guy find a dead body
guy find a dead body
The rain hammered against the corrugated iron roof of the shed, a relentless percussion accompanying the tremor in Silas’s hands. He hadn’t meant to be here, hadn’t meant to trespass on old man Fitzwilliam’s property. Curiosity, that insidious worm, had gnawed at him for weeks. The whispers about Fitzwilliam, the recluse, the hoarder, the whispers of something… more.
Silas had been drawn by the rumour of a hidden workshop, a place where Fitzwilliam supposedly crafted his infamous, unsettling clocks – intricate devices that seemed to hum with a dark, internal life. He’d climbed the overgrown fence, pushed past the rusted gate, and now, the rain-slicked floor of the shed was reflecting the sickly yellow glow of his flashlight.
Fitzwilliam’s collection was indeed extraordinary, a chaotic jumble of discarded machinery, half-finished projects, and strange, unsettling contraptions. Gears lay scattered like fallen teeth, wires snaked across the floor like tormented veins. The air hung thick with the metallic tang of rust and the cloying sweetness of decay.
Silas moved cautiously, his beam dancing across piles of junk, until it stopped. Frozen.
There, slumped against a workbench, was Fitzwilliam himself.
He wasn’t asleep. Not anymore.
The old man’s face, usually hidden behind a tangled beard, was pale and slack. His eyes, wide and staring, seemed to hold the echo of a silent scream. A single, crimson stain bloomed across his chest, a stark contrast to the dull grey of his work clothes. Silas’s stomach clenched. The air grew colder, the rain outside seeming to intensify its assault.
This wasn’t the dusty solitude Silas had anticipated. This was… violent. Final.
His first instinct was flight. To run, to scramble back over the fence and pretend he’d never seen anything. But something, a morbid curiosity or perhaps a prickle of guilt, held him rooted to the spot.
He approached slowly, the flashlight beam jittering in his trembling hand. He noticed details now: the delicate, almost artistic way the blood had spread across the fabric of Fitzwilliam’s shirt. A small, almost insignificant tool lay near the body – a tiny, perfectly crafted screwdriver, glinting faintly in the beam.
Then he saw it. The clock.
It wasn’t one of Fitzwilliam’s grotesque creations. This was different. Small, almost elegant, it was nestled on the workbench, its hands frozen at precisely 3:17. It ticked, a slow, deliberate beat in the suffocating silence of the shed. But the ticking wasn’t the sound of gears meshing; it was a low, rhythmic pulse, almost… a heartbeat.
Silas backed away, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm against his ribs. He knew then that he couldn’t simply leave. This wasn’t just a death; it was a puzzle, a meticulously crafted piece of macabre artistry, and the clock, that tiny, precise timepiece, held the key. He would have to return. He would have to solve it. But next time, he wouldn’t be alone. He’d bring the police. But before he left, he noted the time on his own watch: 3:17. The same time frozen on that unsettling little clock. The rain continued to fall, washing away the evidence, but not the chilling certainty that settled in Silas’s soul: he was now inextricably bound to this gruesome mystery.
