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Welcome to Tremorphonic audio stories.

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Tremorphonic - the sounds of fear - is a collection of original horror stories presented in audio format.

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Today's story, Grandfather Time, was written as a project of passion and is free to listen to.

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Please visit Tremorphonic.com, follow our Tremorphonic social media and podcast accounts, and share our posts and stories to a wider audience.

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You can also find us on Patreon if you want to support the development of future stories.

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This is Grandfather Time

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Tick, tick, Scared sick, she stops outside the door.

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Hair pale, black veil, straw-like - ancient - threadbare.

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An unwound grandfather clock stands atop a staircase.

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An unwound clock and yet it runs again every night.

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As unexpectedly as it starts, it always stops.

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The hands are motionless and yet the pendulum swings,

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and ticks.

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Each night past plight keeps her standing, waiting.

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Door knock, turned lock, handles shake and rattle.

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The clock strikes three, the moon is risen, darkness fills the manor.

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The house has stood for centuries but rarely accommodates residents.

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It was here that a young couple had once lived and tried to raise a family.

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The father, soon, was called to war but left his bride

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with child.

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Pale skin, stick thin, she listens with intent.

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Slack jaw, gaunt claw, her bony fingers stretch.

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Her child was born in summertime. His father was soon to be informed. The letters passed overseas

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between loved ones but replies were lacking since spring. He was due to return home in

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autumn. She thought perhaps he delayed contact so as to spin his stories to her in person?

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Then, as her son reached his second month of life, all life it seemed was paused.

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Drained eyes, deep sighs, her manner desperates.

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Nails scratch, worn patch, year on year, repeated.

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A war so cruel that young men disappeared without trace,

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and mass graves fill those fields.

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A father lost to a sea of poppies,

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a widow cast into despair, and a child left imprisoned in his crib without...

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...love.

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Such circumstance led the mother to melancholy, sorrow and neglect.

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Her appearance disheveled and her attention...

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...and her attention...

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Take stock grandfather clock, take heed to soothe.

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The cries of hunger, flies drawn swarming grief.

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The mother fell into desolation, moved by none and deaf to those who called. Deaf to all...

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...who needed. When lucidity eventually graced her again she dared not discover the repercussions of

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her inaction. Like Schrodinger, she dared not open the door to her child's room.

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She paused and listened to hear his absent cries.

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Hold pace Old Face, please watch over this child.

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Time stopped, key dropped, no hand can reach him now.

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The baby knew his cries were in vain, no person came to him in days. His only solace was the

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familiar ticking of the grandfather clock from the staircase. He heard the ticking until...

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...he did not.

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The constant beat slowed and stopped. His hungered pain and wails of desperation used all the strength he could muster.

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With the stopped clock his time was ended. His cries ended.

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Bent ear draws near, pressed against the scratch marks.

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No sound, grief bound, her duty failed once more.

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Today, her black dress floats above the ground but moves as if wind carries it.

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A wind in slow motion, an unnaturally flowing hem. Beneath where feet should

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touch the ground, instead they now hang on point like ballet shoes in a permanent airborne poise.

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She takes no steps, instead she glides, no contact with the ground.

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This she ensured with rope, a noose, she tied it well when from the rafters she strung her fate.

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A mother in angst she could no longer bear, she ached to join her child.

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And now, a hundred years since, each night the unwound clock strikes three.

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At Devil's hour she waits, doomed to repeat her failure, she waits to hear her boy.

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When finally the silence breaks, if ear is bent, a single cry is heard.

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Satisfied he lives and breathes, she turns to leave. But as she turns a cool wind blows,

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her time with us is done. Her presence scatters like ash on the breeze, and dissipates.

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Tick, tock, hearts stop, Grandfather Time restores.

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Tick, tock, clocks stop.

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Thank you for listening to Grandfather Time, presented by Tremorphonic. Grandfather Time was

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written, performed, recorded, and edited by Richard Wilson with music samples from Fesliyan Studios.

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Don't forget to follow us on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, YouTube and Tremophonic.com, and keep

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an eye on podcast channels for our upcoming stories. As a self-funded project we would

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appreciate any support you might be willing to give us on Patreon. Thank you for listening.