The Curse of the Clock
by Laurence MacDonald
Genre: Horror/Supernatural
Swearwords: None.
Description: Did the town clock really have the power to decide who should die? The stranger was about to find out.
Swearwords: None.
Description: Did the town clock really have the power to decide who should die? The stranger was about to find out.
Journal entry – 1st May 1857
Yesterday, crossing the town square to take luncheon at my hotel in this little Tennessee backwater, I was obliged to step aside smartly to avoid being run down by a carriage driven with much haste and little regard. Luckily, being alert, I preserved myself from certain injury or death under hoof and wheel but in doing so I almost stumbled upon a distressed young man slumped on the steps of the town's clock-tower. Ordinarily, when encountering a figure such as his I would make a show of consulting my watch, frown as if alarmed at the lateness of the hour, and hurry past with a determined step. But, perhaps because he made no entreaty for help, I was moved to stop and ask the fellow what troubled him. Without so much as an upward glance, he gave a curious reply:
“Oh, I'm done for,” and added in an anguished murmur, “that's all.” Naturally, I could not be content to let the thing rest there. I pursued my inquiry and he offered:
“Well now........ I just heard the thirteenth strike. Ye hear me, the thirteenth strike.” He evidently believed that those few words should explain all and he waved his hands limply in a gesture of hopeless defeat.
“My good fellow,” said I, “what kind of a riddle is this?” He looked up at me with large, mournful eyes and rejoined, “Ha! Of course! You are a stranger in town. Oh well, some matters of fact are best left unknown. Take me for example, if I didn't know about the thirteenth strike I would feel all was well with the world. I would be heading to my shop for the afternoon's work and there I would set some jewelry - that is, I mean, was - my trade, then go upstairs to my apartments and join with my beloved wife for a hearty dinner. Later, we might have stepped out to some entertainment; there is a Menagerie show in town don't you know? But now! What have I to look forward to? Why! I have less then twelve hours left to me and each one blighted with the knowing that it might be my last - for I am to be dead and gone by midnight.”
“Good God man! Have you the fever? What makes you say such a monstrous thing?” I demanded.
He pointed to a nearby tavern and nodded and it was plain that I should accompany him there. He rose up and shambled across the street in a manner most morose and resigned; like that of a felon bound for the gallows. I followed reluctantly and began to conjure a plausible excuse that would allow me to escape the young man's deluded ravings at the earliest opportunity.
Inside, he stepped to the bar where he ordered large measures of whiskey and I took a table. I eyed him closely as he came over with the glasses; he was clearly a man of business and with signs of some prosperity. He appeared, too, to be in good health and as he took his seat I could detect no sign of insanity or infirmity of mind. He placed the glasses and got down to telling me that there was an undisputed peculiarity regarding the town clock. He explained, without any symptom of a lie, that it was a matter of common knowledge in the district that anyone who hears the clock strike thirteen at the hour of noon was doomed to be dead before morning. Naturally, I laughed at this, I urged that he gather himself to good sense and I said, “What possible reason could there be for connecting a faulty clock with one's own imminent demise?” But my protest was to no avail. He gave a dismissive shake of the head and insisted that his last hours had come and, after downing his whiskey with one hand and waving the other to summon more, he supplied his opening evidence which amounted to something like this:
The first known instance of the phenomena had occurred three years previously and not long after the clock had been constructed. A thin old widow by the name of Mistress Whittle had lived in a large house on the square and was held with a degree of notoriety in the town. It was generally agreed that she had worn her husband down to death by continual scolding and nagging and, after a short illness, the poor man had died with a smile on his face. Since that time, she had directed her energies - which were fierce by nature - toward her neighbors and other townsfolk and had become a fervent and voluble opponent of many things, not least among them; the town clock. Mistress Whittle had complained, to any who would listen - or who were unfortunate enough be trapped in her company - about the disturbance to her repose that the hourly chimes caused. One afternoon, she had worked herself up into a fine rage and bustled up to the Mayor to whom she vociferated long and loud that if it were not intolerable that the clock marked each hour with its infernal chimes, then surely, that it struck thirteen at noon, must be reason enough to have the thing condemned. The Town Father - who took great pride in the clock - was anxious to appease the widow and so he crossed the street at once and instructed the horologist to examine the cause of complaint. This done, the man reported that the clock mechanism was in perfect order and that there could be no explanation for the extra strike save that the widow had been mistaken in what she had believed to have heard. The Mayor fretted and gave careful thought as to how he might handle the tricky matter at hand. Luckily for him though, he was spared the morrow's dread task of telling Mistress Whittle that she had been in error, because soon after bed-time that evening, the old woman's maid heard a loud clatter and thump from her Mistress's chamber. Hastening there she found that a large portrait of the Master had, somehow, dislodged and fallen from its place above the headboard and onto the widow herself. The old woman was already quite dead from shock; her thin and stricken face peered lifeless, open-eyed and slack-jawed, through the heavy frame where her husband's - now shredded - canvass portrait had been.
