CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - "The Clockmaker" Creepypasta

Episode Date: January 9, 2022

CREEPYPASTA STORY►by BelgianProblem: https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comm...Creepypastas are the campfire tales of the internet. Horror stories spread through Reddit r/nosleep, forums and blogs, rather than word of mouth. Whether you believe these scary stories to be true or not is left to your own discretion and imagination. LISTEN TO CREEPYPASTAS ON THE GO-SPOTIFY► https://open.spotify.com/show/7l0iRPd...iTUNES► https://podcasts.apple.com/gb/podcast...CREEPY THUMBNAIL ART BY►Mathieu Latour-Duhaime: https://www.artstation.com/artwork/Yl1bSUGGESTED CREEPYPASTA PLAYLISTS-►"Good Places to Start"- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g7YCb...►"Personal Favourites"- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AEa2R...►"Written by me"- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gX6RA...►"Long Stories"- https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list...FOLLOW ME ON-►Twitter: https://twitter.com/Creeps_McPasta►Instagram: https://instagram.com/creepsmcpasta/►Twitch: http://www.twitch.tv/creepsmcpasta►Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/CreepsMcPastaCREEPYPASTA MUSIC/ SFX- ►http://bit.ly/Audionic ♪►http://bit.ly/Myuusic ♪►http://bit.ly/incompt ♪►http://bit.ly/EpidemicM ♪-This creepypasta is for entertainment purposes only-

I'm just to Amsterdam, why? I've been forgotten how a tooprake. Doy! Toy! With Eurocity direct, though? 16 times per day from out Brussels and in 2-hour. Now, from 19 euros in place of 25. Book you tickets on NMBSInternational.com.

The festival season is aangboken, and that beteked, and so, came Kim to Amazon.com.com. On the look to a water-dict tent, a comfortable luget, oh, so, knus. And lupart print regalards. Now, Kim has Kim has kind of the modder more, just like that's just a matter of Oh,

Only modder on Drogoblev? Goar for. Find what you need of Amazon.com. For as long as I can remember, I have lived above a clockmaker's workshop. It was an R workshop.

Although my dad did sometimes do deliveries for them as a side job of sorts. But we've rented the space upstairs. into the space upstairs for almost, although, although my parents can't tell me exactly when they moved in. Every day, when I came home from school, the owner of the workshop, whose name has been lost from the clouding of my youth, was downstairs, tinkering with a complex wear of gears and sprockets. I didn't call him by his real name. He was simply the clockmaker to me, for reasons I'm sure you can deduce. Sometimes, before going to go.

Going upstairs, I would sit with the clockmaker for a while, watching him demonstrate almost inhuman precision with nothing more than an array of small, metal instruments. His work was accompanied by a constant ticking, his past creations hung proudly on the walls like a father would hang pictures of his children. The clockmaker didn't have a wife, nor any children, despite his old age. Although I always saw him as a grandpile-like figure growing up, and his warm eyes gave him to gave me the impression that he saw me the same way, a member of a family that was simply not meant to be. One time, after a particularly hard day at school, I returned home to find him in the back office,

studying a large grandfather clock, which seemed to loom over the cosy workspace. He seemed almost entranced by his face, a slight smile lifting his weathered features. He was so entranced that he seemed not even to notice me entering. a slight hint of confusion coming over me. he smiled me. He told me a story that day, while he sketched our plans for his next contraption of intermingled amalgamation of brass webs.

It was a lengthy story, and I honestly can't remember most of the specifics, but it was about a young woman he met during his youth. The impression he gave whilst reciting the story was that of a love story, but his eyes creased downwards as he recounted a tale from his lengthy life. He had met her at a train station after her hat was almost taken by gust of wind to an unknown land distant. He managed to catch it and after a brief conversation they boarded the train and rode the five-hour-long journey together.

