“The apostle clock chimed, and its twelve tiny wooden figures paraded out of one door and in at the other. Faces half-gone with worm-holes. Mr Kratt lifted his snout and listened. ‘You must really like that old clock, huh Mr Kratt?’ ‘Like it? I hate the goddamned thing. That’s what I keep it for, to remind me how much I hated my old man.’ ‘I don’t get it. If you –’ ‘You don’t have to get it, bub.’ He watched the wooden door shut behind the last apostle. ‘See, my old man had the damnedest... collection of old clocks, cuckoos, grandfathers, you name it. Some real fancy ones, too: like this German school-house with these little enamel schoolboys that come outside, one at a time, they bend over, see, and get a beating from the old teacher. My old man spent his life fixing them up. His life and our money. And when he died he left us kids one broken-down clock apiece. All the rest went to a museum. Only good investment he ever made, and he gives it away.’ The chimes finished, and there was no sound in the office trailer but the faint noises filtering in from outside: screams.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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