“Very well,” said I, “but that an elderly relict mishears a clock chime thirteen and meets with an unfortunate end that same day is hardly enough to persuade me that there is a black shadow at your shoulder sir.”
He replied with some irritation. “Be patient will ye? All in good time,” and raised his hand for more liquor to be brought. Whiskey, that I might have paid for had he not insisted that he would empty his purse there in that tavern before going home to bid a forever farewell to his wife. The moment the drinks were set before us he took his glass to mouth and mumbled into it, “There is more to come.”
I nodded and swirling the golden fluid in my own glass I allowed him to continue.
The next victim - if that is the correct word - of the clock was a young man by the name of Jacob Cassidy. Now, Jacob and his brother Joshua were twins and neither of them smart, but whatever natural capabilities they lacked in wit and intelligence were compensated by their innate capacity for making mischief. Their principal pastime was to go around town together and take delight in the practice of petty devilment and spreading noise and confusion - liberally. Although inseparable, the boys were often quarrelsome with one another; especially so on the frequent occasions that found them drinking. They were over-fond of liquor and infamous for indulging themselves on whiskey that they distilled up in the woods.
On the day - the Sabbath day - that Jacob would meet his maker above - or the devil below - the Cassidy boys had spent most of the morning asleep in their shack recovering from the revelries of the night just gone, and, it was just before mid-day when they swung into town. Joshua had borrowed from his brother the day before and he had the idea of using the chimes of noon to count out and settle his debt of six cents to Jacob. Neither party was very surefooted when it came to summations and it was agreed between them that a half cent coin passed from one to the other, on each strike of the mid-day hour, would provide a solid basis on which to transact their business. And so it was, that, having confirmed with a passer-by that the hour of noon approached, they seated themselves beneath the clock and waited. Mid-day came and, as might be expected, twelve copper coins passed, one by one, from Joshua to Jacob. A moment or two after the strike of twelve Joshua closed his purse; fully possessed of the belief that the matter had been fairly and satisfactorily concluded. Jacob, however, had evidently heard one chime more than his brother and he demanded a further half cent to square the deal. A loud disagreement started up and, it being the Sabbath, the boys were overheard by a group of respectable folks returning from church. Forgetting themselves - and the words of the Good Book - the devout gentlemen among the party swore loudly at the 'Cassidy critturs' and sent them from the square. The twins moved along grudgingly and each took a separate route to a place where he might nurture his resentment: Joshua back to the still and Jacob to the cabin of his occasional sweetheart - a goodhearted though simple girl named Ruby - who there plied him with corn liquor in the misguided belief that he might quieten under its beneficent influence.
After this contretemps in the square, the town settled back to its customary tranquil Sunday ways. It remained thus until late that evening when the twins happened to meet below the clock in the bright and blue light of a naked full moon. The argument broke again but, fueled as it was by considerable quantities of rough liquor, it became more energetic this time. The tragedy came quickly; an accusation from Jacob, a sharp denial from Joshua, a fist fight and then the denouement - a punch to the nose that sent Jacob reeling backward to a fatal collision with the heavy door of the clock tower.
