by William Cass
I was on the laptop in my study when the chimney sweep arrived. I let him in, brought him to the fireplace, and watched him peer up into it with a flashlight.
He switched off the beam and said, “Looks pretty straightforward,”
“Should I leave while you’re here?’
“Not necessary. I’ll just head out to my truck for a few things, then get started.”
“Great. I’ll be in my study.” I pointed towards the back hall. “Give a shout if you need anything.”
I returned to my laptop. Soon, noises of his operation came from the living room. After about an hour, he called, “All done!”
I met him in front of the hearth, his equipment already taken away. He told me, “I’ll mail you the bill. You should be all set for another year or so.”
“Sounds good.”
He seemed to hesitate, then pointed to my antique wall clock a few feet away. “Say, I noticed that old thing. Wasn’t a gift, was it?”
I nodded. “My father gave it to me a couple years ago shortly before he passed away. Told me he’d gotten it at a yard sale his next door neighbor was having.”
“No kidding.” He paused again. “Well, you haven’t been having any bad luck, have you?”
I paused myself, considering. Not long after I’d mounted the clock, I’d lost a good job, broke an ankle stepping in a pothole, and had my wallet stolen. About six months later, my longtime girlfriend broke things off with me, and just recently, my dog had been hit and killed by a passing delivery van.
“As a matter of fact,” I told him, “I have.”
He raised his eyebrows, then said, “Well, you know what they say about gift clocks bringing misfortune.”
We both turned to regard the antique before I said, “No, I’ve never heard that.”
“Pretty well-known.” He pointed. “And it’s also not working. Even worse when the hands stop moving.”
In spite of my not being particularly superstitious, a slow chill crawled up my spine. I heard myself say, “I hadn’t heard that either.”
“Yep, they’re supposedly gateways to unbalanced energies and stagnant life forces. Nasty stuff.” He looked at me. “So, you basically have yourself a double whammy right there. Might want to think about getting rid of it. Can’t just throw it out, though. Have to return it to wherever it came from.” He shrugged. “So they say, anyway.”
I nodded slowly while we exchanged a somber gaze. “Thanks for the advice.”
He gave me a little salute, then headed towards the front door. I heard it close behind him while I stared at the clock, which seemed to stare back: still, silent, portent.
~
Afterwards, I tried my best to ignore the clock. My father had given it to me broken, but I’d never gotten around to having it fixed. I thought about doing that, but it would still be a gift clock.
Over the next month, I lost my keys and twice discovered busted sprinkler heads in the front yard. I found myself generally avoiding the wall clock whenever possible. But it invaded my thoughts uninvited. I began having trouble sleeping; on occasion, I awoke in a cold sweat from a reoccurring nightmare of the clock whispering unintelligible, but disarming, words.
It wasn’t until I inadvertently flushed my bifocals down the toilet and had to hire an exterminator to rid my attic of squirrels that I finally took the wall clock down, wrapped it in a towel, and drove away with it one bitterly cold Saturday morning. It was a four-hour drive across central Ohio to the town where my father had relocated during the last portion of his life. I’d never met any of his neighbors and wasn’t even sure that the ones he’d had at the time of his death still lived there. But since his house had been on a corner, there was only one that could have been considered “next door”.
It was about eleven o’clock when I pulled to the curb in front of that drab little house with its tiny front porch. Garage door down; no vehicle in the driveway. Curtains all drawn, no lights or movement visible inside, no one about outside or on the sidewalk. I waited several long moments, then simply carried the clock up onto the porch, leaned it against the front door, and returned to my car. Didn’t knock or ring the doorbell, just drove away as quickly as possible. A sense of relief, like a burden being lifted, seemed to pass over me.
I luxuriated in that sense for the first portion of my return drive home over two-laned, deserted rural roads. Surrounded by fallow fields and a gray canopy of clouds, I allowed myself to smile, then hum softly.
After a couple of hours, I noticed a thin vapor emanating from my car’s hood, followed by a loud bang from inside it. The engine stopped abruptly, and I barely managed to roll onto the shoulder. I climbed out and lifted the hood into a gasp of smoke. I waved at the drifting haze and swore several times. When it cleared enough to see oil spattered across the engine block, I swore again. I knew absolutely nothing about car repairs, and both lanes of the blacktop remained deserted as far as I could see. I reached into my pocket for my cell phone and found it completely dead.
I slammed my hand against the engine frame and swore some more, a frigid breeze tossing wisps of snow as I howled into the empty expanse. I gazed off up the road where a black passel of birds flew off into the ashy gloom. Crows, I was all but certain, which I had a vague notion were also some kind of omen. But of what sort, I couldn’t recall. I thought: it doesn’t matter. I thought: life just happens, the good and the bad. I thought: you make your own luck.
William Cass has had over 395 short stories accepted for publication in a variety of literary magazines such as december, Briar Cliff Review, and Zone 3. Winner of writing contests at Terrain.org and The Examined Life Journal, he’s also been nominated once for Best of the Net, twice for Best Small Fictions, and six times for the Pushcart Prize. His three short story collections were all published by Wising Up Press. A former resident of Northeast Ohio, he currently lives in San Diego, California.