She was a university professor travelling to give a lecture at a particularly renowned institution. although the clockmaker couldn't remember what exactly her expertise was. they talked the entire journey, with games of tic-tac-toe, ensuring that boredom was kept up bay. Upon reaching the station, they both departed, and the clockmaker offered to escort the woman to a planned lecture. She accepted, and the condition that he stayed to listen to it. Unfortunately, a terrible accident would before the woman,

one which would leave her perhaps faithly so the clockmaker apparently never learned as she was taken to a hospital to receive the best of treatment his eyes seemed to well up the inevitable torrent

only being stopped when I grasped his hand firmly it's okay it was a long time ago just remember to cherish those who love our time in this world isn't infinite His voice was hoarse,

The wisdom, He could speak. I nodded, The ticking of the majestic Grandfather clock matching the beating of her hearts. I have fun memories of the clockmaker and his workshop during the early years of my youth. But the magic and protection of childhood,

which allowed me to find enjoyment in every waking hour, couldn't last forever. Although, the ticking of the day, it always made me uncomfortable around them during the night, especially while I was alone.

Although our space upstairs wasn't cramped, it was simply not large enough for a proper bathroom. So, the only bathroom we had was downstairs, past the workshop. I always dreaded having to go to the toilet during the night, those incessant gears piercing the darkness with perfect regularity, reminding you that the march of time is insurmountable, no matter how old, young, poor or rich you may be.

There wasn't the darkness, nor the eerie atmosphere of the workshop during the moonlight hours, nor even the symphony of artificial order and timelessness, which covered the building in an unnatural state of movement, yet stillness. It was the thing that accompanied it. Perhaps thing is not the right term. Even now, with a clear, fully comprehending it, fully-a-a-that-that-you-all-a-talleged for me. What I saw, what I failed to comprehend, or even begin to understand, turn the workshop from a happy place,

usually a carnival of unity and vibrant cohesion, into a hellscape of dark dread, which seemed to seep in from every corner. This all happened when I was around nine years old. It was late, and I had the urge to go to the toilet. The upstairs portion of this building is split into two. The stairs lead to a small landing with a single door. That door leading to a hallway connected to three rooms all on the right-hand side. The first room was mine, second my parents, and the last room was a combination of a kitchen,

dining room and lounge. The door separating the hallway from the landing was thick enough. to protect our ears from the constant ticking, at God's end, regardless, it was quite easy to my room and open the hallway door without waking my parents. Opening the door to the hallway and the stairs beyond it gave way to the consistent ticking and talking of the chamber below. This wasn't my first time venturing downstairs in the darkness, and it wasn't an unusual occurrence. yet, as I clambered down "'that it's something felt,

"'off, causing me to stop three steps from the bottom. "'I scanned the workshop, "'the vague outline of various clocks and timepieces "'singing their songs in the faint moonlight "'as moderate rain canvassed the door and windows. "'Nothing seemed out of place, "'nothing unusual could be garnered from the light, "'which reflected upon my young eyes.

"'Yet still, The thought lingered in my head. A thought of unease. Hello? My voice was almost silent, more of a whisper than a declaration of confidence. Of course, no answer. To tell the truth, I'm not sure what I was expecting when I called a greeting into the darkness. But still, in the moment, the urge overcame me.

The only response was the rhythmic beat of the tone. timekeeping devices around me, a familiar sound which had never caused me discomfort before. Actually, it was rather reassuring. I continued down the stairs, reaching the bottom, and once more surveying the expansive space. Nothing unusual reached my ears, nor my eyes, and I considered my moment of mild panic to simply be the result of an overactive imagination. The feeling remained, however, like an itch in the back. of my head. Tick, tick, I moved towards the door opposite to the front, which led to the back

office. I forgot to mention, but the clockmaker does not live in the same building we do. Instead, it resides in a small cabin located at the rear of the garden to the back of the property. The bathroom was adjoined at the office and was put in sometime before we moved in. I opened the door more carefully than usual, having been slightly put on edge, but they've felt. My own mind imagined lurking in the shadows, or perhaps an oversized spider which will gobble me whole. The small lamp hung outside, over the back door, gave enough illumination to allow me to manoeuvre my way around the office and to the bathroom door, closely avoiding a nasty accident with a shoe rack as I did so. I crete opened the door, pulled on the last, and the last door. Pulled on the

light and went about my planned business. I opened the door to leave the bathroom, a cold draught washed over my small frame. The room was no longer illuminated, and a peculiar stillness seemed to hang in the air. It took me a moment of concentrated thinking to notice. Silence. Complete silence. No Tick-tokking, no marching of time, not even the pitter-batter of rain upon the windows. complete,

The unending, The unending tsunami Which can not be described A meal words A bustling market filled with Ennerated Salesman and Curious Buyers one minute Completely silent the next

Unnatural, unimaginable implying that an event so great has occurred that an epicenter of emotion, activity and atmosphere has been overwhelmed and replaced with a husk of its former self The office remains from what I could tell, and leaves from the newly inky darkness that surrounded me. A stack of papers, plans and schematics remained in place, awaiting for further refinement and analysis. A rack of shoes eagerly studded attention for the moment of impromptu adventure, when their owners would put them on in a flurry of excitement to experience something new and wonderful.