At Court, the evidence and testimony was duly and gravely considered. Joshua's defense was strengthened considerably when those who had parted their bedchamber drapes to observe the disturbance on that night gave their witness accounts; it was clear that the injury to the head had been an accidental result. Then, when the physician who had examined the remains pronounced that twelve half-cents were found in the pocket of the deceased, the case closed immediately and in favor of the bereft and inconsolable Joshua.
The jeweler stopped and called for yet more whiskey. Then he looked at me very closely and said loudly, “Well! What say you to that sir?”
I leaned back and smiled reassuringly and tried to sooth him. “An unfortunate affair. Yes indeed, a vexing little tragedy, but, hardly enough there in the way of evidence to suppose that you are to be denied the pleasure of breakfast with your Good Lady wife. Let us lay out before us the cold facts: it seems to me that you base your morbid supposition on the ill-tempered complaints of a widow in dotage and the word of a young delinquent who could not be trusted to count to twelve. I should not set any great store on this,” and here I placed emphasis, “the flimsiest of evidence.” But, his tone hardened and he replied. “I am not yet done. Perhaps the third instance of that clock's trickery will convince you. If there was any gain to be had by it I would wager that you will admit the futility of denial when I tell you the story of Arturo the articularist.” Beginning now to slur his words slightly, he immediately proceeded:
“Old Joe was a fellow who inhabited this bar for many years; an old man greatly plagued with a fine collection of ailments and frailties, and here he sat every day, bent over a glass of rum in the softest leather seat the place could offer. When not grumbling about his crooked and creaky joints he would reminisce about his glory days as Arturo! The Amazing Articular Artiste. Y' see, he had been a performer in a traveling show - widely known for his singing, dancing and triple-jointed antics.”
He pointed to a low stage along the wall opposite to the bar, comprising a little raised platform of boards and at one end of which there stood a shabby old piano, “Old Joe's end came on that very spot. My wife and I, and in truth, half the town saw it happen.”
The drama that had unfolded on that little stage had taken place just two Saturdays previously. According to my companion, what happened that day was that old Joe had, as usual, been there from morning opening. Hunched over his rum and muttering epithets about the weather, old nags disguised as race horses, and sundry other annoyances. More than anything else though, he had complained about his worn-out and painfully grinding joints. Soon after mid-day, and much to the surprise of the other worthies in the bar, he had risen stiffly and unsteadily from his chair and smiled for the first time that anyone there could recall. Grandly and solemnly he declared that he must take his leave but that at eight of the clock he hoped to return and stand each and every person in the bar a drink. This caused a rumble of approval from among the patrons and it was with great interest and speculation that they watched the old man make his slow and shaky way from the saloon and out into the street - unless troubling the doctor with complaints, Old Joe was not generally known to be abroad during opening hours. Indeed, he had been almost as permanent a fixture in the bar as the 'Open' sign that hung on the door.
Word of the announcement had spread and it need hardly be stated that at the appointed hour, the saloon was already crammed full. There were, among those gathered, a few attending not only for the promise of a glass from the old man, but to assuage their curiosity at his remarkable departure from habit. Just as the clock struck eight, he, and an ancient piano player, made their entrance and cut through the assembly. All eyes turned expectantly to the principal player. Old Joe, that is to say, Arturo! The Amazing Articular Artiste, was got up in a rather moth-eaten and - once tightly fitting but now comically wrinkled and sagging - gaudy costume that had evidently been languishing in a chest since the day he had quit the show business. As his accompanist took the seat at the piano and began to play Arturo ordered drinks for his thirsty audience. He slapped a pile of bills into the hands of the bartender and, taking the stage, he began his routine with a couple of comic songs to which he danced along jerkily; rather in the manner of a puppet on strings. Certainly, he sang well enough and all observers were truly astonished by the dancing; not that the display exhibited any nimbleness, elegance or grace, but it was remarked upon for no reason other than that he got through any of it at all. Before long however, the artistes began to weary and the time came for the pièce de résistance: a final performance of stiffly executed and - as most there admitted - painful to watch acrobatics while the piano clanged out a selection of old-time tunes such as; 'The Old Armchair', 'The Unfortunate Rake' and 'Anacreon In Heaven.'
