It stood in a corner beneath the overhanging banister: a grandmother clock in dark, lush wood, and its ticking seemed brutally loud in the oppressive grandeur of the hall.

The long door on the front screamed to be opened, and I found myself twisting the little handle and looking inside. A brass pendulum swung firmly through its gloomy interior, exaggerating its steady, slow course. I hunted for a key to fit the winding hole on the back of the case; there was a little shelf for it, but the key wasn’t there.

I could drag out a hundred cliches here; the fact was, the clock formed a concrete, undeniable message. A warning. There was absolutely no possibility it had been running for fifty years. I closed the door carefully.

When we turned to move on, it gave one last, accented tick and stopped. I looked back.

Smoke was seeping out from around the clock’s door, puffing into the hall. My mind pictured a lit cigarette in its dusty interior, a red glow spreading across the frame, tiny flames building inside... the smoke became thicker.

Andrew was moving towards it already. “It’s not real,” said Kirsten suddenly, fiercely. “Ignoring it is the only way to sap its power. Leave it, Andrew. Come on.”

But he was there already and he swung the door open again—

Nothing. The pendulum still swung its lonely, heavy course. The smoke might never have been there. And when Andrew turned back to us, it seemed that some of the light had left his eyes.

“OK,” he said tiredly, “let’s go.”