back,
her voice trembling. You promised it could end. You told me,
lied to me that we could stop it. She pointed
at the shattered gears and glass with a shaking hand.

(01:31:13):
What was the point of breaking it? If nothing changes?
Elias's expression didn't soften, his demeanor hardened, his jaw set
like stone as he stepped closer to her. And what
would you have done? He demanded, his voice sharp, now
cutting nothing, Let it remain whole and consume everything. Do

(01:31:35):
you think I wanted this, Lucy? Do you think I
wanted to spend years of my life creating something I
didn't fully understand, only to risk my life, breaking it
with some one who doesn't trust me any more. His
words were a slap, and they left her stunned. Her
mouth opened in protest, but no words came. He exhaled heavily,

(01:31:57):
the fire in his tone dimming. I didn't choose this,
he said, softer now, But once it was made, it
didn't belong to me anymore. Breaking it wasn't a solution.
It was survival. And even that he trailed off, looking
past her, his focus distant. Even that may not be enough.

(01:32:22):
Lucy wanted to scream at him, to tell him he
was a liar, that he had dragged her into something
she never asked for. But under all that frustration was
a painful truth. She didn't have the strength to argue,
not anymore. The faint hum persisted at the periphery of
her mind, much louder now, much harder to ignore. Elias

(01:32:46):
turned away, moving closer to the pile of broken crystal
and mangled gears. He hesitated before reaching down, his fingers,
brushing against one sharp fragment of glass. For the briefest
of moments, it flickered, light danced beneath its surface, faint
and fleeting but unmistakable. Elias recoiled sharply, his hand snapping

(01:33:09):
back as though burned it remembers, he muttered, his voice hoarse,
He spoke as though the realization chilled him to his bones.
It's still alive in the pieces. Waiting. Lucy stepped forward,
despite the knot of dread curling in her stomach. Then
what do we do now, she asked, her voice breaking,

(01:33:31):
Her composure was crumbling, her thoughts spiraling. She wanted him
to tell her there was another plan, even a faint hope,
But when he spoke, his answer offered nothing close to comfort.
We bury it, he said, simply, far far away from here,
Break the pieces, scatter them, hide them where no one

(01:33:52):
can find them, not people, not time, not even the
whispers themselves. And if it comes back, Her voice was
barely more than a whisper, if it finds a way.
He didn't respond immediately, The question hung ominously between them,
the same way the clock's presence lingered in the room.

(01:34:14):
When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet, so quiet
she almost wished she hadn't heard it. Then we won't matter,
none of this will, because it won't just come back
for us, It will unmake us all of us. The
weight of his words crashed over her, leaving her knees weak.
She stumbled slightly, catching herself against the work bench. The

(01:34:38):
whisper in her mind seemed louder, now more insistent, clawing
its way to the forefront of her thoughts. She blinked rapidly,
staring at the clock's remains, as a terrible realization sunk in.
This wasn't over. It never would be. Chapter eleven, the

(01:35:12):
final tick. The rain fell heavier now, its rhythmic patter
against the windows, giving the illusion that time outside still
moved in its usual steady flow. Inside the workshop, however,
reality hung suspended, fragile, and distorted, as though the air

(01:35:34):
itself quivered with the weight of what had just transpired.
The clock's silence was deafening, oppressive in the way that
only something unnaturally devoid of life could be. And yet
the hum persisted, not in sound, but in feeling, a
pulsing undercurrent threading through Lucy's thoughts like an unwelcome echo.

(01:35:58):
She sat quietly on the floor, her back pressed against
the base of the work bench for support, her knees
drawn to her chest, her body ached with every breath.
The sharp pang of over exertion, reverberating through her ribs
and legs. The hammer lay abandoned at her side, its
head smeared with the faint, glimmering residue of the broken crystal.

(01:36:21):
She didn't dare move, as though afraid that any shift
in the fragile balance of her stillness would stir the
dormant energy that lingered in the room. Every fragment of
the crystal orb seemed to shimmer faintly, as if mocking
her triumph, with the knowledge that it was not truly
a victory. It had stopped, yes, but only stopped, paused,

(01:36:42):
not obliterated. Its pieces remained across the room. Elias sat
hunched on a stool, a strip of his torn sleeve
pressed to the shallow cut on his temple. He hadn't
spoken in several minutes, not since the silence fell over
them like a smothering blankets. Attention flickered between the shards
of the clock and the stain on his fingers, blood

(01:37:04):
mingling with ink, the remnants of a man consumed and
reshaped by his own folly. His tall, gaunt frame seemed
to sag further with each passing second, as though the
gravity of his mistakes was pulling him inward. The light
in his gray eyes, which had burned so fiercely through
the chaos, now teetered at the edge of extinguishment. He

(01:37:25):
looked like a man undone. Lucy studdied him, uncertain whether
to break the stillness. A dozen questions clawed at her,
each more desperate than the last, But the words wouldn't
form This man, her mentor her anchor through the storm,
now felt as unknowable to her as the clock itself.