The entertainment was received with rowdy applause and laughter and occasioned much comment from the floor. Shouts for 'More!' went up; and from those who fancied themselves as cultured - the cries of 'Encore!' Presently though, Arturo held up his gnarled hands and gestured for the crowd to quieten. At last, a hush settled over the bar-room and holding himself as tall and straight as could be accomplished, the once renowned star of 'Felix T Ferdinand's Traveling Circus' declared wheezily:
“Friends! At mid-day I sat in this room and heard the clock out there strike thirteen.” A low murmur rippled round the room, “As we all know, this day then is to be my last among you, and damned thankful I am! I've had a rich life with applause and adoration across the land and good times and money too. But, these last few years found me with only rum to dull what pains me and fading memories to cheer me. So! Now that my time has come, there is no need to mourn my passing. I go gladly and with a spring in my step.” Here he paused for dramatic effect and cast his eyes around the gathering who now stood in silent and rapt attention, “You have had my last performance: La Grande Finale, and I bid you Adieu!” Then he gave an exaggerated stage bow and as the swell of applause filled the room, he faltered, staggered a little, and clutching his chest - collapsed dead on the spot.
My companion stared at me with a look of gloomy triumph. I shuffled uneasily in my chair and considered my hand of cards. I came quickly to the realization that further objection would bear little fruit; for all that the evidence supplied had been circumstantial, there could be nothing that I might say that would sway the young fellow - lost for words I rose up, stepped to the bar and had a large whiskey sent over to the haunted figure seated behind me. Then I made my way quickly out of the place and without so much as a backward glance.
Over luncheon, I gave more thought to the matter and reluctantly admitted to myself that the affair did seem rather queer. However, with the help of some good apple pie, strong coffee to sober me and a business engagement that afternoon, the disquiet eased away and stayed clear from my mind. Late in the evening however, the mystery of the thirteenth strike was brought back to me forcefully in the shape of a very unsettling occurrence. I had taken to bed just after eleven, and soon after, I heard a commotion of cart and horses in the street below. Surprised, given the lateness of the hour, I arose and looked down from my window to the scene across the way. The jeweler's shop was lit and I could see a little knot of people huddled by its entrance. From this group, the distressing sounds of a young woman's cries and sobs floated on the otherwise still night air of the town square. Peering into the gloom I was able to discern a stretcher - upon which lay a covered body - carried from the shop by two men. This they hefted onto the undertaker's cart as the young woman fell to the ground and howled in agonies of grief. As might be imagined, the scene troubled me greatly, and though I returned to bed, it took the passage of several hours before sleep would come to claim me.
Well now. Why should I trouble to write-up this strange little tale? Permit me to explain: I dressed late today - after all, had I not been restless almost until dawn? And less than one hour ago I crossed the street to the saloon - where I now sit - to learn of the fate of the jeweler. Upon inquiry it was told to me that he had died from whiskey poisoning. But, as I made my way here, I happened to hear the clock begin to strike noon. It is not my habit to count a clock's chimes - I possess a sound watch and have no need - but the jeweler's stories and the distressing scene that I had witnessed in the late evening compelled me to do just that despite every effort to resist the temptation.
And so, here I sit preoccupied and brooding with a large whiskey before me and journal in hand and the last strike of the town clock seems to ring in my ears yet. If I wake on the morrow I shall destroy these jottings; but if the words written here are preserved and read, then you will know, dear reader, that I too, succumbed to the curséd prophecy of the thirteenth strike.
Extract from the Tennessee Argus newspaper – 4th May 1857
Pinehill, Tenn:- On the evening of Wednesday 1st inst. a man named William Purcell was run down by carriage in the town square and died from injuries sustained. It is believed that he had been in town for a few days and on business. A man has been apprehended and charged with reckless driving and causing death, and it appears from reports that he had previously been admonished to take better care in his driving. Every effort is being made to inform the unfortunate victim's relatives.
