Foster's

Bryan .3

This clock was the find of a century.

Cooper Davroe could tell that it's owner had no idea what she had. The more he looked over the clock the more he wanted to see if he could find a replica to pass off as the original so he could keep this one and auction it off to the highest bidder.

He checked the online forums, clocks like that one were selling for 5 large. Then he checked the local outlets to see if there was anything in near-by towns that looked similar and there was not. Then he checked the online shops, no matches, nothing that made it worth him purchasing and shipping and then presenting as a fake.

It was too much effort and not enough profit for him to care.

So he figured he'd fix the clock up and then send it off with a note saying if she ever wanted to sell it he'd be interested.

He'd low ball her of course, but he had a feeling it wouldn't work. That was a cool calculatedness around her. He had a feeling she knew he wanted that clock, she may not have known what she had, but she could tell he wanted it. He had been in this business long enough to be able to tell what kind of negotiator she was.

She'd give him a hard time and drive a hard bargain just because she knew he wanted it. It's what he'd do if the roles were reversed.

After she left things had been a little weird at the shop. The acoustic he had bought off of Albert Pontes' son started playing music again.

Albert's son had sold it after the man had died peacefully in his bed surrounded by all his bongs and weed paraphernalia. He had taken a bunch of stuff, including the bongs and other weed related items when the estate sale went up. He sold the weed stuff under the counter because it wasn't legal at the time, but try as he might he couldn't sell that acoustic.

Oh he'd sell it for a few weeks, maybe a month or so, but everyone who had sold it would sell it back. He often joked that the acoustic was like the Culverton House of his shop. People would get a string of uncanny luck after buying it, or weird things would start happening, and they'd bring it back.

He hadn't noticed anything strange, though sometimes he swore it played music by itself. It never did it around other people, just when he was by himself in the back.

He'd hear the chords of Summer of '69 start and he'd come out to check and it would stop. Sometimes he thought he was going crazy.

Today, however, he was more than 100 percent certain that it was playing music. He could swear he could see the strings moving but every time he went over it was gone.

It all started with a strange pinch in his shoulder, like it was tight for some reason. He was assuming he slept on it wrong. He hadn't woken up with the pain, it had become noticeable when he got to work. Just as he opened the door. He kept rotating it, trying to get the stiffness out of it, but it wouldn't go away.

Then he started seeing things out of the corner of his eye. Movement, darting back and forth. He'd always stop what he was doing and focus on where he thought he saw the movement but nothing was ever there.

He heard the phone ring when it wasn't, the bell above the door tinkle despite the door not opening and of course the guitar would start playing.

He figured it was his tired mind playing tricks on him, so he shut the shop up early and then went to lunch.

For that hour he was out of the shop and in the deli across the street everything was fine. His shoulder felt better, he wasn't hearing or seeing things, so that was it. He needed a break, he needed to eat something, he'd be fine now.

He returned back to his pawn shop. As he was flipped the sign back to open that pinch in his shoulder came back. Damn had he put his shoulder out flipping the sign? He hadn't thought he was that old.

He walked back to the back of the shop rotating his shoulder, trying to alleviate that pressure that was building up. He put up a sign on the counter that said: "In Back, Ring Bell," and then moved into the space in the back that doubled as his work bench and office.

Now that he was refreshed he could focus his time on fixing that clock.

He had to take it apart of course, starting first with the back and then carefully peeling it away form the face so he could get to the glass. There seemed to be smudges of something in the cogs, he figured he'd do a cleaning of them too, something extra to charge her for.

He replaced the glass, dusted the face and then placed everything back together. He figured, to be nice and convincer her he was trustworthy, he'd clean the clock for free, make sure it ran smoothly. It was also to his benefit if he kept the clock up to snuff for when he eventually convinced her to sell it too him.

He ran a q-tip through some alcohol and then wiped down the cogs. He was very surprised to find that it came back a rusty red color.

Cooper knew what that was, he had seen it before in this business.

It was blood.

Why the hell did her clock of blood in it?

"Hello."

Cooper jumped. He hadn't heard anyone come in. He hadn't heard the bell tinkle or anyone ring the service bell on his desk. He came out of the back and found that Angelica Foster was back in his shop.

"What impeccable timing, I was just finishing up your clock."

There was something wrong with her. She was paler then he last saw her. She seemed... sparklie? And she wasn't blinking. Like at all.

"Fix the clock?"

She had some how made it a question, he wasn't sure how. Also he wasn't sure he saw her mouth move, like logically it had to have, but he couldn't remember seeing it do that.

"Yes, it's got blood in the cogs, did you know that?"

Her head tilted to the side, her eyes changed colors. Green to blue to black to green again. Cooper longed to rub his eyes just to see if there was something in there causing him to see things.

"Fix clock. Give guitar."

"You want a guitar? Which guitar?"

"My guitar."

What? She didn't give him a guitar. But then he heard the chords playing on a random guitar and just knew which one he was going to give her.

"How about an acoustic?"

"Yes."

"I have a nice one right over here..." He walked out from behind the counter and found that she had managed to get right in front of him again, he side stepped her, hurried down to where the guitar was and pulled it off the wall. "This is a 1980s Fender Redendo. Guitars like these sell for thousands, but this one's a little worn and nicked so I'll give it to you for 500."

He turned around and found her standing right before him again. She hadn't seemed this odd when she first came in. Sarcastic or annoyed maybe, but not this socially awkward.

"No. Guitar. Give."

"I can't just give you the guitar. I can do... three hundred, what do you say?"

"Yes. Give. Give me."

"Alright, I'll just add this to your check..." but when he turned around she wasn't there anymore. That was weird. Seriously, what was her game?

"New Yorkers," he muttered to himself. He was going to charge her extra for being so obnoxious. With the guitar in hand he made his way back to his counter, the pain in his shoulder getting a little sharper.

He didn't realize things were getting fuzzy around him until it was too late.