(01:37:46):
In some ways, she knew he had fractured more deeply
than the crystal. She could see it in the way
his shoulders trembled ever so slightly. Hear it in the
faint rasp of his breathing, as if the act itself
was an effort. Whatever resolve had carried him moments ago
had shattered along with the clock. Finally, Lucy dared to speak,

(01:38:06):
her voice raw and halting it. It's broken, isn't it.
The words sat uncomfortably in her mouth, neither a question
nor a statement of certainty. Even as they left her lips.
She wasn't entirely sure she believed them. Elias didn't look
at her. His eyes remained fixed on the fragments scattered

(01:38:28):
across the work bench, the glow of the lamplight reflecting
in the jagged edges like dying flames. Broken. He echoed
the word, carrying none of the reassurance she had hoped
to find. Yes, but destroyed number. His voice was quiet, clinical,
as though resigning himself to an autopsy of the dream

(01:38:49):
he had spent years laboring over. It's dormant. Now Lucy wounded,
maybe disabled, but not dead. The admission was a blow
she wasn't prepared to take. Her chest tightened and heat
surged behind her eyes as she fought back, the fury
threatening to crack her fragile composure. She shot to her feet,

(01:39:09):
the sudden movement sending a rush of white hot pain
through her legs. But she didn't care. Then, what was
the point of all this, she demanded, her voice breaking
on the final word. Her hands gestured wildly to the wreckage,
to the unbearable stillness that seemed to mock her. We
risked everything, everything, Elias. I thought we were stopping it,

(01:39:31):
but you're telling me it's still here, that it's just waiting,
waiting for what for it to finish? Destroying us. Elias
raised his head slowly, his gaze locking on to hers
for the first time since the crystal shattered. His expression
was unreadable, a collection of shadows and edges that refused
to settle. Waiting, he said simply, the word cutting through

(01:39:55):
the air with quiet finality. Then, more softly, he added,
it will never truly stop, Lucy, not as long as
the pieces exist. Lucy's body went rigid at those words,
her fists tightening at her sides. Her voice was sharp,
now undercut by a tremor she couldn't suppress. Then why

(01:40:17):
didn't we finish it? Why didn't we grind those pieces
into dust while we had the chance? Elias's gaze hardened momentarily, though,
whether in frustration or remorse, Lucy couldn't tell. Do you
think I didn't want to? He replied, his voice rising
just enough to fill the room, though it wavered under
its own weight. Do you think I didn't try that hammer?

(01:40:41):
He pointed toward the tool on the floor, could no
more obliterate that crystal than I could stop time itself
by willing it to freeze. What you broke was its conduit,
not its essence, the heart of it, The soul of
it still lingers. He sighed deeply, the sound carrying the

(01:41:01):
gravity of centuries. Crystal, that pure, that connected to forces
beyond comprehension, doesn't shatter easily. What remains of it is alive,
even in fragments. It will remember. Something in that word
chilled Lucy to the bone. Remember it wasn't just an

(01:41:22):
object to alias anymore. If it ever had been. He
had built it with his own hands, forged it out
of grief and ambition and desperation. But now the clock
had transcended its creator, defied his intentions, and becomes something else,
something autonomous, something that listened, that learned. What do we

(01:41:46):
do now? She asked, quieter, this time, her voice barely
above a whisper. Her hands trembled as images of the
past days, no weeks, flashed before her eyes, hundreds of
hours spent under this very roof, watching Elias labor over
the labyrinth of interwoven gears, the precision in his movements

(01:42:08):
born of both genius and obsession. She had trusted him,
believed in his brilliance, even when doubt tried to creep in. Now,
standing in the ruins of everything they had built, she
no longer knew what they had accomplished or what they
had unleashed. Elias turned away from the clock finally, as
though he couldn't bear to look at it any longer.