Yesterday, crossing the town square to take luncheon at my hotel in this little Tennessee backwater, I was obliged to step aside smartly to avoid being run down by a carriage driven with much haste and little regard. Luckily, being alert, I preserved myself from certain injury or death under hoof and wheel but in doing so I almost stumbled upon a distressed young man slumped on the steps of the town's clock-tower. Ordinarily, when encountering a figure such as his I would make a show of consulting my watch, frown as if alarmed at the lateness of the hour, and hurry past with a determined step. But, perhaps because he made no entreaty for help, I was moved to stop and ask the fellow what troubled him. Without so much as an upward glance, he gave a curious reply:
“Oh, I'm done for,” and added in an anguished murmur, “that's all.” Naturally, I could not be content to let the thing rest there. I pursued my inquiry and he offered:
“Well now........ I just heard the thirteenth strike. Ye hear me, the thirteenth strike.” He evidently believed that those few words should explain all and he waved his hands limply in a gesture of hopeless defeat.
“My good fellow,” said I, “what kind of a riddle is this?” He looked up at me with large, mournful eyes and rejoined, “Ha! Of course! You are a stranger in town. Oh well, some matters of fact are best left unknown. Take me for example, if I didn't know about the thirteenth strike I would feel all was well with the world. I would be heading to my shop for the afternoon's work and there I would set some jewelry - that is, I mean, was - my trade, then go upstairs to my apartments and join with my beloved wife for a hearty dinner. Later, we might have stepped out to some entertainment; there is a Menagerie show in town don't you know? But now! What have I to look forward to? Why! I have less then twelve hours left to me and each one blighted with the knowing that it might be my last - for I am to be dead and gone by midnight.”
“Good God man! Have you the fever? What makes you say such a monstrous thing?” I demanded.
He pointed to a nearby tavern and nodded and it was plain that I should accompany him there. He rose up and shambled across the street in a manner most morose and resigned; like that of a felon bound for the gallows. I followed reluctantly and began to conjure a plausible excuse that would allow me to escape the young man's deluded ravings at the earliest opportunity.
Inside, he stepped to the bar where he ordered large measures of whiskey and I took a table. I eyed him closely as he came over with the glasses; he was clearly a man of business and with signs of some prosperity. He appeared, too, to be in good health and as he took his seat I could detect no sign of insanity or infirmity of mind. He placed the glasses and got down to telling me that there was an undisputed peculiarity regarding the town clock. He explained, without any symptom of a lie, that it was a matter of common knowledge in the district that anyone who hears the clock strike thirteen at the hour of noon was doomed to be dead before morning. Naturally, I laughed at this, I urged that he gather himself to good sense and I said, “What possible reason could there be for connecting a faulty clock with one's own imminent demise?” But my protest was to no avail. He gave a dismissive shake of the head and insisted that his last hours had come and, after downing his whiskey with one hand and waving the other to summon more, he supplied his opening evidence which amounted to something like this:
The first known instance of the phenomena had occurred three years previously and not long after the clock had been constructed. A thin old widow by the name of Mistress Whittle had lived in a large house on the square and was held with a degree of notoriety in the town. It was generally agreed that she had worn her husband down to death by continual scolding and nagging and, after a short illness, the poor man had died with a smile on his face. Since that time, she had directed her energies - which were fierce by nature - toward her neighbors and other townsfolk and had become a fervent and voluble opponent of many things, not least among them; the town clock. Mistress Whittle had complained, to any who would listen - or who were unfortunate enough be trapped in her company - about the disturbance to her repose that the hourly chimes caused. One afternoon, she had worked herself up into a fine rage and bustled up to the Mayor to whom she vociferated long and loud that if it were not intolerable that the clock marked each hour with its infernal chimes, then surely, that it struck thirteen at noon, must be reason enough to have the thing condemned. The Town Father - who took great pride in the clock - was anxious to appease the widow and so he crossed the street at once and instructed the horologist to examine the cause of complaint. This done, the man reported that the clock mechanism was in perfect order and that there could be no explanation for the extra strike save that the widow had been mistaken in what she had believed to have heard. The Mayor fretted and gave careful thought as to how he might handle the tricky matter at hand. Luckily for him though, he was spared the morrow's dread task of telling Mistress Whittle that she had been in error, because soon after bed-time that evening, the old woman's maid heard a loud clatter and thump from her Mistress's chamber. Hastening there she found that a large portrait of the Master had, somehow, dislodged and fallen from its place above the headboard and onto the widow herself. The old woman was already quite dead from shock; her thin and stricken face peered lifeless, open-eyed and slack-jawed, through the heavy frame where her husband's - now shredded - canvass portrait had been.