The old fatherly grandfather clock, watching over, No, My eyes remained locked with a looming greatness which had watched over the cramped office since the dawn of time. It seemed to observe me as well, but not with the same dread that had crept up through my very being. It watched with indifference, as if I was another stack of paper or a shoe lying helplessly on the floor. But, everything was silent. Why was all of the

There were dozens of clocks? How did the rain stop? I took a deep breath in. The shock had slightly dissipated. Maybe the clockmaker came in whilst I was in the bathroom to turn them off. Or maybe. My young mind could not come up with any solutions I deem reasonable or logical, but one thing was certain. I didn't want to be there a moment longer. With long strides, I walked with purpose

the door that led to the workshop, gripping the doorknop as I took my final step. I opened it, and without really thinking, I walked through into the workshop. Only, it wasn't the workshop. It was the office again. I looked behind me to find the bathroom door, closed behind me. I rubbed my eyes. Was this a dream? Maybe I was sleepwalking. Without stopping, beyond my first impression, that impression being that I was still in the office, I repeated my previous action and tried leaving the office to enter the workshop. As the door opened, I looked more carefully, finding the room beyond to be the workshop,

exactly as I had expected it. I entered the sound of the door closing behind me the only, the only one. the interruption to my heavy breathing. I blinked and once more, tears, tears of the formed in my face, confusion rocking my small brain as I began to truly panic. I darted towards a door once more, flinging it open with the desperation that comes from being hunted and bolted through the door, colliding with the office's table as I ran inside. For a while, I simply sat, tears streaming down my cacophony as a cacres torture my very soul. I sat, defeated,

before the looming time space which stood over everything else as equally indifferent to my suffering as it was when I first left the bathroom. I scrunched up into a small ball, leaning myself against the clock for back support. When I heard it, Tick, talk, tick, talk. It was just a small ball. faint as a whisper, yet the lack of any other sounds made it clear as I turned. Looking up and into the clock's face as it stared straight back, its hands reading 124. The ticking had emanated from deep within the clock's structure, deeper than should

have been possible. Unlike most grandfather clocks, the pendulum was not visible from the outside. Rather than having a glass viewing panel, there was instead a different decorated piece of wood, adorned with unusual visages, depicting warped figures and, looking back, equally warped faces. Some had facial features. Some did not. Some were even carrying large objects on their back.

rectangular and charcoal black. Something was driving me towards the clock. Something unnatural. It was almost hypnotic. The vast web of gears inside, working together perfectly to form a repeating tantal. of ticking and talking which matched the unending flow of the world which surrounded me. I slowly undid the small bolt which protected the inner to the clock from the outside world and pulled the wooden door away from it like a surgeon preparing a patient for surgery.

Looking inside that clock I saw countless contradictions. It was living, yet it couldn't be. A horrible hybrid of time. Life, and perfected mechanical motions presented itself before me. The dark, mass of flesh and brass seemed to move and twitch at perfectly timed intervals. As it pulsated, gears around it turned, culminating in a tick, followed by a tock. Tick, talk, tick, talk.

Even though my mind was young and in the process of being ripped apart by an unknown horror, which would send even the most stable of a deep recess, into a deep, I understood, it was alive, it was alive, it was a fully functional clock, its timekeeping exact, and its timely chimes perfect. But it was still, somehow, alive. I stared for a moment, before realizing the potential danger I was in, which caused me to start sliding backwards, still on the floor, until I hit the table behind me. I could see it all now, more than just a mechanical heart.