(01:42:31):
His shoulders sagged once more, and the lines in his
face deepened in the dim light. We bury it, he whispered,
not just the pieces, the knowledge, the tools, everything, every
trace of it. His hands flexed and curled at his sides,
restless in their helplessness. If we don't, someone will find it,

(01:42:53):
someone worse than Blackwood. And if they finish what I started,
he trailed off, the unspoken end of his sentence, far
too horrifying to articulate. Lucy crossed her arms over her chest,
her jaw clenching as she fought the rising swell of
panic inside her. And what stops it from waking up again?

(01:43:13):
She pressed, her voice, barely steady. Even if we bury it,
even if no one ever finds it, what's to say
it doesn't doesn't call out to someone, to something you said?
It's a lie, Elias, how do you know it won't
find a way back no matter what we do. The
silence that followed was worse than any answer he could

(01:43:35):
have given her. Elias didn't speak. He didn't need to.
The answer was already etched deeply into his face, into
the set of his worn features and the haunted glint
in his steel gray eyes. He didn't know. He didn't
know if it could be stopped. He didn't know if
hiding it would be enough. And though he wouldn't admit

(01:43:56):
it aloud, the faint trace of broken resignation in his
express told Lucy everything she needed to know. The clock
wasn't finished with them, and it never would be. Chapter twelve,

(01:44:26):
Echoes in the wind. The storm outside raged on relentless,
as if it sought to cleanse the village of Windmere
of the horrors that had unfolded within the walls of
the clockmaker's workshop. Inside, the air was dense, laden with
an almost physical weight of stillness, punctuated only by the

(01:44:49):
distant patter of rain and the occasional groan as the
old wood of the building settled back into its natural state.
But there was nothing natural about what lingered here. Not
the broken, faceless clock, its splintered pieces glinting like malevolent
stars beneath the flickering gaslight, not the eerie hum Lucy
Carter swore she could still hear in the back of

(01:45:12):
her mind, faint but insistent, and certainly not the hollow
silence that stretched between her and Elias Farrow, each of
them caught in the private prison of their thoughts. Elias
sat at the edge of his work bench, his knuckles
digging into its surface, as though anchoring him to this
plane of existence. His head was bowed, his gray hair

(01:45:34):
falling limply over his pale, sallow face. InKo and blood
streaked his fingers. He wasn't looking at her, He wasn't
looking at anything anymore. Whatever fire had driven him through
his sleepless nights, his impossible genius, and perhaps his darkest sins,
had burned itself out in the space of a moment.

(01:45:54):
Or perhaps it had burned out long before tonight's events,
and Lucy had simply been too naive to see it.
He had created Beauty, yes, a clock of exquisite design,
flawless in its construction. But Lucy could see now, with
a clarity that turned her stomach, that it had always
been a monster, not a thing of craftsmanship, but of despair.

(01:46:17):
The moment Elias had built it, it had devoured him.
It had simply taken the rest of them a little
longer to notice? How long? Lucy finally asked, her voice
row breaking, the kind of silence that begged to remain unbroken.
She sat across the space, her knees pulled up to
her chest, like a child guarding herself against unseen shadows.

(01:46:40):
Her voice trembled, though she tried to hide it. How
long have you known that this? She motioned vaguely, to
the wreckage of the clock, to the lingering stillness that
seemed to distort the room, that this wasn't just a machine.
Elias didn't lift his gaze for a long moment. She

(01:47:00):
thought he might not answer at all, might let the
question dissolve into the suffocating air, like so many before it.
When he finally spoke, his voice was hoarse, quiet, the
words sharp edged even in their softness. Since the first
cog meshed with the second. Lucy blinked, her breath, catching

(01:47:22):
you knew from the beginning. His jaw tightened, a single
muscle flickering in the gaunt hollow of his cheek. He
still wouldn't look at her. Perhaps he couldn't. You don't
build something like this by accident, Lucy. You don't stumble
across perfection. You carve it piece by piece out of

(01:47:45):
your own soul, and each piece you carve away, it
takes from you more than you ever intended to give.
It always takes. His voice dropped so low she had
to strain to catch his next words. The clock wasn't
meant to tick, not yet, But the moment it did,
I knew. He swallowed hard, his throat bobbing as if

(01:48:06):
the very act hurt. I knew I had built something
that would outlast me, outlast all of us. The weight
of his confession settled over Lucy like a taut net,
suffocating in its inevitability. She wanted to lash out, to
scream at him for dragging her into this, for trusting
her with secrets too dangerous even for him to bear alone.