“Very well,” said I, “but that an elderly relict mishears a clock chime thirteen and meets with an unfortunate end that same day is hardly enough to persuade me that there is a black shadow at your shoulder sir.”
He replied with some irritation. “Be patient will ye? All in good time,” and raised his hand for more liquor to be brought. Whiskey, that I might have paid for had he not insisted that he would empty his purse there in that tavern before going home to bid a forever farewell to his wife. The moment the drinks were set before us he took his glass to mouth and mumbled into it, “There is more to come.”
I nodded and swirling the golden fluid in my own glass I allowed him to continue.
The next victim - if that is the correct word - of the clock was a young man by the name of Jacob Cassidy. Now, Jacob and his brother Joshua were twins and neither of them smart, but whatever natural capabilities they lacked in wit and intelligence were compensated by their innate capacity for making mischief. Their principal pastime was to go around town together and take delight in the practice of petty devilment and spreading noise and confusion - liberally. Although inseparable, the boys were often quarrelsome with one another; especially so on the frequent occasions that found them drinking. They were over-fond of liquor and infamous for indulging themselves on whiskey that they distilled up in the woods.
On the day - the Sabbath day - that Jacob would meet his maker above - or the devil below - the Cassidy boys had spent most of the morning asleep in their shack recovering from the revelries of the night just gone, and, it was just before mid-day when they swung into town. Joshua had borrowed from his brother the day before and he had the idea of using the chimes of noon to count out and settle his debt of six cents to Jacob. Neither party was very surefooted when it came to summations and it was agreed between them that a half cent coin passed from one to the other, on each strike of the mid-day hour, would provide a solid basis on which to transact their business. And so it was, that, having confirmed with a passer-by that the hour of noon approached, they seated themselves beneath the clock and waited. Mid-day came and, as might be expected, twelve copper coins passed, one by one, from Joshua to Jacob. A moment or two after the strike of twelve Joshua closed his purse; fully possessed of the belief that the matter had been fairly and satisfactorily concluded. Jacob, however, had evidently heard one chime more than his brother and he demanded a further half cent to square the deal. A loud disagreement started up and, it being the Sabbath, the boys were overheard by a group of respectable folks returning from church. Forgetting themselves - and the words of the Good Book - the devout gentlemen among the party swore loudly at the 'Cassidy critturs' and sent them from the square. The twins moved along grudgingly and each took a separate route to a place where he might nurture his resentment: Joshua back to the still and Jacob to the cabin of his occasional sweetheart - a goodhearted though simple girl named Ruby - who there plied him with corn liquor in the misguided belief that he might quieten under its beneficent influence.
After this contretemps in the square, the town settled back to its customary tranquil Sunday ways. It remained thus until late that evening when the twins happened to meet below the clock in the bright and blue light of a naked full moon. The argument broke again but, fueled as it was by considerable quantities of rough liquor, it became more energetic this time. The tragedy came quickly; an accusation from Jacob, a sharp denial from Joshua, a fist fight and then the denouement - a punch to the nose that sent Jacob reeling backward to a fatal collision with the heavy door of the clock tower.
At Court, the evidence and testimony was duly and gravely considered. Joshua's defense was strengthened considerably when those who had parted their bedchamber drapes to observe the disturbance on that night gave their witness accounts; it was clear that the injury to the head had been an accidental result. Then, when the physician who had examined the remains pronounced that twelve half-cents were found in the pocket of the deceased, the case closed immediately and in favor of the bereft and inconsolable Joshua.