Other bits of black flesh protruded from the gears, some of it convulsing, some of it simply staying still. I looked up at the face, and somehow it seemed to smile at me. Not a benevolent smile like the clockmakers, but an almost insidious one, combining pleasure and malice into a concoction of revolting evilness. Without thinking, I slammed the door to the clock's in its shut, bolting the door as I felt a possessive gaze fixated upon the back of my neck. I bolted up, not daring to look back at whatever benevolent force had decided to roar as reckoning upon me. I almost fell over the table as I rushed for the door to the workshop, pulling it open and throwing myself inside. With great relief, I actually found myself inside the workshop, its familiarity and relative

given me a brief respite of soothing reassurance. Any sense of relief, however, was short-lived. The clocks were ticking again, louder, more voracious, most chillingly of all, completely out of sync with each other. Everything began to warp as fresh tears filled my eyes. nothing made sense as my ears were bombarded with unrelenting

and the sound of heavy rain upon the windows without waiting a moment I picked myself up and began running for the stairs wailing and screaming with last-minute energy of an injured wolf I climbed for what seemed like hours I climbed my sense of time and space warping with my vision

as I slowly began to lose consciousness I woke up the next day, tightly tucked into my bed. I checked the time, giving myself a small dose of panic-fueled adrenaline as the sound of the clock finally brought me to my full alertness. It was past noon, meaning that I'd missed school. I shouted for my parents, and to my great relief, my father answered my call. He explained to me that he had found me, collapsed at the top of the door, just outside of our hall. My parents, assuming that I was either unwell or had spent the entire night awake, carried me to bed, and decided to allow me to stay home from school. As he spoke, I simply nodded.

Was it a dream I had while sleepwalking? It all seemed so real, but perhaps for the sake of my sanity, I convinced myself that none of it really happened. After all, a living clock. Even as a child, I knew that clocks couldn't be alive. After that, my life continued as normal. Almost. I avoided venturing downstairs during the night, wherever the cost, or there were a few times where I had no choice were remarkably uneventful. I developed a slight fear of clocks, and I would were very uncomfortable if the ticking a clock grew too loud. But beyond that, I simply placed the event in the furthest reaches of my mind.

I'm 16 now, almost an adult in going through a bit of a rebellious phase. Honestly, up until yesterday, the dramatic dream I had as a kid had been forgotten, and I had almost gotten over my unusual fear of clocks and timekeeping. However, what I saw yesterday dug up those memories, causing newfound dread that I've only experienced on that particular night.

I came home early from school yesterday, and in the hopes of avoiding my dad, who I knew would be in the front workshop preparing for his next delivery, I decided to try and sneak around the back to pick up some cash and grab some lunch with. Thankfully, the foliage around the building provided ample cover, allowing me to move into the back garden without a single soul knowing. As I noticed the back door, I noticed the window, sitting in the office with their back against the table. It only took me a moment to realize, it was the clockmaker, leaning back whilst facing the immortal grandfather clock,

which I'd almost cleansed from my memories. The clockmaker didn't make my life his business, so he would probably take little notice if I simply ducked in and out to grab what I needed whilst avoiding my dad. Before opening the door, I heard his voice seep out, the half-white open window. I'll have to replace it soon. It's getting old. Rotten, I would say. But, don't you worry, dear. The folks upstairs have a healthy young-and, kind and sweet as a buttercup raindrop, I would say. A shame, really. A shame. His voice had an unusual youthfulness to it, yet it was accompanied with an element of spite which seemed out of his character.

This by itself was surprising. But to my shock, her voice replied, sending the events of seven years ago into the forefront of my mind. It was not a human voice, nor a voice at all really. It was a series of ticks and talks which somehow carried meaning, actual meaning. The pitch and tone of each chime shifted, somehow forming, without a morsel of my will entering it. The clockmaker suddenly seemed alert, turning his head to look at me, standing outside the window.

His eyes were no longer those of the clockmaker I knew. The warmth drained and replaced with the coldness and smoothness of well-shined brass. He seemed neither angry nor surprised. though I could easily sense his intention from a mere glance. I ran. I ran, filled with unending dread and hopelessness. I ran, knowing that any distance will be transcended on a level I could not comprehend. I ran.

I consider this to be my last testament, and will perhaps. I know that no matter where I go, I'm doomed. Nobody can help me. I cannot help myself. It was not a dream. It was a moment where my fate was sealed. Tick, talk, tick, talk. The time I have will soon be mine no longer. With perfect precision, it will be given to another. A being greater, yet lesser than a human soul. Time is insurmountable. and it is marching right towards me.