You find the pocket
watch at an antique shop. It is buried underneath many other things in a
box on the second floor. It seems out of place, as if someone were trying
to hide it. Perhaps a child had found it and stored it away there when
their parents wouldn’t purchase it. Or maybe the store owner wanted to
hold on to it for a while, and so they tried to hide it away. In either
case it’s a beautiful pocket watch.
It looks like it’s from
about the civil war era, or just after. It’s of English make, and
slightly damaged. The metal is bent a bit, and the watch won’t open.
But when the sunlight hits it, light scatters all around the room.
The details on the watch are ornate, and cast beautiful patterns all over
the walls. You can see why someone would treasure this, the light show
from it’s reflection is spectacular. It would make a perfect addition to
your collection of antique watches and clocks. You have to have it.
The girl working at the
register smiles and asks if that will be all, to which you respond yes.
She writes up the purchase, $70. (Undervalued in your opinion.)
The store owner comes up
to you just as you get ready to leave and says,
“Are you sure you want
to buy that? We’ve got plenty of other watches that aren’t… damaged.”
So it must have been the
store owner who hid it away. He clearly thought the watch was valuable,
otherwise he wouldn’t turn you away from it. You tell him you would like
the watch you purchased, and no other.
The shopkeeper hesitates
for a moment before saying,
“Well, don’t tamper with
it too much, or try to get it open. You might break it.”
He looks at you as if
he’d given you a severe warning, almost life or death. Which you find to
be a bit unusual. You tell him you’ll take care of it and won’t mess with
it. Before making your way out of the shop.
“What a strange man,”
you think. “But to be fair he spends most of his life around junk and
antiques. He could be stranger.”
You make your way home
with the watch in passenger seat. Quite proud of your purchase, it
immediately goes on display when you get home. You put it on a bookshelf
where light hits most of the day, and the watch gives off its brilliant light
display.
You go to read for a
bit, but can’t stop thinking about the watch. Pocket watches like that
usually have a display on the inside. You want to know what the broken
latch was hiding from you. You have to get it open. You have to
know. Something, some voice is telling you:
“Open it. Open it. Don’t
you want to know?”
You get a screwdriver, a
small flathead. The watch would certainly open if you wedge the
screwdriver in the latch slightly. You take the watch from its spot, and
put the screwdriver to it. You fiddle with it for about a half hour when suddenly
you hit the right spot. The watch door swings open.
You are a bit
disappointed. The clock is stuck at 1:26, and the display only has a
picture of a young woman and a little note:
“I’ll be waiting for
you.”
So the man this watch
belonged to clearly had a lover, and he must have gone off. She left him
a note that he kept in his pocket watch while he traveled. An interesting
look into the past, but there is really nothing special about it.
Later in the evening you
think about the note again:
“I’ll be waiting for
you. I’ll be waiting for you.”
For a moment you can
almost hear a young woman’s voice saying those words. So tragic, it is
likely that the owner of the watch never got to return to her.
You get into bed.
You need an extra blanket, even with the heat turned up the house is
unusually cold. You have a dream that night, you are in an argument with
a young woman. It seems you have wronged her in some way. She is
screaming and comes charging towards you. Right then, you wake, startled.
Cold nights like this always gave you nightmares. You look at the
clock: 1:22. It’s going to be a long night if things keep on like this.
But just as you lay your
head back down, you hear sobbing.
Someone is crying, yet
you’re alone in the house. Is there an intruder? Why would a robber
be crying?
You pick up the baseball
bat that you keep in the bedroom and go into the hallway.
As you slowly make your
way toward the stairs the sobs get louder. And louder still as you creep
down the stairs. The sound is coming from your study, and as you
approached, you see a young woman on her knees, holding the pocket watch.
She notices you and her sobbing stops. She looks at you with a
piercing gaze. She is the same woman from your dream, and the photograph
inside the watch.
“You. I waited for
you. You broke my heart.”
Your chest begins to
burn.
“I waited for you.”
You try to move, to
speak even, but you’re completely frozen. The woman stands up, she walks
closer and with every step your chest burns more and more. She glares at
you, her face rapidly changing from distraught to angry, her head twitching unnaturally.
“We were going to be married.
I waited for you.”
You are in so much pain
you can hardly take it. Your heart is beating so fast it felt as if it
might burst. Your chest feels on fire now, and it feels as if the muscles
in your torso are being ripped apart. Your ribs are cracking and your
consciousness is fading.
“You broke my
heart. So now I need a new one.”
The woman slowly reaches
toward you. Her hand extends to right over your heart. Her hand
plunges into your chest.
The police find the body
3 days later. There are no cuts, no blood, no external injuries to
report. The victim is entirely normal, with one exception, there is no
heart. Their only pieces of possible evidence:
A pocket watch that
won’t open.
And the fact that every
clock in the house is stuck at 1:26 am.
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