The Raven and the Midnight Clock

📜 The whole story (transcript)

Ahhh… come closer, my dear. Closer still. Mind the cobwebs. There. Let me tell you of the night the clock in my grandfather's hall struck thirteen. Yes — thirteen. A number, they say, that ought not exist on any honest clockface. It was a wet, breathing sort of night, the kind where the rain taps at the windows like little fingers asking, ever so politely, to be let in. I was no taller than that umbrella stand. I crept down the stairs in my striped pyjamas, because I had heard a sound. A slow, dragging sound, like something tired… something patient… coming up from the cellar. And there, perched upon the great old clock, was a raven. Oh, but such a raven! Black as the bottom of a well, with eyes the colour of a winter moon. And as I watched, the long hand crept past twelve — and kept going. Tick. Tick. Tick. Until it pointed, quite deliberately, at the thirteenth hour, which had appeared, as if it had been waiting there all along. The raven looked at me. And then — I swear it upon every silver hair on my head — the raven smiled. A long, slow, knowing smile, with far too many little teeth for a bird. It opened its beak, and it said, in a voice exactly like my grandfather's: 'You're late for the tea, my boy.' I ran. Oh yes, I ran, back up those creaking stairs, two at a time. And when I dared to peek down again — the clock said midnight. The raven was gone. But on the bottom step… was a single, still-warm cup of tea. And I had not made it. Heh heh heh. Sleep well, my darling.