The jeweler stopped and called for yet more whiskey. Then he looked at me very closely and said loudly, “Well! What say you to that sir?”
I leaned back and smiled reassuringly and tried to sooth him. “An unfortunate affair. Yes indeed, a vexing little tragedy, but, hardly enough there in the way of evidence to suppose that you are to be denied the pleasure of breakfast with your Good Lady wife. Let us lay out before us the cold facts: it seems to me that you base your morbid supposition on the ill-tempered complaints of a widow in dotage and the word of a young delinquent who could not be trusted to count to twelve. I should not set any great store on this,” and here I placed emphasis, “the flimsiest of evidence.” But, his tone hardened and he replied. “I am not yet done. Perhaps the third instance of that clock's trickery will convince you. If there was any gain to be had by it I would wager that you will admit the futility of denial when I tell you the story of Arturo the articularist.” Beginning now to slur his words slightly, he immediately proceeded:
“Old Joe was a fellow who inhabited this bar for many years; an old man greatly plagued with a fine collection of ailments and frailties, and here he sat every day, bent over a glass of rum in the softest leather seat the place could offer. When not grumbling about his crooked and creaky joints he would reminisce about his glory days as Arturo! The Amazing Articular Artiste. Y' see, he had been a performer in a traveling show - widely known for his singing, dancing and triple-jointed antics.”
He pointed to a low stage along the wall opposite to the bar, comprising a little raised platform of boards and at one end of which there stood a shabby old piano, “Old Joe's end came on that very spot. My wife and I, and in truth, half the town saw it happen.”
The drama that had unfolded on that little stage had taken place just two Saturdays previously. According to my companion, what happened that day was that old Joe had, as usual, been there from morning opening. Hunched over his rum and muttering epithets about the weather, old nags disguised as race horses, and sundry other annoyances. More than anything else though, he had complained about his worn-out and painfully grinding joints. Soon after mid-day, and much to the surprise of the other worthies in the bar, he had risen stiffly and unsteadily from his chair and smiled for the first time that anyone there could recall. Grandly and solemnly he declared that he must take his leave but that at eight of the clock he hoped to return and stand each and every person in the bar a drink. This caused a rumble of approval from among the patrons and it was with great interest and speculation that they watched the old man make his slow and shaky way from the saloon and out into the street - unless troubling the doctor with complaints, Old Joe was not generally known to be abroad during opening hours. Indeed, he had been almost as permanent a fixture in the bar as the 'Open' sign that hung on the door.
Word of the announcement had spread and it need hardly be stated that at the appointed hour, the saloon was already crammed full. There were, among those gathered, a few attending not only for the promise of a glass from the old man, but to assuage their curiosity at his remarkable departure from habit. Just as the clock struck eight, he, and an ancient piano player, made their entrance and cut through the assembly. All eyes turned expectantly to the principal player. Old Joe, that is to say, Arturo! The Amazing Articular Artiste, was got up in a rather moth-eaten and - once tightly fitting but now comically wrinkled and sagging - gaudy costume that had evidently been languishing in a chest since the day he had quit the show business. As his accompanist took the seat at the piano and began to play Arturo ordered drinks for his thirsty audience. He slapped a pile of bills into the hands of the bartender and, taking the stage, he began his routine with a couple of comic songs to which he danced along jerkily; rather in the manner of a puppet on strings. Certainly, he sang well enough and all observers were truly astonished by the dancing; not that the display exhibited any nimbleness, elegance or grace, but it was remarked upon for no reason other than that he got through any of it at all. Before long however, the artistes began to weary and the time came for the pièce de résistance: a final performance of stiffly executed and - as most there admitted - painful to watch acrobatics while the piano clanged out a selection of old-time tunes such as; 'The Old Armchair', 'The Unfortunate Rake' and 'Anacreon In Heaven.'
