Tick Tock
Tick Tock
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
The sound of the clock that was perched in the artist's bedroom never endingly provided a lulling, rhythmic pattern that was both comforting yet alluring at the same time. However, to the artist it was nothing more than a background noise. He never even glanced at the clock, it was merely there for decoration, an afterthought at most in his perfect, untroublesome life. It’s intricately laced gold outline glinted in the reflected light of many mirrors and shiny objects that filled the mansion. It stood on a pure white mantel piece that was neatly arranged with other fancy objects that were pleasant to the eye like: neatly stacked books or small plant pots that were slowly dying as the artist had no real care for anyone but himself.
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
The artist was walking down a staircase in his vast mansion whistling tunelessly. The dull sound echoed through the many rooms and hallways—spaces he had insisted on building, not out of necessity, but to impress and intimidate.
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
He thought it was odd that he could still hear that ticking even though he was far away from his room and heading towards the dining area. He cast the thought away with a mere wave of his jewel laden hand. It must be the one in the billiard room or the one in the library. All different looking, as this man never had the same thing. He insisted that all his objects should be different yet must be as fancy and extravagant looking as the next. He sent his staff out to collect them, too lazy to do it himself and didn’t even pay them for it, he just made them unpack it and then ordered them away.
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
Was it just him or was the sound getting louder? As he neared the kitchen, he stopped whistling as his staff must not see him this cheerful. He must keep an imposing domineer and status if he wants them to work their best. As he entered the vast room, the staff groveled to meet his every need, bowing and curtsying whenever he spared them so much as a glance, for that was the highest honor you could ever get from him. They pulled out his chair or more like his throne and he adjusted his robe to sit down on his satin cushion.
TICK TOCK TICK TOCK.
The sound increased and became faster and then with a flourish of his robe he sat down and....silence.... absolute silence. The sound had stopped as though he had just sat down on a button that had draped a veil over the world that had silenced all living things. And that's the way he liked it.
As he looked at the lavish spread prepared for him, he reached for the turkey that lay in the middle, like a cherry on top adding to the fake illusion of perfection and comfort. As he looked into the crackling fire in the grate after loading his plate, he thought he saw something in the dancing inferno. Eyes. Wide and perfectly round that seemed to stare into his very soul black edged on the sides of the circles making them seem like they belonged to the dead. There was a leering gaping mouth that dripped blood which spattered onto the ash below. It spoke, its voice scraping and harsh like all the storms of winter and it said, “Let's see how long YOU survive.”.
The man let out a yell and shoved his chair backwards, it teetered treacherously on its feet, as though under sided if it should fall, then crashed to the ground making it tremor. The artist careened on the floor, panting in short sharp gasps. The image of that monster was still in his mind as though it had been burned into his eyeballs. He stumbled up, swatting away the servants who tried to help as if they were flies...but only to see that the beast had gone and not even the bloodstains that had oozed onto the carpet, staining it crimson remained. The fire danced merrily in the grate as though not at all affected by the thing that had been in its midst a few moments ago.
Later as the artist lay in his bed, still shaky from his experience with whatever that beast was. Its eyes were still imprinted into his eyelids and he tossed and turned all night in his silk bed not able to find comfort. The whole night his mind was swirling with haunting thoughts. What if it comes back for me? What will it do to me? What does it mean how long will you survive? Has it done this to other people before? He finally drifted into an uneasy sleep that was torn by the leering face gazing out at him through burning flames. He always woke up screaming.
When he got up that next morning, he did not feel as full of himself as usual. His meal tasted less luxuriant. He insisted he ate somewhere else as he had no desire to see that thing again, staring out at him and haunting his soul.
Each evening, he found himself adjusting the clock on the mantle again and again. It would tick too loudly, too quickly, or too slowly—but only for him. He couldn’t explain it, but the sound grated at him like nails on stone. One day, he snapped the clock off the wall, examining it like an object of unspeakable horror before putting it back in place. It had to be perfect.
He began to stop caring for himself, he looked like a walking ghost with a starch white face and torn clothes with matted hair.
TICK TOCK
The noise was everywhere.
In the cracks and in the air.
The voices of his servants sounded a million miles away and he swayed uneasily whenever he stood.
