The Echo of the Crimson Clock
By Agni Rudra Sarkar
Chapter 1: The Inheritance of Shadows
The fog in Kalimpong had a way of swallowing secrets. It didn't just mask the mountains; it erased them.
Ishaan stood by the window of his ancestral shop, 'The Timeless Gear.' At thirty-two, he possessed the eyes of a man who had seen too many winters and not enough light. His hands, calloused and stained with oil, were currently holding a heavy wooden box that had arrived via an anonymous courier an hour ago. No return address. Just his name written in a script that looked disturbingly like his late father's handwriting.
With a sharp intake of breath, Ishaan pried the lid open.
Inside, nestled in decaying black velvet, lay a pocket watch. It was larger than a standard timepiece, crafted from a metal that looked like copper but bled a deep, pulsating crimson when the light hit it. There were no numbers on the dial—only thirteen strange symbols that seemed to writhe like trapped insects.
"Thirteen?" Ishaan whispered to the empty room.
As his thumb brushed the cold glass, the shop went deathly silent. The hum of the refrigerator, the distant barking of a stray dog, the whistling wind—all of it vanished.
Thump-thump.
Ishaan froze. The sound didn't come from his chest. It came from the watch.
Suddenly, the minute hand—sharp as a needle—spun backward with violent speed. The air in the room grew unnaturally cold, smelling of rain and burnt paper.
"Help me..."
A voice, thin and raspy, echoed from the corner of the room. Ishaan spun around, his heart hammering against his ribs. Standing by the workbench was a figure shrouded in mist. It was a man, his face obscured, but Ishaan recognized the tattered grey sweater. It was Mr. Adhikari, the retired teacher who had passed away three days ago.
But Mr. Adhikari didn't look dead. He looked terrified. He was pointing at the watch in Ishaan's hand, his transparent fingers trembling.
"Don't let it strike the thirteenth hour, Ishaan," the ghost hissed. "If the Crimson Clock claims the debt, the mountains will bleed."
Before Ishaan could speak, the watch clicked. The silence shattered. The sounds of the world rushed back in—a car honking outside, the rain hitting the tin roof. The figure of Mr. Adhikari was gone.
Ishaan looked down at his palm. The watch was now ticking normally, but where the metal touched his skin, a faint, red mark had appeared. It looked like a tiny, burning Roman numeral 'I'.
He wasn't just holding a watch. He was holding a countdown.
Chapter 2: The First Debt
The next morning, the news hit the town like a thunderclap. The local cemetery had been desecrated. Not by vandals, but by something that had dug into the earth of only one specific grave: Mr. Adhikari's.
Ishaan sat in a small tea stall, his coat collar turned up. His hand, tucked deep in his pocket, felt like it was on fire. Every time he touched the crimson watch, he felt a strange pull—a psychic gravity drawing him toward the town square.
"You look like you've seen a ghost, Ishaan," a voice broke through his thoughts.
It was Maya. The only woman who knew Ishaan's past and the only one he couldn't lie to. She was a police investigator, sharp-witted and weary of the supernatural stories the locals loved to tell.
"Just didn't sleep well," Ishaan lied, his fingers tightening around the watch.
"Well, get used to it," Maya said, sitting across from him. "Something weird is happening. Adhikari's grave wasn't just dug up. The witnesses say the dirt was flying upward, as if time was reversing itself. And Ishaan..." She leaned in, her voice dropping to a whisper. "They found a clock gear in the coffin. A crimson one."
Ishaan felt the mark on his hand throb. He realized then that he couldn't run. The watch wasn't just showing him the past; it was dragging the past into the present.