(01:48:28):
But the anger that burned in her chest flickered and
faltered beneath the crushing wave of another truth, a truth
she couldn't yet name, but could already feel in her bones.
The clock wasn't finished with them. Why didn't you stop, Elias,
she whispered, her voice trembling but no longer sharp. There
was pain in her words, now, not fury. You saw

(01:48:51):
what it was becoming. You knew what it could do.
Why didn't you stop? He flinched at that, a subtle movement,
but one that spoke of wounds that ran agonizingly deep.
His hands curled into fists on the workbench, his nails
pressing into his ink stained palms. Because I couldn't, he said,

(01:49:12):
And there was something broken in his voice, now, a
crack running through his words, like a flaw in fine porcelain.
Because it was hers, Lucy's breath hitched. She didn't have
to ask who hers meant. Margaret. The name hovered unspoken

(01:49:33):
between them, heavy with all the weight of love and
loss and longing, and for the first time, the sharp
edges of her anger dulled, softened by the understanding that
had been there all along, if only she'd cared to
see it. This was never about brilliance, It was never
about power. This had always been about grief, about the
gnawing ache that had hollowed out Elias's heart, the way

(01:49:57):
it had taken him apart, cog by cog and left
a man who had tried desperately, foolishly to rebuild his
world from the ashes, and the clock had been his answer,
his salvation, his curse. She wouldn't have wanted this, Lucy
said softly, her voice trembling but steady enough to carry Margaret.

(01:50:18):
She wouldn't have wanted you to to tear yourself apart
like this, to build something that She faltered, the words
dying on her tongue. What could she even call it?
Something that defied time, that defied life, that defied reason itself.
Elias's head snapped up at that, his sharp gray eyes

(01:50:40):
piercing through the softness in her voice. Don't, he said,
his voice low but warning. There was steel in it now,
a spark of the man who had once commanded every
corner of this room with unflinching precision. Don't presume to
know what she would have wanted. But Lucy didn't back down,

(01:51:02):
not this time, not after everything. Maybe you don't, either,
she said, her voice growing stronger, though the tremor hadn't
quite left it. Maybe you spent so long chasing her,
chasing chasing what you thought she wanted, that you never
stopped to think what this would do to her memory
to her breath caught, but she forced herself to continue

(01:51:26):
to you. For a moment, Elias's gaze wavered, and Lucy
thought she saw something shift there, a flicker of doubt,
of pain, of recognition, but then it was gone, his
face hardening once more. It doesn't matter now, he said, sharply,
turning his attention back to the shards of the clock.

(01:51:47):
What's done is done. Lucy felt the words hit her
like stones, but she wouldn't let them turn her to silence,
not this time. But it's not done, she said, stepping forward,
despite the knot of fear tightening in her chest. You
said it yourself. It's still there, alive, watching, waiting, Her

(01:52:09):
voice cracked. So what do we do, Elias? What do
we do if it if it comes back, how do
we stop it? For the first time, Elias met her
gaze fully, his expression hollowed out and haunted in a
way Lucy had never seen before. We don't, he said, simply,
the words as heavy as a gravestone. It will stop us.

(01:52:33):
The room went utterly still at that. Lucy's hands fell
to her sides, her fists clenching and unclenching as the
implications of his words settled into the spaces around her.
She had known the risks when she'd taken her first
step into this workshop, when she'd seen the monstrous beauty
of the clock begin to take shape. She had known,

(01:52:54):
in some distant, unacknowledged part of herself that something about
this creation defied every natural order she understood. But this,
this was more than she had ever imagined. It wasn't
just a clock, it wasn't just a machine. It was alive,
and somehow, whether by design or by its creator's unflinching,

(01:53:18):
grief stricken hands, it had already begun to unravel the world.
The whisper deepened, faint but insistent, and Lucy Carter knew
with a certainty that turned her blood twice that whatever
had been unleashed within the heart of that clock would
never stop ticking, never stop pulling at the fragile threads
of reality, until it had unraveled every last one. Thank

(01:53:42):
you for joining us on our first voyage into the
strange and unexplained. I'm your host, Flynn Davidson. Thank you
for listening, and remember to subscribe to this podcast on
all major platforms, And if you are enjoying the show,
please give us a rating and review. It really helps
get the show and helps us grub We will see
you next week.

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Episode 1 - The Clockmaker's Curse

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.css-14f5ked{margin:0;word-break:break-word;display:-webkit-box;-webkit-box-orient:vertical;box-orient:vertical;-webkit-line-clamp:2;overflow:hidden;}Episode 1 - The Clockmaker's Curse