One morning, after a restless night, he saw it again. The reflection in the mirror—his own, but distorted. His face was hollow, his eyes too wide, and the flicker of something dark flashed behind him. It was gone as quickly as it appeared, but the terror lingered.
At breakfast, his coffee cup suddenly shook, the spoon rattling violently as though something was pulling it beneath the surface. He stared at it, heart pounding, but the room remained still. The sound of his own breath was louder than the ticking clock, which now seemed to echo from every corner of the room.
Before he went to bed that night, he staggered to his feet and peered into a mirror. His reflection in the glass showed a man who looked too old for his age—eyes sunken, skin pale as marble. He stared at himself for a long time, wondering who this stranger was. His hand trembled as it reached for his collar, adjusting it once more. The fabric felt too tight; the air too thin.
A couple of months later he managed to get up and go for a walk...more of a stagger with his bodyguards and servants supporting him. He demanded to be taken to the highest window for a walk. After much struggling and resting, they made it to a window. As they opened it to get some fresh air, he looked down and saw just how high up he was. He could barely make out his rose bushes and the concrete pavement looked like the ground had been painted white with none of the elaborate patterns in sight.
He could hear it everywhere. In the cracks of the marble floors. In the ragged rhythm of his breath. The ticking... the endless ticking. It was inside him now. The tick-tock was there, always, like a heartbeat echoing in his mind. He pressed his hands to his temples, trying to block it out, but it only grew louder. The ticking was inside him now.
Before anyone could stop him or even realized what was going on, he hurled himself out the window. As he fell, instead of the rush of wind, all he could hear was,
TICK TOCK TICK TOCK TICKTOCKTICKTOCK
It rapidly sped up. As he hurtled through the air and the concrete got ever closer, he felt something cold wrap around his waist but when he twisted around nothing was there but the horror-stricken faces of his butlers and maids. Now his back was facing the ground, his robes billowing out like a cape.
And then... the world tilted, and with a sickening crunch—SLAM!!
Cracks sounded everywhere as his legs and spine and arms were all smashed into a million pieces. His muscles exploded and his skin turned into a horrible dark blotted color due to all this internal bleeding. His vision glowed a blinding white and red. His death should have been instant but that is not how The Siphomort liked to kill its victims slowly and the last thing it wanted them to see was its unforgettable face leering out of the darkness.
The monster inched closed floating only an inch from the ground as it stopped at the man's broken body. It opened its mouth, and bits of flesh and skin began peeling off, and swirls of blood innocently twirled their way toward The Siphomort's oppressive darkness.
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
The sound was everywhere now, not just in the house but in the air itself, in the ground, in the sky. It reverberated through the artist’s decaying flesh, twisting with each beat, growing louder, faster, until it was all the artist could hear. His mind—what was left of it—screamed, trapped inside his broken body, but there was no escape.
The Siphomort leaned down, the ragged edges of its mouth brushing against the artist’s ear. It whispered once more, its voice echoing with the chilling weight of eternity. Was that pity in its eyes?
“Time is a circle. Your fear, your greed... it feeds me. And now, you will join me in the endless loop, where time never stops, and nothing ever escapes.”
With that, the Siphomort’s jaws widened impossibly, and the dark tendrils surged forward, engulfing the artist’s remains. The world seemed to implode with the speed of the shadows, swallowing the mansion, the servants, the entire existence of the artist’s once-glorious life.
The last thing the artist saw before the darkness claimed him was the face. The leering, bloodied face of the Siphomort, stretching wide with satisfaction, its black eyes gleaming with an infinite hunger.
And then, nothing.
Time, as it turned out, was not a linear thing. It was a cycle, looping back upon itself in ways that could never be comprehended by mortal minds. The mansion, once filled with the artist's echoes, now stood silent and empty. The clock in the artist’s bedroom ticked on as it always had, its rhythmic pulse the only remnant of what had been.
But somewhere, deep within the void of time, something stirred.
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
And the cycle began again.
Note to reader: The Siphomort only kills those who are vein, selfish and cruel. However, it is still seen as a monster. To itself it is doing good, ridding the world of those who don't deserve to be in it. But others don't see it that way. Take heed of what I have told you.