The entertainment was received with rowdy applause and laughter and occasioned much comment from the floor. Shouts for 'More!' went up; and from those who fancied themselves as cultured - the cries of 'Encore!' Presently though, Arturo held up his gnarled hands and gestured for the crowd to quieten. At last, a hush settled over the bar-room and holding himself as tall and straight as could be accomplished, the once renowned star of 'Felix T Ferdinand's Traveling Circus' declared wheezily:
“Friends! At mid-day I sat in this room and heard the clock out there strike thirteen.” A low murmur rippled round the room, “As we all know, this day then is to be my last among you, and damned thankful I am! I've had a rich life with applause and adoration across the land and good times and money too. But, these last few years found me with only rum to dull what pains me and fading memories to cheer me. So! Now that my time has come, there is no need to mourn my passing. I go gladly and with a spring in my step.” Here he paused for dramatic effect and cast his eyes around the gathering who now stood in silent and rapt attention, “You have had my last performance: La Grande Finale, and I bid you Adieu!” Then he gave an exaggerated stage bow and as the swell of applause filled the room, he faltered, staggered a little, and clutching his chest - collapsed dead on the spot.
My companion stared at me with a look of gloomy triumph. I shuffled uneasily in my chair and considered my hand of cards. I came quickly to the realization that further objection would bear little fruit; for all that the evidence supplied had been circumstantial, there could be nothing that I might say that would sway the young fellow - lost for words I rose up, stepped to the bar and had a large whiskey sent over to the haunted figure seated behind me. Then I made my way quickly out of the place and without so much as a backward glance.
Over luncheon, I gave more thought to the matter and reluctantly admitted to myself that the affair did seem rather queer. However, with the help of some good apple pie, strong coffee to sober me and a business engagement that afternoon, the disquiet eased away and stayed clear from my mind. Late in the evening however, the mystery of the thirteenth strike was brought back to me forcefully in the shape of a very unsettling occurrence. I had taken to bed just after eleven, and soon after, I heard a commotion of cart and horses in the street below. Surprised, given the lateness of the hour, I arose and looked down from my window to the scene across the way. The jeweler's shop was lit and I could see a little knot of people huddled by its entrance. From this group, the distressing sounds of a young woman's cries and sobs floated on the otherwise still night air of the town square. Peering into the gloom I was able to discern a stretcher - upon which lay a covered body - carried from the shop by two men. This they hefted onto the undertaker's cart as the young woman fell to the ground and howled in agonies of grief. As might be imagined, the scene troubled me greatly, and though I returned to bed, it took the passage of several hours before sleep would come to claim me.
Well now. Why should I trouble to write-up this strange little tale? Permit me to explain: I dressed late today - after all, had I not been restless almost until dawn? And less than one hour ago I crossed the street to the saloon - where I now sit - to learn of the fate of the jeweler. Upon inquiry it was told to me that he had died from whiskey poisoning. But, as I made my way here, I happened to hear the clock begin to strike noon. It is not my habit to count a clock's chimes - I possess a sound watch and have no need - but the jeweler's stories and the distressing scene that I had witnessed in the late evening compelled me to do just that despite every effort to resist the temptation.
And so, here I sit preoccupied and brooding with a large whiskey before me and journal in hand and the last strike of the town clock seems to ring in my ears yet. If I wake on the morrow I shall destroy these jottings; but if the words written here are preserved and read, then you will know, dear reader, that I too, succumbed to the curséd prophecy of the thirteenth strike.
Extract from the Tennessee Argus newspaper – 4th May 1857
Pinehill, Tenn:- On the evening of Wednesday 1st inst. a man named William Purcell was run down by carriage in the town square and died from injuries sustained. It is believed that he had been in town for a few days and on business. A man has been apprehended and charged with reckless driving and causing death, and it appears from reports that he had previously been admonished to take better care in his driving. Every effort is being made to inform the unfortunate victim's relatives.
About the Author
Born in Edinburgh and now living in Fife, Laurence MacDonald only began writing short stories in 2016, but has already had two of his stories published in anthologies and another featured in a podcast in the USA. He intends to complete a collection of supernatural short fiction set in the 19th century.