The Ticking Clock

Chapter Two

           I woke up with my mind in a boggle. The noisy crows acted as alarm clocks that you couldn't shut off. I sighed, crawled out of bed, and proceeded downstairs. The rest of my family was still sound asleep. Apparently my window is popular amongst the crows.

          I sat down at the table in one of the old wooden chairs, and stared outside. Cracks in the window, and almost dead pieces of ivy obscured some of my view. Clouds only skimmed the sky, creating shadows with patches of light. But the wind had yet to retreat, and continued to play a tune on my wind chime. The deep greenness of the bushes and trees stood out from all else. A single water droplet that had remained on a leaf from the storm, fell from one of the trees, and landed on the back of a Robbin. It didn't feel it due to its waterproof feathers, and proceeded to scan the ground for unearthed worms.

       Eventually, it snatched a worm and flew away. And in swooped its place stood a single crow. Its entire head was turned directly to me, its gaze seeping into mine. I've heard the superstition, "One crow means bad luck." But that's just irrational. Even so, it seemed it was laughing in my face. Caw caw caw caw ha ha ha ha ha ha.

      I felt someone gently tap me on the shoulder. I jumped and spun round in my chair, making it creak. It was just my little sister, Holly.

     "What are you doing up this early?" I questioned.
     "Taffy woke me up," Holly replied, gesturing to the small, squirming, brown kitten in her arms.
     "You scared me half to death," I said.

       ~•~

        I stared out the car window, fidgeting with my key-charmed necklace. I really did not want to go to Grandma's house. Why had I ever agreed to this?

       In place of Taffy the kitten, Holly held a cream colored teddy bear. She was bouncing it up and down, up and down. Over and over and over again. I don't know how she doesn't get dizzy.

         We took the familiar turn down Walnut Dr. I was now nauseous, wrapping my arms around my stomach. We pulled into the bumpy, dirt driveway, and I was filled with dread.

Once we had parked, I forced myself to budge from my seat in the car.

"I'm going to go straight to Grandpa's workshop," I said, wanting to get it over with.
"Okay, just don't get too cold out there," my Mom half-shouted over the wind.

I thought I heard the faint ticking sound I heard last night. I turned my head to try and see where it was coming from, but it seemed as if it were coming from all directions. It almost sounded; taunting. I don't know why.
"I won't," I promised.

~•~

         I trudged through the colossal, overgrown field. The wetness of the grass seeped into my shoes, creating a squish squash squish squash sound. The sun was peeking through the clouds a bit, though the crisp air still bit at my nose, turning it red. Eventually, I came across the rundown, sea green shed. It had a tilted sign on it that read "Grandad's Workshop." I could already smell the strong sent of sawdust. I twisted the knob of the door, and it was surprisingly unlocked. The door groaned open.

Opening the door had stirred up so much dust I could barely see anything. I coughed and waved my hand in front of my face. Once I could see again, I took a look around.

There were many nails covering the floor, along with rat feces. Cobwebs decorated the rotting ceiling. And then there were the shelves. My Grandpa had collected every knickknack he could find. Buttons and buckles, pickle jars and pennies, rocks, fossils, and arrowheads. Anything; you name it.

One of his favorite things to collect, (or in my Grandma's opinion, hoard,) were old books and maps. Some of the maps he displayed on the walls, others he kept in drawers. He had a massive bookshelf, that occupied a third of the shed. I walked alongside the bookshelf, trailing my fingers across the books, making my finger turn brown with the dirt that had settled on them.

I spied my favorite book Grandpa would read to me: Green Willow. I kneeled down and wriggled it free from the crammed full shelf. The book cover was a deep green, and the black letters were faint. The pages were yellow and wrinkled, some even falling out. There was a note at the bottom of a page, written in cursive.

My dear Lyra, I'm glad you have picked this book up again. Hopefully not too late. Look beyond the arrows, and find the book. It is there you will begin your journey. But you must not tell a soul. You are the only one who can stop this. You must do it alone. I know you must have a lot of questions, you always have, but you must just trust me. -Grandpa

My brain felt as if it were running in place. What did he mean, look beyond the arrows? What journey? This was absurd.

I did the only thing I could think of, and proceeded to wander around the room looking for; what exactly? Look beyond the arrows. I kept repeating that in my head.

What could this mean?